By Santera 0 Comments
An immense yacht rested on the surface of the crystalline Caribbean ocean like a lazy predator, secure in its dominance over its territory. The ship had been at voyage for over a year, stopping at ports across the globe while its enigmatic crew handled their business in the likes of Shanghai, Egypt, Cannes and others. Each destination had been brief, but not incomplete in birthing evasive and dangerous rumors of those who had visited.
Not far off from where the yacht waited, the translucent sea stretched to embrace stark white sand. The beach’s visage was one of empyrean beauty, pulled straight from the Grecian tales of Calypso’s own personal island.
From the deck of the yacht, a temperate breeze ruffled the dark hair of a woman lying with a self-indulgent listlessness under the intimate sun. In one of her hands, heavily tattooed with Henna-inspired designs, a blunt burned its unmistakable incense into the air, while in the other she held a glass of white wine. She had lain there for several hours, enjoying the thick cloud of intoxication swirling through her mind while taking turns laying atop an oversized floaty which decorated the yacht’s pool.
From within the opulent ship’s quarter, another woman of similar stature and frame emerged. Tall and lean with sinewy muscles, her complexation was several shades darker than the woman lounging on the deck. She approached her with a casual demeanor, unafraid to break the woman’s state of relaxation.
“We’re here Santera. We’re home.”
Santera turned only her head to face the woman, her eyes struggling to fully open under the influence of cannabis. Still, it was clear the irises behind her eyelids were of a mesmerizing green hue.
“Well it’s about f—king time,” she responded curtly, her thick Caribbean accent pouring out. “Hold this.”
Passing her drink off to the woman, Santera rose to her feet with surprising grace despite her state of mind. After so many years, the island native rarely found a drug stronger than her own self-will.
Her figure was clad scantly in a simple black two-piece, with a second set of strings on the bottoms which wrapped around her waist to accentuate her curvaceous shape.
Her beauty was not one of traditional form. Her brown skin seemed to radiate with a soft glow, its surface void of any cosmetic flaws or blemishes. She possessed the figure of a woman who had never put conscience thought into training toward a desired body type, rather, embraced with an aggressive self-assure the sensual lines and curves she had been endowed with. Most appealing of all were the set of light green eyes which highlighted her visage, their tone and shape possessing an almost mystic quality that proved dangerously alluring.
Santera’s bare feet padded across the deck to a table, where a bottle of Ace of Spade chilled in a bucket beside a pair of small binoculars. Bringing the ocular device to her eyes, her now-magnified gaze rested on the capital city of Barbados: Bridgetown.
Setting the binoculars back down, she took another long inhale from the blunt smoking between her fingers.
“Let’s not be strangers,” she declared, smoke pouring from her mouth as she turned to walk back toward her companion.
That night, Saint Michael, Barbados
A black Ferrari 488 Spider pulled into the unremarkable parking lot of a mildly crowded restaurant, located in the parish of St. Michael. The luxury vehicle drew bewildered stares from the men and women outside, who donned light garments to keep cool in the sultry Caribbean heat.
The doors of the Ferrari opened as Santera stepped outside, wrapped in a thick pink fur coat. Her presence brought forth further reactions from the crowd outside, whose eyes seemed to simultaneously widen. She walked past them without concern, her stiff aura of confidence silencing whatever thoughts they held inside as she entered the restaurant.
Inside the restaurant, men and women danced uninhibited to a hypnotic dancehall beat. Their bodies wrapped around one another unashamed, fully embracing the pleasures of their sensuality under the influence of the thick island heat.
Santera passed through them without a break in her deadly poise, the guests she passed halting their dances to gaze at her with the same shock those outside had. She had nearly made her way to the back of the restaurant, the music still drumming out of place in the background of the disturbed men and women.
Just as she had reached a doorway made of thick beaded curtains, a man broke through them to halt her progress. His stature towered over hers, while his physique, slightly softened by age, still held the imposing brawn of his youth.
Before any words could be shared between them, the man raised a semi-automatic rifle and trained it on her face. His gaze behind the weapon was dark and unforgiving.
In a slow, deliberately drawn-out motion, Santera reached into the pink fur of her coat to withdraw a small pistol. She raised her own weapon to match his position, leveling the barrel of the gun with his black eyes.
They held their position for nearly a minute, the music behind them ending as the entire restaurant filled with a lethal silence. Her green eyes, a wicked balance between enchantment and terror, never wavered in their adamantine state. Neither did his.
Finally, she broke a small, sly smirk.
“You never could take a shot at me,” she said, the mood of her tone indistinct.
As if she had never spoken, the two remained motionless for several more moments, until:
“My gato pequeno,” the man exclaimed suddenly, setting his weapon aside to open his arms to Santera with a wide, infectious smile. “You’ve come home.”
Stepping into his hug, the faintest resemblance of a smile pulled at the corners of her tantalizing mouth. “It’s good to see you, Uncle Luc,” she said, stepping back to drop her heavy coat.
A fishnet dress of red, yellow and green left the majority of her figure exposed, while exotic pieces of jewelry dripped from her every appendage. Before she could say any more, Luc raised his arms to proclaim:
“My niece has returned home! Tonight, my friends, we f—king celebrate.”
Cheers erupted through the room as the music resumed, and the men and women returned to their previous states of engagement. Many of them stepped up to greet Santera, in awe and delight over her presence.
In the hours that followed, Santera settled herself in the swarm of activity within the restaurant. Liquor poured carelessly, numbing minds of the crowd and further loosening their physical expressions as they danced in exuberance. Santera joined them unafraid, her own body at one with the beat of the song and the powers of her sexuality in full effect as her hips and backside moved with their own carnal instinct.
Several hours later, Santera found herself seated at the bar, enjoying a moment to herself with a glass of patron in one hand and a joint in the other. Taking a hit before French inhaling the thick smoke, she watched with a predator’s gaze as the crowd continued their festivities. Suddenly, Luc was beside her again, watching her with a perceptive curiosity.
“Why have you retuned, pequeno gato? I know it can be for nothing good. Where you roam, chaos has always followed?”
Rolling her eyes, she took a sip from her drink before meeting his gaze with a mischievous light in her eyes.
“I always did want to be just like you,” she retorted dryly, this time taking a moment to finish the rest of her liquor. She let out a small ‘aah’ as she set the empty glass down, letting the alcohol burn as it slid down her throat.
“I’m serious, Santera. Things have been nice here. If you are staying, don’t bring that shit with you.”
Looking away from his stern gaze, she returned to watching the men and women around her dance. Resting the joint between her lips, she let herself enjoy several moments of smoking before responding to her uncle, her eyes not moving.
“It’s too late for that, Uncle,” she responded with an unsettling coldness in the joy of her tone. “A friend of mine is already on his way here,” she continued, finally turning to look at him devilishly. “I think you’re really going to like him.”
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