Keisha closes her eyes and opens them again as if she needs to be clear who and what she’s actually seeing. I approach her cautiously, but stop midway next to the panel that controls the drapes.
“Good morning, Keisha. How’s your head?”
“Other than it feeling like it was abused savagely while I was sleeping, fine.” I notice she speaks like Darnelle does sometimes when she’s not channeling Princess Danai. If find this endearing about both of them—how they can practically erase every trace of their ethnicity from their voices at will.
I press the button to open the drapes and the room is flooded with natural light. So much better to see the fresh-faced ingénue sitting in my bed.
With a gesture toward me, she says, “Did you win your match?”
“Yes, I trounced Nathan.” I grin like an idiot, because obviously I don’t mind this woman seeing me in this light.
“So you had the high ground?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, like in Star Wars when Obi-Wan had the higher ground and was able to defeat Anakin Skywalker, the young Darth Vader.”
I laugh and it sounds foreign, even to my own ears. “The high ground is more advantageous in most military tactics. So, you like sci-fi action movies, Ms. Beale?”
“Movies, period. Almost as much as I like music.” She flushes and dons a look of regret, as if maybe she’s said too much.
To put her more at ease, I say, “Good to know.”
When I move closer to the bed, she scoots back against the headboard and clutches the sheets to ensure she is still covered.
Her nascent fear causes me to smile as I sit on the edge of the bed—as close as I dare without sending her catapulting over the other side.
“You weren’t cowering from me last night,” I say, careful to keep my voice soft.
“Say what?” Her offense at my statement sends her back into vernacular. “FYI, black women don’t cower.”
“Oh, but they do love to cuddle while sleeping.” Teasing her gives me a joy I haven’t known in quite some time.
She observes the pillow next to her and the state of the duvet, then she sees the bandage in the crook of her arm.
She groans as her head falls back almost as swiftly as Darnelle’s did last night when Keisha punched her. “Ugh! Did we get busy last night? And who drew blood from my arm?”
“If you mean, did we have sex? No, Keisha. Unlike some assholes, I don’t have to use GHB to get a woman into my bed. I had a doctor friend in the building draw your blood last night for evidence.”
“So, Princess Danai really did slip me roofies?”
Darnelle may be competitive with me, but she would never drug anyone. She gets enough action without going to that extreme. Then I have to remind myself that Keisha doesn’t know Darnelle the way I do. Rather than try to explain this to Keisha and get into my unorthodox friendship with Darnelle and out her as a blue blood, I go for the simple answer. “I didn’t say that.”
“Where am I and how did I get here? Can you answer me that?” She snaps as if she can’t believe I’m not in agreement with her theory.
My longstanding friendship with Darnelle makes me want to jump to her defense, but I’m torn. If she’s absolved too quickly in Ms. Beale’s eyes, I may not be able to sway her to my purposes.
Finally I wrench myself free of my inner turmoil and tell her an intentional albeit slightly edited version of truth.
“You’re in my condo on the north side. I brought you here because I didn’t trust either of the rappers to get you home safely. I’ve instructed my security team to review the security footage to see if we can identify who drugged you.”
“Oh...” She deflates. Her voice grows soft with humility. “Thank you.”
She is grateful, and this can only work in my favor. With a smile, I finally say, “You’re welcome.”
I observe her hair because she looks absolutely adorable with it natural and in the current state of déshabillé. I don’t want to become a Caucasoid cliché, but I am compelled to touch it, at any rate.
“I think I like your hair better this way. Why were you wearing that dreadful ponytail wig last week?”
“It wasn’t a wig,” She schools me gently. “It was a weave.”
“A what?”
She shakes her head with a look that says are we really discussing my hair now. “Never mind.”
I move on to much more pertinent matters. “How much did you have to drink last night?”
“Why?”
I furrow a hand through my hair, impatiently. “Because I need to know.”
With a muffled sigh she answers without delay, “I had a mixed drink at the bar. Princess Danai bought a bottle of Cristal, and then Byron bought a second bottle.”
“Did you eat anything before you started drinking?”
“No, but I had a lot of nuts at the bar.”
“You were out cold. You could’ve aspirated and died.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“Only because I kept watch over you.” My jaw tightens, involuntarily. I am appalled by her utter lack of awareness of the danger she was in, and I let her know it. “If you were mine, your ass would be as purple as that dress you were wearing last night.”
“Listen, you didn’t have to do me any favors.” She snaps again, but then her eyes reveal the gamut her brain takes to the realization of the gross faux pas I just uttered.
“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. First of all, last I checked, my daddy died two years ago. Second of all, the last time he tried to whip my ass, I was seventeen and I gave as good as I got. And third of all, I don’t roll like that. My mama took some ass-whippings in her lifetime, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to.”
I’m dismayed that she jumps to that conclusion. “Keisha, I’m not an abuser of women.” I lower my voice with sudden understanding. “Is that why you ran from me?”
Clearly, she has experienced a traumatic experience in her upbringing, something my first cursory background check did not yield. My Security Chief, Carlos Velasquez is going to have to dig a little deeper. I can’t have her freaking out on me at an inopportune moment. If there’s anything to be found, Carlos will find it.
“Tristan…” she says.
I rescue her from her struggle to answer in a truthful less vulnerable way.
“We’ll talk more after you’ve showered and eaten.” I stand freeing up her personal space. “I’ve asked my housekeeper, Mrs. Naven, to make breakfast. I wasn’t sure what you liked, so she’s fixing a variety of things.”
I share a brief map of the layout of my master suite.
“The bathroom is through that door on your right. The closet is next to it. Use anything in there that fits. I’ll shower in the guest room.” He stands to leave.
“Tristan?”
“Yes?”
“Really, thanks for saving my ass.”
“From what I’ve seen of it, I think I’ve grown rather partial.” My smug smirk is impossible to control, because she walked headlong into that one.
My annoyance with myself doubles as soon as I leave Ms. Beale’s presence. I’m quite sure I haven’t felt the desire or necessity to beat off in the shower since I was a teenager, but then again six months without sex...Who am I kidding? My libido has gone haywire since I met the young woman who’s currently ensconced in my bedroom and looking very much like she belongs there.
I hurry through a cold shower, largely because I don’t want to embarrass Mrs. Naven or Ms. Beale with my body’s inability to control itself. My mother, Alyssa Elizabeth White née Carrollton did her best to raise gentlemen where my brother and I were concerned, and I still would like to think much of what she taught us remains.
Thinking of her always helps when I’m particularly stressed about something. Even though it doesn’t restrain my irascible disposition toward people in general, I am more prone to stop and think about my actions when a memory of her is evoked by a given situation.
Eventually, BDSM became our coping mechanism, which we were introduced to just before college by one of our father’s consorts. Of course, our father summarily dismissed her upon finding out what she’d done, but Nathan and I feel rather indebted to the woman. The most awkward conversation we ever had with Father, bar none.
Charles Xavier White never showed weakness in the board room, but the afternoon he confronted us about our encounters with his submissive, whom we later learned was a Switch, what might have gone sideways immediately became a teachable moment for us.
“I’ve been informed me that you both spent an inordinate amount of time with Ms. Kirkson while I was away,” he began.
Nathan, as he usually is, was the first to speak, and wholly out of turn. “Maryse was just being nice to us, because we missed you so much, Father.”
“Maryse?” Was his single reply, but it and my father’s unyielding grave visage held many unspoken questions. Such as, so you’re on a first name basis with her now? How did you come to be on such familiar terms? And did your mother not teach you that you are to address all adults using their formal titles?
I tried feebly to rescue Nathan. “Ms. Kirkson insisted we call her by her first name while you were gone, Father.”
“And is that all Ms. Kirkson insisted you do while I was gone?” Such an inane question, but it too had hidden connotations. Up until this point, we’d feigned innocence, thinly veiled though it was. Now the jig was up and this was evident when my father folded his arms where he stood before us.
He’d made us sit when he’d summoned us into his office and now towered before us. Even though we’d out-stripped him in height when we were sixteen, there was a power in his build that we did not yet possess, and we didn’t dare challenge his authority. Ever.
“We’ll not insult your intelligence further, Father—
“Undoubtedly, the servants have apprised you of our activities while you were away—
Nate and I spoke simultaneously, then looked rather nervously at one another. He demanded our respect, yet expected us to speak to him without equivocation on most topics. At seventeen I, the spokesman of our team, decided to come clean and continued.
“We’re seniors, Dad, and as young adults on the brink of manhood, we’ve been indulging in many rites of passage. Sex has been of primary interest to us, and not just regular sex. Until Ms. Kirkson introduced us to her unusual brand of sex, we were floundering, not at all sure why we weren’t being fulfilled with the girls at the Academy.”
“But you do understand she crossed a line. Don’t you?” He looked from me to Nathan as we nodded in assent. “I’m not as upset with you as I am with her. There should never be a sharing of women between the three of us. Understood?”
We bobbed our heads enthusiastically, yet again. “As your father, it’s up to me to train you in all things about life and morality. You should’ve been off-limits to Ms. Kirkson sexually, and I’m not speaking as a jealous former lover, but as your father. She should never have taken advantage of you considering the age difference and her relationship, or lack thereof with me, to introduce you to a lifestyle that could change your view of sex forever. That should have fallen to me. All that said, do you have any questions of me?”
“So, what she taught us isn’t freaky?” Nathan asked.
Father perched on the edge of his desk and answered in a professorial way. “Nothing done in the bedroom is freaky, if there are two consenting adults engaging in safe and sane sexual play. I believe the clergy refer to the marriage bed being undefiled, or something in that vein. However, engaging in sex whether single, married or otherwise, you’re being entrusted with something sacred in my opinion, so you should treat it as such. We’ve had the discussions about keeping yourselves clean and protecting your bodies from sexually transmitted disease, so are we still good with that? You’re both wearing condoms, right? Even if you think it would be cool to go without if they say they’re using birth control, you don’t want what they could transmit to you from another sexual partner. And I’m not ready to be a grandfather. Yet.”
“Yes, we’re taking precautions, Father,” I said earnestly.
“Good,” he said, as he smiled at us for the first time. I could have sworn I saw a hint of pride in his expression, despite his every effort to remain stoic about all that had transpired.
“So, are we good?” Nathan asked. “Because I’m hungry.”
Dad patted him on the head. “Basketball’s gonna make you eat us out of house and home.” Truth be told, Nathan could over-eat for the rest of his life and never eat us out of house and home.
Nathan grinned sheepishly. “Coach made us do drills ad nauseum today because Chip kept missing his free throws.”
“He’s trying to teach you guys discipline. You should be able to make shots like that in a pinch, even when everything else has gone to hell.”
“I understand, but try telling Chip that.”
“This is why you will get a college education, because even if basketball becomes your vocation, you will always need to learn the strategy, play intelligently, and discipline yourself to play even when you don’t feel like it, because it is your job.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Nathan said and prepared to bolt out of the room, before I cleared my throat, and Father held him back.
“I have a question,” I said.
“Yes, Tristan.”
“If BDSM isn’t freaky, then why is it a secret? I guess I mean, why do people hide it?”
“Simply put, because everyone isn’t bound by the same moral codes, and social mores prevent it from becoming mainstream.”
My father taught Nathan and me something that really stuck with us that day. Every couple has a latent and oftentimes overt power exchange which exists in their relationship dynamic, whether they are in the lifestyle or not.
“Where do you think that old adage comes from regarding ‘who wears the pants’ in a marriage? It came from a man who understood that power exchange occurs in all relationships. Generally, the dominant wears the pants and the submissive the skirt. But someone came along and turned than theory on its head. That’s when dominatrixes were born and submissive males who often dominate in other areas, needed a chance to let go of the power they wield in society, in their homes, or otherwise, to relax and be controlled. Some are naturalized and others are made.”
It is at that moment that my next question had been answered. My father was a Dominant and my mother had been a submissive. Neither I nor my brother needed to ever ask the question. That is what stayed with me from that day until the present day, but Nate had another focus.
“What’s going to happen to Ms. Kirkson?”
Father’s face darkened like a storm cloud. “Maryse has been dealt with. She won’t be a guest in this house again.”
It occurs to me once I’m fully clothed, have walked down to the kitchen, and completed my trip down memory lane that Ms. Beale may have difficulty locating the kitchen, but she turns up as if I’ve conjured her with my thoughts. I log-off my iPads and put them away in a neat stack to my left.
“Hello,” she says, undaunted by the rather awkward situation that necessitates us having breakfast together.
Keisha seems no worse for the wear after having endured ingesting a date-rape drug for someone’s nefarious purposes. My money is on that Byron/Blake character, but Velasquez should be uploading the security feed from last night to my server this morning, and I’ll have all the proof I need to prosecute the bastard who had the audacity to victimize the woman I hope to make mine in short order. My submissive, that is.
I try to rein in exactly how pleased I am to see her. “Hello,” I repl
y as I stand and hold the back of the stool on my right, and offer her a seat.
When I retake my seat, Mrs. Naven emerges from the butler’s pantry.
“Good morning, Ms. Beale,” she says in her perpetually pleasant manner. “What may I get for you?”
“Good morning, Mrs. Naven. Whatever you’ve already made.”
I’m impressed that she actually took the time to remember Mrs. Naven without having to be told again. Blue Bloods are notorious for insisting that service staff be ever-present and available but near-invisible. It has never been our practice, and I’m delighted that Keisha respects Mrs. Naven’s station enough to remember her name.
I lower my voice to sound conspiratorial, while noting Mrs. Naven can hear me, judging by her indefatigable smile. “Don’t feel as if you have to eat anything you don’t like. Mrs. Naven will be happy to prepare anything you desire.”
“I’m easy.” Keisha says. She clarifies that loaded statement when my lips twist into a smirk. “When it comes to food.”
Mrs. Naven fixes her a plate which a calorie-counter might consider too-generous portions, but Keisha tucks in unembarrassed by her ravenous hunger. My housekeeper serves me my usual sprouted whole-grain raisin bread toast, scrambled egg whites, and organic coffee.
Keisha sips her coffee. “Ugh, this can’t be real coffee. What do you have against caffeine?”
“Other than it constricting the blood vessels in the brain and forcing the heart to contract with stronger force, nothing,” I say.
Mrs. Naven saves me, as per usual. “Would you like a real cup o’ Joe?”
“Yes, please,” Keisha says. “I’m never fully awake until I’ve had my caffeine.”
“I have just the thing.” Mrs. Naven returns to her quarters, most likely to share her personal brand of coffee with Keisha. She must like this girl, because she’s never offered to do this for any of my other submissives.
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