The Secrets of Silk

Dear Reader:

All I can say is wow… I've already said that Allison Hobbs is “the only one on the planet freakier than me.” Well, the prolific author, known for her over-the-top erotica, has outdone herself with her twenty-fourth novel,
Secrets of Silk.

This time she spins a tale in the 1960s about Silk Moreaux, a woman who throws no punches and whose best friend is a switchblade. Raised by Big Mama, a voodoo queen in the backwoods of Louisiana, Silk ventures away to the city of Chester, Pennsylvania where she continues to attract men at every turn. They fall for her Creole looks and Southern “charm,” providing her whatever she seeks.

Find out what happens when she lures Richard “Buddy” Dixon, a recent widower and father, and moves into the family household. Chester will never be the same once this vixen follows her wretched path of evil and deception.

I appreciate the love and support shown to Strebor Books, myself, and our efforts to bring you cutting-edge stories.

Blessings,

Publisher

Strebor Books

www.simonandschuster.com

F
OR
S
TEPHANIE
S. F
ITCHETTE

My Favorite Cousin
Marathon conversations. So much love and laughter.
It's wonderful beyond words.

What would I do without the support of my loyal readers? There's not enough space to list everyone who has touched my heart in a special way, but I'll do my best to get to all of you eventually. Special thanks to: Ivella Dennis, Darlene Mai Roberts, Letitia Evans, Brady Townes Ingram, Morgin Mansfield, Keisha Gray-Seltz, Detina Watts, Sonya Lee, Chevy Johnson, Sharon Bandy, Natasha Potts, Carnetha Leech, Tara Goodman-Baruwa, Shannon SG Gregory, Sharney Batts-Thomas, Gary Shumlai, and special thanks to the Juice Lovas Review.

I also want to acknowledge my fellow authors whose friendships over the years have meant the world to me. Thank you to my sexy boo, Erotica author, Cairo, and to my baby girl, the Drama Queen, Daaimah S. Poole.

God Bless the day I met Charmaine Parker and Zane. Saying thank you will never be enough.

Deb Schuler, I'm convinced that you're a saint. Thank you for your kindness and all the fast turnarounds.

Karen Dempsey Hammond, what can I say except you can't choose your family but sure can choose your friends, and I'm so freakin' lucky that I chose you!

Carlos Bautista, welcome back!

H
ow the infant found its way into the backwoods Louisiana shack of Mattie Moreaux was as much of a mystery as the ingredients in the potions Mattie sold to white folks who lived on the right side of the tracks. Some of the residents of Devil's Swamp said the baby was the unwanted offspring of some hot-to-trot white gal with a penchant for colored boys.

More imaginative gossipers said the child was one of many discarded fetuses that old Mattie had helped desperate women purge from their wombs.

But there was one secret that the townsfolk only dared to whisper. According to legend, when the old voodoo woman put one particular fetus in the ground, as she had with all the others that fertilized her unnaturally bountiful garden, the tiny, dead baby came to life, howling and screaming in fury. And the resurrected baby girl that she named Silk on account of her straight, blue-black hair, had been raising hell ever since.

•  •  •

The Low Moon, a honky-tonk in Devil's Swamp, had seen better days and more illustrious entertainment than was currently available on the weekends. Old-timers enjoyed reminiscing about the time Bessie Smith had put on a bawdy show that raised the roof
from eight o'clock Saturday night until it was time for Sunday morning sermon. The glory days of the Low Moon spanned the Depression Era through the early 1950s when Big Mama Thornton charged onto the stage singing her hit record, “Hound Dog,” the same song that catapulted Elvis Presley into an international celebrity when he recorded it a few years later.

By 1962, The Low Moon was nothing more than a dilapidated, wood-frame structure that leaned a bit to the right side. The dimly lit, one-room establishment with its uneven, wood-plank floor, littered with cigarette butts, housed an untuned piano as a testament to the days when Fats Waller came through, tinkling the ivories, and had the joint jumping. Nowadays, a dusty, old juke box that was filled with mostly out-of-date music was the only source of entertainment, but that didn't deter the locals from filling the place to the rafters every Friday and Saturday night.

Wearing a low-cut, tight, pink dress and a pair of black, spike heels, Silk Moreaux looked gloriously scandalous as she came wiggling into the honky-tonk around ten o'clock when the place was in full swing. She brusquely pushed past dancing couples as she made her way to the bar.

Pudgy Hales, who was as drunk as a skunk on a combination of beer purchased from the bar and the homemade corn liquor he had stashed inside his seersucker jacket, took the liberty of grabbing Silk by the wrist. “Come on, gal; let's shake a tail feather,” he slurred, his eyes bucking as his plump body shook comically from his shoulders down to his feet as he invited Silk to join him in a lewd, fast-moving dance.

The average woman would have rebuffed Pudgy in a more courteous manner, but not Silk. “Keep your filthy fucking hands off me or I'll cut you too short to shit.”

Becoming instantly sober, Pudgy backed up, both palms held up in surrender. “I ain't mean no harm, Silk. The way you all dolled-up, I thought you was looking for a good time tonight.”

“Not with your fat ass,” Silk scoffed, giving Pudgy a searing look of disgust.

As she continued her tantalizing sashay across the bar room, couples that had momentarily paused to observe the fireworks now scrambled to get out of her way. Silk was known to use her switchblade for lesser offenses than being asked to dance, and if she didn't get you first, the all-seeing eyes of her blind-as-a-bat, voodoo mama would locate you no matter how cleverly you hid. If you messed with her baby girl, Mattie would put some roots on you that the most experienced voodoo priestess was hard-pressed to remove.

Only a few months ago, Darcy Nesbit developed severe facial spasms and started walking with a terrible limp after she began spreading the rumor that Silk was carrying on with the husband of one of the white women she delivered Mattie's passion potion to once a month.

At that very moment, there were at least two of Silk's victims inside The Low Moon, women who bore physical evidence of the sharp, slicing stroke of Silk's knife.

Silk sat atop the ripped, plastic seat of the barstool and smiled at the bartender. “I'd like a rum and Coke, please,” she said in a honey-laced voice that was guaranteed to earn her free drinks with a generous shot of liquor added to each Dixie cup.

Drink in hand, Silk swiveled around on her stool, crossed her legs and leaned back against the bar. Slowly sipping her strong cocktail, she scanned the room, weighing her options among the men whom she felt were all at her disposal.

The mood in the place changed when the first few beats of a slow song poured from the jukebox. On cue, the space closed up between couples who moments earlier had been frenziedly dancing to a driving upbeat tempo. As if hypnotized, they reached out and clung to each other, their eyes filled with a primal longing. Their bodies were pressed together as they rhythmically dry-humped and grinded. In the midst of this public display of unbridled passion, tight skirts inched upward, while groping male hands palmed and squeezed the plump derriere of their partners.

During these intimate moments at The Low Moon, when the room became muggy with body heat, there was bound to be an unwelcome tap on the male partner's shoulder by a fellow who found himself deprived of a female dance partner, and who desperately wanted to get in on the erotic action. The intrusion was handled in various ways. Some men bowed out gracefully, reluctantly handing over his dance partner and others flat out refused to allow another man to cut in, growling in objection. On rare occasions, a fistfight would break out.

It was unheard of for a female to do the shoulder tapping and cut in on another woman's slow dance.

Warmed by the effects of the alcohol, Silk started off innocently enough, moving sensually to the music while sitting atop the bar-stool, her black hair swaying back and forth like a satin curtain blowing in the night breeze.

But when she slid off the stool, and sauntered in the direction of her old beau, Duke Durnell, who was thoroughly engaged in a slow grind with Gwen Withers, a hush fell over the room. Silk didn't merely tap Gwen on the shoulder; she gave her a harsh and impatient smack on the back, and when Gwen didn't let go of Duke fast enough, Silk bunched up the fabric of Gwen's yellow
blouse into her fist and roughly snatched Gwen out of Duke's tight embrace.

Several expressions crossed Gwen's face: surprise, annoyance, embarrassment, and finally acceptance as she skulked away to join Brenda and Fayette, two lonely wallflowers who sat at a table in the back, sour-faced and bordering on drunk. Gwen flopped down on a wooden chair and without asking permission, she picked up Brenda's drink and guzzled it down.

The record was coming to an end when Duke welcomed Silk into his arms with an inviting smile. Another slow song immediately followed, and Silk and Duke launched into a lustful dance that was so provocative, tongues quickly began wagging.

“Looks like they need the privacy of a rented room,” Fayette groused, noticing how Duke's hands freely roamed over Silk's body as he hunched over, kissing and sucking the side of her neck.