Keisha turns her attention to my food. “What kind of bread is that?”
“Sprouted whole-grain raisin bread. It’s extraordinarily good for you.”
She scrunches up her nose in distaste. “Looks kinda nasty to me.”
“I assure you, it isn’t. The pancakes you’re eating were made from the same type of spelt.”
“Oh.”
She eats heartily as Mrs. Naven returns to grind a half a pot of coffee, which she and Keisha consume in turn.
Keisha also has a juice glass full of fresh-squeezed orange juice and one final cup of caffeinated coffee. “Thanks so much, Mrs. Naven,” she says, “Breakfast and this coffee? Dope. I-I mean it’s very good. It was delicious.”
Mrs. Naven actually blushes. “Why thank you, Ms. Beale.”
I watch the exchange between them without interruption, and I know Keisha’s help is not going to be welcomed when she moves to take her dishes to the sink.
Mrs. Naven stops her with a gratuitous smile, “I appreciate your help, dear, but you’re Mr. White’s guest and this is my job.”
As Mrs. Naven busies herself with the task of clearing away the breakfast dishes, I take Keisha’s hand and lead her out of the kitchen and into the dining room. My large hand engulfs her small soft one and I am tempted to sigh very much unlike the alpha male I portray to the world, but I hold myself in check. What is this woman doing to me?
“Will you come with me to my office?”
“Yes.” Her breathy answer assures me that I’m not the only one with a visceral reaction.
We walk in silence up the stairs, down the hallway, to the end of the hall, where I open the door for her to enter my home office. It’s appointed in much the same way as my office at work.
I pull out one of the chairs that face my desk for her, then round my desk where I retrieve her purse, or rather the authentic PRADA bag I had Darryl purchase for her in lieu of the counterfeit one, from the bottom drawer. I also collect her business plan and a binder that contains an NDA among other documents.
When I return to sit in the chair opposite her, I present the handbag to her. She immediately begins a thorough check of its contents, then rolls her eyes, as if in annoyance at herself when she remembers it’s been in my possession. I watch engrossed by her insistence, despite how ludicrous it may seem, on making sure everything is there.
She looks at the bag, then looks again and says, “Um, this isn’t my bag.”
“Yes, it is,” I say. “Darryl noticed the one you had was… how might I put this delicately? Not of sufficient quality.”
She furrows her cute brow. It’s my turn to roll my inner eyes. Cute brow?
“Sufficient for what?” she insists.
“A woman with your beauty and style. Please take the handbag as a gift from me and as an apology.”
“For?”
“Accosting you in my office last week. I was out of line. Had you been of a mind to, you could certainly have capitalized on that.”
“An apology alone would have been sufficient, Tristan. As it happens, now I owe you an apology, so I guess that would make us even.”
“Why do you owe me an apology?”
“Not thanking you for keeping whoever drugged me from having their wicked way with me.”
“Speaking of which…” I stand to get my phone out of my pocket. “My head of security sent me a couple of multimedia stills of the culprit.” I hand her the phone.
“Wait. Is Wicked yours?”
“Yes, I own a controlling interest in it.”
She scans the pictures, anger blossoming on her face. “That bastard!”
I allow her to see for herself that Blake, the rapper, dropped something in her drink when she and Darnelle were otherwise engaged.
“I. Am. Going. To. Kill. Him.” She rages accentuating each word.
“If I don’t get to him first.” I think I put a bit too much venom in that declaration, because it unsettles Ms. Beale, who chooses her next words nervously.
“Um, I didn’t mean I would literally kill him. You don’t either, do you?”
“At the very least, he deserves to go to jail, Keisha. My security chief has already sent a copy of these to the Chicago PD, together with the results of your blood test.”
“Tristan, that will ruin his life.”
“He was all set to ruin yours.”
“I’d like to see him suffer, but I don’t want to send him to jail. It’s hard enough for a black man in this world.”
Her protestations don’t move me as much as my lack of context. Having been born a White, there was never a time that I’ve had to fear injustice from the authorities. Even when my first submissive, Aimee Gabriel, suffered her catastrophic accident, local law enforcement treated me with a deference that was shameful, given that I wasn’t the one lying mangled and bleeding in the land rover on the side of that mountain. I didn’t flaunt my inappropriate entitlement then, and I won’t do it now.
“The authorities have the evidence. Whether you choose to press charges is entirely up to you, but I encourage you to do so.”
She points to her business plan with some relief that I’m dropping the subject of trying the rapper, whom my security chief informed me was an ex-boyfriend of the lovely Ms. Beale. A woman like her is wasted on an idiot like him. I’m not jealous because he poses no threat to me. Then or now.
“So, you’ve changed your mind about our business arrangement?”
“Yes and no,” I say.
“Don’t tell me you’ve all of a sudden gotten a raging case of Romnesia.”
There’s that eye-roll of hers again. I can’t wait to get her into my Grotto to unburden her of that nasty habit. I pretend I’m unfamiliar with the borrowed quasi-political term she’s dredged up from presidential elections past.
“Romnesia?”
“The Romney flip-flop, or rich man’s amnesia.”
“No, but do I have a counter offer for you.”
“Okay, let’s hear it,” she says with a modicum of impatience.
“You’re certainly in a hurry to be introduced to a world that could change your life forever.” My tone is set to upbraid on purpose. “Believe me, once you hear what I propose, you may insist I go fuck myself and leave you the hell alone.”
“Are you a serial killer, Mr. White?”
“Oh, it’s Mr. White again, is it? After the intimacies we’ve shared?” My teasing evokes a blush of color that fans my imagination of the color her ass might be after a thorough cropping.
“Tristan! C’mon, stop playing with my emotions here.”
“All right. But first, I must insist you sign a nondisclosure agreement.”
“Why?”
“Because once I’ve introduced you to my world, you can’t share what you learn about me with anyone.”
She frowns and I observe her evocative expressions making the trek across her features again. I wonder if she’s even aware that in these moments she is completely guileless?
After weighing her options, she says, “I’ll sign.”
I am in awe of the dauntlessness with which she approaches something once she’s made up her mind. “Your impulsiveness never ceases to amaze me.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Her veneer of bravado slips for a moment, but I don’t follow my inbred instinct to question any hint of weakness, which I usually exercise in business dealings. Unfortunately, my other head has the upper hand in this adversarial situation.
I hand her the binder. “Please read it through, sign at the bottom, and I’ll countersign.”
She gives the document a desultory skimming before signing. I do not suppress my visage of extreme censure upon witnessing such gross indiscretion on her part. “You should read more thoroughly when you’re signing contracts. Not every business person in this world is honest.”
“What’re you gonna do, sue me? Most of our money went to refurbishing the building. The small amount of capital KSR has left is like pocket change to you.”<
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I take the NDA, countersign it, and place it on my desk. When I return to her, I wipe my palms on my jeans, then reach my hand out to her. She takes it readily, and I lead her to my Grotto across the hall from my office and unlock the door.
I step aside and allow her to enter the room before me. I designed my Grotto purposely with no windows because I didn’t want prying eyes from without nor within, and I sometimes liked playing in the dark, rendering blindfolds unnecessary.
No turning back for the trusting Ms. Beale now. Once the room is illuminated she will officially become part of my world. Whether she decides to join me in it, or not, will be another thing altogether.
As I flip the switch her breath hitches, and her face transforms instantly from eager interest to abject horror.
CHAPTER SIX
This time I’m ready when Keisha takes flight. My heightened reflexes kick in and I catch her and envelop her in my arms. She struggles frantically to get away, but I don’t give one inch. I attempt to soothe her with my voice.
“Keisha, please don’t run from me again. I’m not going to hurt you.”
I recognize something of myself in the ferocity of her struggle and the panic that is consuming her. Letting her go is out of the question. She fights in earnest beating my chest with her tiny fists until she despairs of energy and they begin to flail.
“No. Nooo. No!”
“Keisha?”
Her eyes begin to roll back indicating that she’s about to pass out. I lift her up and carry to the closest room, other than the Grotto, which happens to be my office, to calm her down before she alarms Mrs. Naven. Closing the door, I sag against it cradling her in my arms, and breathing deeply to gain control of my own quickly escalating vital signs. If I were to succumb to an attack now, we’d both be fucked.
When I see tears stream from her fearful hazel eyes, as she struggles to get her own breathing under control, I try again to sooth her with my voice. “Shhh… I promise. I’m not going to hurt you. Shhh.”
Finally, she stills in my arms and calms down. Smoothing the hair from her face, I touch her forehead with mine, grateful that she now knows I mean her no harm. Her gaze is trusting again, and I take this as a sign that I can release her.
Carrying her to the chaise, I lay her down gently, then retrieve a glass of water for her from the wet bar. Kneeling beside her prone figure, I offer her a drink, which she takes without hesitation.
I’m so grateful she’s no longer in peril of fainting, I smile to put her more at ease and drag a chair over to observe her until she is completely calm. Only when her breathing levels out, do I dare speak to her.
“I realize this is a lot for you to digest all at once—”
“You think?”
“Will you let me explain?” I don’t blame her for the sarcasm, but I wait to continue when she nods.
“Are you okay to walk now? To see my role-play room?” I don’t tell her it’s called The Grotto. Yet. She needs to get used to the idea that places like this exist and that people like me use them. And I really, really want her to join me in its use. Maybe not today, but soon.
“Yes,” she says, as she sits up.
“Are you sure?” I scrub my face from bottom to top with my hand and continue through my hair. “You don’t have to do this today.”
She swings her legs off the chaise and faces me.
“I’m sure.” Her insistence is surprising given her previous reaction. I am not looking this particular gift horse in the mouth. I take her hand as she stands to make sure her legs are navigable, and walk her out of my office and back to the Grotto.
When her steps falter at the threshold, I stop and allow her to take in the room. Her eyes settle first on the king-sized wrought-iron pedestal bed in the center of the room—then they travel slowly to each of the walls, and around the space taking in the various apparatuses that would be found in any well-equipped BDSM play room. This one just happens to be on the top floor of a condo, not in a basement. While many like the term dungeon, I named mine The Grotto because it is cave-like in its lack of windows, and the accoutrements within are picturesque to the practiced eye.
Once she’s taken everything in, her first words surprise me.
“What the fuck?”
I am obliged to answer her as accurately as I can. “This is my lifestyle, my preference for sexual expression.”
“Is this normal?”
“What is normal? What’s normal for one may be abnormal for another.”
“Maybe I chose the wrong words. Is this shit healthy?”
I don’t temper my indignation this time. “Sexual expression becomes unhealthy only when it’s repressed.”
“You might have a point, but I don’t have any repressed sexual expressions I’m just dying to experience right now,” she declares, but curiosity draws her like a moth to flame further into the room.
“Do you have any questions?” I close the door behind us, and join her in the room.
“So, you’re a sadist, and you want to bring me in here and do God knows what to me?”
“No, I’m not a sadist, although I have some leanings in that direction. I’m so much more. I’m a Dominant in search of a submissive, and I believe you are she.”
“Is that what I would be called? Or is it ‘slave’?” It’s her turn to be indignant. “How can you approach me about something like this? I’m a black woman with too much pride in my heritage to step back two hundred fucking years. Last I heard, Abraham Lincoln abolished slavery.”
“Keisha, this scene isn’t meant to be demeaning to you or your ethnicity. A Dom/sub relationship is predicated on trust, and the goal is pleasure, not punishment. I’d like you to do it for our mutual pleasure.”
“Say what?” She massages her temples as if warding off a headache. “How is this supposed to benefit me?”
“I’d like to introduce you to a world of pleasure beyond your wildest dreams.”
“Are you some Wall Street version of Sting and his tantric sex practices?”
“Sting is tame compared to me.” Only a neophyte would compare BDSM to Tantra. “I’m also prepared to front all the money for Kente Studio Records with a hefty bonus, in exchange for your agreement to be my submissive.”
“What? You rich white guys really have some fucking nerve! I must really have prostitute branded on my fucking forehead.”
Okay. The mention of her business investment in the same sentence as my proposition was probably not the best move.
“Like I said, it’s is not my intention to demean your gender or ethnicity. This is the only type of attachment I’m able to form with any woman.”
She levels me with a look akin to pity. “And here I thought you just wanted to have regular sex with me.”
But she’s at least entertaining the thought of having sex with me, so I don’t get to tell her just how much I abhor pity.
“I do want to have regular sex with you, but not just vanilla.”
“Vanilla? If we were to kick it, it’d be more like… milk chocolate.”
“In my world, there’s plain old vanilla sex then everything else.”
“So, you buy that whole Descartes thing that pain and pleasure are part of a continuum?”
“I do.”
“I don’t. Maybe people who have everything they could ever dream of need to conquer this one final frontier. Well, I’m not the Starship Enterprise, and I don’t want any part of this kinky shit.” She gestures wildly around the room, then a vibrator catches her eye and she’s like a kid with a short attention span. “Well, maybe this,” she says, almost as if she isn’t aware she’s spoken aloud. “I think I have one like it.”
When I move toward her, she shrinks back as if she’s prepared to run again. I raise my hands in a show of conciliation. “I just want to sit and talk.” I gesture to the bench against the wall. When she doesn’t bolt again, I take her hand, and maneuver us to the bench. I allow her to be seated before I join her on the bench
and commence my explanation.
“Keisha, I can’t believe I’ve read you wrong. When you came into my office saying ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir,’ I read you to be the product of a submissive background. You said you were taught to be respectful by your maternal grandparents, who passed that on to your mother, right?”
“Yes, all of us are taught at an early age.”
“Was your father a strict disciplinarian?”
“What’s my father got to do with any of this?”
“Bear with me. I do have a point. If you answer me truthfully, I promise I’ll get to it.”
“My father was an asshole,” she says.
I roll my eyes, and mutter an agreement. “Aren’t they all?” She laughs, which is what I was hoping for with my candor. Only then do I continue. “But you obeyed him most of the time, didn’t you?”
Her throat works frantically a moment, before she agrees.“Yes.”
“What kind of men have you dated in the past? Strong, no-nonsense types or sensitive types you can easily manipulate?”
She is quiet as she thinks about the question, and without her voicing the answer, I know intuitively just what it will be. “Definitely not sensitive.”
“Keisha, although you possess a bravado that would be off-putting to most Doms, I can see through that. You’re a submissive at heart but you’ve learned to mask it.”
“Are you a shade-tree psychologist in addition to being a CEO?”
“I’ve just been what I am for a long time,” I say. “You have to read people very well to do what I do.”
“This still doesn’t mean I’d agree to let you beat the shit out of me for the sake of fulfilling some sexual fantasy.”
“I wouldn’t beat the shit out of you. I don’t like marring the skin of my subs in any way, and fecal play doesn’t appeal to me at all.”
She wrinkles her nose in disgust. “Some people really do that?”
“You’d be surprised what some people do.”
“Why do you?”
“Because it’s the only way I’m interested in pursuing a relationship with a woman.” I unapologetically. “However, my therapist would insist I prefer BDSM because by defining the roles in advance, the relationship is reduced to a more primitive element—ergo, it’s easier to control.”
The Venture Capitalist Page 7