400 Days of Oppression

XII

Kenyatta could not believe what he was hearing. Someone had dared to touch his woman, his property.

“Who are they? Where do they live? Are they regulars?”

“This was their first time at the farm.”

Kenyatta put both hands on Delia’s shoulders and squeezed gently, but firmly, compelling Delia to meet his stern gaze.

“Delia.” Kenyatta relaxed his features, letting the tension out of his expression, forcing a smile as he brushed the hair from her face and caressed her cheek with his palms and fingertips. He cradled her face in his hands, gently, like he was holding something delicate, precious, invaluable. He licked his lips. Then kissed her lightly on the mouth. He could feel Delia tremble in his grasp. Cruelty she could take. She was part of an industry of staged, consensual fantasy violence. In her world, violence was something passionate, even romantic, but she knew he could see it in her eyes, she knew that the cruelty in his eyes, though passionate, would be neither romantic nor consensual. “Tell me.”

“I-I don’t know what you want.”

“Yes you do. You wouldn’t let strangers stay at your home unless you checked them out.”

“I have their name and credit card on file as well as their billing address but—”

“Give it to me.”

“King...”

“Give it to me!”