The Venture Capitalist (30 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You may watch what I’m doing.”

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

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

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

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

“Is that uncomfortable?”

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

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

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

“Jungle. Fever.”

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

“Yes, Sir.”

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

“Remember this?”

“Yes, Sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Sir!” She responds with delight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Two.”

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

“Three.”

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

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

“Four.”

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

Keisha goes limp and I panic.

“Keisha!” I scream.

She is out cold.

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

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

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

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

Dr. Sandoval joins me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, but now I will.”

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

“Thanks, Angel.”

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