The Venture Capitalist

by EnRose, LaVie

  “Turnabout is only fairplay I suppose, even when it relates to Ms. Jameson.”

  “I must tell her you paid her a backhanded compliment.”

  “Which is better than backhanding her.”

  “You and Nathan would be throwing down in an entirely different way if that were to happen.”

  “In an effort to preserve the relationship I enjoy with my only sibling, I suppose I’ll have to refrain from backhanding Ms. Jameson.”

  “Uh oh! Tracey’s paging me. Talk to you later?”

  “Later.”

  I’ve finished the email when my cell phone pings. It’s a text from Keisha.

  Oh, I forgot. I’ll be over after the store closes at nine. Be prepared to have all the apparatuses in the Grotto dusted off, Sir!

  My submissive is back.

  I enter the Grotto a full fifteen minutes before Keisha is set to arrive. I take a deep breath, breathing in the scent of leather, clean sheets, and a mixture of cleaning products that my friends’ company uses to sanitize my playroom on a biweekly basis. When I got Keisha’s text earlier, I immediately called to have a thorough cleaning.

  Turning on a bit of mood music, I prepare the items I’d like to use first. It’s been too fucking long. Mind you, I’d gone without a submissive for much longer before Keisha came into my life, but I miss her. I miss her here in my Grotto.

  Once I’ve prepared my implements, I recline on the bed and wait. Not more than three minutes later, she enters wearing a trench coat, hooker heels and a smile. She shifts her focus to the floor and assumes the position, kneeling just to the left of the door.

  I spring up off the bed, unable to contain my excitement, and go to stand directly in front of her.

  “Stand up and remove your coat,” I say, foregoing any pleasantries. She unties the sash and unbuttons the khaki raincoat.

  I smile widely, pleased with the outfit she’s chosen, even though she can’t see my expression. She’s wearing a lingerie getup that resembles a French maid’s uniform—with fishnets bearing the sexy seam down the back, and a garter belt.

  “Beautiful as ever, Ms. Beale. Very good,” I say, taking the coat from her hand. “My cock is ready for you, but we need to get you wet.”

  I advance into her personal space until our bodies are flush, and I’m certain she feels my insistent need push against her abdomen. I wind my arms around her and kiss her. Hard. This kiss is an exact replica of the first one we shared in my office. I hoist her up to wind her legs around my waist without the resistance of her clothing, this time.

  Ms. Beale is a great kisser and I revel in the dance our tongues are doing for a little while before I move toward the bed on auto-pilot, still kissing her sweet mouth.

  As I lower us onto the bed I can feel her vibrating with an exhilaration that can’t be faked.

  With much reluctance, I finally release her and walk over to the chest of drawers. Keisha lies still on the bed, her eyes trained on the ceiling, waiting eagerly for my next instruction.

  “You may watch what I’m doing.”

  I take one of my favorite toys from a drawer—two tiny rubber balls with even tinier round nodules covering their surfaces. They’re joined by a rubber extension about two inches long.

  “The body’s fluids are a natural lubricant.” I pop the balls into his my mouth wetting them thoroughly with my saliva. I walk back over to the bed, climb onto it, and crawl between Keisha’s toned legs.

  She opens wide for me and I see she has foregone underwear, which makes me very happy. Unimpeded access excites my libido which has desired to be in the Grotto something fierce, but I waited because Keisha needed time to nurse her mother back to health. Also, Keisha needed to be focused in here and not besieged by other life worries.

  I engage the balls’ on button and they begin to vibrate. Wetting my thumb I rub it around the orifice which I’ve chosen to place them in. The ass man commeth. My conscience is a sick motherfucker. With an inner eye-roll, I concentrate again on Keisha. Pressing gently, I work the balls into her one at a time.

  “Is that uncomfortable?”

  “No, Sir.” She graces me with a smug smile, so I know she’s telling me the truth.

  I go next to the wall and get some soft leather restraints, then to the closet to get the necktie Ms. Beale gave me as a gift at the KSR opening. I stuff it into the pocket of my jacket, because I want it to be a surprise.

  Returning to the bedside, I tell her, “I’m going to tie you into a position of supplication, and I’m going to fuck you from behind. The balls in your ass will provide additional stimulation. If at any time it becomes uncomfortable, if you feel even remotely like an episode is coming on, you must tell me. What are your safewords, Keisha?”

  “Jungle. Fever.”

  “Don’t hesitate to use them,” I admonish her.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  I nudge her hip and she turns once, then I pat her ass and she turns on the bed with her back to me. I hold the tie briefly in front of her eyes.

  “Remember this?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  As I tie her hands using the Kente cloth tie, I can hear the smile in her voice.

  I don’t suppress my own smile as I think fondly of this gift she gave me. It is one of my favorite accessories, and I wear it often. Using it in a scene is my way of letting her know how much I appreciate and cherish her gift. I test the snugness of the knot before I release her.

  “On your elbows,” I say. “This will be fast once I begin. The position you’re in will be too taxing to stay that way for long.”

  I make quick work of tying her ankles and angling her ass up to me.

  “I’m going to fuck you now, Keisha.” I announce, giving her fair warning.

  “Yes, Sir!” She responds with delight.

  As I enter her, we share a simultaneous grunt and I move, setting a pace that will be taxing for me as well if I don’t get the job done posthaste. The balls in Keisha’s ass provide an extra fullness and sensation that even I can feel. Within a very short period of time, she’s panting and threatening orgasm. I pull out.

  I listen and watch closely to make sure she doesn’t show any signs of displeasure with my actions, as I open the nightstand drawer to retrieve a utilitarian vibrator. I enter her again, continuing the pace I set while snaking my hand around to her chest. I use the vibrator to tease her nipples as I thrust with sheer abandon into her. My senses respond to her frenzy.

  My cock is moving in and out of her, and the vibration of the balls in her ass are hastening my own orgasm, as I work to stimulate her nipples until they are perpetual hard nubs on her chest. Keisha screams through an orgasm too powerful for her to maintain her dignity. I continue to pump into her for several seconds more.

  When I come, all I can do is scream her name, and my favorite expletive. “Keisha. Fuck!”

  I continue until another orgasm rolls over her body. I release her from the bonds, and leaving her sprawled on the bed, I put all the toys away except the balls. I leave them there to extend the sensations for as long as possible.

  I cup her ass and pull her close. “You like those little balls, don’t you?”

  “I do, Sir,” she says with a grin. Her elation is cheesy. I kiss her pulling her my tongue almost completely into my mouth. She moans with satisfaction.

  “I’ve created a monster,” I say, as I break the kiss. “You’re insatiable.”

  She smiles broadly, her excitement from our first scene in the Grotto is infectious and I smile back at her. The look she gives me now is something akin to worship. Then she stiffens suddenly in my arms as if a secret realization has just dawned on her.

  That look on her face is eerily familiar. I remember my parents sharing that same look when I was boy. I am not able to return that look, because I never want to experience the pain and heartbreak my father did. It took years for him to recover from that heartbreak, and he’s never returned to being the man he’d been before my mother died.


  Keisha’s expression changes, reflecting either fear or profound sadness, or both. The feelings embodied in her eyes just moments ago are lost to my failure to reciprocate.

  I narrow my eyes. “Are you okay, Keisha?”

  “Yes, Sir,” she says so softly I have to strain to hear her.

  Something is off with Keisha, but my desperate need for resuming our activities in the Grotto outweighs my better judgment. As we move into another scene, she responds inappropriately twice. The first card she pulls strips her of the right to orgasm the next two times we’re in the role-play room. It gets progressively worse.

  When she fucks up the second time, the second card earns her five lashes with a leather strap. Since she is already face down, blindfolded, bound, and gagged on a leather wheel, I pull the card and read it to her. I kneel and remove the ball gag from her mouth.

  “I’m removing the gag so you may safeword if you have to.”

  “Thank you, Sir.” Her attempt to hold herself together is flubbed when her voice trembles.

  “This strap will hurt,” I say. “But I will immediately perform aftercare and treat your skin. Do you understand?”

  Her voice shakes audibly now. “Y-yes Sir.”

  “Count.” This is going to hurt me as much as it hurts her, but I can’t forego this punishment. The quicker she gets back in sync in the Grotto, the better.

  I temper the pressure due to the recent stress she’s had to endure due to her mother’s health, but I put enough heft behind the first lash to be sufficiently punitive. A welt rises on her ass from the leather strap, and God help me, I am aroused to the point of pain just seeing my handiwork across the middle of both butt cheeks.

  “One.” she says, her voice thick with tears already, and I question my resolve right out of the gate. Yet I push myself to deliver the next lash.

  “Two.”

  This count is louder and stronger, and I’m not sure if it is so because she’s defiant, or more surprised by the second lash than the first. I raise my arm and come down again.

  “Three.”

  There is determination in her voice, yet it wavers, and I pay close attention for the first signs of her succumbing to another episode. She begins to breathe deeply, and so quickly, I wonder if she’s hyperventilating. Surely, she will safeword at the first signs of distress.

  She takes the next lash with no movement at all, and I my pre-mature over-confidence kicks in.

  “Four.”

  With the final blow, I say, “That’s what bad girls get.”

  Keisha goes limp and I panic.

  “Keisha!” I scream.

  She is out cold.

  Somehow, I’m able to get Keisha into my bedroom, once her heart rate is steady and her breathing rhythm has normalized.

  Before I go next door to collect Dr. Sandoval, I dress Keisha in a modest nightgown with the oxygen mask on the appropriate setting of two liters per minute.

  The doctor has checked her vitals and questioned me about our activities directly before she passed out. I tell him everything. As we are quietly talking, Keisha’s eyelashes flutter and she begins to come to.

  I rush to her bedside. “Keisha. Thank God.”

  Dr. Sandoval joins me.

  “This is my neighbor, Dr. Angel Sandoval,” I say. “He examined you but couldn’t ascertain anything physical that might have caused you to faint. Will you talk to him, sweetheart?”

  She nods, and Dr. Sandoval gently removes the oxygen mask.

  “What do you feel before these episodes come on, Keisha? Tristan tells me this is the second one you’ve had.”

  “I know what it is,” she says. “They’re garden-variety panic attacks as a result of post-traumatic stress disorder. I had them four years ago.”

  I narrow my eyes, not sure whether I’m more pissed at her or myself for not digging into her background enough to have discovered this. I don’t say anything, because I’m sure what I have to say won’t be pleasant, and she doesn’t need to feel put upon right now.

  “Have you been back to see your therapist since you began having them again?” Dr. Sandoval asks.

  “No, but now I will.”

  “Please, make an appointment as soon as you can.” He turns to me. “I guess my work is done here.”

  “Thanks, Angel.”

  Dr. Sandoval leaves the room, and I’m grateful once again for his intervention on Keisha’s behalf. I’m stymied by her refusal to tell me about her condition. I know about it very intimately, because I began having them shortly after my mother died, when I believed without a doubt that my failure to act caused her death. Keisha has avoided looking into my eyes since the doctor left, but I don’t move from my position, leaning over her, willing her to look into my eyes.

  I pin her with my eyes when she does. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “I’d hoped it was a onetime thing. I didn’t think they’d come back for real.” She sounds child-like as she explains, as if embarrassed by this thing she can’t control. Something wrenches hard in my chest and I feel woozy—an empathetic response to her episode. At least that’s what I tell myself.

  I pull a chair next to the bed, to sit before I fall down. I get my own errant breathing in check as I hold her hand. “Keisha, you scared the fuck out of me. Don’t do it again.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “You’re not well. You don’t have to call me Sir right now.”

  “Force of habit.”

  “We’ll get you in to see a psychiatrist, pronto. Believe me, I’ve had my share of psychoanalysis from the best in Chicago. You’ll be better in no time.”

  I wonder what event or events in her life triggered the attacks, but I am loath to ask her about them right now so soon after having one. We’ll need to be careful in the future until we ascertain which phrases and punishments we should avoid in the Grotto.

  I feel an odd kinship with her now that I know she has something I’ve dealt with for a long time. Complicating things as we move forward is the realization that Keisha now has feelings for me that I won’t be able to return.

  As much as I want her to remain my submissive, I can’t give her the valentines and roses she wants. We’re doomed either way. I see the resolve cloud her eyes before I can make an appeal otherwise.

  She looks me in the eye and uses both safewords together signaling that she wants out of the Dominant/submissive relationship entirely.

  “Jungle Fever.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Growing up, L.V. Lewis wanted to be an internationally known rock star, but unfortunately, lived in the wrong part of the country to pursue that career (and neither American Idol nor The Voice were available then). An early love for the written word gave her the plan B she sought. Her career as a contract manager was not creative writing by a long shot, but it didn't require her to spend the hundreds of thousands of dollars required for a law degree. It does pay the bills while she dabbles in the publishing world as an author on the evenings and weekends.

  LV lives in Florida with her husband. They are the parents of four children, three of whom don't think they need their parents anymore, so they share their home with a sweet female German Shepherd and an alpha male Pomeranian/Chihuahua mix who thinks he rules the world.

  Her love for writing is only eclipsed by her love for her family.

  L. V. Lewis’s Exhaustive List of Contact Info:

  Contact Info: lv.lewis148@gmail.com

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  REKINDLING THE FLAME SUMMARY

  Sabine Beaudelaire returns to her hometown of New Orleans to the bedside of her favorite uncle, Sebastian Beaudelaire, who’s been in a horrifi
c accident and lies comatose at a local hospital. Estranged for six months from her fiancé of eight years, she still hopes for reconciliation. Enter a gorgeous man she affectionately dubs “Hot IT Guy”, whose sex appeal—and open season at her family’s secret sex lair—fills her head with thoughts of propositioning a man for the first time.

  When it becomes apparent she’s lost the love of her life to a more accommodating woman poised to give him everything he desires, Sabine’s hopes are shattered. With career benchmarks looming, Sabine is fulfilled by her work but lacking a love to call her own, a situation that Hot IT Guy, aka Xander “Fish” Fishbourne is eager to remedy.

  Is it by coincidence or by design that Xander, her protective older brother’s high school friend who once admired her from afar, becomes her guest at the Den of Sin? Who cares? Her dormant libido needs a serious kickstart since she and her fiancé called it quits. But will this weekend of sexual freedom rekindle an old flame, or will it further complicate her already complicated life?

  Rekindling the Flame is a second chance romance bringing an alpha hero back together with a woman he wanted before any other, and a heroine whose dominating older brothers shielded her from every man's advances. Now, it’s The Beaudelaire Big Easy Luau, a Den of Sin event where long held fantasies are made to be acted upon.

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