Metanoia Read online

  “Surely, there are safer jobs to make a living. Aren’t you afraid to plunge to your death?” I enquired.

  He declared solemnly, “When I was a little boy, I was afraid of the ocean. It was my father and brothers who encouraged me to carry on the family tradition. So, I started jumping from a little rock, and little by little I came to enjoy the free fall. The adrenaline rush makes me jump from higher and higher grounds. I feel at one with God and free from responsibilities when I fall.”

  My curiosity got the better of me.

  “Can you sustain in this profession when you grow older?” I questioned.

  He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

  “My father’s eyesight is getting worse with each dive. He’ll likely go blind from plunging into the water, and maybe one day he’ll crash into the rocks like the pelicans,” he sighed emphatically and made the sign of a cross with his hand.

  “Gracias a la Virgen de Guadalupe, ningún zambullidor ha sido asesinado hasta ahora (Thanks to the Virgin of Guadalupe, no diver has been killed thus far),” he muttered in Spanish.

  I was about to resume questioning when Mario and Señor Triqueros came to join us. Victor was curious with my inquisitiveness while Mario, the philanderer, was hoping to score with the attractive Mexican.

  My ex-tutor enquired, “What were the both of you discussing?”

  “I asked Jesús about cliff diving,” I chirped.

  The Count remarked, “I read in the news that high divers often face injuries such as back and neck impairments, detached retinas, ruptured eardrums, and broken forearms.”

  The diver mumbled under his breath, not realizing that the Italian and the Spaniard spoke Spanish fluently. “Virgen de Guadalupe, por favor, aleja a esta gente ignorante de mí (Virgin of Guadalupe, please get these ignorant people away from me).”

  Triqueros apologized on behalf of Mario, “Lo siento mucho, no pretendemos unnerve usted, especialmente cuando estás a punto de realizar su salto (I’m so sorry, we don’t mean to unnerve you, especially when you’re about to perform your jump).”

  The Count changed the topic rapidly.

  He expressed, “Johnny Weissmuller made the jump from this cliff in the 1948 movie, ‘Tarzan and the Mermaids’.”

  The Mexican negated, “Mr. Weissmuller did not make the jump. My father, Raul, stood in as his stunt double.”

  The photographer exclaimed, “Is your father still alive? I like to meet him. Rumor has it that Johnny’s stunt double died during the immortalized ‘Tarzan’s’ leap.”

  This declaration prompted Jesús to respond enthusiastically, “Of course, Señor. My father is very much alive. I’ll be delighted to take you to him.”

  “Shall we meet later so we can talk further?” Mario inveigled flirtatiously.

  Before the diver could provide a definitive answer, he was called to the line for his performance. Like the philanderer, I also vied to have a fling with this young specimen; but more importantly, I hope he could shed some light on my sirens sighting.

  My chance arrived that evening after the daredevil performance when the Count solicited my presence to join him and Jesús for a late-night supper.

  Third Week of June 1968

  The Kingdom of Ferrisabatwa

  “The Kingdom of Ferrisabatwa!” I exclaimed telepathically. “Where in the world is this place?”

  The little man chuckled before he replied, “Our kingdom is between third heaven and fifth earth.”

  “What?” I cried. “Where in heavens is third heaven and fifth earth?”

  “The Kingdom of Ferrisabatwa,” came his extrasensory answer.

  “You’re not answering my question,” I vociferated vexedly.

  He brushed my question aside.

  “I’m Plucole, a ferrish from the Land of Ferrisabatwa. At your service prince human,” he introduced himself and bowed.

  I was astounded by his address.

  “I am no prince human but a human adolescent,” I remarked.

  The elfin read my thoughts before he delivered, “I’m the official keeper of our kingdom’s library. I recognize a prince human when I encounter one.”

  He scrutinized my expression before he resumed, “I’ve summoned the castle guards to escort you to the Regent.”

  Before I could riposte, a procession of red ants came in our direction. An army of brawny bite-size soldiers sat atop these deadly creatures. Their sun-drenched complexion resembled Zulu warriors. Their protection was nothing more than an array of small shell shields, and an assortment of sharpened sea-glass bow and arrows and spears. The battalion positioned themselves in battle formation under their chieftain’s command.

  Plucole communicated with their leader in the language I did not understand. The ferrishyn finally sensorized me after he spoke for some length, “Nkosi Sfiso is an abatwaian from the Land of Ferrisabatwa, and we will take you to the Regent.”

  With me behind Plucole, we marched away atop an ant.

  “Do not under any circumstance deem these warriors small or tiny, especially their manhood. They are stature sensitive and will injure you if you mock their size,” he cautioned telepathically.

  After we circled the pond three times, an image of a magnificent castle coruscated in the water without a visible citadel on land. I was flummoxed when our infantry strutted into the pond. As we swaggered deeper into the water, it reverted to dry land. The lake had turned upside down. Now, the castle in the pond loomed before me.

  I was dumbstruck as we proceeded into the fortified walls. Anthill mounds surrounded the bastions. These Abatwaian cantonments were placed strategically to protect the citadel’s denizens and its royal inhabitants.

  “Who are the flora and fauna dwellers from the world we left?” I besieged the ferrish.

  General Sfiso’s cognitive response threw me off guard. “Those haughty, ne’er-do-well pixs who scrounge for a living and prank us regularly,” he admonished.

  Before he could continue, Plucole countered, “Don’t be so hard on them, they have their use.”

  “Those scoundrels are excellent at eavesdropping. Other than that, they’re an irresponsible lot,” the Nkosi huffed.

  Before either entity could resume, the sound of a marching band rounded the castle entrance where a large oak portal stood. With trumpets blaring, cornets blasting, trombones screeching, saxophones squawking, clarinets hooting, piccolos croaking, and drums booming; this horrifying music could drive their enemies away. Yet, this weird sound was the Ferrisabatwaians welcome salutation to me, the prince human.

  I covered my ears from the sonos horribilis, which the denizens interpreted as an affectionate gesture from their guest. As soon as the dreadfulness concluded, Plucole headed to the portal. Single-handedly he pulled open the ginormous oak door before inviting me into the lifeless sanctum. Up till that juncture, I had no clue that this modest ferrish possessed such herculean prowess. The boisterous onlookers cheered when he guided me into the royal palace.

  Mid 2014

  My response to David’s Message

  David,

  Thank you for connecting. You’re the first to substantiate my Middle Eastern harem experiences. I’m grateful for your candidness. If you have no objections, I would like to include our correspondences in A Harem Boy’s Saga – V – Metanoia.

  If you are uncomfortable publishing your actual name, a pseudonym will work splendidly. As I had clarified in my writings; A Harem Boy Saga memoir series is not an exposé but cognitive accounts of my real education that I wish to illuminate the larger world.

  Not only did my sui generis tutelage shape my worldview, but it had also pathed the way to my life choices. Hopefully, we can travel down memory lane and share our enlightened experiences with this topsy-turvy universe. This planet that often devaluates the classics for the neoteric.

  Since you’ve read Initiation and Unbridled, you’re aware that I’ve reconnected with my ex-Valet, Andy. He has kindly agreed to lend his perspective to future
volumes in the series. If you have no objections to his input, I’ll be happy to introduce the both of you. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to be acquainted with your good self.

  I look forward to our collaboration. Meanwhile, be well, stay healthy and best wishes to you and your kin.

  Regards,

  Young

  Euphemistic Behests (Chapter Seven)

  “All classic fairy stories have always been scary and dark.”

  Helena Bonham Carter

  October 1968

  Pie de la Cuesta, Acapulco, Mexico

  After the teenager’s dramatic cliff diving performance, Jesús guided Mario, Victor, Curt, Andy and I to the sleepy village of Pie de la Cuesta; the home of Raoul, Maria Garcia and their three sons, Miguel, José, and Jesús.

  Since Mario wanted to meet Jesús’ father, he invited the clan to dine at a local eatery. This provided me the opportunity to conduct my sirens hypothesis.

  While the Count, Victor, Curt, and Andy chatted with the older Gracias; I asked Jesús, “How long have you been a professional diver?”

  “It’s been three years since my first performance,” the teenager replied.

  I questioned nonchalantly, “Have you seen any mermaids or sirens in these waters?”

  “I’ve encountered Sirenos,” he responded.

  “What are Sirenos?”

  “They are mermen that guide fishermen to safety when there’s a thunderstorm,” Jesús declared indisputably.

  I queried bewilderingly, “What do they look like?”

  He gave my chaperones, and the photographer sly glances before he replied mischievously, “They look like them from the hips up. Below they are big and long.”

  “Do they have hairy chests, like Andy and the Count? How big and long are their tails?” I probed mischievously.

  The boy gave a rascally grin. He was obviously besotted by the Caucasians.

  He stressed desirously, “Their tails are sexy, plump, and long.”

  “Where and what happened when you saw the mermen?” I prodded.

  He sniggered at my inquisitiveness before he whispered, “I’ll tell you if you promise not to tell my family.”

  I nodded and made the sign of a cross as a confidentiality pledge.

  “Do as I tell you. After the meal excuse yourself to the inodoro (toilet). I’ll meet you at the back of the restaurant and show you what transpired,” Jesús muttered.

  I nodded, just when the scrumptious food arrived at our table.

  Sirenos

  I waited at the restaurant’s rear when the lad arrived. Without uttering a word, the teenage diver beckoned me to follow.

  I asked, “Are they still chatting in the restaurant?”

  He did not answer. Instead, he waved for me to keep pace. We arrived at a nearby lagoon before he pointed at a nearby cliff.

  “This is the place where my father made the ‘Tarzan’ jump,” he announced.

  I looked at the precipice and wondered what he was getting at. Against the night sky, an outline of a reclining silhouette revealed itself. Before I could question, the teenager motioned for me to follow. He beckoned me to hurry. As we climbed the narrow pathway, I lost sight of the Mexican. Left with little choice, I proceeded towards the peak on my own.

  What I saw was beyond trepidation. Two figures were in the throes of passion. Upon more precise observation, the hairy-chested man was none other than the Count. He jabbed his prying tongue into my guide’s oral fissure as he ripped Jesús’ shirt away from his sinewy physique. I stood transfixed at this unanticipated scenario, yet their erotic foreplay aroused my libido. The immediate thought that ran through my mind was, “Where are the Mermen I was guided here to witness?”

  An unexpected pair of hands clenched my waist. Without having to turn around, I felt my lover’s masculinity coursed through my person. His hardness gyrated against my derriere as his fingers caressed and tweaked my nipples to jubilations.

  I turned to receive his probing tongue and mirrored the image that played out a few feet away. From the corner of my eyes, another couple had joined the duo. They were my current and ex-professors; Herr Eberhardt and Señor Triqueros.

  My preemptive Sirenos encounter evaporated into thin air by this unexpected development. Bewildered, bewitched, and enraptured by my Valet’s tantalizing amorosity I granted my lover’s access to the deepest recesses of my unbridled longing.

  I rotated my buttocks to seduce my chaperone’s drumming hardness to salacious indulgence as my jeans swirled around my ankles.

  “This boy must be punished for disappearing into the wilderness without my permission,” he whispered in my ear before he slapped my tilted buttocks.

  Not only did my subservience emboldened Andy’s enthusiasm it also triggered the Count and his accomplices to echo my lover’s exertions.

  The machismo Italian whacked the diver’s naked derrière with his leather belt as the lad sucked my teachers’ palpitating stiffnesses.

  The Count’s carnality thrust his conquest to euphoric submissions. In the opposite direction, the boy surrendered to Curt and Victor’s oral impalements. The lubricious teenager implored his masters to inflict further retributions on and within his willing receptacles.

  Andy, enkindled by the sadomasochistic foursome, plowed into me with desperate ferocity. I squealed in agony at the sudden onslaught. The discomfort soon gave way to euphoric pleasures. My lover’s dexterous pounding and my animalistic groans catapulted us to orgasmic gratifications.

  With a final slap on my shapely mounds, he released his manliness into my repository and filled my compliance to overflowing capacity.

  I floundered my propensities onto his handsomeness before I unleashed his sliding deposits back into his oral cavity. Our tongues interlocked in succulent exchanges as we sealed our fiery passion with sprightly affection.

  The philanderer and the educators plowed into their collaborator as his compliance sufficed their dominance with vivacity. Mario tugged forcefully at the diver’s hair as he rode the juvenile towards his climatic liberation.

  While Jesús’ tormentors lashed at his bootylicious stern, jets of molten libations poured forth from Curt’s chalice of love. Victor intercepted the abundance into the lad’s mouth before he shared the sportsman’s sacred potencies with his conspirator and the teenager. The quartet shared their unbridled deliverances with sensual kisses.

  Within the confines of his illicit recipient, Mario’s hydrous outpour streamed into the lad’s palpitating enclosure. He poured into the lad’s furthest recess and sent Jesús over the edge of no return. Only after the teenager milked the remnants from his companions’ euphoric transcendence did the men loosen their grip

  We made our way to Coyuca Lagoon to frolick under the glowing moon in this secluded paradise.

  “Didn’t we have fun with a couple of Sirenos tonight? Are you happy with your ‘Mermen’ encounters?” These were Jesús’ parting words as we waved goodbye to each other.

  Third Week of June 1968

  Palais Ferrisabatwa Royale

  My eyes adjusted to the darkened halls as soon as we entered the Royal Palace. Plucole read my thoughts.

  “You are an inquisitive human, you’re forever curious to what is about to happen,” he relayed.

  “I can’t help myself, I’m that way since birth,” I telepathed.

  He counseled, “Be respectful to The Regent. Otherwise….” He stopped midstream.

  We arrived at a set of humongous doors before the unassuming ferrish heaved them open without effort.

  Out of the darkness, a battalion of abatwaian soldiers atop an army of black ants appeared. As if they had been waiting for Plucole to open the floodgate, they trooped across the corridor. As speedily as they had arisen, the infantry with waving flags and drumming drums disappeared down the gallery.

  Groups of whiffling objects careened around the large chamber we just entered. At first glance, they resembled fireflies, but upon closer inspection, they wer
e gossamer-winged changelings. These creatures resemble little children, yet their musculatures was that of well-endowed adults. They clustered around an enormous object.

  My curiosity got the better of me. I sensorized Plucole, “Who are these creatures?”

  He glared at me as if I had put my foot in my mouth.

  “They are not, and I repeat, NOT CREATURES but are of noble descent,” he counseled.

  “Are they fairies?” I questioned.

  He gave me a nod of approval before he responded, “We address the males as fayçon and the females as fairelle. Our Regent had bestowed each imperial sibling with an august title.”

  Fairies had gathered around an ornate two-poster bed that was partially veiled by a diaphanous canopy. I could not decipher the nature of their assemblage. In the language I did not understand, Plucole vociferated a series of sing-song phrases.

  The cortège parted from the bed, only to reveal a voluptuously naked abatwaian female. Her legs were spread open for the attending assembly to lap at her dexterous womb. Her contorted expression and euphotic noises disclosed an erotic tale of sexual ecstasy.

  Like a queen bee whose sole duty was for reproduction, this Regent was an embodiment of a fertility goddess. Her endless supply of fulvic acid, a purgation that was vital to the kingdom’s survival; was delved into by an endless cycle of fluttering fairies. In the process of being fed by her life-giving nutrients, Her Highness was also pleasured by their suckling exertions.

  I enquired of Plucole, “Why are the fairies weaning and grazing in and around the Regent’s vagina?”

  The ferrish enlightened me. “Fulvic boosters keep the fairies young. It slows their aging metabolism and improves their digestive system. It also protects their brain deterioration.”

  I riposted, “You mean; like bees to honey?”

  “Yes. To put it simplistically. Something to that effect,” he remarked.

  Plucole let out a shrilling cry. The fairies stopped dead in their tracks. For the first time since our arrival, the Abatwaian female opened her dreamy eyes.