The Venture Capitalist by LaVie EnRose, L.V. Lewis Page B

thing I’m doing with Ms. Beale. I observe Keisha as the water sluices over her olive skin. She doesn’t seem at all coy or shy about her unclothed state, which pleases me. She has to do some form of exercise on a regular basis, because her musculature is firm, yet her skin is soft and smooth to the touch.
    God she’s beautiful—pert nipples show no sign of being negatively affected by gravity. Her waistline is slender and in proportion to gently flared hips, that lead to a perfectly rounded ass, which tapers off to slim thighs, and toned legs. Keisha Beale is a wonderful package to behold. I avert my eyes before she opens hers through the water cascading over her face to look at me.
    “These shower heads are awesome,” she says.
    “I’m glad you’re enjoying them.” I then turn to give myself one final rinse before stepping out of the shower stall. Keisha takes my cue without needing to be prompted and does the same. I make short shrift of drying myself, then envelope her in a towel as she emerges from the shower. I leave her alone in the bathroom to give her privacy so she can dry herself.
    I take the time in my Grotto alone to tidy up, which is a task that usually falls to my submissive. However, I handle the dubious task in this case as much to give myself something to do as to use the time to solidify my game plan. No doubt, Keisha enjoyed our interlude just now, but she doesn’t strike me as a woman who would sell her soul for a good fuck. I’ll need to approach her cautiously if I’m to be successful in getting a neophyte such as herself to agree to my terms.
    I call my housekeeper when I’m done cleaning, and Keisha takes that moment to re-enter the room with one towel wrapped around her delectable body and another wrapped turban-style around her head. She looks around, closely observing some of the bigger pieces in my play room while I’m on the intercom.
    “Mrs. Naven, please prepare a wine tray for Ms. Beale and me.”
    “Sure, Mr. White. Would you prefer red or white?”
    “Red, please. Something that will go well with seasonal fruits and cheeses.”
    “I have just the thing. Where shall I serve you?”
    “If you would leave it on the hall table across from my office, I’ll retrieve it from there.”
    “Coming right up.”
    “Thank you,” I say and hang up. I join Keisha at the one feature wall in the room that displays artwork.
    “Theses pieces are certainly appropriate to the décor,” she says. “Where’d you get them?”
    “I purchased them at a gallery in New York from an artist friend who’s in the lifestyle.”
    “Interesting,” she says and moves on to run her hand over my favorite whipping bench. “What is this used for?” she asks.
    “To bind a person to it while the binder uses a crop, flogger, paddle, or cane on the bindee. It’s literally called a whipping bench, but I’m not fond of using whips.”
    “My mother’s ancestors would appreciate that,” she says.
    “So, your mother is African American?” I already knew this, but I don’t want to let her know at this point. She’s still a bit skittish, and I need her to stay. Now that I’ve had her—twice—I don’t want to let her go.
    She looks me in the eye as she answers. “Yes.”
    “And your father?”
    “Brazilian.”
    “Ah, a Latina. Yet you identify more with your African American roots?”
    “Self-preservation, Mr. White. It’s just easier to identify with what people see first.”
    I can’t pretend to know the crap she deals with on a daily basis in regards to her ethnicity. It angers me that anyone would marginalize her in that way. In that moment, I surprise myself, because I just met Ms. Beale, but already, I’m protective of her.
    “I see an intelligent, accomplished and beautiful woman.” These words seem to make her more shy than standing naked in front of me.
    “My friends and I wish everyone like you would see us in that way.”
    “So do I,” I say. I change the subject then,