The Venture Capitalist (26 page)

“We? Tristan, you’re an investor. You don’t get to tell us how to make our personnel decisions.”

This response feels very much like a slap in the face. I could remind her that although the base capital amount, the physical and intellectual property is all theirs, White Enterprises and the Nathan White Brand hold the controlling interest in their little startup, but I don’t go there.

“What he did could’ve had KSR on the selling block. Is he the one you want to control all your business systems?”

“There were extenuating circumstances. Jorge’s skills are solid. He made a mistake because he’s human.”

“As are we all.” I say, taking a hard stance. “I want him gone.”

“No.”

I narrow my eyes and use the voice I use with her in the Grotto. “If Cisneros isn’t gone by Friday, we might need to discuss finding you an alternate backer.”

She visibly deflates. “Just like that?”

“Yes, Keisha, just like that. I’m in an advisory role as well, lest you forget. When someone becomes that much of a liability, you have to cut your losses.”

She appeals to me on a personal level. “The job market is a nightmare right now for someone with Jorge’s skills. I lured him away from an exceptional job to come to KSR. He should be given a reprimand for a first offense, not fired.”

“My advice remains the same. What are you going to do if he fucks up the rollout worldwide? Slap him on the wrist?”

“Of course not.”

“Once KSR becomes publicly held and listed on the exchange, you won’t have the luxury of selling it to the highest bidder. Your board and shareholders would run you and your cousin out on a rail.”

“Who said we even wanted to be listed on the exchange?”

“Ms. Jameson indicated you wanted to take this venture as far as it will go. Don’t you two talk?”

“She might have mentioned that in passing,” she says, but I know she isn’t being truthful. The surprise when I told her that bit of news is not something that can be faked.

“As I explained to her, once your profit threshold increases to a certain point, you’ll want to consider it. Taxes would eat you alive.”

“All that aside, I still don’t want to fire Jorge. I think that’s too harsh.”

“Too harsh would’ve been my investment and your dream going down the tubes because of his carelessness.” I am not in a mood to budge, knowing what I know about her cousin and his lover. “My advice stands.”

“I can’t do what you’re asking.”

“You’d be sacrificing one employee in favor of the greater good of all the others.”

“That philosophy may work for you because you don’t have a fucking heart when it comes to business, but I do.” She turns and walks to the door. “I suppose we’ll be discussing alternate backers on Monday.”

Those words take the air out of my lungs, and I’m reeling inwardly from her accusation that I’m not human. I’m also pissed the fuck off by her stubborn temerity. I half expect her to slam the door on her way out, but she just closes it softly without looking back.

For some inexplicable reason, that action guts me, and I stagger to my desk chair and begin to breathe in the manner my therapist taught me. It would seem that for the first time in almost a year, I’m besieged again by the classic symptoms of a panic attack.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Keisha didn’t show Friday at six.

“Shall I call her to see if we should hold dinner for her?” Mrs. Naven says.

I shake my head. “No, we’ll proceed without her.”

Mrs. Naven pauses, but then thinks better of what she’d been about to say, and begins to set the table. For one.

Later, I’m in my library playing my soprano saxophone—a habit I picked up after my mother died. Whenever I was feeling blue about her, I’d pick up my instrument and play. Otherwise it stayed safely in its case. I’m playing my version of Charlie Parker’s “All The Things You Are,” and nearing the end when I look up to see Keisha standing there. Only the one lamp is on, so I think perhaps my eyes are playing tricks on me.

I finish poorly as a discordant note erupts when I pull the saxophone away from my mouth. “Keisha?” I’m riveted to my seat, but my eyes rove over her form trying to determine if she’s really there.

“Hello, Tristan. I didn’t know you played so well,” she says, beginning with small-talk, as if her ass isn’t in serious trouble right now.

She closes the door and walks toward me, looking around at the bookshelves that cover most of the wall space. I replace my sax in its case on the piano.

“I learned at the academy,” I say. “They provided me a thorough liberal arts education.”

Keisha stops a few feet away from me and searches my eyes for a better indication of my mood. She does not want to know how thoroughly pissed off I am at her right now. I’ve just spent the last several hours wondering if she’d left me—like my mother had. No, my mother died and broke my father’s heart. Keisha could never break my heart like that, because she does not mean to me what my mother meant to my father.

Or does she?

I order my conscience to shut the fuck up.

“You’re really good,” she says, in an effort to improve my mood. “You could put a few of my DePaul classmates to shame.”

My expression doesn’t change.

“Why are you here, Keisha?” I ask, and close the saxophone case to give my hands something to do so I won’t take her over my knee and spank her ass until my hands bleed. My eyes bore into hers, demanding an answer.

She fidgets. I walk behind her, then all the way around her. She’s wearing a little black dress and black stiletto sandals. I am angry with her, but I am aroused by her appearance. If this isn’t the most fucked up situation.

“This is Friday,” she says simply.

“But your appointed time of arrival isn’t whatever the hell time it is right now.”

“It’s about eleven thirty,” she says.

I stop in front of her. “Again, why are you here?”

“I decided to forgive you for insisting I fire Jorge.”

I laugh a humorless laugh and fold my arms. “You
decided
to forgive me?”

“Yes. I was upset, and I didn’t want to be here with you because it was unresolved.”

“It’s only unresolved if you didn’t give Jorge his notice today.”

She closes her eyes and doesn’t respond.

“Well, did you?”

She opens her eyes and regards me evenly. “No, I did not and I will not.”

“Are you prepared to take the punishment for your willful defiance, Keisha?”

“Yes.”

“The Grotto. Five minutes.”

I walk out of the Library and she follows, but I go to my bedroom, and Keisha goes immediately to the Grotto. I realize as I’m changing into my smoking jacket and silk pajamas that I can’t go into the Grotto with her while I’m angry or I could hurt her.

I take a detour to my gym. I strip, don a pair of shorts, commando, and spend five minutes on the heavy bag. My knuckles are sore as I walk into the shower to douse my sweating body with cold water. When I re-dress in my smoking jacket and pajamas, I am calm enough to enter the Grotto to dole out the punishment I promised my submissive. Yes, that is still all that she is.

Then why were you so devastated when she didn’t show up?
My conscience is a motherfucker, and I ignore it as I ascend the stairs to deal with my willful submissive.

She’s wearing a lacy black bra and panty set, and the stilettos. Looks like a throwback from her La Perla days. She is in perfect position but there are goosebumps covering her flesh. I ignore them, and I don’t offer to turn the air down.

“Because you’ve committed a list of infractions I won’t go into now for the sake of time, I will not allow you to orgasm in here tonight. 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. Remove your panties,” I say. She does as I command. I remove my smoking jacket and hang it on the coat rack.

Once her panties are past her knees, they slide to the floor. She steps out of them and waits for further instruction.

“Hand them to me,” I say.

She picks them up and gives them to me. I sniff to check for any sign of arousal. Fear has stolen it from her, apparently. Good. I walk over to the coat rack and stuff her underwear into my smoking jacket pocket.

“Pull your first card, Keisha.”

She goes to the deck of cards on the bedside table. The punishment could be anything from clamping her nipples, to whipping her ass with various implements.

She removes the first card from the deck and brings it back to me. “This card gives me permission to truss you up in whatever manner I see fit and suspend you over the wooden horse.”

I go to the highboy and return with everything I’ll need to exact my punishment. In my hands are two metal nipple clamps, a length of chain, and a small metal lock.

I snap another order. “Remove your bra.” Now she’s only wearing the garter belt, hose, and shoes. I approach her with the clamps.

I cup her breasts roughly. “These are so perfect, I almost hate to clamp you.”

She does not speak, and it’s good that she keeps quiet, because any speaking out of turn will just earn her another trip to the card pile. She flinches at the pinch of the tiny metal clamp.

She remains quiet but her breathing becomes audible. When I clamp the other one, she’s ready so her reaction isn’t quite as noticeable.

I attach the chain to the clamps and allow the small lock to dangle between them. The pull from the chain is extra torture, but she remains quiet throughout.

I lead her 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 suspend her until she is astride it. Then leave her to ride it while the suspension puts more and more weight on her genitals until her full body weight is on that tender area.

I hand her a single die.

“Roll it,” I say.

Keisha shakes the die in her hand, the lock tugging on the clamps, causing her breasts to jiggle. She releases the die. It rolls slowly, teeters, and finally stops on three.

“Three minutes it is,” I say. Keisha looks disappointed, as she should rightfully be. This contraption will hurt.

I put the harness around her body then attach the intricate ropes and pulleys that hang from the ceiling. When she is airborne I lower her over the horse until she’s on her tiptoes astride it. I bend and attach each cuff at her ankle with a chain across the back of the wooden horse. Then I do the same with the cuffs at her wrists and extend her arms up high over her head.

“Does this hurt?”

“No, Sir.”

“Is it uncomfortable?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Punishment isn’t meant to be pleasant.”

I lower her until the cold leather rests between her legs. “What are your safewords, Keisha?”

“Jungle and Fever,” she says.

“Your three minutes begin now,” I say then I lower her onto the horse and rest her weight onto the horse edge, which is blunt only because of the leather that surrounds it. “You may not make any noise.”

I circle around her keeping my eye on the second hand of my watch. “One minute.”

The pressure on her genitalia and the pinching of her breasts is likely one protracted, connected pain by now. When I call two minutes, I’m sure she’s on the way to numbness. Her legs are likely prickling as if she’s being stung with tiny needles. Tears begin to run down her face.

For an infinitesimal moment, I think of relenting, but then I glance at my watch again to prevent caving. “Thirty seconds.” I turn away from her and walk back over to the highboy, and return with creams and ointments for aftercare and lay them on the bed. Immediately, I go back to the pulley wheel and release her, slowly. I carry her to the bed where I sit cradling her in my arms.

As her circulation is restored, her tender areas will hurt. Without a word, I apply some cream to her nipples and massage ointment onto her wrists and ankles. I go into the ensuite and return with a bowl of warm water and soft towels. I clean her face with the already damp towel and wipe away her tears and runny mascara. Then I take the other cloth, soak it in the clean warm water, wring it out, and lay it gently between her legs.

“We’re done here,” I say, and Keisha is surprised, but does not protest.

Later, we lay in my bed facing one another, eyes closed, but neither of us is asleep.

“Why did you stop?” she musters the courage to ask.

In the ambient light, I open my eyes to see she is looking at me now. “Because your punishment was complete,” I say.

“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?” All of this could’ve been avoided if she’d just kept to the letter of our agreement.

She sighs. “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.” I cup her cheek urging her face up to look into my eyes. “You know punishment is necessary when you’re willfully disobedient, right? I punished you for not showing up at our appointed time, not for refusing to fire Jorge.” Although I learned that she would sacrifice herself for her blood. Jorge was a lucky bastard. I will likely never have anyone who would do such a thing for me. I won’t ask her to fire anyone so close to her again, because I know now, she will fight me tooth and nail to save someone she loves.

“Yes, and I should have begged your forgiveness for being late when I arrived, but my impending punishment was all I could think about.”

“And I should have explained that when a punishment session is over and all is forgiven, it must be forgotten, too. It’s toxic to dwell on the negative.”

“I’ll remember that.”

I hope she will, because I don’t want her to hate me. Although punishment is necessary in D/s relationships, I need her to dwell more on the pleasure than the punishment aspect.

We lay quiet another few seconds before she says, “Why do you think you prefer this arrangement over a more conventional relationship?”

“My therapist says I view BDSM on some level as a defense against abandonment due to the loss of my mother when I was young. Apparently, intimacy and trust are too difficult for me because I have been too severely wounded, and BDSM serves as a conduit for intimacy on my terms. It’s very hard to build a mature relationship of mutual respect if you are so fucked up that you’re constantly on guard.”

“I don’t want the clinical answer. I’d rather know how you feel.”

I take my time crafting my response because I am tempted to tell her something I’ve never told another submissive.

As the silence borders on awkward, I sigh. “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 I care for most in the world.”

“Tristan, life is full of pain, heartache, and loss. All those emotions are inevitable. We don’t get to choose what we experience. Whatever happens, we just have to endure and learn the lesson.”

“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 way I choose to conduct my personal entanglements.”

She lifts her hand to her eyes and clears her throat. I hope to God she isn’t crying again. I simply cannot abide tears. They remind me too much of the loss of my mother.

She speaks again. “You could have a balance—a compromise, can’t you?”

“Some people do,” I say. “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 to go.”

“I’m not in any hurry. I have about five years to find Mr. Happily Ever After.”