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 necessarily CG with Ana together. Proceed at your own discretion, but don’t say that I didn’t warn you.
Fifty Shades Golden
About a week after Blondie invaded my office, I get a call from Trey.
“Mistress, if you’re available, I need to see you tonight.”
“I’m at the club. I have another client…”
“I’m here, too. I’m not appropriately dressed…” which meant that he was still in his work clothes.
“I’ll be done in an hour. Meet me at the house.”
“Thank you, Mistress.”
So, here he is, and I must say, I’m beating the hell out of him and he’s only flinching and barely that. His mind is way somewhere else. He’s not in subspace; he hasn’t had an opportunity to get there yet. Wherever the fuck he is, though, he’s going to have to come back here to me or I can do some serious damage.
He’s like leather tonight. The usual techniques are doing nothing to break him down. I even resort to some heavier artillery—canes, snake whips, leather straps… I even try to break him down by striking the most tender parts of him—between and behind his thighs, behind his knees, over his shoulders… Nothing’s working.
The only way to break Trey down is his joystick. He’s Sampson in the playroom, but his strength and weakness isn’t in his hair, it’s in his dick. His back is striped like a candy cane and I can’t break him down this way, so I stop with the carriage lunge whip. If I keep going, it’ll only leave open wounds that’ll smart later, but do nothing for him now. That doesn’t serve me or him in our current capacity.
It’s late now and we’ve been at it for quite some time. It was around the six o’clock hour when he called me. A few minutes later, and he wouldn’t have gotten me. I, of course, don’t take calls in session, and I don’t like to rush. As instructed, he came to my house and waited for me, even though it took longer than I thought. Blake informs me that he sat as still as a statue in the parlor for forty minutes until I returned.
I worked Laciter over quite badly in the observation room at Crimson tonight. I had stopped frequenting that club for a while until I learned that Blondie has effectively been banned from the scene, partially because of me and partially because of her own reputation. I’m told that she brutalized one of her submissives so badly that the girl had to be hospitalized. She chose to leave the scene and having nothing to lose with bad bruises on her face, the girl spread the word of Madame Petra’s clear and unleashed brutality. Not only did Blondie quickly lose her submissives, but she also lost her standing completely in the community and with the clubs.
To that end, it’s easier for me to see my clients at Crimson again instead of traveling to the clubs further away—unless I feel so inclined. That’s where I was when I got the call from Trey. I had a client before him, but he was willing to wait. Neither of us wants our situationship on public display, so he agreed to meet me here once I was finished with Laciter.
Now, here he is, having taken acrylic paddles, whips, crops, and floggers to nearly every exposed part of his body and he hasn’t even broken a sweat.
“Wait here,” I say from behind him and await his acknowledgement. It’s not like he can go anywhere. He’s chained to the ceiling. Nonetheless, it’s the principle…
“Yes, Mistress,” he says obediently, his voice a tad labored. He’s carrying quite a load today. I go over to my toy drawer and open it. The Fleshlight won’t do tonight, we need something else. As I’m pondering which toy to use, the strangest thing comes to mind…
“Mistress, I have a confession.” Blake comes to me while I’m having my breakfast on Friday morning the week just after the ball. He rarely has anything to confess that I don’t already know, so when he says this, I pay attention.
“Sit,” I say, gesturing to the chair across from me. “Talk to me.”
“I paid Mrs. Lincoln a little visit.” I set my coffee on the table.
“Why… why in the world would you go see Mrs. Lincoln?” I ask.
“Because no matter how many times you caution her, she still doesn’t seem to understand. I thought she might need a little persuading.” He says coolly. He scrolls through his phone and slides it over to me. A video begins to play. At first, it’s shaky and dark, and then it’s clear. It’s a bedroom, quite elaborate, with a figure sleeping in the bed. I can see it very clearly.
Another figure goes over to the sleeping figure. He covers her mouth just as she wakes, and he puts his finger over his mouth in a silencing motion.
“I’m going to move my hand,” the masked man says, and I immediately recognize Blake’s voice speaking in an American accent. I didn’t even know that he can do that. “If you scream, I’ll leave, but before I do, I’m going to break your neck. Do you understand?”
Frightened blue eyes look back at her assailant and she nods quickly. It’s Blondie.
“Good,” he says, and he moves his hand from her mouth.
“Are you really foolish enough to think you can make her heel?” he asks, caressing her blonde tresses. She’s clearly—and rightfully—confused.
“Don’t you know who she is? Don’t you understand the power that she wields? Do you have any idea at all who you’re dealing with? Do you have any idea how many powerful people kneel at her feet, and you’re trying to disturb that balance?”
He gently touches her cheek and she visibly shivers. I can see the moment realization dawns in her eyes. There’s a mixture of fear and resentment there now. She clearly thinks I sent him.
“No, Mistress,” he says the word with utter disdain, reading her reaction just as I did, “she doesn’t know that I’m here. She has no idea. So, if I snap your neck and leave, she’ll be just as surprised as the rest of the world to find out you’ll no longer be a nuisance to her.” He cocks his head and examines her. “Should I do that? Hmm?” he asks as if he were talking to a cashier at a sales counter about a scent of perfume. “Should I give her that gift?”
“Why?” Elena asks, her voice more breath than sound. “Why would you want to kill me?”
“That’s the wrong question, Mistress,” Blake corrects her. “The appropriate question should be why do I want to eradicate this problem. Once you understand that question, the next question should be. What. Problem.” He silently gazes at her and waits for an answer.
“I… don’t know what you mean,” she says, so frightened that I’m certain that she has pissed on those satin sheets.
“Sure, you do,” he says, his voice almost accommodating as he places his fingers under her chin to gently lift her face to his. If you didn’t know better, you would swear that he was spending tender moments with a lover. “Think hard, Mistress. How many ‘she’s’ are you attempting to destroy, or are there really that many? I have all night if you need to think about it.” She shakes her head and swallows hard.
“I’m…” She swallows again. “I’m not trying… to destroy her,” she says.
“Mistress,” Blake purrs, and the way he says it makes my skin crawl. There’s no reverence whatsoever in the way he’s using it. He’s mocking her. He might as well be calling her lizard or maggot or something equally as disgusting. “Humor me, then. What’s the purpose of your exercise? First, you dangle a tempting little carrot in her face, then you become angry when she bites it. Then, you expose her to a narcissistic troglodyte in a public setting, failing to exercise any discretion for your station or hers. Now, she’s feeling a bit of concern for the influential people in her life who like for their private lives to remain private. However, your attire and behavior at the ball as well as the behavior of your tactless husband has given her reason to believe that you have thrown caution to the wind and that your actions and lack of discretion may pose a problem for those previously mentioned influential people.”
“Let me assure you,” Elena says, her voice shaking, “I’m more than aware of the importance of discretion, and I would never… say anything out of line to cause any… discomfort or… or problem.”
“Oh, but you already have,” Blake taunts, “or have you so quickly forgotten your spouse’s disrespectful behavior towards her that evening? It’s no secret. Several people saw and heard you, notwithstanding any further rumors you spread that evening. Who can undo that damage, Mistress?” He’s closing in for the kill, and now I’m certain that there are bodily fluids on those sheets underneath her.
“It was harmless locker-room talk, I swear!” she blurts out, confirming that she did spread some type of rumors about me at the ball that night. I’ll never find out what all she said, and neither will Blake, no matter how he frightens her. She’s beginning to fall apart, and he can tell, but he’s not quite finished with her.
“Speaking of troglodytes, where is your frosted groom? I would have liked to talk to him, too. It’s quite the late hour for him not to be sharing the marital bed with his betrothed.” Elena stiffens.
“He’s… away.” Blake doesn’t react.
“Indeed,” he says. “Poor Mistress, who is there to revere you?” He strokes her hair in a way that should be comforting but causes her to shiver. “Sleep now, Mistress.”
I don’t see what he does next, but his hand moves quickly and she’s out like a light. He turns off the bedside lamp and retrieves the recording device, and the video ends.
“Is she hurt?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “She just… slept well.”
I look over at Trey, still hanging from my ceiling, still tense as ever, and think of the last time I saw Elena at one of the clubs. I think it was Fantasy and she hadn’t been banned yet. I felt the need to bring Jesse with me that night for some reason and I’m glad I did. I had told her many times to stay the fuck away from me. Apparently, even after Blake’s visit, she still didn’t get the message. The woman has a death wish…
She’s in black latex Domme garb from head to toe. Those heels have to be six to eight inches high. Her corset has her waist cinched in so tight that I swear she looks like she can’t even breathe. Her hair has been freshly cut and dyed and is sitting on top of her head like a glowing bob halo. Her crimson red lipstick and vamp makeup is highly defined, and I must admit, she looks fantastic.
She marches over to me with purpose, pulled up to her full height—plus some—and fearless. Someone should have warned her…
“You’ve crossed the line this time, you little counterfeit poser,” she hisses when she gets to my table. Jesse moves to subdue her, and I raise my hand to stop him. She throws a glance over at him, clearly not recognizing the threat that he poses to her. She knows that he doesn’t have a gun in here and that I won’t risk fighting her in the club
“That’s right, sit down, puppy,” she barks. “This conversation has nothing to do with you.” I see the vein pulsing in Jesse’s head.
“I’m not a sub, bitch,” Jesse seethes. “I will leap from this seat and beat you down where you stand and swear that you leapt at her first.” I said that I wouldn’t fight her. I never said anything about Jesse. Elena’s mouth falls open.
“You would strike a lady?” she nearly growls.
“I don’t see a lady!” Jesse retorts. “Now, state your business and leave. I thought you were told to stay the fuck away. Maybe you’ll adhere to those instructions if I choke you until that stitched-up ashen-white face turns blue!”
She tries to pretend like his words don’t unnerve her, but she’s clearly shaken. Nonetheless, she’s still pretty brave when she turns her attention back to me.
“You’ve gone completely mad!” she accuses through her teeth. “How dare you send someone to my home! My home! I could end you in so many ways for this!” She looks over at Jesse. “Was this the Neanderthal you sent to assault me in my sleep?” she hisses. “You can’t take a few harsh words, you sappy little pussy? You send thugs in the middle of the night to do your dirty work? And you call yourself a fucking Domme? You’re shit! You’re nothing! You can’t stand on your own two feet or fight your own battles! I don’t know why I even bothered with you in the first place. You’re a waste of my fucking time! You’re such a goddamn disappointment. Here I thought I was dethroning the next big thing when the entire time, I was just sparring with a scared little girl. You make me ill!”
She should have quit while she was ahead.
I sit back in my seat and cross my legs, shaking my head at this pathetic excuse of a woman.
“You should have listened,” I say, definitively. “You should have fucking listened.” Her brow furrows as I settle into my seat.
“I tried to tell you before you fucked with me, before you made me a goddamn enemy, to watch your step. I warned you more times than I can count that I knew people that you didn’t want to meet, and that you didn’t want to piss me off. I waved that red flag in your face so many times that I surprised even myself with how many times I warned you to back the fuck off. But you—the great Mistress Lincoln, the impeccable Madame Petra—you couldn’t get a clue if it fell out of the sky and shit on your head.”
Her blue eyes pierce fiercely at me, but it only emboldens me. You want to go head to head, bitch? Bring it. I’m ready for you, now.
“Do you really think that if I was out for your ass, if I really wanted to fucking destroy you, that I would have aimed at your measly little salons?” I taunt fiendishly. “Do you think that little of me, that I would pull the rug from under your little pick-and-peel palaces? That’s not where your heart is, Elena. That’s where your money is. There are so many other ways I can torment you if that was my goal. Yeah, your salons may have been a death blow once I brought you to your knees in other ways and you were pulling what’s left of your blonde hair out by its gray roots, but that wouldn’t be where I started. That wouldn’t be the opening fucking act. That’s like firing a warning shot. I fired several warning shots at your blind, deaf, and dumb ass when I kept telling you to leave me the fuck alone, that you weren’t in my league.”
I lean forward on the table now that I have her attention and remove my sunglasses. I’m wearing the cat-eye contacts, so I know they’re a bit unnerving as I glare at her.
“This is where your heart is, Blondie. This is where you feel your power. I’m the biggest threat to your center—your very core—and you’ll do anything in your power to get rid of me, but will you sacrifice yourself in the pursuit? Because that’s what you’re really doing. Every time something happens in your sorry little life or your little bubble gets shaken, you come sauntering over to me having a goddamn temper tantrum like a fucking toddler. Your status, your standing, your very existence all seem to be precariously teetering on my presence. But know that my success, my greatness doesn’t have shit to do with you!
“You dabble in the art of sadism, Blondie, but pain is my forte. Agony is my masterpiece. I have a knack for it, and the taste is exquisite—or did you forget that I get off on watching people squirm? I already told you that I don’t do women, but if you want to be the first female to suffer at my hands, that’s fine. I’ll oblige. I’ll make you writhe just like the rest of them. The only difference is you won’t enjoy it!”
I growl the last few words at her and see the same shiver that Blake’s voice elicited from her on the video I watched last week.
“Who do you know that can come into my home undetected, film me while I’m sleeping, wait until I wake, and tell me not to fuck with you, then leave without a broken bone or a bullet in their skull? Hmm?” I taunt, and her eyes widen.
“F… film me?” she says, now quite visibly shaken.
“Yes, bitch, film you,” I confirm. “And to answer your fucking questions, no, it wasn’t him,” I say, gesturing at Jesse, “and no, I didn’t send the guy. You did. You talk too fucking much and your words fell on the wrong ears. I didn’t know that little visit occurred until after the entire thing was over. You say that other people are doing my dirty work, you might be right about that, but not at my command. They clean up my messes before I even see them. It’s called respect and reverence and I don’t even have to pay for it.
“I know your game now, and I can play it better than you ever will. You wanna play with me? Let’s fucking play. You have your minions, you little blonde bitch, and I have mine. Yours are pretty and like to crawl around on the floor with leashes around their necks in the hopes of garnering your attention, approval, and trinkets. Mine are in powerful positions everywhere; they gag for the pain that I inflict, and they show up in the bedrooms of my enemies at night and leave them unconscious. Contrary to your prior deduction, I’m not a scared little girl. I’m a sadistic bitch with my hands on the proverbial leashes of several powerful people, each of whom can bring you to your goddamn knees and don’t you ever fucking forget it!”
All the color has left Elena’s face and she looks as if she’s going to pass out right there in the middle of the club across from my table. You’ve underestimated me yet again, you stupid cunt. I’m going to make sure that this is the last time you make that mistake.
“I won’t tell you to stay away from me again, because you don’t listen, so hear this. The next time you approach me, don’t say anything. Just expect a fucking fight. And know this, Lincoln—I will fight to the death. Oh, and tell that creepy ass husband of yours not to try to contact me again or I’ll bury you both in the same fucking grave. And don’t think the clubs are going to save you, because if you feel so brave as to approach me at one of the clubs, all bets are off. I’ll make sure that all of the clubs that I frequent know that!”
I glare at her for a few more moments to drive my point home before I don Trey’s Luxuriator sunglasses, cross my legs again and put my lollipop back in my mouth. Stretching my arms out over the back of the booth, I glare at her through my sunglasses. I’ve thrown down the gauntlet, Blondie. The next move is yours.
But the final move will be mine.
The final move indeed. That poor bitch won’t know what hit her when this class-action lawsuit is over and if I put my mind to it, I can find some other ways to torment her as well. A small smile graces my face when I finish my trip down Memory Lane, and my eyes fall on just the tool I need to break Trey’s resolve.
He’s tense—wow, that’s an understatement. He’s tighter than a fan belt! If his muscles were any tighter, his bones would be breaking. Swedish massage is often used when muscles are tight and need to be brutally broken down. I’m certainly not going to give him a massage and even if I were, that type of massage in his Sampson area would bring the man to tears and render him useless for weeks.
I’m sadistic, but I’m not fucking insane.
However, he does need a merciless massage and I have a toy that I don’t use because its intention is to bring the show to a magnificent finish very quickly—the Hot Octopus Pulse III Penis Massager. It’s a magic little thing that fits in the palm of your hand, but when you put it on a dick—flaccid or erect—magic happens, and the best part… it’s hands free!
I take it from the drawer and walk back over to my subject.
“It’s been a pretty bad day, huh, Chopper?” I say softly. His gaze is fixed in front of him, but my voice brings his eyes to me. His pupils dilate and his biceps flex and contract. He usually needs a little pain with his pleasure. Today, he needs some pleasure with his pain.
The battle is fierce, but the Pulse III is winning. He can’t keep quiet. The stimulation from this vibrator is scientifically tested and medically proven to bring maximum stimulation and produce positive results even to men suffering from erectile dysfunction.
In other words, he’s getting the sensual electronic stimulus of his life!
“Uh…” he groans sensually as the Pulse digs deep into his loins and pulls out the ultimate pleasure. I punish him—or reward him, who knows which it is at this point—with a whack on his already striped back with the flogger. His resolve is broken now, and he groans loudly at the strike, his dick flexing violently.
“Ah!” he cries out… and again, repeatedly, though I’ve only hit him two more times.
It took one hell of a beating to get here, but his legs bend and his thighs flex, showing me that deliciously pulsing muscle right at his anus, firing that luscious juice through his beautiful cock. I watch the streams squirt out far as he grunts painfully, an orgasm physically ripped from his body after a couple of hours of torture. He can’t do another one. I’m good at what I do, and I know that his body can’t take it. That beautiful dick pulses over and over, giving every offering that he has in one magnificent swan song.
He grunts and shivers and shakes, pulling on the leather cuffs that have him restrained to the ceiling so that his legs can open wider. He’s puffing and panting and coming like it’s his last time ever. I’m mesmerized by the sight. My God, that gorgeous cock, veiny and angry and giving and giving and giving. At one point, I cup his balls and gently caress the muscle behind his anus, just so that I could feel it pulse under my fingertips.
I thought the man was going to cry.
Finally, the symphony is over, and he falls helpless and limp, hanging from the cuffs in the ceiling. I spring into action, removing the cum-splattered lining from the floor and replacing it with a microfiber blanket. I release the pulley that has him attached to the ceiling and slowly lower him to the floor and the microfiber blanket. He’s totally spent, completely out of breath.
He’s multi-orgasmic, but not this time.
I undo the leather cuffs and lay his hands gently on the floor. He’s laid out flat on his stomach, his skin flaming in multi-shades of red, from pink to deep maroon, nearly crimson. We didn’t break any skin, but his back, butt, and legs look like he was at the worst end of a fight with a tiger. I kneel down next to his head.
“Chopper?” I say his name softly while stroking his hair.
“Hmm?” he responds without opening his eyes.
“Call Blake if you need him,” I instruct. “He’s in the same place.”
You’d be a fool not to.
“Hmm…” he replies, unable to say much more. I have to go for a cooldown… now. For some unknown reason, I’m all nerves.
It takes ten minutes of Tupac and gold-laced vodka to bring my nerves to heel. Trey makes sure that I have a steady flow of that alloy-infused elixir. And speaking of Trey…
“Blaaake…” his weak, sing-songy voice wafts up the stairs once my nerves have finally calmed. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a submissive or client that was so tense, I couldn’t break them. I literally—literally—had to break Trey to get him to release what was holding him. Not just his resolve… I had to break him. It can be a bit unnerving.
The pain I inflict serves a dual purpose—it helps to release the endorphins in the subject while satisfying the sadist in me. Unless I hate you or I’m getting you back for something—revenge or what have you—blindly inflicting pain with no response and no result does nothing for me. I like the control of making you feel; the power of being on the other end of the stick. That’s why I don’t do mindless fucking or mindless whipping.
This is the first time that he’s used Blake’s services. Part of my curiosity wants to watch. The other part of my displaced nerves wants to cook.
I choose the latter.
If he gets the full aftercare treatment, he’ll be 30 minutes. I believe he should take a bath, but I know that he won’t. He’s been down there for 10 already, so unless Blake does something that he considers inappropriate, he’ll be at least another 20.
I chop a few redskin potatoes while allowing my raw chicken to warm. When the water is boiling, I add the potatoes—skin on—and turn my attention to the chicken. The vegetable oil is already warming when I season with seasoned salt, lemon pepper and black pepper. I coat a few pieces in flour and put it in the hot oil to fry. I already have green beans picked and snapped in the refrigerator, so I add them to a saucepan of already boiling water as well.
I quickly set the dining table—one chair with a memory foam cushion—and go back to the kitchen to turn my chicken.
The potatoes are finished as are the green beans. I pour them in separate strainers and check my chicken again. I allow the water to seep from my beans as I pour the potatoes in a bowl and add cream, butter, salt and pepper. I whip them partially with a mixer, just enough to thoroughly mix the ingredients, but keep nice chunks of potato in the mix. A pat or two of butter and a few slivered almonds and the green beans are complete.
One last turn of the chicken and I can remove it from the oil. I take covered dishes of potatoes and green beans out to the table and come back to the kitchen. I remove my chicken from the oil and place it on a draining tray. I uncork a bottle of white wine and put it in the ice bucket I just filled, taking the bucket out to the table as well. Nearly twenty minutes has passed, and still no Trey.
He opted for the full treatment—maybe even a bath.
I go back to the kitchen and put my chicken on a small serving tray. This time when I enter the dining room, Trey and Blake are standing there both in their shirt sleeves. Blake’s are rolled to his elbows and he’s still wearing his vest. He’s carrying Trey’s jacket, vest, and tie over his arm.
“Sit, here, please, sir,” Blake says, pulling out the chair with the memory foam cushion. Trey looks at him, then at me, and takes the seat that Blake is offering. Blake places his clothes on a chair in the corner and turns back to me.
“Thank you, Blake,” I say.
“Mistress,” he nods and leaves the room.
“Mistress… I didn’t know you cooked,” Trey says. He still looks a bit spent, but much better than he did when I left him in the dungeon.
“Don’t get used to it,” I warn. “This helps me relax. You just happened to be present for it.” I pour him a glass of white wine before I take my seat. “This was… an unusual session for us,” I say, filling my own glass.
“Yes, it was,” he agrees, filling his plate with the sides.
“What happened today?” I ask. I don’t make eye contact with him. I put chicken on my plate and proceed with the mashed potatoes. It sounds like a question, Chopper, but it’s not. Tell me what happened.
“I…” He trails off.
“You weren’t yourself,” I complete, putting green beans on my plate before moving my silverware and placing my napkin in my lap. “Tell me what happened.”
“Where do I start?” he mumbles.
“Start with the situation that had you standing in my playroom like petrified wood,” I say, finally bringing my brown eyes to his grays. He sighs and shakes his head.
“Why do I even try?” he laments, and I’m not really sure what he’s talking about. Nonetheless… “For the last few weeks, I’ve been acquiring the harvesting rights for several North American lumber yards…”
He tells me the entire story about locking down the lumber trade as much as possible so that Caldwell Lincoln’s lumber empire would be dependent on a relationship with Grey Enterprises Holdings. I get all the dirty details about the Rockford asshole being ready to tuck tail and run at the mention of Lincoln’s name and the warnings that he has given him to “grow a pair or quit.” Trey makes it a point to tell me that he has not been and really currently isn’t interested in being the next lumber king, but once I told him about Lincoln’s inappropriate behavior towards me, all he could think of was bringing this fucker down, but in a way so that he couldn’t readily get back up. It’s profitable for GEH per se, but the entire gesture is more as tribute to me.
Bring the man’s entire empire down… That’s some impressive ass fucking tribute!
He continues by telling me that Lincoln got wind of what he was doing—and how could he not? You’re locking down all his North American interests. Anyway, he shows up at GEH demanding an explanation or… something. He got the fight that he was looking for, which wasn’t much for a physically fit 30-something-year-old man versus a middle-aged, average-build silver fox. Trey admits that he taunts Lincoln about having slept with his wife while Lincoln was making families across the world, but to no avail. The news angered him, but still not enough to produce a worthy opponent in hand-to-hand combat.
“So, this development caused you to tighten up the way that you did?”
“The whole thing caused it,” he admits. “I want him to go away, and his little dog, too. He’s constantly throwing himself in my face like he’s a big fish when he’s nothing more than a guppy swimming in an ocean of sharks, of which I’m only one! He’s lazy, cocky, and arrogant, and he doesn’t have shit to back it up with. He brings his blowhard ass to my building, looking for a showdown, and then when he gets there talking his usual shit, he can’t back it up! I hit the man three, maybe four times, and he was done. He released the goddamn Kraken and didn’t have shit to feed him!”
He’s angry again. We can’t have that.
“Have a drink, Trey. Eat,” I command. He gulps down his wine and takes an inhuman bite of his chicken. When the taste hits his tongue…”
“Wow,” he says with a mouth full of chicken, “this is really good.”
“Thank you,” I say, eating more of my dinner. “You’re surprised.” He nods.
“I am,” he says, his mouth still full. “I pegged you for more of the pampered type… Mistress,” he says with a shrug. I nod.
“Understandable misconception,” I say pouring him another glass of wine. “A girl has to be able to take care of herself, just in case.” I put the wine back on the table. “Tell me, without losing your temper. Why didn’t you just beat and fuck a sub tonight? I’m sure it would have served the purpose. You needed a testosterone release…”
“Because I didn’t want to touch a sub,” he interrupts, uncharacteristically. “I would have hurt her—really hurt her. I didn’t want that.”
So, he’s into inflicting pain, but not into being brutal. Definitely not a sadist.
“You may want to try to release some of that testosterone first when you find yourself that wound up. Certain techniques only work so many times.” He frowns.
“You mean like jacking off?” he says. Ugh… that sounds so… common.
“No,” I reply, dryly, “like an extreme workout, to take the edge off.” He scoffs, then chuckles. “Something funny, Trey?”
“I apologize, Mistress,” he says, his voice filled with mirth. “Something someone said to me recently about ‘the edge’.” He waves the comment off and takes another healthy bite of his chicken, quietly moaning his satisfaction once again.
“Tell me about Rockford,” I say. “He was cocky enough when I met him. What happened?”
Dinner and two bottles of wine later, I know way more than I wanted to know about Trey, including the fact that the submissive that Elena defaced was the same one that he had been fucking for months and then ceremoniously dismissed—the beautiful black girl that Elena had paraded in front of me as her latest acquisition. Why would anybody want to deface a beautiful, exquisite-looking woman like that? And Trey fucked her for months, so she must have been a sweet piece of ass. Like I said, that woman isn’t sadistic—she plays at sadism, but she’s not the real thing. However, she is psychotic!
Hours later, the Trey that I know has returned and is ready to go home. He’s much more tranquil and his breathing is even, his shoulders relaxed. He stops at the door and I’m showing him out.
“I’ve never stopped to talk to my submissives,” he says. “I beat them, if I so desire, we fuck, they leave. They serve a purpose for me—to release stress and get me off.” I laugh.
“Which is exactly what I do,” I say with mirth.
“Mistress…” He trails off. That one word and that tone speaks volumes.
“This is why you’re clients, Trey,” I remind him. “We serve a completely different purpose in each other’s lives altogether. Had you left here carrying the same burdens you had when you arrived, what’s my purpose?”
He raises his brow and twists his lip, nodding in agreement.
“I enjoy what I do, but I also provide a service. Anybody can make you come, Trey.” I raise a brow at him. The corner of his mouth curls and he takes my hand.
“Thank you,” he says softly, bringing my hand to his lips and placing a soft kiss there. “Goodnight, my Mistress.”
“Goodnight, Trey,” I say as he releases my hand. “Drive safely.” He nods and walks out. I close the door behind him. Blake immerges from his hiding place and heads to the dining room to clear the table.
“Full treatment?” I ask as he stacks the plates.
“Yes, Mistress,” he replies. “No bath. His welts were deep but did not break the skin. He took quite the lashing.”
“That, he did,” I confirm. “Was he terribly uncomfortable?”
“He was, just a bit,” Blake says. “He’s a man’s man. He won’t take that treatment often, but he wouldn’t have gotten off the floor had he not. The testosterone release sucked what was left of his energy and he had no strength left to fend off the pain. He would have slept there. I tend to believe he tried and fail to get up a few times before he gave in and called for help.”
“I tend to believe you’re right,” I say, taking the wine bottles from the table and following him into the kitchen.
“Mistress, leave this to me. You’ve had a long evening. Please… retire. You need to regroup as well.” I have to admit that I do feel the effects of the evening beginning to descend upon me. I tiptoe and kiss Blake on the cheek.
“Goodnight, Blake,” I say.
It seems like I had just closed my eyes when I hear my phone ring. What the hell?
I look at my phone. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
“It’s late, Trey,” I say, trying not to sound as irritated as I am. What I hear next makes me sure that I must still be in a sleeping/dreaming/hallucinating kind of state. When he repeats it and explains the situation, I sit straight up in my bed throwing the covers off me.
“Blake!” I yell instinctively, getting more information from Trey as I stumble out of bed. Once I get all the information that he can give me for now, I turn my attention to Blake.
“Blake, I need Christian Grey’s background check, please,” I say as I go to my dressing room. I remove my robe and quickly don the first bra and panty set that I see. I snatch the nearest pair of jeans from the shelf. I haven’t worn jeans in forever and these fuckers are painted on. No matter, I don’t plan to be there long. I grab a warm cashmere sweater and slide into a pair of stilettos. I snatch a warm Italian leather bomber jacket from its hanger and exit my dressing room to see Blake standing there with the file I requested. He’s also in his robe, pajamas, and slippers, waiting expectantly.
“Thank you, Blake. I’m sorry I had to wake you at this hour…” Then it dawns on me. Blake has a home of his own. I called his name out of habit, but he should have left by now.
“Blake why are you here?” I ask. “It’s not a problem, of course, but… why?”
“Going home was too much of a trial for me today, Mistress,” he admits. “I may need to chat with you about that at a later time, but right now, you seem in a hurry. Is everything alright with Mr. Grey?”
“No, Blake, unfortunately it is not.” I take the background check from him and open to the first page. I dial the number listed for his penthouse. It rings a few times before a gentleman answers the phone.
“Grey Residence,” he says crisply.
“Hello, is this Taylor?”
“It is,” he replies. “To whom am I speaking?”
“This is Anastasia Olivet,” I reply. “I just received a call from Mr. Grey. He’s in jail.”
“Excuse me… what, ma’am?” My sentiments exactly.
“Your boss is in jail in Kirkland,” I clarify. “He’s been accused of attacking Elena Lincoln and I’m going down there to alibi him out. From the small timeline he gave me, he came straight to me after he left you, and we were together until he went home and was arrested. His whereabouts can be accounted for several hours before, during, and after her attack.” Taylor sighs.
“I’ll call his attorney,” he says.
“Good idea. I’m on my way to the Kirkland Jail…”
“Ms. Olivet, I’m Detective Nathan Hughes and this is my partner, Detective Rita Bhingman.” He extends his hand to shake mine and I oblige. In my line of work—and play—I have to make a judgement of character in the first 30 seconds of meeting you. This one was easy. Nate is the good cop, Rita is the bad. Her attitude is oozing off her the minute she enters the room. I don’t make the mistake of proffering my hand to her before she proffers it to me, and I already know that she won’t.
“What do we need to do?” I ask. “I’d like to get Mr. Grey out of here as soon as possible.” Rita examines my attire distastefully.
“You his lawyer?” she asks in a condescending tone.
“No,” I reply. “I’m his alibi. Like I told your desk sergeant, I am an attorney, but not Mr. Grey’s… yet.” She says nothing. “I’m courting him,” I add.
Hughes raises his brow at me, causing me to roll my eyes.
“Not like that, you imp!” I retort. “Do I strike you as a woman who needs to court someone?”
“Well, like what?” Bad Cop retorts. I laugh in her face.
“You did hear the part where I’m an attorney, right?” I say cockily before folding my arms and sitting back in my seat.
“Ms. Olivet, if you don’t mind telling us,” Hughes chimes in, “why was Mr. Grey at your home last night? It’ll go a long way in validating his alibi.”
“It was a social call—well, mostly social,” I tell him. “For the sake of discretion, I’m not inclined to give you all the dirty details, as they’re not needed to substantiate his alibi…”
Yes, Mr. Officer, I beat the hell out of him for a couple of hours and he couldn’t even move for about 20 – 30 minutes, let alone give that plucked, bleached cow the beating that she so rightfully deserves.
“However,” I continue, “I can tell you that he arrived at my home around 6:30—I’ll have to check with my butler to get the exact time—and he was there until nearly midnight. Among other things, we talked shop, discussed quite a few topics. He mentioned that he may be seeking new legal counsel,” I turn to Bad Cop. “That’s why I’m courting him.” I turn back to Hughes. “He’s a billionaire. I’m sure he has one of those trackers in his car. Why don’t you check that?”
“That’s convenient,” she says. “A nice little tidy package.” I glare at her and shake my head.
“You all have this routine down very well,” I say, turning back to Hughes and pointing between the two of them, “she’s acting like a real bitch.” Her glare sharpens at me.
“It’s not an act,” he says, but I don’t think he meant to say it out loud. Her head snaps to him and I don’t bother hiding my giggle-snort.
“I don’t like women like you,” she declares, glaring at me through narrowed eyes.
“Women like what?” I hiss. “You don’t even know me; you just think you do. I come sauntering in here in my jeans, Italian leather jacket, and high-heeled shoes and you’ve already got me pegged, huh, Bhingman? You have no idea who I really am and if you did, it would wipe that smug look right off your face. I have all due respect for law enforcement. Believe it or not, we’re on the same team—I only want to see justice done, but don’t think for one second that you’re going to walk in here and bully me because that, my friend, is not going to happen
“You don’t like me because we’re just alike and you can’t strongarm me. Or I should say that you’re trying to get to where I already am. You’re a woman in a man’s world, overcompensating and trying to be a badass. I’m not overcompensating, detective. I am a badass. While you’re putting on this act and charade pretending to be more than you are, I just let the real me shine through. Let the fucking chips fall where they may, because what you see is what you get!”
“Maybe you wouldn’t be so goddamn cocky if you spent a couple of hours in a holding cell with a few real badasses,” she threatens.
“Go ahead,” I reply, folding my arms, unshaken. “I’ll sue your fucking dog for its fur—and win!” And that’ll be the least of your worries. Apparently, Hughes grows weary of the face-off, rolls his eyes and stands.
“We’re done here. Ms. Olivet, you’re free to go.” He heads to the door and Bad Cop is still leaning over the table glaring at me.
“Bhingman!” he says, causing her to flinch. “We’re done here!”
She straightens her back and leaves the room, never breaking her gaze from me until she’s out of sight.
Yeah, she’s a real pill. I know the type—no kids; divorced once, maybe twice because her dick was bigger than her husband’s. I stand and grab my jacket, then go in search of the ladies’ room.
After relieving myself and washing my hands in a surprisingly clean ladies’ room, I don my leather jacket, fluff my hair, and touch up my lipstick. Trey might as well see something desirable when they release him.
As I’m leaving the restroom, I can hear Hughes and Bad Cop… Bhingman, having a heated discussion. I’m standing next to a large beam, just out of sight of them where I can hear the entire conversation.
“Overcompensating,” she seethes. “I’ll give that bitch overcompensating. Five minutes in a room with no cameras and I’ll wipe that smug look right off her fucking face!”
I love that people look at me and underestimate my ability to beat your fucking ass.
“Knock it off, Rita,” he retorts. “We’ve got bigger fish to fry. Grey is clearly not the person who beat that woman all to hell and now we’ve arrested him. We’ve got problems.”
“No, we don’t,” she says, firmly but dismissively. “We were doing our jobs. We were following a lead, a definitive lead given to us by the victim. If we’ve got the wrong man, that’s Lincoln’s problem, not ours.” He sneers incredulously at her.
“Are you outta your fucking mind?” he retorts. “We pulled this straw! We have to find out who beat the shit outta Elena Lincoln and she doesn’t want us to know who did it, which means that it was probably somebody close to her—most likely her fucking husband or a slighted lover. That’s why she pointed us at Grey. Now, we pull him in which brings us face-to-face with an attorney who, although she’s sexy as hell, has the biggest cojones I’ve ever seen… even bigger than yours, if that’s even possible…”
She doesn’t like that reference, not after I just handed her her ass in the interrogation room. I hadn’t thought about it possibly being Linc that beat Elena like that. What the hell did she do to make him want to land her ass in the hospital? Is he even in town? I’ll need to present that possibility to Christian.
“That prissy little wannabe cunt doesn’t have cojones. She’s got sex appeal and she uses it on suckers like you to get what she wants. She’s fucking him, I can guarantee it, and if she is his airtight alibi, that’s why.”
“Who cares?” Hughes accuses. “Who the fuck cares if they’re fucking? They’re both single and unattached. If they were doing the horizontal mambo, who the hell would care? And it wouldn’t matter anyway. If they were fucking, shearing sheep, or playing goddamn Yahtzee, he’s got an alibi. What the hell is your problem with her? Pretty women make you nervous?”
Powerful women make her nervous, and yeah, probably pretty ones, too. Bitch might want to lick my clit.
“There’s nothing about that glorified whore that makes me nervous,” Bhingman sneers. “She’s no better or different than a perp to me. She brought her ass in here and spilled her fucking guts, just like everybody else that gets in that room.”
“She didn’t spill shit to you except everything that Christian Grey had already told us. She confirmed his alibi… almost to the letter, and now we have to let him go. And if you don’t think that man is going to find some kind of way to make us pay for dragging him down here and locking him in a piss-ridden holding tank with a bunch of common criminals, you got another think coming. I hope you’ve got some kind of plan B, Officer Ratched, because he’s going to fucking fry us.”
As he angrily stomps away from her, I conspicuously fold my arms and lean against the beam where she can see me. She huffs and clenches her fists a few times before turning around and making eye-contact with me. Still trying to get her pound of flesh, she strides purposefully over to me.
“You two think you’re getting away with something!” she hisses. “I know he had something to do with what happened to that woman! She broke his arm and he’s pissed. Only pure rage could have produced the results we saw last night. Whoever did that to that woman is a fucking monster, and I’m going to make them pay!”
“Well, I wish you luck,” I retort, “because you’ve got the wrong man in custody. Anybody with a bone to pick could have done this to that crazy bitch and trust me, she’s made a lot of enemies as of late. While you’re throwing innocent men in jail, the real culprit is out there on the street, maybe even looking for another victim!
“She said Christian Grey did this to her. Unequivocally, Christian Grey! Those were your words. Does he look like he’s been in a brawl… before you put him in an infested holding tank?”
Shit, I hope they didn’t see his back.
“Did he have any bruising or scarring on his hands? Scratches on his face? DNA evidence under his nails? Any indication whatsoever that he put his hands on that woman, or anybody, for that matter?”
He fought with Caldwell Lincoln earlier. Was there any bruising from that? Did anybody even check?
“Has anyone tested that blonde fabricator for evidence that Christian Grey touched her within the last twenty-four hours? Even been near her for the last twenty-four days? He’s got a restraining order against her! She broke his goddamn arm—there’s an open case! You didn’t think for one second that this might be revenge for her current predicament?
“She declared that she was attacked—has anyone collected the proper evidence to haul a prominent businessman from his penthouse apartment into a precinct and throw him in a dirty cell or were you just too damn gung-ho to be concerned with proper procedure, chain of evidence, probable cause, and the fucking law… detective?”
I can’t believe what a botched-up job they did collecting evidence. Based on the events of his day, they could have locked him down on some circumstantial shit, and they didn’t even bother. They can’t do it now; he’s alibied out.
Oh, she’s mad now. She closes the space between us as if to intimidate me, but I don’t scare that easily. You’re on the job, bitch, and more than anything, I want you to hit me, so I can ruin your fucking life. Apparently, she musters an ounce of common sense.
“You’ve answered your questions,” she hisses. “Your presence is no longer required. You can leave now.”
“I’m waiting for my potential client,” I hiss back.
“Wait in the lobby,” she says, between clenched teeth.
“Or what?” I retort, my jaw just as tight. “Woof, woof,” I add, reminding her that her schnauzer could end up in litigation. Her eyes narrow and she’s about to reload.
“Drop it, Bhingman,” I hear someone say from behind me. Bad Cop glares at me for a few more moments and I glare right back. She clenches her fists again, cuts right and breezes past me. I roll my eyes. She has no idea just how minor league she is to me. I turn around just in time to catch the voice from behind me gazing at my ass. I raise one eyebrow at him when his gaze makes it to my face. He clears his throat.
“Ms. Olivet,” Hughes says. “Mr. Grey should be ready momentarily. If you’ll come with me…”
About twenty minutes later, Trey comes out of the holding area still in the clothes he was wearing when he left my house. His hair and face are scruffy, and he looks murderous. He freezes when he sees me, his expression unchanging. He looks into my eyes for a few tense moments, then proceeds to fasten his watch as he walks toward me.
“Did you bail me out?” he grunts as we proceed to the exit. He looks at his watch. I already know that it’s nearly two in the morning.
“No,” I say, walking out into the night air, my stilettos clicking on the concrete steps. “I confirmed your alibi. Didn’t they tell you?”
“No, they just said I was free to go.” He runs his hands over his chin then through his hair. He’s walking beside me as I walk to my car. “Where’s Taylor?” I shrug.
“I don’t know,” I say, pressing the key fob. He examines me carefully—top to bottom this time and back up to my face.
“I need to shower,” he hisses, “and shave… and fuck!” He starts looking around as if he’ll fuck the first approved orifice he sees.
“Well, I can’t help you there,” I say. You want to get your ass beat and come, I can accommodate you. You want to fuck, you’re on your own with that one. “What are you looking for?”
“A taxi,” he hisses.
“Oh. Yeah. Christian Grey leaving the police station at two in the morning with a five o’clock shadow in a taxi. That’s not newsworthy at all. Get your ass in the car.” He narrows his eyes at me, but undoubtedly sees the logic in what I’m saying and walks to the passenger side of my Range Rover.
Trey is silent for the first few minutes of the drive back to Seattle. He’s brooding… or contemplating… or plotting, I don’t know which.
“Two police stations within ten minutes of my house and they bring me all the way the fuck out here,” he growls, his first words since he got in the car.
“You live in Seattle. This happened in Kirkland,” I tell him as I turn onto the 520. “I heard them talking. They’re sure it’s someone close to her and they think it might be Linc.”
“That fucker is probably on a plane to Calcutta somewhere,” he hisses, “most likely to hide out in a cabana or between some bitch’s legs until his bruises heal. He did this shit and he wants me to take the fall for it, hoping he can get his business back. I just wanted to hurt his ass before, but this is war. I want blood now.” I sigh.
“Somebody’s going to have to put the bayonets down or this is just going to be a huge bloodbath,” I sigh. I can see him glaring at me from the passenger seat.
“Says the woman who singlehandedly engineered a class-action lawsuit from something that never really happened!” he snorts. I raise my eyebrow and sigh. He’s got me there.
“Elena’s not a sadist,” I say. “She’s a masochist. She deliberately seeks out ways to get hurt and then she makes it worse on herself. She’s a reverse strategist, plotting her own demise and she doesn’t even see it. She won’t see it until she ends up dead somewhere.” I shake my head.
“I won’t lose any sleep if she does,” he hisses, and turns his gaze out the window.
Well, this night was a complete fucking wash. I worked hard to bring this fucker to some type of docility and now, he’s right back where he started from.
A/N: The Pinterest board for this story can be found at https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/fifty-shades-golden/.
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