“If it makes you feel better, I’ll write it off as a tax deduction,” I say, not altogether sure if my association with KSR as one of its backers will even allow me to do such a thing. I’ll leave that detail up to my finance department to figure out.
Ms. Jameson gives me the side-eye, but she doesn’t say anything, because I’m sure she doesn’t want to bite off her nose to spite her face, so to speak.
After the amendment signatures have been obtained, Gibson takes his leave and Jorge Cisneros, who also happens to be Keisha’s cousin, joins us with a rocker-looking dude whom he introduces to us as Thomas. Jorge is here to discuss server size, bandwidth requirements, and other technical specifications which Keisha asked me to weigh in on. Even Ms. Jameson seems to be thankful for my fundamental expertise.
“Which application server are you going with? IBM WebSphere? JBoss?” I ask.
Smiling, Jorge answers me by making a jab at Keisha. “Nah. Since my cuz wasn’t willing to part with any of her startup capital—”
“No fair! I was willing to pay for what was necessary.” Blushing, she pushes back.
Jorge continues. “I decided to go with the Apache Tomcat, because it’s a commercially used but open-source, free application server which I configured in Eclipse.”
“Smart move,” I say. “It probably saved you enough to afford to go truly grand for your opening. However, as you grow, I’d like to see you eventually migrate to one of the paid application servers.”
“Are you a firm believer in ‘you get what you pay for,’ Tristan?” Jorge asks.
“Well, that and if KSR is to become as big as Ms. Jameson’s projections—”
“You wound me, Tristan,” Jada says, laying a hand on her flat chest. “My projections are iron clad.”
“I can vouch for her projections,” Nathan pipes up. “Since I have no earthly idea what the rest of this shit means you guys are talking about.”
I frown at the loaded look Jada and Nathan share across the table. These two behave as if they’ve been together for years rather than a few weeks. I don’t give a flying fuck what they do in the privacy of Nathan’s play room, or their bedrooms, but this over-the-top eye-fucking, inappropriate PDA, and rubbing it all in Keisha’s face makes me border-line violent.
Keisha is well aware of how uncomfortable their familiarity makes me, and she chimes in to insert a lighter mood. “Neither do I, Nate. I’m just here to write and record the music.”
“You’d better be prepared to do a damn sight more than that,” Jorge says. “We’ll all be wearing several hats and working insane hours until KSR is firmly in the black.”
Keisha, ever the diplomat, tries to bring a pissed off Thomas into the conversation. “So, Thomas, you ready to give us the better part of Jorge for the next year?”
“Jorge’s a big boy,” Thomas replies in a sarcasm-laden tone. “As long he doesn’t drag me along for any more meetings about configuring application servers.”
I take Keisha’s hand to turn her attention away from her cousin’s asshat of a friend. I don’t know what his problem is, but if he disrespects this woman in any way he’s going to have me to answer to. Thankfully, Thomas moves away from the table and hovers near the exit. “I’d better get him out of here,” Jorge says, apologetically. “This might be our last free afternoon for a while.”
Nathan and I shake hands with Jorge before he and Thomas leave for destinations unknown.
“Let me show you our offices,” Jada says in the way one might offer to show one’s etchings, and pulls Nathan into the studio’s office area, while Keisha and I head to the showroom.
“What’s your vision for the décor?” I ask.
“We’d like it to be eclectic, decidedly ethnic, but in an ambivalent sort of way.”
“I know just the designer.”
“Really?”
“I provided his startup capital. He owes me a favor,” I say with a smile. “His name is Jonah Sairu, a Kenyan-born interior designer who now has a show on HGTV.”
“Really? Impressive.” Keisha returns my smile looking as if she’d like to show her thanks in other ways, but thinks better of it when she realizes we’re quite exposed in this part of the building. I follow her eyes as she spots her cousin and his friend who’ve just pulled around to the front of the building from the rear parking lot.
The rocker is yelling and gesticulating in an intense manner, and Jorge is driving, but it’s clear he’s also yelling. It would seem that drama in homosexual relationships is just as intense as in vanilla ones.
Keisha turns back to me, her face flushed with embarrassment on her cousin’s behalf. “Thanks for everything. Really,” she says and kisses me, either to draw my attention away from the scene, or because she is really thankful for my help. I decide perhaps it’s the latter when she kisses me with a potency that rivals that first kiss we shared.
I break the kiss and smile down at her. “You threw your back into that one, Ms. Beale. To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?”
“A show of my appreciation for your business acumen and generosity with all the hookups.”
“Are you generous enough to begin our weekend early?”
“That could be arranged but I’ll be late tonight.”
“I’ll send my car service for you.”
I offer because I know she’ll try her best to get there using public transit if I don’t. She’s exerted her independence on several occasions when I’ve offered her rides. There is a level of discomfort she feels riding in limousines in her neighborhood, but my chief concern is her safety.
As she is seen more and more in my presence, she will be targeted by the mainstream media and paparazzi as a person of interest. This might also bring some creeps out of the woodwork. We’ll need to have a conversation soon about this, but Moses has pulled up to the curb in front of KSR, so I’ll need to leave her modest workplace to return to my own of glass, steel and stone.
“Your chariot has arrived, Sir.”
It isn’t lost on me that she uses formal scene address, which I love.
“Yes,” I say, while fishing my cell phone out of my pocket. If Nathan is going to ride back with me, he needs to get up here. Now.
I hit a key and hold the phone up to my ear. “I swear if Nate isn’t ready to go, he’s going to have to make his own way back to my garage to pick up his car.”
I scowl when Nathan’s voicemail picks up. Keisha shakes her head. “You know what they’re most likely up to,” she says.
“Don’t remind me,” I say.
Keisha snakes her arm through mine and walks with me toward the exit.
“We’ll call him a cab,” she offers.
“Oh, he’s quite familiar with the car service I use. He employs them to get him to and from home games when he doesn’t want to drive.”
“We’ll let him fend for himself, then.”
I turn to face her in front of the door. “Don’t work too late tonight. I’d like you sentient when you arrive at the condo at the very least.”
“This will probably be the last night we’ll be able to take off fairly early until the opening. Our employees start tomorrow, and I have to get this”—she spreads her arms wide to encompass the showroom—“opening day ready.”
“That reminds me. I’ll have Darryl call you with the designer’s information this afternoon. Don’t hesitate to use my name.”
She grins. “Don’t you worry. Your name will come up in the first sentence.”
“Call me if you can make it before dinner.” It occurs to me that this statement makes me sound like Nathan is acting with Ms. Jameson. To take the ring of domesticity out of it, I say, “Mrs. Naven loves it when she gets an opportunity to cook for more than one.”
When I see the disappointment that clouds her face, I’d love nothing more than to pull her to me and kiss her until it’s gone, but I can’t afford to give her that type of hope. Ours is an arrangement of convenience. At least that is what I tell myself
daily—so I can sleep at night.
An early start to the weekend gives me four nights and two whole days with Ms. Beale. Another thing I haven’t done with any other submissive besides my first. Despite her earlier misgivings about the lifestyle, she seems to enjoy entering my kinky world. So far, she’s endured hand spankings, several crops, and other sex toys she had no idea existed, but has taken to it all like a duck to water.
It is not my desire to exhaust her, so after a few intense scenes in the playroom, we opt for dinner on the balcony. The weather on this night is that mild pre-fall perfection that makes our use of the balcony for dinner a must.
After we consume Mrs. Naven’s delicious salmon almondine, we remain on the balcony enjoying the Chicago night air with the characteristic breeze coming off Lake Michigan. We lounge in companionable silence for a time, when yawning, Keisha inquires, “Are we going back into the Grotto, tonight, Sir?”
I’m not sure if her eyes are willing me to say yes, or no, but that yawn spoke loud and clear for her body.
“I thought we might watch one of those movies you’re so fond of,” I say.
At her insistence, we take the dinner trolley down on the elevator, “So Mrs. Naven won’t have to retrieve it.” Keisha has a sincere appreciation and respect for people who work in service jobs. Having worked in a lingerie shop, I’m sure this has made her sensitive to treating those kindly who provide customer service, in whatever capacity, well. I’ve never had a submissive who’s been this deferential to others. She is a breath of fresh air, and I have to admit, I could learn a thing or two from her.
“She’s going to scold me for doing this in the morning while you’re still asleep,” I say.
“Are you afraid of little ole Mrs. Naven?” Her eyes light up, enjoying busting my chops.
“Petrified,” I say with a sarcastic, theatrical roll of my eyes. Keisha giggles, and it’s a sound that I enjoy having her make. I must endeavor to entertain her more often, although admittedly I have no earthly idea how to go about doing that.
Once we’ve deposited the cart in the kitchen, we go immediately to the theater. Keisha’s mouth falls open inelegantly when she sees my collection.
“Wow, Tristan, you have so many movies. Have you seen all of these?”
“No. I’m really not a movie buff, but Mrs. Naven often enjoys a good movie at the end of her day.” What I don’t tell her is that all of my submissives enjoyed the occasional movie. I’m careful with what I share with Keisha about the past because she is so new to the lifestyle. I quickly craft an extended diplomatic response. “And of course, I keep them for when I’m entertaining guests. What would you like to see?”
Her eyes are still taking it all in. “I don’t care. Surprise me.”
I select a George Clooney film for which he was nominated but did not win the Oscar, The Descendants. I only know this because I had a former submissive who was an actress at that time, and we attended the Academy Awards together.
“Good choice,” Keisha says. “I haven’t seen this one.”
“Would that be because it isn’t an intergalactic saga or set in an alternate universe?” I say with a smirk.
“Just because I love Star Wars and The Matrix, doesn’t mean I don’t like dramas, too. In this case I love the leading man.”
“He’s old enough to be your father.”
“Probably. But Clooney is still hot at fifty something.”
“Whatever you say, Ms. Beale, but I’d prefer not to discuss with you the finer points of how hot any man is, let alone George Clooney.”
“I’m confident to discuss the hotness of another female with you, Tristan. Let’s see… you have a preference for buxom blondes, present company excluded. So, maybe we could have a discussion about Amanda Seyfried or Blake Lively?”
I purse my lips. “Not going there with you, Keisha.”
“Aw, c’mon. What’s a little fantasizing between friends with kinky benefits?”
I laugh from my gut at that remark, and Keisha joins me because it’s the first time I’ve laughed so hard in her presence. When I recover, I say, “I think the prudent thing would be to share the fantasies that involve us and keep the others to ourselves.”
“You’re probably right, because you don’t want to know what I would do to Boris Kodjoe if he wasn’t married to Nicole Ari Parker.”
“So you’re into German men?” This time Keisha laughs and I don’t get the punch line.
“Not really. This Boris is a gorgeous Austrian-born man of African and German descent, and Clooney’s got at least ten years on him.”
“So, Kodjoe could be like your uncle?”
“Well, I guess. If that means you would be like my older brother, because Javier Jr. is your age.”
“If I found out today you were my sister, we’d just have to keep committing incest, because I’m not ready to let you go, yet.”
She levels me with a disgusted glare. “Ugh! Let’s just watch the movie.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Friday I instruct my personal shopper to deliver a package to me at the condo for Ms. Beale. Mrs. Naven brings it to me unopened in my home office, shortly after Keisha has retired to the guest room she uses when she wants to decompress after we share passionate sessions in the Grotto. She doesn’t usually sleep there, but I encourage her to use it when she needs alone time.
I knock and enter the guest room at Keisha’s bidding with the package tucked under my arm. She’s at the dressing table removing her makeup—vulnerable without anything enhancing her natural beauty. Her Smartphone is connected to the speaker base playing music from her iTunes account.
Keisha stiffens as she looks at me, first through the mirror’s reflection, then she turns, her brow wrinkled questioningly. “Sir—?”
“I’m not here in my capacity as your Dom,” I say before she goes into submissive mode.
I stroll over to her. “I almost forgot to give this to you.”
“Another gift?”
“Yes and no.”
She giggles. My favorite sound of late. “How could that possibly be? It’s either or, right?”
I stop in front of her and hand her the box. When she tears the parcel open, there is a wrapped gift beneath it, which surprises us both.
“Then I suppose it is,” I say, rocking on my heels.
“What’s the occasion?” Keisha tears into the gift wrapping, narrowing her eyes at me.
“You’ll need what’s in there tomorrow.” I am being deliberately vague, because I want to see her genuine reaction when she opens the box.
She peels back the tissue paper and seeing white fabric she teases, “You want me to play a sexy nurse in the Grotto?”
I gesture toward the box. “Keep looking.”
She takes the top item and shakes it out. “What is this?”
“The formal name for it is a plastron. We’re going to begin your fencing lessons in the morning, so you need to look the part.”
She jumps up, dropping the box to the floor and launches herself into my arms. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She jumps up and down, clasping her hands, then leans over and retrieves the box. “I’ve wanted some of these ever since I saw you in yours.”
“You realize they are not a fashion statement, right?” I ask sardonically as she plunders through the box, which contains no less than three sets of fencing whites.
She holds the items one at a time against her lithe body, eyeing herself in the mirror. “Oh, there’s more than one set in here.”
“Yes, if you’re going to be serious about the sport, you need to first look the part.”
“Really—?” she stops, mid-thought when a song comes on featuring a male voice singing in a killer falsetto. She does what I can only describe as that Michael Jackson holy-ghost dance move. “I hope I sign someone like this on KSR’s label.”
She dances solo around the room still holding a plastron against her breast. Oh that I were that plastron…and I need to know despe
rately who this singer is she loves so much.
“Who is this?”
“Miguel,” she says, ceasing movement. “You haven’t heard him before?”
“Not that I recall.”
“I’m going to buy one of his albums for you, because seriously, Tristan, these are the songs women like to dance to these days.”
“Present company included, I presume?”
“Well, yeah, I mean listen to the lyrics. He’s telling her how anxious he is to taste her skin, to see her grin—”
I pull her into my arms mid-sentence and she falls into step perfectly with me as I dance her around the room. Keisha Beale is a quick study and matches me move for move as we dance a modified tango to this most contemporary of songs.
“You’re good,” I say.
She laughs. “You forget, Sir. Hot Brazilian blood flows through these veins.”
“I beg to differ, Ms. Beale. I would be a poor excuse for a man were I to forget that.”
Suddenly, I want to impress her with my significant dancing skill. “Do you know the rumba?”
She demonstrates as her answer and we somehow manage to execute well despite the slower tempo of the song.
“Paso Doble?”
Again she moves in sync with me like we’ve been dancing together forever.
I change again. “Samba.” She moves her hips in answer with the sexy Samba strut.
It’s in that moment I know that Keisha Beale could dance me under a table, or off the floor. Whatever the saying might be these days.
“Bachata,” she says, then begins this incredibly sexy move which I mimic until I get the hang of it and am able to orchestrate my own sensual grind into her hips.
My body reacts to this most carnal dance bar-none, and as the song ends, I dance Keisha against the wall and pin her there. Her toned legs wind around my waist as we continue to dance our version of bachata against the wall.
As another song comes on I divest her of her robe, and she lowers my pajama pants, and I’m inside her before it occurs to either of us that we should’ve retrieved a condom at some point.
The only thing I can think to do is withdraw before I come, which happens on the heel of her climax. Even though I pull out, tucking myself into my pajama bottom to shoot my load, I take one of her breasts into my mouth and draw hard. Her orgasm rolls over her continuously, until screaming, she collapses against me.
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