SERNEA STEELE MONROE

A gentle adventure. A bold connection. A BNWO love story.

Paradise Found:

A BNWO Romance

© Copyright 2025 by Serena Steele Monroe

NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This tale is a work of pure fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously-any resemblance to actual persons, whether living, deceased, real events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Paradise Found:

A BNWO Romance

Chapter 1 - The Land of Maybe

The ferry coughed out a blast of black exhaust and limped away from the dock. The boat left behind a dozen tourists and their new masters. The whites were sunburned, hungover, and eager for a second shot at paradise with their new owners. The white women clung to the black men, and the white men respectfully escorted everyone in the groups. Husbands and wives who’d surrendered to the betters, ready for a new life.

As the boat pulled away, Rebecca and Whitaker stood hand in hand at the edge of the boat, their matching duffels at their feet, their faces turned to the sunlight like sunflowers.

“Don’t they look happy?” she asked.

“Well, I guess they found what they were looking for. Must be sponsoring them to come to America. Or those with them were guests from America.” Whitaker pondered if they relinquished everything or if it was only sex.

“I bet, they’ll always be happy, deliberate servility is what we want, isn’t it?”

“To be honest, Rebecca darling, I don’t know what we want.”

With every step, Rebecca’s form appeared as if she belonged on an airport billboard. With her flaxen hair, skin with just enough tan to suggest affluence, and oversized sunglasses that hid half her face. Whitaker was thinner, paler, with the nervous energy of a man always running five minutes late for everything.

Together, they seemed impossibly American. In the way only Americans can manage. Smiling too much, dressed too bright, not quite sure where to go but determined to make the best of wherever they landed.

After an hour, Baliceaux rose from the sea. An island owned by a black industrialist to support those who promote BNWO. Blacks of all economic levels stay free, while whites pay for the privilege to support the black staff and guests.

A wall of heat staggered them as they stepped onto the island. Rebecca fanned her neckline with an open palm, making a dramatic gesture, and let her sunglasses slip down her nose. And in a flash, she gave Whitaker’s hand a squeeze, and the way she smiled at him dared him to complain.

“Jesus. This place is trying to poach us alive. I guess we paid extra for the full convection-oven experience.” Whitaker mopped his brow with his hand.

Rebecca grinned.

“Everything here smells wonderful, all the tropical plants, even the ocean smells better here. Worth every penny.”

Whitaker laughed. The phrase was a Rebecca special, corny, a little self-aware, but sincere underneath the glitter.

The white couple shuffled along the dock, weaving around clusters of vacationers who wore the same uniform. Poly-blend shorts, sandals, and resort tees featuring company logos or puns about rum. Every few feet, a staff member in coral-pink shirts and pressed khakis flashed them a megawatt smile, shouted “welcome,” and waved. Whitaker nodded at them, always a bit behind the moment. Rebecca, on the other hand, loved this shit. As they moved around, she matched every greeting with a bigger one, her accent getting cheesier the more she leaned in.

The entrance to the resort was a barn door of faded teal, thrown open to let in breeze and chaos. The lobby hummed with energy: luggage carts squealed across tile, kids shrieked over slushies, and a reggae cover of “Hey Ya!” poured out of a battered speaker. A wood-carved sign above the front desk declared, in flowery paint, BALICEAUX PARADISE-WELCOME HOME. Rebecca inhaled deeply, like a yoga teacher, letting the scent of salt and flowers fill her lungs.

“God, even the mold smells better here. Like, is this what laundry smells like when it isn’t fighting for its life?”

Whitaker almost made a joke about the weed, but didn’t. Rebecca’s happiness was radioactive, and he didn’t want to risk changing the isotope.

When they reached the front desk, behind which a man with skin so dark it reflected purple under the lights was perched, they waited for him to notice them. Glancing up, he smiled, his teeth were white and wide, and his black hands spread on the countertop as if ready to vault over and welcome them personally. The name tag read: SIMON.

“Good afternoon, my friends,” Simon sang, each syllable smooth and warm. “You are the Whitneys, yes? Whitaker and Rebecca?”

Whitaker blinked, startled.

“Uh, yeah. That’s us.”

Simon tapped a keyboard, never breaking eye contact.

“You have a bungalow. On the west side of the island, overlooking the beach, offering the best sunset view on the island. Here-” He produced a pair of rainbow-striped wristbands from beneath the counter, snapped one onto each of their wrists in a magician’s flourish.

“You are now family. Anything you want, you ask me, Simon. Or one of the brothers, yes?”

Rebecca’s lips curled.

“We like the sound of that.”

Simon grinned back.

“Please follow, I’ll walk you. It’s easy to get lost-this place has mind of its own.”

He scooped up their bags, one in each hand, and led the way through an open-air corridor painted in a color Whitaker would have called Electric Papaya. The walls seemed to have been through at least two hurricanes since the last repaint, but it only made the place seem more lived-in.

Every ten steps brought new details. A frangipani tree slouching over the railing, a battered payphone festooned with faded stickers, a parrot shouting curses at passing staff. They skirted the edge of a pool where a group of men, all thickly muscled and black as oil, tossed a volleyball and laughed in a language Whitaker didn’t recognize.

Rebecca’s eyes lingered. To her credit, she didn’t try to hide it, either.

Whitaker noticed, and he squeezed her hand. And she squeezed back.

Without another word, Simon led them around a corner, down a path of ancient, cracked stones. After a few moments, Simon launched into the events they might attend.

“Most guests like the quiet, but you have party if you want it,” he said. “Tonight is, how you say, welcome mixer. Everyone comes. Open bar. Maybe too open, if you ask me.”

“We’ll be there. We need to earn these wristbands, right?” Rebecca said. She shot Whitaker a look.

“That’s the rule.” Whitaker smiled, showing too many teeth and with too much enthusiasm.

Their bungalow crouched at the end of the path, painted the shade of an overripe mango, roof tiles the color of dried blood. They feared the swing on the front porch might collapse under a strong wind. The view, with its white sand, palm trees, and a sliver of turquoise sea in a protective cove, was everything the website promised. Simon hoisted their bags onto the porch, fished out a big brass key, and unlocked the door.

Inside, the place was cool and a little musty, but not in a way that bothered Whitaker. The room smelled of old incense, vanilla, Bird of Paradise, and the faint aftertaste of the ocean. The walls were hung with shells, woven mats, photographs of islands, boats, and people laughing in bars. A ceiling fan whirred overhead, lazy and unhurried. Two beds, pushed together and dressed in linens patterned with hibiscus, took up most of the floor. A basket of fruit and a bottle of rum waited on a rickety dresser.

“Welcome,” Simon said, arms spread. “You are home. Dinner starts at six. I leave you to enjoy.” He slipped out before they could thank him, closing the door with a soft click.

Rebecca flopped onto the bed, arms open, like a starfish.

“Tell me this isn’t perfect.”

Whitaker glanced around. The lampshade was crooked, the bathroom door stuck halfway open, and something chittered in the wall behind the closet. It was, in its own way, perfect.

He dropped onto the bed next to Rebecca, close enough to touch but not quite touching.

She turned her head and stared at him through the sunglasses.

“You nervous?”

He considered lying, but shrugged instead.

“Little bit.”

“Don’t be. This is going to be fun.” She sat up on her elbows.

Whitaker met her gaze.

“Yeah. I know.”

They held the silence for a beat. Outside, the parrot screamed a four-letter word at the universe. Inside, the bed creaked as Rebecca rolled onto her side and nudged Whitaker’s knee with her foot.

“Well, I saw you checking out the staff,” he said.

“Oh, you noticed?” She grinned.

“Hard not to.”

“You jealous?” She laughed.

“Should I be?”

In response, she rolled her eyes, leaned over, and kissed him once, slow and soft.

“Nope. Let me suggest you get used to the idea. Remember, you suggested this whole thing. Reparations, right? Your family did own plantations here. Until you sold them last year. Even that was profiting from slavery. Reparations, you suggested this.”

Whitaker swallowed. A sense of guilt flooded him. The air in the room was heavier than before, dense with the promise of something he couldn’t quite name.

“Reparations,” he said.

Rebecca stood, stretched, and pointed at the rum. “You want a drink?”

Whitaker nodded. She poured two fingers for each of them, handed him his glass, and clinked hers to his.

“To new beginnings,” she said.

“To possibilities,” Whitaker replied.

“To reparations,” they said not quite together.

They drank. The rum burned, sweet and sharp. Rebecca settled back on the bed, kicked off her sandals, and closed her eyes. Whitaker finished his drink, set the empty glass on the nightstand, and lay back as well, watching the ceiling fan cut lazy spirals in the warm afternoon air.

They didn’t talk after that, just listened to the sound of the island. The birds, the crash of distant surf, the laughter of strangers. Whitaker reached out and took Rebecca’s hand, and she squeezed it, just once, but hard. It was the first day of vacation, and everything was still possible.

The sunset on Baliceaux hit like a velvet hammer, pounding the day into something slow, soft, and syrupy. Light oozed through the palm fronds, painting the porch in ribbons of orange and gold, so saturated it seemed fake. Whitaker and Rebecca claimed the bungalow swing, which groaned under their combined weight and threatened to pitch them into the sand. The ice in their glasses sweated faster than they did.

Rebecca sipped her punch, smacked her lips, and said, “They weren’t kidding about these. I think there’s more rum in here than fruit.”

“Good thing, you’re not driving,” Whitaker said.

“That’s the spirit.” She stretched her legs and pointed her toes at the setting sun.

The swing moved, slow and uneven, as if following the rhythm of their conversation. From the resort proper came the muffled pulse of a steel drum, distant enough to be pleasant. The air, thick with the perfume of jasmine and bruised limes, stuck to their skin and made every touch electric.

Guests paraded by in a stream. Most wore the shellacked, sunstruck look of people who hadn’t worn shoes in three days. Some couples walked arm-in-arm, others drifted alone, all drawn by the promise of evening cocktails and easy conversation. Rebecca scrutinized them like a scientist, tracking every oddity and angle. She loved to people-watch, and here, every specimen was in its natural habitat: relaxation.

Whitaker examined her instead. He counted the freckles on her nose, the way the ends of her hair curled when humidity got ambitious. With her eyes, half-closed and predatory, Rebecca tracked not the women in their cover-ups, but the men who strolled by in resort uniforms.

The staff made an impression. All of them wore crisp shorts and tight polo shirts in tropical colors, and most had the kind of muscle that required a gym and a personal grudge. The men and women moved with the casual arrogance of people who knew they were being ogled, and Rebecca did not disappoint them.

“They’re really running with the island fantasy, huh?” She nudged Whitaker with her hip.

“Maybe it’s in the dress code.”

She laughed, breathy, and took another long sip.

“Do you think they’re all from around here?”

Whitaker hadn’t thought about it. He shrugged. “Seems like it. St. Lucia, Martinique, or other islands nearby. Why look for staff elsewhere when the Cribbean locals look like-” He cut himself off, but Rebecca smirked.

“Look like that?” she said, nodding at a trio of staffers who strolled past, arms stacked with pool towels. The tallest one caught Rebecca’s gaze and didn’t bother looking away. His smile was polite, but his eyes were all challenge.

“Yeah,” Whitaker said.

Rebecca held the stare a second longer, broke it with a wink. She set her glass on the swing’s arm, leaned back, and let her hand find Whitaker’s thigh.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah. Just taking it in.” He caught sight of three black women dressed similarly to the men, and he exhaled. They were stunning and far out of his league. But so was his wife.

“Let me tell you, dear, you and me both. Do you want to be of service to one of them?” She grinned.

“Not worthy.” Returning his gaze to his wife, whose eyes had returned to the three men.

The swing squeaked as she rocked it harder, the old chain whining in protest. Rebecca observed another pair of staffers walk by. She made no effort to hide her interest, and Whitaker filed with a strange combination of embarrassment and pride. He wanted her to be happy. He wanted her to want, period.

“You’re staring,” he said, voice low.

Rebecca didn’t blush. She turned to him, eyes glassy with liquor and sun, and said, “Isn’t that the point?”

The line hung between them, heavy with everything they hadn’t said. For weeks, maybe months, they had danced around this conversation, letting their thoughts out in safe increments, testing the boundaries of what was okay to want.

“Um, it’s for you.” Whitaker squeezed her hand.

“Oh, you don’t get off on it?” She squeezed back.

At the moment, he thought about lying, but didn’t.

“Well, yeah, I do. I just-”

Rebecca rolled her eyes.

“Don’t overthink it, baby.” She shifted closer, until her lips brushed his ear. “We talked about this. You want me to be happy, right?”

He nodded.

“Then let me have a little fun. Let’s see what happens.”

Whitaker attempted to answer, but Rebecca kissed him before he could, all heat and no patience. Her hand moved higher on his leg, daring.

Somewhere behind them, a group of guests started singing along to the music, their voices sloppy but full of joy. A faint breeze carried in the smell of grilled meat and sweet smoke. The night was warming up, and so were they.

Rebecca broke the kiss, leaned back, and drained her drink.

“Mmm, I’m going to shower. Try not to ogle the staff too hard while I’m gone. I don’t want one of those women to hurt you,” she announced. She slid off the swing and padded inside, leaving Whitaker alone with the sunset and a thousand unspoken words.

The sky’s colors melted into each other, and he tried to imagine what the night would bring. Rebecca’s laughter carried through the open window, light and reckless. Whitaker finished his rum, let the last of it burn away his nerves, and decided to stop thinking so hard.

The world smelled of orchids and rosella flowers, and for once, that was enough.

They took their drinks and their bare feet to the edge of the porch after dark. The air, thick as syrup, clung to their skin, making every movement deliberate and slow. Whitaker spied the stars poke holes through the sky, bright and obscene. The kind of night that made you think the world might actually be infinite.

Rebecca pressed up behind him, bare arms circling his waist. Her chin found his shoulder.

“You see that?” she said, nodding at the path where staff hustled to set up tiki torches and buffet tables.

Whitaker noticed. The same men as earlier, muscles gleaming with sweat and oil, laughing at jokes too private for outsiders. Whitaker could hear every word and none of them at the same time.

Rebecca’s lips brushed his neck, warm and searching.

“Do you think they fuck like they move?”

But when he tried to answer, her hands were busy. One arm kept him close, but the other slipped past the waistband of his shorts, cold-fingered and unyielding. She found him soft, coaxed him hard, and stayed there, hand in a vise.

Whitaker gasped.

“You like that?” Her wrist flicked, knuckles brushing the zipper. “Or do you wish it were someone else doing this to you? One of those tall, strong black as midnight ladies?”

Whitaker’s knees went weak. He gripped the railing for balance. The world seemed to shrink to the touch of her hand, the heat of her body, the salt-sting of her tongue as she licked his ear. Her rhythm was calculated, relentless. She knew his limits better than he did.

“Which one?” Rebecca asked, a single finger tracing up and down his shaft like she was testing a paint sample. “The tall one, from the pool? Or the one with the cornrows and the tattoo?”

Whitaker twitched in her grip. He opened his mouth, but all that came out was a sound.

She giggled.

“Ah, oh, see, I want to see one of the men fucking you.”

“Which?”

He shrugged.

“Why can’t you decide. That’s okay.” She squeezed, slow and mean. “I’ll try one or both over there.”

Out of nowhere, his hips bucked. He hated how easy she made it. How quick she could wring him out, make him desperate, make him beg. Rebecca’s hand moved faster, her breath hot in his ear.

“You want to watch, don’t you? You want to see me split open on one of them. You want to see what a real man looks like between my legs.”

At that moment, he groaned helpless. With his prick stiff, impossibly sensitive, every nerve ending right on the edge.

“You want to hear me scream for him? You want to see me stuffed so full I can’t even move, don’t you?”

Whitaker jerked once, twice, and he came, spurting into her hand with a noise he’d never made before. Rebecca milked every drop, pulled her hand free, and wiped it on his thigh.

She turned him around, made him look her in the face. Her eyes were bright and wild. She leaned in, kissed him hard, and bit his bottom lip.

“I want this. I want you to watch me get ruined,” Rebecca said, voice rough, sensual, driving Whitaker mad.

Whitaker couldn’t seem to breathe, but he nodded.

“Okay. Oh, my God, yes.”

She laughed, not unkindly.

“Good boy.”

They stumbled back inside, Whitaker already half-soft and embarrassed. Rebecca shoved him down on the bed, yanked off her sundress, and climbed on top of him. She was wet, open, and greedy. She didn’t bother with foreplay. Clair slid down on his dick and rode him, fast and brutal. Whitaker lasted less than a minute. When he finished, Rebecca didn’t stop. She ground against him, working herself to the edge, and collapsed next to him with a shudder.

She stared at the ceiling, catching her breath.

“That’s one,” she said.

Whitaker rolled onto his side.

“I can do better.”

She laughed, grabbed his hand, and pressed it between her legs.

“Then prove it.”

He tried. He really did. But every time he slid inside her, he got so worked up by the thought of what she wanted, what he wanted for her, he couldn’t hold out. He lost count after three. Rebecca lost patience, but only in the way a cat does when a mouse plays dead. She’d have some sexual pleasure… eventually.

After, they lay tangled in sweaty sheets, the fan still spinning in lazy circles. Rebecca rested her head on his chest, fingers drawing shapes on his hairless chest.

“You ever thought about what happens after this?”

“Yeah. But I don’t care.”

“Me neither.” She smiled.

“Reparations,” Whitaker said, and contemplated what would cleanse his soul. He’d always had a guilty conscience.

They listened to the island for a while. Outside, the music changed to something faster. People danced, the sound of laughter and clinking glasses floating in on the breeze. Somewhere out there, men waited. Rebecca closed her eyes and made a list. Whitaker gazed at the line of her jaw and committed it to memory.

Tomorrow, they’ll find out which one she liked best. For now, they had each other and the promise of what was to come.

Whitaker drifted off first, exhausted, spent in every way. Rebecca gazed at the ceiling, wide awake, mind racing with possibilities. She wasn’t patient, but she could wait one more night.

The world outside their door pulsed with noise, heat, and hunger. So did Rebecca, and she was just getting started.

Paradise Found:

A BNWO Romance

Chapter 2 - It Started With a Smile

The next morning, Whitaker woke to the sound of wet tires hissing on sand and the metallic squawk of distant gulls. The air hung thick in the bungalow, heavy with sweat and last night’s rum. Rebecca had already claimed the shower. Whitaker heard her singing an off-key pop song. Her voice rose above the steam. He smiled as the memory of her mouth, her hand, her everything, washed over him in an instant.

By the time he found swim trunks and a shirt. Rebecca reappeared, towel-wrapped and still damp, hair slicked flat and face shining. She dropped the towel and shimmied into a one-piece swimsuit, a wrap, and put on a pair of dark sunglasses. She looked like a magazine ad for escape.

“You hungry?” she asked.

Whitaker shook his head.

“Maybe later.”

She grinned.

“Beach. We can be the first to put dibs on the good chairs.”

They made for the water. The path from the bungalows cut through a palm-shaded area and dropped them onto a crescent of white sand that curved for half a mile. Already, guests had started their day. So many white bodies splayed under umbrellas, kids hurling each other into the shallows, the muscled staff staking out their territory with coolers and towel carts. The sea glared turquoise and flat, a perfect cartoon of the Caribbean.

The white women fawning over the black male staff or guests. White men gazing at the black women with fearful respect.

Rebecca pulled Whitaker’s hand, steering him past the first row of chairs.

“We’re not amateurs,” she said. “Front row or nothing.”

They found an empty patch halfway to the lifeguard stand. Rebecca set up shop in the sun, letting her skin glow. Whitaker stuck to the shade, eyes half-shut, content to listen to the rise and fall of water and voices. He’d never been good at relaxing. On the island, that seemed like a personal failing.

The staff made laps up and down the beach. Offering drinks, sunscreen, and gossip from the nearby islands. They wore matching polos, all of which showed off their arms and chests. Whitaker realized that Rebecca gazed at them. Not always, but often enough. She didn’t try to hide it. Sometimes she didn’t even bother with sunglasses.

One staffer stood out. Taller than the rest, with arms like ropes and skin so dark it shone blue in the sun. His name tag read XAVIER. He moved in a way that drew eyes, even from people who pretended not to notice. Xavier laughed easy, talked fast, and called every man “boss” and every woman “miss.”

When he smiled, it took up his whole face.

Xavier handled a cart loaded with snorkeling gear. He stopped every few chairs, chatting up the guests, demonstrating masks and fins. When he reached Rebecca and Whitaker, he knelt on the sand, set his hands on his knees, and flashed an easy smile.

“Good morning, Miss,” he said. His voice was deep, almost lazy, but every word hit its mark.

“Morning.” Rebecca lifted her sunglasses.

“First time here?” Xavier asked.

“How’d you guess?”

He shrugged.

“Local whites are darker and don’t wear so much sunscreen.” He grinned and gawked at Whitaker. “You want to snorkel, Boss?”

“Maybe later. We just got up.” Whitaker wanted to keep his face neutral.

Xavier winked.

“No rush. Water’s always here. Let me know if you want a tour. There’s a reef, not too far. I know the best spots.” He turned back to Rebecca. “And you, Miss Lady, anything you want to see?”

“We might take you up on the tour later.” Rebecca bit her lip for a second.

“Any time,” Xavier said. He stood in one smooth motion, all coiled muscle, and moved on. “Anytime, anything you want, holler out, Xavier, and I’ll be there, Johnny on the spot.”

Rebecca watched him go. She didn’t look away until he had stopped at the next set of chairs, where two white girls in bikinis hung on his every word.

Whitaker saw her staring at Xavier. It was hard to describe the feeling it gave him. Not jealousy. Something sharp, hot, akin to biting a chili pepper. And it wasn’t anger. Something else, some darkness and yearning to see or be. A desire to be more than he was.

“He’s got a fan club,” Whitaker said.

“What, am I not allowed to look?” Rebecca snapped her gaze back and grinned.

“Didn’t say that.”

She stretched, letting her wrap fall away. The suit she wore had a plunging neckline and a fully exposed back, leaving little to the imagination. She lay back on the chair, head tilted to the sun, lips parted. The look on her face was somewhere between hunger and boredom.

Whitaker tried not to stare, failed, and gave up.

The morning slid by in fits and starts. Every so often, Xavier returned. Sometimes, he would drop off fresh towels, and at other times, he flirted with Rebecca. He always found a reason to linger. Once, he brought Rebecca a glass of pineapple juice with a wedge of fruit balanced on the rim. Another time, he knelt beside her chair to rub aloe onto her shoulders, slow and deliberate, like a sculptor smoothing clay. She laughed at his jokes and asked questions about the island. About his life, about the best way to see the reef.

Xavier never glanced at Whitaker, not really. When he did, it was with the polite disinterest of a waiter at a business lunch. Whitaker strained to be bothered, but couldn’t. He liked being invisible, watching the show from outside the spotlight.

By noon, the sun hit its stride. The beach filled with pasty white bodies. All of them seemingly ached with desires for the black men and women who served them, or lounged with them. One white woman or another left with a black guest or resort employee. At times, the husband followed behind, sheepish, a trained pet trailing after its masters. If they returned, the women appeared worn out, and the men were whiter than before. And the blacks were no longer servants but conquering heroes.