The Venture Capitalist (11 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

We shower together in my Grotto’s ensuite, another wholly uncharacteristic thing I’m doing with Ms. Beale. I observe Keisha as the water sluices over her olive skin. She doesn’t seem at all coy or shy about her unclothed state, which pleases me. She has to do some form of exercise on a regular basis, because her musculature is firm, yet her skin is soft and smooth to the touch.

God she’s beautiful—pert nipples show no sign of being negatively affected by gravity. Her waistline is slender and in proportion to gently flared hips, that lead to a perfectly rounded ass, which tapers off to slim thighs, and toned legs. Keisha Beale is a wonderful package to behold. I avert my eyes before she opens hers through the water cascading over her face to look at me.

“These shower heads are awesome,” she says.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying them.” I then turn to give myself one final rinse before stepping out of the shower stall. Keisha takes my cue without needing to be prompted and does the same. I make short shrift of drying myself, then envelope her in a towel as she emerges from the shower. I leave her alone in the bathroom to give her privacy so she can dry herself.

I take the time in my Grotto alone to tidy up, which is a task that usually falls to my submissive. However, I handle the dubious task in this case as much to give myself something to do as to use the time to solidify my game plan. No doubt, Keisha enjoyed our interlude just now, but she doesn’t strike me as a woman who would sell her soul for a good fuck. I’ll need to approach her cautiously if I’m to be successful in getting a neophyte such as herself to agree to my terms.

I call my housekeeper when I’m done cleaning, and Keisha takes that moment to re-enter the room with one towel wrapped around her delectable body and another wrapped turban-style around her head. She looks around, closely observing some of the bigger pieces in my play room while I’m on the intercom.

“Mrs. Naven, please prepare a wine tray for Ms. Beale and me.”

“Sure, Mr. White. Would you prefer red or white?”

“Red, please. Something that will go well with seasonal fruits and cheeses.”

“I have just the thing. Where shall I serve you?”

“If you would leave it on the hall table across from my office, I’ll retrieve it from there.”

“Coming right up.”

“Thank you,” I say and hang up. I join Keisha at the one feature wall in the room that displays artwork.

“Theses pieces are certainly appropriate to the décor,” she says. “Where’d you get them?”

“I purchased them at a gallery in New York from an artist friend who’s in the lifestyle.”

“Interesting,” she says and moves on to run her hand over my favorite whipping bench. “What is this used for?” she asks.

“To bind a person to it while the binder uses a crop, flogger, paddle, or cane on the bindee. It’s literally called a whipping bench, but I’m not fond of using whips.”

“My mother’s ancestors would appreciate that,” she says.

“So, your mother is African American?” I already knew this, but I don’t want to let her know at this point. She’s still a bit skittish, and I need her to stay. Now that I’ve had her—twice—I don’t want to let her go.

She looks me in the eye as she answers. “Yes.”

“And your father?”

“Brazilian.”

“Ah, a Latina. Yet you identify more with your African American roots?”

“Self-preservation, Mr. White. It’s just easier to identify with what people see first.”

I can’t pretend to know the crap she deals with on a daily basis in regards to her ethnicity. It angers me that anyone would marginalize her in that way. In that moment, I surprise myself, because I just met Ms. Beale, but already, I’m protective of her.

“I see an intelligent, accomplished and beautiful woman.” These words seem to make her more shy than standing naked in front of me.

“My friends and I wish everyone like you would see us in that way.”

“So do I,” I say. I change the subject then, because the current one is about to make me go ballistic on her behalf. “You must exercise regularly, because you’re in great shape.”

“I run about four times a week. And sometimes my roommate makes me do Yoga with her.” She eyes me appreciatively. “What about you? I don’t think you’re into basketball like your brother. What do you do besides fencing?”

“I run, too when the weather permits, and I have a full-service gym here on the lower level.”

“How many levels do you occupy in this building?”

“Just the two.”

She nods. “O-kay.”

“Why do you say it like that?”

She laughs. “You said, just the two, like it’s normal that one person occupies two whole floors in a high-rise.”

“It’s normal when a person owns said high-rise.”

“Riiight.”

I stay within a few feet of her as she peruses the various implements in the room on the next wall.

“Any questions?” I ask, curious what is going through her mind. I’m sure she’s seeing things here that she’s undoubtedly never seen before.

“Tons,” she says.

“You can ask me anything.” And for the next ten to fifteen minutes, she asks her questions, and I answer them. I Tell her what many of the larger pieces are used for, as well as a great deal of the small pieces hanging on the walls, and from the ceiling.

She listens intently as I explain, employing a mask of impassivity most of the time. I expect a reaction to some of the more unorthodox items, but she surprises me, yet again.

I’m elaborating on the more salient points about the St. Andrews Cross, when a buzz interrupts the soft music playing and Mrs. Naven’s disembodied voice comes through the speakers. “Your wine tray is on the hallway table, Mr. White.”

I cross the room to the intercom to respond. “Thank you, Mrs. Naven.” Then, turn back to Keisha before I leave the room to retrieve the tray. “Are you hungry?”

She touches her flat abdomen through the robe I’ve given her to wear. “You’d think after that huge breakfast I wouldn’t be, but you’ve given me quite the workout.”

I do a mental fist pump, because who doesn’t like to know they’ve done a thorough job in the sack? “Good. Be right back.”

We lounge on the bed with the tray between us when I return. Keisha falls just shy of consuming as much as the food as I do. I’m impressed.

“You’re a good eater,” I observe.

Laughing, she takes a sip of wine. “And what’s that supposed to mean? Do you think I have a little too much junk in my trunk?”

“Absolutely not,” I say. “In my humble opinion, I think you have just the requisite amount of junk in your trunk.”

She throws her head back this time when she laughs. “I love hearing you say things that were probably not in your vocabulary until you met me.”

“On the contrary,” I say. “Princess Danai and I are friends. So, I’ve heard my share of urban lingo.”

“Have you now? So, if I were to ask you if you ever rode dirty, what would I be referring to?”

“That’s an easy one. And, no, I don’t make it a habit of riding around without proper credentials with contraband in my vehicle.”

Grinning, she picks up a cluster of grapes, and I take them from her hand and feed them to her, one by one. “You surprise me, Tristan White. But then, your twin is also part of a fraternity that is full of minorities, so I guess it’s not such a stretch,” she says after chewing and swallowing a couple of grapes.

As I move to feed her again, just as I might for any submissive, her eyes widen in horror.

“Does Mrs. Naven know what goes on in here?”

I laugh out loud, surprising myself yet again that she can exact such candor from me. “It may give her pause for occasional thought, but I don’t think so. This room is soundproof, off-limits to her, and I have the only key.”

“Which brings me to my next question. Who cleans in here?”

“My submissive or I do the tidying up. For biweekly deep cleanings, I hire a service owned by a friend who’s also in the lifestyle.”

Her questions now come in a rapid-fire manner as I feed her the final grape. “Have you always been this way?”

“No. It began as a desire I had but couldn’t identify when I was about sixteen. We were almost eighteen when my father went on an extended business trip and left Nate and me home with the woman he was with at the time. She introduced us both to the lifestyle. I think that move hastened her departure from our lives, but not before our appetites were whetted.”

“What?” She coughs as if she’s choking. I prepare to do the Heimlich, but then she swallows and catches her breath. I pat her gently on the back until she calms. “So, that perverted bitch stole yours and your brother’s virginity and introduced you to BDSM?”

“She didn’t steal anything. We never lacked for female companions while we were at the academy.” I pop a grape into my own mouth.

“Oh yeah, twins. I bet you two were rich white girls’ fondest erotic dreams, weren’t you?”

I think about that statement. “That’s one way of putting it, I suppose.”

“So what’d she do? Take you both into her lair for a kinky
ménage à trois
?”

“No, she took us one by one into my father’s role-play room, which was outfitted much like this one.”

“Oh, so you and Nate are second-generation Doms?” She is very astute. Nothing gets past her.

“Yes,” I say, searching her face for any sign of judgment, disapproval, or fear of what she’s discovered about me.

“Enough about ancient history,” I say, satisfied that she isn’t too creeped out from my revelation. “Do you orgasm from oral stimulation?”

To my surprise, she shakes her head and reveals her shyness again.

“Really?” I can’t mask my disbelief. “That rapper ex of yours wasn’t any good in that department, I take it?”

“No, he didn’t like it.” She drops her head.

It makes me angry that her former lover wasn’t generous with her.

“You have no reason to feel ashamed, Keisha.” I shake my head, appalled that a man in this day and age could be so ridiculous about something so natural. “It was his loss. That fucker has no idea what he’s missing.” I becomes my quest to erase the memory of that young man’s stupidity from her mind.

“No time like the present to give you that experience.” The rapper’s loss is my gain. I take the tray over to the bench and return to the bed where she eyes me with expectancy.

I lean over and remove her robe, then my pajama bottoms, and discard them on the bench, as well. Returning this time to the foot of the bed, I grasp each of her ankles, pulling her to the edge of the bed, and crawl between her parted legs on the ready to consume her sensitive flesh. She shivers in anticipation.

“If you become my sub, I’ll be familiar with every square inch of your body, as you will mine.” I begin by kissing one of her perfect feet, and kiss a trail up her leg to her convulsing abdomen. There is a small dragonfly tattoo on her left hipbone, which I can’t resist kissing. I’m not surprised at all that she has inked her body, but it begs for me to put my stamp on it.

“Eventually, I’ll have you inked with a mark of my own,” I say. “If you make the right decision.”

Continuing, my lips attend the tattoo, then move on to her cute belly button—an erogenous zone that is ignored by many men during the sex act. I lave it thoroughly, blow lightly into it, then curl my tongue and delve into the place that once attached her to her mother. She bows off the bed, fisting the sheets in her hands. I complete my tonguing of her navel, kissing a path across her torso, making her squirm and moan.

She reaches for my head, but I take her hands and place them back on the bed, whereupon, she grasps the sheets again as I complete my path over her torso to her breasts. I cup them both in my hands, feeling the beaded nipples in my palms, which sends a rush of sensation all the way to my dick.

“I used to think bigger was better, but not anymore.” Her responsiveness to me is exhilarating. I have to taste what my hands have touched.

I devour her meager breast easily in one swoop, sucking until she squirms. Upon release, I blow on her sensitized flesh which makes her stiffen. Cupping the breast my lips and tongue have paid tribute to, I lave some attention on the other breast. I tweak the tip of one with my thumb while sucking the other.

After getting us both revved up by the manipulation of her breasts, I move to the apex of her thighs, momentarily in awe of her wet, waiting flesh. It is as beautiful as the rest of her to me, and I clamp my mouth over it, my arms still outstretched to cup her breasts. I lap her up as promised watching for her reaction to this first.

She is stricken by the sensation, her eyes closed, mouth stretching open without uttering a sound. I compound the sensation for her beginning a slow, methodical massaging of her breasts while continuing to devour her sensitive flesh.

If a man does cunnilingus correctly, he gets as much pleasure out of it as a woman, and I am becoming more aroused as I taste Keisha’s unique flavor. A few seconds more of hearing her delicious moans, and I am rock hard and ready for round three.