The Venture Capitalist (23 page)

Dropping the box, I examine the colorful silk, Kente cloth necktie inside. I am a very pleased Dominant. “You bought this for me?”

“Yeah. I thought you might wear it to the party tonight. It’s a subtle hint of your connection to our business venture.”

I haul her up against me again, and kiss her. Hard.

“Thank you, Keisha. I’ll wear this with immense pride.”

Then I reach inside my jacket and remove a smaller, narrower box than hers.

She immediately begins to protest. “Tristan, your personal shopper has already loaded me up with clothes and accessories I don’t even know what to do with.”

“But this is from me. It’s both a congratulatory gift for a successful grand opening, and it also signifies that you’re my submissive until you earn a formal collaring ceremony.”

She smiles and takes the trademark Harry Winston box from my hands. Inside is a diamond solitaire on a white gold chain. She kisses me in appreciation. “Thank you so much. I’ll wear this with immense pride tonight and always.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Later in the Grotto, Keisha is kneeling on the floor with her palms resting on her knees dressed in a red, satin bustier, the collar I presented her with earlier, and a thong.

I immediately adopt my Dominant demeanor when I see her. This woman belongs to me when we’re in this room and that makes me feel a power more potent even than running the multi-billion dollar empire I manage daily.

I go to the highboy and retrieve a ball hood and two lengths of soft, white rope and carry them to the bed. Then I return to stand in front of Keisha, who has kept her head down like the good little submissive she is.

Almost certainly, her emotions are heightened by an arousal borne of anticipation. Were I to inset my fingers in her right now, I’m sure I’d come away with an excess of eau de Keisha. What to do to her first?

“You’re beautiful,” I say, as I bend down and nudge her chin with my forefinger, giving her permission to meet my eyes.

“Who do you belong to, Keisha?”

“You, Master.” She has become more comfortable saying that word, given her ethnic background. I know how hard it was for a woman so proud of her heritage to resort to saying something that reminds her of Jim Crow and all the horrors experienced by her ancestors in this country. It is humbling for me to have the blind faith she exhibits in me.

“Stand up,” I command and she does, careful to keep her eyes trained downward.

“You may look at me,” I say, and she gazes up into my eyes. She swallows convulsively when she sees the seriousness there.

“What are your safewords?” I ask in an authoritative tone.

I know she isn’t an imbecile, but she could get caught up in the throes of a scene and forget her own name, despite having chosen her own safewords. When she doesn’t answer me immediately I glare at her, and then glance over the at the punishment deck on the nightstand.

“Jungle and fever,” she says in the face of my subtle threat.

She knows she’ll have to endure whatever the card demands if she doesn’t obey or do everything to my satisfaction. The punishments range from withholding orgasms to clamping of various body parts for varying lengths of time, to the more punitive measures of whipping, flogging, and caning.

She’s chosen to say “jungle” when things get uncomfortable, and “fever” when they become unbearable. She’s either been extremely lucky, or the cards have been manipulated, but I know they haven’t because she is never in this room without me, and I shuffle them each time we enter. I have gone easy on her thus far, admittedly.

“Never forget them,” I say.

“Yes, Sir.”

I warm my icy glare. “Good.”

Now that the housekeeping tasks are over, time to get down to business. I take her in from a closer vantage point, directly in her personal space. “This bustier turns me on.” I run my hands along her waist then up her torso until I cup both of her breasts. “I think we’ll leave it.”

I slip her thong down and let it drop to her feet. She waits obediently for further instruction.

“Step out.”

“Yes, Master.” There’s my favorite term of endearment again.

Keisha is focused and currently ticking all the boxes of a good submissive, despite my gentle upbraiding. My smoking jacket is punched out and tented by a massive erection, but I’m in no hurry to claim my prize. I can’t say the same for Keisha, because I can see her lowered eyes slanting to get a look at what’s going on inside my pants. Sensory deprivation and the slow burn are what get me off more than anything, and she knows this well now.

“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 live 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.”