Ain't Your Bitch (Interracial Urban Erotica)(183)
I watch with my mouth open and my pussy still dripping as Mr. Rodin strolls out of the room. I don't move until I hear him walk up the stairs and turn on the shower in the master bathroom.
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Ain't Your Bitch
His Chocolate Obsession
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Looking around me, I'm a bit mesmerized. The chains hanging from the ceiling, the table that's slanted with leather cuffs bolted to it. The windows are covered with thick black curtains and on a dresser is an assortment of dildos in a myriad of sizes. Who knows what's in the drawers of the dresser. Could be anything. My guess is that it holds more sex toys, whips, chains, butt plugs.
Oh, hell. What have I gotten myself into?
My name is Jazmine Malik, and I'm a 19 years old proud black woman. My mother came from Nigeria when she was only 8, and has taught me my culture since the day I was born.
I started college this year after a gap year where I spent time in South Africa with my mother. I was 18, then. It was ostensibly a missions trip but we spent most of our days on the beach and very little time in the hospital where we were meant to be entertaining children. It's not like we're slackers. The nurses kicked us out because we were in the way.
We ended up in a little house on a beach with soft, white sands. It was rare that we would see anyone else on this beach except past the huge rocks where the public portion was. Our small house was next to a few others, and then down the way was a huge house with a dog that was always on the balcony, watching us and barking when we passed by.
Every morning that same balcony had a man, his white skin strange to see in this land though of course not unheard of. I wondered often if he was a doctor, but he didn't have the same late hours as most doctors in this country.
Even though he was far away, I could tell that his cheek bones were high and defined and his nose and chin were both strong. He had the look of a wealthy man summering away from an overbearing mother and a business that would have him dead at 35 from a heart attack.
On my morning runs I'd sometimes wave to him. He'd chuckle and wave back, but for a long time that was the extent of our interaction. It wasn't until I missed my morning run that I finally got to speak to him... and more.
That morning, my mother had suddenly come down with a mystery illness, and I had to rush her to the same hospital where we were meant to be working. When I left her there in the late afternoon, I was starving and my face was puffy from crying. At that point, I still didn't know if my mom would be okay so my features were contorted with worry and pain.
"You don't look so good." The words came from behind me while I was in line at the only fast food place in town. "Are you sure you should be eating fast food instead of soup?"
Turning around, I find the man from the balcony behind me. His face is as chiseled and perfect as I thought it would be, his black eyes burning into my soul. I'm suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to reach out and touch his face, but I hold myself back.
"I just need to eat. We don't have a working stove in our little place."
"Come with me, I'll make you something at my house. Do you like chicken noodle soup? I have a recipe my maid taught me when I was ten." He takes my arm and leads me out of the restaurant and helps me into the passenger seat of his car. It isn't brand new and the wheels are dusty, but it's still definitely a wealthy man's car.
A white man who learned to cook from a maid. I didn't want to trust him, but I wasn't in a position to deny him.
I denied him anyway. "I really shouldn't be doing this."
"Nonsense," he says as he slides into his seat.
"I don't want to impose."
"You're not imposing. I invited you. I practically dragged you into my car. If you continue to fight me on this, I'll assume you hate me."
I shut up. And then, as we get close to his house, I think of my mother. The hospital will call my cell phone if something happens, but her face was so pale and she threw up so much. She could die. She could die away from Dad and the rest of the family.
I feel sick, but I also start to cry. Softly, silently at first, but then the tears grow heavier and so do my sobs. The man doesn't say anything, he just drives and lets me cry it out. I'm thankful for that. It would have been embarrassing for him to try and comfort me.
When my tears finally stop and I'm just a sniffling mess, he finally asks me what happened.
"My mom is in the hospital. She's very sick."
"I'm so sorry to hear that. If there's anything I can do, let me know."
I nod and he pulls in front of his large house. "Do you live here alone?"
"During the summer, yes. This is my time away from work."
"I see." I watch the house quietly for a few minutes, the dog wagging his tail and barking down at us. "I don't even know your name."
"It's Richard."
"And your dog's name?"
"Sassy." He smiles. "Come on, you should meet her. I think she'd like you." He jumps out of the car and before I can even get my seat belt off he opens my door for me. I'm surprised by how much of a gentleman he is. He helps me up the steps to his door, which he unlocks and then lets me step inside. The front room has a leather couch and smells like cinnamon and smoke.
"Sorry for the smell, I was burning incense while I meditated."
"You meditate?" Usually it's the Asian doctors here who are spiritual. The Christian missionaries are much more utilitarian than that.
He nods. "During the summer. I should all year, but I never have time. I was actually using cinnamon because I was trying to draw a woman into my life." He glances at me from the corner of his eyes and my face grows hot.
"Uh, so, what do you do for a living?"
"I'm the Director of Operations of Wallif International."
I gasp. "No way! The media company?!"
Chuckling, he nods and opens the door to the balcony. The blonde lab skitters into the room, her nails clicking against the hard wood floor as she rushes up to me and licks my fingers. I pet her head. "The one and only. I'll get the soup going, you can sit here and get to know Sassy."
The dog is a sweetheart. I brush her soft hair with my fingers, sitting cross legged on the floor. Petting her calms me down, even though I am still horribly worried about my mom. I check my phone, but there are no text messages and no missed calls. Hopefully that's good news.
I'm gnawing on my bottom lip when Richard sticks his head back into the room. "Ten minutes before it's done. Are you old enough to drink?"
I consider lying, but shake my head. "No."
"Well, that's okay. We're not in America. You're over eighteen at least?"
I laugh, nodding. "Yeah, I am. Can I help you with anything? Setting the table or... whatever?"
"No, make yourself at home. This is going to be the worlds most informal dinner. We're going to eat on the table in the living room and watch TV, if that's okay with you."
"Sure!" I say, happy that I won't have to try to remember table manners I was never really taught. I mean, I wasn't raised a savage but who knows which fork is used for the salad, right?
Pushing myself up from the floor, I flit over to the couch and turn on the TV. I pull my long hair away from my neck and over my left shoulder as I channel surf.
Richard comes back into the room and stops dead in his tracks, a tray with two huge bowls in his hands. "Wow."
Looking up at him, I furrow my eyebrows. "What?"
He shakes his head and moves to bring the soup to the table. "It's just, with your hair to the side like that you look really stunning. I mean, you already do, but you'd look really nice with your hair tied like that."
I laugh in disbelief and roll my eyes. "Alright, turn down the charm."
He chuckles. We both sit on the floor, our legs crossed under the glass table. When he shifts to sit a little closer to me, our pinkies touch and my whole body goes hot. He glances at me again, his thick eyelashes hiding some thought or maybe... a desire? I can't tell. When he moves his hand away again, the moment fades and we both blow on a spoonful of soup.
"Holy crap, this is delicious! Kind of spicy, too. I've never tasted soup like this!"
"I learned from the best!" He says, taking the TV controller. "Do you mind if I turn on the news?"
"Go ahead," I say from behind my glass of wine. When I put it down again, I see that he's staring at me. "What?"
He doesn't move for a second. He just watches me, his eyes somehow predatory. Richard's thumb comes up to my bottom lip and dabs it. "You had some wine," he says, his voice low. Opening his mouth, he sucks the drop of wine from it, and my whole body goes so weak it's a struggle to turn back around and lift up my spoon for more soup.