Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Romantic, Interracial, Masturbation, Slow,
Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - I'd like to call this a simple love story, but since when is love simple? Mia, a broken woman, fills the gaps in her body, mind and soul in the arms of a gentle giant, so to speak. Eventually this will become an interracial BDSM love story of relatively vanilla people exploring passions and eroticism. In the meantime, it is an exploration of hearts and love, pain and loss and the growth we experience from it while falling into the lap of happiness. Codes added with updates. See blog for more.
My diaphragm paced up and down the hallway of my abdomen as the bags of my lungs tugged at the air of the black world, but I found no relief in repetitious inhalations. If only the breathing could cease, then I would find release from the pain. Hyperventilation and anxiety plagued me from a sightless abyss, and I was distantly aware of the injuries only from the incessant throbbing radiating from my very pores and sinking into the marrow of my bones while salty tears pooled in the sockets of inflated, swollen eyelids, shut from the volume of liquid beneath the discolored skin; even crying hurt too much to bear when compounded with the pulsating torture of a fractured heart, a decapitated spirit.
"Please, God, let me come home," I pled.
"I don't think God's ready for you yet," a whisper replied.
"What? Who's there?" I croaked, the sound delivered weakly with what I am sure was panic, fear and all unreasonable emotions.
"My name is Doctor Roosevelt. You're at County Regional Hospital. You died for about a minute last night. We almost lost you," a handsome, nearly musical response echoed. "What's your name?"
"Mia," I answered, again the sound nothing more than a frog-like gurgle. "What happened?"
"The police are wondering the same thing. I won't let them talk to you until you're a little more coherent. Do you remember anything?" he asked. The sound calmed me, the fractured muscle of life hammering under my rib cage.
"I was ... oh, God. He tried to kill me!" I squealed and immediately dissolved. The caresses against my hand did little to calm the overflowing sobs of my entire being, body, mind and soul shattering simultaneously, but I was thankful for the gesture.
A fluorescent radiance berated my eyes for opening, but I ignored the admonishment. Hours – or so it seemed – passed before the now dimmed mirrors of my essence adjusted to the assault, and my calm demeanor surprised me because while claustrophobia never disturbed the tranquility of my mind, I had never been blind, either, even if only temporarily. The blaze subsided slowly into a glow and, as if to reinforce the safety of seeing and not hearing only, a shadow grazed the wall opposite me. Panic, again plaguing my sensibilities, jerked my head, the motion more resembling a lolling to the side to peer cloudily at a beautiful man peering similarly at me.
"Welcome back, Mia," he nodded.
"Um, thank you. Damian?" I inquired. He nodded again.
"Wh-why am I tied down? Please, don't hurt me!" I cried, abruptly realizing that I was unable to scratch my shoulder due to oppressive padded restraints.
"It's okay, Mia. You're okay. We weren't sure if you'd be safe when you came round. These are only to make sure you don't hurt yourself or tear your stitches. Be still, now," Damian cooed while his enormous hands toiled to disentangle my right wrist from the bond. With only a quarter of my appendages free, I inhaled deeply only to choke on the pain of my ribs swelling to accept the lungful of precious oxygen. I attempted to speak again, but my larynx hated the effort, refusing to permit my vocal chords the pleasure of their soft humming.
"You've been here for two weeks, Mia. I'm glad to see your vital signs are improving," he said while feeding me a white straw stemming from the lid of a mauve travel mug; I sucked gulps of icy water greedily and somehow the chill of the liquid rolling down towards my belly granted me a moment of pleasure. Damian told me later that I even smiled, though bleakly.
"You're a doctor?" I asked dumbly.
"Have been for a long time, dear. You scared the hell out of me," he sighed. His lips parted as if to speak again after a momentary connection between our eyes, but a hesitant rap on the door interrupted the silent exchange.
"Mrs. Carlson? If you're ready, I'd like to get your statement. It will only take a few minutes," a frumpy officer clad in a cheap pantsuit muttered. Her tired eyes apologized immediately. "I can come back."
"No, I'm okay. Can Damian stay?" I begged.
"Of course. I'm Detective Rodgers. I want you to know that your husband is in custody for attempted murder and ... have you told her?" Detective Rodgers asked Damian mid-stride.
"Mia," my neighbor whispered to gather my attention, his face answering the fearful question I knew to ask. My baby, barely conceived, was gone. "The trauma, Mia. Your body rejected the fetus while you were unconscious. I'm so sorry."
"Okay," I nodded, quickly digesting the knowledge. I had no tears left in me, and my shoulders could slump no deeper, so I just sighed and nodded.
"Mrs. Carlson, the prosecutor will be pushing murder charges for the loss of your unborn child. Attempted murder is a guarantee," Detect Rodgers stated boldly.
"I really don't care, Ma'am. Just keep him away from me," I shrugged.
"He won't be leaving a cell any time soon, Mrs. Carlson," she assured me.
"Please, call me Mia. Mrs. Carlson was murdered recently," I thought aloud.
"Yes, um, Mia," she acquiesced. "Mia, can you tell me why he ran you down with your truck?"
"I told him about the baby," I answered. Detective Rodgers winced at the hatred seething from the explanation. "He never wanted a family, no babies or dogs or even the need for a white picket fence. He wanted a trophy wife, arm candy to show off. Anything more would have interrupted his ambitious ascent to the top of the world. The news infuriated him."
"He was out of town for a series of seminars. She was waiting for him to come home before telling him," Damian explained.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Roosevelt. Can you explain for the record how you know this woman?" Detective Rodgers asked.
"She's my neighbor, Detective. Ted and Mia bought a home a few doors down about six months ago," Damian answered, his enormous hand blanketing mine. I felt comfort from his touch.
"He exploded when I told him. I exploded in return and demanded a divorce," I continued. "I stormed out and headed down the street. I like to walk to calm down, especially in our quiet neighborhood. I didn't suspect he'd try to kill me – who does? – so the sound of a vehicle didn't alarm me until it was too late. I tried to move, but I wasn't fast enough. I guess slapping him across the face was a bad idea. Kicking him in the groin is probably what landed me here."
I chuckled at the last though no humor laced my reasoning.
"I have to ask, Mia. Was Mr. Carlson the father?" Detective Rodgers asked.
"No," I answered plainly. "I think that compounded his anger. I wanted to keep the baby. It wasn't her fault I was raped. I'd have loved her. I did love her. Plus, he never believed I was raped. He wanted to believe I was having an affair."
My body discovered reserves, and tears flowed freely. My doctor, my neighbor, my friend, Damian, escorted Detective Rodgers to the nurses' station to leave me in repressive solitude. There is no way to accurately process the emotions inherently trailing sexual assault, spousal abuse and an attempt on your life within weeks. I tried, but I fell short and kept falling into the recesses of a hollow psyche. I harbored no desire to go home upon a discharge from the hospital days after consciousness finished abandoning me randomly. Having relocated to the Valley of the Sun from small town Tennessee, no familiar faces greeted me in the parking lot, none but Damian's.
The striking black man, friendly from the first – the sort of neighbor that offers a bottle of wine and a firm shake of the hand in introduction – commanded respect, mandated trust, all with a disarming smile, fresh disposition and sparkling appearance. If God were black, He would fashion Himself after this man, His own creation, a god among men in himself – tall, dark like the fertile earth of the Great Plains, bald and timidly athletic, having always hidden a healthy figure beneath loose linens. If his smile disarmed you, his eyes robbed you of something; in all probability, his eyes robbed me of my marriage. After all, jealousy was never green with the bastard with whom I vowed 'forever.' It was crimson, filled with rage and a lust for possession that each time concluded with a strike against my cheek, a cordial exchange of smiles and greetings between neighbors the reason. I imagine the flush across my collar bones led my husband's mind into the realm of suspicion. The claim of victimization and subsequent pregnancy intensified the mistrust. Damian aroused my heart in a way I could not characterize, nothing I would intentionally identify as attraction; to me, it was the desire for a friend to lean on. Perhaps it still was.
I was thankful for a hole in which to hang my head and mourn a life gone awry even if it was in the care of a practical stranger, the man nothing but a gracious smile and a kind word in passing until my world capsized. The ordeal of walking was difficult, but I managed, and upon entering his home I could only mutter appreciation for the beauty and cleanliness. I remember little of the following days as consciousness fled, and I readily accepted defeat as my body demanded rest, the retreat of wakefulness welcome.
Somehow I knew upon waking that three weeks waved goodbye and receded into the past and, not knowing what to do with myself, I rose from a borrowed bed in search of company; an empty house greeted me warmly. I wandered in aimless exploration to discover an alluring sanctuary of dark woods masterfully stained and varnished with walls of soothing, earthy beiges and grays and browns, granite countertops of plagioclase, muscovite, amphibole and garnet, the floors a mosaic of sandstone tiles. Fleetingly I mused, "I should hire his decorator."
"I did the work myself, but I did have a woman's opinion on the colors until I learned the finer points of how they interact," a kind voice returned.
"I'm sorry. I hope you don't mind. I didn't think anyone was here, so I gave myself the penny tour," I said quietly while turning to offer the man a smile.
"I don't mind in the least. If you're going to stay with me a while you might as well know your way around. The kitchen is this way. I'm sure you're hungry," he chuckled. The deep sound of it caused a ripple in my spine as if the reverberations of his bass voice were amplified. I followed gingerly, lost in thought and contemplating the man leading me through his home.
"Do you like BLTs? It's not the healthiest thing, but somehow I think a little comfort food will do you some good," he asked, one eye flashing a wink. I gazed incoherently into the dark orbs before nodding a bit dumbly but smiling all the same.
"It's my turn to apologize, by the way. I took the liberty of getting your truck to the body shop. You may be tiny, but you fought pretty hard against the grill," he said, his eyes sparkling with the humor and sadness of the statement. I laughed and immediately regretted it when a pang of electric unpleasantness jolted my ribs.
"Oh, thank you. I'm dreading a lot of what needs to happen, anyway. You saved me a phone call," I replied. "I hope she's okay."
"She is. The shop owner is a friend of mine, so you'll have her back today. I called in a favor," he said. The following moments passed quickly as we shared smiles, our minds occupied: contemplation for me and the business of frying bacon for him.
"Tripod, Mia. Elbows on the counter and bent at the waist a bit. It'll help make breathing hurt less," he said, his voice calm and his eyes sincere and concerned. My own hazel orbs misted briefly as my body reacted to the instruction instinctually until I pulled the first relaxed breath in days.
"Thank you," I whispered, fearing the weakness of my voice at that moment.
"You're welcome," he responded.
His paternally gentle smile conveyed his understanding of my gratitude for all he had done thus far. I blinked away the moisture onto the sleeve of a fluffy bathrobe; suddenly I became self-consciously aware of my attire, instigating a flush on my cheeks and neck while my nervously twitching fingers tugged at the seams to close the neckline more adequately. Damian chuckled again.
"You may not want to know this, but you're not hiding anything I haven't seen before, dear. I'd rather you be comfortable while you recover instead of worrying about ladylike modesty," he asserted.
"Um, sorry. I just feel a little out of my element here, like I don't belong," I replied honestly.
"I know what you mean. I feel the same way myself at times when I have a second to stop and wonder why I'm alone in this house," he uttered while he peeled leaves of lettuce for the sandwiches and deftly sliced the ripest tomato I can remember. The conversation ended as a late lunchtime began. Eventually I rose to rinse the dishes, but my caretaker accepted no assistance.
"What kind of host would I be to let a guest do her own dishes?" he chuckled, and again a ripple tickled my spine. Some people are blessed with infectious or uplifting qualities of their laughter in all its various forms; Damian's was such. I settled onto the barstool again to resume the tripod position, naively amazed at the ease with which I could breathe painlessly.
"Well, if I can't pay my dues, I can at least appreciate the meal. That was delicious, probably the best BLT I've ever had. Certainly the best company I can remember while eating one," I said.
"Likewise. I've always hoped for more of your company, but I could tell Ted wasn't very fond of us being within a hundred feet of each other," he responded.
"I know. I should never have married him, but we were both intent on changing each other into what we wanted," I sighed.
"Isn't it ironic how his jealousy brought us together anyway?" he asked.
"Damian, that sounds an awful lot like something ... more," I hinted.
"It is, Mia. I'm not a habitually tactful man. I believe in saying what I mean and saying it honestly, that if the truth hurts, it should, for example, and what I'm saying to you is that I'm very attracted to you and have been since the day we met," he explained with a solidly deliberate expression. "I want you to know this because at the same time I don't want you to think it's why you're here or why I'm helping you. You're here because you didn't want to go home, I have space, and I want to help a young woman that needs it."
"I understand. Damian, I'm very grateful for everything you've done, but I'm not ready to even think about anything like that. This is the first couple hours I've even been coherent enough to have a decent conversation in weeks," I replied, my tone needlessly apologetic. I caught myself staring into the depths of my diamond-studded wedding band's glittery stones.
"Mia, look at me," he instructed, and I raised my chin, squared my shoulders and readied my ears. "You don't owe me anything. What I hope comes of this matters little. In a few days you'll go home, and a few days after that, you might let me take you to dinner. A few days after that, you might let me take you to the symphony, and a few years down the road you might be wearing my ring. But you don't owe me anything. If any of that happens, if you're mine someday, mine to love and cherish the way Ted never knew how, it'll be because I earned the honor of your love, not because I'm a doctor helping a patient and a friend expecting some form of bastardized repayment."
"Okay," I nodded, unsure of what else to say or do or think. My shoulders sagged and my face contorted from the intensified throbbing of my wounds.
"Come on, let's get you something for the pain and a nap," he decreed. I complied, allowing him to guide me to bed, a transitory image flashing through my mind of the large, god-like black man making love to me, petite and white. He planted the seed. Could I blossom? Did I want to? The churning in my belly could have been the butterflies of which people so often speak; could have been the recently ingested analgesic; could have been indigestion.
As a college freshman, born into the wide world as adulthood descended, I remember wondering how I would ever feel comfortable in a strange place, how I would ever be able to sleep in a place not my home, a place nothing more than a place to lay my head. When I awoke several hours later, a whirling head swirling from the ebbing sedative, I wondered then how I felt so comfortable in a strange place, how I ever slept so restfully in a place not my home, a place I assumed incorrectly was nothing more than a place to lay my head. Cool water against the face, always refreshing, and a swig of Listerene to bathe my metallically flavored mouth left me gazing in a mirror, the hazel eyes of a bruised woman gazing back. The bathroom door closed soundlessly as if I were hiding something, and I clicked the lock to prevent intrusion before shucking the creamy cotton nightgown from my shoulders to gather the bunched material at my waist. For the first time I stared at the discoloration concealing my generally blemish-free body, but the awe was in the beauty of the shades, how the blues and reds and purples and blacks and greens mingled and marbled. I could have been Damian's countertop ... or a Bob Ross painting. My firm yet tiny breasts jiggled their understanding of the joke as I chuckled, but I donned the nightgown and left the lavatory in search of something more substantial to cover myself, a fluffy terrycloth robe awaiting me in the closet.
Curiosity directed me to peer through the vast picture window adorning the front of Damian's home; I needed to see my own home, even from a distance, for a reason unknown. Instead, I witnessed Damian shaking the hand of a grungy looking man clad in well-worn clothes, the work attire of a mechanic, and beside the men sat Betsy, my beloved truck, the black beauty that nearly killed me. But I still loved her.
I hurried, or attempted to hurry, to the yard only to regret the haphazard excitement when the oppressively chilly winter air harassed my tiny physique despite the warm housecoat. The desert winter, a dry cold, cuts through to the core of a person unlike the humid wintry weather of the South; the thickness of the air allows for thickness of the blood, and the arid climate thins the stock.
I disregarded the shivers and my jaw's desire to chatter as my hand caressed the hood of Betsy, my beautiful little Nissan Frontier, black without and charcoal cloth within with the lovingly purchased fog lamps and matte black rims. Much like a man – frustratingly so to the one I married – I loved my truck, my Betsy. I whispered to her as if speaking to a child.
"You didn't mean to hurt me, did you, girl? No, I didn't think so. I'm sorry I hurt you back," I affectionately cooed to her.
"I'm sorry to say you did hurt her, miss. New radiator, even. The old one cracked right through as if her heart broke from hittin' ya," the mechanic sang in a musically Southern accent. "I'm sorry for everythin' that's happened to ya, too. No reason for two nice girls to go gettin' hurt like that, ya know."
"She looks perfect. Thank you," I sang, genuinely happy and grateful for the man's kind words.
"You're most welcome, miss. I know a car lover when I see the beloved, so I took extra special care of her. I should be gettin' back to the shop, though. You ever need anythin', tell ole Damian to give you my number."
"Yes, sir. Thanks again," I nodded, smiling fondly as he shook my hand with tender resolve. I internally wondered at how I married such a bastard when two wonderful gentlemen stood before me, both capable of exhibiting sincere tenderness and undeniable masculinity with just a few words and a handshake. My husband's existence faded into sallow memories in that moment.
"Thanks again, Russ," Damian said as he offered the Southern gent a manly salute from a short distance. Russ honked twice with an arm extended to wave to us as he urged the tow truck down the street with a heavy foot. Damian raised his hand while I waved like a teenager at a parade until I blushed with realization and hugged my arms to my chest.
"He's very nice," I offered, turning toward Damian.
"That he is, but then that's why he's rich, I suppose," Damian chuckled, eliciting another tingle through my spinal column.
"Rich?" I inquired, an eyebrow rising to the occasion to question Damian as much as the word.
"Russ owns the Collier chain of dealerships," Damian answered from the walkway as he had begun the short trek into the house; I remained beside Betsy, a shaking hand stroking her grill, the very spot that collided with my chest, I knew, the very spot that shattered my swiftly mending heart.
"I'm sorry, Betsy. It's just you and me for a while, okay?" I whispered. I wished for a moment that she could speak to me, to share my apology as I knew she would were she sentient. A psych-something doctor explained to me later that while I am a car person in general, I felt a deepened attachment to my truck as a coping mechanism to process the injuries she inflicted upon me at the hands of my lover and to process the loss of my baby. I do not remember caring why, only choosing to concern myself with the familiarity and comfort Betsy offered. Group therapy for the rape helped far less than a desert scene from Betsy's cab. I was certain my next punishment would be a group for abused women.
Despair can torment a person to depths of the soul and to a degree that often resolves itself with a final release. But suicide was not an option for me. Many years before, my baby sister, Annie, ensured the continuation of my life after stumbling in to a volatile situation. Naiveté guided my hand on this occasion and two preceding it. The first attempt at ending my life teetered on the edge of a razor, but I never knew in all my teenage wisdom to slice the length of the arteries to guarantee bleeding out, so I cut across and to the horror and relief of my family I was discovered in the bath tub early enough to be saved. The second attempt to leave this world was a true cliché cry for help – pills aplenty. A stomach pump and counseling prolonged respirations yet again.
The third attempt to dislodge soul from body was poetic, romantic. My Annie, barely fourteen and smitten with the wonderment of the Holy Trinity, wandered from her bed in sleepless grogginess to notice her beloved big sister chewing on the barrel of a semi-automatic handgun.
"Please don't," she whispered almost inaudibly, her eyes emotionless, before as quietly she retreated to the comfort of her bed to leave me weeping and for the first time pondering the reality of God. At fourteen, I wondered if she were stoic in that moment in resignation and defeat or if something more were happening. My answer arrived the following morning when she had no recollection of her plea or me with a hair trigger a hair from introducing my brain to the moonlight.
I announced over breakfast with an unaware family my intentions of the previous night much to the terror of everyone present, parents and beloved sister. The morning's affairs halted immediately when my father rushed to reclaim his firearm from an oaken night stand near my pillow. I spent the next several weeks discussing my wish to die with various professionals only to learn that while I newly understood my mental instability, I was forevermore stable in my promise to Annie never to try again.
So no, I will not entertain the idea of removing myself from this world. Rather, I will push onward and pray to Annie's God, whom I do not know personally, for whatever He can provide. We shall see if He listens. These were my pithy reflections as I recovered slowly.
I pondered the need to revisit the lifestyle of a mental patient during those first few days of solitude in the harmonious comfort of Damian's home, but I felt stable and refreshed knowing that the future held freedom, freedom from pain and freedom from anguish and fear and unhappiness. I had a new direction set before me in the unfortunate and possibly self-inflicted circumstances that now required constant pain medication and bandage replacement if only temporarily. My promise to Annie promoted strength of will that I never knew was within my grasp.
But my caretaker inspired the immutable need to embrace vulnerability though I viewed the notion as weakness at first.