This is a work of creativity. As such, you may see words, concepts, scenes, actions, behaviors, pictures, implements, and people that may or may not be socially acceptable and/or offensive. If you are sensitive to adverse and alternative subject matter of any kind, please do not proceed, because I guarantee you’ll find it here. You have been warned. Read at your own risk.
Explicit details of sex and BDSM scenes from here on out. Some may be hot while others may not be to your taste… and not necessary CG with Ana together. Proceed at your own discretion, but don’t say that I didn’t warn you.
I can’t lie. It was hard not returning to Crimson for the first few weeks. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I wanted to see him. No one had ever pursued me so fervently—he could even verbally spar a bit like no one else would even dare. It was that power that I noticed in him that I allowed to break me down—not completely, but enough to let him get in even if only a little. Elena must be ecstatic that she has Crimson all to herself now. I haven’t seen her at any of the other clubs I frequent, not even once. I can operate in peace…
I was just fine before I met him, and I’ll be just fine once I get him out of my mind.
I’ve been sticking to meeting my clients at The Incubus, Temptation Station, and Club Syndrome. Those fuckers were so happy to see me back in those places that I might as well own the joints. This is what I’m accustomed to. I know word will get out that I’m frequenting these clubs… and he’ll probably come looking for me. I’ll just go to another club when that happens. I can’t risk running into him. Even the strongest of us must admit a weakness—and he very well could be mine. But I’ll never give him the chance to find out.
Blake has noticed a change in me and has shown some concern about it, particularly since I’ve been cooking more often. Cooking has always been one of my pastimes, I just stopped doing it as much when I found my… place in the lifestyle. Now, I feel the need to get back to my roots.
My roots. Fuck. I don’t have any roots.
Aunt Sheila taught me how to cook the only way I know how. I was too young to learn when Mom was alive… and Mom didn’t cook soul food.
It was so hard getting used to the food Aunt Sheila made when I first moved in with them. My uncle thought I was in mourning and that’s why I wouldn’t eat, but Aunt Sheila figured it out and started separating my food before she got heavy with the seasoning for the rest of the family. Gradually, she introduced more spices to my food. I hate to stereotype the Steeles—or myself, for that matter—when it comes to the “differences” in “white people food” versus “black people food,” but there was a difference. At least to me, there was, and Aunt Sheila understood immediately. I can’t help but wonder why she didn’t come for me… didn’t ask about me after I disappeared. My cousins saw me almost every day. Nobody cared what was going on with me? Where I was living? How I was living?
Cooking always brings these thoughts to mind. That, and the fact that my uncle is still harassing me to speak to him. Why? Why does he want to speak to me now?
I turn the fried chicken in the frying pan and check the potatoes boiling in a pot nearby. I always make enough food for an army, then eat one plate and send the rest home with Blake. He eats some of it and gives the rest to the homeless. He jokes that they’re very happy to see him coming in various tent cities and under the bridges and viaducts. Blake is a good man who has made a very big mistake, and he can’t let himself off the hook. He’s an impeccable dresser, a total gentleman, and one of the most tortured souls I’ve ever met.
Much more tortured than me.
I’m only dealing with disappointment and disillusionment. Yes, it’s on a massive scale, but that’s still all it is. Even the incident with Lester didn’t traumatize me—it just pissed me off. I wasn’t hurt or scarred… unless you count not allowing anyone to fuck me. It’s not that I don’t want to fuck. I just won’t give it up that easily. It doesn’t matter my fetish or how I choose to exercise it. That part of my body is sacred to me and it always has been. I dish it out the way that I want and nobody has the right to take it. I gave it away in college until I realized the power of holding it back.
It’s mine. I decide, and contrary to my last encounter with a certain copper hottie, I still choose.
I hear Tupac “Changes” playing on the counter and wipe my hands before I retrieve my cell phone. I don’t recognize the number and my first inclination is to let it go to voicemail, but why bother? If I don’t want to speak to whomever it is, I’ll just hang up. I swipe the screen.
“Ana?” I don’t recognize the voice. It’s male and sounds somewhat familiar, but I can’t tell you who it is.
“Yes?” I reply.
“Ana… it’s Kevin.” I pause. Kevin. I still don’t know what to say to him after what happened in the gym.
“Hi, Kevin,” I say. What else there to say?
“I… just wanted to make sure you were okay. You haven’t been to the studio in three weeks. Even your friend Elena is wondering what happened to you.” I just bet the fuck she is.
“Well, I’m fine,” I tell him, “and she’s nosey, not concerned.” He’s silent for a while.
“Well, I’m concerned.” I don’t reply. “I’d like to take you to dinner,” he says, finally.
“I don’t date,” I reply.
“Who said anything about dating?” he counters. “I said I want to take you to dinner.”
“And hope for a payout afterwards?” I ask, honestly. I made him come hard and I know for sure that he would like a repeat. He sighs.
“It was great, Ana. I won’t lie about that, but right now, all I’m asking for is a meal and conversation. Is that alright with you?”
What’s his game? I know he wants pussy. They all do, but I’ll take his food.
“I’ll meet you somewhere,” I finally agree. “Where and when?”
“You decide,” he says. I think about it for a minute.
“Simply Soulful,” I reply. He’s quiet for a moment.
“You sure?” he asks, uncertain.
“It’s where I grew up,” I tell him. I hear him scoff quietly.
“That explains a lot,” he comments. “Okay, Friday night at Simply Soulful, then.”
“We can go somewhere else, if you want,” Kevin says as we examine our menus. I know what he’s referring to—the table of sistahs sitting next to us glaring at me like I’ve violated the terms of the Geneva Convention.
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “You have no idea how accustomed I am to the Mad Woman Stare Down. I get it more than you know.” I leave the obvious descriptive word out on purpose to avoid a public scene that I know is forthcoming anyway and turn my attention back to my menu. One of the girls at the next table scoffs loudly.
“She must be a prostitute,” she says, loud enough for me to hear.
“Yo’ momma’s a prostitute,” I say, loud enough for her to hear me without taking my eye off the menu.
“You talkin’ to me?” she barks directly at me.
“You talkin’ to me?” I retort.
“You must want yo’ ass kicked!” she counters, rolling her head at me.
“Here it is. Get to kickin’,” I taunt with my arms open. That just pisses her off.
“White trash bitch!” she hisses.
“That ain’t what yo’ daddy said,” I throw back at her. One of her friends whimpers to hide a laugh while the other gasps loudly with a long intake of breath in complete shock.
“Say something else about my parents and I’ma kick yo’ motherfuckin’ ass!” she snaps at me.
“Something else about your parents,” I taunt. At first, it flies right over her head until her girls start snickering again. Then, she rises from her seat.
“Take it outside, Rayjene,” someone says from behind the counter. “You always startin’ some shit.” She narrows her eyes at me.
“I’ll see you outside,” she says.
“Gon’ out there and wait for me, bitch,” I tell her. She clenches her fists and storms out of the restaurant. Her two friends remain at the table glaring at me. I turn me attention back to my menu.
“What you gon’ do?” Kevin asks. I raise my eyes to him.
“She wants to beat my ass? She can wait right there until I’m finished eating. She’s a damn bully, and she thinks I’m going to back down because I’m white. Backing down from a bully because I was white is the very fucking thing that changed my life, and I’ll never back down from a bully again. I want to see her try to beat my ass, but not until I’ve had my meal.” I look down at my menu and wait for the waitress to come over.
I can feel the eyes at the next table boring into me. I don’t turn to them because I don’t want to give them the satisfaction of my attention. When the waitress comes to our table, I place my order.
“I want the combination catfish and chicken wings with macaroni and cheese, collard greens, and corn bread.” The waitress glares at me for a moment.
“Where does all that food go?” she asks.
“I work out a lot,” I answer honestly. “I grew up on this food—my dad’s family was black.” Kevin’s eyes pierce at me.
“You never told me that,” he says.
“You never asked,” I reply, handing the waitress the menu. She looks at Kevin.
“I’ll have what she’s having,” he says, handing her the menu.
“Anything to drink?” she asks.
“Do you have sweet tea?” I ask. She nods.
“I’ll have a Coke,” Kevin says. When she leaves the table, he turns his attention back to me. “You said, ‘was.’” I frown.
“You said that your father’s family was black. What happened?” I clasp my hands on the table in front of me.
“Well, of course, they’re still black, but my father died when I was young. He and my mother were killed in a car accident, so I went to live with his brother and their family. We lived around here.” That’s all I say about the matter. He nods, but doesn’t press the issue.
“Why haven’t you been back to the studio?” he asks. I shrug.
“Didn’t feel like it, I guess,” I say pulling a napkin from the dispenser.
“Was it because of what happened?” he asks. I look up at him and only just realize how handsome he really is before dropping my eyes.
“It was a mistake,” I say. “It shouldn’t have happened.”
“Then, why did it?” he presses.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t myself.” It’s the truth. Under normal circumstances, there’s no way in hell that would have happened, but right now, I have no good explanation for why it did.
“Yes, I know,” he says, frankly. When I raise my eyes to his, he raises his eyebrows challengingly. I can’t argue with him. He does know. He’s been flirting with me for months and I suddenly break down and give him a blowjob.
The waitress comes back with our drinks and the bill for the table next to ours, the one with the girls looking down my throat and hanging on my every word, so I stop talking. Kevin notices and turns conspicuously glaring at the girls at the next table. Once they note his displeasure, they quickly make their exit, taking their bill to the counter.
“Now maybe we can talk,” he says, taking a swallow of his soda. “I know what she does,” he adds. I raise my eyes to look at him.
“Hm?” I question.
“Your friend, Elena,” he says. “I know what she does.”
“How do you know?”
“She propositioned me once,” he replies. “You do the same thing?”
“I’m in the same arena,” I tell him, “but what she does and what I do is not even close.” He nods.
“I can imagine,” he says.
“I take it you declined,” I say. He looks at me puzzled. “Elena… you declined?” He sits back and sips his soda again.
“It’s not really my thing,” he answers. I nod.
“Yes, it’s an acquired taste,” I say, sipping my tea.
“Interesting choice of words,” he counters, never taking his eyes off me. “How is what you do different from what she does?” I sigh.
“You’d have to understand the lifestyle to understand the difference. It’s too hard to explain otherwise.”
“Educate me,” he says, leaning forward on the table and giving me his undivided attention. I chuckle and shake my head.
“It’s no use, Kevin,” I say. “People outside the lifestyle almost never understand the concept of what we do or why we do it. More than once, I’ve heard people refer to it as ‘a bunch of crazy white people beating each other,’ and they have no idea the diversity of people who practice, what all they engage in, why they practice, what they get from it…” I just shake my head. The dynamics of even a few facets of the BDSM lifestyle are just too intricate to cover with a civilian over catfish.
“I’m not asking you to give me a Ph.D. thesis on why you do what you do. I’m just asking for a little education on what it’s about.” He sips his soda again.
Okay, fine. I can try to give him a little information on the lifestyle without having him run away screaming.
“There are many aspects to the BDSM lifestyle,” I say quietly, “so many aspects that there are way too many to cover with you right now. I will tell you that they can range from kinky sexual fantasies to seemingly downright inhumane and brutal practices that would churn your stomach. No matter what the practice, the entire concept of the lifestyle is built on mutually satisfying activities that are considered safe, sane, and consensual… although some people—myself included—might question the sane part in some of the activities I’ve witnessed.” I stir my tea with my straw.
“Is that why what you do and what Elena does is so different?” I look up at him and he’s looking at me with genuine interest, like he’s hanging on my every word.
“No,” I say honestly. “The reason why what she does and what I do is so different is because she does what she does for her own enjoyment. I do what I do for mutual satisfaction. I get satisfaction from seeing the intense reaction of my… partners, while she gains satisfaction from total domination, if you can call it that. Anybody can teach a puppy how to speak and when to roll over. That what she does. That’s how she treats her pets.”
“And you?” he asks. “What makes you different? How do you treat your pets?”
“I don’t treat them like pets in the first place,” I say squarely and his eyebrows rise. “They’re people… with specific needs and desires… They’re singular and particular, and I pinpoint those needs. I enhance them, I satisfy them, and yes, I exploit them. As a result, they’re loyal. They come back to me, and each time, I read them, and I give them what they need. Often, it’s better than it was before, because I pay attention. I tweak my techniques based on how they respond and I aim to take them higher each time they come to me, and they thank me handsomely for it.” That gets his attention.
“They pay you,” he says, and it’s a statement, not a question.
“They give me gifts,” I correct him. “They come in many forms… jewelry, clothes, trips, favors, and yes… sometimes money.” I stir my tea again. “I don’t have a price, Kevin. I never have. I know my worth—in the courtroom and in the playroom. I don’t have a menu where I perform an act and you pay up. I take them on mind trips—bring them out of their bodies, make them transcend sensation more than they ever thought they could. In return, they give me what they feel is appropriate, and I can say that I’ve never been shortchanged. It’s an exchange that I’d never be able to explain to you. You would only understand it by experiencing it yourself… and no, that’s not an invitation.”
“I know it’s not,” he says matter-of-factly. “Like I said, it’s not really my thing. I’m not just saying that. I speak from experience.”
You could catch a fly in my mouth right now. What the fuck? Kevin is familiar with the lifestyle? I don’t get a chance to rebut as the waitress comes over with our food and begins to put the plates on the table.
“You need hot sauce?” she asks.
“Yes, please,” Kevin says.
“She alright?” she asks, gesturing to me. I shake the shock from my face and run my hands through my heart.
“Yes,” I say absently. “Mind blown. Sorry. Hot sauce, please.” She chuckles and shakes her head.
“Comin’ right up,” she says with a snicker. She leaves the table and quickly returns with a bottle of Frank’s RedHot sauce.
“Y’all let me know if you need anything else,” she says before leaving the table. I turn my attention back to Kevin.
“You practiced the lifestyle?” I ask, intrigued. He nods.
“Only for a little while,” he says, smashing his cornbread into his collard greens. My cousin Tracy used to eat them that way.
“Were you a Dominant or a submissive?” I ask. He looks off for a moment as if pondering the question.
“I think I might have been a little of both,” he says, mixing the greens and cornbread. “It was mostly kink for me, but there was some bondage involved… blindfolds and a little flogging.” He raises his eyes to me. “I’ll admit that I like a good, hard fuck, but the bondage and discipline thing just didn’t appeal to me as much as I thought it would, so…” He shrugs and shakes some hot sauce on his chicken and fish before offering it to me. I take it from him and shake a good amount over my chicken, fish, and greens.
“Yeah, you grew up in the hood,” he chuckles after swallowing a mouthful of his greens and cornbread mixture. “So, from the description, you’re more into the S&M part,” he says, nearly cleaning the meat from the ding of a wing with one swipe of his large lips.
“Yes, I am,” I tell him, “as is Elena, only…” I sigh. “If you want a dog to keep doing what you want it to do, you give it treats. That’s why she has to pay her subs. If you’re satisfied with your service, you leave different types of gifts—like tips and praise. That’s why I’m so popular and she and I are so different.”
“You don’t think it has anything to do with the fact that you’re just sexy as fuck?” he says frankly.
“Well, you can’t do what I do without sex appeal,” I retort. “At least you can’t do it well. Seriously, Kevin, who wants to look at a dog while they’re coming to orgasm?”
“Point taken,” he says as I take a healthy bite of my fish.
“Mmm,” I say, groaning while I chew and swallow my food. “This is so good!”
“So, um, what’s with Elena?” he asks. “She acts like you guys are so close, but I knew before you told me so that you weren’t cool with her. What’s her deal?” I ponder the answer while a swallow another mouthful of my delicious food.
“Did you ever see the movie Bring It On?” I ask.
“Ironically, yes,” he says. “I have a thing for Gabrielle Union.” I nod.
“Do you remember the red-haired head cheerleader captain who graduated, but kept coming back to practice because she couldn’t fucking let go?”
Kevin almost chokes on his food and I can’t help but laugh.
“Um, she was named after gum or something,” he says after he takes a swallow of his soda.
“Big Red,” I say. He nods as he’s pointing at me, his mouth full of soda. “Yeah, that’s Elena. She needs to get the hell off the field and let go, but she keeps coming in trying to bump hips with me and move me out of the way when we’re not even playing the same game!”
“I’ll say,” he confirms, placing his soda on the table. “No offense, but it’s obvious y’all in two altogether different leagues.” I hold my hand up.
“My point exactly. So, trust me, there’s no concern there on her part. She’s picking your brain for information.”
“Well, I haven’t seen her for a couple of weeks now,” he says before shoveling more food in his mouth.
“That’s because she’s certain that I’m not coming back,” I tell him. “I haven’t been to the club that we normally frequent and I haven’t been to yoga, so she’s wondering what the hell is going on.”
“What the hell is going on?” he asks.
“I’m just going to different clubs,” I confirm.
“And different studios?” he asks and waits for an answer.
“You know why I wasn’t coming into the studio,” I confess. He nods.
“Um-hm. I know,” he says.
We carry on conversation about Elena and BDSM, why it wasn’t his cup of tea and why I like it, until we finish our dinner and the waitress asks if we want desert.
“I want some banana pudding,” Kevin says. I almost agree with him until I see something in the dessert choices that I haven’t had in years. It’s a recipe that I’ve never perfected, so I would rather not try it than to fuck it up.
“Ooo, gimme some of that sweet potato pie!” I say, damn near drooling in anticipation. The waitress smiles and goes to retrieve our dessert choices.
“You are a black woman trapped in a white woman’s body!” Kevin declares playfully.
“I take that as I compliment,” I say with a hearty laugh. When I look up, I see someone at the counter staring at me… so hard, in fact that our waitress is trying to get his attention to take his food and his eyes are trained on me.
Fuck. It’s Jake.
Kevin turns around to see what has caused me to stop laughing and stare behind him. Jake snaps out of his trance when Kevin turns to look at him.
“You know him?” Kevin asks, turning his attention back to me. I shrug and look down at the table.
“Yeah… long time ago,” I say, somewhat flippantly. I know him, and I used to like him a lot, but I stole a candy bar from his family’s party store while a bunch of spiteful bitches busted up his dirt bike and he never spoke to me again after that. “Old childhood sweetheart,” I admit truthfully.
“Well, don’t look now, but…” and he trails off. I look up and Jake is on his way over to the table. What the hell? I mean, is that proper protocol… to crash someone’s date? True, we’re not on a date, but Jake doesn’t know that.
“Hey… Kev,” Jake says, speaking to Kevin first. Yeah, do that. Pretend like he’s the reason you came to our table. I fix my eyes on his, steeling my stare in a mixture of stoicism and disinterest. I was only disarmed for a moment, but I’m back.
“Hey, Jake. How’s finance?” Kevin asks. I hadn’t even noticed that Jake is wearing a matching gray vest and slacks with a black tie and white dress shirt. He looks like he just stepped out of the office and took off his jacket.
“It’s good, as usual,” he says, occasionally turning his brown eyes back to me. They’re cloudy around the edges, like a storm coming in through a sunset. “Ana,” he says, by way of greeting.
“Jake,” I reply, nothing more than he gives me.
“I thought you moved out of these parts,” he says, now ignoring Kevin.
“I did,” I say… and again, I give him nothing else.
“What brings you ‘round now?” he asks.
“Home cookin’,” I say. He stands there staring at me for a while and I have to admit. He’s just as good-looking now as he was all those years ago.
“Jake…” Kevin says, his tone a bit warning. Jake turns his attention back to Kevin.
“Sorry, man,” he says, before throwing another glance at me. “I guess I’ll see ya ‘round,” he says, still looking at me.
“Yeah, see ya,” Kevin says, his voice sharp. Jake looks from me to Kevin, then leaves the restaurant with his dinner. I look at Kevin in awe and jest.
“Alpha male much?” I tease, but Kevin’s face is still serious.
“He was outta line,” Kevin retorts seriously. “He didn’t know what was going on here. Yes, we’re having a friendly dinner, but he didn’t know that. That was rude!” I twist my lips and ponder. I was thinking the same thing when Jake walked over to our table.
“Yeah,” I say, “I have to agree with you on that one.” He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I guess I should apologize, too.”
“Naw,” he says, waving me off. “You were just trying to be polite.” I shrug.
“Pretty much,” I reply.
“You guys got history?” he asks. I shake my head.
“Not really,” I say. “I mean, he didn’t hit it or anything like that. He just reminds me of a time in my life that I’d much rather forget.”
“Is that why you do what you do?” he asks, showing the same interest he did before we were interrupted. “To forget?” I shake my head.
“No,” I reply. “I do what I do because I like it… a lot. I know people have a lot of different reasons why they do this, but I think mine is the best. I just really enjoy it.” He nods.
“I think yours is the best, too,” he says. Our waitress brings our dessert to the table along with our check.
“I hope y’all enjoyed your meal,” she says with a smile as she leaves the table. Kevin digs his spoon into his banana pudding as I sink my teeth into some of the yummiest sweet potato pie I’ve tasted in years.
“So… why don’t we do this?” he begins. “You come back to the studio and get your yoga on and we’ll use this conversation to squash all that awkwardness. Then, you let me take you out for a meal and some sweet ‘tae-ta pie once in a while and… that’ll be that?” He shovels another spoonful of banana pudding in his mouth and just like that… I think I’ve made a friend.
“That’s cool, Kevin,” I say, digging into my sweet tae-ta pie.
I guess the girl who wanted to kick my ass found better things to do with her Friday night than to wait around for me to finish my catfish, because she was gone once Kevin and I had left the restaurant. He saw me safely to my Range Rover, kissed me on my cheek, and waited for me to drive away before he got into his car. I have a feeling that he really was hoping for more from this dinner, but knew it would be impossible once he confirmed that I actively practiced in the lifestyle. At least he was a gentleman about it instead of trying to find a way to get around my wishes and still get into my panties…
… like a certain copper-haired god I’d much rather forget.
Blake is at the door when I get home and I can’t say that I’m surprised. With my uncertain schedule, he usually just stays at my house over the weekend in the quarters that I had built for him.
“You’re too good to me,” I say, when I walk in the door while he holds it open for me. He says nothing, and I pick up on his mood immediately. He probably thinks tonight was a date since I’m dressed like a civilian and coming home at a decent hour. I turn around and look at him. “Blake?”
He raises his gaze to me and his eyes say it all. Blake needs someone to need him and if I find love, he feels like I won’t need him anymore.
“Blake,” I say softly, “don’t you see how much I need you? Don’t you see how much I wouldn’t be able to function without you.” He smiles a small smile.
“Yes, Mistress,” he replies, his voice melancholy, “but it won’t always be that way.” I smile at him.
“We live in the real world,” I reply, touching his cheek gently, “and nothing last forever… but I need you now, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon.” His smile widens infinitesimally.
“Oh, for God’s sake, send him in.”
My uncle has been harassing me at my office every day for weeks and now, he’s at it again. Seventeen years… seventeen fucking years, absolutely nothing. Now, I face off against him in court and he just has to see me. After seventeen fucking years. What’s so goddamn important now?
He hasn’t changed a bit in seventeen years except that he was balding at the time and now, he’s completely bald. When he walks into my office, I stand from my desk and finally face off with this selfish fucker.
“Why. Are you. Harassing me?” I ask, my voice controlled.
“I’m not harassing you, Ana,” he answers calmly. “You’re my niece, and I’m just trying to talk to you.”
“No, I’m not,” I say firmly. “I’m not Daddy’s biological child, so you have no connection, no obligation to me. Daddy loved me. Daddy gave me his name and welcomed me into his family out of love, but you don’t have that obligation. It died with my father, and any obligation that would have passed down to you would have been passed down through love. You don’t have that, so you have no connection to me.”
“Goddammit, Ana…” he begins.
“What?” I hiss. “Does that bother you? Does that hurt you to hear? Love—do you have any idea of that concept, Uncle Richard?” I speak venomously. “Do you have any idea the capacity of love that it takes to welcome a child into your heart that doesn’t belong to you and give her your name? That’s the capacity of love my Daddy felt, and that’s the love he showed me every day until his very last breath. And when he left this earth, he took that love with him to heaven. So, don’t worry. I know how it feels, but that love and obligation died with my father. You haven’t broken any rules, Richard, only broken trust.” He looks down at the floor as if to gather his thoughts.
“I didn’t know what to do, Ana,” he says, “I was confused—really, and young…” Is he serious?
“Oh, God, please stop,” I say, putting both hands in the air and using them as a barrier between us. “Are you really here to plead your case why you left me out in the cold when you knew that I had no one and nowhere to go?” I ask incredulously. I glare at him for a moment, but don’t give him a chance to answer. “I was fifteen… I was fifteen fucking years old and my mommy and daddy were dead. I was a good kid, a really good kid, and you have no idea what I went through after you left me. And you have the nerve to stand here and try to explain it with that ‘I was young’ bullshit?”
As he stares at me now, all I can think of is the disgust in his eyes when he shook his head and walked out on me that day. That wasn’t inexperience in his eyes. That was disdain! I have no idea what was going through his mind at the time, but I know that he wanted to be anywhere but there… anywhere but with the little white girl his dead brother adopted…
“Was I not perfect enough, Uncle Richard?” I snap, my control disappearing. “Do you have any idea what happened to me after you walked out that day? Do you even care? Do you even know the whole story of what happened? Did you even bother to find out?” I laugh tragically. “God, I hope you didn’t, because if you did, and you still left me out in the cold…” I shake my head and roll my eyes. “Get out of my office.”
He gazes at me like he wants to say something, but he just stands there for several moments. A shroud falls over his face—something like defeat—and he turns and walks towards the door.
“Your aunt Sheila is dying,” he says, his hand on the doorknob poised to turn it. “We don’t know how much time is left. Breast cancer—very aggressive.” He turns his head to look at me. “Stage four.”
That’s not why he’s here. It’s just a piece of information he threw in there. I have no idea why he’s come and I really don’t care. And no offense to Aunt Sheila, but in seventeen years, she never came for me either. Nonetheless…
“You have my condolences,” I say flatly. “Now, leave.”
He drops his head, his shoulders rising and falling in a heavy sigh before he turns the door handle, opens the door and leaves my office.
Six weeks in a goddamn cast after that bitch hurled that fucking potted plant at me. Six goddamn weeks—I was too uncomfortable to even fuck properly.
That’s okay, though, because so was she.
After security cornered her ass at her car that day, I had them call the police. They had to… that bitch fractured my fucking arm. And I had her ass arrested for assault and yes, I’m pressing full charges. I don’t know what that pot was made of, but I swear to God it must have been cement. I’m still trying to figure out how the hell she lifted that damn thing off the ground!
The entire incident made the news, of course. She was portrayed as a scorned lover in some articles, a hysterical socialite at the end of her rope for losing her businesses in articles that got it right. I really didn’t care. She posted bail and now, she’s waiting for trial for second degree assault charges. I wonder what her precious Linc will have to say about that?
She might get off with probation since this is her first offense, but I’m hoping she does some time. It won’t be much—three to nine months for first offenses—but I still want her to do some time. If I hadn’t sacrificed my arm to protect my face, the bitch would have killed me or at the very least, I would have ended up a fucking vegetable. What is it with psychotic women trying to kill or maim me?
That, of course, brings my mind back to Golden. Back to Golden… who am I kidding? My mind was never off Golden. She’s all I fucking think about. The more I try to forget her, the more I think about her. I haven’t seen her in over six months—no word, no mention, not even a whisper in the club. Yes, I’ve returned. I’ve been to others around town, but I’ve occasionally returned to Crimson with hopes of just getting a glimpse of her. I’m a glutton for punishment.
When the day finally arrived to get this fucking cast off my arm, I almost wanted to celebrate. I had to go through a couple of weeks of physical therapy, but I really needed to start working out again. Working out meant that I get my strength back and I could wield a cane or a flogger again, grip a hip and fuck some poor pussy senseless.
That was my total intention—to get a hold of Caramel and fuck her within an inch of her life. She ruined that for me, though. Three weeks after the cast came off, Caramel showed up at Escala in a gold raincoat. I thought it was just coincidence, though I suspected that she knew she was a substitute despite all the time that we had been fucking. I knew that it wasn’t a coincidence when I ripped that fucking raincoat off and there was a golden negligee underneath.
She’s fucking with the fantasy. The fantasy is abstract, not direct. If I wanted something that trite and insignificant, I’d hire a fucking lookalike. It irritated the fuck out of me that she dared make this kind of statement to me, and I made sure that she knew it.
I never punished Caramel. She never got a flogger or a whip or a paddle because that wasn’t her purpose. That night would be no different. I wouldn’t dare mar that beautiful skin, but she was punished—sexually and emotionally.
I fucked her so hard and so many ways that I almost felt sorry for her. I wouldn’t let her put my dick in her mouth. To me, allowing her to suck my dick was a reward because it gave her power. I didn’t want her to have that power. She wasn’t as good as Joyce at it anyway.
No, I needed to bury my dick in that pussy and that ass in every way imaginable. I made her bounce hard on it, backwards and leaning over me until I was nearly ready to blow. Then I pushed her off of me while I watched my dick throb almost painfully until the orgasm fell away before I turned her over, locked her arms behind her at the elbows with my hand and fucked her doggie style to the brink of insanity again—repeating the process over and over and over until she’s damn near delirious. I don’t know if she fucking came or not. That night was all about me and my dick and making up for six weeks of fucking celibacy…
…And six months of never being able to get this woman out of my fucking mind…
…And one night of this silly little cunt thinking she had control.
Once I had enough of tormenting myself with pleasure and I was ready to come, I put her face down on the bed and I crouched over her. I lubed her up and fucked her hard and deep in that ass. I made her hold those cheeks open so that I could get my dick into that asshole all the way to the hilt. I fucked that ass like a goddamn wild man… no fucking mercy. It was outstanding! And when that insanely painful orgasm that had built up for weeks now intensified through hours of fucking and denial began to blast through my dick, I reached down and squeezed and caressed my balls roughly, forcing every bit of cum from my nuts as my fingers dug into her hips. I nearly howled through the blinding pleasure.
I collapsed breathlessly on top of her, pushing us both down into the bed as I continued to stroke my pulsing dick in short strokes into her ass, drawing out every fucking last moment and drop of this powerful climax. I don’t know if it was because I waited so goddamn long, her ass was so fucking tight, I built it up so much or I was angry and I took my aggression out on her, but that felt like the best, longest, and hardest nut of my goddamn life. As it waned, I rolled my hips around so that the walls of her ass rubbed against the wet skin of my dick to remind me how that shit felt moments prior. It was fucking amazing.
Now it’s over, and I lay here next to her, wanting nothing more than to get her the fuck out of my house.
I roll over with my back to her and relax into the pillow and the comforter.
“I won’t need you anymore, Caramel,” I say coldly. “You can leave, and don’t come back after this.”
I can feel her staring at me even though I’m not looking at her. She has to know why I’m doing this. She has to know she crossed a line. We had no commitment and no rules, but she had to know this was unacceptable. I feel her throw the covers off and get out of bed. Next, I can hear her gathering her things. I hear the door open and she pauses.
“Tammy!” she says harshly, tears lacing her voice. When I look over my shoulder at her, she’s only wearing her thong and she’s carrying her nightie, coat, and shoes, her large eyes trained angrily and sadly on mine. “My name is Tammy!”
I say nothing as she lingers a few moments more at the door before exiting without closing it behind her.
She knew what this was. She couldn’t expect more. When it’s over, it’s over. It’s that simple. It’s like that movie, Nine and a Half Weeks. When the thing was done, it was done. No matter who was hurt, it was over. If you caught feelings, wrap up your little broken heart and get the fuck out of my face. I’m not sorry that I’m not all tortured by her departure like Mickey Rourke’s character.
She was never the one torturing me in the first place.
Well, I guess I should have expected this call. It took him long enough. Shit, the bitch could be dead by now for all he knew.
“Lincoln,” I say impassively. Elena’s absentee husband has finally contacted me. I’m wondering if he’s calling in a sad attempt to cock strut, or if he’s trying to pay me off to drop the charges on his wife.
“I hear you had my wife arrested,” he says coolly.
“You hear correctly,” I retort.
“May I ask why?” he says. Is he being fucking funny? Where the fuck has he been for the past several months—hiding under a goddamn rock?
“Google it,” I reply with the same coolness that he’s giving me.
“I’ve already heard what the press and the rags have to say,” he responds. “I want to hear your side of the story.”
My side? My side was plastered all over the newspaper when the ambulance took me from Grey House. Fuck this. I’m not feeding into this asshole.
“You’ll hear it in court, that is, if you can be bothered to stick around to see what’s happening with your beloved wife.”
“You and I both know that trials take forever, when you can just tell me what’s going on.” Boy, he’s really working with a pair.
“Then talk to the police,” I say impassively.
“The police can only tell me what happened, but they can’t tell me why.” Sucks to be you, then.
“If you have any other questions, contact my attorney.”
“Hiding behind a lawyer, Grey?” Linc taunts. “That’s not your style.” I won’t bother to ask him what he means by that because he’s trying to lure me into some bullshit. When I don’t bite, he continues with his bait. “What I don’t understand is why Elena was at your office that day in the first place.”
“Have you been gone that long, Linc?” I say. “Have you forgotten that we were once friends?”
“Were?” he continues.
“Yeah, having someone break your arm tends to put a bit of strain on the relationship.”
“So… you’re saying that before she broke your arm, you were still friends.” I see where he’s going. He’s trying to get answers from me that he can either use against her or that he hasn’t gotten from her yet. And I’ve had enough of his fucking game.
“Lincoln, why the fuck are you calling me?” I say, my voice sharp. “You should already know that I’m not telling you shit. So, if you want answers, you’re asking the wrong person. Ask your goddamn wife or talk to my attorney. I shouldn’t even be talking to you considering the fact that your little Misses tried to fucking kill me.” He chuckles.
“I’ve never heard of anybody dying from a broken arm,” he taunts.
“She threw that thing at my fucking head!” I hiss. “I blocked it with my arm or otherwise, that would have been my goddamn face… and I’m done talking to you.”
“Come on. What’s a chat among friends?” he counters insincerely.
“Nothing, except we’re not friends and we never have been. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have business to tend to.”
“Just one more thing,” he presses. “Why did she throw a potted plant at you in the first place?” Fine, fucker. You want it, you got it.
“Oh, that one I’ll answer for you,” I say in my own taunting voice. “Her business failed… did she tell you that?” I pause for several moments and his silence tells me that she hadn’t told him that. “Yeah, the fall of Esclava, Salon to the rich and famous. That’s been all over local news. She came to ask me for help and when I refused, she got it into her demented head that somehow, I was the cause of her demise. While I’m trying to figure out how the fuck she came to this conclusion, she starts hurling shit, so I had the crazy broad arrested.”
“Careful, Grey,” he hisses threateningly. “It’s not a good idea to talk about my wife that way.”
“Then keep that psychotic bitch on a leash and stop harassing me!” I end the call before he has the change to retort. Linc should know better than to try to fucking cross me. What’s his major malfunction? I summon Taylor to my office.
“Sir,” he says as he crosses the threshold.
“Linc is back in town,” I tell him, “and he’s none too happy about the situation with his wife. Be on alert in case his ass forgets who the fuck I am, and feel free to send him a little reminder if necessary.”
“Yes, sir,” he says before leaving my office. Lincoln almost found out about me and Elena back when we were fucking. I’m sure he’s still suspicious, even though he never caught us or found any real proof. He sent me a warning in the form of an ill-placed rumor and the press knocking on my door asking about the nature of my relationship with the lumber king’s wife.
Three of his sawmills shut down in Germany and acquisitions of four of his U.S. operations—one debarking and bucking operation, two processing and seasoning plants, and one paper mill—all within twenty-four hours of his little stunt. His only hint that it was me, a black card delivered to his main offices with only the words, “Keep fucking with me.”
Linc is the last fucking thing I want to think about now. I let Caramel… Tammy go and now I need a new pastime. Joyce was boring me well before Car… Tam… fuck it, Caramel even came on the scene and nothing has changed. Good head can only get you so far in this world.
Elena did have a way of finding the tastiest little morsels. She’s how I ended up with Caramel in the first place. Now, she’s out of commission and anyone in her little coven right now will be desperate for a Dominant.
I don’t do desperate.
For the first time in years, I log onto my Fetlife profile. I need another new flavor, like Caramel. I’ve probably only fucked two black women in my life and I must say, I loved Caramel’s big ass. Pounding into her from behind was one of the hottest pleasures I can remember. That meat would slap hard against my dick while I dug my fingers into her skin for a good grip and held on while those cheeks wobbled and rolled and smacked. Fuck, I’m getting hard just thinking about it! And I sent her away…
I fucking had to. Every time I would have fucked her after that, I would have just resented her ass. It’s only now that I’m realizing that I don’t think I’m going to remember too much what she looks like. I think I’ve only looked at her face twice… once when I first fucked her, and again when I sent her away. Even now, all I can remember is that ass.
Big asses… nice, big, round asses. Maybe that should be my next type. I could definitely get into that.
I browse around Fetlife for a little while, but I’m sure that I won’t find what I’m looking for there. Hell, I didn’t really like trolling Fetlife even when I first got into the lifestyle. I don’t know what made me consider going on there now. I do have a newsletter of private and semi-parties sent to my alias’ email though. Maybe I can find my new flavor there. I get a little thrill just thinking about it. I’ve always looked for pretty girls—preferably petite, that could take a good beating. Now, I’m searching for thick girls no matter what nationality that can take a good fucking with a little Domination thrown in.
For the first time in a long time, I’m actually looking forward to something.
A/N: Tupac was a revolutionary just like his mother Afeni Shakur, but unfortunately, the only thing most of America saw was the “Thug” rapper. And I know someone somewhere is going to bring up that sexual assault conviction, but I’m personally only TOO AWARE of how the “Just-them” system can put the wrong person in the hot seat, so we ain’t going to even discuss that. Let’s just say that if I contend that you forced me to do something in a club that I didn’t want to do, I’m not going to end up in your fucking hotel room… but I digress. I won’t preach, but I will ask that if you get an opportunity, you look at or listen to the lyrics to “Changes,” and you’ll see that in the 21 years since his death, a lot still hasn’t changed. Ana chose Tupac as one of her heroes, one of her mentors, because of what he stood for. His music guided her through life and still does. Get to know him if you’re interested. You might be surprised.
I’m expecting to lose a few more readers after this…
“Changes” is on my Pinterest page at https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/fifty-shades-golden/, and the link to Tupac’s page is https://2paclegacy.net/ for anyone who may be interested.
“Inside my mind, couldn’t find a place to rest. Until I got that THUG LIFE tatted on my chest.” -2Pac
For those who may not know, the “descriptive” word that Ana was talking about was Mad BLACK Woman. It would take forever to explain, but in short, it’s a movie by Tyler Perry that started out as a play about a sister who was dealt a very raw deal by her man and she was pissed. Ultimately, the term ended up spreading across the whole of “sisterdom” and was applied to any black woman who was upset for any reason whatsoever, including black women who just acted out and had bad attitudes. Many brothers have often tagged it as the “Mad Black Woman Syndrome,” using it as their excuse for turning to other races as wives. There’s no shame in finding love in other races; but when they use this made-up syndrome as an excuse, it just creates more Mad Black Women. In the end, the “Mad Black Woman” was supposed to represent the Black Queen who was tired of being mistreated by her Black King, and the term just ended up getting a bad rap.
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