Latitia Ch. 03

I woke before she did, something rare since I retired, and laid there, watching her sleep and processing still. My dreams had been a hodgepodge of images rather than a story. And as I thought of those images, my bride in an iron collar, my bride standing on an auction block, and, ultimately, my beautiful Nubian Princess tied to a whipping post, screaming I felt, to be perfectly trite about it, a stirring in my groin. And in those dreams, it wasn't always me dressed in white with the big broad-brimmed straw hat on. Sometimes I was just watching and I knew, in my dream, that my dick would get hard.

So I watched her sleep thinking how beautiful she is even with a crust under her nose from the way it had been running and a line of drool from the corner of her mouth as she slept with her mouth open from the way her nose was plugged and her sinuses still swollen. I wanted to kiss her but I didn't. That would not have been appropriate for what I had in mind.

My need to pee took over, and I rolled out of bed, being very careful to move slowly, not wanting to wake her. I went into the bathroom, peed, brushed my teeth, rinsed with Listerine, washed my hands, and then went back to the bedroom.

She was awake, laying on her back, looking very fetching with her legs slightly parted and an odd half smile on her face.

"Well, girl," I said and at that word, her eyes narrowed quickly, an almost automatic response that she quickly staunched, "Do you intend to keep your lazy ass in bed all day?"

Her face changed about five times in a second, from anger to smiling to quizzical to anger and ending with the downcast eyes of surrender.

"No, suh," she said.

"Then shag your lazy black ass down to the kitchen and get the coffee going," I said.

She seemed to hesitate, I suppose she was doing her own processing, and I started for the closet.

"I guess I'll get the belt," I said.

That got her moving.

"No, suh," she said, "no, suh, ah ain't lazy, ah'm a good girl," all said as she rolled out of bed and left the room.

My dick was hard and I hadn't even taken one of my blue pills.

When I got to the kitchen after taking the time to dress in jeans and one of my "weekend shirts," a well-worn Oxford cloth button down that had been washed so many times it was almost like silk, and selecting the heavy leather black belt, a holdover from long ago days riding a motorcycle. I didn't put on shoes or socks. I thought it fit the image.

Latitia/Daisy was busy at the coffee maker, pouring two cups.

When she brought the coffee I leaned back in my chair and looked her up and down.

"Gettin' pretty uppity, ain't you Daisy?" I asked, "Since when do you eat at the white folks' table."

Her eyes got big at that and I saw a flash of anger.

"Are you getting lippy now, girl?" I asked.

Her eyes went to the floor and she took the second cup of coffee and started to walk back toward the counter.

I got up and caught her, my hand on her shoulder turning her, and said, "Latitia, come, sit. Let's eat and I'm pretty sure we need to talk."

She met my eyes then, and I thought I could see a little shudder as she, well, became Latitia again, shedding her Daisy persona.

She put the coffee cup down, turned, threw her arms around my neck, and kissed me, a hungry desperate kiss.

I held her, my hands exploring her back, my mouth meeting hers, until she finally broke the kiss and laid her cheek on my shoulder.

"David," she said, her voice so soft it was barely audible, "I'm frightened."

I patted her back and said, as softly, "I know, baby, let's eat, and then we'll talk."

She pushed far enough back to focus on my eyes. "Ummmmmm," she said, a soft giggle in the back of her voice now, "may I get dressed?"

"Fuck no," I said without hesitation, pushing her farther back so I could look her up and down, "I think I like this."

She smiled, that brilliant smile, those ivory teeth gleaming against the darkness of her skin, and said, "White men!"

I chuckled, reached out and pinched her nipple hard enough to draw a little yelp, and said, "Negress."

"Okay, baby," she said, "you win. Sit and I'll make breakfast for you, naked, and then we'll talk."

And that is what we did. The only conversation was my laugh when the bacon popped, she jumped and said, "FUCK!" and then put on an apron to finish cooking.

We ate, Latitia isn't as good a cook as I am, but she makes a passable breakfast, and then did the dishes, her washing and me drying and putting things away.

Chores done, I hung her apron on the hook on the back of the pantry door, took her hand, and led her into the front room. I sat on the couch, patted beside me, and then helped her get adjusted, her head in my lap so I could stroke her hair as I knew she liked.

"Okay, my love," I said, smiling down at her and brushing her forehead lightly, "you first."

She started to speak but I cut her off.

"Wait," I said, "let me get this said first."

I took a deep breath.

"Latitia, I love you. And you need to know that if you ever decide that this," and I hesitated, looking for the right word, "this, well, this exploration, this experience, this whatever it is, is too much all you have to do is say 'no more,' and it will be over."

Her eyes had been holding mine as I spoke.

I took a breath, kissed my fingertips and laid them on her forehead as I had done thousands of times before, and said, "Okay. Now, really, you first."

It was her turn to take a deep breath, hold it, and slowly let it out. I recognized the signs and knew she was arranging her thoughts.

"David," she said, slowly, obviously weighing each word, "I'm terrified."

I didn't say anything. I just kept stroking her hair lightly.

"David," she started again, still speaking very slowly, "I liked it. NO," she said, the word barked, "I fucking LOVED it."

She took a deep breath before she went on.

"David, I loved when you called me 'girl,' I loved it when you told me to do things, I fucking ADORED it when I found myself talking like some fucking caricature from an old movie."

She wound down and took another deep breath.

"And yes," she said, surprising me when a tear overflowed and ran down her temple, "I LOVE my new slave name. Christ," and she shook her head and chuckled, "Daisy. Has there EVER been a more white bread name?"

I started to speak but she went on.

"David," she said, her voice calm again, "it scares the FUCK out of me. Is it possible, really possible, that all of that insane crap I read when I was writing my dissertation, all of the pure racist, bigoted nonsense about the black race being naturally subservient, about the black race NEEDING guidance, is TRUE?" her voice was rising as she spoke.

She was crying now, but she finished with, "Can it be possible that slavery is our natural condition?"

She was looking up at me, eyes big, tears flowing freely now, "Can that be possible?"

I brushed her forehead and her hair, waiting for her to wind down.

"Tell me," she said, her voice barely audible, "Can that be possible?"

She relaxed, finally, but the tears and mucus from her running nose kept flowing, making the material of my jeans wet.

"Let's find out," I said.

Her eyes got big and she opened her mouth but this time it was me shushing her with my finger on her lips.

"Hear me out," I said.

She relaxed.

"I think," I said, smiling, "and I've been thinking about pretty much nothing else all night, that we should lead two lives for a while."

She didn't say anything but her eyebrows went up in question.

"Through the week, Monday through Friday, you'll be Dr. Latitia Morgan, teacher, scholar, leader of seminars, and a rising young star among black scholars," I said.

She was watching me, her eyes holding mine, but she didn't say anything.

"From Friday night until Monday morning," I went on, "you'll be Daisy the slave."

She still didn't say anything so I went on.

"For my part, Monday through Friday I'll be David, the dutiful house husband, greeting you with a Margarita, rubbing your feet, making your dinner, and keeping the house nice," I said.

She lay still, watching.

"Friday evening I'll become Massa David, the slave owner who might just have a taste for his house slave and a bit of a sadistic streak besides," I said.

She still lay, unmoving, watching, making no move to wipe her eyes or her nose.

"You think about that, Latitia, before you commit. And besides that, for this weekend, I'm just a white boy who desires nothing but the pleasure of his beautiful Nubian Princess," I finished.

She held my eyes for a long five-count and then said, "Would you really use the belt on me?"

I smiled and said, "If you're a good girl, I won't need to."

She was crying. No, that's not quite right. But what she was doing was more than just "weeping." Tears were flowing freely now and her nose was running badly, but there was none of the physical reactions in her body, the shuddering or sudden tensions you associate with the word "crying" or "bawling."

And I was lightly stroking her hair, just looking at her, holding her eyes with mine.

When she opened her mouth to speak thick strings of mucus-laden saliva connected her lips and I had to fight the urge to kiss her.

"I am so frightened," she said and I couldn't help the image of that same line coming from Mel Gibson in Braveheart as he faced his final day.

"You can always say 'no,'" I said.

"No, David," she said, "I don't think I can. I have to experience it."

I let her cry for a while before I said, "Don't worry, I won't sell you."

Her eyes went big and her breath caught.

And I knew what I had to say next.

"Well, unless you get too uppity," I said, "and honestly, you would look good on the auction block, and a fine breeder like you would probably bring a good price."

That broke the ice. She was still crying but now there was laughter too as she lifted her legs for leverage and then quickly rolled up into a sitting position and then stepped off of the couch to stand before me.

"Well, maybe I will, white boy," she said and the look on her face can only be described as crazed. Her tears were still flowing, down her cheeks now, her nose was running freely, sheeting mucus across her mouth and chin to hang in two distinct ropes about to touch her breasts, her eyes were big, white showing all around the dark irises, and her teeth were bared in a snarl, "but fo' now," and I noted she was slipping into that faux ghetto patois of her grandmother, "dis Negro gots to have her pussy licked."

Her fingers dug into my hair and pulled me to her, not the usual gentle pressure when I was in this position for her, but pulling me hard, deliberately rubbing my cheeks and forehead against that coarse hair of her pubis.

"Get in there, white boy," she said, her voice harsh now, still a little bubbly with her tears and snot and the phlegm in her throat, "Give me what I wants."

I opened my mouth as she scooted forward a little, covering my face now with her nether lips, her fingers twisting in my hair, hurting me.

I sucked the tender skin, and probed with my tongue, tasting her love honey and finding the hard button of her clitoris.

My building erection was bound up in the jeans and it was starting to hurt.

On some kinky, and yes, perverted level, I liked it.

My mouth was busy and I could feel that I was getting to her. Her fingers would twist in my hair forcing me to cry out, and I could feel the tension in her muscles where my hands lay on her hips and ass. She grunted, a sound I hadn't heard from her before, and bent her knees a little, pressing herself harder against me and forcing my head back, bending my neck at a painful angle as her thick nectar started filling my mouth.

Another of those grunts, this time the sound ramping up into a louder sound. I was reminded of the high school gym where boys were trying to impress each other with how much they could bench press, that sort of strained sound best written as Charlie Brown's cry when Lucy pulls the football away - aaaaaaAAAAAAUUUUUUUGGGGHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhh.

And I was drowning.

Her orgasm filled my mouth with that thick, oily produce of her Bartholin's and Skene's glands along with the mucus membranes lining her vagina. I had to cough as the power of her orgasm forced her honey past my epiglottis into my trachea and my body rebelled at the fluid being forced into my lungs.

Well, I tried to cough, but she had me pressed so tightly against her body that her thick honey just splashed to cover my face and her thighs.

Her fingers twisted harder. My scream was bubbly, almost silent, and I heard her yelling, "That's right, white boy, that's where you belong."

With a final grunt, and I could feel her entire body clench this time, she came again, using her fingers in my hair to move my face around, coating my face and hair in a thick white release. She was flowing freely now, not the watery "squirting" you see in those porno movies, this was thick and hot and sticky and white, almost like my semen. And it went on. She would make that deep-in-her-chest grunting sound and a wave would wash over me. Then she would draw a slow breath, hissing her intake like she was taking a hit on a marijuana joint, and do it again.

And I loved it. I was being bathed in her pleasure and I adored it.

Suddenly, with a final grunt, all tension left her body. She was like a marionette whose strings were suddenly cut as she sunk to her knees, her fingers still wrapped in my hair, and met my eyes.

She was almost as much a mess as I was. She was crying and her tears had her cheeks wet. Her nose was running and the mucus had changed from almost water-clear to white. Her mouth was slightly open and she was drooling. That mixture of tears and snot and drool sheeted down her chin and ran down her chest making her belly shiny.

I was surprised when she kissed me. It was unexpected, given what had happened during the past few minutes - I have no idea how long I had been on my knees. It was slick and sticky and salty and a very good kiss. It was a lingering kiss. My arms wrapped around her and found her back and hers were on my back and on the back of my head, not pulling my hair now but holding me to the kiss.

After some timeless period of delight, she broke the kiss and pushed me to arm's length.

"Remembuh, Massa," she said, falling into that slave patois, "sumtahms we rebelled."

I leaned forward and kissed her, chuckling at the thin silver thread that connected our lips as I pulled away.

"And you remember, girl, that uppity negroes learn the feel of the strap," I said.

"I know," she said softly, her diction back to perfect, "and now, I believe you promised your Nubian Princess a weekend of pleasure."

"I did," I said, and that is what I gave her.

We showered and I washed her carefully before drawing a bath as hot as she could stand it and watching her, as one of those Blake Shelton songs puts it, "sink to her nose in a bubble bath."

Over the course of that weekend, I gave her at least a hundred orgasms. I used my fingers and my mouth. A couple of times we had sex but at my age, even with Viagra and a beautiful, willing bride, erections are, well, not rare, but special.

But my fingers and mouth worked on command and I had long since shed any inhibitions when it came to pleasuring my bride. At one point I spent over an hour, this time I knew the time because of the clock on the headboard of the bed, with her on her belly, her hips on a doubled-up pillow, and my hands holding her cheeks spread wide while my tongue probed her anus. This was a special treat for both of us so we didn't do it often, but this weekend I did it several times. Her orgasm when I did that was different, not the quick squirt and hard contractions. She just flowed while whispering, "God, yes," over and over.

I used her loofah sponge, that stiff, bristly thing she used sometimes in the shower, on special places, her armpits, that sensitive skin on the inside of her upper arms and thighs, and then, sitting on her legs so she couldn't get away, on the soles of her feet and then tickling them until she peed.

I made love to her under the blankets, including an electric blanket turned on to "high" until we were both running with sweat, and then cooled parts of her with the ice bag.

When she went to the bathroom I kissed her as she did her business and then I wiped her carefully, a special intimacy we both enjoyed.

I cooked for her and fed her.

At one point, I ran down to the grocery store and got a bucket of strawberries, chocolate syrup (the kind that gets hard), and a gallon of the Moose Tracks ice cream she likes. When I got back to the house I spent another hour feeding her strawberries dipped in chocolate and ice cream as she laid back on the bed, utterly relaxed.

It was a good weekend.

And on Monday we entered our new normal.