Stranger in the Wharf

by H. A. Nicola

  She silently wondered whether Clive had been adopted and culturally starved. His flaking lips cast her mind to the image of Saturn on Sugar’s bedroom wall, whereas some of her earliest memories entailed having Vaseline slapped unceremoniously onto their lips as children before even thinking of walking through the door. It wasn’t long before their conversation turned to his emotional state.

  “One of the kids this morning,” he paused and glanced towards the door. “Do you know the one that’s around 12, one of the older ones? His name’s Connor. The one that never wants to join in with the group activities.”

  Cayenne pretended to be searching her brain running through an imaginary list in her head. Twisting her mouth and wrinkling her nose until she felt she had given the search sufficient attention before confirming, “No, I don’t think I know him,” as though it wasn’t only her second day on the job.

  “He came in this morning in a mood. He doesn’t like coming here, but his mum’s gone somewhere, and he’s staying with his aunt. That’s the woman that brings him here. I told him to stop throwing the basketball around, and he didn’t listen. So I told him again. I mean there are little children around.” Clive looked at her, eyes wide, desperate to see if she agreed, though she knew that it was most probably his pride that was sore and less to do with any health and safety concerns he may have had.

  “Yes, of course, surely he knows it’s not allowed indoors.” She offered.

  “He still wouldn’t listen, so I said, ‘Connor, if you don’t stop, I’m gonna have to call your aunt to come and get you’. And he said ‘I don’t care; call her, you fat sod’.” If Cayenne had the inclination to laugh, it soon disappeared when she saw the injured look in his watery eyes.

  She tried to adopt a compassionate expression, “Oh no.”

  “They can be so cruel, and the managers don’t help. All they care about is the paperwork, and I’ve got so much to do already because we are short-staffed. I’ve asked them to send someone else and sent loads of emails. They just ignore it.” More tears welled up in Clive’s eyes.

  Cayenne’s maternal instincts kicked in. “If it’s all getting too much for you, you must say something. There’s only so much you can take …” She was aware that kids could be cruel; though she half-wondered whether the comments he was relaying were a rather parred down version, for surely there was much more they could have said.

  “I’m gonna do one more term, and then I’m leaving.”

  “Really. You’re not enjoying it anymore?”

  He shook his head solemnly. Scratching his scalp causing a smattering of snow dust to decorate his shoulders. “I’m going to America this summer to take part in a summer camp out there.” Cayenne nodded approvingly. She sincerely hoped he would find whatever he was looking for, notably some kind of makeshift family, preferably with some running water; and that he wasn’t simply trying to escape anything. Something told her that a change of climes wasn’t quite the answer.

  Chapter 35

  Walking into body conditioning class was always an interesting situation in Cayenne’s mind. She would evaluate the others in the class, as though they were taking part in a state championship. As though they were her fierce rivals competing for the ultimate reward. Admittedly the real contenders often caused her to have a nanosecond of doubt. She would groan inwardly as she saw them limbering up or running into class at the last minute, and she could see the exact same emotions on their faces whenever she turned up in her latest gear showing off her newly developed abs or curved biceps. Diego had begun to taunt her, “Mum, you’re taking it too far now; you’re beginning to look like a man.”

  She knew he was exaggerating. She didn’t particularly care whether she was beginning to look masculine. The feeling of being strong was too intoxicating to stop. Every time she had to push herself beyond her current limits, she knew she was developing her mind, and that that would affect every area of her life.

  She could see the exact same emotions on the faces of her opponents. “Oh no, she’s here. Why did she have to come today? I wanted to feel like winning today.”

  She totally understood. But she also knew she needed them to push her. Even though she would say outwardly, I’m only competing with myself which was only partly true. In class she would position herself in the same spot towards the back in the left-hand corner of the studio where she could face herself fully in the mirror, not necessarily to correct posture as advised by the instructors, but so that she could stare herself in the eyes menacingly and will herself through the pain, will herself to keep pushing, jumping, pressing until the last count and perhaps one more for good measure.

  Marcia, today’s instructor was tuning the sound system, adjusting knobs and tweaking wires trying to connect her phone to the speakers. This was a different Marcia to the one you would see walking around the gym in her capacity as assistant gym manager. Outside of class you would find her in sleek, fitted black trousers, showing off her curves, matched with the black and green tops that the staff wore. She didn’t need much makeup as she was a naturally pretty, strong, tall African lady. Her sleek black flowing wig complemented her look to perfection. Cayenne almost choked on her water, the first time she actually attended one of Marcia’s classes. The sleek wig was presumably left hanging in her managerial locker as she now stood at the helm of the class with her natural hair tucked into a skullcap. A skullcap that, had she taken the time to read the label would have advised her, STRONGLY, possibly in huge, bold, neon flashing lights with an accompanying thronging symbol; that it was specifically designed for use UNDER a wig, not to be seen EVER. To be used with the utmost care and discretion. Do not expose to everyday folk (particularly white folk).

  Cayenne didn’t know whether to applaud her bravery, accept her practicality or to lynch her for her betrayal.

  “Hello ladies, my name is Marcia. I’m you’re instructor today. I hope you’re here to work ’cos I’m gonna push you.”

  Marcia clearly loved her music, and her classes were so loud and vigorous that she could scarcely be heard over the pumping R’n’B tunes that she blasted out between instructions.

  Cayenne looked herself in the eye and silently warned her conscious mind not to dare to give less than 100%. The warm-up had begun, and the group of 15 women obediently followed Marcia’s lead of three rounds of push-ups, star jumps, walkouts and burpees.

  Marcia would demonstrate the exercises in her broad East-London accent. Cayenne always smirked whenever Marcia said ‘here’ as the East End dialect, at least for the black sector of the East End, caused it to sound like ‘hair’—the irony.

  Cayenne would pace herself at this point. Her competitors would be going all out already. She admired them for that, and she too executed with precision, paying particular attention to technique and to the muscle they were targeting at that given moment. Without even a glance, she knew that others were focusing on winning already. Doing more push-ups than anyone else, doing it faster than anyone else at the expense of their technique. Surely this was setting them up for difficulty later on. At this stage of life, Cayenne knew she couldn’t afford to do that. She had to take care of herself, to minimise the risk of injury. One particular competitor had a new injury every week. She couldn’t be more than 28, 29 years old.

  So the warm-up for Cayenne was just that—warming up the muscle, preparing it for the onslaught to come.

  Marcia divided up the group into three sections and demonstrated to each group what she wanted them to do.

  The first group had to jump onto one of the four blocks that she had set out and accelerate upwards, landing in a deep squat and repeat. The middle group had to have a dumbbell in each hand, jump down into a plank position, pull up the dumbbells one by one and then jump forward into a low squat and then stand up and into a shoulder press. “You’re hair, ladies.” Marcia hollered as she executed a deep squat with a dumbbell in each hand, rising up and pushing them into the air. “Then hair. Okay, you’re hair.”

/>   ‘No, Marcia, where’s your hair?’ Cayenne directed her thoughts back to the exercise at hand. The third group had to run from one end of the far wall to the other as fast as they could. Sprinting over and over again until the one minute was up. Then the groups would rotate.

  Cayenne knew she could do these exercises with aplomb. Some of the others could too. Most would attempt a few and then stand with their hands on their hips, allowing their overprotective mind to dictate what they could do, with pained expressions on their faces, looking at Marcia with longing in their eyes willing the one minute to be over; only moving again in response to Marcia’s barking.

  “Come on, ladies. I see you, Cayenne, well done.”

  Marcia rarely took part in the actual exercises. Few instructors did these days. They simply demonstrated and then focussed on their charges with military sharpness. Cayenne often wondered whether they spent so much time instructing that they lost sight of their own personal goals. But if your job is to instruct others, shouldn’t you also be leading the way by maintaining your own goals? She would ask herself. Cayenne didn’t underestimate the power of subjecting herself to the right people for effective inspiration, although sometimes it was a case of, needs must if her favourite instructors were unavailable. In Marcia’s class, the exercises were demanding and effective, so she made more of a determination to push herself with each task.

  After each group had attempted each task, Marcia gave the group one minute rest whilst she reset each station.

  The block section now had to jump from one side of the block to the other with both feet together. Cayenne would need to pace this one but go after it to the end. The middle section now had to pick up a barbell of their choice from the assortment of different weights and clean and press for the entire minute. The third section had to mountain climb their way to the countdown.

  “Okay ladies, let’s get after it.”

  The jumping was hard on the legs. Hard on the breathing. She concentrated her efforts on keeping her breathing at a comfortable regular pace and willed her legs to respond. Zoning out the voice of her mind that said, “Rest…rest and then restart.” She answered it firmly…

  “No. Keep going. Don’t you dare stop till the countdown.”

  Cayenne chose the heaviest barbell. Not to show off but to challenge herself. To face possible failure. She knew at that moment, she would want to stop. Her mind would be pleading, her muscles in total agreement with ‘rest a little’.

  The look she gave herself in the mirror silenced her insistent mind. She knew her mind feared her resolve. One look would make it quiver with doubt. The piercing stare would always win.

  The last section was a breeze. Mountain climbers were tough on the breathing but relatively easy compared to the other tasks.

  “Now we are gonna change the pace ladies.” Marcia was pushing the equipment to the side of the class, out of the way, to make room for the next stage. Everyone stood around watching her lug the heavy equipment whilst explaining the next step. Cayenne rushed over to the dumbbells and put them aside and moved the few remaining mats over to their stand.

  "Thanks, Cayenne.

  Okay now, we are gonna do three sets of each of the following exercises. First, we are hair ladies, hair."

  Marcia was demonstrating jumping squats, accelerating high up into the air and landing into the inevitable deep butt-shaping squat.

  The last task before the cooldown was Cayenne’s favourite.

  “Lastly ladies, we are gonna finish off, jumping up as high as you can with high knees. We’re hair, okay? Hair.”

  Marcia demonstrated jumping with both knees in the air, touching both knees with her hands. She would pause at the bottom of each jump before accelerating up again, after a count of two.

  Cayenne smirked inwardly. Knowingly. This was her forté. She knew that this would propel her around the bend and down the last 100-metre stretch to the finishing line. That her competitors would fade away in her wake. That she would be inwardly posturing, like Usain Bolt, during the cool down.

  Admittedly, after the jump squats and the star jumps she was a little winded, but there was something about the knee-high jumps, and her assurance of her ability to do them that caused her to override any fatigue. It was as though she would go into another dimension, and she wouldn’t feel the pain until the end. This was when she soared. When everyone around, either directly, discreetly or trying desperately to avoid it, couldn’t help but stand in awe that this 40-something woman was able to do this.

  Cayenne didn’t look at them. That would be cruel, not to mention brazen. She would be staring at the woman in the mirror, who was in the best shape of her life, who was somehow executing age-defying high-knee jumps, one after the other, without pausing and saying to herself ‘YOU ARE UNSTOPPABLE’.

  Chapter 36

  "TITLE: getting what we need.

  How is your calendar for next week?"

  “Still awaiting my schedule…I should be getting it later today.”

  “I will try to come by Chanel today if you’re around. I’ve just been looking at the video you sent me… nice hard platinum fuck—a good thirst-drenching.”

  “I’m only free between 12:00 and 3:00.”

  “What are you wearing/how’s that tight black cunt?”

  "Deciding what to wear.

  Still… BLACK

  Still…TIGHT. I’m due for a getaway.

  It hasn’t quite been an Annis Horribilis, however, one certainly feels the onset of a much-needed stint at Balmoral.

  I have barely started my hiatus from lady-of-leisure status, and I’m already somewhat weary. I could certainly benefit from some significant cunt-cuddling.

  By the close of my two-week sentence at this play scheme, the slightest touch of my vagina will cause a Niagaral outpouring."

  “Good. I need a drink.”

  “I’ll render you helpless in a drunken stupor. Pussy juice galore.”

  "Your white suburban fuck needs his fortnightly feed…

  He’s looking forward to being the Queen’s secret toy and getting on his knees to please before becoming the arrogant platinum exec and fucking her hard in a number of positions.

  He particularly wants to see the Queen on all fours…

  He’s going to be a disgrace—hopefully, these suburban streets will never know the interracial shenanigans he will indulge in next week.

  The nerves and procrastination have gone. His white cock simply needs a dirty chocolate release.

  He needs blacking."

  "Your words fill me with exuberance. I like it… the Queen rightly takes pre-eminence… she will need complete subservience to satisfy both hers and the pussy’s hunger.

  Your thirst must be unprecedented, for the flow is unceasing.

  Once the Queen is satisfied and emptied, she will await her replenishing as the Wharf knight drills her with pent-up executive stress. And she will take it. All of it. Momentarily denouncing her throne to submit to desperate buggery.

  She will allow you to express your masterful Amex authority until she is thoroughly pierced and sufficiently pummelled and drenched in your platinum milk."

  "It will be disgusting filth from the moment we are alone.

  I am in need of a dirty disgraceful blacking. I will submit to your black chocolate milf cunt, like a whore on heat. My white cock is straining in my trousers—it needs a black pussy juice drenching.

  You have made me into your whore—this nice suburban white guy is damned… promise me this secret will be hidden."

  If Cayenne was perfectly honest with herself, his request to keep her a secret dented her ego a little. If she was at a place to be transparent with her feelings, she would have admitted that she secretly wanted him to acknowledge her openly and proudly. Instead, she reminded herself that this wasn’t the way they set this up.

  Instead, she replied… "I have no desire or need to divulge this delicious clandestine eroticism. I have chosen to live my life privately
, and it will remain so. I respect my own majesty and your executive status highly.

  At any point, you can diminish this aspect of your life. Delete the email and to the fellow strangers in the wharf you will return.

  Meanwhile…

  Such is the sexual hunger… your clothes will be removed the moment you close the door.

  Start licking my pussy in the elevator. Finger me in the foyer. I’ll lead you to the penthouse by your cock.

  So proud that William has abandoned his worry and Dan his delusion.

  Let me blacken you fully. Cast doubt aside. If this is our final encounter… let’s have a blast.

  Give me an Amex fuck I’ll never forget.

  Every time we look back on this strange Wharf encounter…let it be full of fond memories."

  "We won’t be done after next week’s pure abandonment, and you know it…

  The question is, how fucked up do we want to go…

  I do fancy watching you be Queen over some white bitch who has to lick hard… perhaps that’s the SWF in me who wants to see tables turned, but would that turn the Queen on or simply bore her?"

  Cayenne was silently offended. Offended that he seemed to want to open up their experience to others. Or was he simply asking this as a way of trying to look into her own mind? To see what her objectives were.

  "How contrary these Amex executives are.

  One moment asking for private exclusivity (please don’t tell all).