This is a work of creativity. As such, you may see words, concepts, scenes, actions, behaviors, pictures, implements, and people that may or may not be socially acceptable and/or offensive. If you are sensitive to adverse and alternative subject matter of any kind, please do not proceed, because I guarantee you’ll find it here. You have been warned. Read at your own risk.
I do not own Fifty Shades Trilogy, or the characters. They belong to E. L. James. I am only exercising my right to exploit, abuse, and mangle the characters to MY discretion in MY story in MY interpretation as a fan. If something that I say displeases you, please, just leave. If you don’t like this story or me, please don’t spoil this experience for everyone. Just go away. For the rest of you, the saga continues…
Chapter 03—And In This Corner…
INTRODUCING CHRISTIAN GREY
I can’t believe this fucking shit! I couldn’t pay somebody to get out of this? You have got to be kidding me!
Shit, I did the city a fucking favor! The asshole rear-ended me, for fuck’s sake. And I was sitting at a goddamn stoplight! I could smell the alcohol a mile away, but when he saw who I was, he claimed he was hurt. I just bet you are—you reek of cheap whiskey! Then when the cops get there, he tells them I slammed on my brakes and caused the accident! Excuse-fucking-me? I tripped over my own damn feet getting to this asshole. I had had all I could take from this situation. If he wants hurt, I’ll fucking give him hurt. Thinking back, I probably shouldn’t have decked the guy in front of the cop.
The worst was that fucking judge, though. Hammerville or Hammerstein—all I can remember was “Hammer.” I wonder if I fucked somebody over in his family or something in one of my business deals because he really dropped that bitch on my head. He wanted to give me jail time—for decking the fucking drunk driver that totaled my R8! If it weren’t for Carrick, I’d be doing six months for assault. Instead, I have to do community fucking service and 12 group sessions with some anger management group at some damn community center. Community center! Man, the paparazzi are going to love this shit!
I’m going to have to get a submissive really soon. That last one was a disaster! She could take a good caning but she was too damn clingy from day one. I should have taken that as a sign that this was a bad idea. She didn’t last two weeks. That’s what I get for trying a new service. I’ll have to get in touch with Elena to see if there are any new prospects. In the meantime, I may have to get a quick fix somewhere. I have a feeling that Bastille is not going to be enough with this touchy-feely group shit in my future.
“Hello Christian.” Elena’s voice has that same purr every time she says my name. It would irritate me if I hadn’t already become accustomed to it.
“Hello Elena. Are there any parties near the Sound tonight?”
“Parties? That’s not your style… and on a Monday night. What’s wrong?” She’s prying again. Fuck, can’t you just answer my question?
“I don’t want to discuss it right now. Are they any parties tonight or not?”
“Well…” This woman is so irritating sometimes. “I hadn’t heard of any, but I can find out and give you a call back… or maybe I can assist you in some way?” Her voice is oozing seduction. It makes me think of the times I was training to be a Dom. She was wicked with a cane, but she could take a whip like none other. I can feel my dick twitch… shit! I’ve been without a sub for too fucking long! Even for a quick fix, Elena and I stopped “engaging” each other long ago—though I get the feeling she wouldn’t mind rekindling that relationship.
I definitely do not concur.
“Let me know what you find out Elena.” I hang up quickly, before the thought of her bent over my whipping bench becomes too appealing.
Luckily, we had scouted this place before I was due for my first session with whatever second-rate quack the city decided to unleash on me. We can park a block away and enter from a concealed entrance in a connecting building. Maybe I can avoid press after all… here’s hoping.
It’s more like a community complex than a community center. The place looks like one of those urban, low-class high schools—tall, ugly, brick building—except that it has to be about 12 or 15 stories tall. The minute I walk in, I know there’s going to be problems. I have to ask the receptionist where I am supposed to be. Not only is she stricken by “the face,” but she damn near swoons when I give her my name. “M-Mr. Grey… yes… room 239, sir. Y-you’ll be meeting with Dr. Steele’s group, s-sir.”
“Thank you,” I say coolly before shooting a look over to Taylor and shaking my head. “This is going to be a long night.”
I make my way to room 239 and I have to sign in. This just keeps getting better and better. I don’t want to sign shit! I see four other people here already and I wonder how many people are in the group. I tell Taylor to wait for me in the hallway since I’m sure some of this shit is going to be doctor-patient-privilege-type shit.
I make my way to one of the empty seats and pull out my blackberry. No response from Elena yet. I know I’m going to need some release when I leave this place. I go to my regular service—the one that I use when I don’t choose from Elena’s latest fruit—and send out an APB for parties and one-nighters. Normally, that’s not my style. Being who I am, I have to be careful. But the more people I see coming into the room, the more I feel like this is going to be an emergency!
“Welcome everyone, please take a seat.” I put my blackberry away to see who the quack is going to be.
Who the hell is this? In walks this petite woman looking like a hot sexy school marm! I can’t believe my fucking eyes! She’s wearing these naughty librarian glasses that sit on her nose so that she can look over them at you with these huge ocean blue eyes and I immediately feel my pants tighten. I have to adjust myself before she joins the circle. This simple black dress is hugging her in all the right places and those black stilettos make her legs look like they go on for days. Her hair is in this bun of some type, but the curls around her forehead fall delicately into her face, causing her to constantly push the stray hair behind her ears. What’s worse? She’s a brunette! A fucking brunette!
Why the hell am I being punished?
Well, today is the day I meet the new wailers. I am not looking forward to this. I go in every time hoping for the best—hoping for a group that will be more receptive to change and throwing out the old way of thinking, moving on to a fresh new life and a start with a better outlook on things. And every time, I’m disappointed. I get a group full of Flashdance Thatchers and maybe one Stoley if I’m lucky. On the first day of a new session, I usually wear something bright and colorful to make myself appear more approachable. Today, I just don’t feel like it. Today, I’m going to be realistic and face this shit head on.
I opt for my black, just-above-the-knee-length pencil dress with cap sleeves. It has a squared neckline, button elastic belt and buttoned straps at both hips. I put my hair in a messy bun—I don’t feel like dealing with it today either. A simple pair of diamond studs will do the trick. Just a touch of lip gloss and moisturizer so I don’t look twice my age. Shoes are my weakness, but I refuse to spend Louboutin money when I can find sexy stilettos for a fraction of the cost. Black for the black dress. Perfect. I look more like a school teacher than a psychiatrist who spent 7 years in school and internships just to end up babysitting a bunch of criers two days a week. Thank God for my outside practice and my other patients. I will be sure not to sign up for this again once I have served my “time.”
When I get to the Chinatown Community Center, I stop in the break area to partake of some of the “tastes-like-day-old” coffee to help me through this day. I spent most of the day working on my continued learning requirement to retain my license. I never see patients one-on-one on the days that I have to facilitate group counseling, so I have most of the day to organize my week and catch up on, well, whatever needs catching up on. Four o’clock comes all too soon for me, and I make my way down to 239 to see the latest motley crew.
I always peek in the window first to see who’s wandering around, who’s sitting down, who’s trying to be social, etc. I try to tell by their faces, dress, and demeanor why they’re here and what their problems may be. I’m almost always wrong because I’ve previously come to these things with the “glass half full” mentality. But not today. Today, I am on the verge of giving up on human kind completely, so when I look in the room, all I can see is a bunch of losers. Get it together, Steele. You are supposed to be these peoples’ saving grace—their savior. You are supposed to guide them to the light. You can’t go in with this kind of outlook. Get your shit together, Girl. Oh fuck-a-doodle-do! Now I know I’m crazy when the Bitch is the voice of reason. I drop my head momentarily to collect myself, take a deep breath, and walk into the Lion’s Den.
“Welcome everyone, please take a seat.” I watch the roaches scatter to their seats when I enter the room. Yep, losers. Dammit Doctor, I scold myself, you need to get it together. If you are nothing else you are supposed to be professional.
I don’t bother with the phony smile, but I do manage to wipe the scowl off my face while my… group… finds their seats. I immediately decide that I’m going to take a different approach with this group. I want to back off from the personal touch so much this time and see just where these people are and what they expect.
“My name is Dr. Anastasia Steele,” I begin as I take one of the empty seats in the circle. “You can call me Dr. Steele or Ana, whichever you prefer.” I cross my legs and start to skim blindly down the sign-in sheet, then open my portfolio to take some notes.
“What I would like to do is begin by having each of you introduce yourself, in whatever way you choose, and tell us why you’re here. What I would really like to know is what you expect to achieve from these sessions over the next six weeks. To be honest with you all, you’re only going to get out of this what you put into it. So I think it’s very important that we all understand that none of us really wants to waste anyone’s time, right?”
A deafening silence falls over the room. Yeah, Bitches, this ain’t your church’s weekend retreat where we all hug each other and sing “Kumbaya.” If you don’t want help, don’t sit in my face—I don’t have the patience for bullshit anymore.
“Having said that,” I continue, “I am available for one-on-one sessions on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Fridays either here or at my private office should you find the need or desire to do so. Just come talk to me during one of the breaks or after session and we can discuss an appointment. Are there any questions before we begin?”
“Right… so, let’s start with the lady to my right. What is your name and why have you joined us today?”
This is the time where I do my best to pay close attention to each speaker—even if I never do so again. I’m looking for my Stoley, or I’m trying to get a feel for everyone individually to see if there really is a chance in hell that I can help them. Each group usually starts out with about 18 to 20 people and ends up with somewhere between 8 and 12. I’m trying to gauge by their answers which ones will be the first to drop and which will be the long-haulers. In my experience, it’s the really fucked up ones that tend to drop out first. They are the ones that often hide from their issues and don’t want anyone to see what’s behind the mask. The ones that need the most attention—divorces, bad breakups, and unfortunately, recent loss due to death—they tend to stick around. We’ve got a couple of live wires in this group.
As I listen and take notes, I remember that I have a couple of court-ordered attendees in this group and I fish the forms from my portfolio. They are going to be the most difficult to deal with. They already feel like they don’t need to be here and their only purpose for coming is to avoid jail time. Just great! So now I’ll have to deal with a couple of overly-bravado assholes who I will continuously have to tell to stop calling me “Sweetheart” or I won’t sign their completion forms.
So, halfway through the group, I have to stop taking notes because I’ve noticed a deafening silence has fallen over the room again. I raise my head to see who’s supposed to be talking and I come face-to-face with the most piercing gray eyes I’ve ever seen in my life. For a moment, I’m frozen in place. Good God, he’s gorgeous!
Steele, what the hell? Get it together!
Holy Cow! When did he get here? And why am I just now seeing him?
Oh, no, not you, too. Well, one of us has got to take control of this situation. I shake myself out of my trance, hoping that no one saw me, and put Dr. Steele back in front.
“Sir?” No response. “SIR!”
Control, Grey. Control. It’s a good thing I was sitting down when she walked in. There’s no way in hell I could have walked to a chair with this instant massive boner bursting out of my pants. I have to take my jacket off and lay it over my lap just to cover it. Fuck, what am I, fifteen again?
“My name is Dr. Anastasia Steele.” Anastasia Steele. Look at that mouth. Jesus Christ, those lips! The things I could do with those lips. She looks like a college kid. How long has she been a doctor? Can’t be long. She can’t be more than 23 or 24 herself. And they send me here? Shit, how am I supposed to sit through 12 two-hour sessions with that sitting across from me? She just said something about wasting her time. Hmmm. She’s got a smart mouth on her. I could tame it, though. I could have her subdued in my playroom in no time, begging me to let her come. Oh, and she does one-on-one sessions? I have some wonderful one-on-one ideas for you, Ms. Steele, and they mostly involve bending you across your desk, spanking that pale little ass of yours until you are a lovely shade of dark pink, and then fucking you until you see stars. That would be a hell of a lot more interesting than Flynn. Fucking Flynn.
Fuck! Did she just call me Sir? My dick is back at attention again, fighting to unleash itself from my pants.
“Ms. Steele,” I respond, trying to maintain some façade of control, here. She adjusts herself a bit in the chair. Yeah, I know, Baby. I want to jump her and fuck her right here on the floor. I need a fucking sub… fast!
“Um, sir,” she says, clearing her throat. “It’s Dr. Steele… or Ana, if you prefer.” She’s correcting me! That smart mouth… “It’s your turn, sir.”
“My turn? For what?”
“To tell us who you are… and why you’re here,” she answers bemused, but with a slight tone of impatience. I pause for a moment. Little Girl, you don’t know who you’re dealing with. I used to eat cocky ass little therapists like you for breakfast. After a moment, I respond,
“Just Grey?” she says, expecting.
She takes a deep breath. Aw, am I trying your patience, Little Therapist? This is going to be fun.
“And why are you here, Grey?” For some reason, I don’t like the way that sounded coming from her.
“Mr. Grey,” I correct her. Now she’s a bit taken aback.
“You said ‘just Grey.'”
“Mr. Grey,” I repeat dryly. She glares at me for a moment and then drops her head and scribbles something feverishly in her little tablet, gnawing incessantly on her bottom lip.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I can feel my temperature rising and my dick is not going to stay contained much longer. I have to cross my foot over my knee to give it some room between my fucking legs!
“Fine!” She almost spits the word at me. “Mr. Grey… why are you here?” Shit, I think I liked just Grey better.
“Court. Ordered,” I say very slowly and coolly. She pauses before looking through her papers then announces, “Christian Grey?” I try not to flinch as 19 heads rubber-neck in my direction and 19 sets of eyes are suddenly focused on me. I am now counting backwards from ten to calm myself as I am beyond pissed.
“Yes, Dr. Steele, Christian Grey. And thank you for announcing to everyone in the class that Christian Grey has court ordered group therapy sessions!” I snap.
“Well, no, actually you did that, Mr. Grey,” she responds, returning my glare without blinking. Oh, she definitely needs to heel. I so need to get my hands on her. I’d knock that haughty ass attitude down a few notches. “And what do you expect to get out of these sessions, Mr. Grey—that is, besides your signed form of completion?” Well, there goes my smart ass answer. Boy, she can really be a pill! But I wonder how many times she’s gotten that answer before.
“I’m not sure, Ms. Steele. What can you offer me?” I’m perfectly aware of the undertones in that statement, and I deliver it in a way that I know she will get both meanings without knowing which one to accept. She gasps.
Little Ms. Steele seems a little flustered. And she’s biting that lip again. I sit up a little in my seat. You wanna play, Ms. Steele? Let’s play.
“Mr. Grey,” her voice nearly seeps venom when she says Mr. “My name…. is DOCTOR… Steele.” She says the words very slowly, like she’s talking to a five-year-old. It’s starting to piss me off again. Just as I begin my countdown…
“And when you’re done counting, I would like to inform you that I would like to conduct this session with some modicum of professionalism and courtesy for all parties involved. So you can either tell us what you would like to get out of these sessions, or I will kindly move on to the next person.” What the…?
Fine, Ms. Steele. I’ll give you this one. But trust me, this is not over. I wave my hand for her to go on to the next person and before she moves on, she rolls her eyes at me! Fucking hell! I need a fucking sub now. This shit is unbearable. I pull out my blackberry to see if there are any responses from Elena or the service. Nothing. This is unbelievable.
“Mr. Grey!” My head snaps up as Dr. Steele calls my name with ferocity. I look at her expecting. “Are we boring you, sir?” There she goes again. I’m going to have to leave in a minute or my dick is going to explode! When I don’t answer, she continues, “You’ll have to put your blackberry away, Mr. Grey. It’s not allowed during the group session.” What are we in kindergarten here? I run a multi-billion-dollar corporation and I’ve got Little Ms. Doctor Girl telling me I can’t look at my blackberry? This will never do.
“I. Am. Sorry. Dr. Steele. But I am expecting a very important phone call that cannot wait,” I say sternly.
“Well, unfortunately, it will have to wait until the end of this session, Mr. Grey,” she replies just as sternly.
“I hope you realize that I am responsible for a major corporation, Dr. Steele,” I reply in my Dom voice.
“Well hopefully your empire won’t crumble in the next hour and 25 minutes, Mr. Grey. Please. Put your blackberry. Away.” Not at all affected by the Dom voice. I begrudgingly put my blackberry away.
She is intriguing. I have never met a woman that I couldn’t break down with my looks, my presence, or my charm… and she is just not having it. I have got to know more about her. Watching her take command of this group of sycophants is quite enticing, but I manage to calm my raging boner enough to put my feet flat on the floor. I listen just enough to find out that there is one other guy who is here by court order. I wonder what he did to get here—step on a crack in the sidewalk?
We take a break at the one-hour mark and it’s everything I can do to keep from ripping my blackberry from my pocket. There’s a response from Elena. No parties tonight. Shit! But she was able to find me a one-time fill-in if I’m interested. That’s something Elena has never provided for me. It was always a party, a club, or a contract from her. So this offer has me a little on edge. I knew I could get this from the service, but never from Elena. But hell, tonight, I’m open to suggestions, as long as the candidate signs an NDA, I’ll give it a go once. I respond to Elena to have her at Escala at 8:00pm sharp.
A/N: Pictures can be found on Pinterest at http://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/paging-dr-steele/
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