The Enlightenment of Hanna Ch. 10

When her mother still hesitated, Hanna added, "Or don't, and within the month every woman of age in the tri-county area will know the wondrous feeling of having a black man's cum dripping from their pussy. Every woman but you that is. It's entirely your choice."

Hanna knew she was offering her mother a chance to save face by donating the properties to the church. She was playing off the fact her mother's ego wouldn't allow her to turn the deal down.

It was a carrot or the stick type of offer. Addy Brown just wasn't aware yet that the carrot was rotten.

Hanna watched as her mother opened her purse. That she did so reluctantly was clearly apparent. It seemed an act that caused her great pain, and Hanna knew why. The woman who'd given birth to her had always seemed to relish stamping out any happiness that came into Hanna's life. Handing those papers over, took away the last bit of leverage Addy Brown would ever have over her daughter.

Finding the papers in her purse, Addy pulled them from her bag and started to hand them to Hanna, at the last second, though, the older woman suddenly pulled them back with a look of pleading on her face.

"There's still time, Hanna. You can still ask God to forgive you and come back home."

Moving so quickly, the older woman barely had a chance to react, Hanna reached forward and snatched the papers from her mother's grasp.

Hanna handed them to Scottie, who looked through them to make sure Curtis had signed and initialed all the appropriate places. When she was pleased, she gave Hanna a nod.

Looking at her mother as she lay her head back against Damian's chest, Hanna said, "I don't need your Father, your Son, or your Holy Spirit because I have my black daddy who I'm going to give a son because he fucks the holy shit out of me."

Turning to Meghan, who'd quietly been watching the proceedings until Hanna's last comment, but was now openly laughing, Hanna said, "Can you please show this bitch out."

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It had been slightly more than ten years since the night Hanna had walked out on Curtis. And since that moment, the two had taken drastically divergent paths. Neither was ever totally unaware of the other and what was going on in their lives. That was despite the fact neither of the pair had physically laid eyes on one another since that night.

For his part, it was hard for Curtis to escape mention of his former wife in the immediate months following his divorce. Even with the vastly decreasing numbers that were attending church. There was always someone anxious to ask him about the latest pictures or rumors about Hanna and her new man on the internet.

Just six months after Damian, Hanna, and their entourage had left town, Clayton's population was down to half of what it had been during the previous census. That was even though many of those now living there were black, leaving the whites still present in vast danger of becoming a minority.

The divorce rate in Clayton before Hanna had unleashed her plague of black cock in the city, was one of the nation's lowest for a small town. Within a year of it happening, those numbers had quadrupled. A footnote to those statistics was the notation of an astonishing number of pregnancies among defendants involved in those suits.

Just as she'd promised her mother, Damian had signed over both properties to the church, and three days after the divorce paperwork was filed with the court, they were gone.

What Hanna hadn't mentioned was the parting gift she left behind. For the next month, her six hellhounds with large and unyielding black cocks worked their way throughout the county, continuing to entice the married and single white women still present with their wares.

The once-mighty Clayton Baptist Church was only a shell of its former glory. It had gone from holding two services on Sunday mornings that were standing room only, to one that could barely fill half of one side of the sanctuary. There had been a complete changeover in the staff at the church with Meghan's parents taking an early retirement out west.

Curtis's paid position on the staff ended just sixty days after his divorce was finalized. For a time, he lived with Hanna's parents helping her father out on the farm. But over the next several months, Addy Brown became increasingly violent and unstable, making the older woman almost impossible to live with. Her bitterness towards recent events had led to fits of paranoia, particularly concerning black people. Her delusions made it impossible for her to leave the farm.

It was a trip to the mailbox that finally broke Hanna's mother. Despite the increasing instability she'd shown, it seemed a simple and straightforward enough task to allow her to do.

Curtis and Donald had been working a cattle gate to deworm a grouping of heifers when they saw Addy make her way back up the driveway to the house. It was several hours later before the pair headed back home for supper. Not finding his wife in the kitchen, Donald Brown searched the house and found Addy lying dead in her bed.

She was still clutching to her breasts, the birth announcement of her only grandson, an empty bottle of sleeping pills lying on the bed next to her body.

In the days leading up to Addy's funeral, Curtis was a bundle of nerves. Donald had asked him to perform the service per his wife's final instructions, and usually, that would have been pressure enough. Adding to that, though, was his belief that he would have to do it in front of Hanna.

His nerves proved unfounded as the closest Hanna came to her mother's burial was eighty-four-hundred miles. Donald informed him the morning of the funeral that he'd spoken to Hanna, and she wouldn't be attending. Apparently, she'd been in Hong Kong on business with Damian when she'd finally received word the night before.

She did send a lovely bouquet of flowers, however. It was a large wreath made up of black chrysanthemums, which struck Curtis as particularly odd. White was typically considered proper etiquette for funeral flowers. He couldn't help but wonder if his former wife wasn't thumbing her nose one final time at her mother—a woman she'd had such a contentious relationship with.

It wasn't until years later that he read how in many European countries, chrysanthemums signified death, as did the color black.

Curtis felt it was time to move on a month or so after the funeral. Hanna's father had a friend named Tyson who'd started helping him most days, limiting what work there was for Curtis to do. He had been sending out resumes to churches all over the country but had received little interest. When an offer from a medium-size church came in from just outside of Houston, Curtis took it.

Things went well for him in Texas for the first eighteen months he was there. Texas was a different creature all together than the Georgia flatlands he grew up in, but the people were the same for the most part. It was a far more diverse population than Clayton with a sizable Vietnamese community mixed in with the usual conglomeration of whites, blacks, and Latinos.

Curtis had managed to do his job toiling away in anonymity for that first year and a half. Unfortunately for him, it was about that time that a video went viral on the internet of Hanna and an eighteen-year-old girl named Tyler Bevins. The two were frolicking naked in a public fountain in Greece.

Hanna's naked body was attention-grabbing enough, but Bevins, a former Disney star with an impeccable and wholesome pedigree, was the real attention grabber.

Paparazzi on boats and with helicopters swarmed the private island said to be owned by Damian's business interests. Their efforts resulted in a plethora of shots featuring the pair and several other young women as they lounged naked on the beach and dived from nearby cliffs. Most scandalous of all was a twenty-second video clip that was clear enough to distinguish two figures. One was distinctly Hanna sitting on the edge of a hot tub, her feet dangling in the water, her arms angled behind her to support her upper body. There was a young woman in the water with her face buried between Hanna's tanned legs. Her identity couldn't be distinguished until at the twelve-second mark when she looked up at the helicopter and actually had the temerity to wave at the camera.

Tyler Bevins was suddenly considered wholesome no more.

Reporters were anxious to make as much of the story as possible with any tangential background information they could find. In their zeal to do so, they managed to track down Curtis in Texas. His anonymity now gone, Curtis's life became a circus with reporters and paparazzi as they so often do, playing the part of clowns.

The story only grew when Ms. Bevins was recorded along with Hanna and Damian in various nightclubs around Europe in the weeks that followed. Bloggers and internet journalists worldwide were quick to point out Tyler's large hoop earrings and an ankle bracelet with the charm letters BBC dangling from it and what they signified.

There was widespread speculation that her acting career would be severely damaged by the sudden transformation of the young ingenue from wholesome next-door beauty to a creature of wanton sexual desire. Those suppositions proved to be fruitless in nature as Tyler landed the most prominent role of her career shortly after signing with a representation firm owned by Damian's corporation.

The female lead in a film already drawing a lot of attention for it's noted director and the number of A-list, Oscar-caliber actors signed to play other parts was a boon for Tyler's career. Yes, it would be her first role in a drama, but insiders within the industry, namely insiders who owed Damian for having played critical roles in their lives, were quick to point out how Bevins's screentest had wowed those in charge of the film.

In truth, the only audition Bevins had done for the role had happened with her face buried between Hanna's lithe legs as Damian's massive black staff split her corpulent cunt lips in two.

Of course, Curtis's new employers had no desire to be a part of the big top atmosphere surrounding the story. As a result, the youth pastor was let go for failing to reveal what the Church leadership felt were pertinent details about his background.

So, eight hundred miles from home, unemployed and homeless with no prospects of things getting better, Curtis had the first real crisis of faith in his lifetime.

He'd lived his life according to the bible, never once turning away from its teachings, and what had it gotten him? His wife had left him, the only mother figure he could genuinely remember in his life had committed suicide, and he couldn't keep a job through no fault of his own. He was lonely, depressed, and at the end of his rope.

So it was that Curtis walked into a bar for the first time in his life, just a little more than three years after the night that Hanna walked out on him.

If Curtis thought things had bottomed out by that point, he soon learned that he was sadly mistaken. Over the next several years, the former pastor lived in a by-the-week fleabag motel that stank of urine and feces. Curtis funded his accommodations by working a series of low-paying jobs in which he was paid cash under the table. What money he had left after that was used to pay for a mostly liquid diet consisting of cheap pints of rotgut whiskey and fortified wine.

Curtis was beaten several times over that period. Once during a mugging that took place as he walked from the liquor store to his motel room, and twice when people figured out who he was and beat him for allowing "that nigger" to turn him into a cuckold.

After the final beating, Curtis saved to purchase a bus ticket to San Francisco, hoping to lose himself in the sea of homeless people living in the bay area.

On a balmy summer night nine years after his divorce from Hanna, it was there in Golden State Park that the former preacher added heroin to the growing list of drugs in his diet. He snorted it on that occasion, but by the time he overdosed, he had graduated to injecting the despicable concoction.

If not for a supposed compatriot who lived in the same encampment he did in the park, Curtis would have died that night. The man in question recognized the signs of respiratory distress in the individual he'd been assigned to watch. Removing a spray bottle of Naloxone from his pocket, the guardian squirted sprays of mist up both of Curtis's nostrils. He then vigorously rubbed the chest of the overdosing man to stimulate his breathing while pulling a cell from his pocket and hitting a preprogrammed button.

"Roll our medical team," the man said into the mouthpiece. "He's overdosed. I've given him Narcan, and I'm currently stimulating his breathing. He's stable at the moment, but he won't last much longer out on the streets."

Curtis was only vaguely aware of what was happening to him. He'd felt himself drifting off almost immediately after injecting his last dose. The former pastor had chosen to shoot up despite a rash of deaths within the homeless community in recent months due to heroin laced with fentanyl. He'd reasoned that if the Mexican brown he'd obtained from his usual source was cut with the stuff, he wouldn't have to worry about the cold anymore. The fires of hell would be substantially warmer than the chilly park he called home.

Curtis often had strange dreams whenever he dosed himself with skag, and this time had been no different. Dark figures huddled around him as Curtis felt his body lifted and being carried away. He assumed they were demons from hell coming to lay claim to his soul for their master.

The one-time youth pastor didn't know until much later how right he was.

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For Hanna, life after leaving Clayton had been a busy time. Getting settled into her new life had been a whirlwind of activity that never seemed to entirely run out of steam. A pregnant woman without the supernatural advantages the gorgeous blonde had going for her would have undoubtedly cracked under such intense pressure. Her Personal Assistant, Meghan, liked to tease Hanna that she ruled Damian's household with an iron hand and a big black strap-on, both of which were true.

Their home in Los Angeles was at least four times the size of the mini-mansion they'd given up outside of Clayton. It was the largest in the exclusive Trousdale community, which sat at the base of the Santa Monica mountains. It was sized large enough to be considered more of a compound than just a home.

The sprawling Spanish square design of the house covered an ostentatious forty-one thousand square feet of heated floor space. In its center lay an expansive courtyard that housed a custom Olympic sized swimming pool and an outdoor kitchen that would have been the envy of any gourmet cook or barbecuing aficionado. The counters were Italian marble resting atop stainless-steel cabinetry. The theme carried over to the ground-covering made up of a darkly grained Carrara marble tile that covered the kitchen and dining area. Hanna demanded the staff keep the flooring polished to an almost glassy shine, and they were quick to make it a priority with nearly nightly buffing. No one wanted to end up on the wrong side of Damian's queen.

Opposite the other side of the pool was a large grassy area fenced off with a four-foot wrought-iron fence strung between ornate cast cherubs. The green space was mainly used for Haley to give Grace, and later Damian Jr., and Haley's daughter Zara a safe place to run around and stretch their legs during those times they were trapped at home.

On nights they held parties for clients, Hanna would have the fencing detached and stored while the cherubs were covered by waist-high round black cylinders that sat down snuggly over the circular base holding each sculpture. The flat surfaces could then be used to store extra food and drinks for the staff as they rotated amongst the guests.

Large black tents made of the shorn hair of sheep woven together, much like the ones used by the Bedouin travelers of the Arabian Deserts, would be hung for the night inside the grassy area. The tents' insides would be filled with plush mattress sized pillows and enough natural fur rugs to give your average rank and file member of PETA an embolism on sight.

The things that took place inside those tents on party nights made the purportedly sinful happenings of Sodom and Gomorrah and the orgy pits of ancient Rome look almost church-like in comparison. There would be piles of naked flesh spread out underneath the concealment of those dark tents, their occupants' content in the knowledge their activities were safe from prying eyes. But even the thick and heavy fabric strung around them couldn't hold down the fervent cries of pleasure reverberating through their interiors.

Captains of industry, A-list actors and movie executives, prominent politicians of both the domestic and foreign variety, and their spouses would be present by invitation only. Security of the most severe kind surrounded the compound preventing any media or paparazzi from gaining shots or gleaning any information. Made up of former special forces soldiers and Mossad agents, they were split up into six factions, one guarding each fence line, one responsible for the exterior of the mansion, and the final group covering security on the inside.

Each group was commanded by one of the six imposing but gorgeous black men that had addicted the white female population of Clayton to the scourge of black cock Damian's Queen had unleashed there. Hanna was delighted years after leaving the place where she'd grown up, to learn that mothers infected by the desire to worship at the altar of the black cock had been passing their new religion down to daughters who were too young to be affected at the time Hanna had plagued the town and surrounding county. Scottie was still in contact with Kiesha, and the young black waitress informed her that the few white marriages that had survived the enlightenment of the white female population of Clayton, had done so on a strict cuckold basis. There were quite a few caged white cocks in Clayton these days to hear Kiesha tell things.

Presiding over those six hung black hellhounds was the head of security for Damian's empire. If Hanna was Damian's Queen, then Lilith was his executioner. While everyone else saw a statuesque, Amazonian looking woman of middle eastern heritage, Hanna recognized Lilith for what she really was. She was Lucifer's second in command, straight from hell, and anyone among the security teams failing to live up to their responsibilities would answer directly to her. It made Hanna wet to watch these battle-tested soldiers and operators tremble in Lilith's presence. These men knew real danger when they saw it, and while none knew she was a demon, they knew she wasn't someone to be trifled with.

While security kept a tight lid on any access to the compound, those inside the tents frolicked without concern. With Hanna at his side, Damian made the rounds throughout the tent, generously giving his beautiful, big, black cock. It was nothing to see him fuck every woman present, but he saved his loads for a select few. Mostly new converts that were among the entertainment industry or from political arenas. And while each and every woman present desperately craved to have his seed coat their wombs, they were content to settle for taking it orally, or in the case of one very powerful senior female congressman of the Democratic party, anally.

While the love of her life was enchanting the women present with his magic member, and thus taking control of the men in their lives, Hanna was busy as well. She took great pleasure in helping Damian corrupt the hearts and minds of the women present and had become addicted to having famous, wealthy, and powerful women feast between her legs. Particularly once they discovered that tasting her cum left them almost as ebullient as Damian's semen did.