Latitia Ch 02

She finished her dissertation and was awarded her Ph.D. in American History with a specialization in the antebellum era. She's bright and articulate and not a bit ashamed to be, as she put it, "an Affirmative Action Hire" (the way she said it made the capitalization clear) at the local regional branch of the state university system. Her dissertation had been on, no surprise here, the slave experience as the Civil War approached. She was teaching American History 101 again. She said at least the students were better than at the junior college. But the thing that would be so important to both of us was the graduate-level combination class and seminar on slavery she was teaching.

The change was slow and subtle, but I noticed it. She wasn't as, well, as happy, as perky, as bubbly, hell, I'm not sure what word is right. I guess she was just more serious than I was used to. When you got down to it, I didn't see that wonderful smile as often as I used to and, well, I was missing it.

Finally, one Friday evening we got home from one of those silly rom-coms, those romantic comedies she couldn't seem to get enough of, and it had drawn barely a smile, let alone the big belly laughs I enjoyed so much from her. When Sandra Bullock couldn't bring a laugh from her, I knew something was wrong.

When we got home I made her a Margarita and had her sit on the couch.

I got one of our dining room chairs and placed it in front of her and sat, scooting forward so my knees lightly touched hers.

I took the Margarita, set it on the coffee table, captured her hands in mine, and said, "Okay, toots, what is going on?"

She said, "Nothing," and I said, "Bullshit."

She giggled and said, "Oh, David, it's really nothing."

"Dammit, Latitia," I said, "I want YOU back. I want that happy bright vivacious witty woman I fell in love with BACK. Now what is going on?"

She held my eyes for a very very long time and then took a deep breath and said, "David, I love you, but I honestly don't think it's anything any white person could understand."

And for maybe the third time in the five years we had been married I got angry.

"You're fucking KIDDING, right," I snapped.

"David," she started but I talked over her.

"In case you hadn't noticed, my beautiful negress, I was white when we jumped over that fucking broom, I was white when we danced our first dance and I was FUCKING WHITE WHEN I PAID FOR OUR FUCKING MOVIE TICKETS," I was yelling by the time I got to the end of that rant.

Her eyes had been getting bigger and bigger as I carried on until they were almost a caricature, making me think of one of those old movies featuring some black character or other who would do that sort of thing.

She started giggling then and I started giggling too, coming down off of the adrenaline rush. We laughed together as we hadn't for weeks, maybe for months, great whooping gales of laughter. We'd wind down and then our eyes would meet and we would start again. Before I got myself completely under control I was gasping for breath, feeling like I hadn't felt since I used to get the giggles in my own college days when we'd get a particularly good batch of pot.

When we finally got ourselves under control, down to those little chuckles that follow such hilarity, I said, "Okay, my Nubian Goddess, now, once again, what is going on?"

She took a deep breath, a drink from her Margarita, and met my eyes.

"David, do you think I'm a reasonably bright African-American woman?" she asked.

The

non sequitur

caught me by surprise but I said, "Yes," without any hesitation.

"You see, that's the thing," she said and took another drink from her glass, taking her time and getting her thoughts in order, "so do I but it's not true. But it is true. Oh, fuck."

I chuckled and said, "Take your time."

She took a deep breath.

"Okay, my skin has a high melanin content," she said and giggled when I nodded energetically, "and my ancestors did come from Africa. But that was so many generations ago."

She wound down, took another drink, and said, "Oh, fuck, I'm making a mess of this but that's the thing, David. It's hard to articulate when I'm not sure myself."

"Take your time," I said again.

Another deep breath and she started for the third time.

"I've been studying, you know, for my slavery class, well, it's kind of hard to call it a class since it's all graduate students, more like a seminar," she giggled and stopped and took another drink.

"FUCK, I'm babbling," she said.

I laughed, took her hands in mine, kissed them, and said, "I'm not going anywhere," and added "Take your time," for the third time.

"Okay," she said and took a deep breath, "David, I just can't help but wonder that it was like, you know? The two months on the slave ship, barely able to move. Walking into a new world with a new language and new climate and new rules, in a collar, chained to a hundred others, barely able to walk, stinking, scared..." and she kind of wound down.

I knew this was getting to her when I saw a tear roll down her cheek.

So I moved to sit beside her on the couch and laid my arm across her shoulders, pulling her gently to me.

"It's okay," I said, kissing her forehead lightly, "take your time."

I held her for a few minutes, just holding, brushing her forehead with my lips, telling her I love her.

"Okay," she said, taking a deep breath, "I'm kind of obsessed I guess you'd say, trying to figure out what that must have been like."

"I see," I said, my mind starting to chase down strange pathways.

"Tell me I'm not crazy," she said.

I chuckled, laid my hand on her cheek and turned her to face me, kissed her, a slow, lingering kiss, and said, "You're not crazy."

We kissed like that, slowly, a tender kiss, until I felt something change in her body, the kiss becoming more intense, more passionate.

She squirmed around until she was on her knees before me. She took my hands and kissed my palms.

She stood suddenly and undressed. It wasn't a strip tease or anything, just undressing although I certainly enjoyed watching her.

She got back to her knees before me and captured my hands again. I was watching, figuring this was her show, and wondering where she was going with it all.

She met my eyes and then looked down.

"David," she said in a very soft voice, "call me 'girl.'"

"You're a good girl," I said.

She shivered, her eyes still on the floor.

"Tell me to do something," she said, her voice so soft it was almost inaudible, "but don't use my name."

It hit me, what she wanted, well, what she evidently needed, and my dick got hard.

"Go get me a beer, girl," I said, "and don't you dawdle."

She shivered a little, stood, and literally ran into the kitchen. I liked watching her move, her athletic body still fascinated me.

She came back, not running, carrying a beer in a pilsner glass, one from the freezer I could see by the frost on the top. She was moving carefully, her eyes on the glass, making a show of being careful not to spill any.

"Good girl," I said and, again, there as that little shiver, "You didn't take any, did you?'

"Oh, no," she said, getting deeper into our role-playing now.

"Don't you lie to me, girl," I said, putting on my best frown, "or I'll strap your black ass."

"No suh," she said and I liked very much the sort of

faux

southern accent she was adopting, "I woun't do nuthin' like that, suh."

"I know," I said, "you're my good girl."

She eased back to her knees in the graceful way of an athlete.

"Yassuh," she said, smiling up at me.

I was kind of at a loss, so I said nothing as I finished my beer, just enjoyed our positions. There was something about looking down at her that was, I won't deny it, getting to me.

"Go warm my bed, girl," I said.

I watched her go, not running but not dawdling either. I thought about picking up the pile of clothes on the floor but thought I'd leave them, a chore for her tomorrow.

In the end, I just sat and thought for a few minutes. Processing is the word that comes to mind from my long ago time in some psychology class taken as part of my own curriculum to be a teacher.

On one level, I was letting my tendency to sexualize things run away with me. I knew I was doing it but I didn't care. I suppose it's a generational thing, but at my age, I still, very much see women as sex objects, even the woman with whom I'm in love. Not one of my better characteristics, but there it is.

And the possibilities were getting to me.

Okay, the possibilities were getting to me in a big way. I could recognize the erection that was growing as something from my youth, not something the Viagra had brought about.

I liked the sensation very much.

I finished my beer and headed to the bedroom.

Latitia was already in bed, laying on "my" side.

As I say, sometimes my mind can be a nasty place.

"Girl," I snapped, "what are you doing? Get your black ass down and warm the foot of the bed for Christ's sake. You're not doing any good there."

She smiled and giggled and squirmed around to curl up at the foot of the bed on my side.

"You think this is funny?" I asked, moving to stand right at the edge of the bed, my knees almost touching her, and reached down and grabbed her chin between my thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look at me.

"No," she said, the smile fading as she realized the role I was assuming.

"No WHAT?!" I snapped, giving her head a little shake, something easy to do with the way we were positioned. I had all of the leverage.

Her eyes got big then and she said in a soft voice, "No, sir."

"NO WHAT?!" I yelled, squeezing, knowing it was hurting now. I understand leverage and nerve ganglia. All of that time in karate dojos were worth something.

Her eyes got even bigger, something I wouldn't have thought possible, and tears overflowed her eyes.

"No Massah," she said and there was no hint of a giggle or anything but sincere apology in her voice or her face.

"Good girl," I said, patting her head.

She didn't exactly smile, but her face relaxed although the tears kept flowing.

I went into the bathroom but then stopped and went back.

"Get up girl," I said, "help me undress."

She rolled out of bed then and started on the buttons of my shirt. Her fingers were steady, I was surprised to see, and, more surprisingly still, her eyes stayed on the floor. I was used to making such encounters interesting foreplay. I was excited but, well, moderately disappointed. Okay, I was trying to figure it out.

But so was she.

I watched, interested, as she got the buttons undone and then pushed the shirt back, off of my shoulders, and down. Her fingertips were very soft on my skin as they traced the outline of my chest, my pectoral muscles which were soft now, no longer that hardbody of my 20s or 30s, and my nipples, hard little cones now.

She eased to her knees, her eyes on the floor, and took my right foot in her lap to untie and remove my shoe. I entwined my fingers in her thick kinky hair for balance. She got the shoe and sock off and then surprised me by bending and kissing my foot. She repeated that on the other foot before reaching for my belt.

Looking back I'm pretty sure that it was the way she kept her eyes downcast as she worked my belt loose and then unbuttoned and unzipped my pants before stripping me that sealed her fate. There was something so perfectly natural about the way she was moving that I knew we were both hooked.

She finished undressing me, tossing my slacks to join the pile of clothes on the chair, and then stayed where she was, on her knees, sitting back on her feet in that strange posture only a woman can seem to be comfortable in, and said in a voice so soft and an accent so thick I could barely hear and understand her, "May ah pleshyuh mah Massa t'night?"

It took a second to translate in my mind to, "May I pleasure my Master tonight?"

My mind, as I've said, is an interesting place. On one level I knew that something had changed between us and I would probably never have exactly the same woman I fell in love with and married back. On another level, though, I was reveling in the new Latitia and knew, with no doubt at all, that I was going to push this new relationship to the limit. On a third level, I was full of love while on a fourth I could picture my beloved collared and shackled with her back striped from a whipping.

"Have you been a good girl?" I asked, my hand lightly brushing her hair.

"Oh, yassuh," she said, "Ah's allus a good girl."

Again my mind translated - "Oh, yes sir. I'm always a good girl."

I had no chance at all of stopping the smile that spread across my face. One part of my mind thought,

"You are enjoying this too much."

Another part responded,

"I know,

but I was smiling as I said it.

There was a few seconds of hesitation while my mind raced through various names, looking for the, well, the "whitest" name possible, seeking the appropriate slave name for her.

"You may use your mouth, Daisy," I said, enjoying the sudden little tension in her body as she realized what I had done, "if you can be careful, make it last, and not make any mess."

She shivered and kissed her way up the shaft of my erection before taking me into her mouth.

When she looked up at me there was a tear overflowing her right eye.

It seemed natural to dig my fingers into her hair and twist, deliberately hurting her, and snap, "Don't you eyeball me, girl," in my best Louis Gosset, Jr. voice from

An Officer and A Gentleman

.

She dropped her eyes and I released her hair.

The blowjob that followed was world-class. Latitia/Daisy had always been good with her mouth, but tonight she was putting on her best performance. I suppose, looking back on it, part of the difference was that she was crying softly and her swollen sinuses and overactive mucus membranes made the saliva in her mouth thick and slick. Mostly, though, I think it was her utter concentration on what she was doing.

I didn't watch the clock, but I did watch her as, for a measurable fraction of forever she would slowly pull off, I could see my cock, shiny and slick as she did that, tickle the tip, the sensitive skin around my urethra with her tongue, and then open her mouth slightly to take me past her gag reflex before slowly pulling off again.

It was world-class and she made it last, as I had instructed.

When I finally came I felt young again. This was the full-on ejaculation of a teenager in the throes of his early sexual life. I felt those hard muscular contractions deep in my belly, evolution's way of pumping my seed deep into my mate to ensure sperm would find the egg. She had me deep in her throat at that point and a second pump made her cough through her nose and I felt mucus soak the top of my shaft and my pubic hair, but she didn't pull off or, as I had instructed, "make a mess." A third pump surprised me, something I hadn't felt for decades and a fourth was painful but still wonderful.

I heard her inhale deeply, a bubbly sound the way her nose was running, as I softened and cleared the way for her to breathe, but she didn't release me and her tongue kept caressing me, ensuring nothing was wasted.

Fully soft, I slipped out and watched as she used her cheeks to caress and dry my dick.

"Look at me, Daisy," I said.

When she looked up at me I thought she was more beautiful than ever. Her eyes were red and tears were still flowing down her temples. The most obvious thing, though, was the way her nose was running so freely, water-clear mucus running down her upper lip and then her cheeks.

"You're a good girl," I said, "Now warm up the bed. I'll be right back."

I went into the bathroom, peed, working through the image of having her hold my dick as I did so, brushed my teeth, washed my hands, put the partial into the denture cup with an

Efferdent

pill, splashed some water on my face, and went back to bed.

Daisy, right then I couldn't think of her as Latitia, was curled up at the foot of my side of the bed, watching as I approached.

"You're a good girl," I said, again. "You may sleep on the bed tonight."

I watched as she slowly moved around to lay on her side before I climbed in, turned out the bedside lamp, and rolled onto my side, facing away from her. I thought it was important to cement our roles by not kissing her or even acknowledging her.

I lay there, silent, letting my breathing slow but not really sleeping.

I was thinking. That word "processing" came into my mind again.

Before I slept I was pretty sure I had our future laid out.

I would present it to her in the morning.

My sleep was filled with dreams, not all of them pleasant.