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Authors: L. V. Lewis
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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
C hapter F ive
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
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
C hapter F ive
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
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