Latitia Ch. 04

[Author's Note: After publishing Chapter 2 of this tale I found this comment - - Personally, as a Black woman, in spite of and yet also precisely because of the treacherous racial-sexual terrain this story ventures into, I think this story is psycho-emotionally sensitive and perceptive as well as being sexually arousing. I got hooked and really hope that you continue this story. - - To the anonymous commenter, let me say thank you. I'm not sure how, but Literotica has a way to respond directly via email. Please contact me. I would LOVE to discuss this with someone of your sex and race. I'm working off of a month I spent with a lovely black girl when I was a junior in college more years ago than I care to think about. There was, as you point out, a clear racial-sexual tension between us and when we role-played, well, we had some discussions very near to what I described between Latitia and David after that first time. If you don't want to get into this further I understand, but I hope you do. Thanks either way.]

For the next month, we lived those two lives. Our Monday morning through Friday evening lives were pretty much what we had been living. I kept the house nice, visited the gym regularly, something necessary at my age if I wanted to maintain any physical condition at all, and attended the meetings of the historic society. I greeted her every evening with a Margarita in hand and dinner on the table. I was, in sum, the perfectly attentive househusband who had been wildly lucky by finding a young, beautiful wife.

On the weekends, Daisy was gradually accepting her new role. The biggest change, for now, was what Daisy wore. I fashioned her a loin cloth from hemp rope and very coarse burlap. On Friday night I did not greet her with a Margarita in hand. Rather, she was required to go to her bedroom, strip naked, scrub her makeup off, strip her nail polish, remove her jewelry, and come to me for instructions wearing only that loin cloth.

When she was Latitia she was assertive, more so than before we started this experiment. She called me "white boy" regularly and seemed enamored of the image of standing as I was on my knees, in the classic American blowjob position with my face between her legs, using the word she brought home from her antebellum studies, "pleasuring" her.

I noticed that her, well, her "kinkiness" if there is such a word, was getting more bizarre, and on one of those deep levels I welcomed it. I was studying and researching and was pretty sure that on weekends it was going to get DAMN kinky before we were done.

On Thursday of the second week of our new life, dinner eaten and dishes in the dishwasher, I was on my knees, as I was most evenings now, when she grunted her orgasm.

I tasted the oily saltiness of her pleasure and tried to cry out when her fingers in my hair suddenly twisted, hurting me, and I tasted the acrid, bitter, saltiness of urine.

When I tried to pull away her fingers twisted harder, holding me there.

And I surrendered.

I swallowed.

"That's right, white boy," she said, her voice thick and deep, a tone I hadn't heard before.

She grunted again and I felt the tension in her ass under my hands and the bitter acrid taste in my mouth was replaced with her salty, oily nectar.

I understood what Latitia was doing. In part, well, our sex life had always had a strong component of, oh, let's call it "experimentation." When you're three times your bride's age you do whatever you need to do to keep her interested and excited. And her new aggressive stance was just an extension of that.

For my part, I understood as well that as she was coming to understand and accept her Daisy persona, I was leading her into a world that was opposed to her lifetime of training, of the morals and mores her culture had taught her since she was old enough to understand them. And since what I was doing seemed to be better than my Viagra when it came to my, well, my "performance" with her, I wanted to be sure not to blow it.

But I was studying. And I was doing a little shopping on the side.

On the weekends, when my beautiful Daisy was doing her chores and I would inspect them, I made sure to praise her good work.

I was also trying to get her used to her new life in little ways.

It's amazing how easy it is to find things on the Internet, isn't it?

I got her something called a "posture collar" from a website specializing in "Bondage, Discipline, Sadism, and Masochism," something I quickly learned you could find easily on the web by searching for BDSM. It was a heavy leather thing, about three inches wide with a little pocket that accepted a stainless steel spike that was provided - for fifty-nine dollars it should have been. When I put the collar on her, her tears were flowing and her nose running although she stayed perfectly still, on her knees, as I did so. That sharp little spike nestled in the soft skin under her chin, forcing her to hold a head-high posture or she would poke herself with it. I put it on her whenever we went out after I bought it.

From the same store, I bought a purpose-made spanking strap. It was a beautiful piece of leatherwork, with a braided handle, and a two-foot-long strap of leather, hard and yet flexible. I went to WalMart's sporting goods section and bought some "glove oil" that I carefully worked into the strap.

I searched the internet to find a nightclub that, well, catered to our new life.

Finding places with a BDSM theme was easier. Finding something relating to our new life experiment, though, required more searching, but that is a tale for a later chapter of this narrative.

I visited The Dark Side, a private club I had found that catered to the BDSM life, one afternoon while Latitia was at work. The place itself was in the city's exurbs, you know, that band around any city where municipal planning and zoning do not apply and county regulations are, well, let's just say, neither terribly restrictive nor very tightly enforced.

It sat on a large plot of land, reached by following Google Maps to an address and then following a narrow tree-lined lane. The building itself was unremarkable. Just a sprawling concrete block building painted a light tan that almost blended into the surrounding earth. The parking lot was hard-packed dirt, with parking spots marked by wheel bumpers rather than paint. A single large double door, centered on the wall facing the parking lot, was painted black and the only marking on the outside was a discrete sign over the door, in black of course, identifying The Dark Side."

Inside there was a small entrance area with a podium. Access to the club proper was through a second door, appropriately black and very heavy, or at least made up to look heavy, with a wooden "Z" frame and heavy studs showing.

The woman who emerged from the door, presumably summoned by some sort of bell arrangement, was striking. She was tall, I guessed her at 5'10" or so in her bare feet, and well over 6' in the black stiletto heels she wore. Her hair was a striking white and her skin was so pale you thought of sleeping in a coffin by day. Her lips were scarlet, her eyes were such a bright blue I assumed they were contact lenses, with eye shadow in blue as well to highlight them. Her eyebrows were dyed to match her hair. From her throat, where a sort of turtleneck top covered it, to the tops of her shoes she was completely covered in black material so clingy there was no doubt that underwear was not part of her wardrobe. The only skin visible was her face and hands. The plastic name tag prominently featured over her left breast proclaimed her as Bambee.

"May I help you?" she asked, and her voice made me think of Juilliard or maybe the Jefferson Airplane. It was a clear soprano and I wondered if she sang.

I was a bit stumped.

"Ummmm," I started, "I found this place online and thought it might be a place my wife and I would fit in."

"Oh," she said, kind of leaving me hanging.

"So I thought I'd look the place over," I said at last.

"It's a private club, sir," she said.

"Oh," I said and started to turn away.

"This is a one-time, introductory offer. You pay the one hundred dollar temporary member fee and you have a one-time admittance. If you want to come back, the hundred dollars is applied to your thousand dollar initiation fee and we'll set up a one hundred dollars a month membership fee automatic withdrawal from your checking account," she said.

The hundred bucks wasn't a big deal to me and, honestly, I was kind of captivated by the well-thought-out professionalism of the place. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but this wasn't it. I guess I anticipated some sort of a biker bar with attitude and instead, this felt more like a restaurant that had some Michelin stars.

So I said, "One question. Can I get a reservation for Friday night?"

Her long fingernails clicked on a keyboard for a few seconds and she said, "8:00 all right?"

"That works," I said, and pulled out my AMAC imprinted VISA card.

"AMAC?" you ask. The Association of Mature American Citizens. Kind of the conservative answer to the AARP. Anyway, it gives me a whole bunch of cash-back offers so I use it. Maybe a hundred bucks wasn't a big deal, but if I could save two I did it every time. That's what comes from having an economics minor I suppose.

Paperwork completed I asked if I could take a look.

"Of course," she said, and led me through that black door.

Inside, it was a restaurant like any other. Well, it had tables, mostly smaller two-tops if my memory of a summer working in a resort is accurate, with a scattering of bigger four-tops. I could see that this had been laid out by someone who understood the restaurant business. The wait staff could circulate easily and diners would be able to get to the dance floor or bathrooms without much trouble.

Then I realized what the real difference was.

Along one wall was a series of, well, call them "devices" for want of a better word. There was an X-shaped construction of 2X6s, clearly a confinement device. A little farther down the wall was a stock that looked like it could be straight out of some early American colony with three holes, one for a person's head and two for hands. There was a pole, about three feet high, topped with a dildo that looked like a human erection but was about 150 percent of scale. A horse, a vaulting horse that I recognized from my time as the dad of a hard-core gymnast, stood and I wondered what purpose it served. Finally, an odd contraption of pipes and pulleys sat alongside the rest. I wondered what it did.

Other than that wall of contraptions, it was a pretty standard restaurant with a full-length bar on one wall, a small stage on the back wall with a small dance floor in front of it. Evidently, there was live music from time to time.

"Can I get a menu?" I asked.

"We don't like to let the physical menu out," she said, "it's not like we advertise a lot, but feel free to look."

So I looked and it wasn't as bad as I'd feared. Yeah, it was a bit pricey, but no worse than any other reasonably high-end restaurant.

I was smiling as I headed back to the house and still as I got out the sewing machine left over from my second wife, and the material I had purchased to make Daisy's loincloth. It took about an hour to make a dress. Well, to make a sack from the coarse burlap material with holes for arms and her head.

I made her a Gumbo and Jambalaya dinner, greeted her with a Margarita, and later that night tended to her feet with hot water and Epsom salts and then a loofah sponge. I took my time. We sat side by side, watching first a rerun of Spenser for Hire while her feet soaked, and then the evening news. Well, she watched the news while I did her feet and listened. We had joked in the past that her "hall pass" was Avery Brooks, the actor who played Hawk in the series.

"Hall pass?" Oh, that's an old joke, well, a sort of "man's joke" anyway, or a married couples joke. You were allowed a "hall pass," one time to let your sexual inhibitions go with someone not your spouse. Anyway, she watched Spenser and Hawk and I did her feet. I was naked, the way she liked me in the evening, and she would give me direction from time to time. She'd say things like, "That's right white boy," or, "Oww, be careful clumsy."

I washed and exfoliated them and then used the nail file to carefully shape her nails. I did the cotton-balls-between-the-toes thing and then did her nails in an iridescent white.

She scooted forward and I used my mouth and tongue to bring her to orgasm.

When she was satisfied she smiled and patted my head.

"God," she said with a sigh, "I DO love you, white boy."

I kissed where she was leaking and smiled up at her. "And I love you, my Nubian Goddess."

She giggled at that and then, with an odd smile, said, "Well, white boy, my feet need love too."

So I bent and kissed her feet.

No, I bent and made love to her feet. I kissed the instep and the arch and then across the tops. I kissed each toe and then sucked it gently. I probed between each pair of toes with my tongue, looking up at her and enjoying, very much, the smile on her face.

I said, "I love you," to each foot and then, looking up and meeting her eyes, gently took her feet in my hands and held them together, and laid my now-firm erection between her arches.

"I love you," I said, as I set up a slow rhythm, making love to her feet like that.

"Mmmmm, and I love you, baby," she said. I figured the use of "baby" instead of "white boy" showed I was getting to her.

"God, you are so beautiful," I said and, oddly, that seemed to break the spell.

She grinned at that, not a smile but a grin, and said, "That's right, I am. Now keep doing what you're doing, you perverted white boy, while I watch and see who we're at war with today."

I was disappointed that I had somehow ruined the mood, but by then my little head had taken over from the one on my shoulders and I was in full rut. When I finally grunted my release she patted my head and said, "Good boy. Now lick up your mess and let's go to bed."

So I did and we did.

The next day was Friday, and I couldn't really concentrate on much. I was anxious to take Daisy to The Dark Side and see her reaction.

When she got home she went right to the bedroom.

I waited, the burlap sack dress on the little table beside me.

When she came into the room I was, as always, amazed that this beautiful woman had chosen a geezer like me. Her face was scrubbed, her hair picked into a round cap, and the loincloth she wore added just a hint of modesty. Her small conical breasts drew my eyes as they always did. I also noticed that her toenails were still that iridescent white I had applied, a fact I filed away for future reference.

She was smiling too, a happy smile so different from the sort of predatory grin Latitia had taken to wearing. She was purely Daisy now, and I watched as she came to me, easing to her knees, laying her palms flat on her thighs, and slowly moving her eyes up until they met mine.

"Does ah please my Massuh?" she asked in that accent so thick sometimes it was hard to translate into simple English.

"You know you do, good girl," I said and her smile spread even farther. It was the smile of a girl who just won the spelling bee or the gymnastics tournament. Her face was joy distilled.

"And now I have a present for you," I said.

Her eyes got big but she didn't say anything.

"Stand up, Daisy," I said and watched her stand with that athlete's grace.

I stood too.

"Arms up," I said and she put her arms up, stretching as though she was trying to touch the ceiling.

I liked her natural look and had been rubbing Rogaine into her armpits and low on her belly. It was working and I loved the look of those coarse little black peppercorns when she stood like that. She giggled when I ran my finger through them.

She watched as I shook the sack dress out, and then moved her arms to help me get it on her.

"Come along, Daisy," I said, leading her into the bedroom and swinging the door shut so we could look at her in the full-length mirror on the back of the door.

"Well, Daisy, what do you think?" I asked. When she didn't say anything I added, "You may speak freely, girl."

"Massah," she said after she looked for a few seconds and drew a deep breath, "Ah loves it. Ah truly does, but, suh, it i'itates mah nipples."

I noticed the points where her nipples were hard and pushing against the coarse material.

"It's a good look for you, Daisy," I said, patting her ass, finding the sensation of firm girl underneath the scratchy material sensuous.

"Now you stay," I said, patting her ass again.

I got the posture collar out of what I was starting to think of as the "Daisy Drawer," along with the leather leash I had bought along with it.

"Head up, girl," I said and I felt her tremble a little as I put the collar on her, locked it in place with the little brass padlock, and then hooked the leash.

A single tear ran down her cheek.

I smiled, brushed the tear away, and said, "Don't worry, Daisy, I'm not going to sell you."

Her eyes got big at that and I thought for a moment I had gone too far and she would call our, well, our "experiment" off.

Instead, she said, "Thank you, Massah. I's yore good girl."

I called an Uber. I wasn't sure what to expect at The Dark Side, but I didn't want to be driving home drunk, especially with Daisy looking like she did.

This was our first, well, our first "outing," with Daisy, and I liked the tension I felt in her.

"Please," she said softly.

"Please, what, girl?" I asked.

"Please, suh, don't sell me," she said, and you could almost hear the tears just below the surface.

I patted her cheek and said, "I told you I wouldn't," I said.

"Evuh?" she asked.

I tried for a harsh, almost predatory, grin. Okay, I was trying to match her grin.

"Now Daisy," I said, trying for the same tone I might have used when I had to tell my five-year-old daughter she couldn't have something, "I didn't say that."

She moaned, "Please, suh."

I didn't answer.

At The Dark Side we went in and this time the Hostess station was manned by a clearly anorexic woman. I suppose you could say she was pretty and I guess she was in that sort of Twiggy way. She was dressed in two pasties covering the small bumps that were her breasts, and a small triangle of cloth barely covering her labia, presumably held on with paste of some kind since there were no supporting strings or straps. The name tag on her right pasty identified her as Domino.

"Morgan for 8:00," I said.

She did something on the keyboard and said, "Yes, sir, this way."

From behind I was more convinced that she was a true anorexic. Below her ribs, each of which stood out clearly, her waist couldn't have been more than about 18 inches. The ball joints of her hips stood out clearly. Her elbows were the biggest parts of her arms and her knees were the biggest parts of her legs.

She led us to a table.

I had been looking around as we walked across to the table and it was obvious that this was more-or-less a clothing-optional establishment. When Domino indicated the table and said, "Monique will be with you in a minute," I turned to Daisy and said, softly, "Arms up, girl."

Her eyes got big but she raised her arms and didn't protest as I pulled the sack dress over her head and off of her.

"Come along now," I said, and led her to the wall with the various devices. As we worked our way among the tables I noticed that it was mostly couples although a few foursomes, and mostly men accompanied by submissive women in various states of undress. Mostly, but not all. And honestly, when I saw a mature, very matronly woman, her grey hair striking, feeding occasional bites to a young man I doubted could order a beer legally who was on his knees beside her, I felt an odd stirring in my groin.