Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever

by L. V. Lewis

  “At the very least, he deserves to go to jail, Keisha. My security chief has already sent a copy of these to the Chicago PD, together with the results of your blood test.”

  “Tristan that will ruin his life.”

  “He was all set to ruin yours.”

  “I’d like to see him suffer some, but I don’t want to send him to jail. It’s hard enough for a black man in this world.” I realize how feeble that sounds, but even though Byron attempted a serious crime against me, I can’t bring myself to be the one to send him to jail. I have brothers who’ve been profiled and mistreated by law enforcement. But how do I explain that to a filthy rich fucker like Tristan for whom the world bends over backwards?

  “The authorities have the evidence. Whether you choose to press charges is entirely up to you, but I encourage you to do so.”

  I point to the business plan. “So, you’ve changed your mind about our business arrangement?”

  “Yes and no,” he says.

  Here we go again. I roll my eyes and purse my lips on the ready to bless him out. “Don’t tell me you’ve all of a sudden gotten a raging case of Romnesia.”

  His forehead creases. “Romnesia?”

  “The Romney flip-flop, or rich man’s amnesia.”

  “No, but do I have a counter offer for you.”

  “Okay, let’s hear it?”

  “You’re certainly in a hurry to be introduced to a world that could change your life forever,” he says in a castigating tone. “Believe me, once you hear what I propose you may insist I go fuck myself and leave you the hell alone.”

  “Are you a serial killer, or some shit, Mr. White?”

  “Oh, it’s Mr. White now again, is it? After the intimacies we’ve shared?”

  My face gets hot even though I know all we did was sleep in the same bed. “Tristan! C’mon, stop playing with my emotions here.”

  “All right,” he says. “But first I must insist that you sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement.”

  “Why?”

  “Because once I introduce you to my world, you can’t share what you know about me with anyone.”

  I frown. Well, so much for thinking he wanted in my panties. He wants me to sign a fucking NDA because he’s probably going to share some financial secrets of the megarich with me, and he doesn’t want me and Jada to steal his shit. Some may think the existence of the Illuminati is a conspiracy theory, but not me. Okay, I can deal with that.

  I extend my hand to take the document and pen. “I’ll sign.”

  He cocks his head to one side and looks at me with something like reverence. “You’re one of the most fearless women I’ve ever met, Keisha.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” What I don’t tell him is that I was profoundly afraid during my childhood. I promised myself, I wouldn’t be when I became a woman.

  He pulls a document out of his expensive binder and hands it to me. “Please read it through and sign at the bottom, and I’ll countersign.”

  I take the document and read the top of it, scan the rest and sign it at the bottom.

  When I look back at Tristan, his mouth is in a tight line. “You should read more thoroughly when you’re signing contracts. Not every business person in this world is honest.”

  “What’re you gonna do, sue me? Most of our money went to refurbishing of the building. The small amount of capital KSR has left is like pocket change to you.”

  He takes the NDA, signs his name and places it on his desk. When he returns, he looks nervous. Oh my goodness, I didn’t think anything could make this man nervous. He offers me his hand, I take it, and he doesn’t release it as he leads me to the room across from his office. He takes out his keys and unlocks the door.

  He steps aside and allows me to enter the room before him. For a few seconds, the room is dark, then he flicks a switch and floods the room with light. I feel as if I’ve all of a sudden been transported into the movie Pulp Fiction, and like Ving Rhames’ character, I’m about to be strapped to one of the contraptions in this room, with a red rubber ball in my mouth and be fucked in the ass—hard. For the second time after meeting Tristan White, fight or flight kicks in, and I turn tail and run like a motherfucker.

  ~*~

  51

  Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever

  Chapter Five

  I only get a few feet away before a set of strong arms grab me and pull me against his body. I struggle to get away, but he holds me fast.

  “Keisha, please don’t run from me again,” he implores. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  I go slack in his arms and calm down. He turns me to face him and looks deep into my eyes, and I can see the truth there.

  “I know this is a lot for you to digest all at once.”

  “You think?”

  “Will you let me explain?” He asks.

  I nod, and he leads me back to the threshold of the room.

  My eyes are drawn to the black satin sheets on the bed, adorned by a black, antique wrought-iron headboard, raised on a pedestal in the middle of the room. My Triple-G cowers in a corner, her tiny eyes bulging out like a cartoon character. This disproves my theory that black women don’t cower, but I don’t have to tell White that. My Fairy Hoochie Mama tumbles from one end of the room to the other, like a mini gymnast doing a floor exercise.

  We are surrounded by a room full of devices, I would assume are familiar to him, yet unfamiliar to me—walls of whips, chains, ropes, floggers, canes, vibrators and every other kinky sex toy imaginable. He also has a shitload of those metal loop things mountain climbers use to connect rope, every size shape and variety either hanging from the ceiling or displayed on the walls. There are several other pieces of furniture, if that’s what one calls them, which are used to enhance torturous sex play.

  That song, “S&M” by Rihanna begins playing in my mind, “sticks and stones may break my bones . . . ” I. Don’t. Think. So. Tristan White may be channeling Chris Brown, but I am no Robyn Fenty.

  I look around. For all intents and purposes, we’re in a fucking dungeon; a goddamned torture chamber; a scene that I never thought I would be introduced to in a million years.

  “What the fuck?” Are the first and only words I can manage.

  “This is my lifestyle, my preference for sexual expression.”

  “Is this normal?”

  “What is normal? What’s normal for one may be abnormal for another.”

  “Maybe I chose the wrong words. Is this shit healthy?”

  Tristan looks as if I’ve struck him. “Sexual expression between consenting adults becomes unhealthy only when it’s repressed.”

  “You might have a point,” I concede. “But I don’t have any repressed sexual expressions that I’m just dying to experience right now.” I move further into the room.

  “Do you have any questions?” He asks, following me in and closing the door.

  “So, you’re a sadist, and this is the proposition? You want to bring me in here, and do God knows what to me?”

  “No, I’m not a sadist, although I have some leanings in that direction. I’m so much more. I’m a Dominant in search of a submissive and I believe you are she.”

  “Is that what I would be called? Or is it ‘slave’?” I turn on him with righteous indignation. “How can you approach me about something like this? I’m a black woman with too much pride in my heritage to step back into history two-hundred fucking years. Last I heard, Abraham Lincoln abolished slavery in case you don’t remember that little detail.”

  “Keisha, this scene isn’t meant to be demeaning to you or your ethnicity. A Dom/sub relationship is predicated on trust, and the goal is pleasure not punishment. I’d like you to do it for our mutual pleasure.”

  “Say what?” I massage my temples with my first two fingers on both hands. “How is this supposed to benefit me?”

  “I’m prepared to front all the money for Kente Studio Records with a hefty bonus, in exchange for your agreement to be my submissive.”

 
“And here I thought you just wanted to have regular sex with me.”

  “I do want to have regular sex with you, but not just vanilla all the time.”

  “It comes in flavors?”

  “In my world, there’s plain old vanilla and then everything else.”

  “Then you buy that whole Descartes thing that pain and pleasure are part of a continuum?”

  “I do.”

  “I don’t. Maybe rich people who have everything they could ever dream of have a need to conquer this one final frontier. Well, I’m not the Starship Enterprise, and I don’t want any part of this kinky shit.” I wave my arms around the room. Then my eye lands on a vibrator that looks damned appealing. “Well, maybe this,” I say. “I think I have one like it.”

  Tristan flashes me a weary smile. “I had you pegged as adventurous, fearless, a risk-taker. Was I wrong about you?”

  He looks so disappointed, I kind of want to fuck him right now, and show him there are no hard feelings. Reverse pun intended.

  For some inexplicable reason, I can’t bear the thought that I’ve let this beautiful man down.

  “I want you, Keisha.”

  Those four words are my undoing. I crash into him. His arms go around me, and our mouths connect, followed by hips fusing, and my legs winding around him. There are definitely hard feelings now. Throbbing, hard feelings, touching me right there.

  He finds the bed without looking, and we fall, our lips still locked, bodies writhing, hungry to create the glorious friction we experienced for a few seconds last week. We kiss forever, while our hands explore as much as they can of each other with clothes impeding our progress.

  Tristan hauls us both further up onto the bed, and kneeling, we lock lips again while anxious fingers begin to remove clothing. We only stop kissing long enough to raise arms and remove tops, then we fall onto the bed again. I can feel the heaviness of his need pressing against my belly, but only for a few fleeting seconds. Immediately, his pants and boxers are gone, and I’m eager to be naked myself, because if he doesn’t enter me soon, I fear I’m going to spontaneously combust.

  He stretches to reach into a drawer in a table next to the bed and returns with a condom, which he slides onto his humongous cock.

  My Triple-G sees it and faints. My Fairy Hoochie Mama does the Beyoncé’ “Crazy In Love,” booty dance, “uh oh, uh oh, uh oh, oh no, no,” her tiny round apple bottom bouncing like a rubber ball.

  I allow him to whisk me out of my pants and panties as if he’s a fucking magician, and without stopping to look to align us, Tristan hits the sweet spot.

  “Aargh!” We grunt in concert as he fills me. His breathing is harsh, and his eyes are cloudy with lust. He squeezes out words with difficulty. “You’re tight. How long’s it been for you?”

  “Three and a half . . . years,” I say through a groan. He’s only taken three strokes when I am convinced, this will be, hands down, the best sex I’ve ever had.

  I cry tears of ecstatic joy as I grasp his forearms, and join in the syncopated rhythm, when he begins to move in earnest. We both seem to have lost the ability to form words, because all we are capable of at the moment is movement and sound. Words are superfluous anyway. All that matters right now is what we’re doing to each other. He speeds up, and I match him thrust for thrust.

  I make so much noise, it’s embarrassing. Tristan has this way of moving his hips that’s so sensual, so carnal, it’s like dancing and fucking at the same time. He doesn’t know the meaning of simple up and down, he gets a serious swerve on that I can’t match, but I hold onto him and keep up as best I can. The sensation is unlike any in my sphere of experience.

  He grasps my head and kisses me hard, his tongue dueling with and arresting mine. He releases my lips with a pop and kisses a trail to my neck, still moving, never missing a beat. He shifts his weight onto his elbows and grasps the sides of my torso with his large hands, and his thumbs find my nipples and begin to make frenzied circles on the hardened nubs. This man takes multi-tasking to a whole ‘nother level! I can feel my orgasm building deep inside me as he thrusts on and on.

  I knew it would be different with Tristan, but I didn’t know it would be as enjoyable as this. He kisses me again as he continues the onslaught. Oh, man he has superb stamina! But, who’s complaining? Certainly not me. His tongue should be registered as a weapon because it’s lethal in its ability to exact pleasure. I feel so many sensations all at once, I fear I may explode into a gazillion pieces.

  Somehow, Tristan knows what’s about to happen. “Give it up, Keisha,” he growls. My body vibrates in an uncontrollable quiver beneath his. If he weren’t on top of me, holding me down, I’m positive I would’ve jack-knifed off the bed. My climax is so intense, I scream his name like a litany, not a cliché, with a force to rival Zena, the Princess Warrior’s. I clamp my legs tight around Tristan’s ass and give up the ghost.

  He follows a few seconds later with a more dignified grunt and collapses onto me. Our bodies are slippery with a fine sheen of sweat, but I don’t care. I am so well-fucked, I’d drink a glassful of Tristan’s sweat right about now. My Triple-G feigns gagging herself with two fingers, but my Fairy Hoochie Mama, naked and sweat-slippery in her own right, lies comatose in her little bed.

  Tristan and I are panting, attempting to slow our breathing—to bring our riotous thumping heartbeats back to normal.

  “Wow . . . That was . . .” I don’t know if there are words in the vocabulary acquired through my liberal arts education to describe such pleasure. We are forehead to forehead, and I can feel, rather than see his smile. I’m afraid to open my eyes, as if doing so will erase the experience.

  He raises his torso, still buried inside me, but he doesn’t separate us. He kisses the outside of each of my eyes, removing the tearful remnants. “Open your eyes,” he says, his voice soft. I squint up at him. “I’m sorry if I was too rough—but you’re so out of practice. Are you in pain?” His concern for me is heartbreaking.

  I slip my figurative ‘big girl panties’ on, and answer him. “No.”

  “Then why were you crying?”

  I want to tell him, they were tears of joy because it was just so lovely, but I can’t. I may never see him within the parameters of a sexual experience again after today. He doesn’t need to think I’m a weak, pathetic little ghetto girl who can’t take having a one-day—since it’s not night—stand with a real man. Now I know without a doubt Byron was a chump who didn’t know what the fuck he was doing.

  “I must’ve gotten sweat in my eyes,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant, but a sniffle, followed by a shuddering, involuntary breathing spasm that occurs only after crying, gives me away.

  Tristan presses a gentle kiss onto my forehead and rolls off, carrying me with him. I bury my head into his chest, and he holds me close until I am able to control my chaotic emotions.

  I believe I fall asleep, because the next thing I know, I’m lying face down. A pair of strong hands massage my achy muscles with warm oil. It feels divine.

  “Mmm, you really know how to pamper a girl, Mr. White,” I murmur.

  “That would be part of my duty as your Dom,” he says. “Everyone focuses on the role-playing, the toys—some of which are admittedly implements of pain—but a good Dom wouldn’t put any more on you than you can bear.” He leans over me and kisses a trail across my shoulders. “And I . . . am a good Dom.”

  “I’m sure you are.”

  His hands are so talented, I can’t refute how good he is, so I don’t. Firm fingers traverse my lower back to my glutes, then he palms my ass like he’s testing for ripe fruit.

  “You have a beautiful spankable ass, Keisha. And your skin is a gorgeous, warm shade of caramel, like the undertone of a Nicoise olive. My favorite.” Before I know what he’s doing, he brings his hand down onto one of my cheeks with a loud thwack.

  I gasp, and I’m about to turn around and cuss his ass out, but what comes from my mouth is a moan. Of pleasure. Well, I’ll be damn
ed if that shit didn’t feel fabulous. I turn my head to look back at him, and blink in disbelief.

  “Okay,” I say. “Do that again. Just like that, but no harder.”

  “You’re quite demanding,” he says. “You sure you’ve never been a Domme?”

  I grin up at him impishly. The kinky fucker looks damn sexy with his just-fucked hair and narrowed, blue eyes.

  “No, but I’d like you to do that again,” I say. I see a fleeting look of relief on his face, before it morphs into lust, and he gazes at me through hooded eyes.

  “As you wish, Ms. Beale.” He says and runs his hand down my back to my behind, where he circles the opposite cheek and then gives it a whack. He repeats that motion several times, until I’m throbbing between my legs like I wasn’t just fucked into oblivion by him a short while ago.

  Tristan takes a deep breath and shifts so that he covers me with his body, but holds himself as if in a push-up, careful not to crush me into the bed. I can feel his rock hard erection pressing into my ass crack as he moves my hair to the side and kisses my shoulder.

  “I can smell that you want me to fuck you again,” he whispers into my ear, and begins to trail kisses around my ear and down my neck.

  Our warm skin together feels almost feverish, we’re so hot—both in temperature—and turned on. Tristan’s chest hair tickles my back as his hand moves down, his fingertips barely touch my skin, skims my waist, over my hip, and back to my waist. He pushes my knees apart with his, and my breath hitches.

  His erection slides between my legs, and his hand travels up my thigh to my behind. He caresses my ass again, and then trails his fingers down between my legs. One arm goes under me, and he hauls me into a semi-kneeling position, as if I’m worshipping in supplication at an altar. The way he has my ass all tooted up in the air reminds me of Ayla in The Clan of the Cave Bear.

  Stretching his hand again to the drawer in the bedside table, he grabs several things and lays them on the bed near my head where I can see them: the sleep mask he bought at my store, two lengths of black ribbon, and a condom. He shifts most of his weight on his knees, but I am still pinned underneath him.