This is a work of creativity. As such, you may see words, concepts, scenes, actions, behaviors, pictures, implements, and people that may or may not be socially acceptable and/or offensive. If you are sensitive to adverse and alternative subject matter of any kind, please do not proceed, because I guarantee you’ll find it here. You have been warned. Read at your own risk.
Explicit details of sex and BDSM scenes from here on out. Some may be hot while others may not be to your taste… and not necessary CG with Ana together. Proceed at your own discretion, but don’t say that I didn’t warn you.
This ain’t your everyday Christian and Ana story. Don’t expect anything. Just read it as it goes along or go away. 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 new saga continues…
“You’ll be fine.”
I try to convince my client that everything will go okay in court today. He’s fourteen years old and has been arrested for shoplifting, a chilling coincidence. Even though there’s no evidence that he actually stole anything, he was with a group of repeat offenders—troublemakers known to do this type of thing. He was seen on camera in the jewelry store with the boys—all of whom have prior offenses—and items were found in the other boys’ possession, but nothing on Tommy. He’s been arrested by association, and I have to get him out of here. He doesn’t belong here.
“All rise,” the bailiff calls and we stand to our feet. “King County Superior Court is now in session. The Honorable Judge Carrick Grey presiding.”
I’ve had cases before Judge Grey before. He’s firm, but very fair. Tommy will come out of this okay.
“You may be seated,” he says. “First case on the docket…”
“Docket #2084CF20147, the State of Washington vs. Thomas Dietrich, charged with Theft 2nd degree,” the bailiff says.
“All parties present, please state your names.”
“Anastasia Olivet for the defense, Your Honor, representing Thomas Dietrich who is also present,” I say, clearly, before looking down at my notes. There’s a long pause while we wait for the prosecution to identify himself. Finally…
“Richard Steele for the prosecution, Your Honor.”
Did he… did just say… Ri…
I don’t react. I don’t flinch. I don’t raise my head. I keep thumbing through my notes like nothing has happened… like the person I’m facing in court today did not affect the course of my life 17 years ago.
“It’s my understanding that the defense has filed a motion to dismiss, is that correct?” Judge Grey raises his eyes to me.
“It is, Your Honor,” I reply confidently.
“The state has received a copy of the dismissal?” Judge Grey asks the prosecution.
“We have, Your Honor,” the prosecution replies.
“I’ll hear arguments, then. Ms. Olivet, present your case, please,” Judge Grey says.
“Thank you,” I say, confidently, without looking at the prosecutor’s table at all. “In all honesty, Your Honor, this case is a waste of the court’s time. Thomas Dietrich is a stellar student and teenager with no priors. His only crime is being associated with the wrong group of juveniles, a lesson we can be certain that he has learned from this experience. Prosecution’s only evidence that my client was even at the scene is a grainy surveillance video that not only does not definitively identify my client, but also doesn’t show my client committing the crime of which he’s being accused and doesn’t even show his face. The only reason my client is standing before you today is because there were several boys in that mall that day that all look similar from behind and were all wearing the same jackets.
“Witnesses twice failed to identify my client in a line-up and no merchandise was found on him at the time of arrest. Although my client repeatedly proclaimed his innocence, the powers that be refused to listen…” I pause for just a moment, then continue, “convicting him without allowing him or the other accused teenagers any opportunity to explain, based on extremely shoddy circumstantial evidence, as you can see for yourself from the evidence presented. I move to dismiss.”
Judge Grey turns to the prosecution—I do not—and addresses the attorney standing there.
“Counselor, can you tell me how we came to make the arrest of this particular young man today?”
“Your Honor, these kids have hit several stores in the mall over the last six months. A sting was set up in Logan’s to capture evidence and hopefully prevent further shrinkage. As this group was planning another hit on this store, efforts by mall and store security as well as the police thwarted their attempts to escape with over $3000 in merchandise…”
“None of which was found on my client when he was arrested,” I point out.
“Your Honor, the group was all brought in at the same time from the same location…”
“The group, Your Honor,” I insert again. “We’re not talking about the group; we’re talking about one young man who was wearing the same jacket as The Group, who can’t be clearly identified by video surveillance or witnesses at the scene, has no priors, and had none of the stolen merchandise on him when he was apprehended… with the group.”
“Your case falling thin, here, Counselor,” Judge Grey says to the prosecution. “I can’t seem to locate pertinent evidence that will convince twelve people that this particular defendant is guilty.”
“Your Honor, this group is a menace to the community,” the prosecution contends. “Law abiding citizens don’t frequent the mall as much due to the paranoia imposed by the actions of these perpetrators over the last several months. If we release one of them for this repeated offense, we set the precedent to release them all. We might as well just go open all the holding cells and let them all walk free.”
Now, he’s being dramatic.
“If there is sufficient evidence to hold those young men for the crimes that have been committed, I say let them face trial,” I interject. “The prosecution has still failed to produce evidence sufficient enough to hold my client.”
“Your Honor, it’s obvious that this young man was acting as part of a group that conspired to steal $3000 in merchandise before their plans were thwarted. They acted as a collective unit in perpetrating this act and the only reason we’re here today is because one of the perpetrators cleverly ditched his bounty before being apprehended. Who’s to say how much he would have gotten away with had his efforts not been thwarted.”
Is he serious? Did he just say that in court?
“I’m sorry, Your Honor, but did I miss the portion of evidence that indicates it was discovered that my client had merchandise that he ‘ditched?’” I use the finger quotes to illustrate how ridiculous this man’s entire theory sounds.
“It must be hiding from me as well, because I haven’t seen it yet. Counselor?” He directs his attention to the prosecution.
“Judge Grey, if we don’t nip this in the bud, we’re sending a message that this behavior is acceptable. We’re giving license to perpetrators to keep offending because they can get away with it. Even if he had no physical merchandise on his person, he was clearly considering the act or assisting in the crime in some way while he was with his friends or he wouldn’t have been apprehended with them while they were committing the crime.”
I laugh internally. Wrong move, counselor.
“I can’t speak to the actions or intentions of the other accused perpetrators in this case, Your Honor. I can only speak to the fact that there is absolutely no concrete evidence to hold Thomas Dietrich or to bind him over for trial. The prosecution holds that this was a plan or some kind of conspiracy, but still has no evidence that my client is guilty of anything but being at the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong group of people. The last time I checked the laws in the state of Washington, that was not a crime punishable in the court system. His concern that my client poses some threat, some menace to society if we release him today instead of making an example of him for something that opposing counsel feels he was thinking about doing, something he probably would have done, something he may do later. By that logic, Your Honor, anyone in this courtroom could be arrested today for something that they could possibly do in the future. Does the prison system have enough holding space for that?”
“I’m not talking about something that he was thinking about doing!” the counselor says. “If he wasn’t guilty, why did he run?” I laugh inwardly again. Is he serious?
“Your Honor, I grew up in Tommy’s neighborhood,” I say in a sobering tone. “When the people around you start running, you run first and ask questions later.” Judge Grey looks over his glasses at me and I stare right back at him. He turns back to his documents as the prosecution continues to present his case.
“The defendant was apprehended with this group,” the prosecutor continues, “wearing the same jacket right after the group raided Logan’s Jewelry and Loan. They’re known to cause trouble in the neighborhood and they’ve perpetrated several crimes in the mall. This kid is part of a gang that robs stores and causes general unrest in the community and once he’s caught, he suddenly wants to distance himself?”
“Guilty by association,” I say calmly, gesturing to Judge Grey, “Case and point.”
“I’m afraid she’s right, Counselor,” Judge Grey says. “Your evidence is weak, at best. I’ve seen the surveillance… six boys who all look the same from behind running out of the store and into the mall. You have no reliable witnesses, no stolen property on his person at the time of arrest, no solid evidence to hold this young man over for trial. He hasn’t even been identified—just his attire, which matched that of several other people in the mall that day. This case is dismissed.”
The gavel falls and Tommy’s breath releases from his chest in a long gasp. He stands and shakes my hand wildly.
“Thank you! Thank you, Ms. Olivet,” he whispers loudly. I squeeze his hand and look into his eyes.
“You got off this time. Stay away from them!” I say forcefully. His brows fall and he looks at me humbly.
“I will, Ms. Olivet,” he says. “I promise.” I nod.
“Now, stop fooling around and go be an engineer like you said.” The corner of my mouth rises only slightly. He returns my nod.
“You’ll hear about me again, ma’am,” he says, scanning his eyes over the room, “but not in here.” He smiles.
“I’m counting on it,” I say with a wink before releasing his hand. He exits the little wooden gate and joins his mother, who turns to me and mouths, “Thank you.” I nod. I never look at the prosecuting attorney as I gather my notes and put them back inside my briefcase. My business in juvenile court is done for today, so I proceed through the same gate that my client just left, down the aisle to the doors, and exit the courtroom.
I start down the hall, reviewing the case in my head the same way I always do when a case is over, win or lose. I always want to see if something should have been done differently—if we won because we were right or just because we discredited the other side so terribly. Though my track record is pretty good, I don’t win them all, but I only take cases where I feel like my client is right or innocent. I practice several types of law, overachiever that I am. This one was, of course, a juvenile case and I took it pro-bono… because I knew this kid was innocent. I knew because…
I knew this day would come. I knew I would come face-to-face with him somehow, some way. I just didn’t know he was the fucking King County prosecuting attorney. Richard Steele. Richard fucking Steele, prosecuting attorney. Uncle fucking Richard. When the fuck did this happen and how did I not know?
I turn around and face him, one hand at my side, the other holding my briefcase, a blank and stoic expression on my face.
“Your eyes,” he says. “They’re different.”
A whole fucking lot of me is different, not that you care.
“It’s been a long time. You…” he stutters. “You look well.”
I’m sure I do, no fucking thanks to you. I’m able to keep that same stone face I’m known for in the courtroom as he looks for something to break through the marble.
“Olivet,” he says, snidely, after a long silence. “I don’t see a ring.”
I look up at my uncle impassively. This man would have let me rot—for nothing… or better yet, die. As far as he knew, I was dead. All kinds of emotions boil inside me right now—a mixture of everything I felt that day when I wanted to give up on life—but I’ve learned not to let those emotions show on the outside. No matter what I do, I won’t let them show. I won’t let them out.
“Nothing to say?” he says, his brow furrowing, confusion marring his face. “No word in fifteen years and nothing to say now?”
It’s seventeen, you fuck, but who’s counting? I want to scream. I want to jump up and down and tell him that he’s a horrible person, that I never would have done what he did to me to someone that I claimed to love. I want to tell him that I never should have been forced to learn the painful lessons I learned as a teenager… but I did. And I survived. Better yet, I lived, and now, I’m successful. I knew I’d face him one day, but I didn’t think I’d face him like this.
Instead, I don’t flinch. I don’t show pain, or anger, or surprise, or even triumph… nothing. I show him nothing. I give him nothing. I just casually turn like the conversation is over—because it is—and walk out of the courthouse.
“Thank you, Blake,” I say as he takes my briefcase the moment I enter the house. My shoes are off before I even climb the stairs to go to my bedroom. I’m popping my neck and taking the pins out of my hair as I open the double doors to my suite. I had this house built to my specifications and I just moved in a month ago. I spent the past eight years in Georgia, finishing law school and practicing down there for a while. It was beautiful country and I was very successful, but I missed home and being able to visit my parents’ graves, so I moved back to Seattle just over a year ago.
I moved back for another reason, though… the scene. It wasn’t as popular in Savanah with its prim and proper housewives who practiced during the day when hubby was at work, or at night—claiming to go play cards with the girls, not knowing that the moment they left the house, hubby was secretly going to fulfill his fetish of choice. I didn’t mind the underground speakeasy vibe of it all. My problem was the snooty women that frequented those “speakeasies” at night, then openly criticized or attacked them during the day. Not my scene. Partake and say nothing, but don’t be a hypocrite.
I found the scene right before law school. Curiosity pulled me in at first, but I soon discovered that this would be my drug—my only addiction, and there’s always… always someone willing to feed my insatiable hunger. Why? Because I’m fucking good at what I do. I’m hot and beautiful, and I’m the best damn Dominatrix in two states. They pay me to torture them… and I love it. I fucking love it!
Blondie would beg to differ with me, though. She’s convinced that she can steal any one of my clients whenever she wants, and I’ve challenged her many times to do just that. She won’t try, though. Not only are there rules against that sort of thing, but she knows that she would find her face cracked and on the ground in more ways than one if she tried to take someone from me. She tried once. She called it “filling in” for me. It was a catastrophe that she won’t soon forget.
I have a special name and a special talent in the Seattle scene. Nobody dare fuck with me. I’m so goddamn famous that theme music plays when I enter the fetish club and people are already looking for me.
I tease them with what they can’t have, but make the experience of what they can have so delicious that they pay me handsomely just to be able to come back for more.
“Blake,” I summon him through the intercom just before going to my en suite where I already know a bubble bath awaits me, “order a driver—Samson or Waldorf, if they’re available.”
I knock on the door hard and wait. A few seconds later, a menacing set of eyes appear behind a sliding door peephole. No words are exchanged before the peephole slides shut and the large black door opens.
“Ma’am,” he says as he gestures me inside. My stroll is flawless. I may not own the place, but I walk like I do. Like clockwork, a few moments after my entrance, they play my song, and everybody knows that I’ve arrived…
Nobody does it better,
Makes me feel sad for the rest.
Nobody does it half as good as you,
Baby, you’re the best.
I walk slowly, just fast enough for them to see my hips pop, hear my stilettos click, and watch my cleavage bounce. A straight line so that the heel of the leading foot lands right in front of the toe of the supporting foot. It causes my legs to cross and my hips to wobble and drop. I know I have an audience. Even my walk is a show.
I scan the room. The pole is clear.
I stroll over to the DJ…
“Dirty Diana,” I say before heading to the small stage. My hair… well, tonight, it’s red. Fire engine red to match my nails and lips, handmade by one of the best custom wigmakers in the world. I can’t have it flying off in a middle of a scene.
My shoes… Diamante two-tier, crystal-jeweled bowed sandals with six-inch reflective stiletto-heels.
My attire… What else?
Skin-tight golden catsuit that hugs every curve and every muscle like I’m naked; ample, perky tits peeking from a lowered zipper with gold nipple rings on the outside piercing through the material—each lush melon sitting up deliciously and beckoning the onlooker to take a bite…
But they don’t dare.
Nobody touches me without permission.
And I never give permission…
I’m the Golden Girl.
No other Domme comes close to me. They’re boring and usual in their black latex and red negligées. They’re common. You know what to expect when you see them… the same boring degradation; worthless sex and quick orgasms; no gratification—first you come, and then you go.
Not the Golden Girl.
I have a refinement that can’t be matched. Often imitated, but never duplicated—many have tried to mimic my style, but it never works. There’s no fucking with perfection and when it comes to what I do…
That’s what I am.
Since Goldie hit the scene, there’s been silver and white, flaxen, rainbow, and diamonds and pearls… but none sear like Gold; none satisfy like Gold. I’m a delicacy, not a fad, and no matter who tries, they can’t dethrone me.
I hear the whispers as I step onto the small dark stage just as Carly Simon finishes my theme song and Michael Jackson starts to pipe out his tune. I slide to the ground as the music starts and when the floor lights up, the sexy extensions and splits that cause the room to fall silent are nothing more than stretches and warm-ups for me. I gyrate and hip-roll until Mike announces that he won’t be seduced tonight, then a bridge-walk backflip lands me right at the spinning pole.
The room is silent as I writhe up the pole—contorting, stretching, and flexing, all the time spinning on one arm, two arms, upside down, legs crossed around the pole, legs split, straight out in a “T” formation—a Golden candle with a fire-engine red wick, lit and burning through every soul in the room. Women want to be me and men want to fuck me.
And neither will get their wish.
I slide to the floor and roll my body to the stationary pole. Without the spinning, I contort my body into impossible shapes and positions. I know a lot of them are looking at me and wondering if I can eat my own pussy. Yes, I can bend that way and I do so just to add more mystery to their inquiring minds, but it’s not a flavor I’d like to try.
Once Diana announces that Mike won’t be making it home tonight, I dismount from the pole and do a sultry floor dance before shimmying back up the spinning pool and after a few more impossible aerial splits, I end the routine hanging upside down, one leg wrapped around the spinning pole and the very ends of my curly fiery red wig brushing the floor.
I slither down the sliding pole and end up content on the floor, not even having broken a sweat. I lie there for a moment, my red wig splayed over my head and fanned out over the lighted floor, now the only light in the room. I raise my head and throw my hair back and the lights rise. I slink to the edge with the same sultry walk that brought me onstage.
Complete and utter silence laces the club as I walk off the stage. The women are seething and the men are salivating… and some of the women are salivating, too. While their accoutrements where store-bought—nipped and tucked and some of them sucked—my body is the real deal… round, firm, and all mine. They wonder how I look this good, work a pole that well, but they’ll never truly grasp my secret.
Make them bow…
Make them beg…
They’re dogs and it’ll take all you have to give to taste this gourmet treat.
One of the club slaves—I don’t know which—hands me my gold-lensed glasses as I step off the stage. I put them on and stroll over to my table with long strides and exaggerated rolls of my hips, throwing back the double-shot of Stoli waiting for me when I get there. Two other slaves—submissives of mine—stand by the table obediently, waiting for my command. I slide into my booth and cross my legs under the table. Most eyes are still on me as I meticulously unwrap the clear foil around one of the lollipops on the table—edible 14-carat gold leaf encased in large globes of clear champagne flavored confection. The same setup can be found in at least four clubs tonight with hopes that I’ll grace them with my presence.
Am I conceited? Self-centered? Fuck yes, I am. I slowly wrap my lips and tongue around the lollipop, knowing that several if not all of tonight’s patrons are watching my mouth work this sucker like my body worked those poles. My glasses are two-way mirrors, you sycophants. I can see you all.
The club music starts again, some house techno beat that I imagine my parents must have listening to when they were teenagers, and I enjoy my solitude for a little while longer. I could always hope she wasn’t here, but she always seems to find me. I’m sure she has spies at every club that tell her if I’m at a location where she’s not.
She found me too quickly, so she must have been here tonight. I won’t be mad, though. I need to keep her close, for more reasons than one.
“Goldie,” she says in that practiced purr she uses that makes me want to roll my eyes and throw a drink in her pretentious face. “Red. Tres chic!” I raise an eyebrow at her. “You look a bit like an academy award. I bet that thing is hot,” she taunts.
“It wouldn’t matter,” I say, not making eye contact with her. “One word from me and this place will become cold as the North Pole.” She smiles that perfect, store-bought smile at me.
“I’m just saying,” she continues, “that gold thing will get old soon. The novelty will wear off one day. I’m just… concerned for your continued success, dear, that’s all.”
“Thank you for your concern, but it’s working for me just fine,” I say impassively in my smooth, practiced tone, “And how’s that Cruella Deville thing working out for you, Blondie?” I raise my eyes over my glasses at her. She’s still always unnerved by my flaxen gold contacts even though she pretends not to be. She laughs the insincere laugh that I’ve become accustomed to.
“Oh, don’t be concerned about me, Golden Girl. I do just fine.” She pulls the leash of one of the many submissives that buzz around her like flies to shit—a fair-skinned black beauty wearing nothing but a thong scrambles over and falls to her knees next to Elena’s feet. She strokes the slave’s hair like a dog, and I still wonder why she does these displays for me. Does she think I’m going to cede my superiority to her because she acquires these typical horny slave girls and weak little men who like to be fucked and beaten then paid for their services like common whores? Hell, if I’m paying you, at least you can be loyal… but no, Mrs. Lincoln prefers quantity over quality… until she got wind of my gig.
“A new puppy, I see,” I say, looking down at the gorgeous woman. I rise from my seat and walk over to her new pet. I put my hand under her chin to raise her eyes to me—beautiful hazel.
“She’s stunning,” I say. Elena smiles widely, enjoying praise that’s not meant for her at all. “She must enjoy the degradation,” I add. Elena’s smile fades.
“She does what I say,” Elena says, sharply. “She does it because I say so. What makes you think she enjoys it?” I shrug and release the sub’s chin.
“I just couldn’t figure out any other reason why you would have something so priceless on the ground.” I give her a long glare before turning to walk away. I hear her snap her fingers and know that she must be snapping at her latest pet, because she sure as hell isn’t snapping at me. In a moment, she’s in front of me halting my progress.
“How dare you undermine my authority in front of my submissive!” she hisses. I nearly cackle, but I’ve learned not to show emotion in the clubs, or anywhere, for that matter.
“I’m not undermining your authority,” I retort, flipping up one of the lenses to my glasses and glaring at her through one golden eye. “I’m just stating the obvious. Look at her. She’s flawless. She should be in sky-high stilettos in a diamond collar with a matching leash, strutting around behind you like a stallion. Yet, you have her crawling around and ruining those creamy knees like a dog. You want to cause her torment? Squeeze her into a boned corset a size too small so that she can barely breath and those gorgeous tits will sit up and spill out the top like a cornucopia exploding at harvest. Wrap that beautiful, round ass in a micro-mini silk or satin skirt so that it wobbles every time she walks. Blood red or crimson lipstick on those pouty lips and smoky eyeshadow to accentuate those sunshine orbs. Have people looking at you with envy for the gorgeous goddess that you have following your every footstep instead of wondering about the faceless, shapely brown girl on the floor.”
She’s breathing heavily, her anger brewing yet not knowing whether to take serious note of what I’m telling her about the fair-skinned beauty she just presented to me as a slave. I lean in closer to her and speak in her ear.
“Make. Them. Want. You,” I say slowly. “That’s why they stick around.”
I lean back from her and see someone slowly making their way to us. It’s a shadow at first, then an outline—a defined muscular body and a neatly cut coif of dark brown hair. I flip my lens down as the form comes closer. Elena looks over her shoulder at the approaching form, then looks back at me. Although my gaze appears to be on the approaching form, my sights are set clearly on Elena. She can’t see me under these glasses and her mouth turns up in a knowing grin.
Fuck. They’re acquainted. What the fuck is this shit?
The closer he gets, the better looking he becomes—black pants with black shirt and shoes; gorgeous brown hair with occasional copper highlights; natural chiseled good looks under designer stubble that looks hot as fuck; a practiced swagger that would bring most women to their knees…
He’s a Dominant. Pity.
“Madame Petra,” the copper-haired creation speaks with a tone that could melt butter. “You haven’t introduced me. One of your protégés?”
Oh, no the fuck he didn’t.
Elena laughs almost gleefully.
“No,” she chuckles. “This is Trey. He’s a very… very dear friend of mine,” she says, gesturing to Copper Hotness. Copper Hotness. Chopper. That works. “Trey, this is Golden.”
“Ah, Golden,” he says, never taking his eyes of me. “I’ve heard about you.”
“And contrarily, I’ve heard nothing about you,” I say, slipping my lollipop back into my mouth. As expected, he licks his lips the moment the confection slides between mine.
“I enjoyed your… dance,” he says, raising an eyebrow at me.
“Most people do,” I state matter-of-factly. “Gotta run. See ya ‘round, Blondie. Don’t forget what I said.” I turn and walk back to my table where the slaves are still waiting. I look over my glasses at one of them. He nods and gestures to someone at the bar. I scan the room, contemplating how I plan to torment my submissives tonight and a scantily clad waitress brings me another Stoli. I throw it back and slip my lollipop back into my mouth while I spy Elena still talking to Chopper… and Chopper still looking at me.
“Excuse me, Mistress Golden…”
A soft voice draws my attention from the plotting going on a few feet in front of me. I turn my head to see a tall blonde standing near my table as close as the slaves will allow her to get.
“Mistress, if you’re available to play tonight, I would love to book a session.”
Yet another beautiful woman. I don’t question what makes them want to be submissives. The reasons are often way too complex to analyze. Maybe the hopes of landing a hottie like Chopper… or like me…
“You’re very beautiful,” I say, eliciting a blush from her, “but I’m sorry. I’m not into women.” She frowns deeply.
“Please, Mistress,” she beseeches me. “It doesn’t have to be sexual. Just a session, please…” I shake my head.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “What I do, I do to men. I won’t do it to a woman. It’s not my desire.” She nods sadly.
“I understand,” she says. I almost feel bad for her.
“It’s not a rejection, beautiful,” I say to her and she lifts her head. “If I played with women, I would definitely play with you.” She smiles widely.
“Thank you, Mistress,” she says softly. I nod and she leaves the table humbly. I sink my lollipop back into my mouth and notice that Blondie and Chopper have dispersed. Just as I sit back to get comfortable, scanning the room once again…
“Pity. I would have paid handsomely to see you work her over…”
I’m growing bored with Joyce. I don’t know what it is, but she doesn’t move me like she used to. She takes a caning like none other. She proved that last night right before I fucked her into oblivion and sent her to her room. I need something more—beating the same girls isn’t doing it for me anymore. There’s no mystery, nothing to fuel the imagination. Dammit, I never thought I would tire of this, but I guess it turns out that I’m not my father’s son after all. I need more—after all these years, I need more.
Love? Fuck, no. I need more excitement. I need a real thrill, something fresh and new.
After a long day and a hot shower, I don my usual black pants and jacket and set out to meet Elena at Crimson. I haven’t been to a club in years, but tonight, I’m looking for something… else.
“Trey,” the doorman greets as I enter. “We haven’t seen you in ages. I thought you left the scene.”
“Not likely,” I respond, strolling into the club. “Just… browsing.”
“Looking for a new plaything?” he says, knowingly.
“I don’t know what the fuck I’m looking for,” I admit. “Is Madame Petra here?” He nods.
“She has a few new flavors on her leash this evening—a delectable caramel morsel, if you’re looking to taste the rainbow.” I raise my eyebrow. That may be worth considering. I must see this new morsel. “Or…” He trails off.
“Or what?” I say, waiting for him to finish his sentence.
“Well, since your last visit, we’ve had quite the goddess stir things up in these parts. If we’re lucky, she’ll grace us with her presence tonight… only, I don’t think she’s your type.” I’m intrigued.
“And why not?” I ask. You have my attention.
“She a master Dominatrix,” he says. “She might get your danders up, very pretty to look at, but that’s about as far as a Dominant is going to get with her. Subs are gagging for her and she’s very particular about who she… touches.”
“How long has she been coming here?” I ask, my curiosity piqued. He thinks for a moment.
“I’d say about a year. She walked in owning the place and as reputation has it on the scene, she ‘owns’ a few other fetish clubs in the area.” I grunt.
“Well, you’re right. If she’s a Domme, she’s not my type.” I’d still like to get a look at her, though.
“Well, while you’re looking for tonight’s morsel,” he says, as if reading my mind, “listen for Carly Simon, ‘Nobody Does It Better.’ That’s you’re cue that the Golden Girl has arrived.” My brow furrows. Golden Girl?
“She has a fucking theme song?” I ask in disbelief. How cheesy can you get? He nods.
“Not her idea,” he says. “Story has it that she laid one good on some DJ at another club. After that, he played this song every time she walked in. It caught on at the other clubs. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of her. She’s famous on the scene these days. I can guarantee you’ve seen nothing like her.”
“Like you said, it’s been ages.” I walk into the club and look for an empty table. Nothing. This fucking place is packed. I find a seat at the bar and order my usual Scotch. I’m not there ten minutes before hungry submissive hopefuls start eyeing me up. I scan the merchandise as I’m looking for some new flavor tonight—beautiful asses on display and more tits than I can count. Maybe if I had a ménage tonight, that might get me out of my little funk. As I’m contemplating approaching an obviously available and interested beauty, I hear it…
“The Spy Who Love Me…” also known as…
Nobody does it better,
Makes me feel sad for the rest.
Nobody does it half as good as you,
Baby, you’re the best.
I turn around and scan the room. I can hardly believe my eyes. Goddammit to hell, she is hot! She might as well be naked for how tight that catsuit is. Damn, it’s like a second fucking skin! And she looks seven feet tall in those gold stilettos. Fuck, she beautiful and I have to convince my dick to calm the fuck down. Even in that fucking blaring red wig, she is exquisite! Golden Girl. No wonder. A damn Domme dressed in gold. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that and I’ve seen a lot.
She slithers up to the DJ booth and then to a dark stage. When the floor lights up, I see that Crimson has installed poles. Great… a fucking stripper. I turn back to my drink until I hear a once humming club fall to death silence except for “Dirty Diana” playing over the speakers. I turn around to see what the “hush” is all about and the stage is empty.
Where the fuck did she go?
I follow the craned necks of the crowd and look to the sky.
How the hell did she get up there? I crane my neck to see the spotlight highlighting the incredibly contorted body of this delectable temptress coiled around this pole spinning wildly while her hair flies outward like flames spraying from her scalp.
This. Is NOT. A stripper.
I’m certain you could catch flies in my mouth as I stare at the dazzling golden divinity spinning in the sky like a spirit descending from the clouds. When she slides down the pole to the floor and curls her body over to the other pole, I have to wipe the drool from my mouth. Her muscle tone and curves are on full display. She’s like—plump in all the right places, but still fit and flexible… and obviously strong. Physically, she’s perfect.
Physically… too bad she’s a Domme. I’ve never been a submissive and I don’t have the desire to start… but she would make a man think about it.
I’m aching to taste her, but she’d never let me. I’m certain of it. Her every move screams that she knows what she wants and she doesn’t have to compromise… like me. She won’t sub for me, but maybe she can be coerced into a night of wild, hard fucking.
When her body lay prostrate on the floor and the music stops, I expect to hear the crowd erupt into thunderous applause, but they don’t. Apparently, the show isn’t over. Her stroll to the table and the apparently ceremonious swallow of a shot of something along with the seductive fellating of a golden lollipop with her eyes hidden behind golden glasses is the actual finale. She not even out of breath.
She’s good. She’s real good.
I’m about to approach when I see Elena walk over to her. How do they know each other? And why didn’t Elena tell me about her? Is this one of hers? If she is, she could show her teacher a few things.
I soon find that I’m mistaken about that assumption when Goldie sidesteps Elena and begins to walk away. Elena cuts her off and they engage in what appears to be an intense conversation. I’ve got to meet this woman. I bottom out my Scotch and start making my way over to them. At first, she looks intrigued—hungry like every other woman when I walk into the room. But this certainly is not every other woman. This is a nymph with mystical powers, and I must engage.
Elena looks pleased to see me. Goldie… not so much.
I turn on the charm, or so I thought. Goldie is not impressed. After a dismissive comment about my attempt to complement her, she says something I thought I would never hear.
“See ya ‘round, Blondie. Don’t forget what I said.”
I turn stunned, wide eyes to Elena, my mouth gapping bigger than it was when I watched that goddess sexpot slithering down that pole.
“What the fuck?” I say. “Did she just call you Blondie?” Elena turns perturbed, narrow eyes to me.
“Christian, I love you dearly, but if you ever repeat that, I will tie you to a pole and whip you til you bleed!” she says in a low voice I’ve never heard. For some reason, that woman has really gotten under her skin.
“In your dreams… Blondie,” I reply in a low voice. “And don’t use my real name again.” I look past her and watch the goddess walk away—curvy, round ass; supple tits; and attitude that captures the entire fucking room. “Tell me about her.”
“Forget it, Trey,” she says, emphasizing my alias. “That’s one you’ll never have. Besides, she doesn’t sub.” I turn my gaze back to Elena.
“They don’t all have to be subs,” I remind her. “I enjoy a good mindless fuck in a tight pussy every now and again. You, of all people, should know that by now.” My knowing look penetrates her and her body flushes. Yeah, you remember—hard, deep, animalistic fucks that ended in powerful orgasms.
“Is that what you’re looking for tonight?” she asks, her voice a mix of a hungry growl and an erotic purr. I look back at Golden, who’s now comfortable in a circular booth facing the club with three obvious slaves surrounding her.
“Yes,” I say, turning my gaze back to Elena, “but not from you.” Her face falls and she’s instantly angry. Not saying that I’ll never fuck you again, Elena. Who knows? Desperate times may one day call for desperate measures, but tonight, I have my eyes set on one exquisitely gilded piece of ass.
“Dream on, Christian. She doesn’t fuck.” My glare narrows at the use of my real name again, quickly replaced by shock from the revelation she just gave me.
“She doesn’t fuck?” I say in amazement. “She’s sex on a stick and she doesn’t fuck?”
“She’s a Dominatrix and a Masturbatrix. People know what she is and what she does and they still want her,” she says, her voice full of contempt. And now I know why she stays in Goldie’s presence all the time.
The Mistress of the Black has been dethroned.
She can see the moment I make the realization and proceeds to deny it.
“She’s a toy,” she continues, “a little trinket that will one day lose her sparkle. She’ll never stand the test of time—that takes resilience and real skill. She’s good, but her novelty will wear off. It always does.” I run my eyes down her body to her feet and back up to her face.
“You should know,” I say, the words stabbing through her practiced steel exterior. “Call me by my name one more time in this place, and I’ll make you regret that you opened your mouth.”
I see an invisible zipper slide across her lips and she’s silent for several moments. That’s right. Don’t test me… Mistress!
I proceed toward Golden’s booth and watch as she converses with a gorgeous blonde. I round the table and come up behind her, not too close, but so that I can hear the end of the conversation.
“It’s not a rejection, beautiful,” I hear her say to the crestfallen submissive. “If I played with women, I would definitely play with you.”
Oh, yeah, she’s good. The beautiful submissive shines in the praise and thanks Golden before excusing herself from the conversation.
“Pity,” I say softly, leaning in behind her. “I would have paid handsomely to see you work her over.” She doesn’t turn around or even flinch at the sound of my voice this close to her, though one of the slaves at the table turn a menacing look to me.
“Sir,” he says, and nothing else. A silent conversation ensues between us. He recognizes me as one of the regular Doms. He knows I know the rules and is fairly certain that I won’t break them, but he won’t hesitate to break me in half if I step wrong with Golden. I nod once and put up my hand to wave him off and he turns back to his post, his ears no doubt tuned to our conversation and hearing every word over the blasting of techno house music in the club.
“Something you need, friend?” she asks in a way that’s not inviting at all.
“Oh, I would love to be your friend,” I say, seductively. She’s still unmoved.
“Sorry, I have no openings for new friends. You’ll have to get in line and wait until someone fucks up.” She never turns around to face me as she continues to wrap her luscious lips around that candy globe on a stick. I recognize that candy. Those damn things cost more per piece than Richart chocolates! If this is a gimmick, she’s riding it to the end.
“Tell me,” I say, not one to walk away easily, “what does one have to do to get into your good graces?” Now she turns her gaze to me. Enchanting and unnerving golden eyes glare at me over her golden glasses.
“I choose,” she says, her voice still unwavering, “or have you forgotten the rules… Master?”
She gazes at me for long moments, each of us waiting for the other to break the stare. Fucking. Hell. She’s got me. And she knows it. I fucking want her so bad that my dick could burst through this goddamn booth and fuck her on its own—but I do know the rules. I know how this works and as much as I want to, I won’t be fucking her tonight. From what Elena says, I may not get to fuck her at all, but I won’t be dissuaded so easily.
She has mercy on me—if you can call it that—puts her lollipop back in her mouth and turns around in her seat. A few more moments of that fiery gaze and I might have succumbed, to whatever she wanted to do. Fuck, I’m not a submissive… never have, never will… will I?
“So,” I say, unable to tame my aching dick any longer, “what’s good on the menu tonight?” Her tongue lathes over her lollipop and my mouth is watering again.
“Blondie has a delightful caramel beauty over there that really needs to get the fuck off the floor,” she says without looking at me. “You can see if she’s willing to share. Then, there’s the yellow-haired hottie who just walked away, though she indicated that she’s not interested in sex.”
“Kind of like you,” I say, feeling her out.
“Nothing like me,” she says, without hesitation. The fact that she can retort without a pause or a flinch is unnerving and intriguing at the same time. She’s powerful, unshaken, seductive, and sure. She reminds me of someone…
“Or, I could have them both,” I say, more to myself than to her.
“Go get ‘em, killer,” she says—again, without a flinch. I turn my eyes to her swan-like neck peeking out from flawless red hair and leading down to a delectably inviting cleavage.
“No chance with you?” I say seductively.
“I choose… Trey.”
That deliberate pause before she addresses you… it’s fucking maddening.
“Not tonight then,” I say, hiding my disappointment. “I’ll see you ‘round, Golden,” I say, penning her phrase.
“Oh, joy,” she responds, and the sarcasm isn’t lost on me. I trudge over to Elena, trying not to look like a rejected puppy. She smiles a knowing smile at me.
“Back so soon?” she taunts.
“Are you sharing tonight?” I ask.
“What? Crash and burn with the Golden Girl?” she continues, ignoring my question.
“Fuck you, Elena!” I hiss, my skin nearly lifting from my body in contempt—and anger that I couldn’t seal the deal with the gilded goddess.
“You said you didn’t want to!” she retorts, seething, her own eyes narrowing while she mocks me. “You can call me by my name, but I can’t call you by yours?”
You did it three times tonight, Bitch. I get a pass.
“Are you fucking sharing or not?” I hiss. She pauses for a moment.
“Take your pick,” she says, gesturing to the plethora of girls surrounding her. I examine each of them—the same look on all of them that I always see in a submissive. Still no fucking thrill. Then I remember Golden’s words…
Blondie has a delightful caramel beauty over there that really needs to get the fuck off the floor.
I look down at her feet and see a shapely black woman wearing a thong, a mop of long, naturally-curly brown hair falling over her face. I hold my hand out to Elena. Displeasure shrouds her expression.
“Not her,” she says. “She’s my primary submissive tonight.”
I won’t fucking be denied twice.
“You told me to take my pick. Now, are you fucking. Sharing. Or not?” I challenge her. Her jaw sets and she reluctantly hands me the leash.
“Stand,” I address the submissive on the floor. I don’t even need to know her name. She rises gracefully and I’m almost angered at how she looks. Her knees have bruises and imprints from the carpeting. She must have been there for hours.
“Is she being punished?” I ask Elena. She shrugs.
“No,” she says. “No malfeasances… yet.” I turn and lead the sub away from her. I put my hand under her chin and raise her face to mine.
“Look at me,” I command. She raises hazel eyes to me and I almost see Golden. Yes, she’ll do nicely.
“You’re not a submissive tonight,” I tell her. “I want to fuck—long, hard, and rough. I’ll be looking for a third to join us. Do you understand?” She nods.
“I do,” she replies, correctly leaving the Sir off the address. I nod.
“Petra tests all of her subs. Are you clean?” I ask. She nods.
“Mistress can attest to it,” she replies.
“Birth control?” I probe. She nods again.
“Mistress insists,” she says, “in case I must fuck another sub and she wants him to come inside me.”
“Can I come inside you?” I ask. We have to lay ground rules before we begin.
“Yes, Si… Yes, you may,” she nods. I lead her towards the private rooms and at the opening of the hallway, I see the second girl… the “yellow-haired hottie” that Golden rejected earlier.
“Ménage à trois,” I say. “Will you play?” Her pupils dilate and she breathily answers, “Yes, Sir.”
“Not subs tonight,” I say, as I release the collar from Caramel—that’s what I’ll call her. “I plan to fuck you hard and for a really long time. Are you clean? Tell me now because I have condoms and if you’re not, I’ll find you!”
“I’m a regular here,” she responds. “Regular clearances are required in order to approach the clientele.” I know this to be true. I turn to one of the dungeon monitors and another silent conversation ensues. He nods, already knowing my question without my having to answer. I proceed to the hallway and another dungeon monitor.
“Room seven is available,” he says, and I lead my tasty treats down the hallway…
Golden is still in the back of my mind.
A/N: And the Golden saga begins. I won’t be updating this story every week. It will be updated as it is written as I’m still working on Raising Grey. The Pinterest board for this story can be found at https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/fifty-shades-golden/.
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.