The Venture Capitalist

by EnRose, LaVie

  “I’m going to tie your hands to the headboard and outfit you with a ball hood. Then I’m going to subject you to a bit of sensation play. You won’t be able to see or hear what’s going on, but you will feel it. Then I’m going to fuck you so hard, you’re going to feel it all night while we’re at the KSR Party.”

  She squeezes her thighs together. That minute movement lets me know she’s anxious for me to take her, but that will happen all in due time.

  “Be still.” To soften the bite of that order, I kiss her, nipping a trail from her lips to the column of her throat.

  “You may make sounds,” I say. “I love the noises you make as I give you pleasure.”

  “Oh—Ah,” she says with abandon. I use my lips and tongue on her neck to exact even more noises from her.

  She stumbles slightly, and I pull her closer.

  “You may touch me,” I say.

  She clutches me for balance and presses close to me.

  “Take off my clothes.” When she has completed her task, and I stand naked before her, I kiss her again until she responds, and I abruptly release her.

  “Now go lie on the bed. Face up.” When she hesitates, I give her a warning smack on her delectable derriere, and she runs to the bed.

  She climbs onto the mattress and lies down. I follow straddling her, careful to keep most of my weight on my arms and knees. She gazes at me with eager longing. My arousal lays hot and heavy against her belly, but I’m still only about the business of taking my time.

  “Hands up.”

  She follows my order without any hesitation this time.

  I use the lengths of white cotton rope to tie her hands to the bed. Sometimes I like to see the intricate pattern of rope ligatures on my submissive’s skin. I allow her to see the ball hood so she will be aware of everything I’m doing to her.

  There is a look of irritation on her face, but her mask of impassivity replaces it quickly. I decide to let that involuntary slight go. Most submissives hate the leather ball-gag mask because it covers their entire head, destroying their hairstyles. Like anything else, they get used to it. I explain the purpose of the mask.

  “Being unable to hear creates a profound psychological state of disconnection. It will make the experience even more intense than blindfolding alone. Ready?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  I take her long hair, twist it into a knot and pull the mask down over her head and snap everything into place. She waits patiently as I leave the bed to turn on some mood music. Considering what we heard most of the day at KSR, I believe a bit of classical music is in order. I put on a medley of Mozart concertos.

  Her breathing comes out in shallow pants that I can hear over the music. I slide her onto the bed and attach leather cuffs onto her ankles, anchoring her in place.

  I leave her alone on the bed as I gather the items I’m going to use to play with her, and to remove my clothes. I return to the bed to hover over her, the mattress dipping as I settle into place.

  Ms. Beale is a sight to behold. I pinch her nipples through the fabric of the bustier, and she squirms from my exquisite torture. Next, I lave her breasts through the fabric with my tongue until the fabric is wet. The cool air in the room will create its own sensation against her rigid nipples.

  I take a soft brush and drag it across her breast, creating an invigorating, feathery sensation that is designed to make her squirm, because she doesn’t know what I’m using. After teasing her nipples, I surrounds each breast with the brush head, then drag it up against her neck. Now that it’s on her naked skin she should be able to identify the soft-bristled brush.

  While wielding the brush with one hand, I am caressing and pulling at her nipples one at a time, teasing them so they’re in a constant state of beading. Once I’ve brushed every area of exposed skin, I place the brush on the nightstand. I can see Keisha’s sex is now wet, swollen and aching for me, but I’m not ready to give her what she wants just yet.

  I use my hands now to caress a similar route over her body, rubbing, kneading and stimulating. I keep my touch light so she has to concentrate with her senses that remain. Keisha squirms, lightly panting from my ministrations, but the rope and the cuffs keep her movements contained.

  Leaving her briefly again, I return with a butter knife that has been kept in the small freezer in the Grotto along with other cold items I use for sensation play. This is going to burn like real ice. I lay it flat on one of her nipples and she cries out.

  “Argghh!”

  I place it onto the other nipple and she jerks up off the bed. “Oh God!”

  Sadistic bastard that I am, I laugh just before my hot mouth covers the breast that was exposed to the cold metal just seconds ago. I straddle her again, alternate teasing her with the cold metal and my tongue. My caresses through the damp satin fabric and the cold metal are sure to enhance what is happening to the nerve endings of this very sensitive area.

  I swirl my tongue repeatedly around one nipple and then the other. At the same time, I insert two fingers into her and massage the walls of her sex. When her moans indicate she is nearing orgasm, I retreat and she groans in disappointment.

  I abruptly grip her forearms and shake lightly, silently warning her to stop the negative groaning, since I haven’t given her that permission. I release her ankles from the cuffs so her legs won’t be hindered when I enter her. Taking position over her again, I kiss her as well as I can around the ball gag, which I slightly regret not removing, but I don’t stop to do so. I move into her, filling her up so completely I know she can feel me in places she never dreamed.

  My movements are slow and methodical in the beginning, pulling myself out to the tip, before pushing completely back in. Keisha gasps and moans in reaction to the steady pace I’ve set, and I allow it because I still don’t plan to make it easy for her.

  As she builds toward climax, she moves underneath me hoping to hurry it along, but I bring her just slightly to the edge of ecstasy, then retreat—refusing to let her go over. I continue teasing her with precise, controlled thrusts until I’m good and ready to change the rhythm. Then I deviate from my systematic pace, picking up speed until my hips are slapping against hers audibly.

  I can feel that tightness heralding her orgasm, and I stop moving. Again. This time she doesn’t protest, and I am impressed that she’s able to withhold her groans of displeasure.

  I begin to move again, and this time Keisha winds her toned legs around my ass to keep me in place. I smile at her tenacity. Her muscles are quivering now, as are mine, so there won’t be any more withholding on my part. I thrust hard, pulling her orgasm and my own to the surface in rapid succession.

  When I am able to move, I pull out of her, free her hands and remove the ball hood. She’s disconcerted by the visual and audible stimuli that bombards her senses, but otherwise unscathed. She focuses on me staring down at her.

  “How was that?”

  “Well, it’s the first time I’ve been fucked blindfolded and damn near deaf. I have nothing to compare it to. But if you want a superlative, I’d have to say, ‘mind-blowing.’ ”

  I smile. “You have quite a way with words, but I’d have to agree wholeheartedly with your assessment.”

  Keisha glances over at the nightstand and sees the brush and butter knife.

  “That wasn’t ice?”

  “Just the flat edge of a frozen butter knife,” I say. “Funny what our brain registers when we’re deprived of a couple of pesky senses, huh?”

  As the official hosts and hostesses of the KSR grand opening after-party, Keisha, Nathan, Jada, and I make our rounds, greeting guests while slipping business in at every opportunity. We’ve invited all the famous musicians who call Chicago home, as well as a great many aspiring singers and bands to participate in the opening to see if they might want to join this cutting edge new studio which gives them a much higher royalty share than traditional recording studios. In the second hour, we split up so we can cover more ground before the li
ve entertainment begins.

  After covering my quadrant of the ballroom, Nathan and I meet up just as he’s finished his area of the room. We are joined by a couple of NFL players in attendance.

  “Damn, White, I knew you had a twin brother, but I didn’t know you guys were identical. I thought you’d cleaned up for a minute,” Marlon Braggs says. As the running back for the Chicago Bulldozers, he’s broad, compact and average height.

  Nathan hooks a thumb toward me. “You ever see this guy when I’m not around, don’t believe it’s me. I’m never cutting my hair—well as long as I’m in the league, I won’t.”

  “He’s afraid a good haircut will steal his mojo,” I say. “Don’t tell me you football players have superstitions, too.”

  “Busted,” Jarvis James, the tight-end for the same team, says. He’s lean, narrow, and just an inch or so shorter than Nathan and me. “We might even have more rituals than basketball players.”

  “You guys should be in the business I’m in. No mojo involved, just numbers. There’s something very reassuring about numbers—unless the risk outweighs the reward. Then you’re fucked.”

  They laugh, then Jarvis mutters. “Dime piece at two o’clock.” It takes us all a few moments to orient ourselves in the direction he’s looking, and I realize he’s talking about Keisha who’s making a beeline for me.

  In her heels, she’s still a head shorter than me, so she ducks under my arm. When I look down, she kisses me square on the mouth. Jarvis whistles low through his teeth and Marlon catcalls, “Woohoo! You White boys don’t play. Why didn’t I meet her first?” I’m not altogether sure whether he’s referring to our last name or our ethnicity, but who gives a fuck. I’m the man who’s kissing the most beautiful woman in the room.

  I’m wearing a shit-eating grin when we come up for air, and I whisper to Keisha. “What was that for?”

  She whispers back. “Saving my ass so many times I can’t count them.” She must have had a conversation with Darnelle, who likely believed her little revelation to Keisha would have the opposite effect, but I covered all bases.

  I nuzzle her ear on the sly while whispering back to her. “I love your ass, remember?”

  “Get a fucking room,” Nathan says good-naturedly.

  Keisha pulls me by the tie she bought me for one last kiss, and we really put the heat into this one. “Later,” I say, hoping my eyes convey just how much trouble she’s going to be in when we return to the condo in the wee hours of the morning.

  The entertainment between nine and eleven really gets the crowd going. I’m washing down shrimp cocktail with a glass of champagne when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  “Well, if it isn’t Tristan White.”

  I turn to find Sara Fielding Nicholas, a former sub looking as if she’s had even more work than when we were together. “Hello Sara. I look around, is Mr. Nicholas in tow tonight?” I smile politely and offer her my hand for a shake, but she waves it away and pulls me in for a hug that I don’t return as enthusiastically as she does. In fact, I have to practically peel her off me.

  “No,” she says with a dramatic look of distaste. “He’s yesterday’s news.”

  I arch a brow.

  She grins. “Come on Tristan. Did I ever impress you as the marrying type?”

  “Not particularly.” I take another sip of my champagne.

  She grabs a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and clinks her glass against mine. “Exactly. That fiasco was doomed from the beginning. His idea of BDSM was smacking my bottom a few times with his hand during sex. Boring!”

  I frown, pretending to commiserate with her.

  A fan favorite of the acts Keisha selected from their contract auditions is on stage. The band’s lead singer has a voice much like The Weeknd everybody pairs up to slow dance.

  “Now, this is a song I would buy. Let’s dance.” Sara grabs my hand and pulls me onto the floor, so I go with her in order to avoid a scene. I look around, unable to find the woman I’d really like to dance with. I spot Nathan and Jada having sex in their clothes on the dance floor, they are grinding so hard. Thankfully, there are no pictures allowed in this venue. We decided to limit the media to the opening festivities in the daytime.

  Keisha must be dancing with someone, because I don’t see her anywhere, so I relax and try to make the best of this dance with a former sub who no longer floats my boat.

  I am relieved when I hear a familiar and welcome voice say, “Cutting in.”

  I pull away from Sara, but she looks down her nose at Keisha and says, “I don’t think Tristan slums with hood rats.”

  Keisha’s face contorts with anger and I see her involuntary preparation for fisticuffs. Sara doesn’t realize that this girl has a killer right hook and will use it. Darnelle can attest to its potency. I push Sara behind me and take Keisha into my arms.

  “Keisha. Keisha. The party is going exceedingly well. Let’s not let an ex-sub ruin your triumph here, okay.”

  She struggles to get to Sara but I hold her fast, while Sara just stands there with her arms folded. “Tristan, that bitch called me a hood rat. I’m going to give her a special piece of this hood rat.”

  “Sara, apologize to Keisha,” I say through clenched teeth. “She’s my new sub and you will not disrespect her.”

  The snide expression on Sara’s face becomes surprise, but she does as I command her. “Please forgive me for insulting you, Keisha.” She tucks tail and turns disappearing through the crowd on the dance floor.

  I release the stronghold on Keisha and pull her into my arms to dance. I smile and try to cajole her into a better mood as I palm her ass, dancing the bachata, pressing her into me so she can feel how she’s affecting me. Finally she relaxes in my arms, but she has questions.

  “Is she the one you dumped six months ago?”

  “No, actually Sara got married three years ago. I invited her and her spouse to the party, but she tells me they’ve separated.”

  “She’s not sniffing around hoping you’ll take her back, is she?”

  I smile. “That shade of green you’re wearing is clashing with your beautiful dress, Keisha.”

  “Uh, I beg to differ, Sir. I rock green better than Ms. No-ass, Silicone-tits Sara,” she says, trying to deflect me with humor. “As long as you and I are knocking boots, I refuse to share you with any STD ridden skank hos or their mamas. Capisce?”

  “And I refuse to share you with any STD harboring jocks or their daddies. Comprende?”

  I have descended to locker room humor like Nathan and his teammates. But better that than entertaining why Ms. Beale was so jealous of Sara just now.

  Keisha and I finally get a chance to eat and relax in our seats on the end of the dais closest to the door. The party has been a success. We’ve collected a stack of business cards of potential clients to keep KSR busy for weeks. We are sharing a crème brûlée when something gets Keisha’s attention.

  “Aw man,” Keisha says, dropping her silverware on her plate.

  “What’s the problem?” I say. I follow her line of sight to her cousin Jorge and his boyfriend Thomas, who is wasted if Jorge’s attempts to walk—or better yet—stumble with him out of the ballroom is any indication. Jorge and Thomas are roughly the same weight and height, but a man has to be exceedingly strong to carry such dead weight.

  “What’s with that guy? If he isn’t pouting or picking fights, he’s making a spectacle of himself.”

  “You saw that display from their car the other day?” She asks.

  “How could I not?”

  She frowns. “I’d better go help Jorge get him to the car.”

  I put a hand on her forearm, stopping her. “I’ll help him. You’re the hostess of the party and it’s winding down. Stay and close the party out properly. I’ll call the car service for us after I get Jorge and Thomas squared away.”

  Jorge looks both appreciative and embarrassed when I take Thomas’s other arm and help hoist him out the door. Just before we exit t
he double doors, Jorge turns back and mouths something to Keisha.

  She mimics holding a phone to her ear and mouths back, “Call me.”

  While the valet is retrieving the car, we sit Thomas on a bench outside the hotel, and I observe the wannabe rocker. Something about the way Thomas is acting is off. He’s nodding out, not passed out like a drunk.

  “Thanks, Tristan,” Jorge says. “Thomas likes to party a little too much sometimes.”

  It is then I get a whiff of the alcohol on Jorge’s breath. “Smells as if you’ve partied just as hard as Thomas. And by the way, you’re not welcome.”

  Jorge’s grin vanishes. “What’s up with you, man? Just because you’re fucking my cousin it doesn’t give you any right to talk to me like you’re my father or something.”

  I get into his face and punch my finger into his chest. “Someone needs to give you and your boyfriend a wakeup call.” I point between him and Thomas. “This doesn’t touch Keisha. You hear me, Jorge? I don’t care if you have to quit your job at KSR. She doesn’t need a lush and a junkie in her life.”

  “Yes, I’ve had a few, but I’m not a drunk, and Thomas uses recreationally, but he’s not a junkie.”

  “Stay in denial if you like, but if you do anything out of line while I still have money tied up in KSR, you’re gone.”

  “I hope Keisha doesn’t plan on keeping your ass, because you’re a control freak and a meddler.”

  The valet pulls up with Jorge’s car. I have half a mind to let him get in and drive, drunk though he may be, but I don’t wish to cause Keisha any more pain than she has to endure. My inability to commit to her is already weighing on her, and I’m too much of a selfish jackass to let her go before she gets in too deep. I can’t let her cousin get behind the wheel with a considerable blood-alcohol level. If he’s hurt or he dies, it would all be on me.