A Picture in Black and White

I glanced nervously around, wondering if anyone could see us, and when the waiter was going to make his next round. Fortunately, we were in the corner, and the other diners didn't have a particularly good line of sight. I wondered briefly if Charles had requested this specific table for a reason – this reason. I turned back to the two of them.

Brigitte took another sip from her nearly empty champagne glass, and licked her glistening lips once again, smiling at me as she did so. Then she placed it back on the table, looked around the room quickly, and let her hands slip down to her skirt once again.

My heart beat more quickly with each promised inch that it might rise. I hadn't been paying attention to the first exchange between the two of them, so I don't know what Charles had asked. But not knowing was somehow more erotic.

Brigitte sat up straighter and gently slid the skirt up further. Two more inches revealed the very top of her stockings and the clasps and black satin straps of her garter belt – as well as the soft white skin of her upper thighs.

At that moment, our waiter turned the corner and headed straight for our table.

Charles whispered quickly to Brigitte, "Stay as you are." I caught my breath.

Brigitte looked at him questioningly, but remained as he had ordered: her skirt hiked up high on her thighs. Fortunately – or unfortunately? – our waiter paid no heed, content to throw a quick glance, once again, at Brigitte's sheer blouse. He left a basket of rolls on our table and was gone.

"You may continue," was all Charles said. Brigitte looked over at me briefly, and set about revealing herself even more.

I noticed, now, that neither of them asked my permission to continue in their dangerous games. Neither Charles nor Brigitte sought it. I was hurt.

But I was excited, too. Let me be honest. To watch a Dom in action was truly a sight to be seen – an erotic thrill and education at which to marvel and from which to learn.

To watch his sub bend to his command was even more thrilling. Regardless of the fact that it was my wife.

Perhaps more so because of it.

Brigitte's hands slid down once more to her skirt. She glanced quickly around, then slid her skirt up. Past her stocking tops. Past the black straps of her garterbelt. Past the black lace of the garterbelt itself. Past her tiny, lace-trimmed, sheer panties. All the way to her waist.

Her leather skirt sat bunched around her like a belt as she waited for Charles' next order. She sat on the hard wooden chair clad only in her filmy string bikini.

Charles looked at her admiringly. "You are lovely, of course, my dear." Brigitte blushed.

"Now pull your panties down."

Brigitte sucked in her breath. Then, without hesitation, she grasped the waistband with her thumbs.

I couldn't believe what was happening. My wife was literally stripping for her master in one of New England's best restaurants. Dressed in a see-through blouse. Pulling her skirt up. Pulling her panties down. Showing everything.

I imagined the ramifications: To see the police cruiser lights flashing...the handcuffs... to face the microphones and tape recorders of the Providence Journal...to be profiled on NECN.

But that was me. Brigitte, almost tauntingly, did exactly as he ordered.

In one, smooth action, she slid her tiny panties down to just above her knees. Then she leaned forward, nonchalantly, and reached for her champagne glass. She lifted it to her lips and drained the last of Charles' thick sperm in one swallow. She looked over at me and smiled – and licked her lips. Then she leaned back in her chair. My heart did flip-flops.

I looked at her. Her full breasts obvious to anyone who cared to look, the nipples stiff and pointed. Her black leather skirt, sitting bunched around her waist. Her bare ass against the hard wooden seat. Her tiny wisp of panties, a mere thread of material, tauntingly around her knees. And her stockings and garterbelt framing the lovely, dark curls of her bush, now so outrageously on display. I found it hard to breathe.

At that moment, our waiter chose to return. I watched him approach as if in slow motion.

We were all underwater, swimming. I couldn't catch my breath.

Whether to my edification, or to her eternal credit, I will never know. Maybe it was a command from Charles. But Brigitte elected not to cover up, or act demure, or shrink in even the slightest from the situation. She sat there proudly, beautiful.

At first, our waiter didn't notice what was happening. He was obviously trying not to stare at Brigitte, and in so doing, did not even look at her. While regarding me intently, he asked what 'Madam' had selected for dinner.

"I'm not sure," I replied with a twinkle. "Perhaps you should ask her directly." He turned his attention to Brigitte. And nearly dropped his pad and pen.

My wife sat open to his gaze. No – more than open. She was utterly exposed. Her breasts poked out proudly from her blouse, her nipples stiff and pointed, displaying her excitement at being shown off.

But that was nothing.

She sat with legs spread on the hard wooden chair. Naked. Her dark pubic hair framed in black lace and nylon. A deep, erotic blush spread across her chest, neck and cheeks. She looked up at the waiter, as if urging him to speak.

He gulped. He, too, blushed deeply.

And then he said, very quietly, "I am honored. Madam is exquisite." He paused. "But Madam should be as discreet as possible." He paused again. "And your secret" – he looked at both of us – "is safe with me. "

"Now, what will we be having for dinner?" He stole another quick look at my wife's dark bush, and then turned his attention to Charles and me.

We ordered, and he returned to the kitchen to place our request. I looked over at my wife. "You are lovely, honey," I said.

Charles nodded in agreement. "As I said," he began, "Brigitte shows enormous promise as a sub, don't you think?"

He paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. "Let me correct myself. She's already demonstrated that. She IS a natural sub, yes?"

Yes. It only took a black master to bring it out, I thought to myself.

"That she is," I answered, looking over at Brigitte. She blushed.

"What shall we do next?" Charles asked, his eyes bright with anticipation. I looked at my wife, and thought for a moment.

"You mentioned a club," I replied. "What sort of club?" Brigitte sucked in her breath.

Charles smiled broadly. "A very, um, naughty club," he replied, almost rhetorically. Brigitte glanced up at him quickly, a look of – I swear it – anticipation on her face.

"A place..." he began...

I held my breath. I'm sure Brigitte did, too. Finally he found the words he was looking for.

"A place where married white women..." He paused, but this time for effect.

He had our attention, you can be sure of that.

"A place where married white women are trained, by black men, in discipline."

He turned to look steadily at Brigitte. "Are you ready for that?"

I looked at her, curious – fascinated – to see what she'd say. She paused for a moment before replying. My stomach did another flip-flop.

"Yes," she finally answered, simply and quietly, a quiet blush suffusing her cheeks.

Chapter XXXIII

White wives trained by black men. In discipline. I marveled, again, at the weight of language.

Training and discipline. They ran around and around in my head in a permanent loop. What did they mean, specifically?

Did it matter?

The words were pregnant with meaning and symbolism. They immediately brought forth an explosion of images. All of them intimate, private, personal.

No, that's wrong. They were far more. Provocative, outrageous ...extreme. All the images that flooded my head in that instant made conventional sexuality look like a church service.

And, I wondered, what did they mean to Brigitte? What was she envisioning? Why had she agreed so readily? What was motivating her? I turned to look at her, and was once again stunned by the woman I thought I knew.

A bright glow seemed to emanate from her, as if she were being lit from within. Not just from the bright pink blush on her cheeks – the one that illuminated not just her face, but her chest, her arms...all of her skin. It came from much more deeply inside – something from the core that made its way up, to her dark eyes, and out. Her eyes glowed with a fierce, bright light that I only vaguely recognized. An excitement. A fascination. An eagerness.

No, that was not it. It was something even more.

An enlightenment.

I sat back, shocked and deeply reflective. I could think of nothing to say – so, for once, I said nothing. I turned to the food on my plate, and tried to concentrate on eating. I knew that Charles would not rush his explanation – if, indeed, there was to be one – and so I waited. In truth, I still had yet to regain my appetite. I looked over at the two of them and noted, with some distress, that they were both tucking into their expensive dinners with gusto. Brigitte had already eaten fully half of her salmon; Charles was nearly done with his confit de canard.

How could they eat at a time like this, I wondered? I was beginning to feel a bit foolish. And a bit extraneous.

Charles cut into my reverie. "Are you enjoying your meal, Bruce? This is, after all, Rhode Island's best restaurant."

"Mmmm," I replied. "Delicious." Both Charles and Brigitte looked at me and smiled. I could feel them looking through me, straight to the wriggling little bug of discomfort that was stealing my appetite. I put on a brave face.

"No, it's great. Yours?"

"It's delicious honey," Brigitte answered. "Do you want to try some of mine?"

"No, thanks. I'm not really in the mood for fish."

She pressed on. "Have you lost your appetite? You've hardly eaten a thing." As she asked, she reached down and picked up her champagne flute, and ran her tongue around the lip of the glass, all the while looking directly at me.

"No, I'm fine," I answered. "Probably too many appetizers." I smiled wanly. They continued to eat their meal with gusto.

Charles finally put down his fork and looked at the two of us. "Well, then. Shall we call for the bill?"

I wanted to say yes. I wanted to say no. Yes, because I'd lost my appetite. No, because I wasn't sure I was ready for whatever was going to happen next. And I knew that something – something profound – was going to happen after we left this restaurant.

Brigitte answered for me. "Yes, Charles. I think we're all set here, don't you?" I caught my breath at her directness. At her impending curiosity.

Charles called for the bill. The waiter wondered if everything was okay. Charles assured him it was, but that we had a theatrical engagement we had to meet.

A 'theatrical engagement.' I liked that.

Our waiter brought the bill. I paid. I added a large tip for his 'attentiveness' – and for his discretion.

Before we stood up to leave, though, I glanced over at my wife, to see whether she was still in flagrante delicto, or was modest enough to walk back through the restaurant without risking too many stares, or too many kicks under the table. I noticed with relief that she was as modest as her outfit allowed. She had pulled her skirt back down and, presumably, her panties back up. I heaved a sigh of relief.

We stood up, and headed straight for the foyer. I took up the rear – deliberately – to see what sort of reaction my beautiful wife was having on the other patrons.

I wasn't disappointed. They hadn't turned the tables over, so almost everyone who'd seen us come in, saw us go out. The men stared at my gorgeous wife, dressed so provocatively.

She was exquisite. Not only was she provocative, she was proud. Statuesque. She knew they were looking at her, and she didn't shrink from it. In fact, she seemed to revel in it. Her deep, dark eyes, still glowing. Her bright, red lips...Her short black skirt...Her black heels... Her sheer blouse and bra...Her nipples standing out proudly. Look at me, she seemed to say.

Look, they did. I actually saw one woman pour a glass of ice water into her husband's lap as he stared, shamelessly, at my beautiful wife. I laughed quietly, and said to him in passing, "That will serve you."

"What, honey?" Brigitte turned to ask as she heard me speak.

"Nothing, sweetie. Just saying hello." I smiled inwardly.

And then we were on the sidewalk, waiting for the valet to bring our car. Waiting for whatever was going to happen next.

Waiting for training and discipline.

Chapter XXXIV

Charles turned to the both of us as we stood on the curb waiting for the car. "You're feeling adventurous?"

I wasn't sure to whom he was really addressing the question. I looked at Brigitte. In her typical fashion when aroused, she put her arm around me and hugged me tightly, kissing me lightly on my neck. But she said nothing. Waiting for some approval from her husband, no doubt. I looked at Charles, and said as evenly as I could, "Yes, we're ready."

"Good," he answered with a satisfied smile. And then, almost to himself, "Let the games begin."

We got in the car when it was brought to us. Charles and Brigitte, once again, sat in the back, and I drove. Charles gave directions. I was beginning to feel like a chauffeur.

The route took us away from the center of town, toward increasingly darker streets. Through low-rent neighborhoods, past tired old wooden shops, and into what looked like a forgotten industrial section. Brick warehouses, now dark, lined either side of the streets, protected forlornly by sagging chain-link fences. I glanced back in the mirror, wondering if this was safe. But Charles was indefatigable.

"Left here. Right here. Left up ahead." Obviously, he knew where he was going.

Finally, after I had long given up on the civilized world, he had me pull up in front of a non-descript, warehouse-like building, nearly dark except for a lone fluorescent bulb above the door. The entrance was several steps up from the street, via concrete steps and standard pipe-like railings. The door itself was formidable: Heavy steel, with a small, grill-covered viewing window in the center at eye level. It looked like something out of a cheap novel.

"The car will be safe here, don't worry," Charles said, reading my mind.

We got out, and approached the door. I noticed a small, engraved sign just to the left of the door: "MWW Training." It could have meant anything, but I decided not to ask. Instead, I looked over at Brigitte. I could detect a certain nervous edge to her, and a bright flush on her skin. Charles must have noticed the same thing. Almost simultaneously, we put our arms around her.

"I'm sure it's okay, sweetie," I assured her. Charles echoed my sentiments. "You're both safe with me; don't worry. If at any time you find you don't want to continue, just tell me. We'll leave, and that will be that."

I looked at Brigitte. Charles' words seemed, somehow, to disappoint her. Her face fell, just a fraction of an inch.

"I'm okay. Don't worry," she answered, and I marveled, once again, at her determination and curiosity.

Charles rang the bell. I held my breath.

It opened quickly – too quickly, as if we were expected. Which, I realize in retrospect, is exactly what we were.

A tall, handsome black man opened the door. He must have been 6'2", and muscular, and was dressed in a pair of black jeans and a tight, silk, light gray t-shirt that showed off his toned body. A tiny diamond earring sparkled in left ear. His head was shaved. His eyes shone.

"Good evening, Charles," he said by way of introduction. "You're late," he added with a wide smile, looking us over. His gaze dwelled on Brigitte, eyeing her short skirt, her sheer blouse. Appraising her.

"Yes, well," Charles began. "Dinner ran late. But here we are."

"Yes, here you are. Finally. Come in."

We entered slowly, I with a mix of both trepidation and excitement. As we did, I looked around, and marveled at the place. No warehouse conversion was this. Oh, no.

The foyer was expensively decorated. Extremely expensively decorated. Marble floor. Rich, dark brown wallpaper. It looked like suede. I ran my hand over it. It was suede. Subtle, indirect lighting cast a soft glow, and tasteful, tiny spotlights illuminated discreet, expensive prints and paintings mounted in ornate gilt frames. I looked closely at one, a bathing nude at a window, sunlight on walls of blue. I studied the thick brushstrokes of paint. It rang a distant bell. I looked down at the signature and caught my breath. A Bonnard, signed by the artist. An original, it seemed.

I suddenly realized that this wasn't some casual, fly-by-night club, but something far greater – much richer in both its reality and implications. Something that had been built over time, with care and attention, and lots of money. Lots of money.

But before I had time to study any of the other prints and paintings, our host, who'd introduced himself as Damon, took our coats and led us down a long hall. Toward music, and flashing lights. It was becoming obvious that we weren't the only ones here. Of course, I'd never doubted that. I looked over at Charles, and saw only confidence in his face. I looked over at Brigitte, and saw what I'd anticipated: Nervousness, but excitement and anticipation in even greater measure.

I wasn't sure how I felt about this.

We turned the corner and came into what was a large dance floor and bar. Tasteful red, blue and green strobe lights matched the rhythm of the slow, funky music, lighting the floor intermittently. I noticed that several couples were swaying to the music, but it was too dark to make out any details. There was a bar to our right, subtly lit, and manned by – not surprisingly – another large, handsome black man. He, too, had a shaved head, and wore a gold earring in his left ear, and an iridescent smile.

The seats were tall, and plush – dark leather, I noticed. And the top of the bar was marbled black granite. The money was obvious, but tasteful.

We sat down at the bar and ordered some drinks, not sure what was to happen next. The bartender brought them quickly, still smiling, and, without any apparent embarrassment, appraised Brigitte as he placed the cocktails before us. He eyed her up and down, studying her lovely face and body. Brigitte blushed and avoided his eyes, and began toying with her drink.

Then, whether to avoid his gaze, or perhaps due more to her deep and abiding curiosity, she turned to study the room. At first it was difficult to tell what was happening, due to the low lighting. But gradually, as our eyes adjusted, we began to get a hint of the true nature of the place.

Three or four couples swayed slowly on the dance floor. White women with black men, I noticed quickly. Off to the sides, on the banquettes and small cocktail tables that lined the room, sat single, white men and a few solitary black men – all of them watching intently.

And what were they watching? We turned our gaze back toward the dancing couples. I realized with a start that the dance was more intimate than I'd first noticed. Many of the women were provocatively dressed – short skirts and low-cut blouses, and not, apparently, particularly concerned about how much flesh they were showing. Several of the men were gently kissing their white partners – or sliding their skirts up their legs.

At that point, one of the black men sitting to the side got up and approached us. He was – surprise – tall and good-looking, and dressed in a black shirt and black leather pants. I sucked in my breath. He looked at me intently as he came up to us.

"May I dance with your wife?" he enquired. His gaze bore into me, then he turned to shoot a quick look at Charles. Finally, as if assuming my answer, his look bore into Brigitte, studying her, assessing her, admiring her lovely, revealing look.