by Londyn Skye
Chapter Twenty-five
Judging by the wide-eyed look of astonishment plastered on Preston Mills’s face, one would assume he was gazing at the expensive artwork he had just traveled across a war-torn country to deliver to the Atkins estate. But those expensive portraits were nowhere near his current field of view. However, in Preston’s expert opinion, he would undoubtedly appraise the statuesque work of art in front of him as priceless. Preston’s expressive words to the beautiful sight had brought everything to a standstill in the Atkins’ formal dining room. For several uncomfortable seconds, there was stone-cold silence. Suddenly, not a single piece of fine china was touched by the roomful of upper-class guests, who had been eating their artful cuisine. Finely aged glasses of wine were ignored as dozens of rich eyes stared bewilderedly at the Manhattan Museum curator. Preston, in turn, had his eyes transfixed on Bella, one of the Atkins’ servants. Her presence had compelled him to slowly rise from his seat as he spoke to her, his eyelids refusing to shut in the process. Bella stood there uncomfortably returning Preston’s gaze with an empty tray in her hand, unable to bring herself to utter a word in return. Preston was only able to pull his eyes away from Bella after she discreetly shook her head and scurried away into the kitchen without a word. It was only then that Preston snapped out of his trance, nervously looked around, and realized that he had completely shifted the atmosphere in the room. His eyes swept across the room of well-to-do guests, until they landed on the displeased face of Atticus Atkins, the enigmatic politician who had purchased Bella four years prior …
For decades, Atticus Atkins had reigned supreme as a powerful figure in Galveston, Texas. As an experienced attorney, Atticus had perfected the art of lying, colluding, and hiding his underhanded ways from every good-natured Texan. They were none the wiser to the fact that he was the sort of man who took great pride in hiding his money from the government. His combined talent for deception, and consistent record of courtroom victories, had easily convinced an overwhelming majority of Galveston patrons that he was worthy enough to be voted in as their mayor. Voters were completely ignorant to the fact that they had just elected a man who was about to take even greater pride in siphoning from the pockets of every fool who cast a ballot on his behalf. Despite having the brilliance to maintain his affluent lifestyle legally, Atticus simply had a passion for cheating and breaking the law for personal gain. That mentality even applied to acquiring his slaves. Every one of them had been purchased on the black market, including his absolute favorite … Bella.
Atticus was sub-par physically in comparison to the average man. In fact, in his early years as a single man, the only attractive attribute about him was his intellect … and his money. His bland appearance and enigmatic ways left him struggling with women in his youth, until his financial assets suddenly turned him from a frog into a prince, in the eyes of eligible women. His money drew the eyes of the McCoys, another wealthy Texas family. Their daughter, Evelyn, proudly married Atticus for money and power, just as she had been raised to do.
Evelyn made Mary Jo Parker seem like a saint in the world of socialites. She was ruthless and held her societal status and family image far above everything, even marital happiness. The only mutual love the couple expressed was for the goal of achieving elite status together. For twenty-five years, Evelyn gladly stood side by side as Atticus’s beautiful, prized wife. She tolerated her marriage to him with a smile, so long as he funded her socialite lifestyle with an equally fake smile. She took pride in maintaining their family’s perfect image, while they both worked toward their ultimate goal of residing at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, in Washington D.C. In Evelyn’s mind, becoming the country’s most adored first lady would have been equivalent to being crowned queen of the socialite world. She would have sold her three children’s souls for pennies on the dollar, if that was the cost of achieving such royal status. Her extraordinarily selfish goal made maintaining all of her husband’s dirty secrets a breeze … including the most scandalous of them all.
Ten years into his marriage, Atticus was attending a small gathering of businessmen at the home of a client that he had won an important case for. As a bonus for winning his case, the client gave Atticus the choice of any, or all five, of his Negro pleasure girls. Atticus was ignorant to such experiences before then. He was afraid to even accept the offer at first. Had it not been for alcohol, and assurance from his client that his evening of indulging would be kept secret, Atticus might have declined. With alcohol giving him the courage, he took a risk and chose two pleasure girls from the group. The two exotic ladies seductively smirked, both eager to toy with a man who seemed so hesitant and naive. They then guided him back to their pleasure palace, their hips swaying provocatively in front of their inexperienced new toy as they walked.
Atticus’s nerves had him so frozen when he entered their room that both women had to remove his spectacles and clothing on his behalf. After guiding him to the bed, the pair of beautiful servants slowly began dancing out of their clothing. Atticus’s wide eyes nearly dried out from his refusal to blink, as he watched them strip. Never in his life had he seen naked bodies built like goddesses, posteriors and breasts so plump, and hips so round. Once his seductresses were unclothed, they began showing him the skills that had earned them the label of pleasure girls. Soft tongues and thick lips caressed nearly every inch of Atticus’s skin, until his manhood stiffened with anticipation. He let out a breathy moan and his eyes rolled back when a set of thick lips suddenly slid over his erection and began trying to suck the life out of him. He was near eruption when the girl’s oral pleasuring suddenly ceased. She backed up and made way for the other goddess to mount him. Atticus breathlessly cried out for God when she slid her slick folds down over his hardness; he certainly felt as though he had been catapulted into heaven. He never realized what he was missing sexually until his member was submerged deep between the thick thighs of a Negro woman. The wetness, warmth, and tightness of her insides was unlike anything he had ever felt with his wife. The erotic dancing of her body, as she pounded his hardened flesh, caused Atticus to have an explosive climactic eruption that ignited an instant obsession with Negro women.
After leaving the pleasure palace, Atticus was indeed a different man. He did nothing but fantasize about burying his penis in the tight wet folds of beautifully colored bodies. His constant daydreams left him desperate to find a way to satiate his ravenous craving for the terrifically sinful feeling of thick lips, plump rumps, and the smoldering insides of a Negro woman. His throbbing penis was literally aching for more. His obsessive desires even began disrupting his work and changing his life in a way that his wife easily noticed.
It was not the sudden lack of intimacy from Atticus that led Evelyn to care about the fact that he began returning home unusually late from work, in the weeks following his secret experience with the pleasure girls. It was only the speed with which money was suddenly disappearing from their safe that made Evelyn raise an eyebrow about Atticus’s unusual behavior. She assumed he was gambling. Gambling, he was. But not in the ways that Evelyn had predicted. Oddly, Evelyn was not angry about the sinful sexual affairs that she soon learned her husband was having. Even the fetish that had compelled his actions did not bother her. What angered her most, was the ease with which the private investigator she hired had found him at a secret upscale brothel, where he was spending thousands of dollars. Despite the masks provided for the affluent customers at the brothel, Evelyn feared her husband’s secret would easily be discovered by their affluent town. Becoming First Lady was all that eclipsed Evelyn’s mind. She was just as obsessed with maintaining her polished socialite status as her husband was with his unique new fetish. She, therefore, did not care how many Negroes she had to endure her husband sleeping with to get to the White House. But if his scandalous secret jeopardized her chance at being crowned queen of the United States, there would be hell to pay.
To continue enjoying the freedom from her intimate “wifely duties,” Evelyn
came up with a solution that would help feed her husband’s fetish, maintain his secret, and keep her polished image shimmering. A week after discovering her husband’s transgressions, Evelyn guided Atticus into a bedroom in their basement that she had secretly remodeled just for him. His jaw nearly hit the floor when he saw what his wife had beautifully decorated the room with. Evelyn stared at the profile of her husband’s face while he continued to stand there unblinking, shocked into silent awe. “You set anotha’ foot into one of those filthy whore houses, and I’ll hire somebody to kill you myself,” she warned Atticus.
Her words finally got Atticus to turn and look at his wife, his heart immediately galloping. Up until that very moment, he was not aware that Evelyn knew the truth about his secret late night “meetings.”
“And if you impregnate one of these whores … well.” Evelyn glanced down at Atticus’s crotch and then looked him in the eyes. “Let’s just say, you’ll wish you were dead.” She handed him a box full of prophylactics, then glanced over at the three “whores,” who were all standing quietly across the room in lingerie. “He’s all yours now, ladies,” she stated. “And don’t botha’ bein’ gentle.” She then turned to look at her husband again. “I heard he likes it rough.” Evelyn smirked and walked out, gladly leaving the responsibility of satisfying her husband to the three slave women she had just purchased on the black market. She went to her room, sat on the bed, and began reading a novel. She sipped on a glass of wine as she read, feeling as relaxed as a mother, who had the evening to herself, after dropping off her children for a playdate. She read with a smile on her face, confident that her plan would help preserve the reputation of her rich and powerful family, as they stair-stepped toward the White House.
Atticus was smiling as well. His smile, however, was driven by devilish lust. His flesh hardened as he gazed wide-eyed at the array of beautiful, voluptuous, Negro women in front of him, who stood there ready to satisfy his fetish. The love that had once faded away for his wife suddenly came roaring back, as he drooled with delectable content at the unbelievable gift she had just given him.
With Evelyn’s blessing, Atticus’s collection of black-market slaves began to grow over the years. However, he began handpicking his bevy of brown beauties on his own, assuring himself that he would always have an array of colors, shapes, and sizes that suited his particular tastes. He surrounded himself with variety, disguising them as cooks, maids, and nannies, until the late-night hours when he selected one as his lover. For years, Evelyn turned a blind eye to his late-night activities. For the way she quietly allowed his sinful behaviors, she simply asked that her husband always abide by her strict rules. But much like a child who was given an inch, Atticus took a mile. His desires eventually trumped his ability to reason. His disrespect would eventually test how serious Evelyn was about the consequences of breaking her rules.
A month before purchasing Bella, Atticus had awakened looking forward to being with a slave named Clara. She was like his coffee. Every part of his body would rise in the morning, eagerly anticipating the taste of her, and the lively energy she infused in him afterward. Atticus walked down to the basement, toward the bathroom where Clara met him every morning. She was usually sitting nude in the bubble bath she had prepared for them. With a certain part of him visibly ready for his sultry morning routine, Atticus opened the bathroom door. But when he looked inside, his erection immediately to soften. There was no bubble-filled bath water … and no Clara either. His wife stood there staring him down, instead.
“Year afta’ year, I ignore the fact that my husband has an acquired taste for the filthy pussies of Negro whores!” Evelyn berated. She suddenly stepped toward Atticus with lowered eyes. “All that I’ve done for you, all that I’ve let you get away with, and you have the audacity to disrespect me by impregnatin’ one of your whores!”
“Evelyn, let me explain…”
“Shut up! There is no explanation for what you did! Were you stupid enough to think I’d neva’ notice?”
Atticus stood there looking like a frightened child being scorned by his mother.
“Answa’ me!”
“I-I was gonna tell you. It’s just…”
Evelyn suddenly slapped him so hard his ears began ringing. As Atticus stood there holding his cheek, she put her finger in his face. “I told you the consequences! You’re lucky I didn’t walk in here with a butcha’ knife! But this is your last warnin’. If you bring shame to this family again…” She grabbed his penis, twisted, and squeezed with all her might. “I can promise you, it won’t be one of your precious whores you wake up missin’,” she whispered in his ear. She yanked hard on his member before letting go and storming out of the bathroom. Atticus grabbed his crotch and dropped to his knees, his eyes filled with tears of excruciating pain.
Atticus’s fury over finding Clara gone that morning was immeasurable, but he could not remotely argue the fact that he rightfully deserved the consequences of his actions. What his wife had done with Clara and his unborn child remained a mystery, one that genuinely broke Atticus’s heart, especially considering that he would never get to meet his child. Despite the painful loss, he never dared question his wife about it. Seeking to numb the heartache, he instead began focusing on finding a replacement for his favorite lover. Wanting to buy a woman of similar shade, shape, and sparkling eye color, Atticus boarded a train and set out to Mississippi, to meet with his usual backwoods, lowlife, black market slave traders.
For Atticus, purchasing slaves on the black market had nothing to do with getting deep discounts on humans. Legal auctions just never had a wide assortment of women to choose from that were suitable for his eclectic preferences. After so many dirty dealings in the past, Atticus’s usual slave traders now knew his eclectic tastes extremely well. They always brought a dozen or more female slaves, with the array of skin tones and hair textures that he preferred. Though the slave traders considered Atticus a peculiar man, he was by far their favorite loyal client. He paid top dollar for their inventory and, most importantly, for their silence. With the profits they made, the underhanded men never failed to arrive early with their load of stolen humans.
Right on schedule, Atticus arrived at their secret meeting spot. As usual, the slave traders were already there. Most backwoods deals were made at night, but Atticus paid extra to do his selection in the early morning sunlight. He wanted the sun shining just right, perfectly illuminating the array of shackled barefoot women. After being wrestled away from various places in the dead of night, the women all stood there with their heads hanging low, trembling with fear over the prospect of what their futures held. They prayed it would not be any worse than the conditions they had just been snatched away from.
Atticus walked slowly down the line, gently raising the head of each potential purchase, carefully examining each and every one. He had a knack for seeing past their tear-stained, filthy faces and recognizing the beauty that lie underneath. The slave traders normally brought women who were in acceptable physical condition, but that was hardly the case on this particular morning. Many were so battered, bruised, and emaciated that Atticus was finding it hard to see their beauty this time, until he lifted the head of the seventh woman in line. “I’ll take this one,” he said to leader of the sellers as he gazed into the woman’s eyes.
“You sure? You still got five otha’s to look at,” the backwoods seller replied.
“I said I’ll take this one,” Atticus adamantly expressed, without ever taking his eyes off his new replacement. He knew immediately that she was truly a precious diamond in the rough. “What’s your name?” he asked her, still having yet to blink while gazing at her.
His new prospect was too paralyzed with fear to reply. She did nothing but continue to tremble as a tear ran down her bruised cheek.
“He asked your name!” the backwoods seller yelled, lifting his hand to slap her.
Atticus grabbed his wrist and stopped him before it reached her face.
The sell
er snatched his arm out of Atticus’s grip. “I don’t think you wanna buy her! I’m convinced she’s fuckin’ retarded!”
“If you think I’m here shoppin’ for a genius, then you’re the one who’s fuckin’ retarded!” Atticus replied. He then turned his attention back to the slave he wanted and gazed at her with lust in his eyes. “Besides … she’s just scared. If you didn’t know where the hell you were, or where the hell you were about to end up, you’d be scared to death too.” Atticus wiped the tear away that careened down her bruised cheek. “What’s your name?” he asked her again.
Again, she failed to reply or to even glance in Atticus’s direction.
“Bella,” the slave trader interjected. “She told us earlier that her name was Bella.”
“Bella,” Atticus repeated. “French for beautiful. So perfectly fittin’ for you,” he whispered lustfully, while caressing her cheek. “I’ll take Bella then,” he reiterated to the trader, without turning his eyes away from her.
The backwoods trader shook his head. “It’s your money.” Which is exactly what Atticus paid the black-market thief … and lots of it.
After making the illegal transaction, Atticus placed a box of food and several canteens of water in the back of the slave trader’s wagon, for all the other stolen slaves to eat. He then walked up and put a finger in the slave trader’s face. “The next time you bring me a batch of slaves just barely clingin’ to life, it’ll be the last time we eva’ do business! These women look like they haven’t eaten in weeks! You’re makin’ pure profit off these slaves! Hell, with the money I’m payin’ you alone, you can certainly afford to feed ’em, for Christ’s sake! Unless you’re plannin’ on sellin’ to necrophiliacs, you’re gonna have a hard time turnin’ a profit off dead bodies!”
