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. I hope you—as a fellow fan—enjoy it, too.
Chapter 22—From One Extreme To The Other
I’m not looking forward to this meeting that I have called of my mother, father, sister, and brother, but I have to tell my family about the latest discovery. I can’t let them possibly find out in the news. Mia is the last to show up on Sunday afternoon and I sit them all down in the great room to tell them what’s going on. If Butterfly weren’t here, right now, I’m not sure that I could do this, but here goes…
“I don’t quite know how to say this gingerly, so I’ll just say it. The police has found pictures in Lincoln’s library—quite a few pictures. There’s a strong likelihood that some of those pictures… are of me.” Grace gasps.
“You mean… pictures in her… torture chamber?” she asks. A lump forms in my throat.
“Yes, Mom, that’s what I mean.” A hand flies up to her mouth. I can tell that she wants to say something, but she doesn’t know what to say. “I don’t know what to do about it so I called you all here just in case something… happens. I mean, it’s going to be a nightmare for our family if this gets out.” I add.
“Good God, Christian. Are we talking about pictures where Blackheart molested you?” Elliot asks. I nod. “That could get out?”
“I don’t know. I was hoping Dad could shed some light on the situation since he knows how the law works.” My father looks a little distracted and quite taken aback, but quickly goes into attorney mode to answer my question.
“Well, in an ideal world, the pictures contain images of underage children and are part of an open case—which is why Morgan and Shane’s names have not been released. However, you are an adult, Christian. Even though the pictures of you can never be released, that doesn’t mean that the story can’t be leaked. The rumor alone could have devastating effects.” Carrick’s words are not what I wanted to hear.
“This has the potential to go completely nuclear, then,” Mia says. “It’s bad enough that she abused you, but she even took pictures of it. What a sick bitch.” Mom would normally scold Mia on her language right now, but I have an idea that she is thinking the exact same thing.
“So, I’m sure you can see how this can possibly affect us all,” I say.
“Well, in all honesty, Christian, if the effects are going to be that far-reaching, I don’t understand why Ethan couldn’t be here today,” Mia states with a little fervor in her voice.
“… Or Val,” Elliot adds, but with less fervor.
“Because I want to tell my family. This has nothing to do with Ethan or Valerie,” I say, trying not to lose my temper.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Big Brother, but it does affect Ethan. We are living together and engaged to be married. Anything that affects me certainly affects him!” I think she is going to stomp her little feet any moment!
“Well, I may not be engaged to Val, but she’s damn near living with me so I’m certain that if this affects me, it will affect her, too.” Elliot says. “Besides, Ana is here, so why can’t the rest of our significant others be here?” I think I hear Butterfly gasp behind me.
“Surely you can see how that’s different. This involves me so it directly affects all of you and it directly affects Ana. It doesn’t directly affect Ethan and Valerie… indirectly, maybe, but certainly not directly.”
“I beg to differ,” Mia argues. “I’m going to marry this man. I’m wearing his ring. We live together. If it directly affects me, then it directly affects Ethan,” Mia argues.
“Again, I don’t have all of that in my defense,” Elliot says, “but mine and Val’s relationship is no less significant than either of yours and she should be included. We’re going to go home and tell them anyway. Let’s face it, Man, this is big.” What in the hell?
“Tell me this is not happening!” I bark. “Tell me that my brother and sister can’t possibly be this selfish! I can’t believe how the two of you are making this about you! This is not about you! This is about me! If this gets out, I could lose all of my credibility—my company, my reputation, everything! I brought you here to inform you and for moral support, and you’re jumping down my throat because I didn’t invite your boyfriend and girlfriend? Seriously? You really can’t see anything wrong with that? You can’t understand that I don’t want this publicized outside of my family and the woman that I lo…” I turn around to gesture to Butterfly and she’s not there. I look around the great room and she’s gone. Where did she go? I look back at Mom and Dad, my eyes questioning.
“She left right after the ‘significant others’ comment,” Dad says. I glare at Elliot.
“Nice going, Elliot!” Mia snaps. My head snaps over to Mia. Did she really just say that? She started this shit.
“You know what? Never mind. I’ll figure this out on my own,” I say throwing my hands up and falling down on the sofa.
“There’s no need to be so dramatic, Bro,” Elliot quips… Flame on!
“Do you want to see dramatic? Get the fuck out of my house. How’s that for dramatic? Get. The fuck. Out. Now. Both of you!”
“What did I do?” Mia complains. I don’t even have time to explain everything wrong with that question.
“Get out now!” I say, pointing to the door.
“Elliot, Mia, you need to leave. We want to talk to Christian,” Dad says.
“But I didn’t make Ana leave, Elliot did…”
“Mia Allison Grey, leave now!” Mom barks. “The two of you have caused enough commotion now, get out!” Mom is on her feet. She hardly ever raises her voice, so when she does, we all listen. Elliot and Mia stand to their feet and scramble to the door, dragging their coats with them.
“How the hell did that happen?” I ask, leaning my elbows on my knees with my head in my hands. “They can’t really be that selfish, can they? Can I be that unreasonable that I want the woman who shares my life standing next to me while I reveal this crap but not his girlfriend or her boyfriend? Exactly what is wrong with that?”
“There’s nothing wrong with it, Christian, but unfortunately your brother is right. This is very big and people can only see how it affects them. Right or wrong, Elliot sees how this will affect him and Valerie and Mia sees how it will affect her and Ethan…”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I interrupt him, “but I can’t hear you. Nobody—and I mean nobody—is going to be impacted by this as much as I am, and the ones that will be most affected are Ana and you guys—not Ethan and not Valerie. Now you have to excuse me for a moment, but I have to go and see if Ana is okay.”
I walk to our bedroom and she’s not there so I go up to her office. She is sitting on the loveseat with her legs underneath her, looking at her phone.
“Butterfly?” She looks up at me.
“Are they gone?” she asks, impassively.
“Mia and Elliot are, yes. Mom and Dad are still downstairs.”
“Maybe you should talk to them alone, Christian. I’ll wait here,” she suggests. I shake my head.
“I want you with me, Butterfly. That’s why I put them out.” Her eyes grow large.
“You put them out?” she asks, surprised. “Oh, Christian, no! That’s why I left. I never want to put you in a place where you have to choose between me and your family, but I will never, and I mean never allow anyone to use me as a weapon against you. They feel slighted because Ethan and Val are not in the room and I am, so now, I’m not in the room. It’s as simple as that.”
“It not as simple as that. This is not their dilemma. This is not their issue. It’s mine, and I choose who I share it with. The fact that they made this about them pisses me off because I can’t understand why they would even think that way. First and foremost, this conversation should have been ‘how are we going to handle this as a family’ not ‘why is my boyfriend not in this conversation.’ You live in this house with me—me, the person who is directly going through this shit. What am I supposed to do—tell you to leave to make them feel comfortable?” I’m getting angrier with every word. They are so full of shit to make this whole ordeal about them! Butterfly comes over to me and puts her hands on my arms.
“They’re confused, Christian. You’ve been dealing with this in one way or another for several years. They are just really coming face to face with it in the last few months. You want to cling to me during this time. They want to cling to Val and Ethan. People only relate to a situation in terms of how it affects them…”
“… And I understand that,” I interrupt her, “but I could quite possibly be about to go through hell, and I have to deal with these two acting like entitled, self-important…” I run my hands through my hair. “I don’t even know how to handle this yet! I’m not holding their hands! Fuck, they should be holding mine!” I am so angry that I am shaking. Butterfly wraps her arms around my waist and lays her head on my chest. It instantly calms me. Good move, Baby.
“They will, Christian, when they realize what’s going on. Until then, you have Grace and Carrick, who love you very much.” She looks up at me. “And you have me, and I will adore you no matter what happens. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.” She winks at me, causing me to chuckle—and just like that, my sour mood is instantly broken.
I lead her back into the great room to find that my brother and sister have returned. Don’t push me…
“I told you two to leave,” I say in a low voice. Butterfly squeezes my hand.
“We know, and we will still leave if you want us to, but we have to say something first,” Elliot begins.
“We didn’t make it out of the garage. I can’t believe how incredibly selfish we were about this whole thing,” Mia adds.
“You must be feeling terrible about what this could mean and how bad this could get and we go off acting like spoiled little idiots about Val and Ethan.” Elliot drops his head. “We are so, so sorry Christian. We only want to be here for you. Whatever you want, we understand.”
“Ana, we are so sorry we acted so childish and made you leave the room. Please forgive us. We know that you love Christian and that this would definitely affect you more than it could possibly effect Ethan or Val. Please forgive us for our selfishness. Please…” Mia pleads.
Butterfly looks from Elliot to Mia to me and back to them again.
“I love you guys. I really do. Please don’t ever put me in a position again where it feels like you are using me or my presence against Christian. That’s a deal-breaker. I love him and I will stand by him through this thing, whether I am in this room during this conversation or not, so please think before you speak. Having said that, I forgive you because I sort of understand where you are coming from—sort of—but delivery is everything. You could have made that point without using me to do it… okay?”
Elliot nods and Mia starts to tear up. She embraces Butterfly, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry Anakins. I didn’t mean to be so rude and selfish.” Butterfly returns her embrace.
“Don’t cry, Mia,” she says, “we all need to be strong right now because we may have a rough road ahead, okay?” Mia pulls back from her and nods. Butterfly takes her hand and they return to the sofa. Elliot sits next to my parents.
“So can we continue now, because I’d really like to move forward and find a solution to this mess… if there is one,” I say, taking my seat next to Butterfly again.
“May I make a suggestion?” Elliot says, raising his hand like he’s in school. I nod to him. “Is there any way to find out if you are even in any of those pictures without raising suspicion? I mean, someone who recognizes you would have to look at those pictures, and it’s not like your legal team could march in there and ask for them.”
“Al, maybe?” Butterfly suggests. I shake my head.
“This is too personal even for Allen,” I tell her.
“I could do it.” Our gazes all shoot over to my father. “I’m acting as outside counsel on behalf of the two victims that came forward. I know the defendant personally. I could tell them that I want to see the pictures to see if I recognize any of the children. No doubt they are going to want to know who the children are, and it’s not like they can just make a public announcement for the victims to come forward. I mean, they can, but it has to be very general. There can be no specific mention of the photographs—as well there shouldn’t be. They will never even have a ‘jumping off point’ if someone doesn’t try to tell them who the children are, at the very least.”
“Cary… are you sure?” Mom asks, feeling the same trepidation I am feeling, no doubt. My dad nods without making eye contact with her.
“Dad, I couldn’t ask you to do that.” There’s no telling what horrors he’s going to see when he looks at those pictures. If the thought of what happened to me rips him apart, what’s going to happen when he sees it in glorious technicolor?
“I don’t see that we have a choice, Christian. It’s the safest way… the only way…” Carrick informs me. My head feels like it’s swimming a bit. I feel Butterfly’s hand on my back as I put my head between my legs.
“Dad… I don’t want you to see those pictures,” I manage to choke out. “I don’t know exactly what’s in them, but I know they are going to be horrible.” I can’t subject my father to that. I would rather go and see them myself than to subject him to that. The room has fallen deathly silent. It’s a silence that I welcome right now because horrible voices and demons from my past are screaming in my head right now. The self-loathing is burning inside of me again and making me want to run full-speed back to Flynn… yes, Flynn! The monsters have returned and I’m having a hell of a time fighting them off.
“Christian…” At the sound of her voice, the monsters hiss and begin to shy away, like the vampires of old when presented with a cross.
“She’s the monster here, not you.” She’s reading my thoughts. She’s standing there in front of the hideous beasts in battle armor, carrying a sword twice her size.
“She’s the one who victimized you, Baby… stole several years of your life…” They strike at her attempting to intimidate her, but she progresses forward with her weapon at the ready, never taking her eyes off of the terrifying monsters. They take different forms—scaly beasts with forked-tongues; demons with grotesque, fatal claws; slimy poisonous creatures; even deadly mists that threaten to invade my pores and lungs.
“She’s a wicked, horrible woman with a black soul and no heart.” She doesn’t retreat. They try to attack her, but she is protected by an invisible force field. She is impervious to their evil.
“You need to know what’s in those pictures so that you can be prepared. There is no reason for you to be blindsided by this.” She swings her weapon, and the carnage is brutal. Several of the beasts are sliced in half by the force of her strike—the rest are in retreat. Even the evil mists are retracting… but they won’t escape so easily.
“We will be here for you. No matter what’s in those pictures, we will stand by you. We love you… all of us, no matter what.” With her finally words, fire shoots from her delicate palms and devours the rest of the fiends. They disappear into nothing and my mind is freed, once again, from the hideous, self-destructive thoughts that have plagued my dreams on many occasions throughout the years. There’s nothing left there right now… except my Butterfly. I sigh heavily.
“Do what you have to do, Dad,” I say without raising my head.
I fight to find solace over the next few days. Maxine and Phillip’s wedding is this Saturday. Valentine’s Day is Thursday, and the rehearsal dinner and bachelor/bachelorette parties are Friday. Believe it or not, looking forward to these events is the only thing that is keeping me sane right now. That proverbial sword is hanging over my head once again until I find out what the hell is in those pictures seized by the police. On Tuesday, Carrick tells me that he was able to pull some strings and discretely get an appointment to look at the pictures the next day. I didn’t sleep at all that night.
On Wednesday, after lunch, Dad comes into my office. He is the picture of the distinguished attorney in his black suit, his black, wavy hair combed back off of his face with more hints of gray in it than I have seen in the past… or maybe I just wasn’t paying attention.
“Andrea, I don’t want to be disturbed.” I close the door to my office and Carrick takes a seat in front of my desk. I normally sit behind my desk in this setting, but I think it’s better to take a seat next to my father.
“The authorities want people to come forward since they can’t identify the children or the dates on most of the pictures. If they can at least verify the dates and ages, they can figure out which ones are still within the statute for molestation,” he says solemnly. “They were actually glad that I showed up because they can’t identify anybody in those photographs… thank God.” The last part was said as an afterthought and mostly under his breath. It answers my question for me.
“How bad, Dad?” I ask. Let’s just rip off the band-aid. My father looks up at me and I already see a shot of bourbon in my future, although Dad is a scotch man. I walk over to the bar and pour a couple of shots.
“Make mine a double,” he says, and I know that it’s bad. I bring him a double-shot of single malt scotch and he throws it back without blinking.
This is really bad.
“I identified the children that I could. It goes so far back, Christian… so far back.” I drop my head.
“So… how many of me, Dad?” I ask. He sighs.
“Several. Your face is somehow obscured in all of the pictures. Was that your doing?” I nodded.
“The times that I did know that she was taking pictures, I told her that she couldn’t take any of my face. I knew that I would someday be more than I was back then, not this much more,” I gesture to my surroundings, “but more. Even then, I knew that I couldn’t be caught in compromising situations, but most of all, I didn’t want you and Mom to ever find out.”
He runs his hands through his hair and looks at his empty glass. Is that where I get that from? I don’t recall him doing that before. “Another double?” I ask and he nods. I take his glass and make it a point to arrange for someone to take him home when were done. He wouldn’t dare drink like this if he had court this afternoon, so I venture to believe that his workday is over.
“It didn’t get past the detectives that you were her favorite, even though they have no idea who you are. Most of your pictures are black and white, the ones in color are…” he clears his throat, “artistically blurred, if you can call this shit art.” I put the drink in front of him and he throws it back again. Okay, Dad. That’s enough for you.
“I had to hold a straight face the entire time I went through those photos. I couldn’t afford to give anything away. They are calling you their ‘goldmine.’ They think you are still a minor. They are completely thrown off the scent that it could possibly be you.”
“Well, at least there’s that,” I say, taking very little solace in his words.
“The pictures, Christian… the scenes, they’re… horrible.” And here it is, time to pay the piper.
“I know, Dad.”
“How could anybody do those things to a child? To another human being? Son, I’m going to have nightmares!” he declares. I sigh heavily.
“This is why I didn’t want you to go and see these pictures,” I lament.
“Well, we really didn’t have a choice, did we?” he retorts. “You couldn’t go down there, and we had to know. Now that I do…” his voice trails off. Oh, God, I wish I could have spared him this.
“There are so many pictures of you, Christian. So many… She has one or two pictures of some children, several of the others, but so many of you. It’s clear to see that she was completely obsessed with you.”
“Is, Dad, she is completely obsessed with me. I don’t know what made me so different, but what’s keeping me safe right now is that so many of her pets after me look so much like me. She was trying to recreate me. Losing control over me is something that she still hasn’t come to terms with. Her silence right now frightens me. She has to know they’ve found these pictures and she was quite desperate when she crashed Ray and Amanda’s wedding on New Years Eve.” My dad’s eyes are glassy and distant. “Just how many pictures of me are there, Dad?” I ask.
“From what I could tell, of the kids that have the most pictures besides you, yours trump them four to one—combined.”
“If you can’t see my face, how do you know that it’s me? Can anyone else tell that it’s me?” I ask, terrified.
“I raised you, Son. I know it’s you. No one else would know, but someone close to you. In the pictures where I thought there was any doubt, I looked…” he heaves like he’s going to vomit, then bursts into tears. Dad… no… “I looked for your scars. It was you, Christian! It was you! The pictures were horrible. Oh, God, they were horrible! No child should go through that… but my son! Oh, God, my son!” He buries his face in his hands and weeps bitterly. I quickly lock the door to my office and hurry back to my father’s side.
“She’s a witch, Christian! She’s a flesh-eating, soul-devouring pestilence and she should be destroyed!” My father is full of painful rage. I would have hoped he would never have had to be exposed to this—never have even had to hear about it, but he has now seen the painful, ugly truth of it all. He has now seen the horrible things that this woman did to me in her playroom and her dungeon. What were in those pictures? The collars and leashes? The St. Andrew’s cross? The chastity devices? Did she take pictures of the stripes she laced across my back several times? Did she have someone else photographing us? What did my father see? I can’t ask him for details.
“Dad, please don’t talk like that. Why would you say something like that?” I can’t have him take this on his soul and heart this way. It would truly drive him to vicious action… or insanity.
“For my family!” he wails! “For the sake of my family! I want that woman dead! I have never wished death on anyone in my life, but I want that woman dead!” His cries are tortured, angry, and mournful. He is still fighting with the fact that he couldn’t save me. He doesn’t understand that no one can save someone that doesn’t want to be saved.
“Dad, please. You have to understand. There’s no way that you could have stopped this. I was a willing participant. Yes, I was led astray, but I would have found a way to get to her even if you and Mom knew. I wanted it that badly…”
“That’s bullshit, Christian!” Dad snaps. “You were handed to that evil bitch on a platter. She was molesting boys for years… years before she got her claws into you. Someone should have seen it. We should have seen it!” he sobs. How can I convince this man that there was nothing that he could’ve done to prevent what happened? He really doesn’t realize how powerless he was in this situation. There’s nothing that he could have done. It was up to me to say something, and I didn’t. Elliot could have said something, and he didn’t. All of those boys could have said something, and they didn’t.
Oh, God. When this story breaks open, there are going to be families all over the place that are going to be feeling the same way as my Dad. There were times—times when the Pedophile went too far—that I wanted to stop, I wanted to say something. There were times when I was in so much pain, wound so tight because she fondled and fucked me for hours but refused to let me come, brought me to my wits end with punishments or denials and I just wanted it all to end. It was physical torture and emotional warfare. I approached her one time to end it—only once—and she punished me so badly that I never approached her again about it. I couldn’t tell anybody. I was in too deep. I liked the rewards too much and feared the punishments even more. She made horrible, vicious, brutal threats, and she made good on them.
And I was just a boy.
“Dad, you couldn’t have done anything, believe me. No matter how much you think you could have, you couldn’t… but I could have, and I still can,” I say to him. My father’s body is shuddering as he raises his head to me.
“W… what are… you t-talking about, Chr-Christian?” he asks, stuttering through his tears. This has to be more publicized. This can’t keep happening.
“This has been swept under the rug for too long, Dad, way too long. This woman has gotten away with this for years…probably decades, and we know that she’s not the only one. I mean, hell, I was abused twice—afraid to tell anyone. I thought I was alone; I thought that I was such a horrible person that no one would believe me. Hell, the crack whore’s pimp had me convinced that I was a wretched human being, a useless, worthless piece of flesh. I was just a toddler, for fuck’s sake!” I stand and run my hands through my hair. “I could have saved the kids that came after me. The kids before me could have saved me. All we had to do is speak up.”
I go over to the window, look out over Seattle and shove my hands in my pocket. Speak up—two little words that can ruin me completely, but quite possibly save so many others in the process in similar situations.
“Christian,” my dad’s voice behind me is sobered and devoid of emotion now, “are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” I don’t look at my father.
“So many people would come out, Dad, I’m sure of it. If the world knew that the great Christian Grey…” I spit the words out, “was an abused child, they would know that they are not alone. Remember when Oprah Winfrey openly admitted that she had been molested? Remember how many people came out and admitted it, too? Can you imagine how many cases were most likely brought to light at that time… how many children were saved from further abuse and possible future children saved from the fate simply because someone famous spoke up?
“This is an epidemic. Ever since I realized how many children were victimized by this bitch, I began to do my research. Do you know how many women and children—even some men—are abused and sexually assaulted every day? Just in Washington alone? Thousands and thousands. Nationwide, that number increases to millions, Dad. Millions!” I want to put my fist through the window, but I won’t for fear that I might follow it and end up on the concrete several stories below.
“Christian… you could lose everything…” His voice is soft, almost beseeching. I put my forehead on the glass and close my eyes.
“What else can I do?” I ask. “I stayed quiet and that demon got her hands on God only knows how many children after me. What if I had said something? They would have gotten her before now. At the very least, I would have saved one boy—one boy—from what I went through. How many children can be saved if abused children are just encouraged to speak up? How many people can be helped if they truly understand that there is help out there? Think about it… how many families go through Helping Hands each year? How many Edward Davids, Damon Johnsons, Elena Lincolns, and crack whore’s pimps are there out there terrorizing women and children who don’t know—or don’t believe—that anyone with listen to them?”
My chest aches at the thought that somewhere in Detroit, another child—or maybe even several children—may have suffered my same fate sometime over the last 26 years at the hands of the same monster that abused me. I get physically ill and I have to resist the urge to vomit at the thought. As if he knew what I was thinking, Dad is behind me with his hand on my back, patting like he’s trying to burp a baby. It’s surprisingly soothing.
“I understand, Son,” he says softly. “I understand the need to do something about this, to not feel so helpless, but if I’m not allowed to go find that She-Devil and put a bullet in her botox-filled face right between her beady little eyes, then you’re not allowed to shoot yourself in the foot either.” I look over at my father. He doesn’t know that statement made me even more determined to do something about this situation.
“I will talk to my PR department. I won’t do anything too hasty, but Dad, I’m going to do something. I’m in a position where I can, and I’m going to do something.” He nods. He knows I won’t budge on this. I don’t want to ruin myself anymore than he wants me to, but I won’t keep quiet anymore. I’m as much responsible for the kids that came after me as the kids that came before me are responsible to me. Elliot could have said something, but since nothing happened to him, he wasn’t sure—but I was. I was positive!
“I’m going to step into the restroom, Son.” I nod. As Dad goes into the bathroom, I call up to PR. “McIntyre, I need you in my office now. Whatever you’re doing, drop it. We’ve got a situation…”
I have plans for Mr. Grey. Today is Valentine’s Day and I need to alter the mood around here. Christian came home yesterday after talking to his father and his demeanor was absolutely horrible. He was completely ready to come out as one of Elena’s victims if it meant that it would convince other children to speak up against abusers. Elva, his head of PR, convinced him to build on his “Oprah Winfrey” idea and come out as a victim of abuse with several other celebrities in some kind of benefit or something. Christian didn’t like the sound of that. He said it looked too much like he was capitalizing on what Elena did to him as some sort of publicity stunt.
“Okay, so then how about you include some everyday, average people? You know, have some well-known faces and some not-so-well-known faces on the forefront of the event?” I asked.
Christian nodded. This idea seemed a little more palpable to him. “Yes. That actually humanizes the message a little more, but I don’t want to do a benefit. I’m not trying to raise money—I’m trying to raise awareness.” After thinking about it for a bit, he said, “The media could help with this a lot. Maybe a newspaper ad or some spots on talk shows…?”
“Whoa, Soldier! Put that gun away! That thing’s loaded! Christian Grey on talk shows discussing child abuse? How many different directions can that go?” I questioned. Christian shivered.
“Yikes! Yeah, no talk shows.” He pondered the thought for a moment. “A commercial?” I twisted my face at the thought, and then it hit me.
“Oh good God! We have the perfect avenue right at our disposal! I don’t know why neither of this thought of this before…”
“Well, don’t keep me hanging, what is it?” he asked, expecting.
“A public service announcement. We could do a 30-second or 60-second slot with actual sufferers of abuse—no actors or professional spokespersons—who are willing to come out as victims of abuse. Like Vee said, not ‘this is what happened to me,’ just ‘I suffered from abuse.’ You could spread the word to people that you know and see what shakes out. I’m sure that you are not the only person in your circle of influential people who has been abused by someone. Hell, technically, I’ve been abused by someone,” I reinforced. He looked over at me.
“You would do this?” he had asked. I nodded feverishly.
“Absolutely! Consider me your first recruit. Of course, everyone will have to be screened and agree to a background check… except for the already well-known people. Judge Yu, for example… It’s common knowledge that he was a victim of abuse. It was part of his platform in his last campaign.”
“What did you mean by us having the perfect avenue at our disposal?” he asked.
“Helping Hands! We can ask if anyone there wants to be a part of this. Some of them are ‘in hiding’ from violent spouses or one-time significant others, so there are not options, but there are others who would most likely welcome the opportunity to be heard—even if only for a few seconds; and the clients are so diverse, you won’t have to worry about getting stuck in one ethnic group. There will be faces represented from every nation… if they agree,” I said. A light went on in Christian’s eyes.
“Faces… the faces of abuse…” he said, and waited for my response.
“That’s brilliant, Christian!” I exclaimed. “And at the end, after the anchor’s message, we display the phone number for Helping Hands.” He almost leaped from his seat.
“Oh, this is genius! This is perfect. We just need to find the best anchor.” The best anchor? Is he serious, I thought to myself.
“Christian… the best anchor is you. This should be your baby, your message, only told by many people so that we can reach a larger demographic—but you’re the anchor, Christian. It has to be you.” His face was all of a sudden filled with fear. I couldn’t understand it. A minute ago, he wanted to go on talk shows. “What is it, Christian?”
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “It’s a great idea, but…”
“But what?” I pressed him.
“All of a sudden, I feel terrified,” he admitted. I knew what it was. It was all of the old ghosts and monsters that he was afraid of. He was becoming that little boy hiding in the closet praying for his oppressor to go away, but knowing that, inevitably, he would be found and attacked once more. I put my hand on his shoulder.
“You don’t have to make the decision now, Christian. There is still a lot to do to get this off the ground. We have to find our other costars first,” I smiled, trying to reassure him.
“Couldn’t you do it?” he asked. “You are one-half of this AnaChris bullshit. Your face is almost as well-known as mine these days.” I laughed at him.
“Not even close,” I told him. “Christian, this is my 15 minutes of fame, and it’s going to be up soon. At best, I will always be known as ‘Christian Grey’s significant other’ and most often, only when we are seen or photographed together. You are Christian Grey. You are the unmistakable face of Seattle, of business, of wealth, the once-unattainable and most-coveted bachelor… you have influence that even you don’t know you have. It has to be you.” He nodded.
“Let me make some calls. I… need to figure this out.” With that, he kissed me on the cheek and disappeared into his study.
I know that he talked to Vee last night and she thought it was a fantastic idea and very easy to pull off. I called Grace this morning and ran the idea by her, at which time she told me that Carrick was in such a state that he got drunk last night and didn’t go into the office this morning. I can only imagine what horrible things he witnessed happening to his son in those pictures. No father should have to be exposed to that and, once again, I want to kill that bitch!
However, tonight, I have other plans.
I have coordinated with Gail and Jason to plan my evening to perfection. Jason will keep Christian at Grey House until 7pm while Gail and I prepare the meal and the apartment for Valentine’s Day. We make enough for both couples since she has some plans of her own with her husband. Mr. Grey has never celebrated Valentine’s Day, he tells me. Tonight, we’re going to celebrate—our way.
Promptly at 7:25, Christian walks into the great room, lit only by a few scattered candles and the faint light from the kitchen. Soft music plays on the sound system and I can hear his footsteps pause when he steps inside the door.
“Ana?” he calls out as he enters the apartment. I knew that he would. He doesn’t know what to expect right now… which is good. I am wearing a long-sleeved, floor-length red wrap dress that is sexy enough to show a lot of thigh and cleavage, but not what is hiding underneath—besides the tops of my black thigh-high stockings with a thick lace top panel and my sky-high black patent-leather Louboutins. I used big barrel curling irons to give me big hair with large waves and wild curls at the ends. I have smoky eyes and light lip gloss to complete my ensemble.
I step out of the shadows into view, very slowly, so that he sees my legs first and then the rest of me. He gasps as I walk toward him, and I am not sure if its because this sexy outfit and my “fuck me, come hither” eyes took his breath away, or because I am holding his woven metal and leather collar in my hands.
“Position two, Mr. Grey,” I command him softly but firmly. Without hesitation, he is down on his knees, his head down. I walk slowly and deliberately over to him, listening to my shoes echo against the marble floor. His breath quickens only slightly, almost unnoticeable…
“Good evening, Mr. Grey,” I purr while fondling the collar in my hands. “How was your day?”
He is completely and utterly speechless.
“It was…” He swallows heavily and tries to speak again. “It was… bearable, Mistress,” he responds.
“Hmmm,” I say walking around him, “bearable. Let’s see what we can do about that.” I run my hand through his hair and I hear his breath catch again. Fear? Anticipation? I am behind him when I say, “remove your tie.” He tears at the tie, releasing the knot and nearly rips it from his neck before tossing it uselessly on the floor. Good boy. I stand behind him and admire his frame. He is so funking well-built, so damn sexy. Even on his knees in a dark gray designer suit, he’s making me wet.
“Your shirt… unbutton it, just the top three buttons.” He quickly unbuttons his shirt and holds his head down. I set the collar down for a moment and allow my hands to graze over his body—his strong shoulders, his firm chest, his muscular back. He is controlling his breathing again. There’s something about when we take on these roles. He becomes another person. He anticipates my every move, my every touch, and when it comes, he is highly aroused and must control himself.
I walk back around to the front of him, my hand still tracing his shoulder. I put my hands under his suit jacket and push it off of his shoulders, caressing him the whole way down his arms as I do. His lips are parted and he is slightly losing control over his breathing. Oh, poor Mr. Grey. We haven’t even started yet.
I lay his suit jacket on the sofa and pick up the collar. “Look at me,” I command him. He raises his head slowly, taking in my attire as his eyes rake hungrily up my body. Well, I didn’t tell him to look at my face, although that’s what I meant. I told him to look at me, and he is salaciously during just that.
“Are you deliberately trying to irritate me, Mr. Grey?” I say with just enough impatience in my voice to make his head snap up and his eyes obediently meet mine.
“No, Mistress!” he says, duly chastised. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.” We’ll see. I glare at him for a moment and he swallows again… hard, this time. I bend down so that my very exposed cleavage is prominently displayed in his face. At this moment, I am very certain to make sure that my fingers don’t touch him… only the collar. I attach it around his neck, securing it firmly in the back—no room between his skin and the collar but with no intention of choking him.
“Too tight?” I ask.
“No, Mistress,” he whispers still looking up at me. “It’s perfect.” His eyes are now filled with longing, and something else. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was gratitude! He often gets that look in his eye when I collar him, the only exception being that day at the BDSM club. That day was filled with lust and hunger.
“On your feet, Mr. Grey,” I command him. He rises effortlessly to his feet and I admire his grace. He stands in front of me, expecting, obediently looking in my face and awaiting instruction.
“Position three,” I say, pointing to the sofa. “There.”
“Yes, Mistress,” he says, walking over to the sofa. I watch as he walks over to the sofa and sits on the edge, his hands on his knees. I walk behind him and go to the kitchen, retrieving my tray of goodies for the first part of my Valentine’s Day Domme seduction. I walk up behind him and command him softly, “close your eyes.” Without waiting for a response, I walk around to the front of him and put my tray on the end table. I take a velveteen sleep mask from the tray and put it over his eyes.
“Do you trust me?” I ask.
“Yes, Mistress,” he breathes.
“Good. Sit back.” He moves back on the sofa so that he is sitting up straight against the back of it. Perfect.
“Hands to your side, flat against your thighs.” After he obeys, I open my dress and straddle him, pinning his hands to his thighs so that he feels my stocking tops against the backs of his hands. He gasps again. His perfect, parted lips call to me, so I lick them—just once—around in a circle, across the top lip and then the bottom, very slowly. I moan quietly as I feel his sex respond, only slightly, but it still responds.
It’s time to feed my man.
Our appetizers consist of various ripe fruit—squared sweet watermelon and honeydew, slices of mango, and whole strawberries—which I feed him from my lips so that each bite is shared with a sensual kiss. Each time the fruit juices escape down his chin, his cheek, his neck, his chest, I hungrily lick him clean. His instincts tell him to hold me, but he can’t—not only for the obvious reason, but also because his hands are pinned to his thighs… by my thighs. The bowl of fruit is small but he is squirming and moaning by the time we get to the bottom.
Next is our main course-roasted lobster with Verjus and tarragon and pasta with rabiola and truffles (the smell of truffles is an aphrodisiac), with champagne mojitos. I feed us both from the oversized plate, much like he did this weekend at my apartment. Besides being touching and romantic, the experience was so satisfying and erotic that I made up my mind there and then to do the same thing for him; to make him feel as cherished and sexy as he made me feel… and then, I’ll bring him to his wits end.
The creamy rabiola sauce made its way to his cheek and chin more than once, requiring that I lap it up lasciviously while grinding my hips into him. He moaned deeply as his erection gets harder and harder, and I know he will be only too ready for what I have planned next… at least I hope he will.
I finally tempt him with our Valentine’s Day dessert—chocolate soufflé with crème anglaise—decadent and delicious, and just messy enough to be smeared on his lips and sucked off. He is nearly trembling when our meal is over. I remove the blindfold.
“Are you well fed, Mr. Grey,” I purr.
“Yes, Mistress, very well fed. Thank you,” he replies, his voice satisfied, but dripping with not-so-hidden arousal. I rise from his lap and take his hand.
“I want to take you to the Playroom, Mr. Grey. I have something in store for you.”
“Yes, Mistress,” he says without hesitation. I beckon him to follow me. As he rises, I notice that his pants are wet where we rubbed together. Was that him or me? Probably both.
“Go on up, remove your clothing—all of it. I will expect you naked in position one when I get there.” He turns obediently and ascends the stairs. I quickly clear the dishes and load the dishwasher. That should give him enough time to wonder what’s about to happen. I take the stairs to the second floor and open the door to the Playroom…
… and there he is, standing there in his naked glory, still partially erect. Good.
I choose my musical selections and walk over to him.
“What are your safewords, Mr. Grey?” I ask. He gasps again.
“Sails and knots,” he says, just above a whisper. I nod.
“…And?” I prompt him.
“Wings, Mistress.” I put my finger under his chin and lift his head slightly.
“Sails, knots, and wings” I say softly, planting a gentle kiss on his lips. “Face down on the bed, Mr. Grey. Arms up.” For a fleeting moment, a questioning look comes across his face before he takes his place on the bed.
After a few moments, he is restrained—wrists and ankles, face down, slightly eagle-spread, with his genitalia tucked safely underneath him.
“I’ve been doing my research again, Mr. Grey,” I say taunting. “I have noticed that you seem to like a bit more pain with your pleasure. As it is my duty to give you what you want while getting what I need, we will be trying some new things tonight. Our first experiment will be a combination of things. I notice how much you enjoy the crop and the flogger. Tonight will be a bit about punishment and a bit about pain. Do you know why you are being punished, Mr. Grey?” He pauses for just a beat.
“No, Mistress, I don’t,” he says, his voice nearly impassive. Let’s see how long you keep that up, Sir.
“Think really hard, Mr. Grey. I’ll give you a moment.” I pace a bit while I obtain my weapon of choice, away from his eyesight.
“Was it my hesitation in looking at you, Mistress?” he asks.
“No, Mr. Grey. Although I should punish you for that, I won’t. It’s something else entirely.” I can hear the wheels turning and moments later, he responds, “I’m sorry, Mistress. I can’t seem to remember an infraction that requires punishment.” I walk to the head of the bed so that he can see me, but not my weapon.
“Let me help you… something about ‘parting pussy…'” I say softly. His eyes grow large and then he utters an almost silent expletive. “Were you saying something, Mr. Grey?”
“No, Mistress,” he says, defeat clear in his voice.
“Are you ready for what I have in store for you?” He breathes in a deep, cleansing breath and lets it out.
“Yes, Mistress,” he says. I gently rub his ass cheek with my free hand. I feel his cheek clench as he doesn’t know what’s coming next.
What the ever-loving fuck! I damn near bite my tongue off when I feel that! My Mistress has just hit me—hard—with something on my ass… and she is serious. I sure the fuck wasn’t prepared for that! She crawls onto the bed next to me.
Fuuuuuck me! This hurts like hell. What the hell is that, Grey? Think, Man, think. You need to prepare yourself for the next blow. She massages my ass gently and just as the sting from the last strike almost dissipates…
Fucking hell! I grunt when that one hit me! What is this? Flat… hard… feels like plastic, or rubber…
Paddle! It’s a fucking paddle! Whoa, she’s good at this. Me and my big mouth. I knew when I said it, that statement would somehow come back and bite me in the ass. I didn’t know that it would be literally.
I bury my mouth in the mattress. I won’t cry out. I have certainly suffered worse than this. If I control the pain, I may be able to channel it… now that I know what the fuck she’s using.
Again, I must ask… what the hell has she been reading!? I’m lying here analyzing the strikes, the way that they hit my ass square on and then…
Shit! …And then slide off quickly right at the end. I wonder how many strikes my malfeasance warrants?
Oh good God! Apparently, at least eight. This shit stings like hell… and yes, my dick is getting hard.
The sting is torture. Okay, Mistress, I was wrong! Please forgive me!
Ten! Oh, shit, we’re up to ten. I let out a breath that I didn’t know that I was holding and prepare for the next strike. Her hand is on my ass again.
“Mmm,” she purrs, “just pink enough for our next activity.” Our next activity? What the fuck? I can hear myself panting. “Are you okay, Mr. Grey?”
Am I? When is the last time I was truly spanked? Years and years ago, back when… and she surely didn’t care how I felt afterwards. I immediately feel myself settle into contentment.
“Yes, Mistress,” I respond softly, catching my breath. “I’m fine.” She sits on the bed just out of my sight.
“Have we learned anything from this exercise, Mr. Grey?”
“What have we learned?”
“I humbly beseech you to forgive me for being disrespectful in your presence, Mistress. I will never do that again,” I say, thinking of the exact words that I would want to hear if I were the one with the paddle in my hand. She pauses for a moment, then kisses me on my spine and my shoulder blade, sending an immediate chill through me.
Tenderness. Tenderness after punishment… something I learned, but was never shown to me. She is perfect… Perfect in every way, even in her discipline.
“Excellent, Mr. Grey. I am very pleased.” She rises from the bed. “Are you ready for the next journey?” I breathe deeply again, and relax into the bed.
“Yes, Mistress,” I say, closing my eyes. I hear Robin Thicke singing about dreaming and I swear that I’m off to this dreamworld of which he speaks. I feel her straddle my lower back and her hot naked sex against my skin. Shit, I can almost smell her! She begins to gently massage my shoulders and then my back. I relax even more into the bed as if that’s possible. She works her way down my back and moves to the side of me when she gets to my butt, then my thighs and legs.
She stands and I get a glimpse of her… in what looks like a slick black nightie or dress and those sexy ass stockings and heels—nothing else. She has something else in her hand. Is that what I think it is?
I feel a light tapping… on my ass… the backs of my thighs. That can’t be! She doesn’t know how…
Before the thought is finished in my mind, the blows variate from taps to feather light, quick single blows to two or three at a time—in different areas. It almost tickles at one point and then arouses at the next. I need my dick out from under me—it’s starting to get harder… and painful!
I hear my own breathing increase as the blows become slightly heavier, slightly stronger. Where did she learn? How? She’s caning me! She’s fucking caning me!
Her blows are getting harder on the meaty cheeks of my ass and at the tops of my thighs. She still variates from a harder blow to several feather soft ones. Oh shit, this is hot! I feel sweat forming on my skin now and I so want to fuck! I’m feeling euphoric and the pleasure/pain divider has disappeared once again. She strikes me harder…
“Ah!” Oh shit! I made a noise! She didn’t tell me that I could! I won’t do it again. I’m sorry, Mistress. Please don’t be angry…
The cane strikes again…
“Ugh!” I tried to be silent, but at least I managed to muffle my cries into the mattress. The mattress… it feels good against my dick. Fuck! Stop it! Don’t move! She tells you when to come, not you.
She continues to tease, tantalize, and torture me, for I don’t know how much longer and now, my balls are full and ready to blow. I want to touch her so badly, but I dare not. I dare not look at her or even speak to beg her for the release that her skillful torment has left my body begging for. I hear the instrument drop to the floor and I almost lament that this part of the journey has ended. I will be sure to tell my Mistress how much I enjoyed this so that if she ever decides to grace me with a reward, this will surely be my first choice.
Is that me? Am I breathing that heavily? I have to control myself. Control your breathing, Grey. Remember your training. That evil witch taught you one useful thing—control. Now get it together.
“How do you feel, Mr. Grey?” she asks me, softly.
“Wonderful, my Mistress,” I breathe wistfully, and I hear the content longing in my own voice. She rubs her hand against my tender bottom and thighs and I wince. The pain… again, exquisite. My Mistress. Only mine. How did she learn so well? I know that there is no one else. My Mistress wouldn’t do that to me… not even just for practice, but how did she learn so well? She rubs my tender ass some more and I moan into the mattress again. It’s painful and soothing at the same time.
“I want you to turn over, Mr. Grey,” she says as she releases my restraints. I obey and oh, fuck… twice! First, my ass hurts like hell, but I suck it up and sit my ass on that bed like I’m told, partially sitting up, partially lying down, with several pillows behind me. She reattaches my wrist straps to the headboard and she also attaches my collar so that I can’t move my head. Second, this outfit that she is wearing is illegal! I get a better look at it and the dress—if you can call it that—is some sort of shiny leather or rubber in the front and nylon spandex in the back. She is bending over attaching my ankle restraints and she has no panties on under this thing. Oh my God, Mistress, what are you trying to do to me?
My Mistress looks over her shoulder at me and I realize that she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. Oh, cruel, cruel Mistress.
“Mr. Grey, now that’s impressive,” she says, gesturing to my fully-erect soldier who is reaching for the ceiling without assistance and ready for action. “He’s too ready, though. I know that you have your sexual safeword, but I’m only too sure that he will give out before I want the party to end.” No, he won’t, Mistress. I’ll make sure he behaves. Please don’t torment me further! Please…
She has an even better idea… I think.
She approaches with me with a cock-ring. Fuck, do I want to do this again? The last one had to be ripped off of me. “This one is different, Mr. Grey,” she says reading my mind. “This one is a harness. It will serve the same purpose as the one before—to hold your massive, incredible, impressive erection in place until I am done with you. However, this one goes over your dick and your balls, so it can be quite painful at the crucial moment. When you are certain—and I mean certain—that you cannot take anymore, you will use your sexual safeword, which is…”
“Wings, Mistress,” I say, obediently.
“Yes, Mr. Grey. Wings, and I will release you, like this.” She shows me how quickly and easily the harness can be released with the pull of a snap, but my dick and balls will remain prisoner until she’s ready to set me free. Breathe, Grey. This will most likely be the most excellent torture you have ever felt, and she will let you come when it’s over. I nod anxiously.
“Yes, Mistress.” She smiles at me and restrains my dick and balls in the harness. It is already a tight fit because my balls are completely full and my dick is totally erect. When she has me restrained, she stands up on the bed and walks up the mattress to my face.
“Let the games begin,” she nearly growls before turning away from me. Placing one Louboutin-clad foot on either side of me, she bends over so that her beautiful ass is right in my face and her luscious, wet flower is right at my lips.
Oh, somebody help me!
“Kiss me, Mr. Grey,” she purrs, pushing her pussy right up to my lips. Oh, Mistress, with pleasure. I dive into that delectable core with the intention of sucking every bit of juice out of it I can get… until…
“Uuuuuuhhhhhh!” I groan into her pussy as somehow, it this standing-bent position, she bends down and clamps her lips ferociously on my dick! I mean, it is insane! I am truly gnawing at her trying not to pay attention to this magnificent blowjob she is giving me. It’s utterly incredible! She is pulling and tugging and gripping and sucking and it’s so damn good that I can feel my eyes cross. Happy fucking Valentine’s Day to me! I intensify my efforts on her pussy, determined that if I concentrate on bringing her to orgasm first that I might be able to last without safewording. After a while, it worked, thank fuck. I can’t do anything about the never-ending hard-on and the super-full nut sack, but I could channel my focus to one of my very favorite parts—if not my very favorite part—of her body. I did a quickfire French kiss that has my Mistress howling by the end of it. She put forth her best effort, and I mean her best effort because she was sucking like her life depended on it—but she made the mistake of giving me a task, and I always complete a task.
Once she catches her breath from her insane orgasm, I watch as she slowly removes every piece of clothing that she is wearing including the stockings and drops them on the Playroom floor.
“It’s your turn to scream, Mr. Grey,” she says seductively as she climbs over me and rubs the head of my dick against her sex. Oh, shit. No task this time, how long will I last? “Do you remember your instructions?” She asks, her voice thick with arousal already.
“Yes, Mistress… safeword… when I am certain… that I can’t… take anymore,” I reply through clenched teeth. Shit, I’m almost there now!
“Mmmm,” she says, closing her eyes, obviously enjoying the feeling. “Yes, you understand.” She opens her eyes and glares at me. “Only when you are certain,” she threatens again and I nod. She turns away from me again and straddles me… Oh my fuck!
I watch as she lowers herself onto my throbbing dick. In this position, I have the perfect bird’s eye view of the whole thing. I gasp as her body envelops me. She fits so perfectly and she has never ridden me this way before. Reverse cowgirl—she is facing my feet and her ass is pointing right at me.
Then she starts to roll her hips…
Robin Thicke has serenaded the entire scene, but now he is appropriately singing about being taken to the sky and I am right there with him!
Back and forth, circling over me, barely lifting, but grinding into me like there is no tomorrow. Fuck it looks so good… feels so good… Her perfect ass rolling over me while she torments my swollen member, her cheeks clenching when she pushes forward and down hard on me. I want to cry out, this shit is so good. My balls are straining in this cock ring almost to the point of pain and my dick is so engorged that it is hitting every wall inside of her.
She throws her head back and sensuously lifts her hair with both arms as she fluidly rolls her body over me. I can only watch as she continues this agony. I groan loudly as I feel the ache and pull in my pelvis and balls that signal my eminent release, but I am being denied by not only my Mistress, but also this fucking cock-ring that’s holding back my ejaculation.
She continues to grind into me, skillful and relentless, and my balls are throbbing more than my dick. I’m panting now and inadvertently close my eyes to try to lessen the assault on my senses. Baby, Baby, Baby… you are truly killing me.
“Do you like this, Mr. Grey?” she purrs as she reaches her hand down and caresses my loaded, swollen balls through the harness.
“Aaaahh!” I cry out and squeeze my eyes shut. “I can’t… take much more… Mistress…” I choke. The ring is quite painful on my balls, but added with the skillful working of my dick, it’s excruciatingly intense. She may have to get off of me because I’m certain that I’m am going to fill her up until my cum squirts out of her fucking ears.
“Good. Hold on, Mr. Grey. You can do it,” she coaches, her voice thick with pleasure. No, I can’t! You put me in this chastity contraption then torture me endlessly until I want to shoot the head of my dick off into outer space, and then you ride me hard where I have no choice but to watch the muscles of your beautiful, round ass flex and contract while your perfect pussy chokes the life out of Greystone. No! No, I can’t do it, Mistress!
I groan loudly, lamenting in my helplessness and savoring it at the same time. To think that someone who didn’t practice the lifestyle a year ago could bring me this much pleasure as a sub is mind-boggling. She is perfect as a Domme—just the right amount of pleasure and pain; not too soft and just rough enough; masterfully controlling my orgasms until…
“Aaahh,” she moans as she supports herself on my thighs and tightens her kegels. Oh, shit! I am panting! This is insanely intense. Fuck, I don’t want it to end, but Greystone has other plans. I grit my teeth, grunting loudly and she changes tact and leans down all the way so that her hands are near my ankle cuffs… and she begins to bounce.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
That round ass is thumping up and down on my hips and I am watching Greystone—purple and veiny and Hulked-up once again—sliding wet and glistening in and out of her pretty pussy, enveloped by those beautiful milky-white lips. Shit, I’m going to die. I am fucking going to die. I can do nothing but watch the agonizing sight as she bounces harder and faster on my shaft, chasing her orgasm. I groan mournfully as I am losing this fight and my balls are getting tighter and tighter. The tingling at the head of my dick is so intense that I can’t feel the stroke anymore—it’s just continuous. Am I coming? I can’t tell. It feels so good and it won’t let up—like an orgasm. I am making sounds that even I have never heard before.
“Please, Mistress…” Was that me? “Please, I can’t…” I know better than that, but this is torture. I’ve never felt this before. I’m helpless and I can’t move… and I don’t know if I’m coming or not. It’s painful and pleasurable and fuck and I can’t control my body anymore. I’m sweating like a pig, clenching my fist and my feet and my whole body is wound tighter than a rubber band.
“Did you… say something… Mr. Grey?” my Mistress hisses through her pleasure, but I can’t concentrate anymore. I can’t focus. My mouth is open, gasping for more air. I am pulling away from the bed causing my collar to pull against my neck. The sensation goes right to my dick.
“Aaaahhhh!” I cry out again as I am certain that I am coming now… but I’m wrong. My balls are going to explode any second and I feel sweat pouring down my face. I pull against the collar again for the choking effect and I can feel my dick get harder inside of my Mistress.
“Oh… Mr. Grey… you are so ready,” she taunts as she bounces harder and faster on my cock. That’s it. I’m not going to make it. I moan hard and long as I await the painful orgasm that I know I am going to have if she doesn’t remove this cock ring. Just as I think the pleasure can’t get any more intense…
“Aaaaahhhhhhhhh!” My Mistress drops down on me and grinds feverishly into my hips as her muscles tighten around me and she comes powerfully—and that’s it. I can barely choke the words out before I can feel the burning…
“Wings! Wings! Wings! Wings! Wings! Wi…” My Mistress quickly rises off of me and releases the cock ring. I began the painful orgasm while still in the restraint, causing me to cry out in agony. When she releases me, she quickly and masterfully starts to jack me off, leaning her head down and caressing the side of my dick with her mouth. I can feel her outlining the veins with her tongue as it wraps around my shaft, and the tingling non-stop burning I felt before becoming a scorching, searing stream of white lava barreling out of me with force, anger and intensity.
“Mistreeeesssss! Oh Gooood!” I wail. I sound like I’m crying. Shit, I feel like I’m crying! My eyes are open only long enough to see two extremely long, thick streams of white semen fly up from my protesting, angry dick and shoot over her landing on my shoulder, down my chest and across her back. It is a glorious display and feels as painful, intense, and euphoric as it looks. I squeeze my eyes shut as my Mistress continues to work my dick with her masterful hands. I know that I’m crying now, because the sounds that I hear can only be likened to weeping. She works me for a while and it seems like forever before my throbbing penis finally calms down and gives up the fight. She lifts my balls and I can tell that—as painful as they are right now—they are light and empty. Once I open my eyes, I can see that the “white lava” party continued for a while because we are both simply covered in my seed. I am panting for breath, trying to drop my head as I can’t hold it up anymore, but I am being hindered by my collar.
My Mistress crawls up my body and straddles me, shamelessly mixing our sweat and my cum into our skin. It’s one of the hottest things I have ever seen. She releases my collar and my head falls forward. She examines my neck, then looks into my eyes, concerned. I don’t know what my eyes tell her, but I am wrung out… literally. No woman has ever worn me out! Well, at least not sexually. She didn’t even wear me out in Anguilla and that had to be one of our most intense sessions ever!
She kisses my neck several times and I am way too weary to even respond. She holds my head up and looks me lovingly in the eyes.
“Well done, Mr. Grey,” she says and gently kisses my lips. “Very well done.”
Thank you… Mistress…” I breathe.
Some of the Playroom music:
Robin Thicke–Dreamworld, Sex Therapy, and 2 The Sky
Pictures of places, cars, fashion, etc. can be found at http://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/mending-dr-steele/
You can join my mailing list on the “Contact Me” page. Just click the link and it will lead you to a form to join the list.
Feel free to review—it is greatly appreciated.
Love and Handcuffs!