White Freshman, Black Coeds Ch. 13

And she hugged me tighter, lightly sobbing herself. I put my left hand on one of her stockinged legs, not erotically, but just to touch her somehow, and let her hold me like that until she'd had enough.

We were each lost in our own thoughts, mine centering on the cruelty of losing one's parents, being in the foster care system. The things that sometimes happen to girls there, and even boys. How a person could do those things to a child, to someone they were supposed to at least protect, but maybe even love. And how so many lives were ruined by it. I'd heard—and seen—things in foster care, things I've left out this story.

I didn't know what Capri was thinking, but whatever it was, she seemed to need me, to be connected to me like this. Even if we didn't know exactly what the other was thinking, or what their past traumas were, this physical human connection was necessary. After a time she disengaged from me, wanting to tell me something. First she drank the last of the Sprite.

"Mark, you're young and, forgive me, a bit naïve. You probably don't know what I am, or even the word, but I'm what they call a Dominatrix. I enjoy—no, I get off on—making men do things, sometimes things they don't really want to do. Sometimes terrible, dirty things. And sometimes I punish them for petty infractions."

I just stared wonderingly at her, absorbing this new knowledge, realizing how well her 'act' had worked with me. But now she seemed 'real' again, as she'd seemed in the hallway (minus the blackmail stuff). Just a scared little girl, not confident in her own worth or power in the world.

"But besides the sexual power, there's good money in it. Some men really like that kind of thing, and they pay me well for it. To be made to feel they're not worthy enough to be allowed to pleasure a woman like me on their own terms. Being made to feel less-than-adequate, then ecstatically grateful when I allow them to only touch me, or do things to me. Or do things for me. Things that honestly I sometimes do just because I can. Like sending you out for the ice and making you pay for my soda. I should've done that myself, because I'd hurt you so. That was cruel of me and I'm sorry."

I hugged her then, murmuring that it was okay, that I'd actually kind of enjoyed the exhibitionist aspect of it.

"And it turned out so well," she said. "But I did NOT see that coming, you meeting Latonya, and then what happened after. And I'd just said that on a whim, Say hi to any women you might meet, just to give you an extra silly task to maybe perform. That's how I've become, thinking up bizarre things for my clients to do, praising them when they do it, withholding affection if they don't. It's like a drug, actually. A very powerful influence to have over men. Some men. And very addictive." 'Some men' told me that she was acknowledging that I wasn't like that, that she hadn't broken me.

I just listened, not really knowing what to say, but replaying all that had happened tonight, filtered and given shape now through this additional knowledge. And I had to admit that I'd fallen for it, her technique was very effective. Concern for Miss Pullam had brought me here, yes, but in my heart I knew that because of lust I would've done all those things even without that motivation.

"And just so you know: I was worried about you taking so long, that's why I looked out for you. I already knew you were someone worth caring about. Some of my other clients I would've sent out there and not cared at all what happened to them. They pay me for abuse, for shaming, so I give it to them. But I'm not a bad person inside, at least I don't think so..."

I thought back to the $20 she'd asked for the room: a step on the path of me paying her for...what? Sex? I could get that from Rita for sure, and probably Miss Pullam if I asked. And I'm polite about it and would never force myself on a woman, but I wondered about these men who....paid money to be degraded. To be told they were worthless, that only a pretty woman deserved to be admired and worshipped, while their needs were met half-heartedly. (If at all? I wondered. I didn't know it then, but that's how many of those scenarios end.)

I didn't know much about that 'scene,' but based on what she was telling me, and my own sense of self-worth, proved these last few weeks in various sexual encounters, made it seem alien to me, not something I could understand. But admit it, Mark, you were kind of getting into it yourself. Yes, I guess I was. An interesting thing, this. Further introspection would be required.

"Mark? Can we start over?" Looking into my eyes now, holding my hands across our laps. As I thought how to reply (did I even want to stay, was I even in the mood anymore?), Capri turned her legs off the bed, unhooked and kicked out of the blasphemous high heels, then adroitly rolled the stockings down and off her legs. Not seductively, just matter-of-factly, quickly, because it had to be done. Then turning toward me again she reached behind her and undid some clasps, allowing the corset to fall away from her. Then to the garter belt, which she had to stand to push down, then tossed aside, the four garters going with it.

And then she was just...herself. Naked in front of me, but none of the trappings of her former role-play, just a pretty young woman sitting with me, offering herself to me if I'd accept. A simple, bashful smile on her face, her eyes searching mine. Maybe a scared little girl wondering if she was pretty enough.

She was definitely pretty enough, and I tossed the pillow aside to prove it to her. She looked down and smiled an indebted smile, then threw herself against me, pushing me down onto the pillows, smothering my lips and face with kisses. Just smooches, thanking me for accepting her, for forgiving her. Soon she rolled off me, to my left side, hands clasped over her stomach, not inviting me onto her, but about to say something. Instinctively I rolled onto my left side, propped on my elbow, as I'd done so many times with Nia.

"Mark, I'd like it if you could forget about everything that's happened tonight and let's start fresh here, like this. Do you think you can do that?" I allowed that I could, I had no hard feelings toward her anymore

"And Mark, this will sound presumptuous......but I'd like to be like your Nia tonight." She looked at me apprehensively, knowing she'd let at least one cat out of its bag, wondering if she'd gone too far.

Probably seeing my face redden with dark anger, she protested, "Not to replace her, no!. But just to stand in for her, if you could think of me the way you thought—the way you think—about her?" Again, searching my face, the apprehensiveness in her eyes clear, Had she ruined it with those words? By even mentioning 'my Nia' in light of what had gone on here before?

I looked at her appraisingly, at the mounds of her breasts, her mons and the landing strip there, then down her supple legs to her feet, toenails painted red. Then back up, lingering on her breasts (perfect came to mind). Then to her face again, which, if not viewed through the lens of the act she'd been performing before, I might've described as almost angelic. Cute more than beautiful, round and open, vulnerable somehow.

I think she wanted to say more, plead her case, but to give me time to process, to think it through, she remained quiet.

It was honestly a struggle, I have to say. I mean, who was this person, really? Was she the bitch who'd made me eat her ass out? (I forgave her for that some months later, as I found what a turn-on it was for some of my lady friends. And me.) Or was she the ball-breaker who'd literally busted my balls, almost making me pass out? Or was she the scared little girl inside she claimed to be?

And most importantly, was she, or could she even come close to being, my Nia? She could never replace her, of course, but could she stand in for her tonight, in this situation, after all that's happened? Could she coax from me the same feelings I'd felt when doing erotic things with Nia? To do that, I realized, I'd have to know her better.

"How do you know so much about me? How do you know Rita? Nia? Miss Pullam?"

With a giggle she said, "Miss Pullam is my mom, silly! You didn't notice the resemblance?" Now I did. She was a bit darker than her mom, but now that I'd looked past that I saw Angela's features on her. Wait, her mom?! What the...?

I hope you enjoyed the story, and would love to hear what you thought about it in the Comments, which helps me improve as a writer.

Especially from the female perspective. As a male writer I want that to be close to realistic.

And for this one in particular, was the Dom dropping her façade too far-fetched? Possible?

For anyone, did any part of the story resonate with you? Was it too contrived?

Thanks!