“Oh, Mr. White, Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Oh, and please tell Moses he’s free once he drops you off. I’m driving myself tonight.”
“Have a great weekend, Sir.”
“Thanks. You, too.”
Darnelle’s Assistant answers the door. She offers me a drink, which I decline and make a beeline for Darnelle’s bedroom. She’s wearing a dress as we discussed and frowning at herself in the mirror. Her signature hairstyle that she jokingly refers to as her ethnic hairdo has been curled on the ends and looks decidedly less ethnic. Her fair complexion rivals Mariah Carey’s before the work and the transformation to a fuller-figured diva.
I belt out a wolf whistle.
She sucks her teeth and huffs a huge sigh, then speaks to me in her normal tone of voice, when she’s not “on” for her fans. “You know, I can’t remember the last time I wore a dress for anyone. You should really be thankful.”
I buss her gently on the cheek then hold her hands, stepping back to get a better look. “You know, if you weren’t so adverse to penises, we could go full-service on each other and forget all this nonsense,” I tease.
“You’re a very dear friend, Tristan, but that’s not happening,” she says. “Besides, I ran into a sweet little number coming out of your office today. I have half a mind to try and convert her.”
My blood runs slightly cold when I realized she’s referring to Ms. Beale, my current mini-obsession. “She’s not gay, and as vanilla as they come. I thought you were looking for a seasoned submissive to balance your inexperience?”
“Well, who says I have to right now? Keisha is hot, and I just want to see if she’s looking for a sugar mama with a little BDSM on the side.”
“Is that a thing?”
“There’s a whole culture of submissives who call their Doms Daddy, you know this, and there are sugar daddies. Not sure what the term is for women like me.”
“Lesbo-philanthropist?”
She stops fiddling with her hair and looks me square in the eye. “If that’s your idea of a joke, it’s not funny.”
I never make homophobic remarks like that. I chide myself for hurting her feelings and offer a rare apology. “I’m sorry, Dar.”
She faces me, arms akimbo, her eyes locking with mine, then smiling as if she she’s figured life and it’s many facets out in a single moment. “You want her for yourself, don’t you?”
I attempt to play it cool. “I’d have to be a eunuch not to find Ms. Beale attractive, and if I were to want her, it would be purely as a submissive.”
“I thought you said she was vanilla.”
“She is, and if I were to make a move in her direction, it would only be to train her as my submissive.”
“If anyone wants valentines and roses, it would certainly be a girl like her. Despite her sketchy background, she strikes me as a girl who would want more than just an arrangement with a guy for sex.”
“I can give her more than the average guy ever could,” I protest.
“No. You don’t understand. This girl comes from a working-class family, no doubt, and with her kind of upbringing, there are some things money just can’t buy. The only way I see her taking you up on your offer is desperation.”
I strike a similar akimbo pose, the competitive spirit emerging as her words hit home. “I think she’s attracted to me, and quite likely a born submissive, and that goes a long way in luring her into the lifestyle. I just need to discover the right incentive.”
“So, you’ve already given this thought?”
“Fleetingly.” Which is such a lie, but Darnelle doesn’t have to know this.
“Well, I’m much further along with getting some romantic traction with her, because I had the forethought to give her a ticket and invite her to my next set.” Darnelle flashes me a smug smile. “Didn’t you ever hear of striking while the iron is hot?”
“As if you know anything about metallurgy.”
“I don’t know anything about metallurgy, but I do know metaphors.”
I offer her my arm. “Come on, we’re late.”
She takes it graciously. “Score one for Darnelle Anderson.”
This has become some kind of game for her, but she doesn’t know how invested I already am in pursuing Keisha Beale for my own purposes. The game has barely begun, and I have many tricks up my sleeve. I will be successful in my quest, and my ace in the hole is possession of a certain ingénue’s personal belongings. While Darnelle is waiting to see her again next Friday, I will make contact and capitalize on the attraction that exists between us, or my name isn’t Tristan Xavier White.
The look on my stepmother’s face is priceless when I enter my father’s home with a Hip-Hop celebrity on my arm. She’s decidedly chilly toward Darnelle until my father lets her in on the family history.
“Darnelle is Garrett and Nadine Anderson’s daughter. You know them as the empty-nesters they are, but this is the daughter you hear them talking about all the time.”
Garrett is one of my father’s oldest and dearest friends, and a longtime business partner in various ventures. Lydia is so new in his life, and so new in the moneyed world, the type of history we have with the Anderson’s is foreign to her. Everyone she knows has to have a hefty bank account and a long social pedigree.
“Your mother is a brilliant mezzo-soprano. No wonder you’re in the music business, albeit a less lofty one.” Lydia says with a slight frown.
“People sneered down their noses at rock music when it emerged as an art form, too, now look where it is,” Darnelle says, who by an outsider’s account seemed not to be fazed one bit by Lydia’s intended snub.
Darnelle Anderson, the woman most of the world knows as Princess Danai went through a very traumatic incident during her childhood. She’d been kidnapped by a former nanny, and her parents believed her dead, until she was spotted by another Anderson employee who informed Darnelle’s parents who, in turn, alerted the authorities.
For five harrowing years her parents had believed their daughter murdered, or worse. However, she’d been living all that time in Chicago on the south side as a distant relative to her kidnappers. Despite having to endure short haircuts and dyed hair to change her appearance enough so no one would recognize her, Darnelle was deemed physically healthy when found. Her emotional health became another matter entirely, and music helped to soothe the savage beast, as it were. The woman had even given her the name she adopted when she became a Hip-Hop superstar, Princess Danai.
Shortly after Darnelle had shared the fact that she was gay with me, dashing my youthful declaration that we’d someday marry, I’d shared my sexual proclivities with her, and we’d been as she likes to say, “Ride or die,” ever since. The occasional sibling-like rivalries we shared are the only times we behaved as if we didn’t care for one another. Those were usually few, very far between, and short-lived.
When her music got to the point where it didn’t soothe the demons from her early life experiences while in captivity, Darnelle begged me to train her as a Dominatrix.
Deciding by a hard look from Princess Danai that she didn’t want to go toe-to-toe on a subject she clearly knew nothing about, Lydia agreed, “I do believe you’re right.”
CHAPTER THREE
I wonder how Ms. Beale has survived so long without her driver license, debit and credit cards. Surely she’s had to produce identification to her bank or some establishment in order to use a credit card if she has others in her possession that weren’t in her wallet.
Moses is driving me home early for a change, and on a whim, I ask him to detour. It’s something I hardly ever do, but have been doing a lot lately since meeting the delectable Ms. Beale. I’m certain she’s avoiding me as sure as I am deliberately seeking her out. It’s very smart of her to run from me, considering what I’d like her to become. Her instincts are on point, so I don’t blame her for not wanting to be anywhere near me. Yet, something about her has captivated me as surely as I’m a Dominant.
>
Darnelle has shown interest in Keisha and I need to sway her to consider my intentions before Princess Danai woos her with her celebrity status. While I don’t believe Ms. Beale has a gay bone in her body, she wouldn’t be the first heterosexual girl to set her sexual orientation aside to be with someone famous. Then again, she didn’t strike me as the kind of girl who would compromise her standards—one thing that Darnelle and I agree on concerning the object of both our attractions at the moment. She’d been polite until I’d pushed her buttons, then she’d let me have it without any regard for the size of my checkbook, or fear of jeopardizing the appeal to me for startup capital.
“La Perla on the Magnificent Mile,” I say. I don’t look at Moses through the rearview mirror, although in my peripheral vision, I can tell he’s looking at me. When I do on occasion purchase lingerie for the odd submissive, I use personal shoppers to get the deed done, and my staff is none the wiser. In Moses’s eyes, I’m sure I’m venturing way out into the zone of the unusual.
Moses gets me as close to the store as he can, and I get out and walk inside. They are busy. Is there a kink event coming up and I wasn’t invited, or are there just a lot of Chicagoans ready to get their freaks on, tonight? I am not as uncomfortable as some of the men in the store seem to be. I avoid one overly-zealous salesperson, who’s stopped by another customer, and zero in on the only person I’m interested in talking to.
She’s at the register and deep in the throes of counting money. Someone else loves primary colors, because this time, she’s wearing a red form-fitting suit. And her hair is natural and pulled into an updo with a few tendrils intentionally framing her beautiful face. I am mesmerized by her soft lips as they move slightly in time with her hands. Jealously, I want her hazel eyes on me and not absorbed in her task, so I’m about to interrupt her when she glances up.
Keisha Beale could never play poker. Her eyes would give her away every time because what she’s feeling is prominently displayed there. She is annoyed, but I see something else, too. She is attracted to me.
“Ms. Beale. Small world.” My eyes traverse her form almost of their own volition. She’s a vision that I’ve been eager to behold for days, and for a few moments longer than I expect she’d like, she doesn’t respond to my greeting. Finally, she digs deep to find that attitude she displayed to me the previous week.
“Mr. White,” she says pleasantly, then I mutters what I believe to be, “Not small enough.”
I make a gesture as if I can’t hear. “Beg pardon?” Now it’s my turn to lose my poker face. I try hard not to laugh when she rolls her eyes elaborately.
I quickly fabricate a reason for being in her workplace, because otherwise, I look like a pathetic creepy stalker. “I usually frequent Agent Provocateur, but this is closer, and I need to stock up on a few… gifts for friends. Nice to see you again, Ms. Beale.”
She seems to be having difficulty deciding exactly what she wants to say in response to my greeting. I know I’ve caught her completely off guard and she’s not pleased, but there’s an indescribable confusion in the way she’s looking at me.
“My name is Keisha, and where’s my purse?” she says, finally finding her voice, and her formidable temper.
“I’m afraid I left it at home,” I say. Actually, her purse is in the car with Moses, where I hope to lure her after work. “I’ll pick you up after your shift, and we can retrieve it if you’d like. There’s also a matter of some importance I’d like to discuss with you.”
I lick my lips, which she considers a tell. I can see it in her eyes. Wrong move, White. She knows one thing you want from her. But what she doesn’t know is that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I want so much more. She has no idea, and she will continue to be in the dark until I decide to enlighten her.
“Why don’t you just bring it to me the next time you’re in the vicinity? We can talk then. How may I help you here?”
Smart girl. I wouldn’t go anywhere with me either, considering how I mauled her the last time she was in my presence. She’s sending mixed signals, though, and I smile at the thought. Despite her discomfort with me showing up unannounced at her job, she takes a calming breath, closes her register and prepares to assist me as she would any other patron.
“I need assistance selecting some gifts for a friend. First, I’d like some garter belts,” I say, trying to avoid showing just how pleased I am that I’ve disconcerted her.
Her forehead crinkles slightly. “We have various styles. Would you like me to show them to you?”
I give her my undivided attention and my most pleasant business-like expression. “Yes, please.”
Her nice round ass is displayed to perfection in that suit, and I get an eyeful, timing precisely when she turns. I feign interest in a leather bustier, but then I become very interested as I realize it would look great on her—in The Grotto—which is what I named my playroom the very first time I took a submissive into it.
“They’re over here,” she says tightly. “I thought you needed garters?” She folds her arms and taps her foot like a petulant child. A few rounds in the Grotto would certainly be beneficial to her temperament. Although, I like a submissive with spunk—one that pushes the boundaries when it’s for her own masochistic pleasure.
There’s that telltale war raging within her again. I can see hunger in her eyes. She wants me, but she’s afraid, and that fear annoys her. Her body language belies what’s in her eyes. Her posture tells me otherwise, in the way her breasts jut toward me, and she moistens her lips.
I want you, too, pretty girl, I say with my eyes, but with my voice I say, “I do. Lead on.”
She turns on her heel and leads me to the garters taking one in her hand and stretching it, as if trying the strength of its elasticity. She now has a smirk on those delectable lips and her next words tell me why. “You have time for shopping on The Mile? I thought guys like you work late all the time. You strike me as a man who wants to rule the world.” She goes for nonchalance, but the wobble in her voice demonstrates just how nervous she is.
I don’t let on that I’m aware she is unnerved. “I conferenced early this morning with some Hong Kong clients. This shopping spree is my reward.” I look around trying to put her at ease that I really am here to shop. “A check stub in your wallet indicated this was where you worked. I wanted to give you an opportunity to get your purse back. However, I suppose it’s not that important to have your driver’s license and credit cards back.”
My act of sincerity has to be Oscar worthy.
Those expressive eyes reveal she is torn between feeling ridiculous that she’s been avoiding Darryl’s calls—and ergo, me—yet, she doesn’t allow timidity to win out. She pushes back.
“It is important. I just wasn’t sure when I would get around to retrieving them, so I made other arrangements.” She gestures toward the lingerie. “So, this shopping spree is what? Part of your ‘fuck the world one super freak at a time’ plan or something?”
“Perhaps,” I say, and she gets the one full-on smile I’ve allowed today. Then I look at the selection of garter belts and get lost in selecting several that would fit her petite frame. Ms. Beale is resisting now, but she will eventually give in, even if only for a romp in the hay, or three. She is primed for a good fucking. We both know it. She’s over thinking this probably because she doesn’t want to blow the deal she presented for herself and Ms. Jameson. And I’m trying not to scare her off before I present my indecent proposal, as it were.
Upon choosing a garter belt and two single garters, I indicate to her that I’m ready to move on.
“Perfect.” She thinks I’m referring to the garters, but my eyes drink in her form in that red suit, and my cock twitches.
She flushes as if she’s read my mind. “Anything else?”
“I’d like some blindfolds.”
“You mean sleeping masks? Or do you actually mean blindfolds? Planning to kidnap someone, Mr. White?”
“Not necessarily. Sleeping m
asks will suffice.” I couldn’t wipe the smile off my lips now if there was a run on all the banks where I keep my money. I’m enjoying pushing her buttons, but she’s quite the professional saleswoman.
“Over here.” I follow her, garters in hand, to another display.
“I’ll take that one.” I point to a black satin mask that could be the match to one of the garters I selected. When she hands it to me, static electricity zaps us. I don’t react, and she seems surprised.
“Will that be all?” Her impatience slips through her facade of professionalism.
I squint my eyes as if I’m really trying to remember what else I might need. “Do you carry ribbon?”
“No, but you might find some at a craft store.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, then I stop browsing. “How did you go from selling lingerie to opening a recording studio-cum-music store?”
She looks momentarily as if she might swallow her tongue before she responds.
“I have music in my blood,” she says, even as she straightens items that don’t need straightening.
For the first time in a long time, I’m interested in knowing a woman whom I’d like to be my submissive on a personal level. “What kind of music do you like?”
“I love it all. From hip-hop and rap to jazz and R&B. Also some country but I appreciate good rock more. Oh, and classical music is to die for, but neo-soul is my personal genre preference.”
A girl her age likes jazz, rock, and classical? I might really need to date this girl. But who am I kidding? I don’t date in the normal sense of the word. I use women almost as an accessory. My submissive becomes my significant other in the media, and for a time, they accompany me to social functions, service me in bed, and ensures that my libido isn’t starved for attention.
A woman wearing enough make-up you’d think she owned stock in it leaves the register after ringing up a customer and saunters toward us. By the way she addresses Keisha, she’s management.
The Venture Capitalist Page 4