Becoming Dr. Grey: Chapter 69—The Hard Answers

 

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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 69—The Hard Answers

CHRISTIAN

Jason and I are back in the courtroom and I’m feeling better now that I’ve given my testimony and drawn more strength from my Butterfly. Jason’s demeanor is cold. He’s stiff, like he should be in uniform sitting on the stand. He doesn’t look left or right and concentrates an icy blue glare nowhere else but at the person who’s speaking to him.

Skinner has him recount his version of the story, which starts when he received a signal that there was trouble in my office after I pressed the panic button. He knew about the closed-circuit television and activated it before leaving his office to assess the situation. However, when the situation began to escalate, he routed the audio to his earpiece and quickly moved into position behind the hidden panel in my office. Alex had been notified from the first panic button, but not the police. I didn’t know that. Maybe I did, but at the time, I can’t be sure.

Nonetheless, he hadn’t been behind the panel a few moments before the situation had already escalated to Elena proclaiming that she would kill me and then herself, leaving Butterfly behind to mourn. Jason had only just released the panel lock when I was saying goodbye to Butterfly. There was nothing else to do but leap. He remembers talking to us about his allergies to the medicine and telling me that he had been hit in the shoulder, but he remembers little else.

Underwood couldn’t shake him. Jason’s story never faltered from exactly what he relayed had happened. Underwood kept trying to get with questions that started with, “But you can’t be certain that” and “How could you know if you weren’t in the room?” But Jason stoically gave him back everything he tried to give. That military training came out in full force and that squirmy little asshole wasn’t going to make him budge.

“What do you feel for Mrs. Lincoln now, Mr. Taylor?” Underwood asks.

“Nothing,” Jason says, flatly.

“No hatred? No disdain? No wish for revenge?” he presses.

“No.” Underwood is taken aback.

“You’re quite the evolved human being,” he says. “Even your boss indicates that he has a wish to see Mrs. Lincoln pay and the bullet never hit him. No wish for retribution or retaliation for your pain and suffering?” Jason never flinches.

“Sir, I did two separate tours when I was active duty. I was always prepared to lay down my life for my country. I’ve seen creatures in the desert that were more dangerous than that woman. She doesn’t scare me. She doesn’t bother me. She doesn’t impact me in any way. Her actions initiated a forced leave of absence that I didn’t really want and that was all. I don’t have time or desire to concentrate on her or chase her down for a mini-bullet to the shoulder. Time, life, and karma will deal with her if justice does not. I’m certain of it. Anything else?” He doesn’t give up. He has to see this military man break.

You don’t know Jason Taylor. Hell, I don’t know this Jason Taylor.

“So you’ve never once considered being the hand of justice and giving Mrs. Lincoln what she deserves? She did shoot you after all,” Underwood says.

“My name is Jason Taylor. No matter how you manipulate my name, neither ‘time,’ ‘life,’ nor ‘karma’ will come out of it.” Skinner stands.

“Objection. I’d like to know what the purpose is of this line of questioning,” he says.

“Quite frankly, so would I,” Judge Burgess asks. “There’s no debate here that the defendant shot the witness. Maybe he’s angry, maybe he’s not, but what relevance does that have to the case?”

“It… um… will show relevance to Mrs. Lincoln’s state of mind,” Underwood retorts. He just wants to get under Jason’s skin and we don’t know why.

“In what way?” His Honor asks. “Are we now asserting that she somehow knew that she would shoot Mr. Taylor as well?”

“No, Your Honor,” he flounders, “but that her actions in shooting him had no consequences.”

“Again, that would be based on an assumption that the defendant knew she was going to shoot Jason Taylor. Is this your purpose for this line of questioning?” Tread carefully, asshole. That’s another premeditated attempted murder charge.

“No, Your Honor,” he concedes.

“Then I suggest that you get to a correct and relevant point in this case or abandon this line of questioning. Objection sustained.” Underwood looks at his notes as if he’s reviewing for further points to cover. You’ve got nothing, asshole. Sit down.

“No further questions for this witness.” It’s somewhat remarkable. His testimony was pretty short, but he was the one who got shot. He looks at me and I give him a short nod before he takes a seat behind me.

“The prosecution calls Anastasia Grey to the stand.”

The bailiff goes to the door and moments later, my beautiful Butterfly strides confidently into the courtroom, the picture of elegance and professionalism. She plants herself onto the witness stand and crosses her legs at the knees, sitting up straight—not one sign of weakness or fear in her. No matter what happens today, I’m already proud of her.

“Please state your name for the record.”

“Dr. Anastasia Rose Steele-Grey PsyD,” she replies, her voice clear and strong. Immensely proud!

“Dr. Steele-Grey, do you recall the incidents on the afternoon of March 19, 2013?”

“I do, and Dr. Grey is fine,” she replies. Skinner nods.

“Would you please tell us in your own words what you recall?”

“I was shopping for wedding dresses that day with my best friend. I was losing my mind and we called Christian… Mr. Grey… who suggested that I come to the office for a late lunch. When I arrived, there was yelling in his office—a woman’s voice. I won’t lie; I wanted to know what shrew was in my fiancé’s office yelling at him that way. So, I went storming right in.”

“What did you find when you entered?”

“The defendant was on one side of the room pointing a gun at my then-fiancé. He was standing back by the bar near his desk. She was angry before, but she just lost it when I came into the office. I immediately recognized my gun…” She shakes her head.

“Your gun?” Skinner asks.

“My Beretta,” she says. “It’s not a very large gun, but it’s not very small either, and I have small hands, so it has… had a hairpin trigger, and she’s waving it around like a damn water pistol! And there was one in the chamber…!”

“Okay, you have to help us out. What does ‘one in the chamber’ mean?” Butterfly nods.

“She had cocked the… pulled the carriage back and loaded a round into the chamber, which makes the firearm ready to fire. So now, she’s waving around a semi-automatic with a hairpin trigger and a round in the chamber ready to fire.”

“Again, Dr. Grey, I don’t mean to make you keep repeating yourself. For the laymen, can you please tells us what you mean by ‘hairpin trigger?’” She nods again.

“It’s a play on words. It’s actually ‘hair-trigger.’ It’s meant to indicate that the trigger can be activated with just the force of a ‘hair.’ Of course, it can’t, but the term means that the trigger needs very little pressure to fire.”

“How did you know that was your Beretta?” Skinner asks.

“That’s the gun I used to get my CCW. That’s the gun I used at the firing range along with my Glock, on occasion. I would know that gun anywhere—not to mention that she taunted me and my fiancé that day, saying how ironic it would be for me to be shot with a bullet from my own gun.” I shiver as I recall hearing that bitch say that to my Butterfly.

Butterfly continues and relays the incident in intrinsic detail, all the way to the point where she passed out and ended up in the back of the police car in my lap. I had forgotten to include the part about singing “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider” to calm me down and Jason had forgotten it completely, but Butterfly remembered, and it left an impression on the jury. Some of them covered their mouths in sympathy or horror while she relayed the tale.

“Mr. Grey paints a picture of Mrs. Lincoln that insinuates that she’s delusional. What’s your professional opinion of her behavior?” Skinner asks.

“I can’t give you my professional opinion of her. I’ve never treated her or evaluated her,” I tell him. “I can only tell you what I’ve observed and ever since I’ve known that woman, I’ve been the root of all of her problems. I didn’t even know who she was until after we had started dating! We were spending a quiet, very intimate Sunday afternoon at home and here she comes! I was horrified because she treated me like I wasn’t supposed to be there when she barged in on us! I had no idea who she was; I wasn’t even dressed and she expected me to leave. Chri… Mr. Grey informed me as she was coming up the elevator that they were no longer friends and he had already told her not to come to his house anymore. He vehemently made this clear to her once again before walking out of the room and she still wouldn’t leave.

“She showed up everywhere. She was like a recurring rash. We had a protection order against her and it still didn’t stop her. She even showed up the night of my father’s wedding. My father’s wedding, for God’s sake! I don’t know what disorder this is they’ve come up with, but what’s more accurate is something where you destroy everything you touch and then you blame everyone else for the carnage you leave behind!”

“Objection! Dr. Grey did indicate that she’s never treated or evaluated my client,” Underwood says.

“It’s an opinion, not a diagnosis, Your Honor,” Butterfly retorts.

“However, counsel did ask you for a professional opinion and you did offer this opinion in response to that question,” Judge Burgess says. “Sustained.”

“Am I allowed to offer a personal opinion?” I ask. He nods.

“Yes, you are, but you must specify that’s what it is before you offer it as you have introduced yourself as Dr. Anastasia Grey.” Butterfly nods.

“Yes, Your Honor.” She turns back to Skinner. “In my personal opinion, she’s the most delusional person I’ve ever met in my life—and I’ve met a bunch!” Stab! Stab! Stab!

“Thank you, Dr. Grey,” Skinner says. “No further questions at this time.”

Now it’s time for Underwood to take a stab at my wife. She sits up straight again. Noting her posture, he lights right into her.

“Readying yourself for battle, Dr. Grey?” He says “doctor” with immense contempt. Butterfly is unmoved. She’s clearly ready for him.

“Should I be?” she retorts.

“I only want to get to the truth,” he says. Butterfly doesn’t respond. “You’ve given us quite an account of the events of March 18th, Dr. Grey.”

“No, I haven’t,” she says. He raises an eyebrow at her.

“Oh?” he says, innocently. “Have you omitted something?”

“Yes, I have… quite a bit. The entire day in fact, considering that the events in question happened on March 19th.” Shit! I didn’t even catch that. What is he playing at?

“Oh!” he says, mocking embarrassment. “My mistake.”

“Yes, it was,” she replies, unmoved.

“So, you’ve given us quite an account of the events of March 19th, Dr. Grey, and you’re sure you haven’t left anything out,” Underwood says.

“I’m sure,” she says.

“However…” He retrieves a document from the evidence table. “We have reports here from Detective Randall Fischer and Officer Charlene Daly of the Seattle Police Department that during questioning, you didn’t remember anything after the shot was fired.”

“That’s correct,” Butterfly says, without hesitating. Underwood clearly didn’t expect her to answer so quickly. It takes him a moment to recoil as he obviously expected a denial of some kind.

“So you don’t deny that it?” he asks.

“No, I don’t, she says. “I was in shock after the initial gunfire. I later had total recall.” He scoffs a laugh, turning his attention back to the documents in disinterest.

“Well, isn’t that convenient.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“No, it’s unfortunate,” she replies, bringing his attention back to her. “You have no idea how scary it is to black out from shock and lose several moments of your life, then come back to yourself and discover what kind of damage you’ve caused. Yes, I disarmed her and kept her from harming someone else, but I could have killed her… with my bare hands! I couldn’t live with that!” The first chink in Butterfly’s demeanor, but she quickly recovers.

“That’s interesting. What if I told you that my client will testify that you threatened to kill her more than once?” Underwood says.

“Objection!” Skinner declares.

“Your client will also testify that it’s my fault that she doesn’t have Christian right now, but I think we all know how false that is,” Butterfly interjects before the judge has a chance to interject.

“You’re saying you’re not the reason for their break-up?” Underwood says.

“They were together?” she asks, with a smile. “Look at him and look at her… seriously?” There are sad attempts to hide chuckles around the room. He clears his throat.

“You said that you conveniently had total recall of the details of the incident after the shot was fired, but your recollection never became part of the police file. Why is that?” Underwood asks.

“Because I never went back to update the police file. My recollection came during one of my sessions with my therapist.” He raises his eyebrows.

“Your therapist!” he declares incredulously. “The shrink who sees a shrink, how interesting!” Oh, he’s like a kid with a new toy.

“Yes?” Butterfly says, expecting.

“Are you unstable, Dr. Grey?” he asks.

“Well, I don’t know, is everyone who goes to a therapist unstable, counselor?” Whoa! Careful. You don’t know who’s on that jury.

“I don’t know either, Dr. Grey, and I’m not referring to everyone who goes to a therapist. I’m referring to you.” She smiles sweetly.

“Well, in that case, my that has never indicated that I’m unstable, but I guess you would have to ask him. I’m not in the business of diagnosing myself.” She folds her hands on the stand in front of her.

“I see, Dr. Grey. Apparently, the physician cannot heal herself,” he says in a condescending tone.

“Most physicians can’t and really shouldn’t try,” she says matter-of-factly. “I’ve yet to see a surgeon who can perform a procedure on himself.”

That shut him up. Next topic!

“Please forgive me for bringing up yet another painful situation in your life, but isn’t it true that on November 7, 2013, you were in a car accident?” Oh, shit.

“Yes, that’s true.” Butterfly still doesn’t flinch.

“And were there serious injuries from that accident, Dr. Grey?”

“Yes, counselor, there were. I suffered internal bleeding, multiple lacerations, and traumatic brain injury.”

“Can you be more specific about the traumatic brain injury, doctor?”

“Sure thing, counselor.” That’s the second time she’s done that and he flinches. She’s onto him, and giving him exactly what he’s giving her. What I love so much is that her use of the word counselor is so much edgier than his use of the word doctor. “I suffered from a diffuse axonal injury.” She turns to the jury. “Think shaken baby syndrome.” A lot of them nod in recognition. “My brain swelled and I was in a coma for twelve days.”

“Isn’t it true that when you awoke, you had lost your memory?” Underwood asks, and here it is.

“Yes, that’s true,” she replies.

“And what had you forgotten?”

“From the time just before I met my husband,” she says.

“And you miraculously remember everything now, doctor?” he says, his tone condescending.

“No, counselor, I don’t,” she says, and he flinches again. Give that doctor shit up, man. “I still have moments when things are still coming back to me.”

“So, Mrs. Grey…” he took my advice, “you have forgotten large chunks of your life, yet you expect this court to believe that you remember everything that happened that day last March in the great detail that you’ve described without any coaching?” he actually laughs a disbelieving laugh as he says this.

“Yes, because it’s true,” she says, still very matter-of-factly.

“Come now, Mrs. Grey. Let’s be reasonable. You admitted that you couldn’t remember facts from that day on that day. Then you subsequently had a very tragic accident that resulted in traumatic brain injury and memory loss less than six months ago. Yet, you want us to believe that although you are still recalling other details of your life, you remember every detail of this incident perfectly?” Underwood presses.

“Yes,” she says simply, “I also expect you believe that during that time I successfully carried twins who survived and were delivered healthy and strong by natural childbirth less than two months ago—also an unlikely medical event under the circumstances. Would you like to see the pictures?” It would appear that Butterfly has won this round, but then she appears to give him more ammunition.

“But, I’ll tell you what… don’t believe me,” Butterfly says. I have to choke back a gasp and the defense zeroes in on her.

“Are you saying that you’ve lied to this court, Mrs. Grey?” he accuses, feeling that he has her on the ropes.

“No,” she says, unshaken. “I’m saying that you’re right. I had an accident last November and I’ve lost quite a few details of my life. My memory’s been compromised. Things come back to me in pieces if at all. At the time that woman tried to kill my husband with my gun, I couldn’t remember what happened. I blacked out.” Underwood smiles widely and allows Butterfly to continue to dig her hole, so to speak. “I later recalled what happened, but then, I had an accident and lost my memory. I couldn’t even remember my wedding. I remembered loving my husband; I just couldn’t remember marrying him until days later. I woke up very pregnant with our twins and horrified because I didn’t know how it happened.” She throws a glance at Elena, who looks like she swallowed something bad.

“So if you are remiss to believe my recollection of the events of that day, I don’t blame you,” she says, looking sincerely over at the jury. “My memories are a bit questionable to the outside observer.” She pauses for a moment. “But there’s a video!” she adds. “Believe that.” The attorney falls silent.

“That’s not the issue here, Mrs. Grey!” he snaps.

“Isn’t it?” she says, still maintaining her cool demeanor. “You see, your goal here is to discredit me and my testimony as a witness, and I can’t stop you from doing that. As much as I would like to see justice done, I’ve had some problems, and my recollection is questionable. So even though I currently remember everything that happened in that room as if it happened yesterday, you have the right to question my recollection of those events. However…” She begins to count on her fingers. “… Believe the man she tried to murder. Believe the man who took the bullet. Believe the fact that my Beretta was stolen and I never got it back; it’s up there as exhibit four. Believe the police report that I filed weeks earlier reporting that gun stolen. Believe the forensic evidence. Believe the officers that are going to testify. Believe the video. Discredit me all you want. Don’t believe me if your logic and sense of reason leads you not to—but believe everything else.” She folds her arms and sits back on the witness stand. The attorney clears his throat and attempts another diversionary tactic.

“That’s a very nice speech, Mrs. Grey, but the fact remains that your memories have been tainted and your testimony is questionable, isn’t that so?” I just shake my head.

“Didn’t… didn’t I just say that?” She looks at him incredulously before turning to the judge. “Didn’t I just say that?” The judge nods, but she has already turned to the jury. “I’m sure I said that. Didn’t I say that?” Members of the jury nod and she even looks at Elena. “Didn’t I say that?” She turns her attention back to the attorney? “Do you not understand English or did you not hear me? Wait, I got it… let’s try something else.” She clears her throat. “Oui monsieur, mes souvenirs sont entachés. Ils peuvent être très discutables. Cependant, regardez la video.”

She holds her hands up and waits for recognition from the attorney. I stifle a laugh.

“No?” she says. “Okay, how about this. Esyay irsay, ymay emorymay is aintedtay osay I amay otnay ebay uhthay estbay itnessway, utbay atchway uhthay ideovay!”

She holds her hands up again, waiting for recognition from the attorney.

“Still no? Okay, I’ve got something else.” She holds up one finger. “Yo dog, my brain corked. Got knocked upside da head, don’t know what happened—but dat joint prob’ly on YouTube.”

By now, several people in the courtroom—myself included—are covering their mouths and giggling quietly. Butterfly, on the other hand, is still approaching the situation like she’s seriously trying to get through to this counselor.

“Nothing?” she says, when she gets no response. “Okay, last shot…” and she breaks into sign language. I didn’t even know she knew sign language!

“Counselor,” Judge Burgess interjects, “I think you should move on. To be quite honest, the witness is making a fool out of you.” Daunted, Underwood turns his attention back to Butterfly.

“Your theatrics are quite entertaining, Mrs. Grey,” he says, clearly not amused.

“They really shouldn’t be,” she retorts. “I’m all for everybody deserving a fair trial and I’ll play my part, but I was there… and I do remember. I remember watching her aim my gun at the man that I love and seeing my life and my happiness ending in a moment! So, you do what you must, counselor! You do your little song and dance and you make those people believe that I don’t know what I’m talking about and you let that monster walk free and set a precedent in this new trend of ridiculous court cases that proclaim that as long as we convince our children that the rules don’t apply to them that it’s okay if they go out and kill people. Then we can set them loose on the city and pray that none of them are roaming your neighborhood with your family. I’m raising twins. We can start with them!”

Her once cool demeanor has been replaced with such contempt that my blood runs cold. The room falls silent and I think the attorney thinks better than to go toe to toe with an angry mother who has just informed him that she’s waiting for the success of his trial to decide if she’s going to teach her children to kill then set them loose in his neighborhood.

“No further questions for this witness,” he wisely concludes.

“I think it’s time for lunch,” Judge Burgess bangs his gavel. “One hour recess.” Butterfly stands and glares at the defense attorney with a serious half-smirk on her face. It’s clear that he didn’t break her, but oh how he wanted to. She leaves the witness stand with the same confident stride she had when she walked up to it. She walks over to me and I put my arm around her waist.

“You were amazing,” I breathe in her ear.

“Thank you, Mr. Grey. I’m so glad I made you proud.”

“More than you’ll ever know.” I pull her to me and kiss her sweetly, then again. She wraps her arms around my neck and get a glance of the Witch over her shoulder, looking longingly at me. I close my eyes and block her out, embracing my wife and caressing her back, inhaling her scent and allowing it to comfort me. When I open my eyes, they have removed the Pedophile.

“Let’s go see if we can commandeer a quiet room somewhere and have a sandwich or something. Trying to go out for lunch is a useless task,” I tell her.

“I agree,” she says, taking my hand and allowing me to lead her out of the courtroom.


ANASTASIA

“So… we need to talk.”

Christian has found a quiet room for us to have lunch and Chuck has procured some chicken salad sandwiches and sodas to hold us over until we could get a decent meal at home. When my husband begins a conversation with we need to talk, I’m not very hopeful of the outcome. Given the events of the day and our current location, I’m scared shitless. I swallow the final bite of my sandwich, certain that he deliberately waited until I had finished my lunch to break whatever news he has to me that he is about to tell me.

“Okay,” I say, bracing myself for the monsoon.

“Some things came out during my testimony,” he says. “I need to call my parents and you should probably call Ray…” He trails off.

“Christian, what is it?” I’m really scared now. He sighs.

“They know why Elena’s in jail right now,” he continues. “They know the lengths and depths of her depravity, and now… they know that I was one of her victims.”

I can’t hide my gasp. These implications are very far-reaching. His family, my family, his business associates…

“Have you told Vee?” I ask. I shake my head.

“No,” he says. “There’s more.” What more could there be? “There was an implication towards the lifestyle. I diverted the question, but anything besides an outright denial is enough for speculation.”

Fuck! I can’t tell my father that! He reads my expression and takes my hand in his.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sincerely. I shake my head.

“No… this is not your fault,” I tell him. “It’s just… there’s such a stigma attached to the lifestyle and I just don’t want it to follow us. I’m not ashamed of what we do in the privacy of our own bedroom, I just feel like it should stay in our bedroom.” I sigh. “What was said?”

“Her asshole lawyer made a comment about both of us partaking in the same lifestyle and at the time, we were talking about her being a pedophile. Sometime before or after that, I had said something about her beating and fucking me in her dungeon, but at this point, the comment was close enough for me to divert the conversation to her pedophilia. I freaked out. I roared at him for insinuating that I would take part in pedophilia. Then I made it clear to him that I was not going to drag any of my private affairs, nor that of my family, nor anything about my business out into the open for him to pick apart because his client is on trial for murder.”

“Bravo, Mr. Grey!” I tell him. “It sounds to me like you did what needed to be done to dodge that bullet.”

“Don’t celebrate yet,” he says. “She has yet to testify. She threw me under the bus once just to keep from being disowned by my mother. What do you think she’ll do to avoid being convicted of attempted murder?” I shake my head.

“So what do we do?” I ask. He takes a drink of his soda.

“We’ll run the PSA again for starters,” he says. “That was one of the purposes for it in the first place. The requests for public appearances are really going to start pouring in for you. We’re going to need a plan of attack if this becomes a topic of conversation, which it will. Paparazzi are really going to be relentless about a statement, so we’ll have to make one—but we won’t address it until it comes to light. We have to cross each bridge as we get to it, but we just have to be prepared so that we’re not ambushed. I’ll have Mac release a statement about the molestation. We can’t avoid that one.” I sigh heavily.

“And so it begins,” I say. I wanted to get back into the swing of things and start taking the twins to the Center with me, but I can’t do that now. They might get hurt just trying to get them past the press. I definitely can’t leave them for a whole day every day, either, so I’ll have to return to work only part-time, and what about Green Valley? Will I have to travel down there to testify at Michael Underwood’s trial? Underwood… no wonder I didn’t like that attorney’s name. I’m only just now making the connection.

“What are you thinking?” Christian asks, and it’s only now that I realize that I have fallen silent. I rub my eyes.

“Just that I was hoping to get back to work after we were done with the trial, but I may have to make some changes now. I wanted to take the twins into the Center some days, but I don’t see how that’s going to be possible.” He’s silent for a moment, causing me to raise my head to him. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s just that… I mean, I knew that it was going to be a problem with privacy and safety and the twins and such but…” He trails off again. I examine his face.

“You didn’t expect me to cooperate,” I say. He shakes his head.

“It’s not that…” he begins.

“Yes, it is,” I interrupt with no malice. “Admit it, Christian. You didn’t expect me to cooperate and now you’re surprised.” He shrugs and picks at an invisible piece of lint on his pants.

“Maybe a little,” he mumbles. “I didn’t expect for you to just fall in line. I hoped you would understand, but I did expect a little resistance.”

“I don’t blame you,” I respond. I can be rather difficult to deal with and there’s going to be so tightened security in my future, especially when it comes to my children. I can’t remember one time when that’s happened and I didn’t give him some kind of backtalk about it. “Right now, what say we just skip this part of the conversation for now and decide exactly how much we need to tell our parents about this, because I would really like to tell Ray as little as possible.” He scratches his chin.

“I’m going to have to let you make that decision, Butterfly,” he says. “Grace and Carrick know everything. All they need to know now is that it might go public.”

“And what will you do then?” I ask. “If this goes public, won’t this affect how your colleagues look at you?”

“It’s not an ideal situation,” he admits, “but all they can ever do is try to use it as a weapon against me—a weakness. They can only speculate as to what I do and how I participate. They have no idea. You never come to a dogfight armed with speculation and conjecture. Anybody in this business knows that. And if any of them wants to play hardball with this topic, that would be an early Christmas present for me. This is an arena where futures are made and destroyed, so if you step into the coliseum, you had better be armed with a sword and a shield because coming at me with this shit is like running against a gladiator with a pocket knife.”

I believe him. I know my husband and nobody had better step to him with any bullshit about this matter.

“If that’s the case, Christian, then why all the secrecy? Why not just come out with your lifestyle in the very beginning?” I ask.

“Because it was nobody’s business what I did in my sex life,” he replies. “People had their theories and I was okay with that, but no one needed a first-person view into my bedroom. Then, there was my family. Remember, I didn’t want even want them to know. Once that basically exploded in my face, then there was Elena and her trial coming out and not wanting to be associated with that. Then there was your family and all the far-reaching ways this information could affect us—even Cholometes breathing down my back and for the record, he already knew and tried to use that against me, too. He’s a submissive.”

“How do you know that?” I gasp.

“Same way you do,” he says. “I’m a Dom. I know. You knew when you dominated him in my den,” he adds. Shit! I didn’t think he picked up on that.

“I… suspected,” I stumble, “and I didn’t do that on purpose. I don’t just walk around dominating people.” I suddenly feel ashamed… and dirty.

“I know that,” he says, reaching for my hand. “You don’t intend to walk around turning people on or driving people crazy, but you do.” I raise my eyes to him. Suddenly, I want to cry. I just wrap my arms around his neck and hold him close to me. If he dominated someone in front of me—at the same time he was dominating me, no less—I’d feel helpless and furious at the same time. I’m not sure that I could tolerate it. It’s an abuse of power and I’m only just now realizing that I did it. To me, it feels like a form of cheating.

“I’m sorry,” I say, unable to fight the tears that burn my eyelids. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve betrayed his trust.

“Hey,” he closes his arms around me. “None of that. I didn’t bring it up for that. You did what needed to be done at the time, I know that. It wasn’t sexual—you were furious, and I wasn’t angry. I was never angry.” He pulls me back and wipes my tears with his thumbs. “Had I known you would react this way, I never would have even mentioned it. Don’t you think if I had a problem with it, I would have said something before now?”

“That doesn’t make it right,” I say in a sobbing voice.

“But it was necessary at the time,” he says, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket and gently dabbing my face. “I knew that. Your instincts are never wrong, and they told you what to do even when you didn’t know it. Do I want you to exercise that power regularly? No, I would prefer you didn’t. It’s one of the things that made me fall in love with you. Do I know that it’s most like the reason that we haven’t heard from that bastard since? Yes, I do. Am I grateful for that? More than you’ll ever know!”

I choke out a laugh behind my sobs and he kisses me gently.

“I hate it when you cry… but I can’t resist kissing you when you do. Your lips are so soft…” He kisses me again… and again. His hand cups my face and several slow, soft, sweet kisses later, I forget what I was crying about.

The afternoon is full of testimony from witnesses for the prosecution—Alex has to testify since he was the one who presented the video into evidence. Watching that thing again chills my blood to no end. Even though I knew what was coming, I still jump at the sound of the gunshot. This time, I can see Jason emerge from the sliding panel in Christian’s office. It happened in a split second—he moved like lightning. At first, he wasn’t there, and then, he was. It wasn’t all dramatic like Kevin Costner in The Bodyguard. He didn’t necessarily throw his body in front of him. He just ran into him and pushed, like he was tackling him—like a linebacker. I see now that was the best way to result in the least damage. Had he done the whole Bodyguard thing, she may have hit an internal organ.

She watches the video stoically. Not a single flash of emotion, recollection, or remorse crosses her face as she watches herself pull that trigger intent on ending my husband’s life, not even when members of the jury gasp when the shot is fired. I want to leap across this barrier and scratch her eyes out again! She truly is a stank-ass, slutty, nasty, filthy, slimy, Pedo-Bitch She-Thing demon from hell, and she needs to go back where she came from!

My reaction was swift and sure, like the wrath of God. I cover my mouth and almost want to cover my ears when I hear my own heart-wrenching shriek after the gun was fired. I see Jason flinch only slightly in my peripheral, but that’s the only emotion he’ll reveal during these proceedings. The court frowns on displays of affection, but Christian puts his arm around me anyway, asking if I’m okay as I sit shivering in my seat and watching the ungodly exchange of blows between me and Elena. The jury is glued to the screen as we beat the living shit out of each other and I watch my husband painfully examine his best friend, asking where he’d been hit.

My stomach burns with the need to wail and I cover my mouth and try to cry silently. Tears stream unbidden down my face as I relive Christian flinching away from me when I reach for him and running to the bathroom, praying that the bullet didn’t hit a major artery in Jason’s shoulder. When Jason starts singing “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider,” I lose it. The sob I was choking on coughs very unladylike out of my throat and cuts through the relative silence that’s fallen over the room, save the chaos that’s erupting on the video. I know this is going to be a spectacle soon, so I leap from my seat, heaving uncontrollably and dash for the door. I burst into the hallway as if the oxygen on the other side will help stop the flow of my tears and the involuntary heaving of my chest.

It doesn’t.

I lean against the wall for support, certain that I’ll pass out any second as I hear a camera or two flash to capture this moment for posterity. I don’t care. I couldn’t watch that video another second. I sat through as much as I could, but reliving those horrible moments in living color was more than I could stand. I could have killed that woman. I really could have killed her. Christian, sobbing over his best friend; Jason, singing that damn song not knowing if these were truly his last moments. Goddamn that evil demonic bitch!

The seconds that it took Christian to burst out of the courtroom behind me felt like hours. Relief floods through me faster than I can process it when I see him standing in front of me, his eyes full of concern.

“Baby! Baby, are you okay?”

I can’t form any words. I’m heaving so hard reliving the goddamn moments on the tape, wishing I had killed that bitch and so glad that I didn’t at the same time. I can’t focus or think and my head starts to spin.

“Breathe, Baby. Please, breathe…”

That’s the last thing I remember.

*-*

I awake in someone’s chambers… again. At least I wasn’t on the stand this time. I’m trying to breathe around this apparatus on my face and take in my surroundings at the same time. I don’t know where I am. This isn’t the same judge’s room… and I’m not on a sofa. I’m on a stretcher! And this is an oxygen mask on my face! I mumble something and move my hand—or try to move my hand—to get this thing off my face, only to find that Christian has my hand cemented to his.

“Butterfly!” The word is a heated whisper and he’s in my face in seconds.

“Get this off of me,” I slur, grasping at the mask.

“You need it, Butterfly,” Christian protests.

“No, I don’t,” I say, grabbing the mask finally and trying to pull it from my face.

“Okay, okay, wait.” He gestures to someone and a paramedic—a paramedic—comes over and removes the mask from my face.

“Don’t be difficult, Anastasia.” I look up and Carrick is looking down on me, speaking in a fatherly tone. Oh, God, exactly how big of a spectacle have I made of myself?

“I don’t need the oxygen,” I say, trying to sit up.

“You’ve been out for over twenty minutes,” Christian scolds. “You say you don’t need the oxygen, but I draw the line at you getting off that stretcher.”

“We’ll need to take her in now,” I hear one of the EMTs say.

“No!” I protest as clearly as my meek little voice will allow.

“Anastasia…” Christian chides.

“Could she be pregnant again?” Carrick asks.

“Not unless I can have this reaction in two days,” I answer him. His brow furrows.

“More information than I needed about my daughter-in-law,” he says sweetly looking down at me.

“You asked,” I remind him. “My children are exactly six weeks and four days old. We just got back from a weekend away.” I give him a knowing look.

“Jesus, Christian, what did you do to her at that cabin?” Carrick jabs.

“Dad!” Christian protests. I shake my head as much as the stretcher will allow. The situation needed a little levity. I squeeze Christian’s hand to garner his attention.

“Crying or fainting… remember?” I say. I told him when I passed out at Morton’s grave and again when I passed out before the cuffs came out on the fateful day that has us in this wonderful establishment today that my reaction to immensely stressful situations that bring on way too much adrenaline too fast is either crying or fainting. He examines me for a moment, then thrust his hand in his hair, the worry slowly starting to leave his face.

“God!” he exclaims. “It hadn’t happened in such a long time, I forgot. You scared the shit outta me.”

“I’m sorry. I just… I couldn’t…” I feel the tears coming back. He takes one of my hands in both of his.

“Okay. I know. I know,” he says, kissing my hand.

“Mr. Grey? Mrs. Grey?” The EMT is attempting to get our attention. I begin to sit up.

“Slowly,” Carrick warns, gently grasping my shoulder—to assist or halt my ascent, I don’t know, but it does a little of both. God, he’s as protective as his son. I try not to roll my eyes as I slowly sit upright on the stretcher. “How do you feel?” I wait a moment to see if my head is spinning or if there are any residuals from the fainting spell. I nod.

“Fine,” I tell him. “I feel fine. Shouldn’t you be in a courtroom somewhere?” I ask with a smile.

“I was,” he says. “I was just leaving to go back to my office when I saw my son white as a ghost carrying my unconscious daughter to parts unknown.” Daughter… my heart warms immediately. “He was clearly stressed out, sweating profusely, and about to ruin a perfectly good Anderson & Sheppard, so I asked Judge Morris if we could borrow his chambers. And here I am.” I smile warmly at him and put my hand on his cheek, relaying gratitude and love.

“Thank you,” I say just above a whisper. He returns my warm smile along with a blush.

“You’re welcome,” he says, taking my hand and giving me a gentle peck on the forehead. “Try not to do that to us again, okay?” I nod.

“I’ll try.” I’ve gained another father… something I wish I could have had in Morton since he claimed to love my mother and stayed with her until his death. I’m certain that part of the reason she was so cold and distant to me all those years had to do with the fact that he, for whatever reason, couldn’t stand my guts. They shared a mutual distaste for me—it was probably one of the things that kept them together for so long. I was just a kid, and they could have very easily gotten rid of me by sending me home to my father. But no, that decision wasn’t lucrative enough.

“Okay, Dad, enough schmoozing with my girl,” Christian says. “What are you trying to do, steal her away from me?”

“An impossible task, I think, son,” Carrick says. “Besides, she’s quite lovely, but I only have eyes for one.” He winks at me.

“Can you and Mom make it to the Crossing tonight, Dad?” Christian asks. “I really need to talk to you.”

“I can, but I don’t know about your mother. I think she’s on call tonight.” Christian murmurs an expletive.

“Okay, well, you may have the task of relaying a message to her.”

“Can’t you tell me now?” Carrick asks. Christian looks around.

“Definitely not!” he says definitively. “And I’m taking Ana home. We’ve had enough of this for one day.” He reaches down to lift me off the stretcher.

“Christian, I can walk!” I protest firmly. I don’t want to be carried out in front of the press. He reads my expression and stands upright.

“I hate to tell you this, baby, but they’re everywhere—even wandering around with fancy cell phones. They’ve already got pictures. Stretcher or my arms; the choice is yours.” He’s completely unwavering. I frightened him. When I frighten him, he needs this. I sigh in surrender and open my arms to him. He scoops me up like he’s carrying my clothes with nothing in them. I’m certain he could carry me with one hand.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” he says to the EMTs. “You can send the bill to my office,” and out we go, down the hallway, out the door and down the stairs to flashing lights and questions about what happened and why Christian is carrying me. He looks straight ahead to the Audi SUV parked at the curb, his only task to get us to the car. I listen to the questions being thrown at us and carefully answer only one.

“Mrs. Grey, are you alright?”

“Yes, I am. Thank you.” I lay on Christian’s shoulder as he quickly and easily takes the rest of the stairs. Chuck opens the door for us and Christian climbs in with me in his lap. Chuck closes the door behind us and two raps on the roof later, we’re off to Grey Crossing.

*-*

“Hello?”

I swallow hard when my father answers the phone later that evening. Carrick was able to come by and Christian is speaking to him in his den. I didn’t have the chance to ask Daddy and Mandy to stop by and this can’t wait, so, I’m having this very sensitive conversation over the phone.

“Hi, Daddy,” I say softly into the phone.

“Hey, Sunflower,” he greets me. “How are you? You’re all over the news. Are you okay? I tried not to worry and bug you. I knew you would call. I’m so glad you did.” He’s talking a mile a minute. I want to laugh, but our conversation is no laughing matter.

“I’m fine, Daddy,” I say. “I need to talk to you about the trial.”

“Okay,” he says. “What’s up?” I clear my throat.

“Some things came out in the trial that may make the news very soon and I want you to hear about them from me before you hear about them in the news.”

“What’s going on, Sunflower?”

“You know that horrible woman was originally arrested for her crimes against minors—young boys, pedophilia…”

“Yes, yes, I know.” He cuts me off and I know immediately that this is going to be harder than I thought.

“Well, today, it was revealed in court that Christian was one of those boys.”

The line is quiet for a long time.

“Oh my God,” he says, softly. “How’s Christian?”

“He’s okay,” I tell him. “He came to grips with this quite some time ago, but this is something that he really didn’t want to be public in that way.”

“I can see why. Are you okay?”

“Yes, Daddy, but… that’s only part of it.”

“There’s more?” he asks, appalled. I nod, as if he could see me.

“She introduced him to a lifestyle at a very young age. It’s the only thing he knew. He practiced it…” I clear my throat. “… Into adulthood and we… still practice now.”

“And what is that?” Daddy asks cautiously. I close my eyes.

“BDSM.” There is a long silence on the line. “Da…?”

“WHAT!?” my father roars on the other end. “Are you serious? I give my daughter to this man and this is what he brings you into?” He is furious. I have to take control of this conversation right now.

“He didn’t bring me into anything, Father!” I snap. Daddy is silenced immediately. “Yes, he practiced before we met, but I learned about BDSM in college during my human sexuality studies and when he spoke to me about it, I was already curious. I had already seen it in practice and I consented to it.”

“You consented to be abused?” he spits.

“He doesn’t abuse me!” I retort. “And I don’t abuse him.” There’s silence again.

“You do that to him?” he asks, confusion lacing his voice.

“We do it to each other,” I tell him. “It’s purely consensual and it’s none of that hardcore, crazy shit that you see on the internet. I wouldn’t stand for that. Look what I’ve already been through!”

“That’s why I don’t understand this!” he snaps. “Why would you subject yourself to something like this after what you’ve already been through?” I sigh.

“Because, Daddy, our relationship is not like what you see on the internet or what you may have heard. Yes, there are some very deviant aspects to the lifestyle, but Christian and I practice nothing like that. Our experiences are about desire, adventure, and mutual sexual satisfaction.”

“I don’t understand, Annie,” Daddy says. “Everything I’ve seen, everything I’ve ever heard about… the lifestyle…” He says the word with so much contempt. “… Has been whips and chains and sexually deviant behavior. Didn’t you say that sick woman on trial practiced this crap?”

“Yes, but I’m trying to tell you that’s not the only aspect of it and that there’s nothing sexually deviant about what Christian and I do.” He’s not hearing me. He’s a traditional man with traditional values and all he’s ever heard of BDSM was dungeons and abuse and female degradation and the taboo things that he’s probably seen online. I can’t get him past the sadomasochism part of the BDSM lifestyle to even explain to him how what Christian and I do is so different.

The conversation goes on for about twenty more minutes without my father hearing one thing I say about mine and Christian’s relationship being more loving and giving than about bondage, dominance, and submission. Nothing I say gets through to him. Every rebuttal that I give him to his preconceived notions are met with more preconceived notions. The conversation finally ends with him hanging up on me, telling me that he has to let this whole thing sink in and can’t talk to me anymore right now and me sitting there staring at the phone like it’s going to give me answers that I’m probably never going to get.

I’m beat, way too tired to sit here and argue with my closed-minded father about the many aspects of BDSM and that Christian and I don’t practice the extreme shit that he sees on sexually deviant websites. To each his or her own, but that’s not us and I can’t get him to see that.

I drag my ass up to our bedroom and strip down to nothing, climb into the hottest shower I can stand and attempt to scrub this day off of me. I’ve already told Gail that the day has been a bit too much for me and that I’ll need her to please handle the twins’ feedings. Thankfully, she agreed. So, while I’m in the shower, I just allow the milk to express from my breast under the flow of the hot water instead of pumping it. I almost forego washing my hair because it’s hell if I sleep with it wet and I don’t feel like drying it, but I can’t resist letting the water run all over me and my head in and attempt to rinse away every single thought of the day… that smug ass lawyer, Pedo-bitch, the video, the fainting, the conversation with my father.

I swear my skin was numb by the time I got out of the shower. I dry my skin and reach for a warm nightshirt. I wrap my hair in a towel, grab my moisturizing lotion and head out to our bedroom.

“There you are,” Christian says, rising from the bed and walking over to me. “Dad wanted to say goodbye before he left, but you had disappeared.” I sit on the bed with my lotion in my hand.

“I needed a shower,” I tell him, “this has been a long ass day.” I bend my legs and begin to moisturize my skin. He holds out his hand for the bottle.

“Let me,” he says. I hand him the bottle, too weary to protest. He never asks what’s wrong; he just goes to work on my legs and ankles. I sit back on the bed.

“The conversation with my father didn’t go well,” I tell him. He freezes momentarily, then proceeds with his massage.

“Oh?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “He’s stuck in his narrow-minded, Puritanical views and I can’t get him to budge.” He frowns as he moves to open my nightshirt.

“That’s… odd,” he says. “I would think… he would understand, or at least listen to you.” He starts to caress my torso with the moisturizing lotion. He removes one arm from the nightshirt and begins to moisturize that arm.

“I thought he would, too,” I say, removing my other arm from the night shirt, “but try to tell Daddy that his little girl is into BDSM.” I say. Christian frowns.

“Yeah,” he says, moisturizing the other arm. He is the father of a daughter now, isn’t he? Even if she is just an infant…

“I just didn’t expect him to be so unyielding,” I tell him. “Daddy knows I’m no dummy or wimp. I thought you called off the wedding and I left so that I could decide what I wanted. Why would he think I would submit to something I didn’t want?”

“Is that what he thinks?” he asks, going into my dressing room.

“Yes,” I say loud enough for him to hear me. “I had to convince him that you didn’t bring me into this…” He’s coming back with my brush and comb and two hair ties. “… And that I was interested in it before I met you, but he could only focus on the sexual deviance of the lifestyle. I think I’m just going to have to let it marinate for a minute before I try to get him to listen to reason.” He removes the towel from my head and starts to work the tangles from my hair.

“I’m sure he’ll come around. Ray seems like a reasonable man to me. Maybe it’s just the shock of it all.” He separates my hair down the center and begins to braid one side. I feel the tension begin to ooze out of my body as he continues to care for me. “Remember how I was so afraid to tell my parents? After they got over the initial shock, they rallied behind me.”

“Yeah, but they got over the shock immediately,” I protest as he fastens the first braid with a hair tie.

“No, they didn’t!” He corrects as he starts the second braid. “Remember Dad breaking down in my apartment?”

Oh, yeah. I did forget that.

“Yeah, but they never blamed you. They blamed Elena, like Dad blamed you, but then they got shocked and got over it. Dad is like… completely unmoving. Every time I try to explain to him that we have a mutually giving relationship, his brain goes right back to bullwhips and spiked collars and leashes and ball gags and cages…”

“But we don’t do anything like that!” Christian interjects.

“I know! But he couldn’t hear. When you say ‘BDSM,’ that’s all certain people see. Unfortunately, my dad is apparently one of those people!” He finishes my hair and puts the comb and brush on the nightstand.

“I wish I had an answer for you, Butterfly,” he says, stroking my face gently. “Give him time, I guess. He loves you… he’ll come around.”

I gaze adoring into his eyes, filled with love and compassion for me at this moment. He only wants me to feel better when this is mostly his catastrophe. He’s still going to have to worry about how this will affect his life… his business… I’m just worried about Daddy. I sigh as I consider that possibility.

“What is it?” he asks. I close my eyes and lean close to him, breathing him in.

“I wish I could make you feel what you make me feel,” I say softly. He frowns.

“What?” he asks.

“Just…” I sigh. “All the love and the warmth… and the things you do to my body… the way you take care of me… you make everything all better. I wish I could make you feel it.” There’s a sadness in my tone when I say it. He examines me for a moment, then stands from the bed. Without a word, he removes his T-shirt and then his jeans and boxer briefs in one movement. He stands before me, naked and glorious, and I sit on the bed in the same state of undress. He runs his hands over my braids to the ends and lets them drop on my breasts. He then takes my hand and presses it against his penis. I’m shocked at first. He’s completely flaccid, but with my hand under his, him manipulating my fingers on his erection, he’s hard in seconds—and I do mean seconds.

We’ve had sex every night since Friday; I don’t know if I can do it again tonight, but something in the way he’s looking at me—saying nothing, having me touch him… it’s making me… yearn for him.

He lays me down on our bed, situating my hands over my head. He crawls into bed between my legs hovering over me. He pushes my legs open wide and brings his face close to mine. I feel him at my opening, his hands on either side of me on the bed, but he doesn’t enter me. He’s looking into my eyes, so close that our lips nearly touch, but don’t. I feel his breath… taste his breath, but I can’t touch him. He moves his head as if he wants to kiss me, but he doesn’t. I start to pant from his proximity, his energy, it’s almost like a drug.

I feel him harden against me, the head right against my clit, but he doesn’t move. I swallow hard. He’s still looking at me… looking through me… God, his eyes… I see such… wanting and yearning there. I tilt my head and get lost in the story, the needful beseeching to be loved.

His breath becomes my breath, or mine becomes his, I don’t know, and I feel him slowly slip inside me… so slow that it takes an eternity for him to sheath himself in my sex. We’re still breathing the same air as he fills me, then pulls out all the way to the head until the slit in his penis is kissing my clit again.

Oh, my God… what is this?

He still says nothing as his head throbs softly on my clit, suddenly pebbling hard underneath him. Nothing else is touching but our breath… and our eyes… if you can consider that touching. I want to whimper, but I dare not make a sound. His head slides down my clit and into my core a second time, so agonizingly slowly that I can count the seconds until I’m filled with him again.

Thirteen. Thirteen goddamn seconds and I’m burning with each stroke as he pushes into me like never before. What is he doing to me?

Like the first time, he holds himself there for a moment before pulling out just as slowly as he entered, and my core is on fire. His penis is getting harder and harder, throbbing more and more each time the slit comes out to kiss my clit. By the third time he exits and meets my clit, his slit is pulsing so hard that my pebbled clit actually slips inside a bit. The sensation is so insane that I’m not quite sure how to handle it. By the fourth time, I’m panting wildly into his open mouth, unable to contain myself any longer. He matches my uncontrolled breathing, and I feel his semen begin to explode on my clit. He closes his eyes and slips into me again to ride his orgasm inside of me and the feeling is so hot that I burst into flames behind him, trembling underneath him—our lips and bodies still never touching. We concentrate only on our sex and the pulsing, pumping, burning, throbbing we feel from five simple strokes.

“Did you… f-feel that?” he chokes, without opening his eyes.

“Y-yes!” I mutter, barely able to speak.

“Th-that’s… what I… f-feel… for you.” A single tear escapes from his eye and slides partially down his cheek before dripping onto mine. I bring my hands from over my head and cup his face, examining him closely. He’s trembling—not like he’s cold, like he’s holding on to a weight and his body is about to give out under the pressure. I wipe the tear away with my thumb and gently run my tongue over his parted lips. His breath becomes more labored, but he doesn’t reciprocate and he doesn’t open his eyes. He just stays there with his body suspended over mine, his sex still buried inside of me. I feel all of his love, all of his helplessness and surrender, just how much he truly belongs to me.

I caress his hair and face and lick inside of his lips, his breath coming in short bursts now. We are still everywhere else except my hands caressing his face and hair and my lips licking his… and my heart, reaching out to his and melding with it, joining with it until two hearts become one.

God, how I love you…

He breathes heavily into my mouth and I worry that he might hyperventilate. He doesn’t close his mouth, nor open his eyes, and I watch him attentively, lost in some kind of otherworldly state. He doesn’t move a muscle except for his labored breathing. I don’t move either, except to caress his face and hair and adore him and infuse him with my energy and love. And then…

He grunts in his chest, then whimpers mournfully… longingly. His breaths are staccato… and then, he’s coming again inside of me. I’m amazed, but I don’t stop what I’m doing—licking his lips gently and caressing his hair and face. His lips don’t move. I know they don’t, I’m kissing them… but I hear the words as if he’s spoken them loud and clear.

Ana… my love…

I choke a sob as tears slide unsummoned down my temples. His hands move from their position on the bed beside me. He pushes them under my shoulders and his hands come up to cup my face. He opens his eyes and gazes at me with so much love flowing from him that my body fills with warmth and heat and I become helpless. My body falls limp underneath the weight of his as I weep softly.

We’ve changed roles.

His lips close gently over mine, but mine remain slack… weak from the onslaught of emotion. His lips wander from my mouth to my cheek to my ears, my neck…

I’m yours… I’m yours… do with me as you will…

Gentle lips continue over whatever part of my body they can reach as he holds my head in place with his hands and, even after two orgasms, begins to drive into me—slowly and deliciously, only slightly faster than before… a torturous slow grind; loving, attentive, and meticulous.

I love you, Ana…

Did he say it? Am I hallucinating? Oh, God… So much… feeling! So much.

I love you… I’m yours, too… I belong to you…

Oh, God, I’m going crazy! He’s kissing me; he’s not talking. Oh, God, the emotions… I’m losing myself…

Stay with me… don’t go… remember the matches…

Matches? What matches? Oh, the matches!

His mouth closes over mine and I return the kiss, trying hard to focus on the here and now and not the burning in my heart and soul, the need to reach to a plane higher than this one and when it hits…

My body curls into his and I whimper helplessly, repeatedly. He continues to hold me down as my hands grind uselessly on the pillow on the sides of my head, my back arching into his body and this cosmic release that’s burning bright hot red fire and light through my pelvis, chest and torso and reverberating to each one of my extremities. He doesn’t cover my mouth or extinguish my cries. His mouth is on my neck, now, talking to me, telling me how much he loves me, how he feels everything that I’m feeling, begging me to stay with him…

I think.

I’m wheezing when the burning stops and the light dissipates. The emotional and physical impact of what just happened almost too much to bear, but I’m still here… I didn’t burn all the matches.

… But I came damn close.

My love is still gently driving into me, still holding me, still loving me, caressing me and speaking to me in a way that only we can communicate. He takes his time—using his body and his heart to usher us both into a night filled with cosmic love, tantric energy, and rippling orgasms.


A/N: See the author’s note in chapter 58 for the reference to Like Water For Chocolate and the matches.

Pictures of places, cars, fashion, etc., can be found at https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/becoming-dr-grey/

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Love and handcuffs  
Lynn X

Becoming Dr. Grey: Chapter 68—More and More

Wow, I guess you all liked the action in the last chapter, huh? LOL. You guys make me feel so appreciated. I’ve had a lot of people ask about the butt plug that was used during the massage. Here it is.

https://www.healthyandactive.com/paragon-gem-vibrating-anal-plug/

Those people ought to pay me a commission!

I will be changing my emailer very soon. Please add
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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 68—More and More

ANASTASIA

To say that our weekend was highly orgasmic would be a massive understatement. Mr. Grey and I more than made up for lost time bringing each other to climax after massive climax in the three days and two nights that we spent in our little cabin in Sisters, Oregon. We didn’t heed Maxie’s warning very much not to “engage the enemy” during the six-week-no-sex period and still found ways to get each other off. However, when it came time to partake in the ultimate fruit once more, it was no-holds-barred, and we sure released all inhibitions and let our passions run wild.

I was like a kitten with a ball of yarn while he navigated us back to Seattle in Charlie Tango. I did my best not to distract him, touching him only in safe areas like gently caressing his hair or touching his arm every now and then, but I had a very difficult time keeping my eyes—and hands—off of him for the entire ride back. Not even Ben and Chuck’s presence in the seats behind us did anything to curtail my attentions to my husband.

He sets us down safely on the roof of Escala and gives me a quick peck after he releases me from my harness. He winks and smiles at me before getting out of the helicopter. I’m walking on a cloud as Ben, who has scrambled out behind Christian, helps me step down from Charlie Tango. My Cloud-Nine mood quickly dissipates as I see Christian’s expression as he speaks to the replacement pilot who is to take Charlie Tango back to SeaTac.

“Oh, shit,” I murmur to myself. Something’s wrong. I sigh and brace myself as I wrap my arms around myself and wait for Christian to finish his conversation. Chuck and Ben are retrieving our things from the helicopter as Christian nods to the pilot and comes over to me.

“What is it?” I ask as he places his hand on my back and leads me to the elevator.

“Al and Mac are downstairs in the penthouse,” he says as he calls the elevator. “We need to stop down there and see what’s up.” I close my eyes and drop my head. Al and Mac aka Vee. That can only mean one thing.

“Paparazzi,” I sigh, wearily. “Where?”

“I don’t know,” he says, as the elevator arrives and we step inside, Chuck and Ben close behind us. He punches in the code to the penthouse. “Harper says they weren’t downstairs when he got here, but Al and Mac were here.”

“Pit stop?” Chuck says from beside us.

“Yes, we’re stopping at the penthouse. Allen and McIntyre are there,” Christian replies.

“Oh, shit,” Ben murmurs.

“My sentiments exactly.”

“So apparently, your mansion is swarming with reporters,” Vee says the moment we walk into the great room. I haven’t even had an opportunity to remove my coat yet.

“Why didn’t Jason call me?” Christian huffs, pulling out his phone.

“You were already in the air when the swarm started,” Vee heads him off. “I told him to worry about security and let me and Allen talk to you. The latest buzz, of course, is Edward David’s death and Elena Lincoln’s trial tomorrow. By themselves, they may be a bit newsworthy, but together, they’re front page. You should also know, Ana, that something’s cooking in Green Valley.” My brow furrows.

“What the fuck is cooking in Green Valley?” I ask.

“One of the major players is set to agree to a plea and testify in an upcoming trial to start next Monday. You’re supposed to get a subpoena if you haven’t gotten one already.”

“No, I haven’t gotten one!” I hiss. “Aren’t they supposed to give you more than a fucking week? They did that same shit with Edward. I was in Greece, for Christ’s sake! What did they give us with She-Thing, like two, three weeks?” I ask Christian.

“Something like that,” he says, running his hands through his hair.

“Did you change your address with the court?” Vee asks. I frown.

“No, but I was living here when I went to court, so it could have been delivered here… or with Allen. There’s no excuse. If the trial is next Monday, I should have been served by now. Who’s going before the judge?”

“One of the minor players…” Vee begins.

“There are no minor players,” I interrupt her sharply. Anybody who had anything to do with this branding on my back, the beating I received, and the murder of my unborn child is not a minor player!

“I apologize,” Vee retracts her statement. “I’ll have to find out who it is. It wasn’t Whitmore or Madison-Perry, so I didn’t commit it to memory, although Madison-Perry is the one that’s taking the plea.”

“Fuck!” Christian hisses and my insides twist. We knew this, though. We found out shortly after we returned home from Greece.

“It’s Michael Underwood,” Al chimes in, the first thing he’s said since we walked in the door. “He’s claimed innocence from the beginning, but he’s in the video and so is his car.”

“He’s in the video?” Christian confirms. Al nods. “He’s in the video actually attacking her?” Al nods again. “Why the hell do they need Madison-Perry’s testimony if he’s on the video?”

“Corroboration. A video can be altered. Jewel was incapacitated. They want to make sure the guy doesn’t get away.” I need alcohol. I really do, but I decide against it, because one more day with that breast pump and my boobs are going to fall off. I scrub my face violently.

“I need a bacon-double-cheeseburger with fries,” I say, and all eyes turn to me.

“The last time you had a bacon-double-cheeseburger…” Al begins.

“I’m not pregnant anymore and not from that greasy hell joint!” I interrupt him. “I need a bacon-double-cheeseburger or a few shots of tequila and since my tits feel like hamburger and I don’t intend to pump any more milk, I think you better get me a bacon-double-cheeseburger!”

“I’ll get it,” Chuck says, and leaves the penthouse.

“Maybe we should just spend the night here,” Christian says. “We’ve got to be in court in the morning.” It’s a practical solution, but they’ll be on the stairs of the courthouse, too, trying to get the scoop on the trial. They’ll be double trying to get information on the David situation. There’s something else, though.

“Christian, I really need to see my babies,” I tell him. Not only do I miss them terribly, but I’m also a human food-producing factory. So… yeah.

“I do, too, but there’s no way we’re going to get through that crowd.”

“Yes, there is,” I tell him. “Give them what they want.” His eyes narrow.

“Butterfly…” he begins his protest.

“Christian, it’s a part of our life,” I tell him. “We’re going to face the same thing on the steps of the courthouse tomorrow if not camped out in front of our house. Give them what they want.”

“She’s right, you know,” Vee says, and Christian turns to her.

“I know you’ll agree,” he snaps.

“She’s right, you know,” Al chimes in.

“Et tu, Brute?” Christian says. I sigh.

“Like it or not, we’re local celebrities, babe,” I say, climbing into one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “We’re Seattle’s ‘It’ couple until they find something else to be interested in, and quite frankly, we’ve got a lot going on. If I get a hangnail, it’s news, and look what’s happened so far—I’ve had twins; I got in an accident; I lost my memory; I was attacked by a crazy Amazon; David died; Elena’s going to trial; and that’s just the last few months. There’s no telling when any of this is ever going to die down. Settle in for the ride and let’s just focus on living, raising our babies, putting these people in jail that need to be put in jail, and damage control. But the more we hide, the more they clamor. Let’s just give them what they want. They’ll give us a moment’s peace until the next headline.”

“They’ll never go away, Butterfly,” he says. “If we indulge them, they’ll never go away.”

“They’ll never go away if we don’t,” I retort. “They’ll keep pushing and pushing until we explode and they get some unfortunate sound bite or emotional explosion. They’re relentless about getting pictures of children. All our travel plans must be made in total secret. We have to control what’s released into the media and how. When it was just you, that’s what Vee did. It was an easy job. She made a statement; you made a statement; take a picture at a red-carpet affair; make sure all NDA’s were in order; it was an easy job. Now there’s four of us. There’s more work to do, Mr. Grey. We can’t hide under a rock. We have to control information flow.”

I turn around to face the bar and rub my scar. There’s nothing else to debate on this topic. I point to the refrigerator.

“Can somebody see if there’s cranberry juice and sparkling water in there?” I ask. I hear Christian sigh behind me.

“Does anybody else want cheeseburgers?” he says, resigned.

*-*

We drive slowly to the front gate of Grey Crossing in the Audi SUV and stop at the security booth. It’s just before sunset and there is quite the crowd of reporters clustered in front of our house. We sent word ahead that if they blocked our path, they wouldn’t even get a statement. So, except for a few hard-headed stragglers, we had a clear drive to the front gate. Jason was there with several members of security to meet us at the gate and the six of us exited the SUV and Al’s Jaguar to greet the press at the front gate. Christian is known to let me do the talking unless questions are directed at him or unless it appears that I’m floundering for some reason. Today was no exception.

“You’re looking fit, Mrs. Grey. How are you feeling?” one reporter asks.

“I’m feeling fine, thank you,” I respond.

“You’re very slender to have just had twins,” another says. “What’s your secret?”

“Breastfeeding twins, belly-binding, and lots of yoga,” I reply, eliciting a bit of laughter from the crowd.

“How are Michael and Mackenzie doing?” the next question comes.

“They’re doing fine, progressing as normal—nothing remarkable to speak of, but thank you for asking. I’m sure we’re not here for small talk though, and I really want to get back to my babies.” Let’s move this along, please.

“How do you feel about Edward David’s death?” someone asks.

“He’s gone,” I say. “It’s tragic when anybody dies.”

“Is it true that you went to see Edward David on February 24th, twelve days before his death?” one reported asks.

“Yes, that’s true.”

“Why did you go see the man convicted of kidnapping and assaulting you?” another asks.

“To tell him face to face that I had turned his crooked company over to the federal government and to expect contact from them in the near future.”

“What was the purpose of that?” someone called out. “Did you feel you owed him a warning.”

“No,” I say flatly. “I wanted to see him squirm.”

“Goddammit,” I hear Christian murmur. I know I just gave them a sound bite and I don’t care. That’s how I feel.

“Don’t you think that’s a bit insensitive?” someone asks.

“No, I don’t,” I reply, impassively. “I never wished him dead, but when he was sentenced, I felt like he got just what he deserved. That man kidnapped me, tried to rape me when I was handcuffed to the bed, held me captive for four days while he allowed a monster to beat and rob me, planned to take me to an undisclosed location where he hoped I would succumb to Stockholm Syndrome, and when I was rescued and he was forced to stand trial for his actions, he tried to blame me! When I was rewarded a settlement for the physical, monetary, and emotional damage he caused me, he turned over this cesspool of illegal activity to me as payment for his debt hoping that I would take the fall for his prior actions, and you actually stand there asking me if my wanting to see him squirm is insensitive?”

My voice has risen to an incredulous tone and I realize that I have unintentionally identified today’s sacrificial lamb. Ironically, but not surprisingly, it’s a woman… it’s always a woman.

“I only did what was right and legal,” I continue. “My audit team found holes and discrepancies, so we shut it down, wrapped it up, and handed it to the feds. I walked away with no settlement, but that was fine by me because I’m already wealthy; I was just going to donate the proceeds to help battered women anyway. So yes, call me a flawed, vindicated human because I took some small comfort in going to tell him that his crooked company was now in the hands of the federal government.”

Cameras flash at me and at this reporter, whatever her name is, as more questions come flying at me.

“What did you know about David’s business associates?” Ah, the magic question. Let’s clear this air.

“I know nothing,” I reply. “When I saw what was going on with the numbers, that was enough information for me and all I wanted was to get it out of my hands. I immediately contacted my attorney and key members of the GEH staff to contact the proper authorities to get that pestilence out of my hands.”

“Oh, come now, Mrs. Grey,” some guy says, “do you really expect us to believe that your audit team combed through the records of this company and you have no idea who David’s business associates are?”

At this moment, I have a violent three-second funnel. I look at this guy’s face and I see the “little lady” look in his eye, like he feels like I might have been coached a bit to say what I’m saying in front of the big bad reporters. In addition, he’s so hell-bent on getting his story that he’s not going to accept what I’m saying—he wants to break me down. Finally, even though he knows that David was involved in illegal activity that landed his company in the hands of the federal government, he only wants to cast the idea that I may know who these other illegal participants may be. He has no consideration for the fact that these may be dangerous people, that he may be putting my life and the lives of my friends and family—including my father, my children, my husband—in jeopardy. No, he has to get the scoop; break the little lady down so she’ll tell the story. Back her into a corner so she’ll spill the beans. All of this goes into the funnel and out comes one thought…

You motherfucker.

“Who is that?” I ask, leaning into Vee.

“Robert Strutherfield.” My head pops back hard.

“Robert!” I hiss, turning to him. “Robert!” I repeat, garnering the attention of some of the members of the crowd. “Is anybody live?”

“Oh, shit,” I hear Christian say behind me. I snap my head back to him.

“Keep your shirt on,” I say, before snapping back to the crowd. A few hands go up.

“You might want to get this.” I turn my attention to Mr. Strutherfield. “Well, Robert, I really don’t care what you believe, because when you go back to your little computer, you’re going to type what you want anyway. However, to answer your question again, I have no idea who that low-life, back-alley, dirty-dealing, underhanded crook was dealing with! I saw trouble, and I backed away quickly. Now if you’re looking for names, places, and dirt, you go do that digging—and good luck to you. Better yet, go ask the feds. Maybe they’ll be forthcoming to you because I’ve. Got. Nothing! I’ve handed this mess over and I want nothing else to do with it. Have I made that clear enough for you, Mr. Strutherfield?”

My voice is curt and sharp and causes a near hush to fall over the crowd while they all turn to Mr. Strutherfield to see if there will be a redirect. When there is none, another question floats across the crowd.

“What can you tell us about the upcoming trial of Elena Lincoln?”

“Nothing,” Vee says, yelling out clearly. “You all know the rules—no discussion of upcoming trials. Thank you and goodnight.” She gently pushes me to the right and following Christian’s guide in the small of my back. I walk inside the bubble of our security team to the front portico and through the front doors.

“Well, that could have gone better,” Christian says, handing his coat to Windsor. “Coffee,” he barks. Windsor nods as he takes everyone else’s coat.

“I think she did great,” Vee says, handing Windsor her coat and following me into the formal living room.

“How can you think that was great?” Christian says, nearly ready to explode, walking behind us with Allen bringing up the rear.

“Because she showed them that she bites back!” Vee says. “She’s the picture of decorum and professionalism, but don’t you get it? It’s time out for this victim shit! She’s about to be an icon in her own right. She’s a mother, a public figure, she’s worth billions—loved by many, loathed by some, recognized by quite a damn few. This damsel in distress picture has got to go. Use it for Green Valley, but for Seattle—no! She’s married to one of the most powerful men in the country, and she needs to be seen as one of your strengths, not your weakness!”

I sit on the sofa, fold my arms and cross my legs at the knee. I completely agree with Vee, but I’m not going to rub it in. I’m not going to push anything; I’m not going to be difficult, but I’m not going to fade into the background either. I’m going to meet regularly with Vee about what not to say, but when the Paparazzi shoves a mic in my face, I’m not going to run.

“Baby, what part of that conversation do you think could have gone better?” I ask Christian. Let’s see how he feels about what I said and maybe, we can come to an agreement about what I’ll say next time… or I can win him over to my side about what I said this time.

He’s a bit taken aback by my question, not prepared with an answer. Vee, I think, recognizes my plan of attack an awaits his answer. I raise an eyebrow at him when there’s no response.

“Did I say something wrong during the interview?” I prompt, trying to direct the conversation further. He has long since stopped pacing and I can see him playing the interview over in his head.

“Maybe…” Vee starts to speak and I raise my hand to silence her. I think she may not have liked that, but I need him to think about what he disliked about this interview while it’s fresh in his head and I need to know what his issues are with it.

“I don’t think you should have said that you went to the prison to see David squirm,” he says, “not after the guy killed himself.” I nod.

“You may be right about that,” I say. “In hindsight, there may have been a better way to express that feeling. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find it at the time, so I felt that honesty was the best policy. Stumbling over my words would have given the impression that I was hiding something. I think that would have caused more damage than giving them a sound bite. It’s no secret that there’s no love lost between us for what he did to me. So, if the press uses that against me, I can honestly live with it. Can you?”

He ponders the thought carefully for a few moments, then nods.

“Yeah, I can deal with it. Anything that becomes too heavy, we have PR.” He throws a look at Vee and so do I. Vee nods once and I turn my attention back to Christian.

“Was there anything else that concerned you? Something else I should have done or said differently?” He sighs.

“A bit of warning when you’re going to alert live cameras?” he says. I raise my eyebrows.

“I thought I did,” I respond.

“May I interject?” Vee asks, a bit like a student asking permission to speak in class. Christian and I turn our attention to her. “Christian, we have to operate on the assumption that we’re always live.”

“Oy!” Christian runs his hands through his hair as the coffee service is brought into the room by Ms. Solomon. He falls onto the sofa next to me.

“Was there anything else?” I ask, looking over at my husband. He looks over into my eyes, then puts his hand on my thigh.

“Nothing else,” he says. “You handled the crowd very well.” I nod and place my hand on top of his.

“Good!” Vee begins. “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, a few pointers for tomorrow…”

*-*

I’m in the rocking chair in the nursery and Christian has helped me situate both babies in my arms so that they can breastfeed. Gail admits that although they haven’t been a bother, they were a bit fussier than usual due to the slight nipple confusion. I must admit that my nipples were confused as well and none too happy with that damn breast pump. I’m actually relieved to have my children breastfeeding again.

“How is Sophie doing?” I ask Gail when she and I are alone in the nursery. She sighs.

“It’s hard to tell,” she says. “We talk to her every day, thank God, but I think she’s hiding something. I think she’s trying to protect her mother and in the process, she doesn’t know that she’s hurting herself.”

“What gives you that impression?”

“Just the way that she talks,” Gail says. “She’s very evasive about anything going on with Shalane. We don’t know if Shalane has left her alone anymore or not and Jason won’t ask her because he doesn’t want to put her in a position where she’ll have to lie.”

“But all of that is going to come out in the custody case,” I protest. “She has to know that.”

“I think the poor child is hoping that it’s not going to come to that,” Gail says. “My understanding is that she’s hoping that she can scare her mom back into shape—that they can hopefully be decent co-parents without having to go to court and have the whole public fight and such, but that’s not going to happen.”

“No, that never works,” I confess. “I’ve seen Shalane’s type many times. She’s bitter and spiteful and wants to use the child against him for as long as she can. She’ll never be cooperative and never have a kind word to say to or about him. Thus, they’ll never be able to co-parent.”

“I know this, but try telling that to a hopeful twelve-year-old girl,” Gail says with a sigh. I shake my head. I could never understand how any mother anywhere could feel that turning a child or using a child against their father could—in any way—be in the best interest of the child, but I see it all the time. Women scorned and angry because the men didn’t want to stay with them dangling their children in front of their faces like carrots, accusing even good fathers of being deadbeat dads because they didn’t want to remain in a relationship with the mother for whatever reason. It’s beyond me how these women can think that they’re mature enough to be mothers, but aren’t even mature enough to be women.

I tuck my two little bundles of love into their cribs after they have been fed and burped and kiss them goodnight. After assuring Gail that everything would work out for the best in the end—even though I’m not 100% sure of that myself—I go to our bedroom to turn in. Christian is awake and sitting on the edge of the bed. I crawl onto the bed on my knees behind him and kiss him on his back.

“You okay?” I ask. He sighs.

“I wish they could do this without me,” he laments. “I don’t want to see her. I don’t want to be in the same room with her. She makes me feel and think evil things.” He holds his head back and looks at the ceiling. “She makes me remember the man that I used to be—the man I hate so much.”

“Sssshh,” I say, placing my hand on his back and kissing his shoulder. “You’re a strong, good man. A loving husband and a good father… a good provider, a protector… a wonderful son, friend, and brother.” He looks over his shoulder at me. “A powerful yet gentle dominant, an obedient and grateful submissive, a masterful and attentive lover…” I caress his hair softly and kiss his temple and his eyelid. “Whatever you may have been before, you’re all these things now, and I thank God every day for that and that you’re mine.”

He takes me in his arms and kisses me passionately. I match his fervor with my own, kissing him deeply.

“You’re a miracle, do you know that?” he whispers when our lips part. “Many women tried… they tried to make me love them, tried to be everything I needed them to be. None of them could do it. They bowed and they submitted…” He closes his eyes and brushes his lips against my cheek, my lips, my face, my temple…

“They were beautiful… and submissive… obedient… they loved me. They were perfect…” He buried his face in my neck. “… But they weren’t you… none of them were you. None of them touched me like you. None of them felt like you. None of them moved me like you.” He presses me hard against him.

“There were women that I couldn’t have before,” he says, turning his nose to my hair and inhaling deeply. “I just moved to the next and forgot them… but you… I had to have you… my soul had to have you… I would have died without you.”

He clings to me, kissing my neck and chin. I hold my head back, giving him full access as I thrust my hands into his hair.

“She lost her mind,” he says sadly, laying his head against my chest. “She wanted so badly to be the one. For years, she wanted to be the one and I never knew. But it was impossible.” He raises his eyes to me again. “Because it was always you. Even before I knew, it was always you. No matter who tried… no matter who wanted it… it was you…” He lays his head on my chest again. “Always only you.” I play with his hair and sigh.

“I’ll… never keep your children from you.” He raises his head and looks at me. “No matter what happens… I’ll never be one of those women who keeps your children from you… ever!” He frowns deeply.

“What’s brought that on, baby?” he asks. I shake my head and sigh.

“I don’t know. Gail… Sophie… Shalane… I don’t know…” I shake my head as if to release the thoughts. He squeezes me tighter.

“I’ll never give you a reason,” he says softly. “I’ll never leave you or give you a reason to leave me. I’ll never give you a reason to be that woman. That will never. Be us.” I wrap my legs around him and kiss him deeply. He crawls up onto the bed and the pillows with me clinging to him like a vine. God, I love this man. I love everything that he is and everything that we are when we’re together and everything that we’ll become. He peppers sweet, sweet kisses on my lips before pulling back to speak to me.

“So… Mrs. Grey… do you want me to make love to you tonight?” He kisses me again gently on the lips. “Or do you want me to hold you…” He kisses my cheek. “… And kiss you…” He kisses the corner of my mouth. “… Until we both fall asleep?” He kisses just under my earlobe. “… Because I can be content with either one.” He kisses my lips again, then looks into my eyes. I take both hands and smooth his beautiful copper curls off his face.

“Why don’t you just… hold me…” I brush my lips against his. “… And kiss me…” I press a tender kiss to his lips. “… And we’ll just play it by ear?”

He gazes into my eyes for a moment before closing his lips deliciously over mine.

*-*

We arrive at the King County Superior Courthouse on Monday morning in matching gray tweed suits—his a three-piece flawless Anderson & Sheppard, tailor-made for his magnificent frame, with a navy blue tie, white shirt and pocket handkerchief and black Cesare Paciotti Italian leather shoes; mine a knee-length pencil skirt power suit, the jacket sporting a single row of large black buttons and a high collar, finished with jet black stockings, and leather pumps, gloves, and clutch and, of course, my signature Jackie-O’s. Flanked by Chuck, Ben, and Jason—witness for the prosecution as well as on duty—we ascend the stairs to the courthouse to the flash of several cameras, studiously ignoring questions being thrown at us as we’re not allowed to answer any. Once we get inside and past the metal detectors, we meet Al at the bank of elevators.

“I hate you two so much right now,” he says with a straight face, “No couple in the world has the right to look that pretty.” He turns around and begrudgingly punches the buttons to call the elevator and I have to fight to hold a straight face.

We pause at the door of the courtroom, my hand folded into Christian’s elbow. He swallows hard. He’s counting. Al and I both know what he’s doing, so we don’t disturb him while he prepares. I murmur a quick prayer for our strength while I’m standing next to him. He sighs heavily and trembles just a bit. I squeeze his elbow.

I’m here for you… I love you…

He looks down at me and I soften my face a bit. He closes his eyes and touches his forehead to mine for a moment. Then he straightens his back, squares his shoulders, opens the door and leads me into the courtroom.

There’s not a lot of people in the courtroom, thankfully. It looks to be only the necessary staff, a few onlookers somehow related to the case, and the district attorney. The jury, the defendant, and the judge have not entered the courtroom yet. Christian relaxes and leads me to a seat behind the prosecution.

We sit in silent contemplation as I recall the last time I was required to be in a room like this. It was to make sure that David rotted in jail for kidnapping me. Even now, it all seemed so surreal. I still can’t believe that he actually thought he would take me away and lock me in a dungeon somewhere and cause me to fall in love with him again. I can’t even believe I ever loved him at all. Heaven forbid he thought we would have kids! How could he possibly believe I could love him after being with Christian? Now he’s dead—rotting in hell with his cohort Robert Harris, and some asshole somewhere had the nerve to insinuate that I was insensitive about his death. Gimme a break!

My reminiscence is broken by the sound of a door opening off to my left. Christian and I turn simultaneously to see what has caused the slight disturbance. We’re both taken aback by what we see. The bailiff is leading the defendant into the courtroom and I almost want to get up and leave because I think we may have the wrong courtroom. She’s completely unrecognizable!

Her hair is brown, like mine, and very short. It’s curled and finger-tossed. She’s wearing very little makeup and she appears to have lost quite a bit of weight. Her skin is hanging from her face a bit and you can tell by the looks of the creases in her neck that she has missed more than a few facials and chemical peels. She’s wearing a conservative blue pants suit and very modest blue pumps. Her hands are haggard-looking and covered with liver spots. Being a convicted felon charged with attempted murder among other things, she also dons a lovely pair of silver bracelets to which only the bailiff has the key, courtesy of the Washington Department of Corrections.

She easily and rightly looks more than twice my age. I don’t know how she ever thought she could compete with me. She looks like a soccer mom… no, a soccer grandmom, nothing like the cocky dominatrix I’ve come to know. I guess several months in the clink with a bunch of angry women will do that. Her eyes immediately find me and I grimace at how unkind the year has been to her. Her eyes shoot to Christian and I hear a sound of muffled displeasure come from his direction. I look over at him and his hand is cupped over his mouth, his face contorted in disgusted disbelief.

Christian and I are both completely befuddled. Apparently, every single bit of Mrs. Lincoln’s beauty came from a bottle, a needle, or a knife. Locked behind bars with no access to her usual “beauty regimen,” for lack of a better term, she looks well beyond her years—haggard, aged, grotesque even… Elena Lincoln, the Crypt Keeper!

I look back at Christian and now, he’s scowling at her. His anger and hatred are tangible. I subtly squeeze his hand, breaking his attention and his gaze. He brings my hand to his mouth and places a gentle kiss on my fingers. I smile at him before looking back at She-Thing, who is now scowling at me. I know I shouldn’t poke at bears, but hell—the bear is in cuffs, so why not?

I turn back to Christian and look into his eyes as the jury is being led into the room. I rest my free hand gently on his chest, something that I know Elena never quite got over.

“What do you need?” I whisper gently into his ear. “Are you okay?” He covers my hand with his free hand and brings my other hand to his mouth again as he closes his eyes.

“I just need you to stay with me as long as you can,” he says, “until they make you leave for mine and Jason’s testimony.” He breathes in deeply and squeezes both hands. I squeeze back.

“I’m here baby,” I say softly, leaning my forehead on his temple. “I’m here and I’ll never be far away.” He breathes in deeply again, holds it, and releases it before nodding. He kisses my hand again before opening his eyes and focusing to the front of the room. I move my hand from his chest, but he replaces it with our clasped hands and just sits there for a moment, unmoving.

Our tenderness almost caused her to expire.

I hear her gasp and when I turn to look at her, She-Thing’s eyes grow large. Her skin has gone pale and she wobbles a bit before getting to her seat. Her attorney catches her and asks if she’s okay. Before she can answer, the judge enters the courtroom and we’re all told to rise. Christian never turns his attention back to She-Thing as she is clearly having trouble making it to her seat. By the time that she does, whatever color was left in her face is gone.

The bailiff is introducing the Judge and the defense attorney is trying to make sure that his client doesn’t faint. As the judge takes his seat on the bench, She-Thing actually looks as if she’s about to hyperventilate.

“You may be seated.” His Honor is Judge Joel Burgess, a handsome, tall, older, black gentleman with salt and pepper hair. He has a no-nonsense look about him, and I hope that means that he won’t put up with any shenanigans in his courtroom. I’m on a short leash and doing my best to hold my unpredictable, yet unadmittedly fragile husband together.

The prosecution begins his opening arguments. Mr. Duane Skinner paints and accurate picture of a woman obsessed with a handsome and successful businessman, the son of her best friend. He carefully avoids any reference to Pedo-Bitch’s prior conviction as he is unable to open the door to that information unless the defense does so first. I don’t know how they’ll be able to explain the particulars of the crime and what got us to this point in the first place without reference to Christian’s and her unholy relationship. Nonetheless, Mr. Skinner does a masterful job of illustrating how unstable, irrational, and delusional Elena became once I became a factor without revealing the fact that she had groomed him as a teenager and subsequently fell in love and became obsessed with the object of her pedophilia. Thus far, she only came off as a delusional woman scorned who couldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer and tried to kill her ex-lover.

Now comes the fairytale that is the defense. If I hadn’t been there for the entire show, I might have believed this guy—much like the presentation with Edward David. Attorney for the defense, Wyatt Underwood, contends that Mrs. Lincoln should not be held accountable for her actions because she was raised to believe that the rules never applied to her. He bases his defense on a concept of extreme entitlement—of never being taught the difference between right and wrong or how those consequences may apply to one’s life. Acute pathological narcissistic personality disorder is what he called it. I’m immediately reminded of that teenager who, just a few months ago, plowed into a group of people with his car while he was under the influence of drugs and alcohol. He killed four people and got off with probation and rehab with a trumped-up defense just like this.

They named it affluenza.

That defendant was a teenager and even though I still think his ass should fry for having taken the lives of four people, he still has the excuse of youth and inexperience. We’re talking about a predatorial 50-year-old woman here. She’s old enough to be somebody’s goddamn grandmother! How the fuck do you live on earth for fifty years and observe the cruelties that is life and not believe that there are consequences for your actions?

As a witness for the prosecution and having seen what transpired in my husband’s office, I can hardly believe that we’re even wasting the court’s time. As a mental health professional, I can hardly believe they found another mental health professional that would attest to this bullshit. As a human being and a mother, I’m frightened and appalled that this is actually being heard in a court of law and if it works, could set a precedent for psychos all across the country.


CHRISTIAN

I can barely hear anything the attorneys have said during opening arguments—the People of the State of Washington vs Elena Gabriele Lincoln. I’ve heard enough to commit names to memory:

Joel Burgess
Duane Skinner
Wyatt Underwood

Only one name seems to hold any importance right now as my blood runs so hot through my body that I can actually hear it pumping in my ears:

Elena Gabriele Lincoln…

Witch!
Shrew!
Demon!
Evil slithering incarnation from another world!

My hands sweat and I try to pay attention, focusing solely on the witness chair and trying not to lose it. I do all that I can to draw strength from Butterfly, because I’ve seen the witness list. I think Jason should go first, but I’m first—probably because I was the target and everything happened in my office. I don’t know why they won’t just show the video and let that tell the story, but I’m sure there’s a method to the madness.

I’m terrified and glad at the same time that I get to go first. I get to hear all of the testimony and I’ll get mine out of the way. Once I’ve given my testimony, I can sit in the courtroom for the rest, so this is actually a good thing… as far as anything can be good in this situation.

“Bailiff, please clear the courtroom.”

That’s my cue. I stand with my wife and my bodyguard and best friend along with the rest of our party and leave the courtroom. Al will be allowed to return as our attorney, but no one else, not even the other members of our security—not until all of us have testified.

Everyone stands outside of the courtroom waiting for them to call the first witness. I grasp my wife’s hands tightly.

“I’m the first witness,” I tell her after swallowing the lump in my throat. She frowns.

“How do you know?” she asks.

“I’ve seen the witness list. It’s what had me so distracted when you came to bed last night. I just couldn’t talk about it.” Her face changes at first and I know she has feelings about me not telling her, but then her expression softens. She puts her hand on my cheek and looks into my eyes with love and sympathy. She tries to smile, but fails miserably. It doesn’t matter; I draw my strength from her touch.

“Christian Grey,” the bailiff announces flatly from the door. I turn my face to her palm and kiss it softly.

“I love you,” I breathe.

“I love you, too,” she replies.

“Jason will next, then you,” I inform her. She nods.

“Go put that bitch back in the hellhole where she belongs.” She winks at me.

“Chris…” Al urges. I squeeze my wife’s hand once more and square my shoulders before walking back into the courtroom.

At first, I don’t look at her. I make no eye-contact with her at all. She doesn’t exist… yet. I just walk to the witness stand and take my seat. I’m asked to state my name for the record after I’m sworn in.

“Christian Trevelyan Grey.”

“Mr. Grey, can you tell us what happened in your office on the afternoon of March 19, 2013,” Skinner asks.

“I had just spoken to my wife, who wasn’t my wife yet, and invited her to a late lunch. She was shopping with her best friend for her wedding dress and was very stressed out…”

I recounted the afternoon that this sick bitch shot my best friend—her speech, my feelings, the look on Butterfly’s face, how my soul cracked thinking that our life together was ending before it even started. It’s not until I stop talking and the entire room is silent that I realize that I have given this description between clenched teeth… in my Dom voice. The jury, quite frankly, looks stunned and the Pedophile is damn-near panting. Even in this setting, she can’t control her obsession.

“Um… Mr. Grey,” Skinner finally finds his voice, “to what was Mrs. Lincoln referring when she said, ‘He’s seen his mistake, I said. Now I can have him back?’”

“Objection,” Underwood exclaims. “Mr. Grey cannot testify to what Mrs. Lincoln was thinking.”

“I’m not asking him to testify to what she was thinking. I’m asking him to testify as to what she was referring when she spoke to him. Surely, he knows what she was talking about.”

“Overruled. Mr. Grey, please answer the question.” I drop my head.

“We were once lovers… years ago,” I say. “We became friends after the intimate relationship ended… well, at least it ended for me. I can’t say if it ended for Mrs. Lincoln.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Objection!”

“Overruled! He can answer the question about his own words. Continue, Mr. Grey.”

“She wouldn’t go away. I told her that I didn’t want anything to do with her anymore. I wanted her to go away and leave me alone. I started dating my wife shortly thereafter. Mrs. Lincoln became relentless. She was everywhere. She kept showing up unannounced at my apartment, my office. She wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Even when she got into altercations with my wife, nothing stopped her from coming back.”

“Did she have any reason to believe that the two of you were still in a romantic relationship?” Skinner asks.

“None whatsoever. There were times when I knew that’s what she wanted, but I never led her to believe that we were. To clarify, our prior relationship was intimate, not romantic.” He frowns.

“Can you tell us what you mean by that?” he asks. “How can a relationship be intimate and not romantic?”

“Our relationship was purely sexual. There was no emotion involved. What I have with my wife is and always has been romantic and intimate. What I had with Mrs. Lincoln was only intimate.” She frowns at my description. Strange, really, since she’s the one that always tried to convince me that love is for fools.

“So, you and Mrs. Lincoln were not in a relationship when you met your wife?” he asks.

“When I met my wife, I still considered Mrs. Lincoln my friend. By the time I started dating my wife, she was nothing,” I clarify.

“I’m only asking this question, because I know that it’s going to come up,” he prepares me and I nod. “Did you leave Mrs. Lincoln for your current wife?”

“No,” I say without hesitation. “One, I would have had to be in a relationship with Mrs. Lincoln to leave her for my wife. Two, I’ve said it several times and I’ll say it again. I ended my friendship with Mrs. Lincoln before I decided to pursue my wife.”

“You have to admit, though, that they were very close together. It seems convenient that a close friendship that you had with a woman with whom you were once intimate ended seemingly moments before you began the relationship with the woman whom you would later marry.”

“It doesn’t matter that they were close together,” I say. “She. Was. A. Friend. Not a lover, a friend. I ended that friendship and went on with my life. I subsequently decided to pursue my wife and we began a relationship that culminated in our marriage. Mrs. Lincoln can’t accept that she wasn’t that woman, so she’s making up in her head that Anastasia stole me from her. Ana didn’t even know who she was until after we were dating. By that time, I had ended my relationship with Mrs. Lincoln. She wouldn’t accept my refusal, insisting that Ana turned me against her, and she began stalking us.”

“Objection! Mr. Grey has no idea what Mrs. Lincoln was ‘making up in her head.’” The defense objects.

“Sustained. Please strike that from the record,” the judge orders. I roll my eyes.

“Can I say that she accused Ana several times of turning me against her… in my presence?” I ask.

“Yes, Mr. Grey, that’s fine,” the judge answers and nods at the prosecutor.

“Mr. Grey, at the time of the shooting, what was the state of your—friendship—with Mrs. Lincoln?”

“We didn’t have one,” I tell him. “The last time that I had seen her was months prior when she came to my apartment building uninvited and I had made a police report. The next time I saw her, she was pointing a gun at me.” The prosecutor picks up the Beretta marked as evidence.

“Is this the gun, Mr. Grey?” he asks. I look at the weapon.

“It looks like it, yes,” I answer.

“There’s something unique about this particular firearm, isn’t it?” he says.

“Objection—leading the witness,” the defense says.

“Withdrawn. Mr. Grey, do you recognize this weapon?” he asks.

“Honestly, I don’t,” I answer.

“Is there any reason why this weapon would be of any significance to you?” he presses.

“Objection—leading.”

“I’ll allow it. Answer the question, Mr. Grey.” I sigh.

“When she was waving the gun at my wife, Mrs. Lincoln taunted her about possibly killing Ana with a bullet from Ana’s own gun. Ana had reported her Beretta stolen about a month prior.”

“Let the record show that this gun is a Beretta Px4 Storm Type F Sub-Compact handgun, the same type of gun that Mrs. Grey reported stolen in February,” he confirms. “Do you have any proof or any reason to believe that Mrs. Lincoln has taken Mrs. Grey’s gun?”

“No. When we ran the security tapes from the day of the robbery, it shows a small-framed person dressed in black and wearing a hood entering my wife’s condo and leaving a short time thereafter. We have no idea who it was and we can only assume that the gun was taken at that time because of the timing. Unfortunately, we have no proof at this time who the burglar was or if they actually took anything at that time.”

The prosecutor holds up a piece of paper and declares, “Let the record show that ballistic evidence proves that the bullet removed from Jason Taylor’s shoulder came from this firearm. Registration and ballistics also confirm that this is the firearm that was registered to and reported stolen by Anastasia Steele, now Anastasia Grey.” He places the report back on the table with the evidence. Lincoln is squirming and beginning to sweat a bit. There’s no way out of this, bitch. You are going down.

“I have no more questions for this witness at this time, Your Honor.” He takes his seat while the defense saunters over to me.

“You’re a rich and powerful man, Mr. Grey, accustomed to getting your way. No one says ‘no’ to you, do they?” Underwood begins.

“Yes, yes, and sometimes,” I respond with no emotion.

“Excuse me?” he says.

“Yes, yes, and sometimes,” I repeat.

“What does that mean?”

“What did you ask?” I respond. He sighs.

“Permission to treat the witness as hostile,” he directs towards the judge.

“It’s clear that he’s hostile, counselor. The defendant stands accused of trying to kill him. Now, please, stop antagonizing him and get on with your questioning,” the judge fires back. I find it hard not to smirk as I see some of the wind get knocked out of this fucker’s sails, but he doesn’t allow that to deter him.

“You say that Mrs. Lincoln showed up at your home and office unannounced. Wasn’t that the nature of your relationship?”

“At one time, yes,” I reply.

“But not anymore.” It’s more of a statement than a question.

“I’m sure I’ve already made that clear.”

“Why not? What happened that changed your relationship?” I knew it would happen. I knew it was coming, but I’m prepared. I’m prepared for whatever fallout there may be. This woman must be stopped.

“I’m not sure that I am allowed to say since the content has something to do with another case,” I respond.

“Are you actively part of that case, Mr. Grey?” he asks.

“No… not actively, but indirectly.”

“Then you can tell us why your relationship with Mrs. Lincoln changed so suddenly.” He smirks at me. Fine. You want it, you got it.

“I discovered that she was a pedophile and I wanted nothing else to do with her,” I say.

“You… discovered?” God, this man is really a slimy ass bastard. “How did you discover this?” I sigh.

“Mrs. Lincoln was a long-time friend of our family. During one of her visits, a member of my family revealed to me that she had come on to him when he was 14…”

“Objection! Hearsay, Your Honor.”

“You asked the man how he made his discovery and he’s telling you how he made his discovery. Objection overruled. Continue, Mr. Grey.”

“I asked Mrs. Lincoln about it, but she denied it,” I continue. “Her explanation was flawed. I considered her answer carefully, as well as our relationship, and realized that her interaction with me was pedophilia.” Many of the jury gasps. There it is. It’s out in the open. I was one of her victims. “I never wanted to accept that. I never wanted to believe that’s what it was. I actually thought that I was special. Then I find out that there were others—that she did this regularly. I wanted nothing else to do with her.”

“You sound like a scorned lover, Mr. Grey.” he says.

“Objection!” Skinner pipes in.

“Sustained. Careful, Mr. Underwood.”

“If I may, Your Honor?” I ask, looking up at him. He nods. “’Lover’ implies that I had an intimate relationship with this woman. I had not had an intimate relationship with this woman for several years. We were friends—nothing more. However, I’ll admit that I did feel a twinge of betrayal when I discovered that there were others—not because I didn’t have her all to myself, I couldn’t care less about that. I felt betrayed because she told me that she was doing this to help me—to keep me focused. She made me think that I was the only one and that she was doing this for me when the entire time, she was just fulfilling her sick lust for little boys!”

“Objection, Your Honor. Seriously?”

“Sustained. No conclusions, Mr. Grey. Stick to the facts, please.” I nod.

“The fact is that she molested me for several years and told me that she was doing it to save me. I was a troubled teenager, just like her other victims….”

“Objection!” I put up my hands.

“I’m sorry. I’ll rephrase that. I was a troubled teenager and I will admit that what she did help to put me on the right track. It diverted my focus away from my then-destructive behavior, but what she was doing to me wasn’t any less destructive.”

“And here you are now, a wealthy, successful businessman, and you want the court to believe that this woman damaged you? Abused you?” he accuses.

“Yes, I do,” I answer flatly.

“Yet, you stayed friends with her for ten more years after you became an adult.”

“She helped me with my business and I subsequently help her with hers.”

“Oh, so the is the reason for your success!” he shoots.

“No, she’s not!” I hiss. “She gave me a loan, which I repaid. I built my company on my back, with my own blood, sweat, and tears. My success is in spite of her, not because of her. All she has ever done for me is plant moles in my company, molest me, break my family’s heart, and try to kill me!”

“Your Honor!” the defense barks.

“Mr. Grey, control yourself!” The judge instructs.

“He shouldn’t ask me the questions if he doesn’t want the answers!” I bark. “I’m going to give you the truth, not some dressed-up version of it that’s going to suit her needs! Yes, I was her victim! Yes, she cuffed me, beat me, and had sex with me in her dungeon just like she did those other boys. Yes, she lent me money to start my business and did everything that she could to control my life afterwards. Yes, I discovered that she was a full-on pedophile when my brother revealed that she had propositioned him three years before she propositioned me. Yes, I was angry and disgusted when I realized that I wasn’t the only one and that what she did to me really was twisted and illegal and I wanted nothing more to do with her. Yes, I ended my friendship with her and very shortly thereafter, began to date my wife.

“She terrorized us for so long and so relentlessly that we had to get a restraining order against her, which did no good as she kept returning to my apartment, kept showing up in locations where she knew we would be, kept showing up at my office. She even crashed my father-in-law’s wedding on New Year’s Eve! I am not drawing conclusions for the court, but her behavior was obsessive—I can’t shake her no matter what I do. When I finally cut her out of my life completely and thought she was gone forever, she comes back and tries to kill me telling me that we will be together in the afterlife. If it weren’t for my bodyguard and best friend, she would have succeeded. I don’t have anything nice to say about her. I’m not going to paint a pretty picture of her and anything that you ask me is going to reveal that!” He pauses for a moment.

“You really hate this woman, don’t you?” he asks.

“She tried to kill me… after she terrorized and molested me. What do you think?”

“I’m not asking what I think. I’m asking if you hate this woman.”

“Passionately,” I say without a pause.

“And you would do anything to see her in jail, wouldn’t you?”

“Within the law and the truth, yes, I would.” I answer honestly, again without a pause.

“Including lie on the witness stand?” he asks. I lean forward.

“Did you miss the part where I just said ‘within the law and the truth’ or are you deliberately ignoring it?” His face falls just a bit. He did miss it. “You were doing better with those ridiculous objections. I know you have a little plan laid out here, but try to listen. It’ll serve more to help you defend your pedophile, murderer client there if you do.”

“Mr. Grey, you’re very close to being held in contempt,” the judge declares.

“My apologies, Your Honor,” I say. I sit back in my chair and cross my ankle over my knee, folding my hands in my lap. Your move, Asshole.

“So, you would definitely say that Mrs. Lincoln didn’t take your break-up well?” he continues. Nice try.

“Our break-up was many years ago and quite amicable. The dissolution of our friendship was less so. I assume that’s to what you were referring. Please feel free to object if I’m wrong.” His eyes narrow. I’m on to you and I won’t fall into one of your holes.

“You have said many times—in police records and in conversation as I understand—that Mrs. Lincoln is sick, twisted, and crazy. Do you really believe that?” Answer this carefully, Grey.

“Sick and twisted—yes. Crazy, only to the degree that she thought she could get away with this,” I say.

“Aren’t they the same thing, though, Mr. Grey?”

“I’m sorry, counselor. You have me confused with Mrs. Grey. She’s the shrink, not me.” A small chuckle that I truly didn’t expect comes from the direction of the jury.

“But you said yourself that she acted as if she was obsessed.”

“From a layman’s point of view, she did and she does, but will my testimony prove that she’s supposedly insane?” I shrug one shoulder, noncommittal. He’s seeing his defense fall apart so he pulls his last trump.

“Mrs. Lincoln reveals that you and she practice the same lifestyle. Is that true?”

“Number one, I am not a fucking pedophile—so no, that’s not true!” I put my hand up before the judge can reprimand me. “I’m sorry, it slipped.” He narrows his eyes and purses his lips, but acknowledges my apology. “Number two, I refuse to answer any questions about my personal life that have nothing to do with this trial. It is none of your business or anyone else’s. I am a very private person and I’m not going to drag my personal life or that of my wife, my family, or my business out to display simply because that woman is on trial for her crimes. I take my privacy and the well-being of my family very. Very. Seriously.” I glare at him without blinking, hoping that I relay to him that he may become famous because of this trial, but if he takes me down with that pedophile, he’ll be a substitute civics teacher in some high school in Toad Suck, Arkansas before the month ends.

I think he got the picture.

“No further questions at this time, Your Honor,” he says before walking back to his seat. I look expectantly at the judge.

“You may step down, Mr. Grey,” he says. I leap from my seat and head to the door. Looking from left to right, I see her come from a door a few feet down the hall. My feet can’t move fast enough as I watch her bolting towards me, her arms extended. I vaguely see flashes, but I don’t care right now—I have to get to her. She launches herself into my arms and I pull her close to me.

“Hold me,” I say, burying my face in her hair. “Please, hold me…”

“Are you okay?” she asks, thrusting her fingers into my hair. Pulling my lips down to hers, she kisses me repeatedly. “I so wanted to be there for you. I hope you know that.”

“I know, Baby. You were. You are. I love you so much.”

“I love you, too.” She wraps her arms around my neck and squeezes me tight.

“Sir,” Jason interrupts us. “They’re calling me to the stand, Sir.” I look up at him and nod, then look down at Butterfly.

“Are you okay?” I ask, stroking her cheek.

“Yes,” she says softly while caressing my hair. “Are you?” I nod, and touch my forehead to hers, taking one moment to thank God that she is in my life. I bring both of her hands to my lips and kiss them gently. “You can’t be in the room for Jason’s testimony either…”

“I know,” she says with her eyes closed. “I’ll be here when you’re done.” She gives me a warm smile.

“Sir…” Jason is more urgent.

“I’m coming,” I say without taking my eyes off her. I hold her hand until the last possible moment before going back into the courtroom with Jason.


A/N: The last time I made an assumption that everybody knew what something was, somebody blessed me the fuck out, so…

“Et tu, Brute?”—from the Shakespearean play Julius Caesar. Brutus was Caesar’s friend and part of the conspiracy to kill him. When Caesar was being stabbed to death by multiple assailants, he couldn’t believe that he was being betrayed. As he’s being killed, he sees Brutus—his best friend—coming at him with a knife, too. Before he dies, he looks at his friend in disbelief and mutters these three words, which translate into “You, too, Brutus?” (literally into “And you, Brutus”).

Pictures of places, cars, fashion, etc., can be found at https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/becoming-dr-grey/

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Love and handcuffs  
Lynn X

Becoming Dr. Grey: Chapter 67—Steamy as HELL!

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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 67—Steamy as HELL!

ANASTASIA

We spent the afternoon in deep conversation about everything and nothing after watching Ever After, then Memoirs of a Geisha, and finally The Last Samurai. I know how the first movie flowed into the second, but how the second flowed into the third I’m not quite sure. Nonetheless, he sent me off to the restroom to change into something more appropriate for a romantic dinner and evening while he prepared the room for a night to remember.

Before leaving the en suite, I spent time pumping breast milk—the third time today. My breasts are a bit tender now as the pump is not as gentle on me as my children are. I try not to dwell on the guilt I feel discarding the milk as there’s no way to preserve it properly until I get it home, nor would I with all the champagne I consumed with lunch even though Dr. Culley says I can feed the children about four hours after consumption. I prefer to wait at least twelve—that’s just me.

I sit in the bathroom, killing time and looking myself over, examining everything to be sure that I am ready for the evening Christian has planned for us. I have no idea what’s coming, but I know that the sunken tub with the stone fountain and jets will be somewhere on the agenda.

I got my Brazilian wax right after my doctor’s appointment—a few days in advance—to be sure that nothing was in the way when we made love for the first time in two months. The way he gobbled me up last night, I know he appreciated it. God, I’m getting chills just thinking about that. As much as I want him, I’m a little worried as my muscles are a bit sore from my workout earlier. I took a hot shower afterwards, but I didn’t soak or anything, and I’m afraid my muscles are paying a bit for that decision.

I toiled for a moment over what to wear once I had done a tiny bit of grooming and had finished pumping my milk. I had three other options from Agent Provocateur, but my eyes kept drawing back to the Old Faithful. I don’t know why I brought it. I don’t even consider it sexy, but I wore something like it in France and Christian nearly mauled me against the window. Now, I’m drawn to the simplicity of it. The fact that it flows so beautifully seems so much sexier than these other flimsy things that I could wear. I take a few of the flowers from the arrangement on the counter and pin them into my hair. I hope I’ve made the right choice. I could have chosen something sexier, more revealing, but somehow, this seems appropriate.

The room is softly lit with several sporadically-placed candles when I immerge from the restroom. Christian is standing on the other side of the dimly-lit space leaning against the wall near the fireplace waiting for me. He’s wearing a cutoff black silk robe and I can’t tell if there’s anything underneath. My mouth immediately goes dry when I see him, and now I’m wishing I’d worn the black kimono instead.

He raises his head to me and does a double-take. His lips part slightly and he’s momentarily frozen in place. Even in this lighting, I can see his eyes immediately become the piercing shade of silver that indicates his arousal. I’m relieved that his reaction indicates that the off-the-shoulder floor-length vintage peasant gown was the right choice. Christian likes it when I’m sexy, but he loves it when I’m demure. I notice that when we play, when he’s in total control, he always makes me wear white. So tonight, I’m wearing white.

With the grace of a panther, he pushes himself off the wall and begins taking slow steps towards me. I’m momentarily a deer caught in headlights as I observe every muscle in his body move in perfect synchronization. I want to seduce him as much as he seduces me, but fuck if I’m going to be able to do it! In seconds, I snap myself out of my near-drooling stupor and breathe in slowly through my nose, letting the same breath out slowly as I coquettishly drop my gaze and head just a bit to his chest and walk in his direction—not a gesture of submission, but of arousal and admiration, and hopefully seduction.

It has the desired effect.

As we close the space between us, I never raise my eyes to his. I keep them on my prize, the valley of his pecks. He always touches me first, but tonight, I’ll seduce him first… although that might be impossible since I’ve already been seduced. Stopping only breaths away from my prize, I lean in as close as I can without touching him and sniff. He smells so good. I close my eyes and take a deep, conspicuous breath, breathing him in, absorbing his essence into me. The warmth of his fragrance invades my chest and consumes my senses, igniting me all the way to my extremities. His body temperature changes and though there’s no outward reaction, I know this act has seduced him beyond measure.

Touch me…

Almost on cue, his hand rises and his thumb and forefinger caress my bare shoulder. The contact is so arousing that I nearly jump out of my skin, but I don’t react overtly except for a coy glance over to the hand that gently strokes my bare skin. I turn my attention back to the hard body before me. I can’t resist. I press my lips gently on the valley between his pecks. His skin is hot—like fever, but not. I want to taste it, but I don’t want to rush. The robe is partially open, allowing me access to the side of the firm muscles, so I kiss them, too… soft, open-mouthed kisses that allow me a small taste on the inside of my lips.

He’s delicious.

I pull the sash to open the robe and gain access to one nipple. I kiss it softly and lazily drag my tongue over it. His head drops back in momentary surrender as his hand drops to his side. I lean back and admire his body. He’s quite a fine specimen. Opening his robe reveals that he’s wearing silk boxers underneath that match the black silk robe he’s wearing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Christian in boxers. Boxer briefs, yes, but silk boxers… never. They hang off his hips in that way so that I can see the beginnings of the dip on either side of his pelvis. I can’t help running my finger along the line above the elastic. His abs flex involuntarily at my touch, imitating the same flex he does when he’s grinding into me and I flinch in response, gasping at the sensation of the immediate tightening in my core.

“Anastasia,” he says huskily to my bowed head, “if you’re expecting me control myself, you’re not making it easy.”

“Who said anything about control?” I ask, looking up at him through my lashes. Even in soft light, I can see his pupils dilate.

“We have to eat,” he says, stressing the “t” on the last word. “Once I get started on that body, I don’t intend to stop.” I take in a quick gasp of air and swallow it. He smiles triumphantly and leads me to the makeshift dinner table that he has made with the two chairs from earlier and the table in between. “Have a seat. You’ll need your strength.”

Okay, he’s clearly better at this seduction thing than I am, but if I affect him nearly as much as he says I do, I should be able to drive him as crazy as he drives me… or at least close! One thing’s for damn sure—I’m going to give it the old college try.

Without making eye contact, I pad over to the chair, lifting my gown so that I don’t step on the hem. Brushing gently against him as I pass, I sit in the chair, but keep my gown slightly lifted as I sit so that my legs remain exposed. I rest my hands in my lap before slowly raising my eyes—but not my head—to my near-salivating husband. I’m not going to be the only one aching for it by the time this meal is over.

He quickly recovers and removes a bottle of wine from a nearby bucket of ice. He expertly uncorks the bottle and pours a pale elixir into my glass. He knows that I’m not a white wine drinker except for champagne, which we had this afternoon to toast David’s final exit from our lives. So, I’m curious about this particular vintage. Nonetheless, I oblige him and take a sip just as he uncovers one of my favorite hors d’oeuvres—crostini with tomato bruschetta.

The flavor takes me by surprise. It’s divine… a chardonnay—normally not one of my favorites at all, but the crisp chardonnay grapes assault my tongue with the most delicious flavor, with combined citrus undertones that beg for a savory compliment.

“Mmm,” I moan involuntarily, closing my eyes while the nectar slips down my throat.

“You like?” His voice caresses my ears just like the wine caresses my taste buds. I nod.

“What is it?” I ask.

ramonet“Domaine Ramonet Montrachet Grand Cru Chardonnay,” he says. “We have two bottles.” I raise an eyebrow.

“Two bottles of champagne and now two bottles of chardonnay… are you trying to get me drunk, Mr. Grey?” He leans in close to my face.

“I definitely need you sentient for what I have planned, Mrs. Grey,” he says, breaths away from my mouth. Fuck! There he goes again, one-upping me. Why do I even try? I sigh heavily and rub my hand under my hair against my neck, taking another drink of the golden nectar. I might as well just enjoy myself—no use in trying to seduce the master seducer.

I learn very quickly that my little attempts at seduction should just be abandoned when Christian reveals the rest of our dinner. He’s even seducing me with food… caprese salad with fresh mozzarella and Roma tomatoes with virgin olive oil balsamic, and fresh basil—another of my favorites; petite pork chops with maple-sage butter and charred cauliflower with toasted bread crumbs, cornichons and parsley. The meal is nutritious enough to be sustaining, but not too heavy as to weigh us down. We eat in relative silence, stealing salacious glances at one another while contemplating what the evening ahead has in store for us.

Three glasses of wine later, I’m feeling a bit of a buzz and slightly warm when Christian presents a decadent caramel apple crumble with a tiny scoop of vanilla bean ice cream from the mini-fridge for desert. I’ll admit that it’s just what I needed to cool me a bit, though my slight buzz has me wondering how the ice cream is soft, but not melted from being in the mini-fridge throughout dinner. The dessert is deliciously rich and sweet and gives me the slightest burst of a rush where the wine had mellowed me out.

Christian clears everything except the remainder of the wine and the wine glasses, placing everything on a rolling tray near the door as I stay seated near our makeshift dinner table. Reaching behind my neck, I gather my hair together and bring it over one shoulder to allow some air on my neck and back.

Apparently, my timing is perfect.

I gasp with pleasure as open-mouthed kisses pepper the skin of my neck and shoulders. I try to control my breathing, but my skin is hypersensitive and all I want is to feel him touching me. I hold my head down to allow him access to my skin, but it’s not enough for Mr. Grey.

“Stand,” he commands, softly.

Taking my hand, he helps me rise from the chair and again we’re facing each other. He’s so beautiful. How I thought I could seduce him the way he seduces me, I’ll never know. Just standing here looking at him, I’m so turned on that I can hardly stand it. My skin is literally crawling with arousal. I feel like I could come at the slightest touch.

I have to control myself when he tests that theory, bringing his hands to cup my face and placing a gentle, yearning kiss on my lips. The kiss becomes probing, and I indulge myself by placing my hands on his taut abs and rubbing them gently up his chest, paying close attention to the creases and sinews of his muscles. His hands move down ghosting over my shoulders and causing me to shiver, then my arms over the thin material of my gown and down to my waist as my hands continue to rise, outlining his pecks and exploring his shoulder blades, gently brushing his neck before ghosting the nape, exploring the fine specimen of male that is my husband.

His breathing changes as he deepens the kiss to the most delicious, slow lapping inside of my mouth, exploring and dominating, but so sensual, causing me to whimper helplessly as I surrender to him. Everything inside me warms and tightens as my fingers reach his hair and I caress gently—not the hungry pulling like when we fuck, but a soft stroking of the silky, copper strands, allowing them to flow through my fingers just as the heat of his kiss flows through me. We indulge in the sweet, tender exchange for several moments until my lips are kiss-swollen before he pulls away and turns my body around swiftly, pulling me against him hard, my back to his front. I’m breathless from the kissing and from how quickly he moved.

“You know you drive me crazy when you wear this,” he breathes against my skin. I’m so turned on, I could burst right now. I crane my neck to the side to give him better access and he takes full advantage, kissing and licking the exposed skin of my neck while caressing my waist and hips.

“I wanted you to be pleased,” I breathe, my eyes closed. “I couldn’t decide between this or sexy lingerie…”

“You made the right choice,” he whispers, biting down gently into my skin, eliciting yet another whimper from me. “It’s so demure and sexy at the same time… It makes me want to do wicked things to you.”

Wicked… how delicious.

His hands roam the front of my body, claiming me and making me hot, but when they reach my breasts, I remember only too well that they’ve been a bit active today. He freezes.

“What’s wrong?” he asks softly when I flinch.

“I’ve… had to pump my breasts three times today. They’re a little tender.” I feel a bit… I don’t know, guilty, I think… because my breasts are such a big part of our foreplay… and during play. He places his hands gently under each mound.

“We’ll take care of that,” he says softly. Again, I fall in love with my sensitive and considerate husband. He kisses my bare shoulders again, caressing them both like he did the first earlier, with his forefinger her thumb. Gently, he pushes the fabric down my arms, careful to lift the elastic band over my breasts so that it doesn’t irritate my tender nipples before dragging the gown down my torso. He kisses down my spine as he pushes the gown down further past my hips and it pools onto the floor. I shiver again when I feel him kiss the skin on top of my buttocks, then beneath each cheek.

Dear God…

I feel the air blowing on my now protruding clitoris as he gently strokes first the outside of my legs from ankle to hip, then inside, from ankle to crotch, now kissing the backs of my thighs.

“Aidez moi,” I whisper, not certain that I can stand much more.

“Patience, mon amour,” he breathes against my skin, and my knees almost buckle from underneath me. “Step.” I look down, and he’s reaching for my gown. When I step out of it, he retrieves it from the floor and tosses it over the seat I vacated after dinner. Turning me around to face him, his eyes rake over my naked body.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, before placing a soft, chaste kiss on my lips. He treats me to a small show as he slowly removes his robe and allows it to drop slowly into his hands, revealing his flawless, chiseled body—save the brutal scars from the abuse of his childhood. I push those thoughts away quickly, conspicuously licking my lips and pulling the bottom one between my teeth in salacious hunger as I examine his body.

“Do you like what you see?” he asks, his voice a nearly animalistic growl.

“Very much,” I reply, matching his hunger, but a little disappointed that he hasn’t removed his silk boxers. The show is delightful, nonetheless.

“So. Do. I.” He tosses his robe onto the chair with my gown and reaches out for me. I take his outstretched hand and he leads to me to the bed. It’s only now that I notice that the duvet is covered with two very large bath blankets. How did I not notice that before? There are items on the nightstand, I can tell, but they’re covered with a satin scarf or something so that I can’t see what they are.

“Face down on the bed,” he says. “Careful of your breasts. Turn your head that way… no peeking.” He smiles at me and helps me onto the bed. I comply and lie face down, adjusting my breast for the least discomfort.

“Arms bent, hands flat. Get comfortable.”

I adjust myself so that I’m lying comfortably on the bed. He removes my hair from my back and splays it over the pillow.

“Now stay put.” He’s gone for a moment and then I hear what sounds like a powerful piano or synthesizer come from the television. Okay… music, I think. It’s some kind of spacy meditation sort of sounding thing. I’m waiting for the tune to get started—or for Christian to touch me. For almost an eternity, it feels like I’m listening to some kind of strange space movie, then suddenly, the music starts and it’s this sensual sounding tantric beat with a techno undertone. I like it. I like it a lot. Simultaneously, Christian’s hands are on me—hot and oily. Whispering sounds in the song swell as well as added beats and instruments, and Christian begins to knead my muscles. They ache slightly from my earlier workout, and I didn’t know just how much until he touched me.

I sink into the wonderful feeling of him working the kinks out of my muscles, his strong but gentle hands taking over my skin. The tune changes to what sounds like some kind of electric guitar, softly strumming, but then flowing into the same type of tantric beat as the song before. His hands continue to move rhythmically so that I’m not distracted by the music. In fact, the sound and feeling together are transporting me to a level of comfort and relief I haven’t felt in quite some time. It’s so easy to surrender to this sensation and just… enjoy.

His hands glide from my neck and shoulders over my aching arms out to my hands before returning to the four quadrants of my back giving each quarter very special attention. I moan my appreciation as his massage works towards my lower back and tailbone. The next song flows right in with another strum of an electric guitar, much more sensual than before, and I swear he timed it this way because now, he’s at my ass.

He’s massaging deeply, both cheeks, and the feeling is utterly divine—not only because I worked my glutes the hardest today and those muscles are still the most tender of my entire body, but also because his oily thumbs keeps running deliciously over my rosette, turning me on to no end and making me wish he would slip a finger inside and end my torment. He spends the entire song on my ass, massaging and kneading to the rhythm of the mellow beat and tones.

When the fourth song starts, I can’t even describe the sounds of the intro—again, some kind of techno with a slight clang or tinging sound. His kneading continues and sure enough, just as the sensual music and beat begins, an oily finger slips into my rectum.

Nirvana!

I gasp a long breath and release a shameless whimper as I fist the towels under my hands. He strokes deliciously, around and around, massaging me and opening me and I push back onto his hand, enjoying the stimulation. I cry out as a second finger slips in, indicating that my arousal has heightened, allowing me to open further. I can’t stop the sounds of pleasure escaping from my lips. He feels so good, his oily fingers massaging my anus. I’m afraid to come, but if he keeps going, I just might. The total relaxation might make me want to fall asleep and unable to concentrate on any further stimulation.

Unfortunately, he makes that decision for me and withdraws his fingers. I moan my protest, but he slowly moves away from my ass and begins to do something on the nightstand. It’s only now that I realize another song has played through and is ending and we are now starting another song, with what sounds like the same piano key playing over and over again. It’s a little irritating at first, then I hear what sounds like a woman moaning and the beat starts—then I hear nothing else after that.

It’s not that the music stopped. It’s that I’m completely distracted by what my husband and lover does to me next. I feel something soft, but firm pressing against my anus. What is that? It doesn’t take much and then, it slips inside of me. A brief rush of pleasure snatches the air from me as I realize that it’s a butt plug—rubber or silicon, I think. My butt closes around it, accepting it. I tighten around it, looking for the same stimulation I got from Christian’s finger moment’s ago, but not receiving it. A little disappointed, I remain resigned to leaving the butt plug where it is until Christian pulls on it gently and rotates it a bit inside of me sending waves of pleasure through me that almost cause me to buck off the bed.

Fuck!

paragon-gem-vibrating-anal-plugHe abandons the butt plug momentarily as he moves on to massage my hips and the backs of my thighs and I catch my breath. Fuck—it’s silicon! That shit feels amazing! Fuck! When my breathing returns somewhat to normal, he blows my damn mind again. As he moves to the backs of my knees and calves, his hand moves from one of my legs and I feel the butt plug moving again, only this time, he hasn’t touched it. His hand returns to my calves and the thing is still rolling around in my ass, stimulating me into a frenzy.

Fucking hell, the thing vibrates!

I’m shameless now, I can’t resist anymore. My ass is rising off the bed, my muscles tightening around this butt plug, fucking it and pulling it into me for maximum pleasure. I whimper with each squeeze, enjoying the burst of pleasure that follows each time I release. I want to reach down and massage my clit. Better yet, I want him to massage my clit. The ache is so deep, I almost can’t stand it. When he gets to my feet and starts that deep massage, I can’t hold on. All my nerve endings release and the pleasure starts to culminate in the small of my back.

“Christian…” I whimper after several moments of holding out.

“Yes?” he says, softly, his voice knowing.

“I’m going to come,” I confess, breathlessly

“Come all you want,” he says in a sexy, matter-of-fact tone. He pulls his nail down my instep and that sets me off. My first orgasm is anal—that normally small, but this time, not so small burst of pleasure that explodes from my anus, pelvis and back that some people swear you can’t have… yet, I’m lucky enough to have them. I’m breathless, but not spent. Anal orgasms can be intense, as this one was one of the most intense I’ve ever had. However, I’ve yet to have one as intense as any vaginal or clitoral orgasm I’ve had.

He massages my feet a little more as I catch my breath, then instructs me to roll over to my front. I’m a bit concerned about the butt plug, so I roll over gingerly.

“It’s flat, baby,” he says, calming my fears that I would be stabbed by a puff ball or something, seeing that the pom-poms are a favorite of ours. I lay flat on my back and now I get to watch him as he caresses my body. I don’t think I’m going to be able to stand it. He starts at my neck again, coating me with oil and paying attention only to his hands.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t look in your eyes,” he says, his voice low. “I have a task at hand and if I sink into those pools, I’ll stop what I’m doing and make love to you. Although that is on my agenda, it will have to wait.”

“Okay,” I breathe, wantonly. “I’ll just watch you.” He groans deep in his chest and moves his oily hands down my shoulders, taking the same route with my front that he did with my back, down the ends of my arms to my hands and back to my chest.

“Hands together over your head, baby. Set one on top of the other,” he says. I do what he says and my boobs sit right up like two ripe melons. He oils his hands again and begins to massage the mounds. Starting at the bottom, he does a gentle yet firm massage of the entire breast from the bottom, around the top, and ending at the nipple. It’s comforting and arousing at the same time. It gives such relief to the tender mound and areola from the pulling, pinching and sucking of the electronic breast pump. Yet, the tender stimulation of my nipple is erotic and stimulating and shoots right to my core. My body doesn’t know whether to respond with relaxation or arousal.

Reading me the way that he does, my husband continues the massage for several more moments until my tender breasts are not so tender anymore, then he moves on to an oiled nipple massage where both hands perform a continuous gentle upstroke of a single nipple with his thumbs and index and middle fingers. I don’t know how long he works the first breast before my core is pulsing with the need to come. By the time he’s done with my other breast, I’ve burst into my first vaginal orgasm, unable to control the sensation from the unrelenting massage of my supersensitive nipples.

“You’re so responsive, tonight,” he says, his voice husky. “I love it when you’re like this. I couldn’t ask for more.”

“You… make me… feel so good…” I pant, unable to think straight. “I can’t help it.”

“Sit tight, baby. There’s more where that came from,” he promises as he activates the vibrating butt plug again, and the vibration is different this time. It vibrates first, then changes to a pulsing sensation, that a rolling sensation, then a pumping or pulling sensation.

“Ah… Christian!” I protest as he continues his massage.

“Feel it, baby,” he coaxes. “Enjoy it. We have all night.” His hands course over my torso covering the area with oil, but this time, he passes my pelvis, making it clear that’s where he plans to end up, but not yet. He massages my legs and thighs, coating them thoroughly in oil as he makes himself comfortable on the bed near my midsection. He plans on taking his time in this area, no matter how many times I come; I already know it.

Pushing my legs open, he lubricates my thighs and massages each one thoroughly with both hands, allowing the air to hit my pulsing clit and the throbbing butt plug in my ass. I groan in anticipation as he comes achingly close to my shaved pussy without touching it. Next, he rubs his oiled hands across my pelvis, right at my mons where hair once was. The sensation is… holy… what the…!

“Hah..!” I gasp as he massages the area using intense pressure with both hands, much like he did on my breasts a few minutes ago, only more intensified. He’s using all of his fingers in the massage and it’s relentless. I move my hands and raise my head to watch him, to see what he’s doing to bring me this pleasure without even touching my clit. My God, it’s going inside of me and driving me insane along with this crazy butt plug fucking me four different ways.

“I told you I couldn’t see your eyes,” he warns, looking at me.

“I’m… sorry…” I pant, helplessly, my crotch frozen to this massage, my gaze frozen on his hands. It looks so good and feels so good. I can’t fucking move.

“Play with those tits,” he commands me, and I take both breasts in my hands, massaging the entire mounds mindlessly, allowing my hands to slide over the oily flesh until the palms finally glide across the nipples. I groan in satisfaction and repeat the process and Christian massages my pelvis right at the head of my vagina, still not touching it but miraculously pushing me dangerously towards another release.

“Fuck,” he breathes, “you’re so goddamn gorgeous.” He turns his attention back to his hands. “Your clit is sticking out of your pussy, all shiny and pulsing, you know you want to come.”

Yes… yes, I do…

“Stop fighting it… come for me, baby… come on.” He slightly deepens the massage on my pelvis and with one more pass over my nipples and a tiny squeeze of my asshole as a reminder of the stimulation there, I’m coming again inside my vagina. It’s a nice little inside orgasm and though I have no idea how it’s happening, I don’t fight the feeling. I fall back on the bed, starting to feel the tiring effects of three orgasms, but Mr. Grey’s wandering hands let me know that we still aren’t quite finished yet. His hands are massaging my thighs again, intensively, and now also, my butt and hips even underneath me. After allowing me to rest for several moments, he’s back on me again.

“Oh, God,” I whimper.

“Ssshh,” he soothes, and begins another two-hand massage, this time, the lips of my vagina, parting his fingers as they rise up my core. He hasn’t touched my clitoris yet, but he’s close. It feels good. I only just now realize—though not—that through all the orgasms I’ve had, he still hasn’t touched my clitoris. Dammit, I want him to touch my clitoris! That’s why I keep having these little exhausting bursts instead of that one soul-stirring explosion! What gives, Grey?

No sooner does my mind think it than he shows me why he hadn’t touched me yet. He was building up to that moment. His hands shift so that the oily fingertips that were massaging my lips are now massaging my vaginal opening and my clitoris—two hands, three fingers each, in a repeated upward massage. I nearly jump out of my goddamn skin. The buildup was so intense that his touch is like fire and I can barely stand it.

“Christian! Please!” I cry out, trying to grab his wrist.

“Sssshhhh,” he chides. “Still. I’ve got this. Relax.” He continues his massage for several minutes and I don’t release his arm. God, it’s too intense. I feel this shit in my neck! Fuck!

Christian!” I plead.

“Feel it,” he coaxes, and shifts his massage. One hand—the wrist that I’m holding—begins a relentless circular massage of my clit… my entire clit, while the other hand firmly cups my ass, his long fingers pressing the butt plug hard into me while lifting my body slightly. He knew what was coming. As soon as the rhythm of that massage hit me, I begin to grind against his hand, stroking and holding his wrist, grinding my teeth and begging him not to stop. He doesn’t. He squeezes my ass and massages around and around against my clit, my inner and outer lips with his whole hand until…

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

A high-pitched, visceral scream that breaks from my throat bounces off the walls and drowns any hope of silence or sound of music in the room. His hand doesn’t stop as my hips are suspended in air, in pain from the orgasm being ripped from my poor tender little loins. I feel like Thor himself has come from Mt. Olympus or wherever the hell he resides and is beating the fuck out of my poor pussy with his mighty Hammer of Thunder. I can’t scream anymore, but my pussy is still pulsing. I don’t know how long that goddamn orgasm lasts, but I barely remember Christian prying my fingers from his wrist as I fall into a shivering, panting mess on the bed, trying to catch my breath.


CHRISTIAN

“Wake up, my love, I’ve not quite finished with you, yet.”

I rouse my beautiful wife after I’ve prepared and warmed our foam bath. She fell right off to sleep after thundering into a shrieking clitoral orgasm and I thought it best to allow her to sleep it off a bit, especially since she had already consumed several glasses of champagne with lunch this afternoon and three glasses of wine with dinner and I plan for her to indulge in at least one more with fresh strawberries in the tub.

I’ve procured rose petals that I’ve kept hidden until this moment and spread them around the outside of the sunken tub. The remainder of our chilled wine and two wine glass await us outside the rim on the floor as well, accompanied by a small bowl of fresh strawberries to share so as not to upset our stomachs while in the water. The Jacuzzi jets keep the soft scented bath oil foaming on top of the water.

five-pine-lodge-spa

“Hhmmm?” Her eyes flutter open and her sleepy blues meet my expectant grays.

“Your husband has brought you great pleasure this evening, I hope…” I begin. She nods. “Unfortunately, his body still hungers for you. He craves you and he’s been left wanting.” She blinks a few times, then reaches out and strokes my cheek.

“Well,” she says softly, “we can’t have that.” I turn my lips to her hand and gently kiss her palm.

“Stand,” I say, taking her hand. When I we rise, she notices that I’ve shed the silk boxers. She bites her lips hungrily. “Patience, Mrs. Grey,” I tease, “turn around.” When she turns away from me, she faces the tub not only to see my presentation, but also to allow me to gather her hair together in a messy bun and secure it with a hair tie.

“That looks very inviting,” she says in a sultry voice.

“I’m glad you approve,” I tell her. “I took great care and effort to get you oily and dirty. Now let’s see how much time I can take getting you clean.” She turns back to face me.

“By all means, Mr. Grey, don’t rush.” She pulls my head down to hers and kisses me deeply while stroking a still-oily hand over my quickly stiffening erection. I groan into her mouth and grasp her ass firmly. I’ve wanted her the entire evening. Watching her writhe in desire, coming over and over again, her sexy body covered in oil from head to toe—it took everything in me not to toss my plans to the winds, sink into her, and fuck her all night long. It’s still not too late to indulge in that particular venture. I rip myself away from her delicious lips and luscious ass.

“Tub! Now!” I growl. She’s turned on again, and I watch as she struts that tiny waist and that big, juicy ass over into the freshly-filled sunken tub. Holding the wrought iron bar on the outside of the tub, she sits on the edge and slides into the water. I watch as her oily body slowly disappears into the foam-covered water and she sits down facing me, the water level just covering her breasts.

My mouth waters as I watch her, and it’s my turn to stalk to the tub. Her lips part as she watches me cross the room, eliciting the same pleasure from the display that I did from watching her walk. The closer I get to her, the harder my dick gets. I want her now! By the time I slip down into the water, heated just to the right temperature, but not too hot, my dick is throbbing with pain and need to be inside of her. She doesn’t waste any time. The moment I slide across the tub to get to her and sit down, she’s on top of me, straddling me and kissing me hungrily. I moan into her mouth as she rubs against me.

Fuck, she’s so hot.

“Butterfly,” I breathe, aching with the need to be inside of her, “I want you… now!”

She raises her hips and positions my head at her opening. Taking my mouth with hers, she slides down on me, taking each inch slowly and allowing it to stretch her so that she can acclimate to my size. I grunt as I stretch her, feeling her tightness wrap around me again and swearing that I’m going to come at any second.

“Goddamn!” I exclaim in her mouth as she finally takes me to the hilt. She rises and falls onto me again… and again… and again. The sensation is like… oh, fuck… literally!

“Damn, baby, you feel so good,” I groan, grasping her hips and caressing her skin under the water. The oil on her skin mixes with the bath oil and she’s still slippery, still soft and sensual…

“So do you,” she breathes against my lips. “You’re… so hard…” The arousal in her voice causes me to twitch which in turn elicits a moan from her and she heightens her assaults. Oh, shit, she’s going to make me come before I’m ready.

“Baby, fuck!” I protest, trying to control my passion. I thought I made her come enough to cool her down a bit, but she’s on fire! That hot, tight pussy is milking me and milking me and I’m not going to make it long at this pace. I’ve got to slow this down a bit, or at least even the playing field.

“Turn around.” I can barely get the words out of my mouth, I’m so fucking close to coming. Effortlessly, she spins so that she’s facing the other direction, never losing position, and the feeling on my dick is so fucking incredible that I almost lose my damn mind.

“God-fucking-dammit, Ana!” I exclaim, raising up and grabbing her around her waist. I thrust hard into her four times to ease the urge to come immediately, slamming her hard against my dick and regaining just a bit of the control that she just snatched from me with that incredibly fucking awesome gymnastics move she just pulled on my genitals and nearly made me lose my goddamn mind. She cries out with each thrust, calling my name on the last one, and I know that sensation was just as unbearable for her as that fucking spin on my dick was for me!

We both still for a few moments, gathering our wits about ourselves. Once I think I can take the onslaught of her glorious pussy again along with some added stimulation and what I know will be our first—and a very wild and intense orgasm—I take a deep breath and tell her, “grab that rail.”

She pants a bit, then does what she’s told. It causes her ass to stick out nicely, but she’s still on my lap on her knees with her legs open. I slide our bodies over so that we are both in front of the jet, but not so close that the pressure causes pain. We’re far enough to get a steady “brush” of the bubbles on our genitals.

“Ahaha!” she gasps at the sensation.

“I know,” I growl in my throat as I open our legs wider and thrust up into her at an even pace. “It’s like a thousand tongues gently licking you at the same time, isn’t it?” I know this, because I have the same feeling on my balls.

“Yes!” she whispers another gasp. “Yes… it is…” I swallow hard and brace myself.

“Now fuck it.” I don’t care if she fucks the water flow or fucks my dick. Either way, this shit is going to be unbearably insane for both of us. I lean back on the rim of the tub as her hips begin to move, slow and tight against my dick while the tongues lick my balls and the base of my shaft each time she lifts. Fuck, it’s so good.

“Yeah, baby,” I say through gritted teeth, “just like that.”

“Ooooooooo,” she growls deep in her chest, and I know her release is rising fast.

“Don’t come yet, baby,” I coach, “hold it!”

“Christian, I can’t…” she protests, her voice tortured.

“Yes, you can!” I demand. “Hold it! Don’t come yet!” She moans her surrender and I know that she can hold a little longer. I stroke my hands up her back and across the garden, Creamy, milky bubbles streak across her skin like body wash as her ass rises and falls in the water. She releases a mournful cry like she’s about to give in and I coach her some more.

“That’s it, baby,” I groan, “milk my dick. It feels so good.” That gives her a renewed purpose and she intensifies her stroke, grinding on my dick intent to pull every bit of nectar from my balls. My head lolls back on the tub, momentarily mindless from the pleasure of her hot, sweet, tight pussy and the continuous flow of bubbles on my scrotum. I feel the pulsing of that muscle at the base of my dick and I know it won’t be long now, and it’s going to be big.

“Yes… Yes, Ana… don’t stop… fuck it good, baby,” I breathe.

“Christian… I’m going to come…” she whimpers helplessly.

“Hold it… hold it…” I coax her, my eyes closed tight focusing on the tightening sensation beginning in my balls.

“Christian… please… I can’t!” she begs

“Yes… you can… hold it!” I know she’s going to blow any second. If she goes before I do, that’s fine. The fact that I’m telling her to hold it will only make it more intense… just like mine… any second now… hot molten lava will shoot from my…

“Christian…! Pleeeeeeease!”

“Not… yet… not… fuck! Aw, fuck!” I grind my teeth and dig my nails into her hips as I explode inside her, pumping semen deep into her as her walls start to vibrate and tighten violently.

“Oh, Goooooooooooooooooood!” she screams as she stiffens and starts to tremble. I lean forward, pushing myself into her and holding her up against me as we both ride out painfully intense orgasms while I’m buried inside of her and a thousand tongues wring blinding pleasure from our genitals.

I lean back on the wall of the tub, taking her with me in my arms. Still a bit breathless, I retrieve the loofa from the rim of the tub and begin to gently wash her skin. I know that the warm water will go a long way to help with the earlier ache of her muscles and the foaming bath oil will clean the rest of the essential oil from earlier off her skin. She allows me to clean her from head to toe while she catches her breath and I take great joy in caring for her. When I’ve covered every inch of her body, I move to put the loofa back on the rim of the tub, but she takes it from my hand.

“My turn,” she says softly. I gaze at her for a moment, then relinquish the loofa to her. She fills it with a bit more bath oil and starting from my neck, loving cleans my skin from head to toe, just as I had done her moments earlier. I’m enthralled watching her, and impassioned by her gentle act of love and caring. I’m accustomed to doing this for her. Whenever she does something like this for me, I’m still breathless and speechless. When she has finished, she straddles me again, sliding down once more on my already stiff erection.

“Ah… baby,” I breathe, as she rises and falls on me.

“I felt you growing in my hand,” she says, her voice thick with need. “I knew I had to have you inside me again.”

“My favorite place,” I say, deeply.

“My favorite place for you to be,” she replies, gently sinking her teeth into the meat of my neck.

“Ah! Fuck!” I exclaim, grabbing her ass as she rises and falls on my dick. “You feel so good, baby. You make me come so hard!” My finger graces across her rosette and she trembles. I do it again and get the same reaction. Sliding back over to the thousand tongue bubbles, I hold her open for full stimulation while she fucks me.

“Mmmmm,” she groans, “yes… right there.” She throws her head back and rides, moaning in ecstasy with every movement. The sight is nearly unbearable. I raise my hips with her downstroke to get the tongue sensation on my balls. As we both get lost in the friction and sex, she murmurs, “I want you there.” A bit sex-dazed, I open my eyes and ask, “What?”

“I want you there,” she breathes, huskily. “In my ass… I want you there.”

Whoa! Okay.

She rises off me and Greystone is standing at full mast, even under the water. I’m still holding her ass open and she guides my head between her legs and to her anus. When she finds her mark, she pushes the head inside her tight asshole and I grit my teeth to keep from coming immediately. I hold her open and she pushes another inch or so inside of her. God, she’s so fucking tight. I’m panting frantically out of my mouth. It takes several moments and a bit of back and forth before I’m finally sinking fully and happily inside of her.

“Oh, my Gooood, you feel so good,” I mourn when she has finally taken all of me.

“So do you,” she says, her voice broken, almost a weep.

“When I watched you fuck that butt plug, all I wanted was for my dick to be inside your ass. I got rock hard watching you grind into the air like that. It was all I could do not to snatch that thing out of you and fuck you right there.” I groan, sinking into her as she slowly rises and falls on my dick, taking me deep into her and causing me agonizing pleasure at this moment.

“And now you’re getting your wish,” she says in a sultry voice as she grinds into me provocatively, deliberately tightening her anus around me.

“God!” I bite out between my teeth. “Kiss me.” Again, I’m barely able to choke the words out around my arousal. My wife is such a minx. She showers me with a series of succulent kisses, some teasing, some biting, some nipping, some deep and passionate as she caresses my hair and rides my dick with her ass. I am totally and completely mindless with the pleasure, absolutely at her mercy and only able to hold her ass open while her skillful hips and flexing and contracting anus massages my rock hard but helpless dick to an imminent orgasm. Again, we’re positioned such that the thousand tongues caress her rosette and now, my entire fucking dick when it slides out of her. I am transcendent in ecstasy right now; if she wasn’t on top of me, I’d float away. What she does next seals my fate.

“Suck my nipple, baby,” she breathes, heavily, “hard! Do it now!”

I raise my head to look at her. Her lips are parted and her eyes are closed. She’s rising and falling like a sexy ass nymph and her plump, juicy breasts are right in my face, swelling again, her nipples taut. I pull the hard, pink pebble into my mouth as instructed and suck, hard! She moans in her chest and quickens her stroke. Fuck! I add my tongue to the suckle and she whimpers loudly, her hands tightening in my hair… and my dick swelling in her ass. I feel that pulse at the base and those thousand tongues are tightening the scrotum sack. Here it comes…

I move to the neglected breast and suck hard. She presses my head against her, pumping wildly on my dick and causing a burn in the head that immediately begins the few second countdown. When I add my teeth to the suckle and gently bite down…

A primal cry releases from my delicate wife and she bounces a few more times on my dick before she stills on top of me, trembling and throbbing through an anal orgasm. It only took two of those bounces for me to be emptying helplessly and seemingly endlessly inside her, my dick throbbing with such intensity that it hurt and burns and I bury my face into her bosom to muffle my painful cries. I tried to hold her down while I was coming to ease the intensity, but it was no use. She was on a mission of her own by that time, and I had no choice but to let her juice my poor organ for all it was worth. It’s still throbbing and thumping inside of her, still pulsing and painful… but I’m totally spent.

She falls over me into my arms, panting and attempting to catch her breath, as am I. I’m kissing her on whatever part of her body my lips can reach. This woman is a goddess… a true to life goddess. She does things to my body that no one has ever done before and never will. I love her so much. I crave her so much. I need her so much. She’s become a part of me to the point that it scares me. I can’t imagine being without her.

When my dick twitches inside of her in response to the sentiment, we both react, but I counter by rubbing the loofa over her back and arms in a caring gesture.

“We better get out of here,” I say softly. “We’re going to be pruney.”

“We never had the wine or the strawberries,” she says looking into my eyes and kissing me sweetly. Butterfly…

“We can take them to bed,” I say, returning her sweet kiss and brushing my lips across hers. “I love you so much.” She pulls back and cups my face, looking into my eyes.

“I love you, too, Christian,” she says softly, “more than I can express.” My heart swells and I kiss her again. She sinks her fingers into my hair and I know if I don’t get her out of this tub now, we’ll never get out of here.

I lift her in my arms, still kissing her and her legs still wrapped around me. I sit her on the edge of the tub and take one of the rolled towels from a nearby stack. I open it and drape it over her shoulders, gently drying her skin as she continues to grace me with her tender kisses.

My God, this woman…

“You are exquisite,” I whisper as I dry her body. “I can’t get enough of you.”

“Who says you have to?” she breathes. “I’m yours.” I thrust my tongue in her mouth with those words and probe deeply, trying to quench the hunger rising in me once again. I can’t still want to fuck! I’ve come so hard, vital organs should have shot out of my dick! Twice!

When I pull back from her, wanton blue eyes beckon me to taste of her nectar yet again and I attempt to control myself.

“Go on to bed, baby,” I say sweetly. “I’ll clean up. I won’t be long.”

“Leave it for tomorrow,” she says softly. “Better yet, leave it for housekeeping.” I smile. I’m trying to talk down this erection so that I don’t fuck the lining out of your pussy.

“I won’t be long, I promise,” I tell her. She smiles and nods. Rising from the floor, she walks over to the bed. I watch as she takes the towel, bends over, and continues to dry her legs and feet.

Oh, goddess, please have mercy on me.

I let the water out of the tub, but leave the cleaning of it for housekeeping. After bringing the wine and strawberries to the nightstand for us to indulge before bedtime, I turn toward the fireplace to turn it on. As I pass her, she brushes her hand down my bare back. I freeze. The sensations send shockwaves and fire through my blood.

Butterfly…

I continue to the fireplace and turn it on. By the time I’ve arranged the chairs so that we can see the fire from the bed, and I’ve blown out all the candles except the few on our nightstands, she has removed the bath blankets from the bed and has gotten into bed and is lying on top of the covers—demure, sexy, and waiting for me. I slide into bed next to her, intent on spooning her, but she won’t turn around. Instead, she wraps her arm around me, one leg over my hip and pulls me close to her.

“This is a dangerous position, Butterfly,” I warn, sliding one arm underneath her body.

“Why?” she says, provocatively, licking my lips and rubbing my nose with hers. I immediately grab her ass and push her hard against my erection.

“This is why,” I groan, rubbing my dick between her legs. “I’m trying not to hurt you.”

“You won’t hurt me,” she whispers. “You’d never hurt me. I’m your wife.” She kisses me softly.

“God, I’ve already come so hard,” I say against her delicious, soft lips. “I can’t believe I’m still so hard for you.”

“I want you, too,” she breathes, shifting her hips so that the head of my dick slips into her core. I gasp at the warmth. She feels so good. “It’s been so long, Christian. My body craves yours, too.” She shifts again, and I slip out of her core and mourn the loss of the connection. I reach over the leg that’s wrapped around my hip and grab my dick. It’s not hard to direct the head back to her core and I gasp again as she gladly slides down on my erection with a gasp of her own. With one arm around her and one hand on top of her ass and the other underneath gently grasping the cheek, I push into her in the most delicious sidestroke. We moan into each other’s mouths as one meets the other thrust for thrust, not too fast, not too slow. It’s so good that it’s burning again, and she’s right… we’ve been apart way too long. Nothing, and I mean nothing… satisfies me like the inside of her sex. The warmth, the connection, the love, the satisfaction, the complete wholeness that I feel when we fuck, when we make love—nothing compares to that. As much as I love her hands, her mouth, and even our dry grinds—all the different ways that she can make me come—nothing compares to coming inside of her, to feeling her hot body grinding against me, smelling her skin as her arousal rises, feeling her juices release when I stroke into her just the right way, feeling her muscle flex and contract around me and finally tighten uncontrollably when she climaxes. Good God, it’s the most amazing thing in the world.

A few days before she had the twins, we watched Bicentennial Man. The robot, Andrew, had the most perfect description of making love that I almost immediately committed it to memory…

“You can lose yourself. Everything. All boundaries. All time. That two bodies can become so mixed up, that you don’t know who’s who or what’s what. And just when the sweet confusion is so intense you think you’re gonna die… you kind of do. Leaving you alone in your separate body, but the one you love is still there. That’s a miracle. You can go to heaven and come back alive. You can go back anytime you want with the one you love.”

That’s exactly what I feel when I’m inside my wife, exactly what I feel right now… so lost in the feeling that I hadn’t noticed that she’s taken the reigns and is now twisted somewhat, looking over her shoulder as if she can see us coupling behind her. The arm that was on top of her ass is now instinctively wrapped around her upper body, securing her in place. My other hand lies uselessly behind me and I have no idea how it got there… or why. Her arm is pressed on the bed behind her, holding her up and giving her leverage while her leg is hooked around my hip giving her the traction she needs to ride masterfully back and forth on the hardest erection I think I’ve ever had. Well, I don’t know if it’s the hardest… maybe it just feels that way because it’s been so fucking long since I’ve been inside of her, but it’s pretty goddamn hard.

She’s laser focused on my dick, sliding so hot, so sweet on my rod that I can’t even speak and I can only formulate one coherent thought…

Please, goddess… please don’t stop….


ANASTASIA

“I’m yours… I’m yours…”

He said it all night long, and I had him every way possible. I shamelessly took full advantage of his vulnerability and his never-waning erection, sexing him in every way my body knew how, pleasing him as much as his body could take.

“Please, don’t stop… please…”

I tasted him as I rode him, pleasuring him and paining him at the same time. I sexed him sideways—which was new and delicious and caused me to climax wildly. When I saw my man with his eyes closed and lost in uncontrolled arousal, I pumped that dick madly. He held me close to him and allowed me to control the stroke, murmuring praises and pleadings to me to keep the pleasure going…

“So good… it feels so good…”
“Kiss me please! I need you to kiss me… I’m coming!”
“You’re so hot…”
“Yes… oh, yes… right there…”
“Oh, God, you’re too much for me…”
“Do that… yes, do that… do that again…”
“Please… oh, God… please…”

A few times, I think he may have slipped into a kind of subspace a few times and I had to be careful not to abuse that power. I bit him and sucked him, choked him, held him down and fucked him, sucked his nipples and bruised and marked his skin while he was coming, listened to him cry out and fucked him through orgasm after orgasm to draw out the pleasure even though he would beg me to keep still because the feeling was too intense… but his dick was still hard—Dom Dick, I heard him call it once. It must be satiated, even if the Dominant is not in control.

My body may have been the vessel, but I was in control. All I could think was that my man woke me from sleep and told me that he still hungered for me—that I had left him unsatisfied. I know he meant no harm by it, and it did no harm, but it left me with one singular thought and purpose for the rest of the night.

Satiate him.

He had made me feel so good earlier in the evening and in the sunken tub that I could only hope to bring him a measure of the pleasure that he brought me, and I had no intention of stopping until he surrendered…

… Which he did at sunrise.

“Goddess… please… no more…”

He finally tapped out and begged for mercy around 6:30 in the morning.

He was panting and exhausted and when I tried to move, he gathered me in his arms like a warm blanket, trapping me and burying his face in my hair until I thought he couldn’t breathe. His strong arms locked me in place and he fell off to sleep in seconds. In one moment, I was wide awake looking out at the sunrise and wondering, “what the hell do I do now?” In the next moment, I have no idea when or how, it was like sleep reached down and grabbed me and I was a goner in seconds.

And again, we never got to the wine and strawberries.


A/N: Sorry about the premature posting earlier. Hopefully, those of you who read the pre-edited version could still get through it even with the mistakes. 

“Aidez moi”— “Help me”

“Patience, mon amour”—“Patience, my love”

Pictures of places, cars, fashion, etc., can be found at https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/becoming-dr-grey/

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.

Love and handcuffs  
Lynn X

 

Becoming Dr. Grey: Chapter 66—Still Releasing Steam

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 66—Still Releasing Steam

ANASTASIA

I ache in all the right places. There’s the most delicious aching throbbing in my lady parts the reminds me that my husband filled me to capacity last night for what seemed like hours. Several explosive orgasms that started with him slapping my asshole while his tongue mercilessly lapped at my clit. That was new, and I get shivers just thinking about it. I’d never felt anything like it!

He moans next to me, his hand wandering up to my full breasts. It’s like he can smell or feel my thoughts in his sleep. I stretch languidly, unintentionally pushing my swollen breasts into his hands and I actually purr.

“That kind of thing can get you in trouble, Mrs. Grey,” he says, sleepily.

“I don’t consider it trouble,” I coo, relishing the feel of his hand massaging my breast. His touch is firm and erotic, and although it shouldn’t have this effect… “You’re going to make my milk flow.” He raises sleepy, sexy eyes to me.

“Well, we can’t have that,” he says. He rises from the bed and walks over to my side. Effortlessly, he lifts me from the bed and carries me to the bathroom… and the shower.

*-*

An orgasm would have tired us both and we expressed a desire to go to the gym this morning. So, after relieving my heavy, swollen breasts with gentle strokes under flowing warm water, he pays delicious attention to cleaning and caressing my body. We’re both very tingly from last night’s escapes, having cum and sweat so hard that we stripped the bedding off the bed to leave for room service. I love my man’s body. He’s so chiseled and cut and beautiful. I take my time cleaning every muscle and sinew of his sculpted form, thinking to myself that now that the children are born, I’ll get my body fit again so that I can look good for him. Yes, it will of course be for me, but when I admire this body—this work of art straight from the hands of God—I take pride in knowing that it will be for him, too.

There’s a full-service gym within walking distance of the resort called the Sisters Athletic Club where guests can work out for free. I decide that it’s probably not a good idea to wear one of my flimsy workout short suits, so I didn’t even pack them. Instead, I wear some yoga pants and a cropped athletic top.

When we get to the gym, it’s filled with women. Although I’m not a paranoid wife, I’m certain that a hush falls over that goddamn place when my husband walks in. There’s a man here and there, but mostly, it’s women. I sigh and shake my head. Time to get this body sculpted.

“I’m going to go claim a locker and then I’ll be in the weight room,” I tell him. He nods.

“I’ll do the same and I’ll be at the stair climber.” I nod and we split up. I go to the locker room and put my outside clothes and duffel bag away. As I’m changing from boots to sneakers, three or four women enter cooing about the “hot piece of sex” on the stair climber. I pause for a moment, irritated at their mindless ogling and insensitive overt sexual comments about my husband.

“I bet he’s a real wildcat.”
“He’s fucking gorgeous.”
“You can tell his dick is big by the way it hangs in his shorts.”

I’m getting angrier and angrier at these women. Didn’t they see him walk in with someone? Instead of engaging these bitches in a conversation about how classless it is to talk about a man with his wife standing nearby—which I would normally do—I stand to my feet and slam my locker hard enough to shake the entire bank of lockers that it’s attached to. The locker room falls silent and can feel eyes boring holes into my back. Without making eye contact with these women, I conspicuously twist the wedding and engagement rings on my left hand. I want to tear into them. Instead, I pick up my towel and walk out of the now utterly silent locker room.

The weight room is fairly empty, maybe two or three guys in there, spread out on different machines. I begin with stretches in the mirror in the open floor part of the room. I’m beginning to wish that we hadn’t come to the gym after all. I just want to get back to the room and enjoy time with my husband. Everywhere we go, I have to deal with bitches in heat or some coven of fangirls vying for his attention. It’s getting to be exhausting. I’m going to have to develop a thicker skin because I can’t keep reacting this way.

It’s not his fault. Well, maybe to some degree, it is. He did focus his attention on becoming “walking sex,” and good God, did he succeed. Women lose their minds over him. Both of us nearly lost our lives because of it. I remember that submissive hopeful… what was her name? Greta, I think. She was ready to fuck him right there with the fresh fruit in the Marketplace if he let her. She didn’t even care about me—didn’t give me a second thought. None of them ever do. If they can attract his attention, what does a girlfriend mean to them?

Or a fiancée?

Or a wife?

I finish my warm-up exercises and just as I stand upright and look out to the area of the exercise machines, I see the hated trio—now dressed in street clothes—standing a few feet from the stair climbers gawking at my man. One of them is licking her lips hungrily, while another bites her finger. The third is clearly undressing him with her eyes. He’s plugged into his earbuds with his back to them, completely oblivious to their tactless gawking. Rage boils up in me and I close my eyes and turn away from them. Trying to control the fury rising in me, I see my saving grace hanging in the corner.

A heavy bag.

My mouth actually waters when I see the damn thing. It’s hanging there all alone, emitting an ethereal glow… okay, that part could just be me.

Hello, old friend…

It’s a 100-pound bag, attached to the floor and the ceiling. That means that I can wail on it like hell and it won’t come back and knock me down. I put in my earbuds and put my iPod on my favorite independent-woman-mad-girl mix, quickly procure a pair of sparring gloves, and commence to go to town on this thing.

The first song the kicks in is “Sisters Are Doin’ It for Themselves,” a great beat to match and the perfect words. As soon as I match my flow to the rhythm of the music, it’s like riding a bike. My muscles and movements flow into place like I’ve been doing this every day and I’m able to zone out everything and everybody and focus on the bag and my punches.

Oh, this feels great! I haven’t been able to just let loose in months! On anything! Yeah, my arms are a little flabby, but a few weeks of training will get those back in shape. My strikes are still fairly hard as I hear each punch reverberate off the walls of the fairly empty room. The sound is empowering! Take that! And that! And that and that! Oh, this is fantastic! I raise my foot to the heavy bag and give it a kick.

Off center and not hard enough.
I try again.
Still not right. Goddammit! Remember your training!

I step back and focus. Stepping forward, I extend my leg high and connect my calf with the heavy bag and snatch back quickly, executing a near-perfect front round kick.

Better. Again.

I focus and step into the kick again, a near flawless execution. Extending the other leg, I perform the full round kick where I complete the circle, step back from the opponent, and end up in the facing position again.

It’s all coming back to me.

By now, Destiny’s Child has pumped me through “Independent Woman” and is encouraging me with “Survivor” as I transition into back kicks and side kicks, my legs extending to the heavy bag and snapping back like a rubber bands. This song makes me think about Edward and the Green Valley gang… my mother and Stephen Morton… Elena Lincoln and every other person who has ever thought they would hold me back or bring me down—wished for my failure, but are now gagging at my success.

Whitney Houston hails me for being “Every Woman” and “Queen of the Night” while Katy Perry tells me to “Roar” and before I know it, I’ve thrown in slapping kicks, pushing front kicks, and alternating jabs and hooks until my workout becomes a seemingly choreographed series of blows intent on the annihilation of my opponent. My muscles begin that familiar breakdown and burn and my breathing regulates as I punish the heavy bag without mercy. Yes, in my mind’s eye, I visualize various people who have pissed me off, including the sisters Grimm out there gawking at my husband’s buns of steel. By the time, Janet Jacket declares my “Control,” the sweat of released tension gathers on and rolls off my back while breaths of frustration puff out of my chest with every blow, every kick…

My brutal ballet and workout are distracted by my sweaty husband leaning into view in front of the heavy bag. He’s clearly a safe distance in front of the bag even though it’s bolted to the floor and can’t attack him like the heavy bag at my apartment complex a couple of years ago. I dance around on my feet crossing my hands over my head several times as if I was doing jumping jacks. He’s got this questioning look on his face as if to say, “What in the world?” I pause my workout and remove my earbuds.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice a mix of caution and confusion.

“Yeah,” I answer breathlessly, still bouncing about so as not to crash from stopping too quickly. “That was great!” I pant. “I haven’t… done that in… a long time.”

“I see,” he replies. “You got a bit carried away.”

“Maybe just a bit,” I confess.

“You’ve got an audience,” he says. I don’t turn to see who’s watching. I’m sure his fan club is close by.

“I want to do a few reps of floor exercises and then I’ll be ready to go,” I tell him. He examines me.

“You’ve seen them, haven’t you?” he asks.

“Seen who?” I say, impassively. I might have gotten away with it if I had only coupled that Oscar winning question with a curious glance around the room. He twists his lips and raises his eyebrows at me.

“Don’t overdo it, okay?” he warns. “I’ll be over here with the weight machines.”

“Okay. I’ll be over there near the free weights,” I say, turning my back once again no doubt to his fan club. I have a purpose for being here and when my purpose is concluded, I’ll be going. I love Christian dearly and I know he loves this ass, but I’m the one that has to live with it. If I don’t shave at least an inch off of it, I’ll have to walk around disproportionately shaped for the rest of my life and have my clothes tailor-made… or risk every goddamn thing I wear looking like the Kardashian girl and that’s not something I want. That look has its place, but not every day.

Unfortunately for me, the free weights are surrounded by mirrors and I get a glimpse of Christian’s fan club behind me. Incredibly, they’re all standing there waiting to see what I’m going to do next—and they have company. At least four to five guys have joined them, all apparently captivated by my workout. I plug myself back into my earbuds and for the next several minutes, Queen Latifah, Mary J. Blige, Salt-n-Pepa and a few other old school hip-hop favorites lay soundtrack to my task. I laser focus my sights onto my own reflection and begin a grueling series of glut and ass exercises that I discovered before I left home.

I had never had cause to focus on my ass before now, so I had to do a little research on the best exercises to yield maximum results. Some of them I had never seen before, but I quickly learn that they will certainly cause a burn, like the single leg squat where I put one foot on a towel and push it straight out to the side of me while squatting on the other leg. I only did a few reps of 30 seconds per leg of that and my quads and glutes were killing me.

I ignore the pain and continue with toe taps, single-leg front raises, hip-lift progressions, squats with kick-backs, and for some reason at this particular moment, I start thinking about Christian’s prior subs. Why the fuck did that come to mind? The only logical reason I can come up with is that I’m watching my muscles flex in the mirror and thinking of the strenuous activities of the playroom—not the sex, just the strenuous activities—coupled with the fact that we hadn’t been here 30 seconds and he already acquired a fan club. The thought only makes me want to burn more calories.

My husband is an exceptional lover and a magnificent Dom. I haven’t even seen the extent of his abilities in the playroom—I know he’s been easy on me because of my inexperience as a submissive. So, I can’t even imagine the intensity of the connection his submissives had with him when he went full throttle with them. He’s never made me feel like I had to compete with them, but I’ve always wondered if he missed that life… the no-holds-barred aspect of it, that is.

I carefully observed the items that he chose for the playroom as he chose them. Three of those all-purpose platforms for easy transition when one holds every piece of equipment the damn thing has—and there are rings on the floor to bolt you down. A bed with stocks in it… and a queening seat! A massive frame with an intricate swinging apparatus. To call it a sex swing doesn’t quite cut it; there was way more than that going on with that thing! The 360-degree adjustable bondage apparatus. Oh! And items that I’m not allowed to see until they arrive!

Fucking hell!

“That’s enough.”

His soft, deep voice breaks my train of thought and pierces through the women singing in my ear when he pulls one of the earbuds out. I don’t know how I don’t see him come up behind me in the mirror. He dwarfs me by at least a foot! I’m shocked and panting as his hands gently clasp my sweating waist, making eye-contact with me in the mirror. He looks delicious in a gray sweat-drenched tank top and gym shorts, his hair curly and spiky, his muscles defined and shiny from his own workout.

He knows that something’s not quite right, but he does call me on it. He just extends his hands to mine and holds them there with the weights. Bending, he brings them slowly to my sides and lifts them again in a straight “T,” like I had them before. He repeats the process again… and again… seven more times. He’s helping me cool down. On the last lift, he takes the weights from my hands and puts them back on the rack. Returning to my outstretched arms, he gently pushes them up above my head by my biceps. Holding my hands there, he counts softly to ten and brings them back down.

He continues with a series of cool down exercises and stretches, bending his body to accommodate mine. When I’ve finally caught my breath and calmed a bit, he brings my arms around my body and wraps them around me in his arms, cradling his chin in my neck and examining my face in the mirror.

“Okay?” he says, softly. I nod.

“Okay,” I breathe. He kisses my bare shoulder.

“Let’s shower and go back.” I nod again.

“Okay.” He takes my hand and leads me from the weight room. It’s only now that I see that the Sisters Grimm have been joined by a couple of other women… and several men! Not everyone in the club, but quite a few people. I don’t afford any of them more than a fleeting glance before following Christian back towards the locker rooms.

cat2007_05_16After my shower, I slip into some jeans that I bought on my shopping trip last week, a T-shirt, a large pullover sweater and some Timberland boots. I use one of the blow dryers attached to the wall in the bathroom and dry my hair so that I don’t catch a death of cold. Then I tie my hair in a knot, no longer concerned about my “bald spot” as it is now covered with a full, thick coating of soft, brown hair—somewhat like cat’s fur.
I toss my wet gym clothes in a plastic bag and load everything into my duffel before going out to meet Christian.

He’s standing against the wall across from the ladies’ locker room door with his arms folded and his legs crossed at the ankles, gazing adoringly at me when I exit. He’s almost my twin in jeans and a cable-knit sweater the same color as mine. His hiking boots are brown while my Timberlands are black. His hair is blow-dried and neat, not like I’m accustomed to seeing it and I don’t particularly care for it, but he still looks like six feet two inches of sex on a goddamn stick. I can’t really be mad at the poor women who nearly swoon at his feet and forget themselves in his presence, even this scantily clad gym bunny who strolls in front of him, smiling, and saying something so low that only he can hear it.

“Excuse me, miss,” he says, his voice low and soft, never taking his eyes off mine, “but could you please step aside? You’re blocking my view of my wife.”

Well done, Mr. Grey!

She casts a glance over her shoulder and I’m positive she didn’t even know I was standing at the locker room door. She looks back at Christian, but still doesn’t step aside, so he sidesteps her and stalks over to me instead.

“Hello, Beautiful,” he says, softly.

“Hello, yourself,” I reply with a sweet smile, gazing into his gorgeous gray eyes. I resist the urge to climb him like a tree right now and feast on his lips, but gently put both of my hands in his hair and muss it—thoroughly, but seductively. He closes his eyes while I do it, and when he opens them, they are slate fire.

“There,” I breathe, satisfied with the outcome, “that’s much better.” He takes a deep breath through his nose and breathes out through his mouth.

“Mrs. Grey, that is so dangerous right now after watching you sweat in that room that way,” he warns. I lean into him.

“You can make me sweat even more,” I say before standing on my toes and closing my lips over his. The kiss is slow, but short, ending with a short tug of his bottom lip through my teeth. He moans quietly and puts one hand on my hip.

“Excuse me!”

Christian and I are both drawn to the irritated voice of the gym bunny that was previously unsuccessful in garnering his attention. Apparently, now she’s anxious to get into the locker room and wants us to move. I look up at my husband.

“Do you mind terribly if we just find something to eat and forego snowmobiling? Something quiet, intimate… I just want to be with you.” My voice is a bit pleading and people are starting to irritate me.

“Of course, Butterfly. Let’s see if we can scare up some brunch.” We turn around to the gym bunny. I glare at her and she glares right back.

“Well, I can’t get by you,” I point out as politely as I can, “and you can’t by get me. So, one of us is going to have to back up, and I have no intention of going back into the locker room.” There’s no malice in my voice, it’s just a statement of fact. She stares at me for a few seconds longer as neither of us moves.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Christian says, rudely stepping in front of her and scoping me up into his arms. I burst into a fit of giggles as I am literally swept off my feet and my boots accidentally hit her in her bunny boobs. She gasps, grasping the two mounds of silicon dramatically.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Christian says, feigning sincerity, and drawing attention to us. “My wife couldn’t get by, so I had to assist her. Are you okay? You weren’t hurt, were you?” By now, her hated glare is turned to Christian. I think she’s quite displeased that he came to my rescue. She brushes past us with a huff and charges angrily into the locker room.

“I think she’s angry,” I say with a shrug.

“I think she is,” Christian says, heading towards the door with me still in his arms.

“You can put me down, now, Christian. I can walk,” I say, my voice full of mirth.

“Where’s the fun in that?” he asks. He turns his back to the door to push it open and we realize that just about every eye in the gym is on us. Christian just stands there for a moment, then says, “You folks have a good day, now,” before backing out of the building with me in his arms.


CHRISTIAN

“Are you going to carry me all the way back to the cabin?” she asks, once we clear the main lodge.

“That’s the plan,” I reply.

“That’s a long way, baby. Put me down. I’ll walk.”

“Sssshh!” I scold. “It’s a couple hundred feet and you’re light as a feather.”

“And you’re a liar,” she laughs. I raise an eyebrow at her.

“Did you forget that I used to carry you when you were carrying two other people?”

“No, I didn’t forget, but that was like out the door and to the car, not across the parking lot, around the building, and down a country road.”

“Be quiet and enjoy the fresh air.”

She behaves and silences, lying genteelly on my shoulder. She’s changed a bit. I know she saw those women well before I did. I hadn’t even paid attention to them until my round on the stair climber was complete. I had zoned out everything and everybody trying to get in a good workout since I had neglected the task for the last few days. When I turned around and saw the Terrible Three staring at me—one of them obviously gawking at my ass—I knew I had to find Butterfly.

I found her alright, unleashing hell on that poor heavy bag! All I could think at the time was, “Damn! What the fuck did that bag do to her?” Since her back was to the room with the machines, I thought she may not have seen the spectacle. Then that very weak denial of hers let me know that she had in fact seen it or had some sort of run in with these ladies, and that poor heavy bag was paying the price. Normally, she’s more aggressive towards women who show a blatant disrespect for her position as my wife. Today, she just chose to annihilate the heavy bag.

When I decided to stay in the weight room with her so that I could keep an eye on her, I couldn’t even finish my workout. I started with my reps of bench presses, then moved on to chest strengthening. When I was about to go to dead lifts, I turned around to see her doing some of the most grueling fucking as exercises I’ve ever seen in my life! She was doing some type of hip lifts and thrusts that had her legs extended and pelvis suspended for long periods of time. Then she was doing some move where her foot slid out on the floor on a towel and she had to control the squat with her other leg. I can’t even imagine the quad strength it takes to do some shit like that!

A small, yet quiet crowd gathered, including the three women who appeared to have nothing better to do with their time. Don’t women understand how uncomfortable it makes you feel for them to just stand there endlessly gawking at you that way? Seriously, if I haven’t shown any interest in you, why would you continue to do that? Even in my dominance, I’ve never objectified a woman that way… unless she belonged to me; then she expected it.

Hello? Mr. Mogul? Have you forgotten the very unsuccessful stare campaign that almost landed you in jail at the community center when you first met this tender little morsel?

That was different. I was doing that deliberately to make her uncomfortable, not because she was attractive and I just wanted to gawk at her. Although she was attractive and I did want to gawk at her, that wasn’t why I was doing it. Maybe I’m paying for past sins… and whose fucking voice was that??

My inner musings were interrupted when a masculine voice cursed behind me, commenting on the “Coca Cola bottle” doing the workout in the mirror. Without turning around, I examined the crowd in the reflection in front of Butterfly and noticed that several men had abandoned their workouts to watch my wife. That shit didn’t make me happy at all. She’s in those hot ass yoga pants and a cropped athletic shirt that crisscrosses over her back and she’s dominating these floor exercises that look like they would have the average person crying.

Sweat was gleaming off her body as she executed flawless explosive lunges where she started in a standard lunge position with her arms bent and fist clenched in front of her. Then she leapt gracefully off the floor switching legs in midair at the same time before landing with the alternate leg in a deep lunge position. As she repeated this exercise several times, all I could think to myself is “There goes my ass.”

I, along with several other admirers and Nosey Nancies watched as she shifted to yet another exercise—dumbbell squats. She did about 10 reps of the dumbbell squats, then proceeded into straight arm lifts with her arms straight out like a “T.” That form was flawless and beautiful, but she was unnecessarily pushing herself with the promise of pain later if she didn’t stop. She was totally in the zone as there was no other reason why she wouldn’t have seen the reflection of a group of people gathered behind her in the mirror in front of her. The mere fact that I was in that group would have caused her to stop. I don’t know why she was pushing herself that way, but she had done enough for the day.

I stood behind her and halted her reps, telling her just that.

She was surprised to see me, but melted into my hands as I led her through cool-down exercises and sent her to the locker room before going to shower and change myself. I never got the chance to finish my own workout, so carrying her now poses no hardship. Plus, I needed to let the gawking fuckers in there know that the “Coca Cola bottle” was taken… and the bitches in heat know that I was.

“I asked you not to overdo it,” I scold as we approach the cabin.

“I didn’t,” she says. “I’m fine.” I twist my lips.

“Yeah, until your muscles start locking up,” I chide as I place her on the small porch of our cabin so that I can unlock the door. “What was that all about, baby?” She shrugs as she walks to the bedroom and tosses her duffel bag on the floor.

“I don’t know. I guess I was just anxious to get back into the swing of things.” I examine her as she drops onto the bed.

“That’s bullshit,” I tell her softly and her eyes pierce at me. “It is, and you know it. You’ve been doing your yoga, wearing you belly binding, and eating right. I understand that you want to tone other parts of your body, but that shape defies nature. You have the waistline of a teenager, six weeks after the natural delivery of twins. One of the reasons I went all Umgawa when we left the gym is because of some asshole’s comment about the insane workout that the ‘Coca Cola bottle’ was doing. Now tell me what’s going on.” She tries and fails to hold back a snicker.

Umgawa?” she repeats through her laughter.

“Yes, Umgawa!” I repeat shamelessly. “Me Tarzan, you incredibly hot wife. Now don’t change the subject. What’s going on?” She sighs and falls back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

“I really don’t know, Christian,” she says. “Everybody keeps telling me that my body looks great for me to have just had twins, but look at my butt and hips. My boobs are huge. All I keep seeing when I look in the mirror is Kim Kardashian and I hate the way she looks! Then we go to the gym and I have to keep from going nuclear in the locker room because these women come in and all they keep talking about is you being sex on a stick and the size of your dick and I’m standing right there! I wanted to take a bite out of them so badly…”

“Then, why didn’t you?” I ask.

“Because I can’t keep doing that!” she replies, frustrated. “I can’t keep popping off on every woman who shows you attention. Pretty soon, I’ll be popping off on every woman in America. You’re a beautiful man. You’re attractive, strong, rich, and you exude power. Women are going to be falling at your feet all the time, some more aggressively than others. Nobody can fight that all the time. You just have to let it be.”

“Okay, I can see your frustration, but the same thing was going on with you at the gym. Men were physically and verbally ogling you, and I had no problem marking my territory,” I say proudly.

“They just see a big ass they want to fuck,” she says dismissively. I frown.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I ask. “And I thought we established that you don’t look like Kim Kardashian. Her body doesn’t fit her body, and we’ve come to expect her to look that way. To me, she looks freakish and unattractive, and that is definitely not you.” She sighs.

“If you say so,” she says without lifting her head. I crawl on the bed, hovering over her and look into her eyes.

“I want you to talk to Ace about this,” I tell her. “I think you have a distorted negative body image.” Her mouth falls open.

“I do not!” she snaps.

“Yes, doctor, you do,” I retort. “No matter how many people confirm that you have a beautiful body, you still see yourself as grossly misshapen and I just don’t get it.” Her hands are already conveniently lying on the bed on either side of her head, so I take one in each of mine, planting soft, yearning, promising kisses on her lips. “No matter how many times I tell you that you’re beautiful, you don’t believe me,” I say against her mouth. “Why don’t you believe me?” I close my eyes and kiss the corner of her mouth, down her cheek to the soft spot behind her ear.

“Ha!” she gasps, when I lick that sweet spot. “Because… you’re biased…” she pants. “You thought I was… beautiful when… I weighed 500 pounds!”

“That was a different kind of beautiful,” I say, bringing my eyes back to hers. “That was the Mother-Earth-pregnancy-glow-swollen-with-my-babies-I-can’t-believe-I’m-so-goddamn-lucky beautiful.” I cross her lips with my tongue and kiss them gently, but hungrily again. “This is the fucking-hell-this-body-is-insanely-gorgeous-and-she’s-driving-me-out-of-my-fucking-mind beautiful.” I breathe into her neck and she shivers.

“Do you mean it, Christian?” she breathes. “You’re not just saying that to make me feel better? Please don’t lie to me…” I straighten my legs so that my body lies flat on her and push my growing, stiffening erection into her core. “Aah!” she gasps.

“You tell me,” I breathe into her ear, softly sucking her earlobe before gently sinking my teeth into the skin of her neck. “But baby, you have to know you’re beautiful for yourself, not just because other people tell you so, and not just because I can’t keep my hands off of you.” Sad blue eyes look up at mine before she sighs heavily.

“Okay,” she concedes. “I’ll talk to Ace.” I smile encouragingly at her.

“That’s my girl,” I say sweetly. “Now, about not being able to keep my hands off you…” I shift and push one of my legs between both of hers and push her sweater and tank top up over her stomach. Her waist and abdomen are a true act of God. I’ve never seen a woman shrink this quickly after having a baby. However, I have to admit that I don’t have much experience with women and babies. I place open-mouthed kisses on her stomach, dipping my tongue into her navel.

“Christian,” she moans, gently thrusting her hands into my hair. “We have to eat.”

“Okay,” I tell her, traveling across her stomach to her side and back to the other with my mouth, “but we’re not leaving this cabin. I want you to myself for the rest of our time here, which isn’t much.” I push her shirts further up her body and start to rain kisses and licks all over her torso. “I don’t want to share you with anyone else and I would venture to say that you feel the same way about me.” She pushes her body up into mine as I travel up her torso. “Last night was good—extremely good—but I plan to sex you senseless for the rest of the day.”

Pushing my hands further under her shirt, I get to her breasts and squeeze gently. She moans, a soft, sensual, quiet purr as I tease her nipples through the material of her bra. I feel wetness start to seep through the cloth and for some reason, it turns me on. My incredible, beautiful wife… literally the fountain of life for my two children, bursting with a spring of sweet nectar that keeps them alive. I push the sweater and T-shirt above her breasts and marvel at the plump mounds, moist and soft and full of “life.”

“Your breasts are leaking,” I say before placing open-mouthed licks and kisses on the tender flesh. She stiffens a bit.

“They… they are?” she says, somewhat alarmed, but completely aroused.

“Ssshh,” I soothe, still molding the meat with both hands while gently licking her skin, taking mouthfuls of tender tit into my mouth as I work my way to the covered, leaking nipple. Her bra is getting wetter and wetter and her nipple is straining against the fabric. I know it’ll be sensitive behind the constriction of the bra. I sink my teeth into the protrusion through the soft cotton, teasing it briefly with my tongue before drawing on it firmly. I feel the warmth of the milk releasing into her bra with the suction and I lick the protrusion again.

“Oh God, Christian,” she moans, pushing her breasts into my hands—and mouth—and tightening her fingers in my hair. Oh, yes, for the rest of the fucking day…

Just as I’m planning my next “attack,” her phone buzzes from the place where we left it charging this morning. We both freeze and look at it, no doubt both immediately thinking of the babies. I look up at her and she nods silently, confirming my thoughts, so I reach for her phone and hand it to her. Still lying on her back, she swipes the screen and touches it a few times… then grimaces.

“Oh, what the fuck?” she says in a low, frustrated voice. She makes to sit up, so I rise off her and pull her shirts down. The bra and T-shirt will hold the leaking milk for now.

“What is it?” I ask as she sits up and taps her screen a few times.

“I just got a text from Maxie. All it says is ‘No shit, you really need to see this,’ and there’s a link.” Oh, fuck. What fresh new hell has followed us to our cozy, cabin weekend getaway? A few seconds later, my wife gasps loudly and her hand flies to her gaping mouth. Still glaring at her phone, her eyes have easily expanded to the size of silver dollars, bigger than I’ve ever seen them before, and she twitches a bit.

“Butterfly, what’s wrong?” I ask, my voice panicked. She raises incredulous eyes to me as my phone starts to buzz in my pocket. Not now! “Baby, please, tell me what’s wrong!” I want to snatch the phone from her hand, but at this moment, I get the feeling that’s not the right thing to do. My phone buzzes again with a reminder of the text. I’m at first annoyed, then I think that maybe whatever is on Butterfly’s phone is on mine, too. I fish it out of my pocket and find and text from Al. No prelim, just a link. Butterfly just got a link from Maxie. That’s when it dawns on me…

Contingency.

I quickly click the link and almost imitate Butterfly’s expression when I see the headline of the article that flashes across the screen. I immediately search for the remote to the plasma television mounted above the fireplace. Relieved to see the smart TV controls on the remote, I turn it on and activate the “send to TV” function. On my phone, I activate the same function and beam the article to the television through Bluetooth.

“This?” I say to her. She turns to the television, drops her phone, and nods. I move back to the bed, not knowing how to take her reaction, but just wanting to be there for her right now. I put my arms around her and pull her into my embrace, her back to my front, as we both read the headline of the article on the screen in silence:

 Seattle Man Serving 28-Year Sentence on Kidnapping and Assault Charges Found Hanging in His Cell

293-franco-mugshot-lr-120409A mugshot of a familiar face appears next on the screen. I give the remote to Butterfly so that she can scroll through the article at her pace. We both continue to read in silence: 

At 2 a.m. Friday morning, prison officials in Walla Walla, WA, airlifted a long-term inmate to a trauma center after finding him hanging in his cell.

Officials identified the man as 29-year-old Edward David, a Seattle resident at the beginning of a 28-year sentence.

According to Ronald Holstein, superintendent of the Washington State Penitentiary, prison staff found David hanging in his cell from torn sheets at 1:46 a.m. during regular rounds on the cellblock. The staff cut the torn sheets and immediately began to administer CPR, said Holstein. Walla Walla Fire and Rescue took David to Walla Walla General Hospital. From there, Life Flight transported him to Sacred Heart in Spokane, per Holstein.

David’s condition deteriorated quickly after being admitted to Sacred Heart. While attempting to contact his family, hospital officials determined late Friday night that David’s brain activity was continuing to decrease and just past midnight on Saturday morning, he was declared brain dead. While attempts continued to get responses from his family, David defied life support efforts in an unprecedented event. Though he remained on life support, a few hours after there was no brain activity, David somehow passed away even while on life support. An investigation will ensue, though several staff members—both doctors and nurses—attest to having been present when David flatlined, though there is no explanation for the occurrence as the machines were all still operational.

At 8:19 a.m. Saturday morning, Edward David was pronounced dead, seemingly from lack of oxygen due to hanging. An autopsy will follow to corroborate cause of death.

After a very public trial, David was convicted of kidnapping and assaulting Anastasia Grey—Anastasia Steele at that time—wife of Seattle businessman and entrepreneur Christian Grey. She and Grey were dating at the time.

On July 23, 2012, in a joint operation by King County Sheriffs, the Seattle Police Department, and Grey’s security team, David was apprehended on Vashon Island where he and an accomplice, Robert Harris, had held Ms. Steele hostage for four days. Harris was a disgruntled ex-employee of Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc., of which Christian Grey is the owner and Chief Operating Officer. Ms. Steele was found handcuffed to a bed, badly beaten, undernourished, and dehydrated. She was airlifted to Seattle General Hospital to be treated for her injuries while David was taken into custody and booked into the King County Jail. Harris was killed in a shootout with police.

David was charged with and later convicted of several counts, including unlawful imprisonment, robbery, and first degree assault with a weapon. Once the consecutive sentences were tallied, he stood to serve time until 2040, with a possible hope of parole in 2029.

In a related civil trial against David, Mrs. Grey was awarded nearly $5 million, requiring the turnover of David’s remaining assets to cover the settlement. However, sources have indicated that although Mrs. Grey was briefly the owner of Edwise Hardware and Software, she has since turned the business over to federal authorities for investigation of possible criminal activity from prior to her obtaining the company.

The family has still not responded for comments.

We sit in silence for several minutes after I know we’ve both finished the article.

“Talk to me, Butterfly,” I say softly, looking for some hint as to what she’s feeling right now. She says nothing. Her arms still over mine around her waist, she squeezes them tighter around her, burrowing backwards into my torso, seemingly seeking much needed warmth. I gladly oblige, pulling her as close to me as two bodies can get and holding her safely against my chest. She sighs deeply, still looking at the screen displaying David’s mugshot and the article describing his death. My emotions are conflicted right now, but I just hold her and kiss her hair.

Almost an eternity later, she speaks.

“Do you think he killed himself?” she asks softly. Do I fucking care?

“It… looks that way,” I reply, trying to be comforting. She sighs again.

“My prediction came true,” she said. I frown, a bit horrified.

“You predicted that he was going to kill himself?” I ask. She shakes her head.

“No, I quoted Danielle D’Barbarac, a character from the movie Ever After…” She recites the quote to me and I nod.

“Well, you were right. He did think of you every day for the rest of his life,” I say, gently stroking her cheek. “Are you okay?” I ask. She did love him once, and now he’s dead. I’m not one to be so cold as to think that she may feel nothing at all about this. That’s probably the reason for her current introspection. She surprises me when she pulls away and sits up, turning around to face me.

“You’re going to think I’m horrible,” she begins, “but want champagne.”

I try not to react. Champagne?! How macabre!

“I’m not toasting his death,” she says. “Well, in a way, I am… but honestly, I want to celebrate. One of the worst chapters in my life is finally closed! For good! I’ll never have to look back on this again unless I choose to. He left this world with me having no unfinished business—not one unsaid word! This is the most closure that I’ve ever felt in my life so far. I didn’t feel this much closure when I came to grips with the virtual loss of my mother. And you can best believe that if Cody Whitmore dies, I’ll be throwing a goddamn party. So, yes, I want champagne.” Without pausing, I pick up my cell and dial a number.

“Yes, sir?” Chuck answers.

“I need two bottles of Bollinger, right now. Whatever you can find on short notice,” I reply.

“Yes, sir.” I end the call. She frowns.

“He even died on life support… that’s the strangest thing I’ve ever heard,” she says. “How does that happen? Physically, that should be impossible. If every bodily function breaks down and stops completely—like when you’re brain dead—the machines should still keep you alive. It’s not a theory; it’s a fact.” I shrug.

“I have no explanation, Butterfly,” I tell her,

“Somebody had to turn those machines off… although that doesn’t make sense either. By law, brain dead is legally and clinically dead. The hospital is not required to keep him alive. All that was needed was the declaration of brain death and the order to turn off the machines. But no one will admit to turning off the machines.”

“Maybe they don’t want any backlash from his family,” I say. She shakes her head.

“That article mentioned contacting his family three times—the first one indicated they were trying to contact them. The second and third said they were waiting for responses. They’re not going to respond. They didn’t help him when he got arrested; they didn’t come to his trial. The only person that responded was Camilla Johannson. She was still in Cedar Rapids and she heard about it, so they knew. Cedar Rapids knew and they didn’t come. He’s either going to be buried in a pauper’s grave or donated to science.” She shakes her head again. “I guess Beelzebub wanted his soul back and wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

I almost laugh at her analogy, but realize that it’s not really meant to be a joke. She gets on her knees and crawls over to me. She moves quickly straddling my lap and taking my face in her hands. She places a deep, heartfelt kiss on my lips and I sink into it immediately. All the fire that I was feeling before she got that text was reignited. I squeeze her hips as she deepens the kiss. Fuck, she turns me on so much!

“You’re good for me,” she says, when she breaks the kiss. “You’re so good for me.”

“You’re good for me, too,” I breathe, my lips begging for hers again, and she grants my request. I squeeze that voluptuous ass through those painted-on jeans and she grinds against me, keening as she kisses me and pulls my hair. Shit, her slightest touch makes me hard! But I must stop her, because there are things that we must do. I reluctantly pull my mouth back from hers and eye her swollen lips. It makes me growl audibly in my chest.

“It’s well into the afternoon, Mrs. Grey, and we haven’t eaten. We need sustenance for our prior exercise and for future… exertions,” I say suggestively. She nuzzles my nose.

“Yes, you’re right,” she says. “There’s a sunken Jacuzzi tub over there that’s begging to be put to use and I guess I don’t want to be all worn out when we do.”

“Indeed,” I say, giving her ass another squeeze. She smiles and looks down at her sweater.

“I may have to get used to showering three times a day when the soccer players aren’t around,” she says. “I’m starting to soak through my clothes.”

“I can always help relieve you,” I say, taking a bite of her breast through her sweater, eliciting a playful giggle from her.

“I sure you can… and will,” she says. “In the meantime, I’ll go clean up then… I think I just want to do nothing for a little while.”

“Except eat,” I remind her. She nods.

“Except eat,” she says. She kisses me on the lips, then crawls off my lap, grabs the duffel with the breast pump in it and goes into the restroom. The first thing I need to do is secure the food. I had planned for us to go to brunch and then snowmobiling for the afternoon, then spend a quiet evening in the cabin. Dinner will be elaborate, with more champagne and truffles and that lovely sunken hot tub, and so, so much more. But now, with the afternoon half gone, I have a quick change of plans. I know I sent Chuck on a search for Bollinger a few minutes ago, but now I have to impress upon him for lunch. I call him again.

“Yes, sir,” he answers on the first ring.

“I hate to make you run around like this…”

“No problem. The hotel caterer had Bollinger in the wine cellar, so I didn’t have to go far. Chance is on call at the cabin if you have emergencies. Did you need something else?”

“Yeah. We were going to go snowmobiling, but Butterfly decided against it. We’ve had an… interesting day, to say the least, and she really doesn’t want to be around people now. So, I’m going to need you to get us some lunch—something kind of light. You know what dinner’s going to look like.” He’s silent for a moment.

“Hmmm…” I can see the wheels turning. “Mexican maybe? There’s a Mexican joint right on site. The parking lot was full both days. Good smells coming from the place…” I nod.

“One second…” I pull the phone from my ear. “Butterfly, how do you feel about Mexican?”

“Ooo, yummy! Sounds good!” she calls back. “See if they have ceviche… and I’d love some nachos!” I smile to myself and get back on the phone.

“I think we have a winner,” I tell him. “Get a variety. Make sure you get some ceviche and nachos.”

“Sure thing… um, Christian, have you heard the news?” I frown.

“What news are you referring to?”

“About Edward David.” I purse my lips.

“How did you find out?”

“Jason has security on alert,” he says. “The way he died in the hospital is suspicious, to say the least.”

“Yeah, my next call is to Al. He sent me the link. I’ll probably be calling Alex next.”

“I’ll be at Rio. I’ll get some ice and flutes and bring the champagne after I get the food.”

“Okay.” I end the call and dial Al.

“Hey,” he answers.

“Give it to me straight. Do we think this was an accident? I’m not putting my wife on any kind of alert if this fucker just kicked the bucket.”

“How is she taking it?” I sigh.

“She was introspective for a moment. Then she asked for champagne.” Al scoffed a laugh.

“That’s Jewel,” he said.

“And you haven’t answered my question.”

“I don’t know, Chris,” he says. “It could be just that this fucker didn’t want to face the music. He was already facing damn near a lifetime in jail—no release until he’s 58; a possible hope at 47, and then this. You ever see that movie Shawshank Redemption?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Ending up like Brooks was his only hope… hang in the cell or hang in a halfway house thirty years later if he ever had a possibility of parole. Then here comes this little ball of light to tell him that any little bit of hope that he had left was now about to be snatched out from under him because of his countless violations of the RICO act. He was never going to see the outside of a prison again and he knew it. So, he could have just given up.”

I know Al. I’ve worked closely with him for almost as long as I’ve known my wife. I know a pregnant pause when I hear one. He taught me how to spot it.

“There’s a ‘but,’” I say. He sighs.

“To find him hanging in a cell isn’t too questionable, especially after that visit and the fact that he didn’t have a cellmate. But the way he finally kicked it? That shit doesn’t happen, man. Granted, he was already dead for all intent and purposes, and had he just stayed on life support until somebody unplugged him—on the record—then there wouldn’t have been any more question about it. But Chris, I personally know people who have been on life support for years because the family refuses to pull the plug. You just die? While the machines are still operational? I’m telling you that shit doesn’t happen a few hours after your brain activity stops. Somebody wanted to make sure that motherfucker didn’t wake up. He was already dead. Legally and physically, he was gone—he wasn’t coming back. That was it. The phantom flatline was overkill.”

“Should I tell Butterfly that? She’s having some questions, too, and I do not want to ruin our weekend.”

“I don’t see what good it would do,” Al says. “It won’t bring him back—not like any of us wants that. Far as I can tell, if somebody did him in, whoever it was did the world and the taxpayers of the great state of Washington a favor.”

“Yeah, but what if it was one of his dirty business associates? And what if they come looking for Butterfly?” He’s silent again.

“That’s a waiting game, Chris,” he says. “If that’s the case, the double-dicker was an easy target. Jewel, not so much, and they know that. They’re going to want to know what she knows before they target her. Focus on that, but don’t alarm her for no reason. Like I said, the fucker could have just done himself in and we’re all jumping the gun for no reason. I honestly think that’s the way to go, especially since the hospital is saying that they have witnesses that he just slipped away.” I nod.

“I’ll see what Alex thinks. Thanks for letting me know.”

“Kiss Jewel for me,” he says.

“Oh, I’ll be kissing her alright, but not for you.” He laughs.

“Yeah, scratch that,” he adds before we end the call.

“Will you be much longer?” I call into the bathroom.

“Just a few more minutes,” she calls back. Perfect.

“Okay.” I call Alex. “What’s your take on the David situation?” I ask when he answers the phone.

“Inside job,” he says immediately. “The hanging is clean. It doesn’t arouse suspicion, but the guards found him too soon. He was able to be physically resuscitated, but his brain was already corked. A professional would know that the job was over, but somebody panicked and sent in a cleanup to finish what was started. I don’t know how the dude ended up flatlining in front of a room full of people, but that shit had nothing to do with life support. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

“What should we do in the meantime?” I ask.

“Same thing we’ve been doing,” he says. “Let me assure you that it’s easy as hell to get to somebody in the Pen. You don’t even need special privileges for that. All you need is a little cash and an inside line. Hospitals are even easier. He had a guard at the door, but all you need there is a room number and a lab coat. These fuckers are sloppy. Whoever they are, we’ll spot ‘em a mile away if they try to come near you and they know it. They will try to find out if she knows something, though.”

“So, don’t panic,” I confirm.

“Don’t panic unless you see or hear something suspicious, then let me know, but just to be safe, we’re ramping up covert surveillance.”

“Good man. Thanks.” I end the call. Butterfly still hasn’t come out of the bathroom, so I strip out of my clothes and put on some sweatpants. I figure she’ll just want to veg out in front of the television when she gets out of the bathroom, so I disable the connection from my phone and scroll through the channels in an attempt to find something to watch. While I’m waiting for Butterfly to immerge, there’s a knock at the door. I don my robe and open the door for Chuck.

“You can just put it over there,” I tell him, gesturing to the desk against the wall. I take the ice bucket and with the two bottles of champagne and the flutes and put them on the nightstand while he empties the bags of food.

“The dining room sent real dishes,” he said. “I told them you were celebrating the birth of your twins and they were happy to oblige.”

“Thanks. I think Butterfly will appreciate not having to use plastic forks and eat from carryout containers.”

“Hi, Chuck.” Butterfly finally emerges from the bathroom in a terrycloth robe, her hair still wet. She jumps on the bed and picks up her phone.

“Hey, Ana,” he replies. “Well, I’ll leave you guys to your meal. Call me if you need me.” They share a wave and we nod at each other before he leaves and I lock the door behind him. When I turn back to Butterfly, she’s tapping on her phone, then places it on the bed while she begins to brush the tangles from her incredibly long hair. A phone is ringing and I realize that she’s on the speaker phone. I kneel behind her and take the brush from her hand just as her party answers.

“So, you’ve come up for air, have you?” Gail’s voice springs through the phone.

“That we have… and food!” Butterfly confirms. “How are my babies?”

“Being little angels as usual,” Gail confirms. “Minnie had a bit of trouble settling last night, but she did fine after a while.”

“And Luma? Are she and the girls okay?”

“Oh, they’re just fine. It’s something about little girls and babies. They just turn into balls of mush…”

She and Gail continue to talk about the twins while I gently comb the tangles out of her long, mahogany hair. Once I’m done, I braid it in one long braid down her back and fasten it with the ponytail holder that she conveniently had wrapped around the end of the brush. She mouths “thank you” to me as she continues her conversation with Gail. I pop the cork on one of the bottles of Bollinger while she finishes her call. I hand her a glass.

“Would you like to eat in bed or in the chairs with the ottomans in front of the television?” I ask. She ponders the idea.

“I think I’d like to eat in the chairs,” she says, taking a sip of the Bollinger. “That’s delicious.” I smile.

“Bollinger always is.” I gesture to the desk and the spread of food there—ceviche and loaded nachos, just as she requested; chicken and steak fajitas, pork enchiladas, carne asada tacos and fresh guacamole. We load our plates and take them over to the seats in front of the television. I start the fireplace and we begin to enjoy our meal and champagne. The room is now quite cozy and we watch as the snow starts to fall just outside the French doors. We sit in contented silence and watch the snow as we enjoy our lunch and champagne. When we’ve finished, I take our dishes back to the desk and refill our glasses, bringing the unopened bottle to sit on the table between our chairs. I take my wife’s hand a pull her from her seat. After sitting in my seat, I situate her comfortably on my lap.

“There, that’s much better,” I say, taking her lips with mine. “Any idea what you would like to watch?”

“A love story,” she says sweetly. I raise my eyebrows.

“That sounds promising,” I smile. “Any suggestions?”

Ever After,” she says. I gaze at her.

“I thought you said that was the movie you quoted to David,” I say.

“It was, but it’s still a love story.”

“Not from the sound of that quote,” I protest.

“Trust me, it is,” she says. “It’s the story of Cinderella.” I raise my eyebrows.

“Aaah,” I say in realization, “the girl gets her prince, the prince gets his love, and they live happily ever after… but who gets the quote?” She smiles.

“The stepmother.” I return her smile.

“Yes, let’s watch that.” I search the different on-demand options and finally find Ever After. Settling in with my girl on my lap, we watch as two storytellers sit a captive audience while the real Cinderella tells her tale…


A/N: “Umgawa” came from the old Tarzan movies, and besides that shrilling yell that he did, it was just a general call to action. Christian was using it to talk about his caveman/Neanderthal behavior when he carried her out of the gym.

The laws vary from state to state as to whether health care officials are required to maintain a brain-dead person on life support or not. The consensus is that it is not necessary for the reason that Ana stated. However, I couldn’t locate specific laws or guidelines for the State of Washington. If you know the answer, don’t shoot me. I took creative license here.

Pictures of places, cars, fashion, etc., can be found at  https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/becoming-dr-grey/

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.

Love and handcuffs  
Lynn X

Oh My God, I Had To Share!!!!

50-shadesLook what my husband got for me for my birthday!!!! Yes, that is my bed and those are cuffs. The black mask was something perfect that I found at Halloween. I screamed when I got home from work! I couldn’t believe it! Isn’t he the best??

Love you, Daddy!

 

Love and handcuffs! (real ones!)
Lynn X