Love Not Yet Lost

Dave shuffled the same stack of paper for the third time and set it neatly back at the edge of his desk. A small magnetic dolphin spun lazily next to his nameplate as he glanced back up at the clock. God, it was only 9:30 a.m. The prospect of heading to the coffee room in half an hour did little to lessen the anxiety he had slowly been cultivating over the past 12 hours.

He hit the power button on his phone only to be greeted by Elly’s smiling face; there were no replies. “What the fuck is she doing? I texted her two hours ago!” The worry had settled neatly in his gut last night after all three of his calls had gone to voicemail. He'd known she'd be out with the girls, but her not answering like that seriously put him on edge. He'd tried waiting up for her, but he had to work and couldn't afford to be written up again for tardiness.

Then there were her pants, damp and carelessly tossed into the bathroom hamper, almost as though she had wanted him to find them. Why were they soaked? Had she spilled something on them? Was that what the crusty shit was on her thong? He gritted his teeth. He'd texted to see if they could call on his break, but now it was rapidly approaching and she hadn't responded.

Dave trusted his wife; he trusted her implicitly, and yet... What if she had stepped out of their marriage? He didn't think she was capable of it. But what if...? He mentally cursed himself and reached for the novelty stress ball shaped like a virus that sat on top of his coasters.

Dave knew he was letting his wife down. She'd made it clear that she expected more sex in the relationship and that she needed to feel desired and attractive, but Dave just couldn't deliver that for her. He'd been working with his doctor on ways to bring his testosterone levels back up to some kind of reasonable baseline, but like the doctor had told him, "you can't boost something that doesn't exist.”

So he'd started hormone treatment. Supplements designed to artificially introduce more testosterone to his system, meant to get him “back in the saddle,” as it were. But the process hadn't been easy or pleasant. Dave's body seemed to devour the testosterone—like some kind of black hole—and regardless of the dose prescribed, his levels continually came back pathetically low.

He couldn't tell his wife about it; he was far too embarrassed to admit something like that to his strong, confident, and self-assured wife. She'd definitely see him as less of a man, and then it wouldn't even be a question of her stepping out of the marriage; she might just dump his ass out on the porch altogether. Dave was having a hard enough time even talking about it with his doctor.

Dr. Biko was everything Dave wished he could be. He was tall, handsome, well-muscled, and heavily respected by his peers. The fact that he was black made Dave a bit nervous, but his position as a doctor meant that he was “one of the good ones.” Dave had made sure to let Dr. Biko know that, too, hoping he could form some comradery with the man.

It had seemed to work, too, since Dr. Biko had begun asking about his ******, where he lived, and what his job was. Dave was more than happy to open up about his life and had probably gotten a bit too smug when speaking about his wife. Dave couldn't blame Dr. Biko for being interested in her; she was an incredible woman in every regard.

When the doctor joked about “a white boi like Dave” not deserving her, they both laughed like good friends. Now, though, Dave struggled to meet the man's eyes when he went in for his checkups, all too aware of the staggering difference between them. It didn't help that the good-natured joking between them had taken on an air of mockery, and Dave typically ended up leaving his appointments feeling as though he were less of a man.

He didn't know what to do. His wife wasn't sharing her life with him, his medication wasn't working, and neither of his children looked at him as anything other than a piggy bank these days. Just the other week, Miranda had asked him for almost two grand to cover an insane shopping trip she'd taken her friends on. After transferring the money, he could have sworn she'd smirked and then called him a loser under her breath.

It was all too much. Something needed to change, and change in a hurry, or Dave felt like he was going to be left behind by his ******. Maybe a ****** vacation? Would the Caribbean help to heal those wounds? Dr. Biko’s dark face played across his mind, and he mentally corrected himself. Maybe… France? Ireland was supposed to be quite beautiful.

The buzzer on his phone dinged, and his assistant chirped across the speaker, “Mr. Geltan, your nine forty-five appointment is here. Should I let him in?”

Dave almost hurled the stress ball across the room in his shock. He took a moment to wrangle his breathing and then punched the button to respond. “Send him in, Liv.” Working in upper management at a pharmaceutical company had its perks, but entertaining the shareholders had to be one of the most soul-draining aspects of his day. With a sigh, Dave replaced the novelty stress ball, straightened his tie, and did his best not to think about the fact that his wife very obviously didn't want to talk to him.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Elly and Daniel had an incredibly pleasant morning out together. They'd gotten Starbucks, hit the nail salon, gossiped, and then settled in a little little lunch bar for a small meal. The day was gorgeous, and the patio afforded them the much-needed fresh air they'd both craved.

Daniel, for his part, had done his best to explain his unique situation. Elly had earnestly listened and asked questions where she could, but ultimately felt a bit overwhelmed by the explanations. She knew she was going to struggle to remember half of what her son told her, and so she had decided to simply put on her mom's pants and listen without judgment. If she fumbled in the future, she would just ask to be forgiven; she knew she would be.

It had started young for her son. He was younger than even he could remember clearly. The only thing he could say for sure was that he knew he was different; by 8 or 9, he was wishing he could grow breasts. By 13, he was imagining himself as more feminine than his body presented. And now, at 18, he knew that he wanted a bit of both.

It was something he had called “gender fluid,” slipping like water between the two states of existence depending on how they felt. She'd asked if that meant she would need to be careful about his pronouns, and he had laughed. Being her son didn't bother him, and having her refer to him as a man also didn't bother him since he was sometimes a man. He'd reassured her that she wouldn't need to worry about hurting his feelings.

Elly felt much better about the situation and their relationship by the time Daniel had worked through his explanation. But they had both very politely danced around the elephant in the room, and after sipping a particularly tangy daiquiri, Elly decided to let the small fire of alcohol burning in her stomach lead the way.

“So... that machine... I assume that was also a part of being gender fluid.” Elly hadn't meant it to come out snide, but the daiquiri had somehow turned into three, and she was feeling a little more brazen than was probably socially acceptable.

Daniel's ears turned bright pink as he blushed furiously. Despite this, it seemed like he'd at least thought about his answer, which Elly appreciated; she hated beating around the bush. “So... there's this... kink.” It was a muted response; Daniel’s eyes darted about as though willing the other patrons to lose their hearing. Elly knew they didn't care; the people around them were all tacitly accepting the social etiquette of tuning out the world around them.

“And... before I start, I need you to know that I'm not racist! Ok? I'm not! You have to believe that!” Elly wasn't sure how to feel about that statement. Typically, when anyone started an explanation that way, whatever it was they said next ended up being incredibly racist. She gave him the benefit of the doubt and nodded.

“It's called the BNWO; it stands for Black New World Order. Basically, it's a sexual fantasy about the black race claiming superiority over all the others and dominating them.”. Suddenly, Devon’s devilish grin was front and center in Elly's mind, and a sobering chill crept up her spine. “Essentially, whites, like you and me, submit ourselves sexually and, in other ways, to black men and women. It's ultimately about white inferiority and using that as a sexual fetish.”

Elly sat in stunned silence at her son's admission. Forget racist; everything he'd just said sounded incredibly fucking hot! She'd already been submitting herself to Devon pretty much every night, and it sounded a lot like Maurice was going to be balls deep inside her later that day as well. If that didn't sound like submitting herself to the black race, then she didn't know what did.

“Ok, alright, I think I can understand that. You get off on being... what? Weak? Submissive?” Elly levied a guess at the source of pleasure for the kink. What made her son so dedicated to the fetish?

Daniel was quick with the response to that inquiry, seeming to gain confidence with Elly's receptive posturing. “It's a little more complex than that, but yeah. The thought of being made to revel in my inferiority by a strong, dominant, virile black man does things to my mind that I can't even explain.”

A couple walking past swiveled their heads to cast a questioning look at him. Daniel ducked his head, attempting to ignore their stares as he smiled apologetically at Elly. “So, I've got a slut for a son. I don't suppose I'm going to be expecting any grandchildren, then. It seems like a bit of a pipe dream if you want to spend your free time having your ass resized by hung black men. Do you have a boyfriend? Do you want a boyfriend?”

Daniel blushed again, but he didn't deny the accusations. “I do want a boyfriend, I guess. But for obvious reasons, he'd... well, I'd hope to have a black boyfriend, I guess.” He quickly stumbled on to add, “Ah! But I wouldn't be opposed to a girlfriend, or maybe a master? Mistress? I just know that I'd want my partner to be dominant with me. Take control and lead me. So if I got a girlfriend, she would need to want to own me, I think.”

Elly shot back the rest of her daiquiri and stood, suddenly feeling motivated to take a more active role in her son's life. “Get up, ya slut! We're going shopping, and we ain't stoppin’ till every man within 50 miles can't help but turn their head!”

Bewildered, Daniel stood and smiled awkwardly. “Uh, Mom, don't you think maybe we should head home? You've had a bunch to drink, you know? Shouldn't we-”

But Elly cut him off with a bark of laughter: “Hell no! You want a woman to take charge? Well, buckle up, buckaroo! Mama’s going to turn her little sissy son into a stud-slaying slut; mark my words, you'll be throwing it back on some real meat before the week is out, I swear it!”

Daniel had gone from a giddy sort of nervous to mildly terrified at his mother's bold proclamation. Elly could see the cogs turning in his skull, and the boy was reconsidering whether sharing that information had been a wise choice. He was wondering to what extent this little adventure would impact his future.

But above all of that, Elly couldn't help but notice the bulge of excitement that had been straining the front of Daniel's pants for a while now. He'd chosen not to wear that cage device from the previous night, and now he sheepishly tried to hide his-admittedly small-erection from prying eyes. But Elly saw it. And Elly recognized that she could use it.

Unwittingly, Elly had just stumbled across her first true pawn in this amorphous game of chess. And if she didn't make the effort to capitalize on it, she would forever regret letting go of such an opportunity. All she needed to do was position herself in the role of Daniel's dominant, place herself above him on the social ladder, and ensure that both his loyalty and dedication belonged exclusively to her.

Accomplishing that would provide her with a permanent tool with which she could expand her control, entice other men, fish for options, and network with her partners. Hell, she could pimp Daniel out to any Tom or Dick that needed some relief, and he would probably thank her for it. Good, this was good. Miranda was a lost cause to her; Devon would have his hooks in her by now, and later that night she might not even be the only one carrying his child.

But Daniel... Daniel, she could make hers and hers alone. Making up her mind, she took her son's hand and stormed off to the next boutique she needed to hit. She would make this situation work to get an advantage, or she would die trying. Devon's words came back to her then: “sluts like you pump out sluts.” She looked back into the excited eyes of her son, and she grinned at just how true those words had been.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Dave had come home to an empty house—not even a note left on the table—no text, no phone call. He'd shouted out when he'd stepped into the front hall, expecting at least Miranda to poke her head out of her room, but it was silent. His temples throbbed as he sat at the kitchen table, entirely at a loss as to what could have happened to his ******. It wasn't uncommon for his kids to go days at a time without speaking to him, but his wife?

He looked over to the liquor cabinet and made a snap decision. If he was going to spend the night alone, then to hell with them, he'd do it ***** and not give a fuck! He was some kind of third wheel to whatever they had going on, so to hell with them! The first glass of bourbon was rough and smokey, harsh on his tongue, and left him feeling bitter and alone. The second went down much easier.

By the fourth, Dave had pulled most of their picture albums from the shelves in the living room and silently flipped through the accumulated memories of his ******'s growth. Miranda's 3rd birthday, Daniel’s junior softball championship, and their vacation to Mont Loc. He didn't weep; he couldn't quite bring himself to cry, but he did mope. I struggled to understand when things had gone so wrong when they'd all grown so far apart. Was it his fault? He'd never thought he was an absent father, but perhaps he wasn't doing enough.

With the kind of clarity only a substantial amount of alcohol could bring, Dave swore that he would push himself to be a better father and husband. He would pounce on Elly the moment she came home, showering her with the love he knew she needed. He would pester Daniel about what games he was playing so late at night. And he would spoil Miranda without feeling slighted. He owed it to his ****** to be a better man.

The sixth drink had Dave slumped over the kitchen table, barely coherent enough to admire the sparkle of his crystal tumbler. He tried to check the time on the stove clock, but the numbers swam around the room anytime he looked at them. The front door chime sounded, and Dave heard the shuffling of feet. How did he pronounce his wife's name? He tried to say it but didn't recognize the sound that came out of his mouth.

“Dave?! Jesus, Dave, what the fuck? Are you *****?!” That was his wife, for sure; he could tell by the disappointment in her tone. She sounded like that after he forgot to put their bins out by the curb.

“I'm going to go get washed up, mom. I've got so many loads in my hair that I don't think it'll ever wash out. Is he going to be ok? Do you need a hand?” That was… Daniel? Huh? Were they out together? Is that why she hadn't texted him back?

“Ugh… I know, I'm going to be leaking all night. I never thought they'd invite another four fucking guys. Sorry, sweetie. I know it was your first time, but we kind of jumped in feet first. It'll be fine; I'll just dump him on the couch or something. I'll join you for that shower right after. Lord knows I'll need all the help I can get trying to get the cum out of my hair.” Dave tried to say her name again, but it came out as an elongated moan.

“Jesus, Dave. Of all the fucking irresponsible decisions... C'mon you dumbass, get up! Christ, you're heavy. Use your legs, Dave, come on.” Elly was moving him, or trying to. He couldn't quite feel her arms around him, but he caught her scent. She reeked of weed and sweat. A wash of masculine cologne rolled over Dave's nose, and he felt the bile in his stomach do a little flip.

“Well, you sure picked a good fucking night for this shit. Come on, we're almost there. I'll get you a damn bucket, so just hold on.”

It wasn't that Elly threw him; it was more or less that she let him fall onto the couch. Dave wiggled his arms in her general direction and tried his best to express his love for her. “Milieesss, I luvvvuuoooahhh." It'd been his best attempt yet, but the mildly disgusted look on Elly's face told him she hadn't understood it. Damn.

“Ugh… Listen, Dave, I love you, but this is fucking pathetic, ok? This self-destructive bullshit is weak and repulsive. Be a fucking man and get your shit together. Maybe then I wouldn't need to... ah, whatever.” She turned and strode back into the kitchen without finishing her thought.

Dave tried to hold onto the sentence despite his tenuous grasp on short-term memories. She wouldn't have to. What? Why did she smell that way? Where did that come from? Why was Daniel with her? Men? Elly returned with the bucket, and Dave focused on every last brain cell he could muster.

“Whures-*urp*- wereas Mirnada?” Elly had to have understood that one.

She knelt to be at eye level with Dave, her expression softening into something like pity or sadness. “She'll be home later; she's not going to be done with them for a while, and Daniel couldn't keep up, so we had to come back. Though, based on the shape you're in, I'm half tempted to just go back. Don't worry about my ********, Dave; she's in better hands.”

And with that, she stood and headed for the stairs. Dave's eyebrows knit together as his addled mind struggled to remember what he'd asked to get an answer like that. Something had been smeared across Elly's face that he couldn't identify; it coated her hair as well. She almost looked like a water painting, but everything was blurry and shifted around the room as Dave's eyes refused to focus on any one thing.

Why was he on the couch? Had the kitchen lights always been that dim?

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Elly stepped into the shower and immediately moaned as the hot water hit her skin. Despite what she'd said to Dave, there was no way she could go back to Maurice's house. Her body was beyond spent. “Here, sweety, turn this way. I'll get that part.”

She spun Daniel to face away from her and drizzled the back of his head with shampoo. The evening hadn't gone at all the way she thought it would, and that made her feel a bit bad for her son. The boy had been put through the wringer by six different black men over four hours. If only she still had the energy to bounce back from something like that.

“Sorry for leaving your key here; I know it wasn't easy with your cage the whole time. You did well hiding the discomfort.” She scrubbed her fingers through her son's hair, and the sensation made him moan with equal parts relief and pleasure.

“It's for the best; white bois shouldn't be getting hard under any circumstances, let alone when being used by a superior king. It would've just been disrespectful and embarrassing. I still can't believe I managed to take two of them inside me at once. Did you even see their cocks?! I should be dead!”

Elly chucked and shoved his head under the water. "Honestly, I'm more impressed you managed to cum like that. Thank god we put that condom on under your cage. Could you imagine if you'd squirted on one of them? We'd both be in the ICU right now.”

Daniel laughed as he ran the luffa across his hairless body. “I still think that's a bit unfair; you were squirting like a fuckin' fountain the entire time, and they didn't even blink! Ok, my turn, spin around!”

Daniel's cage clinked cutely as he turned to start washing all the cum out of Elly's hair. The whole ridiculous situation had come about as a result of Elly finally coming clean to Daniel about her affair with Devon. Her son hadn't so much as blinked at the confession. He had stunned Elly when he begged her to ask Devon if he could join them.

Elly was hesitant at first, not knowing how Devon would react to the proposal, but to her surprise, not only had he enthusiastically agreed to have Daniel involved, but Elly suspected her son had ended up being used more than either her or Miranda. “I wonder how Miranda is holding up; it's her first time, and they're running a train on her right now.”

She heard Daniel snort and half turned to ask what was so funny. “Mom, sis lost her virginity to my machine months and months ago. Hell, there was a stretch where I didn't think she would ever give it back. I wouldn't be surprised if some of those men tap out before she does.”

Ah, so other things were going on in this house that escaped Elly's oversight. She shook her head ruefully and chuckled. “You two are making me feel older and older by the moment! It's no wonder Devon got bored with me; I just can't keep up anymore.” Daniel's fingers felt good massaging her skull, and she allowed herself to drift back into her recollections of the evening.

Daniel and she had bonded heavily over their shared interest in the BNWO. They'd spent all afternoon running a crash course on white servitude and her role in the BNWO as a mature, white slut. Neither of them could handle the eroticism of the lessons and had inevitably come home to spend some quality time with Daniel's machine.

Elly silently marveled at how comfortable the transition had been between herself and her son. While there'd been some early trepidation, all of what had happened between them ultimately felt natural, like they were finally slotting neatly into roles they had meant to be in from the start. As she stood there, back to her son, she felt no sexual tension, no embarrassment, no shame.

She had put that down to not seeing her son as a man. Or anything even remotely capable of being a sexual interest to her, not just because he was her son but because he was white. The BNWO had added a broader perspective to her outlook on men, on her position, and on her son's position relative to her. The only intrinsic sexual value the boy had was as a whore for the black race. Her son knew it, too, and so their showering together was nothing but platonic.

The thought brought Dave to mind, and she grimaced internally. Things had changed now that she and Daniel had officially been “blacked.”. Miranda had practically thrown herself at the men mere moments after passing through the door to their household. Elly wondered what exactly it was that Devon had done to motivate her ******** like that, but deep down she knew it was just in their nature as the subservient race. Miranda had been unable to resist their charms and sexual superiority any more than Elly had.

Yes, things had changed, and there was no longer any going back for any of them. She knew that if she wasn't able to play her cards right with Dave, a nasty divorce would be the most likely outcome. Losing a significant source of financial and parenting support for her and her future black children wasn't something she could allow. Miranda would likely end up finishing high school pregnant, if not a mother, which only added to the importance of keeping Dave around.

She couldn't hold the children over his head; they were adults and would be able to make their own decisions on where they went in the divorce. She couldn't use money to leverage him since he was currently paying for everything. Sex might have been an option, but the thought of sleeping with Dave physically repulsed Elly in a way she couldn't adequately articulate.

There had to be something. Something she could use as a leash to keep the man bound to their ****** as a caregiver and wallet. The photo albums strewn across the floor of the living room came to mind—the haphazard mess caused by a ***** man's sorrow—and all at once she knew what needed to happen. It wasn't a sure bet, and if it failed, they'd be forced to rope in another poor sucker to become their new nanny, but she had to try it.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Dave awoke with a groan. His head felt like it was coming apart at the seams, and when he brought a hand up to cover his eyes, he ended up groaning again from the movement. Everything hurt, and his stomach felt like it was at open war with him. He fought to keep the bile down and slowly peeled open one eye.

The bright morning light coming through the living room window blinded him, and he tried to turn away from it, only to find the back of the couch preventing him from escaping. “Wha-urk-” Dave rolled to the side and threw up into the bucket next to the couch.

Water. He needed lots of it. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked to the coffee table and found a glass with a note tucked under it. Sighing in relief, he grabbed the glass and chugged it down all at once. It wasn't enough, but hopefully it would help to settle whatever was happening to his stomach.

He picked up the note and flipped it open; he recognized Elly's neat, feminine handwriting.

“Dave, I don't know what to say; it was bad enough for you to get ***** during the week like that, but to assault our ********? I don't know who you are anymore. I'm devastated and confused. I'd thought you still held some love for this ******, but I guess that's gone now, too. I've taken the kids, and we'll be staying with a friend for a few days to think things over. I haven't told the police; Miranda didn't want that. She swears you didn't mean to do it, but I think she just loves you too much. Don't come looking for us, ok?”

The note slipped from Dave's hand as he finished reading it. There was no way. He could never, ever do something like that! Not in a million years, not in a billion. He could feel the panic attack start to set in. He brought his hands together in front of himself, trying to keep them from shaking, and then he noticed the bruises. A light, gentle shift on his skin. From pale off-pink to a sickly yellow, it circled his wrist as though he'd been grabbed.

Then again, a similar ring around his other wrist, and scratches, too. Trailing up his forearm as though someone had struggled to fight him off. The bottom fell out of his gut, and he scrambled to take his shirt off. More bruises fell across his chest, followed by more scratches. His pants were undone, the belt flopping uselessly against his thigh as he shot to his feet. No, no! This was wrong. He couldn't have done that.

He fought to remember. He struggled to link up his current memories with the ones just before he'd started flipping through photo albums. But there was nothing. A dark void was all he had of the previous night, where his existence had given way to sorrow, regret, and loneliness. Dave collapsed back to the couch. Was it possible? Had he been so far gone that he'd attacked his ********? Surely not, but...

Doubt crept into the back of Dave's skull like a deadly predator; it stalked between his brain cells, looking to devour his hope wherever it cropped up. Should he turn himself in? No, he couldn't just abandon his ****** like that; he was the breadwinner, and he knew Elly would struggle to meet the needs of their children.

His mind looped, always returning to the thought that harming his ******** had been impossible for him, and yet the marks on his arms and chest were entirely real. Dave wobbled to his feet, scanning the kitchen for his phone. He needed to call Elly and explain that he couldn't have done anything to their ******** and that it was some horrible misunderstanding.

He located the phone on the kitchen counter. Thumbing the power button, he was once again greeted by the smiling face of his wife. It hurt to look at it. He'd missed a call from work, likely from his secretary, asking if he'd be in at some point. But there were two unread texts from Elly, sent earlier that morning. He opened his messages with her.

There, under a single line of text, was a picture of his ********. Mascara streaked, eyes red, and cheeks flushed. Around her neck were the same sickly-yellow marks of having been grabbed. Definite imprints of fingers could be made out where the skin had gotten angry and red. The line of text read, “How could you? She was only trying to help you.”

Dave broke, then. Right there in his kitchen, surrounded by the familiar trappings of a well-lived-in house, Memories of happier days and important events lined the walls as though to mock what his life had become. Dave screamed in the sort of way only a man who'd lost what was most dear to him could. And then he cried because there was nothing else his mind could understand how to do.

He lost himself in a spiral of guilt and regret. Bargaining with the universe at large to undo whatever it was that he had done. Begging and pleading for things to be made right. He would offer up anything—his life, his job, his very soul—if it meant having another chance to make things right with his ******. He didn't care how bad things were for him; he didn't care if Elly never even looked him in the eye again; he would grin and bear it if it meant they would come home.

Dave should have been careful with what he wished for. If he had known what the universe had in store for him, he'd have fled from the house, abandoned his job, and run screaming across the border to begin a new life in another country. But Dave didn't know. All Dave knew was that it hurt too much to imagine a life without his beautiful wife and amazing children. And in that moment, he'd have walked through the gates of hell to get them back.