by L. V. Lewis
Jada is on her way up the stoop as I exit. She appraises me. “If this is your peace offering, I think Tristan’s going to be pleased. But, I should warn you. The Dom in him will require punishment.”
“I’m a big girl,” I say. “I can take it.” I squeeze her hand. “But wish me luck anyway.”
I let myself in with the key Tristan gave me just after I signed my sub contract. I leave my purse and small wheeled bag in the foyer and go in search of him. He’s not in any of the rooms on the bottom level, so I ascend the stairs. When I’m in the hallway between the guest room and his bedroom, I hear what sounds like a muted Kenny G song coming from a room I’ve never been in.
When I open the door, the music swells out, and I hear what has to be a live soprano sax melody. I haven’t heard anything this good since my Daddy took me to see Kenny G during happier times. Only one lamp is on in the room, and I can see Tristan, shirtless and barefoot, eyes closed, playing a beautiful rendition of a tune I think is called “The Moment.”
He’s almost finished when he opens his eyes and sees me there. A final discordant sound erupts from the instrument as he wrenches the saxaphone away from his mouth. “Keisha?” He doesn’t move toward me, nor I toward him. We’re at a standoff, of sorts. I smile inwardly when I see him rake his eyes over my form in definite interest.
“Hello, Tristan. I didn’t know you played an instrument.” I choose the least incendiary topic first.
I close the door and move further into the room, which looks like a library. Books cover most of the available wall space, but the centerpiece in the room is a beautiful, grand piano. On top of which is the case for the sax, which Tristan puts away.
“I learned at the academy,” he says. “They provided me a thorough liberal arts education.”
I stop a few feet away from him and look up into his eyes. I notice a strain around them that I never noticed before. Did I cause him to worry? You think? My Triple-G is pissed off at me. My Fairy Hoochie Mama is in a fucking matador’s outfit, waving a tiny red cape.
“You’re really good,” I say. “You could put a few of my DePaul classmates to shame.”
His expression doesn’t change.
“Why are you here, Keisha?” He snaps. He closes the saxophone case shut, then looks back at me.
I fidget. He walks behind me, and I turn to watch as he continues to walk all the way around me, checking me out, no doubt. I do look damn good if I have to say so myself. I’m wearing a little black dress, with black Greco-Roman stilettos.
“This is Friday.”
“But your appointed time of arrival isn’t whatever the hell time it is right now.”
“It’s about eleven-thirty,” I offer.
He stops in front of me. “Again, I ask, why are you here?”
“I decided to forgive you for insisting that I fire Jorge.”
Tristan laughs a mirthless laugh and folds his arms. “You decided to forgive me?”
“Yes. I was upset about it, and I didn’t want to be here with you because it was unresolved.”
“It’s only unresolved if you didn’t give him his notice today.”
I close my eyes and hold my tongue.
“Well did you?” he asks.
I open my eyes and regard him evenly. “No, I did not, and I will not.”
“Are you prepared to take the punishment for your willful defiance, Keisha?”
“Yes.
“My role-play room. Ten minutes.”
I’ve stripped out of my dress, but I’m still wearing a lacy black bra and panty set, a remnant of my LaPerla days, and my strappy black stilettos. I manage to get into position mere seconds before Tristan enters the room.
“Because you have committed a list of infractions I won’t go into now for the sake of time, you will not orgasm in here tonight, no matter what I do to you, is that clear?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Also, you will pull a card from the punishment stack, and I reserve the right to have you pull another one if I deem it too lenient.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Stand up.”
I do as he commands, and he removes his smoking jacket and hangs it on the coat rack. “Remove your panties,” he says.
I wear them the way Tristan prefers. My garter and hose go on first, then my underwear. I push my panties down my hips and thighs, and once they pass my knees, they slide unaided down my legs to the floor. I step out of them and wait for further instructions.
“Hand them to me,” he says.
I pick up my underwear and give them to him, but I don’t dare look up at him just yet. I hear him sniff, then see out of my periphery that he goes to the coat rack and stuffs my underwear into his smoking jacket pocket.
“Pull your first card, Keisha.”
I go to the deck of cards on the bedside table which contains the punishments we selected together when we negotiated my submissive contract. It could be anything from clamping my nipples to whipping my ass with various implements he has on hand.
I take the first card from the deck and take it back to him. He prefers to read them first. “As your Master, this card gives me permission to truss you up in whatever manner I see fit and suspend you over the wooden horse.”
Oh shit! My vajayjay will be sore after this. Tristan hands me the card, so I can read to confirm it, and goes to the highboy against the wall. He returns with everything he will need to exact his punishment. When he returns, in his hands are two metal clamps, a length of chain and a small metal lock.
“Remove your bra,” he orders.
I do as I’m told. Now I’m only wearing the garter belt, hose and shoes. He approaches me with the clamps.
He cups my breast with a rough hand. “These are so perfect, I almost hate to clamp you.” I keep quiet, but I want to say, “Then don’t.” I know that will only get me another trip to the card pile.
The pinch of the tiny metal clamp hurts like hell. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. I want to scream, to curse, but I keep my mouth shut and just breathe in and out. When he clamps the other one, I’m ready, and it doesn’t cause such an intense inner reaction, but its pinch is still excruciating. He attaches the chain to the clamps and allows the small lock to dangle between them. The pull from the chain is extra torture, but I remain quiet.
He leads me to the horse, which is a wide triangular wooden plank covered in soft black leather, set sharp end up, mounted on a sawhorse like support. I will be suspended in the air until I am astride this contraption. Then I will have to ride this damn thing putting more and more weight on my genitals until my full body weight is on that tender area.
Tristan comes over and hands me a single die.
“Roll it,” he says. “Where it lands will determine the time you will have to sit astride the horse. I don’t want it to be long, because I want to fuck you tonight, and I don’t need you to be too sore for that.”
Halle-fucking-lujuah! Now to put my back-alley gambling skills to use and roll a three or less, if possible. I roll the die in my hand, my breasts jiggle and the lock tugs on the clamps, and I change my mind. I need to roll snake eyes or lower, badder than a mofo.
I release the die. It rolls like it’s in super slow-mo and I cross fingers toes, eyes, everything I can, waiting for it to come to a rest. It teeters and finally stops on three. Damn.
“Three minutes it is!” He barks like a carny man. I am not thrilled and want to roll my eyes so bad, but I don’t want to add anything else to my punishment.
Tristan puts the harness around my body, then attaches me to the intricate ropes and pulleys that hang from the ceiling. Before I know it, I’m airborne. He lowers me over the horse until I’m on my tiptoes astride the contraption. He bends one knee and grabs my ankle. He attaches each cuff at my ankle with a chain across the back of the wooden horse. Doing the same with the cuffs at my wrists, he extends my arms up high over my head.
“Does this hurt?”
“No, Sir.”
“Is
it uncomfortable?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good. Discipline isn’t meant to be pleasant.”
He lowers me until I can feel the cold leather between my legs. “What are your safewords, Keisha?”
“Jungle and Fever,” I say. I chose those words as a joke, alluding to his selection of me as his submissive. He thought they were perfect, and he made me practice using both the first time we did a role-play just to get a kick out of it, and to get me in the habit of using them. That and many of the scenes that came after have increased in intensity, but have nevertheless been enjoyable. Tonight won’t be fun, but I would do it again to save Jorge’s job.
“Your three minutes begin now,” he says and lowers me onto the horse resting my weight onto the horse edge, which is blunt only because of the leather that surrounds it. “You may not make any noise.”
Holy Fuck! This shit is uncomfortable. Tristan circles around me looking at me as if he’s studying me under a microscope. I begin the breathing exercises I learned from my psychologist. If there were ever a time I needed them, I need them now. One, two, three, four, In. Four, three, two, one, Out. I’ve done that about fifty times before he calls, “One minute.”
The pressure on my genitalia and the pinching of both breasts seem to connect and throb mercilessly. By the time he calls “two minutes,” I’m well on the way to being numb. The circulation in my legs has become sluggish, and I can feel the accompanying pinpricks. It pisses me off, but tears begin to run unchecked down my face. I don’t know if I’m more angry that I’m crying, or that I can’t take my hand and wipe the tears away.
For a microsecond, Tristan looks like he’s about to relent and let me down, but he glances at his watch and the spell is broken. “Thirty seconds.” He turns away from me and walks to the highboy, returning with creams and ointments, which he lays on the bed. He immediately comes back to the pulley wheel and releases me, slowly. Tristan removes all the restraints, carries me to the bed, and sits cradling me in his arms.
As my circulation revs up, my nipples and my vajayjay smart like mad. Without a word, Tristan applies some cream to my nipples, then massages something different onto my wrists and ankles. He goes into the bath and gets a bowl of warm water and soft towels. He cleans my face with an already warm towel, removing my almost-dried tears and runny mascara. Then he takes the other cloth, soaks it in the warm water, wrings it out and lays it gently between my legs.
Then he surprises me. “We’re done here,” he says. I do not protest.
Later, we lay in Tristan’s bed on our sides facing one another, eyes closed, but I know neither of us is asleep. I’ve wanted to ask since we left the role-play room, and I finally muster up the courage.
“Why did you stop?”
In the ambient light, I can see when he opens his eyes. “Because your punishment was complete.”
“But you didn’t do everything you said you would do.”
“Is this a complaint?”
“No. Just trying to understand.”
“A wise Dom once told me you can see in your submissive’s eyes when she’s had enough. I want you to keep coming back, Keisha.”
“And I want to keep coming back.”
“Then, why didn’t you just show up at six?”
I sigh. “I was upset because you threatened to find new backers for KSR.”
“You were more upset about that than being told to fire Jorge?”
“Well, both.”
“I see.” He cups my face with his hand and runs his thumb over the apple of my cheek. “You know punishment is necessary when you are willfully disobedient, right?”
“Yes, and I should have begged your forgiveness before the scene, but that wooden horse was all I could think about.”
“And I should have explained to you that when a punishment session is over and all is forgiven, it must be forgotten, too. It’s toxic to dwell on the negative things after it’s been handled.”
“I’ll remember that.” And I would, because I don’t want to hate him. I knew this was all part of the deal going into this.
We lay quiet another few seconds. “Why do you think you prefer this lifestyle over a more conventional relationship?”
“I watched my father lose my mother to ovarian cancer. He’s a strong man, but Nathan and I saw him brought to his knees. I don’t want to care that much only to lose the person you care for most in the world.”
“Tristan, life is full of pain, heartache, and loss. All those emotions are inevitable—like death and taxes. We don’t get to choose what we experience in life. If they happen to us, we just have to endure as best we can, and learn lessons from them.”
“I paid a psychiatrist a small fortune to tell me exactly what you just said, but even he couldn’t convince me to change my mind about the lifestyle.”
A tear slips from my eye and drops onto the pillow. What the fuck is wrong with my emotions tonight? I wipe my eye and clear my throat. Buck up, Keisha. You want Tristan to think you’re some kind of wuss? My Triple-G scolds me. Go on and get you some of that, my Fairy Hoochie Mama says. I ignore them both.
“You could have a balance—a compromise, can’t you?”
“Some people do,” he says. “Nathan wants to, but I never have. I don’t think I ever will. I know you want a committed relationship someday, and I won’t stand in your way when you decide you do.”
“I’m not in any hurry, but I do want it to happen sometime before I’m thirty. I have about five years and a few months to find Mr. Happily Ever After.”
“Until then, you’re mine,” he says and takes me into his arms. Tristan kisses me until I’m clamoring to get his pajama bottoms off.
“Are you sure you’re not too sore?” he asks.
“No, I just feel like I came down too hard on a bicycle seat. I’m good to go.”
“Well then.” He pushes his pajamas off, then slides my nightie over my head, and we bury ourselves in the softness of his Egyptian cotton sheets. Tristan even lets me have an orgasm, or two.
~*~
133
Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever
Chapter Ten
Tristan and I settle again into a routine. Through the week, I stay at my place with Jada, but on weekends, it’s all Tristan, all the time. Before we know it, another six months have passed. KSR on the south side is profitable, and the north side location is scheduled to open in a couple of weeks. We’ve signed fourteen acts that we’re marketing. First, regionally in the midwest, then nationwide, with an eye to go world-wide in a year.
Somehow, through a stroke of luck, or whatever, I’ve managed to avoid any harsh punishments since the Jorge debacle. The most I’ve had to endure is withheld orgasms, spankings with paddles, from the size of a wooden spoon to several inches wide, and a plastic ice scraper. I’ve also had my nipples clamped by tiny plastic, or metal clothespin looking items. The funny thing is, when Tristan uses the clamps on me, my nipples become hypersensitive to his mouth, and I have multiple orgasms.
Tristan also loves trussing me up in bondage gear. I have a black patent leather dickey—his favorite—that only covers me from my neck to the top of my thighs, and only in the front. Tristan fastens the straps and buckles them around me to keep it in place. Usually I wear that with a set of patent leather thigh-high boots, and we do role plays that involve him pretending to be a John, a submissive, or just himself. More often than not, he takes me from behind as he caresses me in front through the leather. Even though I’m an average height girl, I feel like an Amazon when I wear that get-up.
One Sunday morning, Tristan and I begin the day with vanilla sex in his bedroom. We lay panting next to each other, spent, and I’m bummed that I have to leave him. I’m meeting my mother today at church, and then joining her for Sunday dinner. Tristan has commandeered all my weekends lately, even Sunday afternoons, and I need to do better about getting over to see her again.
The last few times my mother and I were together, she h
as come over to the studio during working hours, passive-aggressively letting me know she didn’t like how I’d fallen into the habit of neglecting my familial duties.
Mama wouldn’t sit down; she just looked around my office with her nose halfway turned up, as if it smelled. “Keisha, this really don’t seem like your style. Did those white partners of yours get someone to decorate this place?”
Tristan loaned us the most sought-after decorator in Chicago to get KSR all gussied up. Mama didn’t have to, but I like what he’d done to the place.
“In fact, Mr. White did recommend a renowned designer for us.”
She touched an African wood sculpture in the corner. “See this here? It looks kind of sad. And scary. If I woke up and saw this thing in the middle of the night it would give me the heebie-jeebies.”
“Then I guess it’s good you don’t have to wake up and see it,” I deadpanned.
She couldn’t rile me about the decorating, so she tried another tactic. “Pastor Johnson been asking about you. You know how he’s always preaching about idols, and how we shouldn’t let any other Gods come before our maker.”
I looked up from editing a music score. “You miss me coming to church, don’t you? Not Pastor Johnson so much, right.”
She pouted. “Well, ever since you and Jada got these new white partners, you been working so hard like this job’s gon’ save you, and forget coming to church.”
“Mama, what is this really about?”
“Come to church next Sunday, for dinner after, and I’ll tell you.”
“Okay, Mama.”
Trying to convince her to tell me before then was ineffectual. There was no point, so I agreed.
I feel a soft caress trace the curve from my torso to my hip. “Penny for your thoughts.”
I laugh. “Tristan, what does that mean anyway? I’ve heard lovers say that in movies and shit, but I didn’t know real people said things like that.”