Anna was not the sort of woman most imagined as submissive. Her chin seemed to be constantly lifted by an imaginary string that jerked her chin upward and, consequently, set her figure starkly erect. She never hesitated to voice her opinion.
Most were attracted to this veneer of strength. Except Gabriel.
The first time he saw her was on a street. The casual but oh, so very pleasant type. Such a vanilla atmosphere. When his eyes locked with hers, his finely tuned senses picked up on the need in those black pools.
It almost made him laugh, the way she was biting her lip. An everlasting, never answered beg to be fucked. He didn't have any qualms about following her back to her neat little apartment in one of the more expensive neighborhoods.
Of course, she asked what he was doing. He answered that he was going to simply help.
Anna did not know what to think of this man. It was infuriating, the way most things were for the sexually frustrated. He was tall and slim but powerfully built. He stood a good five inches taller than her 5'7".
And he was white. Now, Anna was a good black girl. And good black girls stayed clear of white men. They never have any good in mind for you, is what her mother would say.
They were complete opposites, staring at each other. He, blonde haired, blue eyed with chiseled jaw and strong, blunt fingers. Hands that Anna knew were capable without looking. She wouldn't dare look, afraid to find herself melting in the palm.
Anna herself was nearly dark as night. Her skin seemed to pulse with a violet-hued glow against the light white fabric of her sundress.
Michael itched to touch. He longed to control.
"Just a talk," he said. He could tell by the look in her eyes that she was more than ready to have that talk right on the front step of her apartment building. He complied.
"You need control in your life, yes? You don't answer to anyone and it's not because you don't want to. Perhaps you are just afraid to let yourself be powerless." He need no add that she desired that same powerlessness more than anything. Her eyes were glued to the concrete surface of the step.
It was true.
She never did say anything to that, only invited him for coffee and continued to invite him three or four times every week. They never spoke of it again, not directly. But in little ways, she had begun to submit as no other women ever had to Michael.
She kept the apartment spotless for when he visited. She prepared his cup of Joe just as he liked it. No sugar, no cream. She relinquished a big, comfy chair to him each time and strangely enough, she insisted on sitting on the floor. She said the chair belonged to her father. She never sat in it. She always preferred the floor.
