by H. A. Nicola
“I may have to get back to the office a little sooner than I thought,” he sighed with frustration.
Cayenne sighed too. Inwardly thanking the gods for their powers of perception.
He flung his phone down and climbed predatorily across the bed towards her, like a panther stealthily crawling through long strands of African grass. He was slobbering over her again, presumably trying to imitate a passionate kiss.
He lifted her up until she was straddling him. His hand was gripping his cock and wielding it, as though it were deadly weaponry, clearly very proud of his instrument. Admittedly it was impressive in size compared to her Caucasian expectations. Slightly larger than average thickness, long and straight with a perfect dome at the top. He replaced his hand with hers, and she dutifully massaged his penis trying desperately to muster some enthusiasm for his pale soft body, with its numerous liver spots like some kind of overgrown Dalmatian.
“Come on, show me what I’ve been missing. Show me what a black woman can do that a white woman can’t,” he hissed.
She began to gyrate above his hips but instantly regretted it as the nausea turned to motion sickness. Her knickers were still on—floral thongs with black lace on the fringes. To her surprise, the sexual simulation was at least beginning to provide a little enjoyment. All she had to do now was close her eyes and summon the essence of Chris Hemsworth. He gripped a firm round glute in each hand, squeezing and guiding the circular movement of her hips. She ascertained that he did not want sex from her. At least not yet. Probably motivated by fear rather than a moral judgement. Whilst her eyes were closed, she felt the lobes of her pussy being stroked. A flow of gushing cream escaped and saturated his fingers. He groaned excitedly and elevated her bottom up toward his face until she was virtually poised on the bridge of his pointed nose. He inserted his tongue rapidly between her legs, protruding through the crotch less thongs; and the sound of him supping hungrily made her arch her back in ecstasy. His lips squeezed and cajoled her labia, seeking more of her delicious honey. The sucking motion tingled the core of her being, willing her to produce more. A deep satisfying convulsion overtook her as she thrust herself back and forth across his face, leaving trails, like the sun across a glacial plain, until the rapture subsided. She looked down at his face which was a picture of spent euphoria, mouth wide open, eyes glazed and glistening. She rolled off of him, and they lay looking up at the ceiling. Just for a moment, for the first time since she arrived, she was exceedingly glad that she came.
The hours that followed were curious and strange. He had quickly showered, inviting her to watch.
She had just managed not to reproduce the white wine that she had consumed earlier as he asked in his best old Hollywood voice, “Wanna watch me show’r?”
She couldn’t help but ponder, quite what events had developed his exceptional body confidence which seemed genuine despite the distinct sense of inadequacy that he carried with him. She had declined his offer; but once in the bathroom, she found herself bending over the sink whilst he spanked her. She may even have encouraged him to swing harder enjoying the full impact of his hand on her buttocks. The speed with which she had consumed the wine clearly taking effect. The excitement for him was almost overwhelming. His eyes widened, like an exuberant child, as she bent lower and encouraged him to spank harder.
Soon he had returned to the office or whatever appointment beckoned. He had encouraged her not to rush but to enjoy the room that he or his company had paid for; and the wine that he had bought, which was conflictual with the subsequent doubts he expressed at the prospect of leaving her there alone, as though worried, that she may take advantage. Run up the phone bill perhaps or order endlessly from the menu.
His reaction left a bad taste in her mouth, although she had outwardly reassured him that he had nothing to fear, inwardly she was full of reproach.
He had said there was a possibility that he may be able to return later in the afternoon if she would like, and if he could find the time. As she was preparing to leave, she was suddenly overcome with dizziness and fatigue. Perhaps it had been the sudden indulgence of white wine when she was accustomed to red. Come to think of it, she hadn’t had lunch.
She tidied up her makeup without having to reapply, so that the hotel staff wouldn’t be further alerted to her sordid antics. By the time she closed the door behind her, she couldn’t help but question her judgement afresh.
Chapter 6
You would almost think that the whole Canary stranger episode hadn’t happened. Cayenne threw herself into her new gym routine and resumed the pattern of normal life. Whenever the stranger came to mind, for instance, his exaggerated swagger, his open invitation to join him in the ‘show’r’ or his cocky demeanour, she would swallow the nauseous sensation that emerged or placate it with a strong mint and turn her attention to something else.
It was a harmless experience, she told herself; and she supposed that people usually regretted far more the things that they didn’t do, right?
For someone who had never considered herself a gym person, she was amazed at how quickly she had taken to this new life. She was soon organising her life around the online class booking system via the gym app on her phone, where she could book up to three days in advance. She was booking at least two classes a day, ranging from yoga to boxing. High intensity classes became her favourite. The really challenging classes with minimum recovery time which made it resemble abstract torture, but she was convinced that before long she would see the much-desired results. She knew she looked good, particularly for her age and having had three children; however, it just wasn’t enough anymore. Was it too much to ask to be ripped? Why couldn’t she have protruding abs and defined arms, toned legs and the kind of crafted back that inspired envy as she walked through the gym in the tiniest of gym bras? Just because she was older, with children, who’s to say she couldn’t achieve maximum fitness. She was determined to see how much she could achieve, and how far she could go when she put her mind to it.
The first few classes had been difficult and not just physically. Almost every class she entered was like walking into a wall of hostility. She knew she didn’t particularly come across as the most engaging personality herself, but she hadn’t expected such a frosty reception. No one had welcomed her or even said hello. Not that that mattered, she was more than proficient at adapting to new situations and growing up in a Jamaican household had more than prepared her for living with hostility and judgement. It made her all the more determined to knuckle down and push herself in class. After all, she wasn’t there to make friends. She was on a mission. She was even able to push through the fact that most of the women were clad in amazing modern gym gear combinations and elaborate gym sets with matching-coloured trainers and accessories. Whereas she rocked up in an old cheap pair of luminous training shoes that she had bought on the internet, and a couple of bits that barely resembled work out gear that she had been quite content to use in the privacy of her bedroom, where she had been working out for the past year, utilising YouTube exercise videos and the occasional DVD. She ignored the curious glances that she got, or the sniggers—real or imagined—that hung in the air and focussed solely on the instructor at the helm and on putting in 100% effort.
Over the coming weeks whilst attending the early-morning sessions, she developed a rapport with Eddie Carter, the aerobic trainer, who it had to be said, didn’t resemble the image of a personal trainer by any stretch of the imagination. He was rather short, around five foot seven, and it would be polite to call him stocky—very well built with a mass combination of fat and muscle in equal measures. He had a shock of almost white hair due to his inherent albinism—a condition that caused his hair and skin to lack pigmentation. There was something about Eddie that obviously appealed to women as they appeared to flock in droves to his classes first thing in the morning, and many often loitered after class and sat around casually, post workout, listening to his tales of extra-curricular wrestling contests and weight
-lifting achievements.
Cayenne particularly liked the way in which he explained each exercise well and the point of the exercise, even though he didn’t appear to have any intention of taking part himself once the demonstrations were over. After one particularly gruelling body-conditioning session, she decided to take him up on his regular offer of delivering any feedback, whether good or bad, about the session and approached him to thank him for a challenging class and for introducing what she considered, unusual exercises that she hadn’t come across before. He had looked nervous upon her approach, as people often did until she smiled, but softened considerably on receipt of her compliment. She also enquired about some strength sessions he was offering at an extra cost; and before she knew it, she had booked a personal training session for the following week. She could scarcely afford it, she knew, but decided to take the plunge, electing to see it as a personal investment.
Eddie was waiting for her in the open-plan reception when the day arrived. He was folding numerous white towels and placing them in a huge pile at the end of the desk, ready for arriving patrons. After completing some paperwork, he had escorted her around the gym, pointing out which areas were good for warming up. They climbed down to the lower level of the mostly underground building. The general colour scheme was metallic grey to match the iron monuments dotted around. The vast expanse of flooring was a similar industrial grey with designated areas for specific activities identified by shocks of yellow linoleum. Parts of the ceiling were painted with the same canary yellow, and Cayenne spotted at least two walls with spray-painted murals reminding her of graffiti-clad walls she had seen in the underground of New York City.
“So what would you say your fitness goals were? What in particular do you want to work on?” He asked as they strode down the metal steps which formed the spine of the building.
“I don’t know really, I just want to improve my overall fitness, but I always want to be a little bit thinner. Doesn’t every woman?”
“So you seem quite competent in class, what forms of exercise have you done before?”
“Well, I was never a gym person to be honest; so for the past year or so, I’ve been working out at home using YouTube videos and DVDs…”
“Oh okay.” He hadn’t quite managed to hide his disdain when she mentioned her enjoyment of Taebo, the total body fitness system founded by Billy Blanks which incorporated martial art techniques popularised in the 1990s.
“Let’s go down to the basement and get you warmed up, and then we’ll have a go at some weights. How does that sound?”
“Yep, sounds good…”
After a few rounds of sit-ups, press-ups, crunches and the dreaded burpees, Eddie walked her through some kettlebell lunges up and down the far side of the basement, in full view of, and to the inescapable primal sounds of several big grunting bears lifting heavy iron. She found this disconcerting at first and felt terribly exposed, but decided to use the extra attention to will her on to try to save face and not quit when the pain and discomfort got too much.
Eddie proved to be very chatty. A little too much for her liking, although his friendliness was endearing. By the end of the hour, she was certain that they had talked more than they had worked out, and she certainly wasn’t dripping in sweat, but she had learned that he was the eldest of a large family, that he had been severely bullied at school and had had a dream to go into the military in his native Morocco which he had achieved, only to discover that an illness had rendered him medically unfit for duty which had sent him spiralling into deep depression, sending a formally mild character on a treacherous angry rampage. She had learnt quite a bit about his hometown, his best friends, his wrestling mates and some girl called Calmari who was just a friend, even though her name seemed to crop into every sentence he spoke. Something about his energy made her think that he was suppressing his anger as opposed to having come to terms with and moved on from it.
The entire cool down period of the workout consisted of lying in the stretch area chatting, with several more references to Calmari. However, she was impressed with the weights that she had lifted and was pleased that she appeared to have natural strength, which Eddie had fine-tuned with corrections to her posture and technique.
As they ascended the metal stairs towards reception, he was asking her about a follow-up session. Uncharacteristically not wanting to disappoint, and she suspected, against her better judgement, she had agreed to book another session for the following week. No doubt she would discover whatever there was left to learn about Marrakesh and perhaps come to know all about Calmari’s life story too.
Meanwhile, at home, the current state of the apartment, with its dire décor that she had inherited from the previous occupants, was beginning to feel untenable. She had tried to postpone the renovation, reasoning that the larger jobs such as the kitchen and bathroom should be attended to first. But as Christmas was approaching, she suddenly felt it was time to address the elephants in every bloody room. Namely huge floral atrocities on supposed feature walls and unsightly off-white carpets.
The previous tenants had totally whitewashed the apartment, apparently due to the belief that dark colours caused migraines. Cayenne rather thought that the migraines could easily have been attributed to the fact that at four foot nine, the former tenant was currently carrying her eighth child. Her older children, who were eight and ten, were already of similar height to their mother. Cayenne could tell that beneath the yards of black material that Hiyjinda was draped in, there was very little mass to her diminutive body. She appeared malnourished, and it was hardly surprising that she found time to eat at all with so many young children to attend to. Her husband was some kind of out-of-town taxi driver, which meant that she was shouldering most of the responsibility herself.
The apartment had been painted white from floor to ceiling, including doors and skirting boards. The carpet had been cream-coloured, once upon a time, but had clearly seen better days and was suffering from the daily assault of seven small children. She had explored the option of hiring professional help but had quickly ruled it out as financially unfeasible. She had managed to renovate the hallway so far, quite successfully in her opinion. She would tackle the rest of the apartment one room at a time, starting with Sugar’s room. Her daughter’s favourite colour was purple, so she began googling various shades of purple wallpaper, particularly on the lookout for something unusual. Sugar was also fascinated with astronomy and even had a favourite planet. Cayenne was very excited to come across a company that produced prints of various planets. The printed strips of wallpaper had already been sized to measure which would make the execution fool proof. She was relieved to find that it was excellent value with good quality durable sheets. When she had cut the wallpaper according to the height of the wall, using the perforated guidelines, the second strip automatically aligned with the first strip; and before long, a huge portrait of Saturn emerged amidst rock formations and stars on a blanket of black sky. She stood back and admired her work. For a first attempt, this bode very well for the rest of the room. Days later, the purple wallpaper she had ordered arrived. The quality was less impressive, but the colour was a vibrant indigo. The window and radiator areas proved tricky, which exposed the poor quality of the paper. She found that this wallpapering lark appeared to be a matter of timing. If she pasted the walls and the strip too soon, it was almost dry by the time she came to hang it; and if she left it too late, the paste was too gloopy and damp. Working two evenings in a row, the small room was soon finished. It was totally transformed from the box room with its former blue floral feature wall, that had remained unused by the previous family, perhaps because they assumed it was too small to utilise as a fully functioning bedroom; or perhaps they much preferred to squash nine people into two bedrooms. Now it appeared bigger somehow, and she mentally visualised where the bunkbed, which Sugar and Ocean would share, would be positioned, and how much space was left over for a wardrobe and a good-sized desk.
The stark
white doors seemed whiter still against the backdrop of purple. Suddenly she felt a sense of daring. “Yes!” she exclaimed aloud. She would paint the doors black. To replace them would not be an option yet. Over the coming months, she completed the other two bedrooms in quick succession, and before long, the living room was complete too. She had chosen a bespoke, striped brown and bronze wallpaper for the main living areas; and just as expected, it gave the home a rather regal feel, creating the ambience of a smart boutique hotel.
She loved the finished result, but something was still bothering her. She recalled looking through Pinterest images and coming across painted ceilings and marvelling at the effect that it had on a room. It wasn’t long before she found herself in the Stratford branch of Wilko comparing various shades of chocolate brown wall paint, finally deciding on a nutmeg shade and ordering several containers, trying to gauge how many would be required for the large living area, factoring in a potential second coat.
She knew she wanted to create an atmosphere; and to ensure a complete contrast to the dazzling blandness of the communal hallway, completely eliminating the colour white from the apartment. She pictured herself arriving home and turning the key of her apartment, pushing the door open and immediately being submerged into a cavernous, dimly lit ambience. When all the painting was complete, her vision had been accomplished. She worried that it was a little too dark but reasoned that her original brief and been to create something shady and mysterious. There was no turning back. She would perhaps need to be creative with the lighting, utilising an elaborate installation or an additional perfectly placed picture light.
