10

I’d seen Aimee nearly nude before. But her body, presented to me now, as God had made her, was a stunning sight. Her lithe feline shape was perfectly proportioned. I already knew that. But the details had been concealed by various pantaloons and shifts. What she revealed to me in the ever-changing light of the fire was a flawless female effigy.
Her legs were long and powerful but smooth and shapely. Her shoulders were delicate but sculpted. Her rib cage was wide. Her stomach was flat, and her hips were supple and lush, with protruding hip bones and muscled flanks. Her breasts were sizable, broad and meaty, with dark brown acorn shaped nipples.
But the one thing that set Aimee apart from any woman I had ever known, was her total lack of hair. Every woman I had been with before had fine down on their legs and a substantial bush in other places. Aimee was totally bald down there. I hesitated to think why. Because it was likely a courtesan trick. But it was also exotically tempting, since it highlighted her femininity.
In actuality, I had to take in that stunning vista in a quick glance. That was because Aimee had thrown her arm around my neck and dragged me down, so that I was laying half on top of her. I was aware of her profession. So, I was expecting all the whore tricks. But Aimee was either the world’s most convincing actress, or she was lost in passion.
She moaned loudly and began to frantically whisper, “Put it in. You have to put it in!!” I hastily moved between her legs, which she spread widely for me, her hand reached down, and we were finally joined. The joining felt as inevitable as time.
She gave a muffled gasp of sensation and then she pushed hard with her feet and her hips rocked up to seat me firmly at the top. We both groaned with the feeling. I could sense the little flutters and nips in her passage.
Then we paused. I was supporting myself on my arms and Aimee had both hands at the back of my neck gazing at me tenderly. The look was almost sad, which was baffling given that I was as deep inside her as I could get.
Then her eyes clouded with lust, she gave a little cry and dragged me down for another deep kiss. The sex wasn’t slow and romantic. It was as wild as I had always imagined it would be.
Aimee is an exotic creature, deep, mysterious and vibrant. She radiates sexuality simply eating breakfast. You can imagine what she is like when her emotions are riled up. More importantly. There was nothing in how she responded to me that would tell me that she wasn’t totally lost in her own desire. Aimee wasn’t a lady of the night. She was my lover.
She bucked and writhed under me, seeking her own satisfaction. Her cries of passion were so loud that they set off the coyotes in the area. She dug her fingers into my ass and humped back at me with fervor. There was no artifice; nothing that would lead you to believe she was anything but a woman in love.
We had been vigorously humping in the missionary position when she began to mutter, “On top, on top.” So, I half-rose and rolled onto my back, Aimee still firmly attached. Once we had settled back, I looked up at that naked golden body and she was staring down at me with fierce desire in her eyes.
She dangled her big meaty tits down as she tented her long hair around both of us and her hips really went to town, working back and forth at an outrageous pace. I took the engorged nipple of one of her swaying breast between my lips and that pushed her over the edge.
Aimee screamed and then lost control of her body. She began to violently quiver and shake. The look in her eye was utter shock, with a garnish of terror. It was like she didn’t know what was happening to her.
The shrieks, the smells and the frantic pulsing of her little ring of muscle brought me right along with her, as she trembled uncontrollably on top of me. I had not had sex since my last night in New Orleans. So, you can imagine the cataclysm that took place in my loins.
When I finally got some sanity back, I found Aimee lying bonelessly on my chest. She was either recovering or coming to. She was still panting frantically, and we were both bathed in sweat. I eased her over, so she was lying next to me.
I propped myself on one elbow and looked down at her. Her eyes came back into focus. She’d been far away. Her first words totally flabbergasted me. She said wonderingly, “I know that was an orgasm. The other girls have talked about it. But I’ve never had one.”
It was foolish of me to blurt it out at that auspicious moment. But I had to say it. I said sincerely, “I love you.” The pain in her eyes was unimaginable. She said, “Let me tell you my story first. Then you can make up your mind.”
So, we lay next to each other in the hot night, gazing at the stars over the vast Colorado prairie. The fire outlined the facets of Aimee’s magnificent body as she told me her story. In many ways, it was the simple consequence of the society that she was born into. But It was tragic. More importantly, it explained everything.
The Melancons were wealthy Arcadian planters in rural Baton Rouge. The Grandfather Aristede started the placage tradition by having a girl child with a beautiful slave woman named Leonie. The child grew up with the house staff and she in turn inherited her mother’s beauty.
In fact, the daughter was so lovely that Aristede’s son Augustin took her as, in effect, his “left hand wife.” That might seem a bit incestuous, given that they were half siblings. But extra-legal “placage” marriages with exceptionally beautiful slaves were common among the planter classes. It made the “wives” placees in the household
Aimee’s mother Marielle was more of a wife to Augustin than his real wife Viola, who was the daughter of a member of the legislature in nearby Baton Rouge. They were all one big happy family. Abigail was born to Viola and Aimee was born to Marielle. The two girls were raised together like sisters, until they began to blossom into women.
That was when their brother Bruno took notice. Bruno was in his twenties, a physical specimen, legendary leader of the Greenville rifles and omnivorously corrupt. Aimee said, “First, there was Abigail. She was two years older.” I thought to myself, “That explains it.”
Aimee added, “It did something to her. It was like her only raison d’etre after that was sex.” Aimee added sadly, “She came willingly with me to May’s.”
Aimee’s mother knew that her daughter was bound to suffer Bruno’s attentions. She was a generational beauty. So, Marielle worked out a placage agreement with Augustin. It would give Aimee some rights. Even though both mother and daughter were still legally slaves.
Accordingly, at age eighteen, Aimee found herself bound to a monster. And of course, since she was a chattel, she had to submit to his every perverted fantasy. Her beautiful face got a look of absolute revulsion as she said, “I will never tell you what he did to me.”
Her only friend was another slave, a serving boy who was her age, named Nestor. Aimee told me that Nestor was a sweet and gentle soul. She would pour out her anguish to him in the dark of the night, and he would hold and comfort her. Inevitably consoling became something else.
Bruno was beside himself with joy when Aimee fell pregnant. This would be the first child in the next generation, and he had already picked out the name Bruno Etienne Melancon Junior. He even began to treat the mother better.
That is, until the very dark-skinned baby was born. It only took a few applications of the cat to extract the name of the perpetrator. With that, Aimee rolled on her side to show me the scars on her smooth back.
The subsequent revenge was merciless. Nestor was sold to the cotton plantations in Alabama. Nobody lived long there. The child was sold up-river. He didn’t fetch much. But the aim was vengeance, not income. And Aimee was sold to a whorehouse in New Orleans.
Luckily, it was May’s. May was a compassionate woman. She emancipated Aimee and gave her the opportunity to live in semi-luxury. All Aimee had to do was “entertain” a few “clients.” There weren’t very many. And May enforced a strict code of conduct. Aimee was always treated well.
She paused there, and then stared at me intently, willing me to understand, “I was property, not a person. I had been abused my entire life. I had no concept of kindness, or even humanity. So of course, I did whatever this generous woman told me to do. She was my savior.”
Aimee added off-handedly, “The nightly sex was utterly impersonal. It was a chore. I did it to repay my benefactor and keep a roof over my head. The act mattered not at all. I felt nothing.”
Aimee’s voiced deepened to reflect her profound grief, “My heart was an utter void. I’d lost my beautiful child. My sorrow was all-consuming. I’d cry every night and I’d pray for his salvation. That was what you witnessed by the river.”
She said bleakly, “My soul, has always been shielded within the citadel of myself. It is the only way I have been able to survive. People see the walls. They never touch what’s inside.”
Then she looked at me lovingly and said with a rising note of anxiety, “That is not who I am. We’ve been together for almost a year. You are a good man. You will not hurt me, and you will protect me.”
She paused, like she was bracing herself and added, “I want to open the gate and admit you, and only you, into my heart. But please understand, it will kill me if you betray me.”
I had several thoughts. The first was joy. This superb woman had just given herself to me. The second was relief that I had not played the martyr over Faith’s betrayal. I would have sounded like an idiot compared to Aimee’s suffering. Lastly, I was utterly devoted to her.
Obviously, Aimee was a superb beauty and a passionate lover. She would always be a gorgeous and caring life-companion. But that wasn’t the foundation of my choice. Aimee’s spirit sealed the deal; her strength of character and intelligence, her gallant willingness to fight on, even in the face of hopeless odds. That was the ingredient that no other woman had.
More importantly Aimee had always been an honorable and caring person. She didn’t treat others like they had treated her. She gave them sympathy and respect. That was the remarkable part. If I’d had Aimee’s life experiences, I would have become an axe murderer.