The Venture Capitalist

by EnRose, LaVie

  She expels a breath of relief. “Thank you, Sir.”

  She takes another deep breath, and I hit her with the heavy flogger in the center of her back as she expels a breath. She cries out in surprise more than pain, because I am tempering the pressure. I hit her up and down her body, from her shoulders to her knees with the flogger.

  This method of spreading out the flogging over a large portion of her body rather than concentrating in one area, should keep the pain to a minimum. I’m sure it hurts, but not as badly as I could make it hurt, so she doesn’t ask me to stop. She flinches from every blow, clenching the butt plug inside her. I watch as the pain becomes pleasure evidence by her aroused sex beginning to glisten.

  After a few minutes, I end the flogging lay across her body like a shroud.

  “I could flog you more, but my cock is anxious to claim your anal cherry.”

  I work the plug out of her and dispose of it in its case on the bedside table. If her wetness is any indication, she is ready to have me fill her in place of the heavy metal. I slather lube on myself, then inserts even more in Keisha. I adjust the pillow underneath her as I lower myself to cover her again. Positioning myself at her entrance I inch inside. She gasps as I push, in slow, short thrusts. Her muscles tighten involuntarily.

  “Relax, Keisha,” I say through shallow panting of my own.

  As she does so, I sink deep and still on top of her.

  “Is that okay?”

  “Y-yes, Sir.”

  I begin a slow, steady rhythm. Judging from Keisha’s increasing moans of pleasure, I’m sure she’s enjoying herself. I run my hand underneath our bodies to find her clit. The excess lube and her wet sex give me all the friction I need to stimulate her sensitive nub.

  My hips and scrotum lap her from behind like a spanking. Keisha begins to push back toward my downward thrusts as if she can’t get enough. At the same time, I’m showering her shoulders and neck with wet kisses and nibbles.

  Suddenly her body tightens. She shakes and orgasms, collapsing on the bed. I continue to pump into her until I come with a shout of triumph. Keisha, usually the noisier one during sex, is surprised by my reaction.

  “Wow! Are you okay?”

  “Never better,” I say against her throat.

  I rest my body heavily on hers for a few seconds, but then shift my weight for fear of crushing her into the bed. We are both likely too disoriented to care at the moment. I pull carefully out of her and flop onto my back. I release Keisha’s hands from the leather cuffs and blindfold.

  Unmoving, she turns her head in my direction. There is a dazed, lazy grin on her face, which I return, not masking the arrogance I’m sure accompanies it.

  “Well, Ms. Beale. What have you to say about that?”

  She goes with a superlative. “Stupendous.”

  I pull her in for a kiss and she crawls on top of me showing me just how much she enjoyed her maiden voyage of anal sex. I stir, becoming aroused by her searing kiss, and I am convinced our adventure at The White Whip is far from over.

  The next weekend back in Chicago, Keisha and I begin Sunday with vanilla sex in my bedroom. Sometimes I like to change things up and take the Grotto completely off the table. Keisha has been preoccupied anyway, and a good Dom knows not to take his sub into the play room when she isn’t focused. Afterward, we lay panting next to each other, spent.

  “I hate it, but I’m going to have to leave early today,” Keisha says with a pout.

  “What’s going on?” I say.

  “Church, then Sunday dinner,” she says. “I think Mama’s jealous that you monopolize all my weekends these days.”

  “Hmm. She’s quite right,” I say. “I must change that dynamic. I wouldn’t want Clara Lee miffed with me.”

  “Have you met my mother? She wouldn’t be miffed, she’d be downright mad, and you’d know it, because she would tell you. To your face.”

  I laugh. “Your mother might be a Domme.”

  Keisha thinks for a second. “I don’t know. She does have an extremely soft side. And she’s very conservative.”

  “Dare I say that maybe she’s as conflicted as your best friend?”

  “Okay, here you go again. What is it with you and Jada? You’re always at each other’s throats—unless you’re talking about finance.”

  “Please, let’s not talk about my brother’s bitch. I mean, switch.”

  Keisha punches me in the side. “I’m so going to tell Jada.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  She cuddles up to me. “I’m not going to sow any more discord between the two of you than you stir up on your own.”

  “Are we going with the clergy’s term for inciting drama now?”

  “Just practicing. Pastor Johnson has surely labeled me as a heathen by now I haven’t been to church in so long.”

  I kiss her already sex-swollen lips. “You’re my heathen.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  She snuggles against my side and doesn’t speak again, even when I ask her what time she needs to be ready for church.

  I run my fingers softly over her torso. “Penny for your thoughts,” I say.

  “C’mon, they’re way more expensive than that.”

  “I would pay a fortune for your thoughts without negotiation today. You’ve been preoccupied. Why is that?”

  She sighs. “My mama misses me on Sundays and needs me to go to church with her. Either that or she’s just weird.”

  “How so?”

  “She’s been by several times in the last couple of weeks, dropping hints the best cryptologist in the world couldn’t decipher.”

  “Then let’s go see her.” I am matter-of-fact, but secretly stoked to enter Keisha’s world.

  She turns in my arms. “That’s not a good idea.”

  “Why?”

  “Because my mama isn’t aware of our arrangement. And trust me, she would not understand.”

  “You could introduce me as your friend. It’s no big deal.”

  “Think about it. If I introduced my business partner as my ‘friend,’ she would figure out in a heartbeat we were fucking.”

  “Is that so bad? You’ll be twenty-five next month. She’s got to know you’re sexually active.”

  “That may be true, but I’m not about to flaunt it around her.”

  “Then we’ll tell her I’m your boyfriend.”

  “What? That would leave nothing to her already vivid imagination about my sex life. Besides, my mother can be mildly taciturn or downright unfriendly with people she’s unfamiliar with.”

  “Does this mean you’ve never taken a guy home to meet your mother?”

  “No, she’s met every guy I’ve ever dated, but we’re not dating in the normal sense of the word.” She sits up and rolls off the bed. “I’m going to take a shower. Will you call your car service for me?”

  She leaves me on the bed, reclining on one elbow. Taking one final look at me, she disappears into the bathroom. Ms. Beale is sadly mistaken if she thinks this is the end of our discussion. I’m out of the bed and on the way to the guest ensuite to take my own shower the second the door closes behind her.

  Keisha is wearing a modest black and white Sunday dress and a conservative pair of pumps when she comes dashing into the foyer where I’m standing, swinging my keys in a circle on my finger. I’m dressed a bit more casually in a retro linen jacket, a dress shirt and slacks, but it’s too late for me to go for the suit and tie.

  “Tristan!”

  “What?” I stop the keys mid-swing.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m driving you to church then to your mother’s.” I say this with Dominant authority, so she doesn’t attempt to argue. Besides, if we don’t leave now, we won’t get there on time.

  “C’mon, before you make me late.”

  I grab her overnight bag and we load onto the elevator and I program it for the garage. Keisha is part relieved and part nervous about me going, but I don’t ask her why because
I don’t want her to be even more freaked out by me inviting myself along.

  On the ride over, I chat to put her at ease. I share my personal ambivalence about the church.

  “I haven’t been to church since college,” I say.

  “Really? Why’s that?”

  “I developed this love/hate relationship with the church after my mother died.” I shake my head. “I just didn’t see much of a point in it.”

  “Well, you didn’t reside under Clara Lee Beale’s roof without going to church.”

  “I went to Chapel at the Academy, which could be rather engaging, but my mother’s membership was at the Episcopal Church downtown. The priests there were kind to Nate and me after her death.”

  “Then why’d you stop going?”

  “They could never answer the questions I had after my mother’s death to my satisfaction, and I figured why continue with an institution that served no purpose?” I grip the steering wheel with more force, remembering how impotent they were in my eyes.

  “It’s always been a place that didn’t have to have all the answers for me. I’m content sometimes to be soothed by the music and worship. Besides, faith is belief in something that’s intangible, unseen. Moral and existential absolutes don’t move me as much as faith.”

  Keisha’s words soothe me, and I relax my grip and glance at her with a smile. “You always surprise me with your refreshing views.”

  “I can be deep when I choose to go there, Sir,” she says with a smirk.

  “You’re absolutely right.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The church is packed, but we are ushered to some overflow seating by a buxom woman in an outfit that looks like a nurse’s uniform. I want to ask Keisha what that’s all about, but I refrain. I don’t want to offend her.

  We spot Clara Lee in the choir loft. She waves at us both, but her eyebrows rise until they almost disappear when she sees me.

  The worship style is much more demonstrative than what I participated in as a boy, but the singing is exceptional, and I clap along with everyone else as appropriate. Keisha looks at me with some surprise when I join in.

  We wait outside at the top of the church steps for Mrs. Beale. She comes strolling out the door to meet us sans choir robe.

  “Hey, Mama.” Keisha kisses her on the cheek, and gestures toward me. “You remember my b—”

  “Boyfriend,” I say with a smile.

  Keisha scowls and says, “Business partner, Tristan White.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Clara says and narrows her eyes. Even so, she offers me a hand to shake, but I bend and kiss her hand.

  “It’s wonderful to see you again, Mrs. Beale. The singing was divine and more so because you lend the choir your lovely voice.”

  The elder Mrs. Beale giggles like a school-girl from my flattery.

  “These pipes aren’t as clear as they used to be, but baby they can still blow,” she says.

  I join her as she laughs enjoying the goodwill I’ve earned from Keisha’s mother.

  Mrs. Beale then looks at Keisha and says, “I’m glad the reason I never see you is that you have a boyfriend and ain’t on that stuff.”

  I mouth to Keisha, “What stuff?”

  With a dramatic roll of her eyes she says, “Any time her children’s behavior changes, Mama thinks we’re on drugs.”

  “Ah,” I say. “I can vouch for her, then. She’s not on any stuff. If she was, I would stage an intervention.”

  “Stop fueling her paranoia,” Keisha says. “You’re not helping here.”

  “And you stop using your fifty dollar college words to describe my state of mind.” Clara Lee turns her attention back to me. “So, who are your people?”

  “My father is Charles Xavier White. He owns distilleries throughout the Midwest. My mother was Alyssa Elizabeth White née Carrollton. She died from ovarian cancer when my brother and I were thirteen.”

  “I’m so sorry you lost your mother at such an early age. Children need their mothers.”

  “Thank you. I miss her every day.” Keisha eyes me with something akin to pity, and I’m not sure if it is because I’ve just shared more about my tragic past, or because my father has the same name as Professor X in the X-men comics. We were sometimes teased about that at the Academy, but Nathan and I had the last laugh.

  Mrs. Beale takes a step down, and I quickly offer her my arm. “You might learn something from this young man.”

  I smile at Keisha as I descend the steps with her mother, leaving her with her mouth hanging open in an ungraceful fashion.

  Keisha hurries down to join us as I’m opening the car door for Clara Lee, and she is relegated to the back seat.

  Clara Lee and I engage in conversation all the way to the Beale home while Keisha silently fumes.

  “This is really a nice car,” Clara Lee says, then takes a jab at Keisha. “My sons all have nice cars, but my daughter hasn’t bothered to get one since she graduated college. I can’t for the life of me figure out why.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Beale. I’d hazard to guess a car wasn’t Keisha’s priority. She wanted to save all her money toward Kente Studio Records. Which is doing well, I might add.”

  “I suppose that’s right. Her daddy left her that building because he hoped she would do something with it. He was a famous musician in Brazil, but he never caught on here in Chicago. He tried to keep that music store afloat for years and was miserable the last ten years of his life.”

  “Mama!” Keisha interjects. Whether she is objecting to her mother speaking of her father’s misery, I’m not sure. I’ll have to ask her some time.

  I continue conversing with Clara Lee. “You were a great blues singer in your own right, I understand.”

  “Good, not great. Which is why I was only known regionally. Back in the day, the largest venues I sang at were the big blues clubs downtown. One of them might have been owned by your grandfather.”

  “That’s highly likely. He got out of that business when the mob became active in the club scene.”

  “I like a young man who remembers his history—so he isn’t doomed to repeat it.”

  “Knowledge is power.” I glance at Keisha in the rearview mirror. I must tell her that she needs to keep an eye on her friend. Ms. Jameson is as ambitious in business as her father is in politics. “You should have your daughter lay down some tracks. I’d love to have some of your oldies on CD.”

  Clara Lee beams at me. “I’m so glad somebody appreciates my talent, even if I am old.”

  Keisha’s mouth falls open again. “I tried at least half a dozen times to get you to sing for me or with me, and you always said no.”

  “Well, I guess it’s all in the way you ask me,” Clara says and remains silent the rest of the drive to her home.

  When we arrive, I open the door for Keisha first, frowning in solidarity with her, then I jog around to the passenger side and open the door for Mrs. Beale. Clara Lee takes my arm again and chatters away about the neighborhood and how much it’s changed since she was a girl. I listen attentively until we are safely inside her home.

  Clara Lee insists we join her in the kitchen while she takes out the dishes she’s prepared for Sunday dinner to reheat. She fries okra, a dish which must be a southern delicacy. Keisha shakes her head at the sheer volume of food, but my mouth waters when I smell the aroma of fresh fried okra. Mrs. Naven rarely prepares fried food, at my direction, mind you. It’s most assuredly because I would eat it every day if she did and my insides would resemble the circulatory system of an imminent heart-attack victim.

  Keisha and I are tasked with setting the dining table while Clara Lee prepares the food, delivering dish after delectable dish to the table, all within the span of fifteen minutes.

  I am about to dig in after we’ve filled our plates, but Clara Lee asks me to do something I haven’t done since I was thirteen: say grace. I oblige her.

  “For this, thy bounty, Lord, we are sincerely grateful. Please bless the hands that prepared
this sumptuous meal and the bodies which will receive its nourishment. Amen.”

  Keisha squeezes my hand under the table and flashes me a smile of appreciation. We both offer heartfelt compliments to Clara Lee on the food and share small talk as we consume collard greens seasoned with parts of pork that I’m not familiar with, black-eyed peas, creamed corn, and okra. I eat so much Mrs. Naven would be embarrassed for me. Finally, Clara Lee addresses her daughter to share the reason she requested her presence.

  “Keisha Anarosa,” Clara Lee says, using Keisha’s first and middle names, which I’ve only had the pleasure of seeing on the junior Ms. Beale’s driver license. “I was going to tell you this alone, but I hope bringing your boyfriend here makes it somewhat easier. I’m going to have to have surgery next Wednesday. I have breast cancer.”

  Keisha puts her fork down as I take her hand under the table, careful not to embarrass her in front of her mother, yet offering her my support. Cancer is a motherfucker I’ve come up against for someone I’ve loved in my lifetime. I will not let Keisha suffer as I did. I will move heaven and earth, and spend any amount of money to keep her mother alive.

  She releases my hand and goes over to her mother and wraps her arms around her. Clara Lee pats her daughter’s hand, as if urging her to both let go and hold on, but Keisha holds her mother’s head fast against her meager breast.

  “Are you having it done at Charity?” She asks, still holding her mother close. “What time?”

  “No, University of Chicago. I have to go in for pre-op Tuesday. Then I’ll check in around seven in the morning. The surgery is at nine.”

  “Oh, Mama. How long have you known, and why did you wait so long to tell me?”

  “You had a lot of stuff going on, and I didn’t want to bother you with it.”

  “But, I could’ve taken some time off and gone with you to your appointments so you wouldn’t have to go through all that alone.”

  It is only then that Clara Lee rears back. “Who said I went through it alone?”

  “Are you telling me Nina and Javier went with you?”