https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/raising-grey/Hello, my lovelies.
Welcome to the fourth installment of the Butterfly Saga. I am in the process of re-editing Paging Dr. Steele in my spare time as I have changed some of the storylines as some of you know—like bringing people back to life and changing names. It’s nothing dramatic. You most likely won’t even notice the changes unless you read PDS a while back and then you see something later that doesn’t quite fit and you go, “Hey, didn’t she say…?”
So, if you notice inconsistencies, let me know, but know in advance that it was most likely a plot change. For example, I’ve decided that I want Ana to be a psychiatrist instead of a psychologist. So, starting from this chapter, she will refer to herself as such and will be referred to as such. She will now be an MD instead of a Psy.D, as a doctor of psychiatry is in fact a medical doctor who specializes in psychiatry, and I have mentioned several times that Ana has gone to medical school as well as finished a clinical internship. You should see the gradual transition in the first three stories as well.
In Book IV of the Butterfly Saga/Dr. Steele tetralogy (or quadrilogy or quartet, take your pick), Christian and Ana deal with the struggles of family life on every level—immediate and extended. They will yet take on villains, old and new, foreign and domestic (so to speak), as well as make a few more mistakes, big and small, but they will continue to learn and to love. So, as you read the following chapters, you will often ask yourself… “Which Grey is being ‘raised?’”
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 1—Bursting Into A New Life
One event can change the entire course of your life.
One tiny thing can set into motion the proceedings that alter history and the future forever.
What was that one event for me? People spend their entire lives pondering that question. It comes in many forms…
What did I do to deserve this?
What did I do to deserve you?
Does God hate me?
How did I get so lucky?
Why is this happening to me?
Was I a saint in a previous life?
Why are the fates so cruel?
Some never get the answer. Do you know why? Because as far back as you can trace an event and you can mark it as a catalyst for the next series of occurrences that shifted your world on its axis, you can go even further and question the events that led to that occurrence. You may never have a cause and effect, because if you think about you, your cause may actually be an effect. It’s maddening if you think about it too long because the truth is that you can follow a line of events to their conclusion, but if you’re diligent enough, you could quite possibly trace the beginning of one single event to the beginning of life.
God, we’d never have any answers to anything…
Why did you kill that man?
Because I was born.
Why did you break my heart?
Because Eve bit the apple.
Why are we fighting?
Because Rome fell.
As ridiculous as it may sound, those pairings are all cause and effect somewhere in the world if you follow the causes back far enough through the six degrees of separation.
My current state of affairs—all of them—have me pondering that question in my life. When I look at where I’ve come from and where I am now, it’s hard to conceive my life ending up where it has.
I’m surrounded by family and friends and that group is consistently growing.
I’m filthy fucking rich and married to a Greek God with an endless money-pot, a dick that rivals John Holmes, and wooing skills exponentially more impeccable than Casanova himself.
I’ve never met my father and I don’t speak to my mother, but the people who aren’t biologically related to me have shown me more love than the one person I know who has my blood running through her veins.
I’ve had three extremely violent acts happen to me before the age of thirty when most people barely ever have one.
I’m a well-known face in the community and the state for several reasons.
I’m fit, beautiful, and only moderately insane, considering.
There are two gorgeous bundles of life gracing this earth that were nurtured in and brought forth by my body.
But, what one thing was the precipitator that caused or changed everything, thereby creating today’s version of Anastasia Steele-Grey? The day that I first laid eyes on Christian Grey changed my life monumentally, but was meeting him that one event—that catalyst—that sent my world into a tailspin?
If I wasn’t the facilitator of those group therapy sessions, I never would have met him.
If I hadn’t become a shrink, I wouldn’t have facilitated those group therapy sessions.
If I hadn’t been attacked, I never would have become a shrink.
If we hadn’t moved to Nevada, I never would have been attacked.
If my mom had never divorced my step-dad, we never would have moved to Nevada.
If my mom wasn’t such a raging bitch, she never would have divorced my step-dad.
Yeah, that’s where I drop the ball. So, by that reasoning—flawed or not—if my mom wasn’t such a raging bitch, I never would have met Christian.
Or how about this one…
If Christian had never been assigned to group therapy, I never would have met him.
If Christian has never belted that guy in the street, he never would have been assigned to group therapy.
If the drunk driver had not rear-ended him, then recognized him, Christian never would have belted that guy in the street.
If Christian were not a multi-billionaire-entrepreneur in the Seattle area, the drunk driver would never have recognized him.
If Christian had never started GEH, he would not be a multi-billionaire-entrepreneur.
If Pedo-Bitch hadn’t lent him the start-up funds for his business, Christian may have never started GEH.
If Pedo-Bitch hadn’t gotten her claws into him at fifteen, she wouldn’t have been inclined to lend him the start-up funds for his business.
If Grace hadn’t connected Christian with Pedo-Bitch in the first place—good intentions aside, Pedo-Bitch wouldn’t have gotten her claws into him at fifteen.
If Christian wasn’t such an angry and damaged teenager, Grace wouldn’t have connected him with Pedo-Bitch.
If Christian hadn’t been abused and neglected as a toddler, he wouldn’t have been such an angry and damaged teenager.
Now, depending on who’s telling the story, any one of those factors could be the actual catalyst:
From the beginning:
If Christian hadn’t been abused and neglected as a toddler, I never would have met him.
Somewhere in the middle:
If Pedo-Bitch hadn’t gotten her claws into him at fifteen, I never would have met him.
Near the end:
If Christian were not a multi-billionaire-entrepreneur in the Seattle area, I never would have met him.
It makes you wonder, how do attorneys argue cases when cause and effect can go all the way back to Creation—or the big bang, depending on your belief?
Yes, I’m having a big ole giant why moment at present, because there are too many goddamned “whys” in my life right now. While I’m madly in love with my husband, blissfully content as the mother of my two beautiful children, and feel like I’m the luckiest girl in the world with all the friends and family surrounding me, some fucker somewhere has accused me sexual misconduct in my practice and I don’t even get to know who the fuck did it. I know that Christian, with all of his connections, will find out who the culprit is, but by the time he does, Dr. Anastasia Rose Steele-Grey, MD could be a thing of the past.
Not only that, for reasons that we simply cannot fathom, Helping Hands’ final accreditation is being held up by the licensing board. We’ve done everything that we were supposed to do—filed every form, talked to every person, met every code—and this thing has been locked for months now when we were certain that we were a shoe-in back in January. I thought that my misfortune may have had something to do with it, but we just found out about the accusations of sexual misconduct. The accreditation has been bogged down for months, so one definitely has nothing to do with the other.
Also, on my list of things to worry about is my dear friend, Valerie. By the grace of God, she has made it through her last round of radiation, but nursing her back to health is a real task. The treatments have just wreaked havoc on her body and for a full week and a half after the conclusion of the treatments, she never got out of bed, slept all the time and had to be “guilt-fed” on more than one occasion. Elliot has been the ideal husband, staying by her side and caring for her, nursing her and loving her, even with around-the-clock professional caregivers on hand. I help out where I can, sitting with her and talking to her when she’s awake, but Elliot is like a machine, and sometimes, I have to focus on taking care of him since he won’t take care of himself until Val is okay.
And now, we have Fashiongate. Yeah, let’s not forget that one. I managed to do a couple of radio spots before the bottom started falling out from under us. Things needed to be shaken up a bit with donations somewhat at a standstill and the accreditation in the same predicament. Christian had already put the Faces of Abuse PSA back into rotation, so the timing was perfect. I used the spots to talk peripherally about how our family was doing, but more about Helping Hands and our current plight. Things went well until…
One Friday after I had appeared on a radio show the previous day, I had come down to the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee and a quick breakfast before going into Helping Hands, only to find a somewhat displeased Christian sitting at the dining table. When I inquired about his mood, he showed me a picture of me leaving KIRO-FM the day before. I was scanning the picture waiting to see what I was missing when he made a comment about my dress. I had gravitated towards white in the spring and late summer, and most of my new pieces were all white. That day’s ensemble was a white sleeveless pencil dress with a mock turtleneck and a peek-a-boo cut in the chest—below the knee, completely respectable—and a pair of white peep-toe Louboutins.
When I still couldn’t see the problem, he made a comment about showing off my after-baby body. At first, I protested, and then I immediately felt a little self-conscious and disappointed, so I made a hasty getaway to the Center. As the day progressed, I got more and more pissed. I’d been wearing wiggle dresses since the day he met me, and now it’s a problem? I immediately had flashbacks of the Fundraiser Fiasco and how he had a nuclear meltdown which turned into weeks of radio silence.
But this was nothing like the Fundraiser Fiasco.
I was deliberately looking for attention during that display. I wanted to feel desirable around those men, even though I was pregnant, and I wanted to possibly finagle a little more money from their tight fists for Helping Hands. I can completely understand why Christian was pissed that time, even if I didn’t like how he handled the situation, but this is different. This is just me dressing up nice because I want to look good—something I’ve done ever since I discovered peep-toe platform stilettos, which was long before I met Christian Grey!
With this goddamned hearing looming over me, the last thing I want to do is fight with this man about my wardrobe, but I’m sure as hell not going convert to wearing burkas because he doesn’t want anyone else in the world to see my body. So, being the ever so wise psychiatrist that I am, I chose not to talk this out with my husband so that we could understand each other’s feelings. Instead, I have chosen to wear whatever the hell I want whenever the hell I want as long as I didn’t feel that the clothing was flashy, tacky, or inappropriate.
Mr. Grey has noticed.
Oh, did I fail to mention that my baby brother had his first birthday that week and we had to go to his party on Saturday? Yeah, that Saturday started Operation Whitewash, also known as Fashiongate. I wore the cutest two-piece casual white pants set with slightly short legs and a tank crop top. It was adorable and fit just right in all the right places. Coupled with a pair of perfect strappy sandals, I stole the show without even trying.
“Ana, that suit is adorable.”
“OMG, where did you find that?”
“I would kill to have that body a few months after delivering twins.”
“My God, what did you do to get those six pack abs?”
“I’m glad my girlfriend had to work today. I think she’d leave me for you.”
I thanked everyone for their appreciation as it came, but couldn’t help but notice Mr. Grey stewing a bit in the corner. The stewing and bickering came to a momentary halt when we got a call from Carrick that Pops had to be rushed to the hospital due to a significant drop in his blood pressure.
Yes, another catastrophe in the midst of all the rest.
We took the twins back to Grey Crossing and went straight to the hospital to see about Pops. The news was not good. They’re doing all they can for him, but the prognosis is… he needs a kidney. So, there’s just one more thing to throw into the pot of all that’s going wrong right now. A few articles of clothing seem very trivial in comparison.
Apparently, Mr. Grey and his pouting didn’t seem to think so.
As a result, the rest of the week found me in beautiful white dresses and suits. Some were more provocative than others, but still, nothing inappropriate or flashy.
A knee length off-the-shoulder fitted dress with and small knee-split and long flare sleeves;
A white pants suit with short legs, a white bustier underneath, and a pair of sky-high platform stilettos;
But the piece de resistance had to be the following Thursday’s outfit—a perfect replica of Sharon Stone’s Basic Instinct “White Heat” dress complete with the matching coat and strappy sandals. When I go to the kitchen that day to get my coffee, his mouth falls open. I can only imagine that he’s wondering if I’m wearing panties underneath. He comes to the breakfast bar and stands right next to me while I drink my coffee and look at my iPad.
“Okay, Anastasia, you can stop this now.” My brow furrows and I turn to him.
“Stop what?” I ask.
“The sexy outfits. You’re a beautiful woman. You’ve made your point.” I scoff at him and shake my head. I’m amazed that he could give me a compliment, then deflate it all in the same sentence.
“This may come as a surprise to you, Christian,” I declare, “but I’m not trying to make a point.” I leave my unfinished coffee at the breakfast bar and walk out, going to start my day.
I guess he felt like he was punishing me by not speaking to me that night and not coming to bed. Part of me wanted to feel hurt about it, but the other part of me that truly felt like I could wear anything I wanted as long as I didn’t look like a hooker quickly squashed the hurt. The next day, a photography crew comes to Helping Hands to take some promotional pictures for a charity newsletter. So, I wear and white pencil skirt with a folded split in the front and a simple white button-down blouse with sheer sleeves, nude stockings with white stilettos any my hair down over my shoulders.
Grace loved it. She actually went in the same direction with a black pencil skirt and burgundy blouse with black strappy sandals, and we hadn’t even compared notes. She said it made us look young and flirty, but still businesslike without looking trashy. This was always the look I went for—with my wiggle skirts and Lindy bop dresses and skater dresses, that’s the exact look I was going for. Always fashion forward—cute and yeah, maybe a bit sexy, without being trashy. This is who I was when he met me; when I was wearing knockoff shoes instead of Louboutins, but they were platform stilettos nonetheless; when I was wearing Bodycon and bandage dresses… What the hell is his problem, now?
The house is quiet when I get home and I make it a point to call the hospital and check on Pops before I go upstairs to check on Elliot and Val and of course, my two little angels. I didn’t want to be distracted, so I didn’t take them to work with me today. Everyone is fast asleep, the adults included. It must have been a particularly rough day for Mr. and Mrs. Grey as it’s not even 6PM yet. I go down to the kitchen to get a snack before dinner, then I plan to stay in my office for a while, going over my schedule and the fucked-up shit going on in my professional life. I take a large drink of my cranberry spritzer before I allow my head to fall forward, stretching my neck and trying to rid myself of some of the stress and pinned-up emotions I’m feeling.
“So, is this how it’s going to be now?”
My hair has fallen over my shoulders, past my breasts and down to my waist, covering my face, but I don’t need to see him to know who’s talking to me. I sigh heavily.
“What do you mean?” I ask, exhausted.
“You’re avoiding me,” he says. I raise my head and turn to him.
“I am not,” I reply, more than a bit perturbed. “I just don’t think it’s fair to suddenly be denigrated for doing something I’ve always done. I’m not doing anything differently than when you met me.”
“You weren’t my wife then,” he inserts.
“What does that mean?” I ask, raising my head and gesturing wildly. “Yes, I’m a wife and a mother. Does that mean that I’m supposed to walk around wearing moo-moos and mom jeans now?” His eyes narrow as he glares at me. “Tell me,” I demand. “Tell me, what’s wrong with what I’m wearing right now because nothing I’ve been wearing is any different than this.”
“It’s too sexy,” he says, flatly.
“And that’s too general,” I retort. “I’m a sexy woman, so when I wear clothes, they’re going to be sexy. You said it yourself. Try again, Mr. Grey.” His face becomes impassive as he walks closer to me.
“Everything you wear fits you like a glove,” he admits finally. “Everything shows your ass and your tits—your shape. Everything!”
“Basically, the same way that I dressed when we met, before I married you, after I married you, and before I got pregnant. So, now we’re back to mom jeans and moo-moos,” I say folding my arms. He’s silently examining me for quite some time. “Christian, you leave this house every day in tailor-made suits and Italian leather shoes looking like power dipped in confidence and wrapped up in sex. The day I met you, that’s how you looked and two years later, nothing has changed. I’ve never given you a hard time about that. Even when women have overtly disrespected me, ogling you and coming on to you in my presence, I’ve never given you a hard time about that. Yet, suddenly, there’s something wrong with what I’ve been doing for the past two years, except for maybe six of the nine months I carried our children. Tell me, what. Is. The problem?”
I stand there expecting and some unknown emotion passes over his face before he moves to close the space between us… but he doesn’t touch me. He just looks down at the periodical that he has in his hand.
“Well,” he says, “at least your public appreciates it.” What the fuck? Without another word, he drops the paper in front of me on the breakfast bar and proceeds to walk around me. I look down at the headline staring back up at me from the pages of some gossip rag.
Ana’s Shining Like the Stars, But Where’s Chris?
“A tabloid?” I say to his retreating back. “A fucking tabloid?” He doesn’t stop. He just continues through the family room and, I would think, down to his study. I look at the tabloid and the two-page spread shows me in all my white glory, every outfit from the pencil dress that started this mess to yesterday’s “White Heat.” Somebody’s been pretty damn busy. Nonetheless, all of the captions on all the pictures describe how pretty and professional I look, spouting accolades about how I toned up after the twins were born and how angelic I look in my white garb—and this from a tabloid! The only dark spot is the speculation of why I’m suddenly wearing all white all the time, and where is my billionaire white knight while I’m strutting the streets in perfection.
“I still don’t see the damn problem,” I say to no one, leaving the gossip rag on the counter and going down to my own office. When I look through the aquarium that adjoins our offices, he’s not in his study.
“Great. Now he’s going to walk around moping,” I grumble. I can’t believe he’s acting like such a child. I’m mean, seriously, this is really unbelievable. I sit at my desk and put my glasses on, open my laptop, and start with the task of sorting out my life for the next few weeks.
I don’t how much time has passed, but it’s dark outside when he enters my office. I’ve been so engrossed in my work that I’ve missed dinner and completely lost track of time. I remove my glasses and rub my eyes, never making eye contact with him.
He moves to stand behind my chair and runs his hand over my shoulder, then down my chest, cupping my breast. Fuck! I slap his hand away from me. It’s not that easy, Grey. He slides the other hand down the other breast, gripping it firmly and causing one of my buttons to inadvertently pop open. When I slap that hand away, he quickly attacks both breasts with both hands, coming up from beneath and pinning me to the chair, cupping them while massaging my nipples with his fingertips. I look down and all I can see are his hands and forearms from behind the chair, owning my tits. I can’t stop my nipples from hardening under his touch—fucking traitors—and that doesn’t get past him. In seconds, he’s concentrating on the erotic little pebbles, but I push his hands away from me again, take a deep breath, and go back to my laptop.
Not to be outdone, Mr. Grey—already on his knees—swings my chair around quickly and effortlessly to face him. I gasp, taken aback by the swift movement, but I’m more caught off guard by the hunger in his eyes when I look at him. I swallow hard and screw up my resolve.
“No, Christian,” I say, petulantly. “You’re not going to just walk in here and sex me like everything is okay.” He rubs his hands under my skirt on the outside of my thighs.
“Are you sure about that, Anastasia?” he says, his voice thick, deep and sure—his confidence and cockiness traveling right to my core. “Mmm, stockings… no wonder I can smell you.” I figure out too late that he’s skipping foreplay and going right for the money—right for my crotch. I try to close my legs, but his hand is already there, massaging me outside of my panties.
“Open them,” he says in a firm, sing-songy voice.
“No!” I hiss, determined not to make this easy for him.
“Open,” he says again, pronouncing each syllable in the most delicious way that almost makes my knees part on their own.
“No!” I reinforce, holding firmly on to the armrests for support. He shakes his head and “tsk’s” at me. Placing his knee on the floor between my feet, he wedges his hip between my knees and effortlessly separates my legs.
“O-pen,” he says victoriously, as his hand massages my lips and clit roughly through my lace panties. I’m panting… angry… horny… burning against his hand as it rubs my pleasure center deep and hard to a reluctant burn, the fingers of his other hand digging into my hip and holding me still.
“You want this,” he hisses, his hand and fingers causing a vicious fury as he closes the space between us.
“No!” I say through my teeth, determined not to give in although I am quickly losing the battle. He releases my hip and grabs the nape of my head roughly, taking a handful of hair in his fist and snatching my head back, snatching away my air with it. I gasp as his tongue starts at the valley of my breasts and quickly, but skillfully moves up my chest, my neck, my chin, and deliciously across my mouth, causing me to involuntarily part my lips.
“Liar!” he whispers roughly before thrusting his tongue into my mouth and kissing me so powerfully and passionately that whatever fight I had left is broken and oozing into my panties now. I’m still holding on to the armrests, but more so that I won’t float away than anything else. Once he has explored every crevice of my mouth, he rips his lips from mine and torments my clit some more with the sopping lace. As only Christian Grey can, he grasps both hips with both hands and quickly drags them to the edge of the seat before I have an opportunity to protest. In moments, he has dived between my legs and his lips and tongue are tantalizing me through the soaked crotch of my lace panties.
Fuck! It feels so good!
I’m moaning uncontrollably as he holds my thighs down, his lips and tongue and the lace causing a burn that I’ve never felt before. Shit, this is hot! It’s good and… painful and… fuck, I want to come but… shit!
I release the armrest and thrust both hands into his hair, holding my head back. He moans into my panties and I feel the heat of his breath against my clit. Fuuuuuuck! I want to grind, but he’s holding me down, and now, he pushes my legs further apart, the burn going deeper, the pain more intense, and my skirt moving higher. I groan because I feel my release coming and just when it’s about to hit, he stops.
No! No no no no no!
I want to fucking hit him!
He blows on my clit to calm the burn and kisses the inside of my thighs. Fucking asshole. After a few moments, I hear him inhale deeply—smelling me—and groan.
“Well, these are pretty goddamn useless, aren’t they?” he declares in a low sexy voice, and my panties are snatched from my core. I look down and see them hanging harmlessly from one stiletto before he dives in again, this time on my naked pussy.
“Fuck!” I call out as his hot mouth devours my core. It feels so good that I almost want to cry. He has my thighs over his shoulders this time, my ass lifted off the chair so that he can feast more freely—and feast he does! He pushes my skirt up… up… up until I have an unobstructed view of him indulging in my sex. I watch for several moments—his gray eyes never leaving mine, his copper hair bobbing and rolling as his nose and part of his face disappears and reappears to allow each part of his tongue maximum enjoyment of flavor, manipulation, and penetration. He is soooooooooo good! I play with my breasts roughly outside my shirt and the buttons begin to give way. I lick my lip and reach into my open shirt under my bra. I tweak my breasts and just as I feel that burn creeping up on me again, he stops again.
And I want to fucking hit him again…
But this time, he quickly frees his throbbing cock from his pants and boxer briefs. With no warning, he thrusts deep into me.
“Motherfuck!” I scream, grabbing roughly on to his shoulders.
“You want me!” he says through clenched teeth, rolling his hips into me. I nod feverishly.
“Yes!” I declare emphatically.
“Say it!” he growls pounding hard into me once and I cry out again.
“I want you!” I cry, tortured, wanting to come, my body begging him to go harder, faster, deeper, don’t stop, please…
“What do you want?” he growls, grabbing the back of the chair and using it to steady himself so that my pussy can’t escape the relentless, delicious pounding of his fat, angry dick.
“Oh! Oh God! I want you to fuck me!” I beg, the burn rising. He rolls his hips and pounds deeper, leaning in to me so that our bodies are close, but that dick is still ruling me.
“Say it again!” he says, right to my face.
“I want you to fuck me!” I confess again, his dick tormenting me deliciously.
“Say it again!” he grunts in my ear.
“I want you to fuck me!” I say again.
“How?” he growls, drilling into me. “How do you want me to fuck you? Tell me!”
“Deep!” I beseech him. “Deeper, baby. Harder! Fuck me harder!” He hooks my legs under the knees so that I’m wide open and plunges into me to the hilt. I scream, feeling every inch of him hit every wall of me, causing me to feel fucking dizzy.
“Fuck you like that, baby?” he growls huskily.
“Yes! Yes! Just like that…” We are primal and I’m just aching for him to own me, to fuck me until I can’t see straight, until I completely forget why I was even angry. I fall back in the chair and hold on to the armrests again, using them for support so that I can push against his pulsing, pounding dick.
“Fuck! Baby!” he growls and clasps his hands over mine, locking me down, restraining me and pounding that poor pussy into total delectable submission.
“Two babies!” he growls. “Two babies and you are still. So. Fucking. Tight!” He thrusts into me with every word and I fight not to succumb to the pleasure. It feels so good and I don’t want it to end yet. My God, we’re like animals, grunting and making these noises. He reaches around me and grabs my ass. Holding me solidly, he fucks me relentlessly and I can only let him. My panties are still hanging from my stiletto and I fight to shimmy out of my open shirt, but now I want him out of his. I can’t get the buttons open fast enough so I start tearing at the damn thing. I don’t know where this strength comes from, but the entire time, it spurns him to fuck me harder and faster, so I just keep ripping.
“Fuck me, Baby,” I groan. “Fuck me!”
He groans and lifts me off the chair by my ass. Still holding me in place and showing incredible strength, he bends his knees and fucks me hard and deep standing in the middle of the room.
“Yes, Baby,” I breathe. “Own this pussy!”
Who the fuck is this talking? I don’t know, but I like her. And Christian loves her!
“Goddammit, Ana!” he growls, thrusting harder and faster. If he stops now, I swear to God, I’m going to kill him!
He only has to say it once. I find a soft patch of sweaty skin between his neck and shoulders and sink my teeth in. He cries out like a howling dog, holds me closer to him and moves like the master that he is.
I’m a goner.
“Don’t let go! Don’t let go!” he begs as he maintains that stroke that promises to have me screaming to the heavens in mere moments. I won’t… I won’t let go. I clamp those teeth and suck, concentrating on this pulsing pussy and this throbbing dick inside of it.
“Yes… yes, baby…j-just like that…” He’s fighting to keep control, but he’s keeping it. In and out and in and out and in and out he pumps and I’m clinging to him like a vise, my legs suspended in one of the most trying endurance exercises I’ve ever done, but my pussy burning and pulsing to a degree that I’ve never felt before
I’m being fucked—deep and well. Good God, am I being fucked!
It starts in my anus. It’s almost like I can see it, and because he’s holding me open, I can’t stop it. Fuck, is he going to stop? This is going to be astronomical.
“Shit. Yeah, Baby. Fuck, feel it, Baby.” He knows it’s coming. Dear God, don’t let him stop. My legs are killing me, but the pain adds to the pleasure. He doesn’t change that stroke—in and out and in and out and in and out… push and rock and push and rock and push and rock…
“Look at me.”
I release the bite on his shoulder.
“Sssss, ah fuck!” He almost loses his stroke. He throws his head back in a moment of uncontrolled passion, and when his gray gaze meets my royal blue, he’s primal again. He doesn’t blink. He stares at me, pushing into me without faltering or stumbling, grinding perfectly into me until I’m panting, until I can see us in my mind’s eye fitting perfectly together, him gliding in and out of me; me wrapping perfectly around his angry, pink, veiny, pulsing dick as it disappears inside of me and reappears again, wet and shiny with the evidence of our arousal.
He teases me with his lips, like he’s going to kiss me but he doesn’t. It makes me hotter and he knows it does. He does it again, making me boil before he goes for the finale. He slides his hands further under my ass, cheeks and thighs, pulling me further apart and lifting me higher so that when he strokes, not only am I wider, but the stroke is longer and it goes deeper.
He treats me to a few luscious, wet, sensual kisses because he knows that’s all it will take. When the moment comes, he’s looking in my eyes again, his hips rising to meet mine as he masterfully drops mine to meet his. I feel him pulsing. I feel his balls tightening. I feel him growing. Fuck, he’s hitting me everywhere!
“Come. Give it to me. Come on…” he growls at me, only breaths away from my mouth, glaring at me, my orgasm reflected in his eyes. “Come on, baby. Come, you sexy ass bitch, come!” With those words, I explode helplessly around him, pulsing relentlessly like I have no control over my own body, my pelvis contracting so hard that my stomach hurts. He reaches a long finger over to my asshole and strokes my rosette because he knows it will make my Kegels contract involuntarily.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!
“That’s it, you fucking siren, you fucking beautiful ass siren, goddammit oh fuck!” He’s grinding into me on every word, drawing out this massive head-rocking climax finally stilling on the last “fuck,” only thrusting infinitesimally into me while he violently jerks out his orgasm, grunting like an animal. We only take a moment to catch our breath before we hungrily seek each other’s mouths, lapping each other, devouring each other’s essence. It’s untamable. I have no idea what’s going on, but the monster inside has to be fucking fed.
“More?” he groans, never releasing his death grip on me.
“More,” I respond, hungrily, my body begging him to thrust into me again, which he gladly obliges.
“More,” he growls, sitting me in the chair and picking up the stroke right where he left off before his orgasm and my loins can hardly believe the pleasure has started anew.
“Oh, yes, yes,” I groan helplessly, lying back as he drills into me once again.
“Fuck, baby, what are you doing to me?” he moans as he powerfully grasps my hips, holding them in place while rolling his against them. Fucking hell, he’s good. “Look at that pussy. Shit, it’s so pink and wet.” I look up at him and he licks his lips with every thrust, thoroughly enjoying himself. I reach between my legs and touch my clit.
“Aaahh!” I cry out, my fingertips burning my pleasure center.
“Goddammit, Ana!” he says between clenched teeth and I know the sight is exquisite for him. He sits me down in the chair and quickly undoes my bra. He’s nearly ripping my bra and what’s left of the shirt off his body and tossing into the chair behind me while he kicks off his shoes. Without coming out of me, he steps out his pants and boxers and now stands unrestricted before me. My skirt is a bunched mess at my waist and he lifts my hips again, slowly thrusting into me now.
“Do it again, baby,” he hisses. “Play with that clit.” I reach down and rub my clit in slow circles and he watches closely while biting his lip, breathing hard with every slow stroke like he almost can’t take the burn.
“I have to stop,” I pant. “I’m going to come.”
“Come as much as you want, baby,” he growls, never losing his stroke or moving his eyes. “I’m not done fucking you yet!” With his declaration, I burst into another orgasm, burning deliciously and pressing on my clit and he glides slowly in and out of me. I tremble with each stroke and it’s fabulous!
“Oooo, fuck, look at all that cream all over my dick,” he says. He takes my hand and rubs it on his dick and I feel it going in and out of me. “Rub that on your pussy, baby.”
I take the moisture from his shaft and spread it up and down my lips and clit. Shit, it’s sensitive, but it feels fucking divine. I groan as I hold my lips apart and feel the texture of his dick sliding between my fingers as it slides in an out of me.
“Fuck! Baby, that looks so good,” he moans, dragging the words out as he rolls his hips. He thrusts deeper into me and groans loudly as he lifts me off the chair and takes me to the desk. I clumsily knock various items onto the floor to clear our way as he sets my ass on the desk and I prop myself up on my elbows to get a better view. Hooking his arms under my legs again, he parts my thighs and dives deep and hard into me.
“Aaaaggghhhhh!!” he groans, and he grinds into me again. I put my hand between my legs again and outline our sex. He watches for several moments, stroking deeply with a pained expression on his face. He throws his head back in ecstasy, his thrusts becoming rougher and deeper he pulls my body against him with every pump. I look down my body at him, his muscles and abs flexing with every thrust, his torso glistening with sweat, his hips pumping hard against mine and his pelvis moving in rhythm to the delicious strokes into my pussy. If I strain, I can almost see the base of his beautiful dick. I raise my eyes and I’m caught watching.
“Do you like what you see?” he growls, pumping into me.
“Yes!” I hiss, through clenched teeth.
“You want more?” he taunts, and right about now, I’m tired of him having all the fun. I steady myself against the desk and remembering my grueling abs exercises, I roll my hips and counter his thrusts.
“Yes!” I growl back at him.
“Fuck, baby!” he protests, attempting to still my hips, but it’s no use. I’ve had enough of you running this show, Grey. It’s my turn for a little bit. Remember that first time? Against the wall in my dining room? Remember that, Grey? You couldn’t get away from me. You tried, but you couldn’t get away. He takes one of my legs and throws it over his shoulder so that my stiletto is at his ear.
Oh, no you don’t!
I wrap the other leg tight around his hip and continue my grind. We’re equally matched now. He has one leg over his shoulder so that he can pound into me, but I have one wrapped around his hip so that I can ride him from whatever position I’m in.
“Fuck! Baby!” he groans.
“Mm-hmm,” I moan, acknowledging his pleasure… and my own. He’s holding that thigh against him and thrusting into me. With his other hand, his thumb strokes my clit. He’s starting to build and he needs me to come first, and this is a sure-fire way to make it happen. I instinctively reach for my breasts and they’re wet.
Fuck! My milk is leaking!
I look up at Christian who looks down at my breasts. He releases the leg over his shoulder and wraps it around his waist, both of his hands moving to my breasts. He never stops his stroke as he squeezes them gently and watches the milk flow out.
Now, why is that hot?
My hips roll instinctively against his and his thumbs roll across my nipples. Fuck! Milk or no milk, that shit always turns me on… but milk is fluid and this is a very expensive wooden desk…
Almost as if we were on the same thought pattern, he lifts me again and sits in the chair with me on his lap. My legs are over the armrests and his arms around my back. I’m spread open and he’s pushing up into me.
“You can’t get away now,” he says, his hands on my ass again, pushing me hard into his thrust as I gasp. I grab the back of the chair and counter his thrusts. His mouth falls slack.
“Who said I wanted to get away,” I reply rolling my hips. He rubs them sensuously, allowing them to move freely over his.
“Mrs. Grey,” he moans, “You’re so talented.”
“Thank you, Mr. Grey,” I breathe, getting lost in the pleasure. He plays in the garden for a while and kisses me deliciously. Oh, God, I’m rising high and hard. He moves my hands from the back of the chair behind him.
“Lean back,” he says, “on my knees.” I lean my hands back on his knees and I am spread out before him… leaking milk and all. He helps me insert my legs over his thighs, but under the armrest—better traction on his dick, but I’m thinking about my milk spilling all over both our torsos.
“Ride,” he commands softly. I pause for a beat, but start to ride. It feels good, but my milk…
“Ride!” he says again, his hand rubbing my hips gently and his hips rising when mine fall. Fuck! Okay! I’m riding! I’m riding!
“Yes! Ride, baby,” he encourages as one hand holds my grinding hip and the other pushes up between my wet breasts. Fuck! This is crazy! And hot!
“Don’t stop, baby,” he breathes as he squeezes one breast and produces fresh milk. “It feels so good.”
God, he’s nuts! But this is so kinky! And I keep riding, rising higher and higher. Then his tongue outlines my soaked breast and he hungrily laps at the milk covered mound. He moans.
“Mmmm,” he says as he laps up the spilled milk. “Sweet, as usual.” He attacks my breast, chest, and torso, hungrily licking and cleaning anywhere his tongue can reach, and I’m still fucking him, once again reaching a level of pleasure I’ve never known.
“Christian!” I mewl, throwing my head back and getting lost in this wonderful feeling—this unbelievable Euphoria. He moans as his lips gently envelop my nipple and I almost can’t function. He gently squeezes with his hands, then laps the milk up with his tender lips and talented tongue, all while he’s gliding in and out of me and I am rising, rising, rising, higher and faster than I can control it.
“Ride me,” he says against my nipple. “That’s it, baby. Clear your mind. Ride this dick.”
So, I do. I clear my mind and I ride. I ride and it feels so good. I feel him sucking my breast, relieving me and satisfying me… and it feels so good.
“Mmm, yeah, baby. Ride it hard, baby. Deep, baby. Feel me…”
I’m lost. I’m lost in some sort of whirlwind, spiral, emotional, mindless, weightless, fifth dimension that envelops my body and causes me to lose track of time and space. My entire being has temporarily drifted off into this other realm where matter and elements are of no consequence. When I return, I am spent and sated and crying and limp, my entire body trembling and pulsing, and my love is holding me against him, rocking into me seeking his release, still latched onto my breast.
Moments later, it hits and he stills—his hands on my butt. His eyes are screwed shut and he’s holding me up onto his dick. I can feel him pulsing hard inside me as he holds me in place. He’s not breathing. He’s sucking hard—very hard—emptying my breast like I’m emptying his balls; each long draw matching a hard throb, which I imagine is matching a long, painful, delectable stream from his shaft. This goes on for quite some time, several seconds of long draws and painful throbs, and me suspended in the air over his stilled body.
Finally, he drops me down onto his member, now nestled deep inside of me. He wraps both arms around me and holds me in place. He releases a huge breath and relaxes his eyes, but never opens them. He unlatches one breast and immediately latches onto the other and begins to suckle, firmly, while gently rocking his hips into me, breathing through his nose as he catches his breath. We’re not having sex, but he’s enjoying the warmth of being inside of me, and I’m enjoying his remaining firmness against my walls before his erection subsides. While our organs enjoy each other’s’ company, he holds me solidly in his arms and sensually empties my swollen breast. I cradle his head in my arms and relax as he continues to soothe my body.
Several minutes later, I’m still sitting on his lap, straddling him, exhausted. His arms are wrapped around me and his head is buried in my chest. He’s still inside of me. My arms are wrapped around his neck and my chin rests on his hair. I stare blankly at the bookshelf behind him.
We’ve solved nothing.
“I know that sex won’t solve our issue,” he says solemnly, reading my mind as usual. “That’s not what I was trying to do. It’s just that…” He looks tormented. I know it’s something that he has to say, but he doesn’t quite know how to get it out. So, I won’t interrupt him. He raises his eyes to me and they’re so lost and uncertain. I want to reach out and hold him; bring him to me and tell him that it’s okay—but I need to hear what he has to say and he needs to say it. We can’t just let it blow over.
His eyes are beseeching because he knows that I want to fill in the blank with some fix-all statement that will make everything better, but I won’t do it. He has to talk to me. He has to tell me what he’s feeling and then we need to get to the bottom of things. Resolved to his fate, but still desperate for help, he sighs and closes his eyes.
“When you pull away… I feel myself losing you,” he begins. “I feel you slipping away from me… not like you’re going to leave me or divorce me, but like…” He sighs again but doesn’t open his eyes. “… Like my Butterfly is leaving our world… our little Ana and Christian world.” He opens his eyes and when he focuses on me, he almost looks like he’s going to cry. There’s a sharp pain in my heart and I can’t move. I can only sit there and listen.
“Sometimes, I can deal with it, because I know it’s not real. Whatever journey you’re on, it’s only temporary and you’ll be back. But sometimes…” He closes his eyes again, but forces himself to open them again. “When I’m not buried in my own selfish ego and feelings, I see yours—I see you separating yourself from me. That lifeline between us… it’s so strong, but during those times it’s like… spider silk… and your delicate hands can break it with one little…” He looks at his hand and makes a gentle gesture with his fingers as if snapping an invisible thread there. He looks at his hand, now studying the imaginary fragmented fibers—heartbroken. “… And I would die,” he adds softly. He’s still looking at his hand and I don’t know if this is my cue to speak, but I don’t. I wait for him. He turns to me, now looking at my breasts and my body.
“You’re more beautiful now than when we first met, if that’s even possible,” he says, still caressing my skin. “You’re soft in all the right places and beautiful and firm where it counts. And when you walk, your ass has a delicious controlled roll that it didn’t have before. It makes me want to take you right then and there. And your tits… God, your tits…”
He turns and kisses the insides of each mound.
“I’ve never considered myself a breast man. I’ve just… been a body man. I appreciate the body… until these!” He says it with such hunger that I almost think we’re going to get started again when he squeezes them in his hands. “I can’t stand the thought of anyone else looking at you—enjoying the view of what’s mine.”
So, that’s the problem with the clothes. He’s undressing me with his eyes and far as he’s concerned, everybody else is, too.
“When I saw that heading—Where’s Chris—I felt like I was losing you and the whole world knew it. Your beautiful form displayed in sexy glory, and I’m nowhere to be found.”
Shit. He’s usually telling me not to let the tabloids affect me. Now look what they’re doing to him.
“When I claim you,” he begins, rubbing the skin on my arms and watching by body react infinitesimally, “it reminds me that you’re still here, that you haven’t left. Sometimes, we reach that connection and sometimes we don’t…” He’s stroking both arms now, examining my body like he’s seeing it for the first time. “Sometimes, we reach that place where we’re one again and other times, we just… come.”
He drops his head as if he’s ashamed of the last part. I can imagine that he’s talking about the punishment fucks that always left me feeling like a piece of meat. My body yearns for him, but my heart and soul always felt pretty shitty when we were done.
“I want to be gentle with you,” he says, reading my thoughts, gently stroking my shoulders, my chest, my breasts… exploring my skin as if this was his first time feeling it or seeing it. The gesture is sending shockwaves of need through my body, but not sexual desire. It’s more like a longing or a yearning… an empty chasm needing to be filled or a little boy needing to be held.
“I want to love you and bring you back to me, but the Neanderthal almost always comes out instead.” He says the last part with regret and a touch of contempt. “It’s like ‘Woman! Mine!’ and he just takes over. That ownership asshole shows up and if Butterfly doesn’t bring the tenderness back…” He drops his head, shaking it back and forth almost in disbelief. His anguish is radiating off him and I don’t think I’ve ever felt this before.
“I know you don’t like it,” he says, his voice cracking, “but I love when the papers call us ‘AnaChris.’ They could have called us ‘ChristiAna,’ but they must have known that there was no me before you.” He can barely get the last words out. He’s never told me any of this before. Of course, I know how he feels about me, but I’ve never bothered to ask what’s in the mind of the Neanderthal. I didn’t think I needed to know. It was just “ungawa” and that was it. Jump, move, obey, come, and that’s it—but there was more. There was so much more, and knowing Christian the way that I do, I should have known that there was more to it than just that.
“I’m… I’m sorry…” No, Christian! Don’t! Don’t apologize for what you’re feeling. “I just… I lo… I love you so much…” He’s holding my body in his hands as if he’s hoping to keep me from flying away. “I tr…” He swallows hard and clears his throat. “I try not to be that priapic, insensitive asshole and… sometimes, I succeed…”
You succeed more than just sometimes, baby…
“I’m just so accustomed to having things my way. I know it’s not right, but I go back to those base instincts when…” He trails off again. He can’t finish his thoughts, but he’s truly said enough. I know what he’s saying now.
“I can’t lose AnaChris,” he says, his voice cracking with tears now. “I can’t lose us… I can’t lose you…” He finally raises his eyes to me. “I’m not trying to make our problems go away with sex. I just have to know that I’m not losing you.”
I take his face in my hands and kiss his tear-filled eyes. My mouth moves to his and I kiss him softly and deeply, gently stroking his hair off his face and back along his head. I hear him gasp in his chest as his arms tighten around me and he allows himself to sink into the kiss. His eyes are still closed when I break our kiss and he looks like he’s floating. I kiss his forehead while still stroking his scalp and his hair.
“We can’t solve our problems through sex,” I say softly, “but you’re not losing me.”
He chokes out a quiet sob as I pull him into my breast and cradle his head in my bosom while he weeps softly.
It’s a beautiful day in Bellevue. The sun is high in the sky and it’s unseasonably warm. Granted, summer is the time for warm weather, but today, it’s downright hot. We’re weaving down the street headed towards Grey Manor. I’m driving Butterfly’s Audi with my wife in the passenger seat and our two children sleeping peacefully in the back in their car seats. It seems almost criminal that such a beautiful day had to be cast in such a horrible shadow.
As we weave silently through the tree-lined streets of the affluent neighborhood where my parents live, my mind wanders to the phone call that we received earlier today. Yes, we were expecting it, but of course, not looking forward to it. Pops has taken a turn for the worst. Dad and Uncle Herman are putting on the brave face, but both of them—according to my mother—look like they’re going to break down any minute. I’m not doing much better. Pops and I have become very close in the months that he’s been in Seattle—nearly a year. I have to admit that I’m a bit angry with God for giving me someone else to love just to take him away a few months later. It’s selfish to say I would have been better off not knowing him, but I would have been spared the pain of the loss I already feel.
My mind drifts back to the disagreement I had with my wife about her clothes. To me, it was so clear that every man on the planet would be ogling her and her choice of wardrobe was inviting that attention. To her, not so much…
Two weeks prior…
“Good morning.” I turn my head when I hear her voice and examine her attire when she comes into the kitchen after her shower. She’s wearing white again—two-piece pants suit with black lapels and a vertical bow and black sling backs. Her hair is pulled back in a bun with the usual flower to hold the short hair in place.
“You’ve made the paper,” I say, laying the paper down flat on the breakfast bar so that she can see it.
“What?” she says, surprised, after pouring a cup of coffee. “For what?” She walks over to me and looks at the paper.
“Fashion, I think,” I respond, trying not to reveal my ire. She looks at the picture and smiles a bit to herself. Oh, you find this amusing?
“Since when do you read the society page?” she asks with mirth.
“Since my wife seems to always be on it,” I respond, the humor evading me completely.
“I’m not always on the society page…” She turns to me and her smile falls. “What’s wrong?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, feigning ignorance.
“You’ve got that Grey-CEO-waiting-for-the-shoe-to-drop look on your face.” She knows me well.
“That dress is quite provocative,” I point out. She frowns. She looks at the picture, then back at me.
“Uh… it’s fitted,” she says, bemused, “but I wore fitted clothes before I got pregnant.” You weren’t Mrs. Grey then.
“Showing off your after-baby body?” I ask, trying not to sound perturbed. I don’t want the whole world looking at her like she’s a piece of meat. Yes, she’s sexy— even sexier now than before—but that’s for me to know, my eyes only. She’s even more confused by my question and begins shaking her head while attempting to answer them.
“I…” she releases an exasperated breath. “I wasn’t…. I mean, yeah, I like the fact that I’m not as big as a cow anymore, but I wasn’t trying to…” While she’s stumbling over her tongue, I’m starting to feel more and more like shit. “I mean, I might have wanted people to notice that I wasn’t a cow anymore, but nothing like tha…” and the penny drops. I see it before I can even say anything. Realization is only one of the many expressions that flash across her face when she asks, “Christian, am I going to have to go through this every time I get dressed up?”
Her tone causes me disquiet. There’s no malice, no accusation—but there is defeat, like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. How do I tell her that this picture took me all the way back to the donors ogling her at that restaurant? That’s my insecurity, and I shouldn’t impose it on her.
“No, Baby,” I tell her, pulling her into my arms. “You look beautiful. I just have to get used to sharing you with the world, that’s all. We’ve kind of been to ourselves for the most part, since the twins were born and now, everybody gets a part of you. Don’t pay me any attention.” I give her a gentle kiss on her lips, but I can tell that the damage is already done. Dammit, Grey!
“I… I have to get ready to go,” she says, her voice small.
“You haven’t eaten anything,” I protest. “You haven’t even finished your coffee.”
“My stomach is a little uneasy. I’ll get something to eat after it settles.” She won’t make eye contact with me. I try to raise her eyes to mine and she fights me, but then looks up at me. Her eyes tell it all. She doesn’t know what to make of this. I don’t want to apologize, that would only make it worse right now. So, I come as close to it as I can.
“I shouldn’t have said anything,” I tell her. “You look beautiful… really.” She nods slightly.
“I have to go,” she says, dropping her eyes again.
“I’ll see you after work.” I’m trying to get some kind of connection. She just nods and walks out of my grasp. I hear her heels clicking across the marble floor through the dining room. I strain to hear them clicking through the grand entrance so I can see if she slams the door.
She doesn’t. She’s not angry, she’s hurt…
I’ve since come to grips with my wife’s wardrobe. After a hot fuck and a long talk, I understand that she’s right—she’s a sexy woman and unless I want her wearing mom jeans and moo-moos all the time, she’s going to be sexy in her clothes and I just have to accept that. And I can… she’s my wife, after all. She brings that sexy body home to me every night. Let them admire her. Let them ogle her and dream about her. She’s mine and she knows it, and she makes sure that I know she’s knows it. As superficial as it sounds, I should be grateful that I’m not married to a troll. I’d love her no matter what at this point, but the fact that people notice her is only a testament to her flawless beauty… and my good taste.
Now to deal with the issue at hand.
I drive up my parents’ circle drive and Dad meets me at the door. I get out and help Butterfly out of the passenger seat before taking one of the twins. I walk to my father who looks like he’s aged 10 years. I shake his hand with my free hand.
“How’s it looking, Dad?” I ask. He shakes his head.
“Not good,” he says. “Not good at all.”
A/N: John Holmes was a porn star during the “Golden Age of Porn” in the 1970’s and 1980’s. Although the length and girth was never confirmed, he was famed at the time to have the biggest human dick in the world.
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