Paging Dr. Steele Playlist

If anyone is interested, here are all of the songs that I used in Paging Dr. Steele…

Paging Dr. Steele Playlist

Chapter 7
Heard It Through the Grapevine—Marvin Gaye
Principle of Lust (Extended Version)—Enigma

Chapter 11
Now You’re in My Dreams—Michael Franks
Always on My Mind—Michael Buble

Chapter 12
Smooth Operator—Sade
The Way You Look Tonight—
Michael Buble or Frank Sinatra

Chapter 19
Secret Garden—Quincy Jones
Love All the Hurt Away—Aretha Franklin and George Benson

Chapter 23
Al Jarreau (All Below)
Waters of March

Fallen
We’re in This Love Together
Mornin’
Sleeping Bee
Teach me tonight
Let Me Love You
After All
You Send Me
(A Rhyme) This Time
Your Precious Love

Boney James (All Below)
I Still Dream (with Al Jarreau)
I Get So Lonely
All Night Long
Are You Ready
Seduction
Sara Smile
Body Language
Blue
I Will Always Love You

Chapter 26
Inside, Pt 2—Trey Songz

Chapter 28
Truly—Lionel Ritchie
One and Only—Adele

Chapter 31
Kenny G (All Below)
Don’t Make Me Wait for Love
Sentimental
Alone
In the Rain
The Wedding Song
Summertime
Going Home

Chapter 33
Brahms no. 1
Brahms no. 2
Beethoven no. 1
Beethoven no. 73
Rachmaninoff no. 3
Tchaikovsky no. 1
Chopin no. 11
Mozart no. 21
Moon River—Audrey Hepburn

Chapter 36
Moments in Love (Quiet Storm Version)—
The Art of Noise

Chapter 37
Slow—Depeche Mode

Chapter 38
Leavin’ on a Jet Plane—John Denver

Chapter 41
Happy Together—The Turtles
Be Here—
Ray LaMontagne
Let Go—Frou Frou

Chapter 44
That’s What Friends Are For—
Dionne Warwick, Stevie Wonder, Gladys Knight, & Elton John
Parents Just Don’t Understand—DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince

Chapter 46
Nestor Torres (All Below)
El Gran Varon
Café con Leché
Smooth

Chapter 52
Please, Please, Please—James Brown

Chapter 56
I Believe I Can Fly—R. Kelly
I Want It That Way—Backstreet Boys

Chapter 57
Second Chance—El DeBarge

Chapter 60
Love to Love You Baby (extended version)—Donna Summer
Freak Me—Silk
Til The Cops Come Knocking—Maxwell
Bump N Grind Remix—R. Kelly
Sexual Healing and Let’s Get It On—Marvin Gaye

Chapter 61
L’Odeur Animale—Hooverphonic
Kissing—Bliss
Come Away with Me—
Nora Jones
Grace—
Kate Havnevik
I.O.U. Me—
BeBe and CeCe Winans
After Tonight—Mariah Carey

Chapter 62
Girls Just Wanna Have Fun—Cindi Lauper
Livin’ La Vida Loca—Ricky Martin
Aint Too Proud to Beg—The Temptations
This Is How We Do It—Montell Jordan
Before He Cheats—Carrie Underwood
Cry Me A River—Justin Timberlake

Chapter 63
Blank and Jones—any of the beach jazz music

Chapter 69
This Never Happened Before—Paul McCartney

 

 

~~love and handcuffs

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Raising Grey: Chapter 88—Coming Around the Stretch  

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.

I do not own Fifty Shades Trilogy, or the characters. They belong to E. L. James. I am only exercising my right to exploit, abuse, and mangle the characters to MY discretion in MY story in MY interpretation as a fan. If something that I say displeases you, please, just leave. If you don’t like this story or me, please don’t spoil this experience for everyone. Just go away. For the rest of you, the saga continues…

Chapter 88—Coming Around the Stretch  

ANASTASIA

Of course, something about me would send him into a rage. Was it the tight ass comment, the fact that they said I was holding out on him, or the fact that they were talking about me at all? Either way, Iron Fist Grey was able to flex his iron muscles.

“Excuse me,” I say, deciding to go to the kitchen to see what’s holding dinner up now that His Highness has finally joined us.

“Ana, what are you doing in here?” Gail says, pausing from feeding Mikey his dinner.

“Just coming to see if you all need any help,” I say. “I know that waiting for Christian threw our clock off a bit.”

“Ya fehd Minneh,” Keri says. “We gawt the bebbies. I hep wit da dinnah ef dey need…”

“She’s escaping, Keri,” Gail says, wiping her hands and handing Mikey’s spoon and bowl to a confused Keri. “Come with me,” she says, guiding me into the family room where Jason and Chuck are watching television. They look up at me and no doubt wonder why I’m being led into the family room when we have guests in the dining room.

“You’re going to need to be a tough soldier for the next few days,” Gail says with her hands on my arms near my shoulders. “He’s going to take at least that long to find his center. If it’s too much for you, nobody will blame you for being scarce or hiding out. It’ll be easier for him—and for you—if you can help him ride it out, though. No matter how he tries, he’ll never be able to be the asshole that he once was, but he’s going to give it the old college try, and it’s going to be rough until he finds the formula that works for him. You may need a moment or three to yourself throughout this time, just don’t run away. Remember the Vampire Lestat you found when you returned from Montana?”

I shiver when I recall how dead he looked walking into the penthouse that day. It was the creepiest thing I had ever seen… well, second only to that room where I was chained to the bed for four days. Why the fuck did that come to mind? I quickly shake off the memory.

“That’s who he’ll become if you disappear,” she warns. I shake my head.

“Let’s… just get dinner started,” I say. The dinner guests have opened the floor to Lestat and I don’t think I can take much more of hearing about his day tonight.

By the time we get the chicken cordon bleu and sides plated, the conversation has thankfully shifted to something else. I place his plate in front of him and take my seat to his right.

“You okay?” he asks quietly while everyone else is being distracted by dinner.

“Mm-hmm,” I say quickly, placing my napkin on my lap and preparing to eat my dinner. “Elliot, has Grace said anything about Christmas?” I ask. Elliot shakes his head.

“I assumed that we were all going over there like we normally do,” he says. “Did something happen?” I shake my head.

“I just hadn’t heard anything,” I say, trying not to open a can of worms.

“Are you guys still fighting?” he asks. “Since Thanksgiving?”

“No,” I reply. “We’re not fighting anymore.”

“You made up?” he asks. I twist my lips.

“More like called a truce,” I say. His brow rises.

“Oh,” he says. “That’s why you wanted to know if anything had changed.” I nod.

“Yeah… I wasn’t so sure,” I admit.

“If I know my mom, she expects everyone to be there for Christmas,” he says softly.

“Yeah,” Val chimes in. “She even welcomed me when Meg had control of my brain. I’m sure she expects you to be there.”

I don’t say anything. I get the feeling that Grace is just tolerating me right now because I’m what’s good for the Center. It seems like every time something goes wrong, it has to do with me and her. With everything that’s been going on in my life, it’s a battle that I just don’t have the strength to fight. I’m looking for simple, not more complicated.

“So did Al tell you guys the news?” I say, and I have everyone’s attention. “I’m going to trial in February. I’ll finally be able to tell my story against those Green Valley bastards.”

“Really?” Christian says, looking over at Al. “How did I miss this information?”

“You were a bit distracted today,” Al says unapologetically. “Besides, I knew that we were coming over today and that you would find out about it tonight.” Christian nods and tucks into his chicken. I keep the conversation going on the upcoming trial.

“One of the defendants took a plea last year—or whenever it was—to keep from having to go to trial. Two others—the main ring leaders—took pleas as well to turn state’s evidence against anyone else who comes to trial. So, now, someone’s coming to trial and these assholes get to testify, making good on their plea deal.” I take a bite of my chicken. Mmm, it’s really delicious.

“So, who’s going to trial?” Elliot asks. I look over at Al.

“Vincent Sullivan,” he replies. “He’s…” He clears his throat. “He’s one of the guys who… branded her.”

I don’t stop chewing even though the Bitch is fighting not to hurl. I have to face these people in court. I’m not going to let them see me sweat, so I might as well start practicing now.

“When are you going to Vegas?” Val asks. “When is the trial?”

“February 2nd,” Al replies. “The papers in Vegas are already on fire with the story… and some not-so-flattering assumptions about my girl.” My head pops up. I didn’t know that.

“Assumptions like what?” I ask. Al’s ears turn red. He thought I knew.

“Just people talking shit, Jewel. Don’t pay it any attention,” he says, trying to downplay it.

“You just said Vegas is on fire with the story and now you’re telling me not to pay it any attention?” I ask.

“What kind of shit?” Christian says firmly. Al rolls his eyes.

“The same shit they’re always talking,” he says, “that she’s a pampered princess that’s just trying to get attention and now that she has money, she just wants to get revenge on a group of kids for some harmless teasing.”

Don’t blow your top, Ana. Keep cool.

“Harmless teasing?” Christian nearly roars. “They call what they did to her ‘harmless teasing?’ Are they out of their fucking minds?”

“Oh, good grief,” I say, after swallowing my food. “The evidence is horrendously graphic, and it’ll speak for itself. Let them say whatever the hell they want.” I’m sipping this cranberry spritzer and it’s pissing me off. I want a shot of vodka!

“Okay, so, that’s enough of that,” Val says, quickly sensing my tension. “We came over to talk about my godchildren. Why the hell you two think you’ll kick the bucket at the same time is beyond me, but let’s get on with it.”

“It’s not that we think we’ll die at the same time,” Christian says. “It’s just that we’ve realized that we didn’t have provisions for our children in case something happens to us. We’re certain that no one would fight over the kids, but in the unlikely event that we both depart, we just want things to be… in order.”

“What brought this on, Bro?” Elliot asks.

“Watching Tina’s children act like savages after she died and realizing that we didn’t have a will,” I answer, and I’ve had enough of this damn spritzer. “Gail!” I yell. She comes scrambling into the dining room.

“What? What is it?” she asks, frantically.

“I’m sorry,” I say immediately. “That was a bit dramatic. Please forgive me. Would you uncork a Cabernet and Sauvignon Blanc?” She raises a knowing brow at me.

“Coming right up,” she says and walks out of the kitchen.

“Continue,” I say, turning back to my meal and ignoring the gawking faces at the table.

“So, are you saying that whomever gets the kids will suddenly become billionaires?” Elliot asks.

“That’s a possibility,” Christian says. “As you know, our children will be very well provided for, and even though our entire fortune wouldn’t pass down to them upon our demise, whomever takes them on will be pretty much set as their caregivers. There will, of course, be large trusts for when they become adults. But let’s face it, if I were to retire right now and travel the world every day of my life, I would still have money to burn for decades to come. So, of course, I want my children to be cared for if something happens to me.”

“So, what’s the idea?” Val asks. “The children’s care will be written into your will?”

“Definitely,” he replies. “If something happens to me and Butterfly before they reach 18,  definite provisions will be made for their care and custody. And that’s where you guys come in.”

“Well, there’s two kids and two couples, but… there’s no way I would want to split them up,” Val says.

“Ditto,” Al replies. “If something that horrible was to happen, they would already be traumatized enough with losing their mom and dad. They would never recover.”

“So, what do you suggest we do?” Elliot says. Val and Al ponder the situation, and I’m sure that neither of them wants to raise their hand to be first in line for fear of hurting the other. Val comes up with the tiebreaker.

“El and I will have our own bundle of joy soon. I think it would just be greedy for us to ask for first-standing with Minnie and Mikey if something happens to you guys, heaven forbid.” Elliot twists his lips and nods.

“I have to agree,” he says. “It’s not like you’re going to take my niece and nephew and skip town.”

“Are you kiddin’?” Al exclaims. “If something happens to Chris and Jewel, I’m gonna have a little girl on my hands. I’m going to have your ass on speed dial!” he says to Val.

“Well, then that settles it,” Val says. “If something happens to you guys—and by the way, nothing’s going to happen to you guys—Al and James become daddies and El and I will be happy back-ups. Is everybody cool with that?” James and Al look at each other and James nods. Elliot is nodding, too.

“Good,” I say. “I know this is the whole reason we called this tête-à-tête, but I would very much like to stop talking about my demise now… and where’s my wine?”

“It’s here,” Gail says, entering the room with Windsor behind her. “I was just letting it breathe.”

“Good,” I say, noting the large-bowl wine glasses. “Sorry, Val, but I need this.”

“Don’t mind me,” she says, holding up her cranberry spritzer, Windsor pours me a respectable amount in my glass and I almost want to hit him.

“Um, you might want to keep pouring, Benson,” Al says.

“His name is Windsor,” I correct him. “Don’t be a queen, Al.” I turn to Windsor. “Please?” I say holding up my glass. Windsor fills it to nearly 75% and I thank him. He goes to fill the other glasses and Al informs him that only he and I would be drinking the red. The gentlemen would most likely want the white.

“I’m sorry if I offended you,” he says to Windsor. “I can be a jerk, but I’m not an asshole.”

“No offense taken, sir,” Windsor says. I don’t know if he’s offended or not, but he wouldn’t show it if he was, consummate professional that he is.

My glass is empty in no time and Windsor is refilling it before I even ask. Iron Fist Grey, the Green Valley nightmare, and my imminent demise all in one conversation… It’s a bit much for one evening.

“You okay, Ana?” Val asks. I nod without looking at anyone.

“Mmhmm,” I say, swallowing more of my wine. Cabernet is the answer to all the world’s problems and I’m going to sit here and drink until I have answers to mine.

Once the evening winds down, I’ve killed three large-bowl glasses of Cabernet and I notice that people are careful what they say to me if they venture to say anything at all. I say my goodnights to everyone once they’ve had coffee and Christian heads to the door to show everyone out. I head upstairs and don some exercise gear. Before he has the chance to get away from the door, I’m across the house and in the elevator. When I get down to the exercise room, I murder the elliptical until my arms and legs ache and I’m swimming in sweat. I just want to fall into a coma-like sleep and forget this day. Tomorrow is a do-over and I’m hoping that it’s going to be much better than this.

My husband, the asshole—who can’t shed the asshole before he gets home. I know that I’ve understood and labeled the Boogieman, but are we ready for this kind of test?

Once I’ve beaten myself all to hell and my muscles all feel like rubber, I abandon the elliptical and go to my room. I run a bath in my marble tub and climb in quickly so that my muscles won’t lock. It feels really good and I’m hoping to fall asleep the moment I get out of the tub…

“Butterfly… wake up.”

I open my eyes, still in the tub. The bubbles have dissipated, and the water is cold. I look up at my husband, my eyes questioning.

“It’s about 3am,” he says. “You fell asleep. I assume you were pretty tired after you climbed Mt. Rushmore, but had I thought you’d be napping in the tub, I would have come to check on you sooner.”

Wouldn’t you know it? At three in the morning, my docile Christian finally returns after still being a bear at nine at night. So, now what? He’ll go to sleep and wake at six to gradually go into bear mode again? To be that cold soul I had breakfast with yesterday? What should I do—swap my schedule so that I’m awake in the middle of the night to spend some time with the man I’ve come to know?

“What are you thinking?” he asks. Do I tell him? Do I say that I don’t know how to be married to Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and that, by the way, I spent my entire college tenure wondering which one was really the crazy one and which one was sane?

“That this water is cold, and I feel like a saturated, useless sponge at the moment.” It’s true. He retrieves a bath towel and opens it. Tossing it over his arm, he extends his hand to help me out of the tub. I drag my waterlogged ass out of the tub, and he wraps me in the bath towel. My hair is wet even though I didn’t wash it and I don’t feel like dealing with it in any capacity right now.

He carries me to the bedroom wrapped in the bath towel, sits me on the bed, and begins to dry my skin. I try to accommodate him, but I’m just too tired to sit up. I lay down on the pillow, wet hair and all, and allow him to finish drying my body. I must have drifted off to sleep because I awake with him gently sucking my nipple. It feels so good, but I’m so tired.

“Christian…” I protest.

“I need you,” he replies, his intense gray eyes meeting my sleepy blues. I surrender and allow him to do what he wants. It’s not like I have the strength to protest anyway.

Mr. Grey works his usual magic, working my body into a fevered frenzy with his hands and mouth before mounting me.

And, dear Lord, does he mount me!

He pushes my legs open and thrusts into me—hard! My upper body rises off the bed and he grabs both my wrists and pins them down on the sides of my head to prevent my escape. He’s grinding and stroking into me mercilessly, with force and purpose. I can’t move anything. My hips are pinned down by his forceful motion and his hands are clasped to my wrists, fastening them to the bed. His eyes are silver fire, staring down at me as he thrusts into me, my ladyparts completely open and at his mercy. I see torment and passion in his eyes at the same time and my entire body rolls with each thrust. I’m helpless to fight him when he says…

“Don’t come yet.”

Yeah, sure.

“I… I can’t… Christian!”

I detonate in orgasm, my entire pelvis flexing painfully. I cry out from the intense pressure and vibration, but he just keeps pounding.

“Christian… please…” but he’s gone. He sees me… but I think his mind is somewhere else. He grinds and rolls his hips and begins to stimulate me again. I groan in my chest, knowing what’s coming.

“Christian…” I breathe.

“Feel it!” he nearly growls.

And feel it, I do. His dick is wide and demanding, and he’s thrusting deep, rhythmic strokes as if he’s digging for buried treasure—forceful and intensive, still holding my hands down and still looking in my eyes. Shit, I feel it in my chest.

“Oh, God,” I groan, the ecstasy and agony almost too much to bear. I feel the force of his weight on my wrists, but he’s using his knees for leverage, occasionally stretching his lips and making primal noises in his throat and chest. His pecks are flexed, and I can see the top of his eight-pack abs, both sets of muscles beginning to glisten with sweat.

I’m wrung out, only able to lie there and take what he’s dishing out. My body is on fire and after several minutes of intense manipulation, the heat reaches into my core again. I think I hear him say something, but the resulting orgasm is ringing in my ears and blocking out all light and sound. I feel myself struggling under his grasp, but not to get away, just from the intensity of the climax.

I’m wheezing when the second one wanes, but the fucking nymph in me just won’t tap out. My body is shattered, wracked from exhaustion and intense orgasms, but the little inner whore is naked, squatting on the bed salivating and cheering me on.

No, hoe, I’m tired!

But neither she nor my husband can hear me. He’s still stroking like this marathon has just begun, and the inner whore is squatting behind him encouraging like a coxswain…

“Stroke! Stroke! Stroke! Stroke…”

Cunt!

“Christian…” I whimper.

“You can do it,” he hisses.

No, I can’t!

The inner whore is nodding feverishly and if I could move, I’d throw something at her head and knock her ass unconscious. Christian must be hearing her.

“Please…” I beg.

“One more!” he commands and keeps stroking into my core. I’m certain that no matter what he and my inner whore says, I don’t have one more in me.

Somebody forgot to tell my pussy.

A few minutes later, my crotch it on fire again. He feels different inside me—not wide, but his ministrations are leaving no area untouched. Dear God, his cock is so hard… so hard and stroking every wall inside me, every secret spot…

“That’s it… give me one more! I need one more!”

He needs it? Why does he need it? It doesn’t matter, because my body obeys his command and gives him the third orgasm he demands. I’m covered in both our sweat as my core vibrates angrily in a final crippling showdown. I can’t scream as the pleasure—and exhaustion—has snatched my voice away, and I can’t move as most of my muscles are locked in the orgasm.

My husband grunts and thrusts and I feel his legs stiffen, but he continues to grind into me a few more times until I hear an inhuman sound rip from his chest. I open my eyes to see him just as he expresses his climax. He stretches his body backward and straightens, his chest and head up like a wolf howling at the moon. My core is still pulsing around him and he jerks with each flex, his entire body stiff, sweating, and trembling.

If I wasn’t so fucking tired, the sight would turn me on again.

My body falls completely limp as he finally drops his head, sweat dripping from his hair and face, panting and gasping to catch his breath, his arms straight, his muscles bulging, his hands still clasped at my wrists.

I’m wiped out while he’s catching his breath, I can’t even keep my eyes open anymore…

When I’m semi-conscious again, he’s coiled around me, spooning me and kissing my back over and over again. I fall back into a deep sleep.

*-*

I didn’t hear him leave. I was worn out from the morning’s exertions and quite frankly, I’d rather not be greeted by the morning bear anyway. I roll over and stretch, trying to pop the kinks out of my muscles. I had a double workout last night—first the elliptical, and then Christian and his trifecta of orgasms. I can barely get out of bed.

I take a quick shower since I smell like sweat and sex and quickly get dressed in something simple—a white button-down shirt with black pants and Chanel suspenders with black and white stilettos. When I look in the mirror, my hair looks like toddlers have been playing in it.

No amount of combing and brushing is helping it, so I put it in two wild and sad looking braids and put a hat on it for the day, Odd for me, but I just don’t have the strength to fight with it.

Strange… I actually look ten years younger.

I stop by the nursery to see that my children are asleep and decide that I’ll let them stay home today. I stop by the kitchen to make myself a strawberry and cream cheese bagel and to grab a black coffee to go.

“Are you in a hurry?” Gail asks. I’m chewing my bagel and looking at my phone.

“I slept longer than I intended,” I say, looking at my watch and noting the time. “I need to get going and make sure everything is moving along for the new semester. Plus, I have some calls to make and some interviews to do this afternoon.”

“Busy day, huh?” she asks.

“Yes,” I reply, eating the last of my bagel, “that’s why I didn’t intend to sleep in so late.” I text Chuck to meet me at the car so that we can get going.

“The twins are staying,” I add as I’m leaving. “I can’t breastfeed for 24 hours anyway. Call me if you need me!” I wave behind me and head out to the mudroom.

“New look?” Courtney asks when I get to the Center.

“Bad hair day,” I admit. “I must have been insane to wear stilettos today. My feet are freezing.”

“Uh, yeah,” Courtney comments. “It’s all wet and slushy. You’re going to ruin your shoes and freeze your toes.” I shake my head.

“What’s on my calendar today?” I ask, stomping my feet to warm my toes.

“You’ve got the interviews for housekeeping this afternoon, and you told me to remind you to call Ms. Sherwood from the cleaning company. Are you going to have her train the new employees?”

“Hell, no,” I say, taking a seat at my desk. “I had to watch that woman like a hawk the entire time her company was here. There’s no way in hell I’d let her train new staff to do the same thing they were doing. Besides, they’re contracted so they most likely wouldn’t do it anyway.” Courtney twists her lips.

“Yeah, there is that,” she says.

“How are classes going?” I ask.

“Pretty good,” she says, “except that there was a pop-quiz in Psych 101 yesterday. Who gives a pop quiz right before Christmas?” She shakes her head and I laugh.

“Welcome to the wonderful world of higher education,” I tease. She shakes her head again.

“Gimme a break,” she retorts. “I’m regurgitating psychology vocabulary in my sleep. My girlfriend’s going to leave me if I don’t stop talking shop when I get out of school.” She changes her voice to mimic a female announcer.

Behaviorism, inhibition, suppression, configurationism, Galton and Freud and Gestalt and dear God in heaven how did you even remember your name when you were in school?” I chuckle.

“Do you regret your decision?” I ask.

“No,” she says, going over to the Zen area to retrieve her laptop from its case. “It’s rough, but I want to help kids, and this is what I need to be able to do that, so…” She trails off after she pulls her laptop from the case.

“That’s a very noble undertaking.”

We’re both caught off-guard by a voice from the doorway.

“Grandmother,” Courtney greets Addie. “H… Hi.” I can tell she’s still trepid about seeing her grandmother.

“Courtney… you look lovely, darling,” Addie says.

“Thank you,” Courtney replies.

“Hello, Ana. You’re looking beautiful as ever,” Addie greets me. I smile warmly.

“Thank you, Addie, and so are you. Won’t you come in and have a seat?”

“Well, I really didn’t intend to stay long. I just came to ask Courtney what her plans were for the afternoon.” She turns to Courtney.

“Um, Ana’s assistant is off sick, so I’ve been helping her. We have to interview some candidates for the cleaning staff this afternoon,” Courtney replies.

“Oh, that’s too bad. We were hoping you would be able to join us for lunch,” she says softly.

We?” Courtney asks. After a short pause, Fred enters the office and stands next to his wife. Courtney’s mouth falls open and she’s stunned pretty speechless.

“Hello, Courtney,” Fred says.

“G… Grandfather,” Courtney says, clearing her throat to find her words, but still finding none.

“Courtney, I can do the interviews alone or have Mr. Collier or Grace sit in with me if you want to go to lunch with your grandparents.” She turns uncertain eyes to me.

“You’re sure?” she says. There’s hope in her voice.

“I’m sure,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”

“Can I leave my school stuff here?” she asks.

“Of course, you can. Go, have lunch with your grandparents.” She raises her brow and sigh.

“I’m… I’ll be right back,” she says to Addie and Fred. “I have to go get my coat and purse.” She smiles and leaves the office. I turn to Addie and Fred.

“Fred wanted to see it for himself,” Addie tells me turning to Fred. “I think he got more than he bargained for.”

“Not really,” Fred replies. “She looks like she’s doing well and she’s trying to turn over a new leaf, but she was always a good actress… a very good actress.” I drop my head and scratch the nape of my scalp. If he gives her that attitude at lunch, she won’t go to lunch with them again because she’s come to learn that she doesn’t need discouragement in her life.

“Ana, what is it?” Addie inquires, noting my change of expression.

“Nothing,” I say, not making eye contact with Fred.

“That means it’s me,” Fred says. I frown and look at him.

“How would you know it was you?” I ask incredulously.

“Because I’m an old dog with a wife, dear,” he replies. “I’ve been married for 43 years and I’ve been around a female or three in my day. Trust me, I’ve been in the doghouse more than a few times and I fully know the meaning of ‘Nothing,’ ‘Fine,’ and ‘Never mind.’” He looks at me knowingly and cocks his head. I sigh and put my hands on my hips.

“I’m not going to try to sell you on your granddaughter,” I say. “To me, her progress speaks for itself. I will tell you this, though, and I’m only saying it as a friend. If you’re taking that attitude to lunch with you, it’s not going to fly. She will Uber her way out of that meal. She knows who she was and that she put you through a lot, but she’s been through some things, too, and she’s not going to allow herself to be berated anymore. I only said it because you pressed, Fred.”

“That, I did,” he says with a sigh.

“And she’s right.”

We all turn to see Courtney standing at the door in her coat with her purse on her shoulder. There’s no sign of her prior shyness.

“I don’t have anything to prove to anybody else anymore but myself,” she says. “I’m a horrible person and I know it… or at least I was. I was so wretched that I don’t expect anybody to believe that I’m not that person anymore, but you know who does have to believe it? Me! So, I love you, Grandmother, and I love you, too, Grandfather, but if this luncheon is to put me under the microscope, I respectfully decline the invitation.”

I can’t remember being prouder of Courtney than I am at this moment—well, maybe when she told me that she was going to school. Now, she stands here before her grandparents with her shoulders squared and her head held high pretty much telling them that if they don’t want to accept her, she’s fine with that. Before, she was self-centered and didn’t care about other people, only for what she could get from them. Now, she’s self-driven, and she has a purpose. She’s more concerned about what she sees in herself when she looks in the mirror than what other people see when they see her.

Addie walks over to her and smiles.

“I want to have lunch with my granddaughter,” she says, “and you will be under the microscope with me, but only because I want to catch up with everything going on in your life and with school. If your grandfather doesn’t want to behave, then he’s uninvited.”

Courtney is nearly pushed to tears, but instead she straightens her back and extends her neck, blinking the tears away. Then she turns to Fred.

“The Uber app is almost instantaneous, Grandfather,” she says. “The moment I feel that either of us is causing the other discomfort, I’ll leave. I can always study or come back and help Ana with the interviews. And if you think I’m acting, then this is going to be an Oscar-worthy performance.” She awaits acknowledgement from her Grandfather, who reluctantly nods. Addie sighs and puts her hands on Courtney’s shoulders.

“So, would you like to go to the club?” Addie asks.

“We can, if you want,” Courtney says, “but there’s a little restaurant not far from here that has the best Mediterranean food… and quiet tables.” Addie tilts her head at Courtney.

“Well, then,” she says, “that’s sounds nice. Lead the way.” The corners of Courtney’s lips rise slightly, and she nods before she leaves with Addie in step behind her. Fred turns to look at me and I raise my brown and tip my head in a gesture that clearly says, “Balls in your court.” His lips form a thin line and he leaves to join his wife and granddaughter. I smile to myself, knowing that Courtney has effectively exercised her independence to her grandfather. I go back to my desk and make the call that needs to be made before month’s end.

Clean It Up for You, what can I do for you?” the receptionist answers.

“Good morning, Anastasia Grey calling for Sonia Sherwood…”


CHRISTIAN

I’ve barely gotten any sleep, which is something that hasn’t happened in quite some time. There’s been a sleepless night here and there, but none of the 2-hours of sleep nights since I stopped having the nightmares. When I left this morning, Butterfly was still in an exercise, wine, and sex-induced coma.

When I saw that Butterfly was on the elliptical after dinner and three large glasses of wine, I thought it best to leave her alone and go to my study and get some work done. I approved the initiation of the random drug testing on 50% of Grey House staff to be done in three waves tomorrow, Friday, and Monday. The results will begin to come in on Tuesday, but I couldn’t get a guarantee that I would have them all for the sake of accuracy.

Ros has taken immediate advantage of her impromptu vacation, which means that Lorenz and I must weed through the findings and analysis of the audit teams while she’s away. There’s quite a bit in a short time—red flags that I asked to be notified of immediately instead of waiting for preliminary or final reports. To be quite honest, my company is a mess. We’re not on the brink of collapse, failure, or bankruptcy, but I was right. Complacency is running rampant through the departments and the ship is nowhere near as tight as it used to be.

That’s my fault.

When I shut the system down somewhere around three o’clock and came upstairs and she was still in the tub, I knew that I had to get her out of there. She was exhausted and shattered and I had every intention of drying her off, braiding her hair, and putting her to bed. Then, she passed out face up on the bed and I knew I would never be able to get that hair braided. I straightened her body and kissed her lips goodnight and the animal in me just suddenly came alive.

I didn’t intend to fuck her. I really didn’t, but when I kissed her neck, the valley of her breasts, and then her nipple just to tame the beast a bit, the taste of her skin sent me into blind passion and I just had to have her. Determined not to fuck her while she’s asleep, I fix my mind to back away… and then she spoke.

And I pounced.

It was like something else completely had taken over me and I was going to turn into a werewolf or the Hulk or something if I didn’t have her! I feasted on her body, touching her in all the right places to get her ready, but when I entered her, the beast was back.

I know what it was. I just didn’t want to admit it.

Dominant Christian was alive and kicking in the early morning hours. Fucking her was not enough, but even in my primal state of mind, I knew I couldn’t dominate her when she was so exhausted, so I had to improvise.

I imagined her shackled to the bed, blindfolded and completely immobilized after a good flogging, with a pair of clamps biting into her nipples. Her breasts were wobbling wildly, dripping with water, sweat, or milk—I didn’t know which—and she couldn’t move, so it wasn’t a far stretch. I fucked her and fucked her and fucked her until my cock burned, forcing three orgasms from that exhausted body until I was paralyzed in ecstasy myself.

Once I came down from my climactic high, I saw that the third orgasm had wrung my wife unconscious and, to be honest, I felt guilty. I wrapped her in my arms, kissing her back and neck while silently begging her forgiveness for being so thoughtless and selfish. I only got a couple of hours of sleep and then quietly got dressed and left the house before she woke.

Now, I’m here in the office, still feeling as aggressive as ever as I continue to comb through my emails and examine the notes of the auditing teams. Word is definitely out that Grey is on the warpath. The elevator was completely silent when I got on it this morning and some people even got off once I boarded. Others refused to get on when they saw that I was in the car.

I don’t care if you like me. Just do your fucking jobs, and do them right or I’ll have you out on your asses before you get the chance to gasp.

I’m a bit irritated when I’m interrupted mid-morning by a knock on my door.

“Sir, a word?” I look up and see Jason standing in the doorway. I gesture him in and remove my glasses. My eyes are getting tired more often. It might be time for another trip to the eye doctor.

“I know this is short notice and I apologize, but I need Monday off,” Jason says. I frown. It sure is short notice, short as fuck.

“May I ask why?” I inquire, coolly

“Well, it won’t be the entire day, sir, just enough time to go to Shalane’s sentencing.” I raise my brow.

“Shalane’s… as in your ex-wife Shalane?” I ask. Why would he want to be there for her?

“Yes,” he says. “I’m not letting Sophie go, but someone has to be there to speak on my daughter’s behalf if they ask.”

I see. I guess that would have an impact on her sentence… if they ask.

“What time is it?” I ask him.

“Ten A.M.,” he replies. I nod.

“Then we’ll both be there.” His eyes widen.

“Sir, you don’t have to… it’s Monday morning,” he protests.

“And you’re my best friend, so yes, I do have to.” If I’m trying to find a balance between asshole and nice guy, I better start somewhere.

“So, it looks like she’s going to be spending Christmas in jail, huh?” I add. Jason nods.

“Yeah, looks that way,” he says.

“How do you feel about that?” I ask. He shakes his head.

“I hate the things Shalane has done, but I don’t hate Shalane. It’s hard to feel any sympathy for anyone that has just proven to be rotten to the core, but I’m not a bad guy. So, I think I’ll just keep my answer to myself on that one.”

I nod. I can understand that. I’m on the opposite end of that spectrum. If I can’t stand you, you’re going to know about it. If I wish you would burn in hell, you’re going to know about that, too.

“Mr. Grey, Lorenz is here to see you,” Andrea’s voice says through the intercom. Did we have a meeting this morning?

“Send him in,” I tell her. “What time is the sentencing again?” I say, turning my attention back to Jason.

“Ten AM,” he repeats as Lorenz enters.

“We’ll be there, then,” I say. He nods, then nods at Lorenz and leaves.

“Something I need to know?” Lorenz asks.

“No,” I respond, “except that you’ll be holding the fort down alone for a few hours on Monday morning. I have an appointment.” He nods noncommittal.

“So, we found out what the big ruckus is about Kavanaugh,” Lorenz says. He has my attention, but only slightly. I have my own fish to fry.

“And what’s that?” I ask.

“The next heir apparent? ‘Baby Momma’ is one of Katherine’s friends.” My eyes widen.

“You’re shitting me!” I respond. This is fucking juicy.

“I’m not,” he says. “The wife found out through a damn text!” he adds. “He’s taking a paternity test, but whether it’s his or not, Mama Kavanaugh has had enough and is taking him to the cleaners.”

“Fuuuuck, really?” I say, sitting back in his chair. “Does Ethan know?”

“I don’t know that he does unless he’s been keeping up with the gossip rags or the specific financial news that deals with his father, but I don’t think he cares. He’s been completely mum about the whole thing.” He probably doesn’t. From what I’ve heard, he got his trust right after he married Mia and hasn’t spoken to his father since. If he doesn’t know, I’m sure as hell not going to tell him.

“What about Katherine?” I ask. It’s more out of curiosity than anything. I don’t plan to do anything with the information.

“Well, she was in Martha’s Vineyard for a while, but now word has it that she and young Kevin are now living in Paris…”

“Paris? How could Kavanaugh afford that?” I ask.

“Well, he can’t that I know of, but she secured employment there with one of the fashion magazines, so… she’s officially a Parisian now.” I shake my head.

“If I were her, I’d get as far away from this shit as possible, too,” I say. “That man has a tribe of illegitimate children now. How many is this?”

“I’m sorry, sir, I’ve lost count. Can I get back to you on that one?” he jests, and I chuckle.

“Have you seen the latest emails from the auditing team?” I ask. He sighs and crosses his legs.

“I have,” he says.

“It’s only been a couple of days. You still think I’m being paranoid?” He shakes his head.

“No, sir, I don’t,” he replies. “I never did, I just thought you might have needed to rethink your approach a bit, but now…” He trails off.

“Yeah, now,” I say, putting my glasses back on and looking at the screen. “I just basically had a meltdown yesterday about our customer satisfaction and retention processes and our internal process quality and then I see these findings? I’m certain that I’m not the only one that sees the drastic change in three years in these areas.”

“No, sir, you’re not alone,” Lorenz replies.

“The only reason we’re not bleeding from the jugular right now is because we have other divisions and operations that’s taking up the slack. I shudder to think what would have happened had I not thought to do something about this now!” I shoot. “So, are there any answers to any of the questions I had yesterday?” He nods.

“Yes, sir,” Lorenz begins. “The drugs from the pharmaceutical mishap have obviously been recalled. This sort of thing happens all the time and we’re looking into the ramifications of it now. Concerning the fire, thankfully, representatives from the EAP were on that as soon as it happened, so we’ve already got damage control and assistance in place for that.”

“And what about the late shipments?” I ask.

“I think client services is putting that fire out now,” he says.

“Don’t think. Know! Find out how often this has happened and if this is a one-off or a regular occurrence. Get some impromptu surveys going to see what the customers are feeling right now. See how many we get back. Get on this! Now that I know for sure that I’m not Chicken Little running around exclaiming that the sky is falling, I want this ship tight as soon as possible, and spare no fucking expense!”

“Will do, sir,” he says, and he stands and leaves my office. Sometimes, I hate that he’s so goddamn cool, but if I’m the hothead, and Ros is getting all sensitive and running off when there’s controversy, I need someone to be the voice of reason.

*-*

“Mr. Holstein is still trying to contact you, sir, and there’s a Herbert Larson on line three for you.” Larson… why the hell is he calling me instead of Al?

“Grey,” I answer.

“Mr. Grey, Herbert Larson here…” he begins.

“I know who it is. What can I do for you?” He pauses.

“You obviously know why I’m calling,” he says, coolly.

“Honestly, I don’t. I thought all of your contact went through our attorney or if not him, through my wife if utterly necessary. You have no reason to be contacting me,” I point out.

“I’m calling because harassment is a serious offense in the state of Nevada, Mr. Grey,” Larson says.

“And I’m not in the state of Nevada, so your point?” I retort.

“Mrs. Pamela Whitmore contacted the police this morning,” he says. “Apparently, several gentlemen have been following her around.”

Good, she knows that she’s being tailed.

“And you’re telling me this because?” I ask.

The gentleman that she described follows closely to the description of the gentleman that accompanied you and Mrs. Grey during your visit and they have Washington driver’s licenses.” I laugh loudly in his ear.

“Well, don’t this just beat all?” I say, with pretend mirth. “It took less than a day for you to finger who you might think is harassing Pamela Whitmore, but it only took the great state of Nevada more than a decade to pinpoint who brutalized my wife.”

The line is silent for several minutes.

“That woman called my wife at her place of business and insulted and threatened her and my family, and you’re calling me about some random men following her because they live in my state? If they’re breaking the law, then I suggest you arrest them, but don’t you dare interrupt my life with any nonsense that you have no actual basis for. You all didn’t follow any hunches to find my wife’s attacker before she came to you with a damn video. Don’t come to me with any half-baked, unfounded accusation. Yes, I will do whatever’s necessary to protect my family, but you do know that we have a restraining order against her, right?”

“I’m just letting you know that Mrs. Whitmore…”

“You don’t need to let me know shit about Mrs. Whitmore unless you’re telling me that you’ve arrested her for harassing my wife,” I say, cutting him off. “Nevada seems to be quite prevalent with going easy on and protecting violent criminals and offering no protection for the victim… that is, until you think those criminals are the victims.”

“You need to know that following Mrs. Whitmore could be considered obstruction of justice,” he points out, ignoring my prior statement.

“Oh, you mean like what that Henderson officer Sullivan did?” I counter. “Both when the incident happened by hiding evidence to protect his brother and by seizing the police report I presented to him two years ago without knowing that I had several copies? Yes, Mr. Larson, I’m very aware of the laws concerning obstruction of justice—that is, when your state deems it necessary to enforce them. By the way, what was the fate of Officer Sullivan? The victim here still hasn’t gotten any word that he’s come upon his just deserts, yet.”

The line falls silent again, and I know that he’s searching for a retort.

“I’m not saying that I’m following anybody and I’m not saying that I’m not,” I continue. “I will say that when you try to accuse someone of something, you better fucking well have enough evidence to do it instead of calling someone and trying to sniff them out. I play chess with multi-billion-dollar companies and more money than you’ll ever see in your life. I don’t have time to bluff.”

“So, you’re saying that you’re not having her followed?” he prods.

“I’m not saying anything,” I reply. “I will say, however, that if she comes anywhere near Seattle and my wife and children, I’ll know before you do.” I can feel his frustration through the phone.

“You’re preventing me from doing my job,” he says, his voice low. “Ever since this started, I’ve been doing my best to bring justice to this situation, and the only thing I’ve seen from you at all is this vigilante attitude like you’re running things, and nobody can tell you anything. Now, I’m warning you, Mr. Grey, if you interfere with this case or its participants in any way, I will have a warrant issued for your arrest!” Wrong move, Skippy.

“Save your goddamn threats for those assholes who beat my wife!” I seethe.

“Mr. Grey, that language is totally unnecessary,” he retorts.

“It’s completely fucking necessary, and if you fucking don’t want to fucking hear it, then you can fucking hang up the fucking phone!”

I’m so pissed at the audacity of this fucker that if I could teleport to Vegas right now and personally beat his ass, I would! I think he gets the hint.

“Good day, Mr. Grey,” he says.

“Fuck you!” I retort before slamming the receiver into the carriage.

One… two… three… four…

*-*

Butterfly isn’t home when I get there. I’m still fuming over Larson’s nerve. The fuck with that guy! I’m watching the cunt who birthed the fucker who raped my wife then had the nerve to call her and threaten her because she knows the trial is coming up, and this sonofabitch has the nerve to call me and tell me that I’m breaking the law by making sure that I know if this hoe crosses state lines. That place has the most backwards system of justice I’ve ever seen in my life, and the people who live there must be as fucked up as their sense of justice.

My wife is raped as a teenager and nobody blinks, not even her damn guardians.

She’s beaten within an inch of her life and her baby is killed, and nobody blinks.

The mother of the fucking rapist and baby killer calls and threatens my wife and our children, and nobody blinks… but then they call me and tell me that I’m breaking the law by following that cunt.

I hate to think I and my wife are flying all the way to Vegas to find out that the entire justice system is so fucked up that the whole lot of those fuckers are still going to get off easy after they’re convicted—if they’re convicted!

I run a punishing rhythm on the treadmill for quite some time before I take to Butterfly’s heavy bag to burn the rest of the aggression from the day. I’m finally starting to cool down—and tire—around 8pm, and I take a quick shower and change into a pair of sweats and a T-shirt.

I look for my wife in the nursery, but find that my children are fast asleep. I check the yoga room, the dining room, the family room—no Butterfly. Where is she?

“Did Ana come home?” I ask Gail. She frowns.

“Yeah,” she says. “She spent some time with the babies and then she went downstairs.” Downstairs… her office or her parlor. “Should I hold dinner or just put something away for you two to eat?” You two?

“She hasn’t eaten yet?” I ask. Gail shakes her head. I go to the elevator and take it to the ground floor. Chuck and Keri are on the patio sitting on the sofa. He has his arm around her and they’re gazing across the lake.

I need to find my wife.

I glance in the parlor as I pass and confirm that she’s not in there, then I go to her office. I’m about to walk in when I hear her talking on the phone.

“I really can’t wait to see you. It’s been a long time.”

Now, I trust my wife implicitly, but walking in on that statement would send a lesser man into terrible suspicion. I stay back and listen a little longer.

“I’m in no hurry to come, but at least there’s one bright side to it.”

That sounds a little crazy.

“No, I haven’t heard anything at all, but who knows what’s going to happen on that front.”

I should really just walk into the room instead of trying to decipher who she’s talking to, not to mention, it’s not polite to eavesdrop.

“No, I’m not going to any of those places. I might see some of the casinos with my best friend and his husband because they’ve never been there, but that’s all. I have no interest in the whole ‘Vegas experience.’ I’ve already had it.”

So, she’s talking to someone in Vegas. I know it can’t be Carla…

“So, I’ll let you know when we finalize our travel arrangements and where we’ll be staying. Hopefully, I’ll get to meet your husband this time.”

This time. That’s her aunt. What’s her name? Cynthia, that was it.

“That would be very nice. I’m sure Christian would like that.”

I walk into the office as she’s finishing her call with her aunt. She looks like a kid! She’s wearing suspenders… and a hat! Over pigtails! I walk over to her after she has ended her call and begins typing into her laptop.

“Fashion statement?” I ask. She looks up at me.

“My hair wouldn’t cooperate,” she says and stretches. “My dad wants to come to Vegas when we go for the trial.” I raise my brow.

“He does?” I ask. She nods.

“I suppose he needs some kind of closure, too,” she says. “This whole thing was so traumatic for us both—going through hell, finding peace, then having it ripped away from us again. I’d say he definitely needs some closure.”

“Well, you’ll get no argument from me. I’ll get a block of rooms so we don’t have to worry about it.” I sit down in front of her desk. “How was your day?” She raises her head again, somewhat in surprise.

“Busy,” she replies still looking at me. “We hired a couple of people for the in-house cleaning staff. They start shadowing Mr. Collier on Monday. I fired our cleaning crew as of the end of January. The head bitch in charge wasn’t happy to hear that, so now we have to keep an eye on them until the contract ends.”

“Were they slacking?” he asks. I shake my head.

“Not since the first time, but we weighed what we were paying them compared to the cost of having a cleaning crew of our own. The costs were comparable, but having someone on staff makes them more accountable to us than having an outside company come in. Plus, we’ll need people available at a moment’s notice instead of just at a certain time.”

“I see you’ve thought about this,” I say, sitting back and crossing my legs. “You’re still working?” She twists her lips.

“No Marilyn,” she says. “Courtney helps as much as she can, but she’s still no Marilyn… and she took the afternoon off to spend with her grandparents.”

She did?

“Really?” I ask. She nods. “Last I spoke to Fred, he wasn’t sold.”

“He’s still not sold,” Butterfly says, “and Courtney’s okay with that. She told him that she knows that she was a horrible person and that if he didn’t want to be bothered to not waste her time.” I raise my brow again. She has changed.

“Larson called me today,” I say. She stops typing and looks at me.

“Why did he call you?” she asks.

“To tell me to call off my security team that’s watching Whitmore.”

“You have a team watching Pamela Whitmore?” she asks. I nod.

“And I want her to know that she’s being watched.” She goes back to typing.

“Figures,” she says. “Serves her right… that backwards ass town. It’s okay to harass the victim, but not the victimizers.” She shakes her head.

“That’s what I said,” I reply, standing. “Come. We need to eat.” I hold my hand out to her. I know that she wants to work more, but I’m hungry and she needs to eat, too. She closes her laptop and takes my hand.


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

The new question and answer thread is always open for questions about the story. Be sure to read it and please adhere to the rules when asking questions. You can find it on the left, second from last on the menu or you can click HERE.

There has been yet another development where if you feel the need to talk to fellow readers about personal issues, you need a sounding board, you want to vent about something in your life, please feel free to visit the link on the left in the menu entitled “Do You Need To Talk.” No subject is taboo. I just ask that you approach the link with respect for those who have concerns as well as those who respond. You can also get to the link by clicking HERE

You can join my mailing list on the “Contact Me” page. Just click the link and it will lead you to a form to join the list.

~~love and handcuffs

Fifty Shades Golden: Chapter 23

Still deep in the CE studies. Here’s something for your reading pleasure.

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…

CHAPTER 23

Eric Dane 16 small

TREY

I awake still sitting up on the sofa with someone standing over me. I’m a little hazy from the tequila and it’s still dark outside. When I clear my vision, it’s the girl from last night.

What’s she doing here? Oh, yeah, I asked her to stay.

“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice raspy. She has combed her hair and put it in a bun and she’s standing in front of me only in the T-shirt that I gave her. I blink a few times and when I focus, she’s on her knees in front of me, pulling gently at the waistband. At first, I think to protest, but my mind says, “Oh, fuck it, why not?”

I raise my hips and allow her to remove my pajama pants and my boxer briefs. She spreads my legs and takes my cock in her mouth. At first, it’s flaccid, but then she begins to work her magic and I’m nearly crawling up the back of the sofa.

Shit, she’s good, good like I remember Joyce being—tight hot lips with just the right amount of sucking and moisture. And she doesn’t neglect the balls. Please, don’t neglect the balls. I lay my head back on the sofa and succumb to the pleasure. Fuck, this is good! This is really good!

She keeps dropping her mouth down hard on me and sucking really hard when she comes back up.

Shit!

Down hard again and a hard suck back up, then that incredible sucking and teasing at the head.

Oh dear God.

Now I fucked a lot tonight, but I didn’t come. She keeps sucking and teasing and sucking and teasing until…

“I’m gonna come! I’m gonna come!” She doesn’t stop and I pop like a geyser into her mouth. It’s so good that my hips rise off the sofa, my dick trying hard to get further down her throat like she doesn’t already have me balls deep.

I groan in ecstatic agony as I hold her head down on my thumping cock, and she doesn’t push back. She swallows and swallows until it feels like she’s going to swallow my head down her throat.

When I think my balls are empty, she doesn’t stop. She lightens the suction but continues the stimulation on the underside of my dick with her tongue.

“Shit!” I hiss. This shit is good. She caresses my flaccid cock with her lips and tongue until it’s not so flaccid anymore. When I slowly start to pump into her mouth, she releases my cock and stands before me. At first, I’m a bit forlorn that she has removed her mouth, until she grabs the bottom of my T-shirt that she’s wearing and pulls it over her head revealing a deliciously small waist and curvy hips that I don’t recall seeing before. She pulls a pin out of her bun and her dirty blonde hair cascades down her back.

Fuck. She is hot!

She climbs onto my lap, guides my insanely erect cock to her pussy, and slowly slides down on it. I bite my lips to keep from groaning too loud. She begins a rhythmic ride—not too fast and not too slow, pushing her hips forward down onto my cock then pulling back as her pussy slides off of it so that she’s doing this up and down circular motion with her pussy and hips. I suck a tit into my mouth and pay attention to my cock slowly begin to burn as she rides me. Up and down and up and down she goes, and I can feel the head and sides of my dick hit every wall and crevice.

“Fuck, that feels good,” I hiss, and she tightens her muscles on my cock.

“Oh, goddamn!” I exclaim and slide one hand over her ass and between her cheeks. She bends one leg so that her foot is flat on the sofa, puts her hands on my shoulders and fucks my poor hard shaft like she’s hoping to find platinum in my balls. That shit is so good and so hot, and I feel another orgasm coming really soon. I move my hand between her ass cheek and stick my middle finger in the ass as she’s fucking me. She groans loudly and picks up speed, fucking me furiously, but never losing her rhythm. She cups my neck with one hand and places the other flat against my chest and…

Ride, Ali, ride!

She buries my face between her tits and she’s pumping with fury, wheezing and whimpering in ecstasy. I grab her thigh in an effort to slow her motion, but it doesn’t hinder her and I’m. Going. To come.

“Wait! Wait!” I warn, trying to tell her that this party is going to be over any second, but she’s not stopping or slowing down. She continues with that deadly circular push, roll, and pull until I feel my abs tighten and…

“Fuuuuuuuck! Fuck, fuck, fuuuuuuuuuuck!”

I’m blowing hard inside of her and she’s still push roll and pull, push roll and pull, push roll and pull…

“Sonofabitch!” I call out as my balls thump against each other, but Ms. Ali is not finished. She continues her push roll and pull, push roll and pull until my cock comes alive again.

Damn! I usually need a break! What the fuck is this? My dick thumps as if to say, “Are you complaining?”

Hell, no!

“Move down, move down,” she pants quickly, and I slide down the sofa so that my ass is on the edge and except for the awkward bend in my neck, I’m lying flat, my dick standing at impressive attention straight up in the air. She puts one foot on the floor and leaves the other bent flat on the sofa. Using my torso for leverage, she flattens both her hands and begins yet another masterful roll—this time from left to right—up and down the length of my cock.

Oh, for the love of fuck!

I caress the hip I can reach and grip her tit while I watch her pussy slide up and down the length of my cock. I lick my licks deliciously as I watch her wetness coat my dick and she continues to roll on it. You’re looking for another gusher, baby.

“God! Fuck! Oh, God!” she cries as she starts to tremble, but never slows her stroke. I imagine that her face is forming a horrible sex grimace, but I can’t look. That cunt is pulsing feverishly on my dick, making it get harder, and I watch as she creams up and down the skin of my shaft.

“Oh, yeah, baby,” I growl. “Cum on my dick. That’s it!”

She rides in this position for a few more moments, panting a high-pitched pant before she stops and puts her other foot flat on the sofa. With her hands still flat on my abs, she bounces on an incredibly erect dick with her legs wide open, over and over again.

That shit looks so good and feels even better. She bounces for quite a while, and I put my hands under her thighs to help hold up some of her weight. A couple of times, I have to hold my nut because I don’t want it to end yet, and I’m pretty certain that I don’t have number four waiting in the rafters, but this is one hot female, and she knows what the hell she’s doing.

I can tell when she’s tired, because her legs buckle, and she has to rest her knees. I move to roll on top and finish the job, but she stops me.

“No,” she breathes, “Turn and lie flat.”

Who am I to argue? I grab her thighs and turn us both so that we’re lying flat on the sofa and she’s rolling and riding again—fast and slow; deep strokes over my entire cock and quick, teasing, rolling strokes right at the head; grinding and pumping; rolling circles and up and down. She is giving this dick one of the polishings of its life.

“God, that’s so good. That’s so fucking good,” I groan and hiss as I caress her body all over—her hips, her back, her thighs, her ass, her hair. I start a slow stroke of my own, still allowing her to maintain control, but getting a push into that pussy like you wouldn’t believe. My cock is starting that familiar burn and my balls are getting tight… and I feel the whip.

Thwap!

I jerk around her and my cock hardens. I close my eyes and open them again, looking into the blue irises of Ali. Her pupils are dilating, and her hips do that grinding roll again. My dick hits all her walls again, my head feeling the squeezing of her muscles…

Thwap!

Fucking hell! This shit is insane. I grab her ass and sink my nails into it. She cries out and closes her eyes, her stroke now feverishly up and down—that orgasm-inducing repetitive stroke.

Thwap!

Fuck! I can’t take it. I won’t fight it. It feels so good that I’m dizzy.

I still her ass with my nails in the skin and thrust into that pussy like crazy, hard and fast. She starts this squeaking noise with each thrust and then her body stiffens. She screams out her orgasm, her muscles squeeze impossibly tight around me and then…

Thwap!

“Fuuuuuuuuuck! Fucking hell!” I grit my teeth and bite out a fantastic orgasm, pressing Ali hard against me and thrusting into her as my balls thump and empty for the third and final time. My thighs tighten and I feel like I’m getting a cramp in my leg and my breath stops as I squeeze out the last of this massive orgasm.

When we’re both spent and sated, Ali is lying on top of me, my arms wrapped tight around her, and we’re still trying to catch our breath. After several minutes, our breathing calms, and she gently pushes herself off of me. She pulls my T-shirt over her head, quickly wraps her hair in a bun and puts the pin back in it.

“Thank you,” she says almost shyly, “for letting me stay the night. Goodnight.” She walks off down the hall, back to the fuck room, and closes the door. I sit up and slide into my boxer briefs and pajama pants. I sit on the arm of the sofa and look down the hall where she disappeared into the room.

“You’re welcome,” I say to no one.


Briana Evigan 16

GOLDEN

Two months and counting…

I think I’ve gotten back on my Golden square. I have a rule at the clubs that I still frequent that Christian/Trey/Chopper is not allowed to watch any of my performances in a private viewing room. I can’t make them ban him from the clubs because he hasn’t done anything wrong, but I can refuse to frequent the establishment if they don’t honor my request for him not to be in the private viewing rooms. Since most of my clients are “high rollers,” of course the clubs don’t want to lose that patronage. Crimson won’t give me any guarantees because the owner has known Trey longer than they’ve known me. The only promise that I could get is that they would let me know if Trey was on the premises, and I can decide if I want to stay or not.

While I respect their position, I’m still on the fence about frequenting their establishment.

I watch the news closely with Elena’s case with Trey approaching. My prediction was that she would get very minimal time and maybe a fine for the assault. Parole was an option, but I thought with her in the limelight and with all of her misbehaving, the court wouldn’t go too easy on her. As it turns out, the case is irrelevant due to a series of unfortunate events. Unfortunate depending on your point of view…

In the first week of October, after I met with my clients and damn near had to climb on Annette Bircham’s shoulders and physically pull a few teeth from her mouth, I called Mason, Elena’s attorney, and offered him the non-negotiable settlement…

“You should know that Mrs. Lincoln’s funds are limited right now,” he said. “It’s very likely that she may be filing for divorce from her husband.”

“Honestly, that’s not my concern. She wants a quick way out of the lawsuit, this is it. Ten million, sealed file, gag order, and she doesn’t even have to pay existing court costs or attorney fees. I’ll take my fee from the settlement.”

“You’re being awfully generous, Ms. Olivet,” he said.

“Call it what you want, but she has a week to decide if she’s taking the settlement—payment due within two weeks of the decision—or we go to court. I await your reply.”

A week to the date of that call, Mason called me back to inform me that Elena had agreed to the settlement but needed more time to accumulate the funds.

“Two weeks,” I reiterated. “If she can’t do it, the deal’s off.”

Being stuck between a rock and a hard place, he agreed to relay the message.

Two weeks later, near the end of October, all parties involved met in my office and signed the papers for the settlement. A wire transfer was sent to my business account for the $10 million, and once I verified that the transfer was complete, my business with Elena Lincoln was done. She threw a nasty look at me before leaving my office and I returned the glare, mentally warning her that all bets are off if she ever darkened my door again.

That was the last time I saw her.

“Mistress,” Blake says coming into my bedroom one Wednesday morning in November. I’ve brought you breakfast… and news.”

Blake sits a tray with warm croissants, orange juice, and coffee on my lap and takes the remote from my nightstand. He flips to a morning news station and they’re talking about reconstruction of one of Washington’s low-income districts. I can tell this is one of the stations where the stories repeat, so I begin to eat my breakfast while watching various headlines. I’m barely waking up and I take a large drink of my orange juice. Halfway into my first croissant, a local anchorwoman begins to announce the next story:

Authorities in Kirkland are investigating a gruesome discovery. Deputies say that a woman was walking her dogs on a trail in a wooded area near her home when her dogs became very agitated. Assuming that they had picked up the scent of an animal carcass of some kind, she went to investigate.

The name of the woman, Francine Millford, shows under the picture of an older woman with graying black hair and glasses.

“Well, at first, I was afraid to go over there,” Francine says. “I didn’t know what I was going to find, but, seriously, we walk these woods many times a day, so… Anyway, Pixie—my lab—she just went nuts. A few seconds later, my shepherd Trevor is inconsolable and they’re both pulling at the leashes to get off the trail.

“Trevor and Pixie had picked up the scent of death,” the anchorwoman narrates. “Although most cadaver dogs are Labradors or German Shepherds, neither dog had been trained in this area. But today, both dogs became detectives.”

“Against my better judgement, my curiosity got the best of me and I followed the dogs into the trees to see what they were barking at,” Francine continues. “They got there before me, of course, and they both started sniffing something on the ground. They kept sniffing and then they kept looking at me. I came closer to look and, sure enough, there she was, lying there naked on the ground. Pixie was sniffing at her feet and Trevor was nudging her head, I guess to try to wake her up. Her eyes were wide open, and they were totally blank and almost white and I knew she was dead.”

“What did you do next?” the anchor asks.

“I called 911.”

The scene changes to the wooded area and various police and county officials going in and out of an area that has been quarantined by police tape. The anchorwoman continues…

“Authorities arrived on the scene at about seven this morning, minutes after the 911 call was received, and identified the body as Seattle socialite Elena Lincoln. Ms. Lincoln was previously the owner of the exclusive salon chain Esclava which ceased operations last year amid rumors of health violations. She was due to appear in court this Monday for an assault case involving Christian Grey…”

Of course, Christian is shown entering his building flanked by security with cameras flashing at him. At first, he’s unaffected as the questions are flung at him.

“Mr. Grey, what’s your take on Elena Lincoln?”
“Mr. Grey, who do you think is responsible for this?”
“Mr. Grey, did you know Elena Lincoln was found dead this morning?”

At that moment, Christian stops and turns questioning gray eyes to the direction of the camera.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute… what did he just say?” he says, and one of the reporters repeats the last question.

“Did you know Elena Lincoln was found dead this morning?”

Christian’s brow furrows and his wide, piercing eyes show genuine surprise and a little bit of horror. He wants to say something, but Taylor visibly and audibly tells him not to say anything until he gets more information on the matter.

“I…” he stutters. The look on his face indicates that he wouldn’t be able to say anything anyway. “Um… no, I… don’t know anything about this. Excuse me…” And he’s whisked into Grey House.

He looks good… healthy, not at all distracted.

“Oh, why the hell do I care?” I mumble and turn my attention back to the news story which now shows pictures of Linc. I missed whatever they were saying about him before the story flashes back to the black body bag being carried out of the woods, narrated by the voice of the anchor and the woman who found the body.

“Did you know when you saw her that it was Elena Lincoln?” the anchor asks.

“I didn’t know who it was. I just saw a dead woman in the woods.”

“Initial findings indicate that Mrs. Lincoln’s body showed several signs of trauma and smelled heavily of bleach. We’ll have more on the story as information becomes available. Amir, Fallon, back to you.”

The commentary continues in the studio, but I really can’t hear it, although my eyes are fixed to the screen.

Elena… dead… fuck.

I didn’t expect this. I knew that she would be getting her comeuppance, but I expected to hear that she lost her bid with Christian and would be doing some jail time, maybe plead out to probation, classes, and community service or something… nothing like this… nothing at all like this…

“Mistress? Do you need anything else?” Blake asks, breaking my train of thought.

“No,” I tell him, pushing the tray away from me. “No, nothing. Take this away.” He removes the tray and leaves my room, closing the door.

I want to get up, but I’m really tired. I so want more information on what happened to Elena, but I had an extreme workout during a scene last night. One of my most masochistic clients wanted his quarterly intensive abuse, so intense that he has an inhouse doctor that comes to see him when it’s done. No one else gives him the kind of bruising and beating that he craves, and it has to be done on his premises because he can’t move when it’s over. I only have one client like that as I’m not sure that I could inflict that kind of pain on anyone on a regular basis.

Except Trey, that day when I beat the hell out of him and he barely flinched. I had to finish him off with the Pulse. Watching that was hot…

“Snap out of it, Goldie,” I say to myself. I lay back down on the pillows and pull the covers up over me, intent to get some more sleep.

I open my eyes and he’s standing over me.

“Miss me?” he says cockily, standing there in just a pair of jeans and nothing else. He’s standing in my room! What is he doing in my room?

I try to move. I try to sit up, move my arms, scream, but nothing happens, no sound comes out.

He moves over to the side of the bed and caresses my bare shoulder. I shiver at his touch, but I still can’t move. His hand travels from my shoulder down my satin gown to my taut nipple. He pinches it hard through the fabric and I cry out at the pleasure pain experience.

“You want me,” he says, his voice low. “Why fight it?” he adds as his other hand teases and torments my neglected nipple through the fabric. It’s driving me wild.

“I want you, too,” he says, his voice gravelly, “you know I do.” His hands move down my body, sliding down to the hem of my gown and effortlessly pushes it up to reveal my core.

What is this? Why can’t I move?

He climbs onto my bed and settles between my legs, opening them wide and diving into the feast in front of him.

My hands are suddenly able to move now, but all I can do is gasp and arch into his hungry lips and tongue. He’s lapping, licking, and sucking hungrily, his tongue licking in and out of my pussy, masterfully circling and teasing my clit. I close my eyes and arch my back as his hands both clasp over either of my breasts while he feasts on my ladyparts.

“Yes,” I pant, “oh, God, yes…”

He devours his fill of my tender, sensitive meat, then climbs on top of me—his jeans now gone—and thrusts deep into me with no warning. I gasp as he breaches my core.

“So good,” he groans. “You feel. So. Good.”

He thrusts into me hard, repeatedly, like he hasn’t fucked in ages. I whimper under his assault—brutal and primal… and hot!

“Oh, God!” I pant. It’s so good… too good… I’m rising quickly…

“I’m… gonna… I’m gonna come…” I pant.

“Then come!” he growls, desire heavy in his command. My orgasm begins…

“Christian!” I scream.

I awake breathless, sweating, and unsatisfied. I’m sitting up in my bed, my clit pulsing and his name echoing in my ears.

*-*

One month after Elena’s death, I’m still keeping a close eye on the case and here’s why…

I want to know how she died.

I want to know who’s responsible.

I’m brought in for questioning, along with Christian and Linc.

I’m not 100% sure why they bring me in. In one leg of the interrogation, I’m told that people saw me arguing with Elena the day before her body was found. In another turn of questioning, I’m told that friends had informed them that Elena and I had a fight. In a third angle, I’m painted as the Bonnie to Christian’s Clyde. I can’t help but laugh out loud at that one.

As far as the first accusation is concerned, I simply shake my head and say, “You know I could say something like ‘I refuse to answer to prevent self-incrimination,’ but I won’t even address that because whoever told you that told you a crock of shit. So, next!”

When it comes to the second theory, I come clean.

“Yes, we had a fight about two months ago in my office. I was the attorney on a class-action lawsuit against her and she showed up to my office several times to tell me to drop the lawsuit. More than once, she threatened me and this time, she attacked me. I have two witnesses that will testify to that. If she told friends about the fight, it’s because she couldn’t tell police because I told her that I had a video of her attacking me first. By the way, that lawsuit was settled for $10 million about a week before Elena was killed.”

“Do you have the video?” the detective asks.

“No, I was bluffing. But my building has security footage of her arriving and leaving—alive!”

For the third line of questioning, I blatantly tell them, “You’re fishing. I haven’t seen Christian Grey in two months, and that’s all I have to say about that.

“In case your intel is a little shaky, let me remind you, I’m an attorney. I practice many facets of the law, one of them being defense. Unless you have concrete evidence or a witness that can put me at the scene, you need to wrap this up, because you’re wasting my time and yours. You have no one that can say that they saw me with Elena Lincoln the day before. Even though you claim to, I know that you don’t, because you can’t see something that didn’t happen.

“You can ask the same questions as many times as you want in as many different contexts as you want, but you’re going to get the same answer. I don’t know who killed her, but I know who didn’t.” I slowly raise my hand.

They question me for about two hours asking the same questions and getting the same answers. They finally end by asking me details about the settlement.

“The rumor mill has it that Mr. and Mrs. are getting divorced. I knew it was very likely that she would come out of this with no money. She had two defenses and another lawsuit ahead of her; she might end up in jail; yada, yada, yada. I convinced the parties involved to settle for $10 million. She and her attorney agreed. We all met at my office, signed the settlement and arranged the wire transfer.”

I’m violating a gag order, but hell, she’s dead now.

After the questioning, I make a B-line to my Range Rover and see Christian’s Audi in the parking lot. My heart races for a moment, even though I don’t want to admit it. He touched me in a way no one has touched me in a very long time, if at all, and I ain’t just talkin’ about the sex. I’m dealing with it though.

I put my truck in gear and drive off towards home.

The latest reports indicate that an autopsy is still underway, but the cause of death appears to be blunt force trauma. Elena’s body was horribly bruised and scarred and reportedly had been washed clean with a chlorine chemical, most likely bleach. Apparently, all three primary suspects have an alibi for the time of death. So, Kirkland police have their work cut out for them.

So, once again, it’s time for the Annual Public Service and Civic Leaders Community Fundraiser. I’m not even slightly in the spirit for it this year, but I still can’t miss it. The last few months have been an emotional roller coaster to say the very least. I’m dealing with my new feelings and still trying to get my life back as Golden. It appears to be working, but as of late, I’ve felt the need to be more myself than ever before—to reinforce who I know I am without giving too much away.

To that end, my attire this evening has been precariously chosen. My light champagne sleeveless gown is silk and tulle, backless with a sash drooping at the back hemline and attached to each shoulder. It’s a combination A-line and mermaid where it falls like an A-line while still hugging my hips a little. The gown is covered in patterned Swarovski crystal beading, making it appear to be gold. My shoes, pointy toe sparkly champagne Jimmy Choo stilettos with muted gold spike heels.

My hair is fashioned in a purposely messy but stylish side bun with haphazard side braiding and lose curls and my jewelry consists of a diamond cuff bracelet and simple diamond earrings.

“If I may say, Mistress, you look ravishing,” Blake says as he wraps me in my golden fur coat. I’m not making the same mistake this year. I’m going to be warm.

“Thank you, Blake,” I say, cupping his cheek and Jesse leads me to the limo. Although Elena is no longer a threat, I still have that would-be-could-be-not-even brother lurking around, so I keep Jesse close.

“How are you doing tonight?” he asks as we’re headed to the venue, and I know he’s asking me if I’m prepared for the evening that usually brings back a flood of emotions about my mommy and daddy.

“As well as can be expected,” I tell him. “Stay close, though, okay?”

“Does that mean no bathroom breaks?” he asks, partially serious and partially in jest.

“Of course, that’s not what it means,” I say, a tiny bit of mirth creeping into my voice, “but please make sure that I’m accompanied when you leave, and I won’t go off on my own.”

“Thanks for that,” he replies. “We shouldn’t have to worry about Linc this year. I would assume that after last year’s incident, he’s been uninvited.”

“I’ve been assured that after last year’s incident, he’s been uninvited,” I confirm. He nods.

“I got your back, boss,” he says, comforting. I nod and armor myself for the evening.

The ballroom is humming as usual when we arrive, people networking and exchanging the usual pleasantries. I scan the room to see if anyone in particular stands out—nothing but all the same familiar faces sprinkled with a few new ones. I snag a glass of champagne from one of the passing waiters, take Jesse’s arm and begin to make my rounds. It doesn’t take long for him to spot me.

“Anastasia,” he says, kissing me gently on my cheek. “This dress is sinfully dangerous, Mistress,” the Senator whispers in my ear.

“As am I, Senator,” I say with a coy smile and a raised brow. He swallows infinitesimally and turns his attention to my security.

“Jesse, correct?” he says, proffering his hand to Jesse.

“Yes, sir. Always a pleasure.” Jesse shakes his hand. It’s probably no surprise how and why he remembers Jesse’s name.

“May I please accompany the lady?” he asks Jesse. Jesse flourishes as if to present me to the Senator.

“By all means,” he says with no malice. “Be my guest, that is, if the lady doesn’t mind.”

“You two are too much,” I say, taking the Senator’s bent elbow.

“So, Jesse, have you heard about the progress in the district?” the Senator says, and they’re talking shop again.

The cocktail hour portion of the evening is uneventful. I exchange the usual pleasantries with all the usual people. The room is abuzz with the talk about Elena’s death and the suspicious circumstances surrounding it. One or two people who follow the case closely know that I was brought in for questioning, along with Christian and Caldwell Lincoln.

“Why would they possibly think you had anything to do with Elena’s death?” one of the society wives asks.

“Now, Mrs. Bledsoe, I’m certain that Ms. Olivet would much rather not discuss that unfortunate and uncalled for event,” the Senator scolds. I put my hand over his.

“No, Senator,” I say sweetly, “I don’t mind.” I turn to the woman.

“Far be it from me to speak ill of the dead, Mrs. Bledsoe,” I begin, “but look at Mrs. Lincoln’s track record. She’s made more enemies than friends in the Seattle area; had she been alive—God rest her soul—she was even uninvited from this function this year. She had that horrible thing happen with her salons last year, and I was heading a class action suit against her. She had two separate criminal cases pending against her, and I’m told that she was possibly going to be divorced from her husband. Why I became a person of interest, I’m not entirely sure. I can only speculate that it was probably due to the lawsuit, which was settled right before she passed. I’m sure that the Kirkland police are covering all of their bases just to be certain, but the truth is, they don’t have any suspects.”

“But why would someone want her dead?” Another of the wives asks. “That’s very drastic.”

“Unfortunately, there’s no way to tell why someone would do something like this,” I say with a shrug. “There can be many motives for murder, but as an attorney, I can say that her cause of death was very brutal, very malicious. This was definitely personal.”

“Are you suggesting that this may have been Caldwell Lincoln’s doing?” Mrs. Bledsoe prods.

“I’m not suggesting anything,” I clarify. “All I’m saying is that whoever did this had a very hands-on approach—pun intended—which dictates in my professional opinion that it was personal. Of course, I had no reason to want her dead. The lawsuit was settled and the payout was already done, but what the police need to look for is motive.”

“Oh, this whole thing sounds so First 48,” one of the other ladies exclaims. “I really can’t wait to see how it plays out.”

“I’m certain that all of Seattle is waiting to see how this plays out,” one gentleman says. “No one’s really comfortable with a cold-blooded murderer on the loose.”

“Indeed,” I concur, sipping my champagne.


ericdane

TREY

How did I let Brandon talk me in to this?

“You need to be seen. This doesn’t look good with you having an axe to grind and no suspects.”

“It wouldn’t make sense for me to do anything to Elena Lincoln right before the trial,” I protested. “If she had gotten off, maybe I would understand them fingering me as a suspect. Why would I do something to her before the trial?”

“Be that as it may, you’re in the limelight again,” Brandon said. “You need to enhance your image as a kinder, gentler Christian Grey.”

“So, here I am going to this stupid affair to improve my fucking image because someone decided to do a blonde bimbo that happens to be on my shit list,” I say, sipping on a soda.

“Angry much?” Ronnie says. “You really didn’t like this woman, did you?”

“Did I have anything to do with her death? Absolutely not. Am I sad that she’s gone? Not in the slightest. The world is a better place without her.”

“Don’t say that, CG,” Ronnie scolds. “There’s somebody somewhere whose sad that she’s not here anymore, even though that someone isn’t you. You saying that makes you sound like a heartless fuck, and I know you well enough to know that’s not true.”

“You give me too much credit, Ronnie,” I say, “but thank you… I couldn’t convince you to go to this thing with me, could I?” She makes a face and shakes her head.

“You want to go to the movies, go have a burger, even have dinner at a fancy restaurant, I’m there with you. Charity balls, not my thing.” I shrug and finish my soda. I’ll just have to see if Gisela will go with me then.

That night, I fuck.

I’ve gone back to subs and BDSM escorts because there’s no strings attached. They check out clean and they know exactly why they’re there. Hookers? Maybe they are, but who the fuck cares? I use them the way they’re supposed to be used.

Tonight, it’s the stringy blonde who loves it when I play with her tits. I fuck her when I need it hot and fast. I just sit her up there on my dick, grab those tits just right with both hands and flick them with my thumbs, and her ass starts bouncing like the fucking Energizer Bunny. That cunt grabs my dick and she fucks ferociously while she’s trying to get the pleasure in her pussy to match the sensation in her tits.

And when it does…

Her walls tighten so hard around my cock that I just have to hold my breath until it releases. She fucks me torturously right through her orgasm—and mine—and I have to release her tits and grab her ass when I want her to stop or she’ll fuck the skin off my shaft.

I need that mindless, burning, seething, exhausting auto-orgasm-inducing fucking right now while Golden won’t see me. The brainless release of endorphins makes the rejection and separation easier to cope with.

The next day, I call Gisela about Friday night.

“I do not think so, Christian,” she says. “It seems you give your edge to someone else.”

“I lost my woman,” I say matter-of-factly, knowing that’s what she’s referring to. “Now will you go to the fucking ball with me or not? I don’t have time for this.” The line is quiet for a moment, then she mutters something in Portuguese.

“The edge is back, I see,” she says. “When will you retrieve me?”

“I’ll send a car. Eight o’clock. Don’t be late. I’m not in the mood.”

“Very well, Mr. Grey,” she says and ends the call.

*-*

Of course, Gisela is late. Is she trying me? Of course, she is.

“Would you rather I not request your company?” I hiss when she arrives at the ball and her limo leaves. “I don’t have time for these fucking games.”

“Estabeleça-se,” she says. “The car was late, not me.”

That’s probably why his ass took off so fast, to avoid my wrath.

“We’re very late,” I say. “Let’s go.”

We step into the building and check our coats. Luckily, we haven’t missed dinner. Japanese Wagyu Ribeye; lobster frittata with sevruga caviar; fresh tagliolini with butter and white truffles; hot, buttered garlic and onion sautéed asparagus spears; and your choice of red or white wine—not the usual fundraiser meal, but at $2500 a plate, I would hope the menu would be acceptable, although I’ll probably still get my cheeseburger afterwards.

The usual banter accompanies dinner—big shots all talking about the achievements and acquisitions, how much they plan to donate, and all the good deeds they’ve done all year. I haven’t championed any particular causes this year, so I listen carefully to see which endeavors may really be worthwhile and which may just be publicity opportunities.

“What’s on your agenda, Grey?” Philsworth asks. “What causes are near and dear to you?” I clear my throat.

“I’m ashamed to admit that this will be my first organized donation,” I confess, “but I’m interested in looking into causes particularly surrounding underprivileged children, community restoration…”

“Oh, then you should speak to Senator Van Earnhart,” Lothrop says. “He’s the go-to for neighborhood restoration. He’s really keen on the Battery District initiative at the moment.”

“Really?” I say, my interest piqued. I’m not interested in causes that ultimately make the rich richer, or that make the good-looking look even better. I’m interested in causes and initiatives that get their hands dirty. I can really get behind something like that.

“The Senator is here?” Gisela asks and Lothrop nods.

“I’m sure he is,” he says. “He never misses.”

“I know,” she confirms. “I just didn’t see him.” She begins to scan the room.

“You know the Senator?” I ask in a low voice. She turns her gaze to me.

“You don’t?” she replies.

“I know of him,” I admit. “We’ve crossed paths a time or two, nothing significant.”

“Then I shall introduce you, and you can discuss your cause. Excuse us.”

We walk the ballroom for a few minutes, trying to locate the Senator and asking various guests if they’ve seen him. We finally hit pay dirt when one of the guests points in the direction of a gentleman seemingly holding court with a few gentlemen and several women. As we get closer, who the hell is hanging on his arm?

Fuck me.

She is absolutely stunning. I’ve never seen her this ravishing in the entire time I’ve known her. Hair delicately coifed in a fashionable bun with stray curls caressing her cheek and neck. And that dress… fuck, that dress! It’s like she knew I would be here and she’s tormenting me.

Game on, Grey. It had to happen at some point.

“Senator,” Gisela oozes, “it’s so nice to see you again.” The Senator turns around.

“Ms. Serra,” he greets with genuine appreciation. She kisses him on either cheek. “I didn’t know you were here this year.”

“Last minute decision,” she says sweetly. “What do you hear from Elvana these days?”

“Not much,” he says, “only when she cashes the alimony checks.” The crowd laughs.

“Senator, I’d like for you to meet Christian Grey,” Gisela introduces. “Christian, this is Charles Van Earnhart.” I take the Senator’s extended hand.

“Mr. Grey, I think we’ve met a time or two,” the Senator says.

“We have, but only in passing, Senator. It’s a pleasure.”

“No, the pleasure’s all mine,” he says. He proceeds to introduce all of the people in his little circle, including Ms. Anastasia Olivet and her security detail, Jesse Beckwick. I greet everyone equally cordially, without letting my gaze or attention rest on any one person, especially not her.

“Senator, Gisela tells me that you’re championing the Battery District initiative. I’d definitely like more information on that. I’d like to get involved.” The Senator raises his brow.

“Well, this is definitely a pleasant surprise. Tell me, why are you interested in the Battery District?”

“I want to be a part of something that will actually benefit the community,” I say. “I’m not interested in the ‘look at me, look at me’ campaigns, if you know what I mean.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” he concurs. “People don’t really want to take part in the not so popular causes. It’s good to see someone’s still interested.”

“Forgive me, Senator, I’m a little green on the details. I’d really appreciate if you could enlighten me…”

I focus totally on Senator Van Earnhart as he talks about the needed rebuilding and possible rezoning of the Battery District. Although I’m genuinely interested in this information, my laser focus is also to prevent looking even once in Golden’s direction. She interrupts about ten minutes into the conversation.

“Excuse me for a moment, Senator,” she says sweetly. “I need the powder room. Jesse?” I can see her nod to various people out the corner of my eye, but I don’t make direct eye-contact. Although I haven’t met Jesse, I can tell he knows who I am, so I nod at him instead.

“Uh, Senator, you were saying?” I say, bringing the conversation back to the cause once Golden has left the circle.

Twenty minutes later, the Senator has given me a wealth of valuable information as well as the direct contact info for the committee heading the initiative. I plan to call them on Monday morning. He excuses himself from the group in an attempt to go and find his companion. I don’t bother dwelling on what he means by that, but I know that he’s going to look for Golden.

“Would you like to dance?” I ask Gisela once the band finally starts to play. She smiles coyly, signaling her agreement. I place my hand in the small of her back and lead her to the dance floor.

“The Senator’s companion,” she begins, “she’s quite beautiful.” I sigh inwardly.

“Yes, she was,” I say.

“You speak of her in the past tense,” she says. I don’t respond.

“This is the woman,” Gisela observes astutely.

“Was,” I say, crisply. No use in lying about it. She examines me closely.

“This one has hurt you,” she deduces.

“No,” I say, my voice still crisp. “She tricked me. If I had known she’d be here, I wouldn’t have come.”

“Didn’t you?” Gisela cocks her head to the side. “She was here last year and the year before that.”

“But I was not,” I say, spinning her out and then back into my arms.

“The Senator is very fond of her.” He must be one of her super-secret clients.

“Good for him,” I say. “Can we change the subject?” She gazes at me.

“You are sensitive about this…”

“Yes, I am,” I say, the crispness returning, “she tricked me, and she misused me on a personal level and I’m not pleased about it, nor do I wish to discuss it.” I glare at her, waiting for her to drop the subject.

“You should talk to her,” she begins.

“I should not,” I reply firmly. “You got away with that once, you won’t get away with it again. And if you can’t shut your mouth about this, I’ll be glad to put something in it for you.” She raises a brow at me.

“Like what, tough guy?” she taunts.

“Like my dick!” I hiss quietly. She scoffs. She thought I meant something else.

“Promises, promises,” she gloats. I pull my phone out.

“Sir,” he says.

“Bring the car around,” I tell Taylor, still glaring at Gisela. She doesn’t flinch.

“You don’t want me to…”

“We’ll get it on the way.” I cut him off and end the call. I extend my arm. “Ms. Serra?”

“Hmm,” she says, taking my arm. “It’s going to be a fun night…”

With no regard of the fact that Taylor’s in the front seat, I open my pants in the back seat and partake of that mouth during the ride back to the penthouse. Gisela’s glad to oblige as there isn’t a shy bone in her body. After popping a quick nut in the backseat, I drag her out of the car and into the front door of the building before Taylor even has a chance to turn into the parking garage. I fuck her in every position I can think of until the sun comes up, both of us reaching orgasm several times throughout the night. We never even stopped for burgers.

*-*

That night, I go to Crimson. I don’t know if I’m hoping to see her there or not. I was warned that she requested that I don’t be allowed in any of the private viewing rooms here, either, but Max didn’t agree to the promise—only to notify her if I was on the premises. She’d rather leave than see me.

I wish that I could say that I’m adjusting well. I’m not. This isn’t like the first time we… split, for lack of a better word. Last time, it was a dry fuck against her soft body. This time, I was inside her, all over her. All these months later, I can still feel her, smell her, taste her…

I can even feel her whip.

Ali got me over the sex part. For some reason, I had some kind of mental block for a while. I would fuck and fuck and fuck and wouldn’t come. It was because I was repressing what I was feeling instead of dealing with it. Now, I see her when I close my eyes, I dream about her every once in a while, and I feel her when I’m fucking…

But at least I’m fucking.

“Give me a Jack and Coke,” I say to the bartender. The bartender nods and pours me a Jack and Coke. I turn away from the bar and look at the pole on the stage. I sip my drink and remember the first time I watched that Golden body wrap around that pole… and the last. I’m able to recall our sessions without crumbling into a mound of horny goo, although my body still aches for her. It doesn’t matter, though. I’m raw since she touched me, since I touched her, and I don’t see this sensation going away any time soon. Three months and it still hasn’t gone away…

I don’t know how long I sit there nursing that drink before I swear I hear that song. I throw my drink back and put the glass on the counter.

Dammit, I do hear that song.

“That’s my cue,” I say to no one in particular. I stand from the barstool and don’t even bother looking at the door or the pole. I go to the bathroom instead to relieve myself before I make my exit. I take my time, washing my hands and trying to let the time pass. When I think enough time has passed, I leave the restroom.

The last bars of some funky version of Tainted Love is playing. I must’ve waited longer than I thought. Both her songs are already over and a third is nearly finished. I step into the bar area only to discover that she’s still on the pole finishing her routine.

Shit. New music. Tainted Love—how apropos…

I watch her slink over to her usual table in a golden catsuit, insane high heels, and the mirrored gold glasses—almost like the first day I met her, except she was wearing a fire-engine red wig that day. Today, it’s blonde.

She struts off the stage and to her table as usual, with her glass of vodka and her champagne lollipop. She hasn’t missed a beat. She’s the same old Golden, not a glitch in her programming. I thought for a moment last night that there might have been. She’s just as flawless, cold, and calculating as she’s always been.

She’s a sadist. What did I expect?

Against my better judgement—again—I walk over to her table. I can tell that she’s watching me, but she doesn’t tell her goons, or her Jesse, to stop me.

“Don’t worry, I won’t watch you,” I assure her when I get to her table. “I just want to ask you a question.”

She doesn’t respond so I sit next to her.

“Why would you allow me to make love to you knowing that once I did, you would never see me again?” I ask quietly.

“It wasn’t love, Trey. It was sex.” I just look at her. I can’t believe she said that. I can’t believe that she’s so damn nonchalant about the whole thing. She never let anybody touch her—for years, if I’m to understand her correctly. And the one person who did, ended up paralyzed. Yet, we make love—she gives me something that she hasn’t given to anyone in ages—and she says it was just sex? I’m the most stoic, aloof motherfucker I know when it comes to fucking, and that shit was more than just sex for me. It was much more.

“It was more than that and you know it. That’s why you’re running from me.” She observes me for a moment, then her gaze changes. It becomes… pitiable.

“Don’t tell me you fell in love,” she says, her voice sprinkled with the perfect amount of incredulous contempt to make me feel about as tall as a puppy right now. My stomach churns with a feeling that makes me want to reach out and shake her for being so blasé about the encounter.

“I won’t say that I fell in love because I definitely did not,” I retort, truthfully, “but I am feeling something more than just sex.” She shakes her head.

“Then, count it a good thing that I stopped seeing you,” she says, her brow furrowed and her face serious. “I could never just be yours, Christian. I could never just be anybody’s. We both know that.”

My turn to shake my head. I don’t know what it is about this woman. I see the flaw, but I can’t put my finger on it. I never could. It was—and still is—hidden by my desire for her. She’s a true barracuda… a man-eater. Nobody becomes that person unless they’re raised that way, or something has happened to make them that way, and she swears that it’s neither.

Nonetheless, she is who she is, and she has no desire to change. Getting involved with her was a huge mistake. I knew it from the very beginning, and I did it anyway. I told myself time and time again that she could destroy me. Well, she didn’t destroy me, but she fucked me up pretty good. I have to deal with my own damn hang-ups, and I will, but there’s one more thing that I need to say to Goldie.

“Maybe it is a good thing that you broke it off with me,” I say, impassively. “You really are a sadist. You’re the best I’ve ever seen. I’ve never seen a better sadist—someone who is so dedicated to inflicting pain and being that person. I now see that you get off on it in its entirety—emotionally and physically—and there’s nothing that I can say or do about it.

“I can’t be angry with you, because you did nothing wrong to me,” I continue. “You warned me that this was who you are and that you wanted nothing more before we even got involved.”

“Yes,” she says, softly, no malice or haughtiness in her voice, “I did.” I nod, rise from my seat and turn to leave.

“I hope one day that you fall for someone,” I say, turning back to her, “and I hope that they hurt you. I’m not saying that because I want revenge. I’m not even saying that because I’m angry. I just want you to feel this,” I say honestly. “Before you die, I want you to know how it feels to want somebody—to want something so badly, but you can never have it. I just want you to know how that feels. With everything that you’ve been through, I don’t think you’ve really felt that… to want something so bad that you can never have.”

I twist my lips at her impassive mask. Is any of this getting through or am I talking to a piece of stone here?

“I know you lost your mother and father,” I add, “and maybe that pain was so unbearable that you’ve lost faith in everything else. Maybe that pain is what convinced you that the world is nothing but pain, so you might as well get off on it. Maybe I’ve completely missed the mark with that, but who’ll ever know?” I twist my lips again while she says nothing.

“I’m not here to psychoanalyze you or try to figure out what’s going on in your head, not that any mere mortal could…” I sound ridiculous, “… All I can say is that I really hope that you get hurt so that you can feel this feeling. You’ve never felt the kind of pain that you inflict on people. I’m certain of that. I know you’ve had some unfortunate things happen to you, but Karma hasn’t yet bitten you in the ass. Yet, you think Karma should bite everyone else because of what has happened to you.

“I hope you find your whole self… Anastasia.”  I roll my eyes and shake my head. Time to walk away, Grey. Walk away… and don’t look back.

So, I do.


A/N: “Estabeleça-se“—”Settle down.”

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.

~~love and handcuffs

Fifty Shades Golden: Chapter 21

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…

 Chapter 21

Briana Evigan 22 2

GOLDEN

I soon get the answers to the questions I have about Reynard. He’s looking for a windfall of money because his childhood home is in arrears on its taxes. He doesn’t have long before his mother’s house—the house he lived in his entire life except when he was married—will be auctioned off for back taxes.

What’s so sad is that had he come to me and told me that he thought he may have been Daddy’s son, I would have sat down and talked to him, found out why he felt that way, and I may have even helped him with the taxes. Now, he can kiss my ass and live on the streets for all I care.

His mom died eight months ago from cervical cancer. All of their funds went to her hospital bills, which is why there was nothing left to pay the property taxes. In fact, she still has bills remaining that need to be paid—something else that I could have helped his selfish ass with had he approached me the right way.

He’s an only child, unless you consider the fact that he thinks I’m his sister. There was no one there to help him take care of his dying mother; no assistance with the bills or the hospital care; and I almost feel sorry for him having to sit there and watch her rot. I guess it’s better in a way that my parents were ripped away quickly as opposed to watching them suffer and die.

Then again, he did at least get to say goodbye, so I don’t know which situation is worse.

His children are 7, 9 and 12. His marriage broke up a few short years after it began. His first child, his son, was born out of wedlock and the middle boy and youngest girl were a result of his short marriage. He and his wife don’t speak, and she didn’t help with his mother’s care even though they still live in Tacoma. She did, however, bring the children to their grandmother’s funeral.

The only thing that he has that he can use to identify my father as his father are some old pictures of Daddy and his mother together. They were clearly intimate, but that doesn’t mean that this man is my father’s son. I don’t know what his mother told him or what secret she may have taken to her grave, but that man looks nothing like my father, not even like my horrible uncle. I don’t know what to tell him besides to go the hell away.

So, that brings us to today. I’ve heard nothing from brother dear, nothing from Blondie or her sheisty lawyer trying to get a settlement…

And nothing from Trey.

I’ve tried not to count the weeks, thinking that he would get over the last scene and would have come back by now, or at least would have texted or called demanding an explanation, but… nothing. It’s been over two months and I haven’t seen him at any of the clubs, he hasn’t called…

Why am I so concerned about this? Clients come and they go. I’ve gone through more than two months doing what I do and getting my Golden back—and enjoying myself in the process—but in the back of my mind, I still expect him to call or text eventually looking for a scene and he just doesn’t.

Clients have left before. The splendor wore off for them or they found something new… or someone new… and they went on their way. It’s no big deal… right?

“Blake,” I call as I’m sitting in my parlor after a night at one of the clubs.

“Yes, Mistress?” he says, coming into the parlor.

“That last night that Trey was here, do you remember?”

“Yes, Mistress, I remember,” he says without hesitating.

“What did he say to you when he left?” I ask. Blake shakes his head, bemused.

“He… didn’t say anything, Mistress.” I frown.

“What do you mean he didn’t say anything? He didn’t excuse himself?” Blake shakes his head again.

“Nothing, Mistress,” he reinforces. “He didn’t even look at me.”

He didn’t even look at him. He didn’t excuse himself; he didn’t say anything; and now he’s radio fucking silent. I should go over to his apartment and barge in on him like he did me.

No, that will never do.

“Thank you, Blake,” I say. He nods once and leaves.

I really haven’t had a client just leave, not without a word. Either they met someone or decided to become Doms themselves or some other lifestyle change caused them to not want to continue our arrangement. Either way, they always gave me an explanation, always terminated the arrangement cordially, always said goodbye…

None of them ever just disappeared.

I think I’m more perturbed that it appears he doesn’t need me anymore and he doesn’t even have the decency to say so. What kind of asshole just disappears without a word?

The kind of asshole that doesn’t want what you’re dishing out anymore.

This isn’t how this is supposed to go. This is why they only get a taste once a month. Once they got a taste of me, they couldn’t get enough. They crave me. They always have to have more. They could never stay away. But Trey is different…

He could stay away, and he is.

I’ve lost control… control of myself and my situation. I let him affect me too much. I got all loopy because of a stupid kiss brought on by my dick-mesmerized brain. I didn’t even really kiss him—I kissed his dick… just through his lips. Now, I’m fucking letting my feelings of anger along with my loss of control interfere with the situation and it caused me to forget my fucking mantra.

Make. Them. Want. You.

He’s not wanting me now. I sent him away twitching and horny and needy and now, he’s associating me with the lack of pleasure. Before, he was pulled to his wits end and then he came like a fountain. Now, he was pulled to his wits end and then, in my anger, I left him hanging.

Make them dream about you when you’re not there; crave you when you’re not around.
Tease them with a promise… deliver satisfaction, but don’t give them all of you…

I didn’t deliver satisfaction. I delivered sexual frustration, and then I let him leave that way. By doing that, I unwittingly gave him power by tormenting him with no reward, then telling him, “take it or leave it,” and it appears that he’s left it. No tribute, not a text, not a call, nothing for nearly three months.

This will never do.

**My house. Tomorrow 8pm. We have unfinished business. **


eric-dane-wallpaper Trey chapter 9

TREY

Quite a bit has been transpiring all at once.

I’ve discovered that all this time the Lincolns have been together, they don’t have a damn prenup. They’ve both been freely fucking anybody they want—except each other—without the luxury of a divorce because it would most likely cost them both too much money. That’s kind of funny.

To that end, Linc has been living at the Four Seasons while out on bail for battering his wife and Mrs. Linc has been residing in their home in Kirkland. The Kirkland police officially brought her up on charges of filing a false report against me. The crime carries a possible sentence of 364 days in jail and a $5000 fine. I hear that she’ll likely get off on those charges since she got some quack to say that she made her statement under diminished capacity. Personally, I’d like to be able to see or hear the statement that she made fingering me as her attacker. If she was all loopy and shit, I’ll give her this one. But if she was cognizant and lucid, the bitch set me up, and the court will see that, too.

My court date for the assault in my office is November 13. It’s about damn time. It only took a whole fucking year! Even though my arm is about at 90%, it never completely healed without pain and I truly want that bitch to pay. If I really think about it, Elena has been the root of everything wrong in my life for more than a year.

She assaulted me in my office, causing me injury and continuing pain.

She had me wrongfully arrested and detained.

My once somewhat private life has been smeared all over the tabloids and media, requiring friends and colleagues to come to my defense.

Her fucking shenanigans let the dredges of society that are my father and brother see right into my business and situations, and both of them tried to hem me up somehow.

And Golden… let’s fucking not forget Golden.

I could have seen her, maybe lusted after her a bit, and then went on my merry little way. But no, this blonde cunt had to taunt me with what I couldn’t have. And my dumb ass fell for it. It was all a game to me at first. Get a pretty piece of ass and win the prize—that’s all I really wanted—but Elena, and Golden, had to make it out to be more.

I watched scenes before with no problem, even had some sub somewhere sucking my dick while I watched some Dom or Domme work over some willing participant in one of the exhibition rooms. Then here comes this Sunshine Sadist and she rewrites everything I thought I knew about BDSM. I thought I wanted to beat and torment women when all I really wanted to do was come—hard and often. I just needed some kink to get there.

That’s why pain whores always turned me off. I wasn’t really into inflicting pain, but I still like the control of being a Dominant, of making a woman my sex toy, making her bend to my will—to my every command. I like the bondage, the Dominance, and the submission. I never needed the discipline—unless it specifically had to do with fucking—or the sadism. But it appears that I have a hidden masochist in there.

Now, I’m beginning to feel like it’s an addiction, but it’s only half the high. I don’t just get off on the pain and I don’t just want to hurt. The pain was always immediately followed by the pleasure and the two blended together, creating some insane orgasms. Whenever I fucked later, I recalled the pain at specific points and the pleasure that followed. With this last scene, she took that away from me.

I didn’t realize how much I was under her control. I thought that even though I wasn’t fucking her and would most likely never fuck her that our relationship was still a give and take. She has a skill that opens new horizons for me—pushes me the mental and physical distance and when I’ve gone as far as I can go, she takes me over the edge in a spectacular fashion. It was magnificent. I ached for it. I craved it. I would have done anything she asked. I commissioned two sculptures for Christ’s sake.

And then came that kiss. That fucking kiss ruined it all. It blew my mind and whether she wants to admit it or not, it blew hers, too. She always does things to blow my mind. Why would I think this was any different?

All I wanted to know was why… why did she kiss me? She had never kissed me before. Like Vivian Ward said, “It’s too personal.” At least it was for us. So, why did she do it? Then she sends back my tribute, telling me that the kiss was a mistake. The only gift she ever returned was the gold collar, and I gave that back. She even wore it for a scene. If it was just a pair of lips and the kiss meant nothing, why send the lips back?

And let’s not talk about the fact that she wouldn’t return my calls or texts, so I go out to her house to see if she was okay. Who am I fooling? I went out to her house to confront her. But when I get there, I find her all hugged up with some black guy all cozy with him declaring that he’s in the running for more when she made it very clear that she wasn’t even remotely interested in that kind of relationship.

Was I pissed? Yes. Maybe even a little jealous? Maybe a little. Did I want that kind of relationship with her? Hell if I know. My last relationship was a flaming failure and that’s not an experience that I’m rushing to repeat, but I would have at least liked to have the chance if that was an option—even if I might have just turned it down.

We had the perfect arrangement for us before that damn kiss. Then, it all went south.

Feelings are messy. Relationships are messy. At the first sign of any connection, we should run for the hills, but the truth is that I don’t want to be this guy forever. I certainly don’t want to be like my father. Hell, I don’t know what the hell I want.

I’d like very much to stop feeling shitty, and to stop thinking about this woman and this situation every waking moment, please and thank you.

Before all this shit happened, I had memories of those hot ass scenes that more than assisted in my subsequent sexual escapades. Assisted in fact is an understatement. But this last time, this last bullshit, I have nothing but sexual frustration to recollect. I don’t need that shit.

*-*

“You’ve got that look again,” Veronica says as I sit next to her on our usual bench.

“What look?” I say, handing her a corned beef on rye and a soda from the carrier.

“That ‘I lost the big account’ look that you had when we first met, only you’re the boss, so I know that’s not it.” She takes a bite of her sandwich. We’ve been meeting for lunch at least twice a week since we met. We’ve had nothing but lunchtime conversations. I walked her back to her building once when it started raining. She shared her lunch with me earlier in the week when I didn’t bring anything, so I promised to bring her lunch today to pay her back.

“This is good,” she says. “Where did you get it?”

“The cafeteria at my building,” I say, biting into a pastrami and swiss on a Keiser roll.

“I should make you bring me lunch more often,” she says, taking another bite of her sandwich. We’re both silent while we eat for a few moments.

“So, who’s the girl?” she asks. I raise my gaze to her.

“You’ve been less than stellar for at least the last month and a half, CG. Maybe more. You don’t want to tell me who the girl is, you don’t have to. Just know that I know there’s a girl.” I look at my sandwich.

“It’s complicated,” I say before taking a bite.

“Don’t I know it,” she says, sipping on her soda. What the hell does that mean?

“Don’t look at me like that,” she defends. “you’re complicated. Everything about you is complicated. Even the way you dress is complicated. I’ve seen you sport Dolce and Gabbana, Anderson & Sheppard, Cesar Paciotti, and Tom Ford all in the same week. You own a glass building in the middle of the concrete jungle. Yeah, I’d say it’s complicated.” I shake my head.

“You have no idea, Veronica,” I say, eating more of my sandwich.

“Well, tell me,” she says. “How bad can it be? Is she a devil worshipper or something?” she pokes.

“Sometimes I wonder,” I say before I even think about it. She raises a brow.

“I see. So, we’re talking weird.” She takes a drink of her soda. “Is she a sister wife? Is that what you’re into—a different wife and family every night?”

“Um, no,” I say firmly.

“Okay, weird, but not sister-wives. You’re not in a cult, are you?” Oh, for God’s sake.

“No, my tastes just tend toward the very kinky.”

Fuck, did I just say that out loud??

“Oh, we’re all into some kind of kink,” she says without missing a beat. “What are you doing, whips and chains?”

“Sometimes,” I reply unfazed. She stops chewing and swallows her food.

“I was joking,” she says. I shrug. It’s out there now.

“Sometimes,” I reinforce. She shakes her head.

“You are one strange bird, CG,” she says, taking a bite of her sandwich. “So, what, this girl didn’t want to do the whips and chains anymore?”

“Something like that,” I tell her without giving her too much information. “This kind of arrangement, it’s a give and take, as with any arrangement, relationship, situationship, fill in the blank. The difference is that you give yourself to someone in this kind of arrangement on a higher level than you would in a normal relationship. The level of trust that you must have in this kind of relationship is exponentially higher than that of a regular relationship. You’re trusting someone totally with your body, and it’s more than sex and more than having an orgasm. It’s trusting someone to know your limits and respect them, and when that trust is broken, it usually can’t be restored.”

“Wow,” she says after sipping her soda and finishing her sandwich. “I’m a bit intrigued… and frightened,” she says sarcastically. “I never pegged you for the whole Disturbia type. So, do you, like, wrap yourself in latex or walk around in assless pants or something like that?”

I nearly spray my soda. I love this girl’s sense of humor.

“No, no,” I say once I’ve composed myself, “but I have seen it.”

“So…” she looks around conspiratorially, “is it as weird as everybody says it is? I’ve seen some pretty creepy shit on the internet.” I shake my head.

“Don’t believe everything you see on the internet,” I chide. “There are some really sick fucks out there. I haven’t seen half the things I’ve seen on the internet.”

“So, most of that stuff that we see on the web is sensational then,” she deduces.

“Well, not necessarily,” I say. “There are as many aspects to this lifestyle as there are nationalities in the world, if not more. It’s pretty ala carte depending on your flavor. There are people who are, like you said, just into a little kink and then there are people who are into some really creepy shit. I’m more towards the kink side.”

“So, the whips and chains… are you the whipper or the whippee?” and I want to laugh again, but it’s a valid question.

“I’ve been both,” I admit.

“And… which do you prefer?” she prods.

“They both have their benefits,” I say. Although I’m trying to forget it, lately, I’ve preferred being the whippee. “Like I said, for the most part as of late, it’s just been the kink.”

“Wow, you just never know by looking at somebody,” she says. “So, did some girl break… oh, shit!” She looks at her watch and scrambles to gather her trash.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I’m late!” she says. “My boss isn’t a ball-buster, but still…” She throws her trash into the receptacle. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow, CG,” she says as she begins to hurry down the lane.

“Wait,” I say, catching up with her as she begins to speed walk. “Why don’t you have dinner with me?” She raises her brow.

“CG, I didn’t know you cared,” she says, fluttering her eyelashes dramatically. I chuckle again.

“You’re good company, okay?” I admit. “If we’re going to share a meal together, I’d like for it to be more than just an hour.”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I’m not into all that whippee/chainie shit,” she adds in her usual playful manner.

“I’m not trying to fuck you, Veronica,” but I’d be remiss to say the thought hadn’t crossed my mind once or twice, “I’d just like to have a meal with you. I’ll tell you what. Don’t decide now. If you’d like to have dinner with me, meet me in the lobby of my building at 5:30 tomorrow evening. If you decide you’d rather not, no hard feelings, I’ll see you at lunch. Deal?” I proffer my hand to her. She twists her lips.

“Deal,” she says, shaking my hand. “Now, unless you’re going to give me a job, I have to leave. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says again and takes off down the lane again.

Oh, boy. Dinner with a real girl. I haven’t done this since Juliet, but I did tell her that I’m not trying to fuck her… which I’m not. I don’t think she could handle me. I just didn’t want her to leave thinking I’m some kind of weirdo. I just practice a non-conventional lifestyle, that’s all.

What the hell am I getting myself into?

*-*

I’ve taken a shower and changed into jeans and a linen shirt for dinner with a comfortable pair of deck shoes. I don’t want Veronica to feel uncomfortable during our dinner. She’s nice and I just want to get to know her a little better. I don’t have any friends, to speak of. Maybe this will expand my horizons to new relationships. I’m a little old to be an island.

She showed up at 5:30pm at Grey House as I requested, but she insisted on being able to go home and change into more comfortable clothing, adding that, “No self-respecting woman would go to a man’s house for the first time and not have her car available.” I get that. We’ve had a lot of lunches, but nothing as intimate as dinner at the other’s house.

I open the door when she arrives and she’s a bit stunned.

“Wow,” she says. “You dress down nicely.”

“So do you,” I say, taking a moment to admire her figure in tight skinny jeans, a T-shirt, and a light jacket. However, I don’t stare too long. “Come in,” I add, stepping aside to allow her in.

“I should have known you’d have a set-up like this,” she says, taking off her jacket and revealing a very nice-looking rack—not too big and not too small. She doesn’t have the big ass I’ve come to like, but her curves leave nothing lacking.

Dammit, Grey. Stop checking her out! That’s not the purpose of this visit.

“You can just put your jacket and purse there on the sofa if you like,” I say, going into the kitchen. “There’s no one else here but my staff and they’re tucked away unless I call them.”

“Staff?” she asks, placing her jacket and purse on the sofa.

“My security and housekeeper,” I say, taking a bottle from the refrigerator and retrieving two glasses. “I’m a wine drinker with dinner, but knowing that you were driving, I opted for sparkling grape. Is that okay?”

“Perfect,” she replies. I place the two glasses on the counter and open the grape juice.

“Please, have a seat,” I say, gesturing to the stool at the breakfast bar. She sits and I fill our glasses, uncovering a tray of antipasto and crudité to share before dinner.

“I was feeling like I was underdressed coming to this place,” she says. “I’m glad to see that you’re comfortably casual, too. How do you live here, CG? I’d be afraid I’d break something.” And her wit begins immediately.

“You get used to it,” I say, eating some of the antipasto and sipping my drink.

“Oh, yeah, I bet it was agony,” she quips, and our light lunchtime banter starts anew.

Throughout hors d’oeuvres and part of dinner, I find out that Veronica is from Seattle and her parents still live here. She’s the youngest of five with two brothers and two sisters, and the only one with a college degree. She’s still very close to one of her brothers and cordial, for lack of a better word, with one brother and one sister. She lost the other sister in a drug deal gone wrong.

She has no children as, even though she dates, she hasn’t met the right guy yet. All of her other brothers and sisters have married and had children, including the one that passed away, and her parents constantly ask when she’s going to give them some grandchildren.

“I always tell them, ‘Mom, Dad, you have 14 grandchildren. Lighten up.’ Anyway, I don’t think it’s in the stars for me.”

She talks about how she doesn’t see falling in love anytime soon and without that very special someone, kids aren’t an option—especially since she’s hoping to make partner sometime very soon.

“The boss didn’t give me any flack for being late from lunch the other day,” she says. “I’ve never been any kind of late since the day I started working for the company. He didn’t even notice until I apologized. This is really good,” she says of the roast chicken and spaghetti carbonara. “Did you cook it yourself?” she teases. I twist my lips at her.

“I can,” I retort, sticking my tongue out at her, “but no, my housekeeper cooked for us tonight.”

“So, CG, you haven’t told me what’s had you in a mood,” she says. “You started telling me about your lifestyle, but I want to know what has your face dragging the ground. And since I’ve seen that hound-dog-jowls look before, I know it’s a girl, so don’t bother trying to deny it.” She eats more of her pasta. I roll my eyes.

“It’s not what you think it is,” I tell her. “I’m not in any kind of relationship, but I had an arrangement—for lack of a better word—with this… girl,” although Golden is anything but simply a girl. “The lifestyle is discreet and hard to explain to someone unfamiliar with it, but the best way I can explain it is that I feel like she broke our deal.” Veronica twists her lips.

“I see,” she says. “It’s this secret-Red-Door-type of thing, so you can’t be too specific. There’s obviously nothing illegal going on, or you wouldn’t be talking to me about it. This arrangement you had with this girl, was it exclusive?”

“Not at all,” I reply, “but the way that we practice in the lifestyle, the rules are very strict, and everything is very safe. Certain clubs require a doctor’s clearance every six months. Certain relationships are even structured with contracts and non-disclosure agreements. The BDSM lifestyle is a lot more prevalent than a lot of people think.” She nods.

“Sooooooo…” she says, dragging the word out, “what happened? She put the pussy on you, and it blew your mind?” I chuckle at her candor.

“What’s tragic is that we haven’t had any kind of penetrative sex, unless you include oral,” I admit. “It’s just not in our agreement.”

“You two have one of those contracts?” she inquires. I shake my head.

“Not a written one,” maybe that was my mistake. “It’s mostly non-verbal. Apparently, however, I assumed some unspoken rules that I shouldn’t have.”

“You stepped wrong, CG?” she asks, drinking some of her grape juice.

“No,” I say regretfully, “she did… twice.” I stand and gather our plates. “Would you like seconds? Be sure to leave room for dessert.”

“Well, if there’s dessert, I better not take seconds,” she says, wiping her lips with her napkin. I clear the dishes from the breakfast bar, scrape the scraps into the garbage disposal and load the used dishes into the dishwasher.

“You’re quite domestic,” she teases with a chuckle. I scoff.

“Not even,” I say, retrieving two more glasses and two dessert plates from the cupboard. “I just know how to clean up after myself.” I retrieve dessert and a bottle of wine from the refrigerator. “I hope you like key lime pie.”

“I love key lime pie,” she says as I place it on the breakfast bar in front of us. “Ironically, I once had a boyfriend who would eat no other dessert, but key lime pie.”

“Wow,” I say plating the pie for each of us. “That’s a very narrow choice.”

“He was very narrow-minded,” she replies. “That relationship didn’t last long.” I raise a brow as I uncork the wine.

“Care to elaborate, or is it a tender topic?” I ask, as I pour the wine.

“It’s not tender at all, and I thought you said ‘no wine,’” she accuses.

“Except with dessert,” I reply, putting the bottle on the counter. “This is a Sauvignon Blanc. I didn’t even pour you a full serving since I know that you’re driving, but you’re going to want to sip this as you’re eating your key lime pie. It should be an experience. It should not be forced or rushed.”

“Oh, I get it,” she says, putting a small serving on her fork. “Archie used to take huge clumps of it like it would run away if he didn’t eat it quickly.” I laugh.

“Taste the forkful,” I coax, and she puts the fork in her mouth. “Now, don’t just chew and swallow. Let it coat your tongue a little.” I can tell that she’s moving the pie around in her mouth so that each section is coated before she swallows.

“That’s very good,” she says. I nod.

“Now, take a small sip of your wine—not too much, just enough to compliment the flavor of the pie.” She sips the wine and lets it flow down her throat.

“That’s delicious!” she says.

“See?” I say. “The correct wine paring with dessert can be the perfect conclusion of a great meal.” I cut a piece of the pie with my fork. “Tell me you’ve tried other desserts besides key lime.” I eat the forkful and chase it with the wine.

“I have but he hasn’t,” she says, eating more of her pie.

“You were elaborating before you chided me about the wine.” She nods as she swallows another sip of the wine.

“Basically, his parents were staunch fundamentalists, and that’s how they raised him. If it was fun or different, it was wrong in their eyes, and a lot of that training syphoned through to him.”

“So, of course, no premarital sex, no secular music…” I begin.

“Oh, it was much more than that,” she says. “He couldn’t go to or watch movies at all. School functions like dances or festivals were out of the question. He couldn’t do any social things like arcades, the Space Needle, hang out with his friends, nothing like that. So, when he grew up and he moved out on his own, he took all that with him.

“He admitted that he couldn’t wait to be free of his parents because they were so strict, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. He wanted to be out in the world and experience things on his own, but once he got out there, he couldn’t break away from his old traditions. I was afraid I was going to end up somewhere churning butter and sewing aprons with the other womenfolk!” I burst out laughing.

“Oh, God, that was bad,” I say finishing my pie and refilling my wine.

Very bad,” she confirms. “The key lime pie, it’s just all she ever made, so that’s all he ever ate. Getting him to try a different dessert was impossible. So, you know sex was completely out of the question. That was a deal breaker. Who wants to date a guy that’ll barely even kiss them?” she shakes her head but doesn’t finish her wine.

“Would you like something else to drink?” I ask. “More grape juice or some water?”

“Water’s a good idea,” she says. “Dinner was delicious and despite my prior experience, that pie was superb.” I nod as I get a bottle of water from the refrigerator. “So,” she continues as she opens the bottle, “tell me your story. All I know is that you practice some kinky lifestyle and you’re hung up on some girl that you shouldn’t be hung up on.” I roll my eyes.

“I’m not hung up on her,” I protest. Veronica waves her hand.

“Semantics,” she says. “There’s some girl in some kinky lifestyle. What else is there to know about CG?” I twist my brow.

“Honestly, not much really,” I say. “I was raised in Washington, too. I grew up in Bellevue.”

“Ooo, fancy,” she teases.

“Not so much,” I say. “We were fairly well off, but not like the other families in Bellevue. We weren’t really wealthy until later.” She nods.

“Okay.”

“Nothing really dramatic about my childhood,” I admit. “I was dating this girl, Juliet…”

“That’s her real name?” she asks with twisted lips.

“That’s her real name, and I really shouldn’t have told you.” I take a drink of my wine. “Anyway, we weren’t compatible. So, we broke up—nothing so dramatic as key lime pie or fear of becoming a puritan.” She chuckles. “A little while after that, I literally stumbled on some information about BDSM and someone close to me introduced me to it.”

“You don’t have one of those rooms here, do you?” she asks.

“Excuse me?” I’m caught off guard by the question. When we last talked, she didn’t know anything about BDSM.

“I did a little research after we talked,” she admits. “I was coming to your house. I didn’t want any surprises.”

“Did you think you were going to walk into a big BDSM sanctum?” I ask, shocked.

“I didn’t know what I was going to walk into,” she says. “I didn’t think I had anything to worry about, but I still didn’t know.” I cross my arms.

“Is that why you insisted on driving? Tell the truth.” She shrugs.

“Yes, and no,” she confesses. “I’m the type of girl who feels like she should always be able to pay for her own meal on her first date and she should always be able to get home on her own. That’s why I wanted to drive. And plus, I didn’t know what to think.”

“But we agreed this isn’t a date,” I point out.

“But I did come to your house,” she retorts. I shake my head.

“Well,” I say, gesturing around the apartment, “as you can see, no BDSM sanctum. And I don’t have a dungeon,” I stress. “I have a room where I ‘entertain,’ and there may be a toy or two in there, but not dungeon.” She nods.

“Okay, so you got into BDSM because some girl broke your heart?”

“You must think I’m a real sap,” I reply.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because, yes, I have a girl—a woman—on my mind, and yes, I feel slighted by her. So, the situation has me a bit preoccupied, but you’ve got me ‘pining’ over her. I’m not pining. Then, I tell you that I broke up with a girl because we were incompatible, and you’ve got me in whips and chains because I’m heartbroken. Did you stop eating key lime pie or going to movies because of Puritan Boy?” I ask.

“No!” she says, somewhat affronted.

“Well, then, stop trying to make me a sociology project,” I state. “You want to know some things, I’m glad to share, but I’m not broken, Veronica.”

“Sheesh, sensitive much?” she comments. “And call me Ronnie, for goodness sake. Only my dad calls me Veronica. It makes me feel like I’m in trouble.” I shake my head again.

“You’re a nut, you know that?” I declare. She shrugs.

“Tell me something I don’t know.” I roll my eyes again.

“I got into BDSM because I wanted to try something different,” I say. “I wanted to see if it would spice up my sex life, and it did.”

“How?” she asks.

“Well, imagine having your pick of partners—clean partners—who are willing to do whatever you want depending on your flavor. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. They don’t do anything they don’t want to do, but you both get to explore your level of kink in a safe, sane, and consensual environment. You can be as extreme as you want or you can be as tame as you want, but whatever you do, you write your own rules.

“Some people may decide that they want multiple partners while others may want just one. It can be experimental, where each of you are playing and deciding what you do and do not like, or it can be very structured, like the contracts.”

“Is there swinging involved?” she asks, “Like wife sharing?”

“There could be, yeah,” I tell her, “but again, only on a consensual basis.” She nods.

“I don’t know if that’s for me,” she says.

“It’s definitely not for everybody,” I say. “If you ever are interested, or even just want to watch, I can take you some places where folks won’t jump your bones or harass you. It’s not as scary as it looks or sounds on the internet, but again, it’s not for everybody.”

“So,” she continues. “How did CG become the Christian Grey?”

I get a feeling that she wants to change the subject. I tell her the story about how I got into Harvard but realized that I didn’t need a college education to open my business. So, I dropped out, got a small business loan, and the business ain’t so small no more. That, of course, led to the eternal feud that my sister and I are having because she couldn’t go to Harvard and I dropped out. We talk a little more about disastrous relationships, family tithes, and the financial and business hopes of the future before we agree that it’s getting late and she should get home. We agree to do dinner again soon and lunch as usual and I tell her to please call or text me to let me know that she has gotten home safely.

I pour myself another glass of wine, turn off the lights and head for my bedroom. I have to admit, it’s good to have someone to talk to. I can talk about Golden without using her name; talk about my lifestyle without somebody running for the fucking hills; I can even talk about my crazy ass family.

Once in my bedroom, I change into some pajama pants and a T-shirt and climb into bed. I take out my phone to review a few emails before I go to sleep, and I see that I have a text.

Is Ronnie home already? That was fast. She must live in the neighborhood. I swipe the screen and discover that the text is not from Ronnie:

**My house. Tomorrow 8pm. We have unfinished business. **

Is she insane? Does she think I want more of that submissive treatment? She’s out of her fucking mind if she thinks I want to be subjected to that again. What the hell else do we have to say to each other if she thinks she can subject me to that? She knows what she did, and there’s no mistaking how I feel about it, so what use is there for me to drive out to her house?

She summoned me.

She’s never summoned me before.

What the fuck is this all about? I’m not dumb enough to expect an apology, but my curiosity is killing me.

I don’t care what she says or what she does, how good she looks or what she’s wearing. I’m not going to let her get me in that dungeon again and work me up just to leave me hanging. I’m a client, and she’s turning me into a submissive. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s stringing me out thinking I’m going to come back begging for more. Not going to happen, Golden.


Briana Evigan 16

GOLDEN

It’s a brisk September Saturday, and I wake up with a mission. I’ve more than gotten my swagger back and I’m ready to face the world…

And one insolent client.

But before I do that, there are a few matters that require the attention of Anastasia Olivet, Esq.

I’m very pleased to give Blake the news that his divorce was signed, sealed, and delivered yesterday. It’s now time for him to move on with his life. I’m surprised to find that he has things that are still stored at the home that he has now left to his wife.

“Blake, why didn’t you tell me this before?” I ask. She could have done anything with those things by now.”

“I was more concerned with getting out of the house and away from her, Mistress,” he confesses. “They are things that I would like to retrieve if I can, but if I can’t…” he trails off.

I’ve met this woman. She’s scorned on many levels, whether she deserves to be or not.

“Did you leave anything valuable in the home?” I ask. “Any keepsakes?”

“There may have been a few things of significant value,” he says. “Keepsakes? I’m not sure. I won’t know unless I see them.” I sigh.

“Blake, I highly advise against going back to that house,” I warn. “At best, you’re going to find your things completely destroyed if you find them at all.” He nods.

“I’m aware of this, Mistress,” he says, “but I need to make sure that there’s nothing there that belongs to me.”

I’ve never been to Blake’s home. It’s a beautiful estate on the sound with the long, private driveway and a multi-car garage. The lawn is finely manicured, and the overall landscaping is impeccable. We’re soon to find out why.

A real estate sign shows that the house is already for sale.

We had hired a moving crew to help him retrieve his things, only to discover when we arrive that his ex-wife had cleaned the house out—all of his things and hers, including every picture of their daughter. We walk around the outside of the house to see if anything had been left.

It had.

In the back of the house is a large storage shed. Inside were several boxes with colorful descriptions on them that had to be translated for me:

Bastard…
Asshole…
Loser…
Murderer…

The list is endless. Inside of each box were fragments of clothing, personal items, books, random pieces of furniture… The boxes were stacked pretty high and at least six rows deep in the back of the shed. Blake calmly opened three boxes and examined their contents before stepping away and deciding not to open any more. I give the moving crew the task of opening and examining each box to see if anything is left still intact.

It takes several hours, but later in the day, we’re informed that everything in the boxes have been destroyed beyond recognition. I tell the crew to leave the boxes in the shed as is and promise them a handsome bonus for their trouble.

During the time that the crew was investigating the boxes, Blake and I go to the garage to ascertain the conditions of the vehicles he had left behind—a late-model Benz, an older Beamer, and a Lexus that was only a few years old. All three vehicles had been stripped down to the frames, and that’s all that remained. Blake is completely emotionless as he stands there, quietly examining his worthless vehicles.

“Blake?” I try to get his attention.

“She wasn’t always like this,” he says, still looking at the frames. “She was once a beautiful, docile woman… a superb wife and an excellent mother. She loved me and our life and our family. She changed when I killed our daughter.

“I don’t know this woman. I never will. I took something precious from her and she’s been broken ever since, and she’s been trying to break me. She succeeded in the beginning, and now her revenge is complete.” I swallow hard. These cars meant something to him even if he doesn’t say so.

“Blake, the cars…” I trail off.

“Trinkets,” he says, “except the BMW. It belonged to mi madre… the last vehicle she drove before she died.” He sighs heavily.

Oh, hell.

“You could sue her, you know,” I tell him, “for the value of the cars and of the things that she destroyed. We have all the proof right here.” He shakes his head.

“It’s no use, Mistress,” he says. “She has the $4 million, the value of the car, the value of the house. She can’t repay me for what she’s done. She can’t repay me for what she’s taken from me, just like I can’t repay her. We are both broken human beings trying to put our lives back together.

“I have made peace with what I did to my Danielle. I hope she finds her peace as well. It’s easier to start over and never have to speak to her again that it would be to chase down those trinkets she took. I won’t remember the monster she has become. I will only ever remember the times when she was still mi alma.

With those words, Blake leaves the garage and pulls out his cell. He does a quick search, then calls a salvage yard to come and retrieve the frames of the cars. Once the frames are removed, we quietly leave the estate.

As for my other situation, I wish I could say that I was cool as a cucumber today. I sent a text to Trey to meet me at my house this evening and I’m not completely sure that I’m ready for that or that he’ll even come. I know that he hasn’t forgotten me, and if I know him correctly, he’s stewing a bit. I didn’t expect him to send me tribute after that last session, but I also didn’t expect him to go completely radio silent on me.

I’ve reviewed the consequences of leaving a client unsatisfied. Just like any situation, they can choose not to deal with you anymore. But what did he expect? He showed up at my house unannounced and then he left all belligerent and shit. He couldn’t expect not to have any repercussions for that.

But he’s a client, not a submissive…

Be that as it may, I’m still his Mistress, and he didn’t show me that respect. If he doesn’t show me the respect of Mistress, he’s not going to get what Mistress gives, and I don’t care how many hissy fits he has. And dammit, from the very beginning, I told him that I choose. I choose who to engage and when to engage, and I choose when to dismiss. So, he doesn’t get the luxury of being able to just disappear on me like that without a word. You leave that behavior for the Madame Petra’s of the world, I’m not the one.

I head to Gene Juarez for a day of beauty. I do my own Brazilian waxing, but I needed everything else to be buffed, threaded, waxed, trimmed, and curled. If he’s going to be dismissed, let him see what he’s going to be missing. Otherwise, he’ll have to beg for me to take him back as a client.

I’m getting my avocado mask when I hear two other patrons talking about none other than Madame Petra herself.

“I heard that he beat her again,” one woman says.

“It’d serve her right, sleeping with other people’s husbands!” another says. Oh, hell, who did she sleep with.

“I don’t think that’s what it was,” the first girl says. “I think it’s because he wants a divorce and she won’t give him one.”

“Well, that’s what it said in Seattle Snoop,” the first woman counters. “It says right here that Caldwell Lincoln is suspected of battering Elena Lincoln a second time, and that reliable sources reveal that he found her in bed with another man—married—but they won’t reveal his identity.”

Oh, it’s a gossip rag. They got the beating wrong. They’re probably making up the rest. And that was a long time ago. They’re just now breaking that story… or did she get beaten again?

“Think about it, Lisa,” the second girl says. “We’re talking about Seattle Snoop here. Not the best source of information. And as much as they like to splatter people’s names all over their rag, they suddenly won’t reveal the name of the unfaithful husband? They got it from a reliable source, but they can’t reveal his name?”

“Well, I’m just saying,” Lisa says, “there’s probably some truth to what they’re saying. She was in hiding in that house for nearly two months. As much as that woman loves attention, something was going on to keep her locked away in her little cottage.”

“Her Kirkland home is hardly a cottage,” the second woman says. “She’ll be sitting pretty if she gets that in the divorce.”

“Are they really getting divorced?” Lisa asks.

“Wouldn’t you?” the second says. “Think about it. He beats her all to hell the first time and we still don’t know why, then he takes off for the Bahamas. They find him there with other women—they still don’t know who. When he gets back, they’re both cleaning out bank accounts…”

I didn’t know that part.

“… And they’re both accusing each other of assault. The Misses is being sued by some of the ladies that come here because of that fiasco of being bitten by rats or something in her shop…”

Boy, that rumor mill is still as ugly as hell… a whole year later!

“… And she’s being sued by Christian Grey because she fingered him as the person that beat her that night… and I think she’s got some charges against her for something that she did to him.”

“That man’s like a quadrillionaire. What does he expect to get from Elena Lincoln?”

“My guess is that he’s just trying to give her a hard time,” the second lady replies. “I have to look it up, but whatever criminal case against her or whatever it is that involves him is coming up in a couple of months.”

Well, this is valuable information. We need to look into a settlement soon or there may be nothing left to sue for.

“How do you know all this?” Lisa asks.

“Because I do follow the reliable news sources,” the second says, “and speaking of reliable sources, The Seattle Journal had the same questions we do about the divorce. Is it happening? What’s at stake? Blah, blah, blah, and guess what?”

What? What?

“There’s probably no divorce underway that we know of because the Lincolns don’t have a prenup.”

Get the fuck outta here! How did I not know this? It’s time to settle this lawsuit ASAP! Depending on how the wind blows, this could go either way. Blondie could end up with half of a huge estate or she could end up with nothing! Then, she’s got Trey’s lawsuit to contend with and she’s got defenses that she’s going to have to pay for in the near future.

I listen to the ladies talk about Blondie’s woes a little longer. Just about everything they’re saying is way off the mark, although they are giving me some good information, at least a bit here and a bit there that I wasn’t aware of. Linc is apparently living in a hotel and fighting tooth and nail to keep Trey from muscling in on the lumber business. That used to be tribute to me. Now it appears to be more personal, not that I blame the man.

When my day of beauty is over, my eyebrows are threaded, I’ve had a flawless facial, and my hair is a full, gleaming halo of brunette waves. Every inch of my body is as smooth and soft as a baby’s bottom, and my nails and toes are clipped, filed and polished to perfection.

Before dressing to deal with one errant client, I sit down in my study and compose an email to send to the participants of the lawsuit against Blondie. I inform them of the importance of coming to a settlement soon since Lincoln will soon be facing her comeuppance on some very serious legal woes and we may get nothing at all from her even if we win the case. I recommend a non-negotiable $10 million to be split between them once my legal fee has been paid. I won’t take my portion as a participant of the lawsuit since my fee will be one-third of the settlement. They may agree, they may not, but we’ll just have to see.

My chosen attire this evening is more champagne than gold, but it’s sexy as fuck. It’s a spaghetti-string silk dress with a hidden zipper in the back, a plunging neckline, and a mock-wrap waist with a thigh split that comes past my bikini line. It’s full and flowing and beautiful, the skirt a little long so that it can drag behind me when I walk. I’m wearing strappy stiletto sandals that fasten around my ankles with no stockings since my legs are as smooth as ice and my toes are freshly done. A thong would have been overkill, but you can’t go wrong with the nude seamless French-cut panties. A bra is out of the question with the spaghetti straps and the plunging neckline, so I know my nipples are prominent through the dress. My jewelry is very understated—a pair of simple gold earrings and a gold bracelet pushed up to my bicep.

Try to walk away from this, Chopper, I dare you.

I go to the parlor and pour a double-shot of vodka and await my prey. He’s about to learn a very valuable lesson this evening.


A/N: Vivian Ward is Julia Roberts’ character in Pretty Woman.

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.

~~love and handcuffs

 

Fifty Shades Golden: Chapter 22

I’m doing two chapters of Golden this week. It’s going to be ending in about six chapters, so expect anything, but nothing in particular. Plus, with my continuing education studies, I don’t know when I’ll be posting again.

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…

Chapter 22

Eric Dane 21

TREY

Garbed in my usual club attire—black jeans, black T, and Leather jacket—I drive out to Golden’s house. When I arrive, Belvedere shows me to the parlor where she’s waiting for me. I’m not late, but I should have been since she’s already in the parlor all presumptuous and shit. But why shouldn’t she be presumptuous? This is her arena, after all. I have long since understood that I’m an amateur at that game she plays.

She’s standing at the window in her parlor, her stance that of the Queen of the Castle. She’s in this sexy full-length dress with her thigh and tits on full display. Yes, Mistress, you look utterly delectable, but I’m still very much on my guard.

I walk further into the parlor and stand with my weight on one leg. Even in my casual garb, I know the aura I emit just as much as she knows hers. I won’t address her as anything yet. I just stand in the middle of the room waiting for her to acknowledge my presence. She doesn’t even turn around.

Still want to play, I see. Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.

“You asked me to come,” I say, fully aware that she more like ordered me to come. Her head snaps in my direction, her brown eyes piercing. Mistress is clearly displeased with my choice of words.

“I see we still haven’t learned any respect,” she says, placing her drink on a nearby end table. Oh, respect, there’s an interesting concept to be coming from you.

“Should I have?” I ask impassively, not moving a muscle. “You get what you give.”

“Is that right?” she asks, with a raised eyebrow. “Yet, you disrespected me by coming to my home, unannounced and uninvited, and now you appear…” she pauses, “disjointed because you saw something that got your little feathers in a huff and you subsequently didn’t get what you wanted once you were invited.”

Damn, she hit that nail a little too well on the head.

“Uninvited visit aside, with all due respect, as a client, I’m entitled to expect a certain outcome when we agree to meet,” I retort.

“And as your Mistress, I demand to expect a certain level of respect whenever we meet,” she counters. “What I do in my home, in the clubs, and anywhere else for that matter when you are not on my time has nothing to do with you and it’s none of your business.”

She’s very careful to phrase her statements so that she’s still in control. No wonder she’s such a damn good attorney, and a damn good Domme, but not this time.

“Then I would say that we’re at a crossroads,” I say, calmly putting one hand in my pocket. I don’t think she likes that either.

“How so?” she says crossing her arms and sticking that bare leg out so that the split falls fully open to the top of her thigh. Oh, yes, what a lovely display you’re giving, Mistress.

“You repeatedly address the respect that should be shown to you,” I point out, “yet you make no reference whatsoever to the respect that you should show others, including your clients. I don’t think I like that set up.” She smiles.

“So, you’ve decided you don’t want to play anymore,” she taunts victoriously.

“I’d love to play,” I say, “but you don’t play fair.” She laughs.

“You’re kidding, right?” she taunts. “You’re not seriously talking to a sadist about playing fair!”

“Maybe I made some incorrect assumptions about the rules,” I say coolly. “I’m a client, and I foolishly believed that somewhere in this exchange, we were both supposed to be satisfied. I must have been mistaken.” Her smile falls and her eyes narrow.

“Are you implying that I don’t know how to satisfy my clients?” she asks, lowly.

“Of course, not, Mistress,” I reply unfazed. “Why would I do something like that?” She raises a brow and her half-smirk comes back.

“I regret that you were disappointed,” she says turning her back to me. “You can go now.”

Suddenly, I’m very angry. I’ve called her on her shit, even left her questioning her skills for a moment, and in two sentences, she just turned it into a dismissal. Not so fast, Goldie.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I nearly hiss in my first show of emotion all night and she turns around to face me. I can’t read her expression, but I’m enraged. “Get the poor little billionaire wrapped around your finger, invite him to your lair just to dismiss him. What kind of black widow bitch are you?”

“What?” she retorts. “How dare you!”

“How dare I what?” I counter. “Stand up to you? Call you out for exactly what the fuck you really are? You’re so fucked up that you leave everybody in your wake—crushed under your shoe like they don’t fucking count. The only real relationship you have is with that fucking undertaker manservant you’ve got licking up your ass! How many men have you completely ruined? How many men have you totally destroyed? Or are they so lost in your fucking aura that they don’t even know that they’re destroyed yet? How many are there? Or is it just me? Me and that fucker that got a bullet in his ass?” She crosses her arms again.

“You’re not destroyed, Trey, you’re just whipped,” she replies haughtily. “You’re whipped over the thought and the fantasy of a piece of pussy that you’ll never have. You convinced yourself that if you stuck around long enough and you played the game by my rules that I would one day give in. I don’t know how long you’ve been doing this, Trey, but I’ve been doing this for quite a while, and I love it. I love the power that I have, and I love seeing men bow to me. I love breaking them and wracking them until they’re begging me to come. It’s who I am. It’s what I do, and if you got it in that pretty little head of yours that I was going to be anything else, well then that’s your fucking problem. You knew the rules from the very beginning, you just never played by them and now you want to blame me because you’re all dazed and confused. Well, try again, Trey. That movie don’t play here!”

I clench my fist and try to contain my temper. She thinks like a man. She acts like a man. And if she ever fucked, she’d probably fuck like a man. But what’s eating me up so fucking much is that she’s right. She’s 100% fucking correct. I want her so bad right now that my goddamn skin aches for her. She’s played with me and she’s played with my body and she’s dangled a fucking carrot in my face that she never promised me. I thought that shit would be enough, but it’s not! Sonofabitch, it’s not!

“When you’re beating those poor fuckers until they drool and lose control of their dicks, I want you to think of me watching you every fucking time,” I confess, and it’s true. Her control turns me on, even when she’s exercising it on another man. I imagine that even though they may get to taste her, she won’t let them fuck her because she’s saving herself for me. It doesn’t matter that it’s a fantasy that may never come true.

“Give it up, Trey!” she says, her voice now shaking with anger. “I know your type. I’ve seen you operate. You’re gorgeous and sexy and rich and powerful and you can have any woman you want—I’ll admit that. You leave beautiful women in your wake everywhere you tread, a girl in every port. And when you see one that’s unobtainable, you set about the task of proving her wrong, of showing her that even though she may think she’s beyond your reach, you can still get to her. I’ve met you before, Grey! I’ve met you many times. I didn’t fall for it then and I won’t fall for it now. I won’t be another conquest for you.”

“God, is that what you think?” I nearly shriek, horrified that she can trivialize my torment so easily. “You think this is about a fucking notch in my goddamn bedpost??”

“Isn’t it?” she hisses loudly, unmoved by my outburst. Fucking hell, this woman is going to drive me out of my motherfucking, goddamn, rabbit-ass mind!

“Fuuuuck!” I roar, shaking my fists in the air and turning away from her. “I can buy pussy! Fuck, I can get it for free anywhere I fucking want!” I whip back around to face her. “And you think this entire exercise—months and months of not being able to get you out of my fucking head no matter what the fuck I do; gifts that cost enough to feed third-world countries for years; seeing you no matter who I touch, no matter who I fuck, every-fucking-where I go and every-goddamn-thing I do—and you think this is about a goddamn ego-trip? Are you fucking kidding me?”

I’m yelling before I know it and something in my rant has hit a chord with her. I see something in her eyes that I’ve never seen before…

Shock.

Leave, Grey. Leave fucking now. She’ll destroy you.

I can’t. I can’t leave. I don’t know what it is, what’s this power she has over me, but I can’t fight it. I’ll never win this one, but I can’t leave.

I close the space between us before she has a chance to react. I grab her in my arms and lift her off the floor. With one arm around her body holding her hard against me and one hand firmly in her hair, I thrust my tongue into her mouth, kissing her with all the passion and frustration she’s conjuring inside of me. I want her to feel what I fucking feel—this incessant need to be a part of her. I can’t control this shit. Maybe she’s right. Maybe it is some kind of conquest, a thirst that I have to quench, or I’ll never be able to move on with my fucking life. The thing is that once I’ve tasted her, I know it won’t be enough. I know she’ll rip my soul from me and dangle it in my face like a toy hanging from a string. I know she’ll destroy me… but I don’t care.

I’m a fucking goner.

She gasps as I bend her neck to kiss her deeply, tasting her sweet tongue and mouth like I’ll never taste her again. She’s all I think about, all I fucking want, and I don’t know what the fuck I’ll do if she doesn’t let me have her.

I’m breathless with lust and frustration and anger when I finally pull my mouth from hers. Again, her eyes relay thoughts and emotions I’ve never seen from her before. It’s confusing and maddening and I don’t know how to read them. Goddammit, why does this have to be so fucking hard? I press my cheek against hers and I squeeze my eyes shut in defeat, cursing my weakness the entire time.

“You consume me, don’t you know that?” I growl against her cheek. “You’re all I fucking think about! This is all a game to you. I know that—I’m not a fool. I don’t want to just fuck you. I want to be all over you—inside of you. I want to be in your head and in your skin until I seep out of your fucking pores! I want to consume you like you consume me!”

I inhale her scent and caress her baby-soft hair, pressing her body against me in every attempt to absorb hers into mine. And for just a moment, her body softens. I don’t know what it is—if her muscles relax or she releases a breath, but I only feel one thing.

Surrender.

My mouth is back on hers before either of us can think or protest. My kiss is softer this time, probing and tasting, but still as passionate. I want you, Golden. I fucking want all of you…

Run, Grey!

No… I can’t. I can’t run.

I unzip her dress and caress her back, just to get a feel of her skin. I’m memorizing every touch, every sensation, every moment just in case she comes to her senses and reaches for that goddamn gun again. I wonder what that guy is thinking now… was it worth it? Was it worth it to feel her skin, touch her, taste her, and be inside of her?

Damn right, it is.

She drives you insane, mindless with need and want and desire until you can see nothing else, until you can’t see beyond the fact that you have to have her.

I move the straps from her shoulders and kiss her skin, licking and tasting her neck and shoulders and loving every goddamn minute of it, falling deeper and deeper under her spell with every lap of my tongue.

She’ll destroy you, Grey…

I smother the thought by bruising her lips with another delicious, passionate kiss.

“Tell me to stop!” I hiss against her mouth. “Tell me to stop now or I won’t! I can’t!”

She answers me by grabbing my hair and returning my kiss. Fuck… game over.

I have to be inside her—now!

Not against the fucking wall, though.

I carry her to the large sofa and sit her on the edge, falling to my knees in front of her. With my mouth still on hers, I slide the dress from her arms and her body, allowing it to pool at her hips. Her breasts are beautiful—firm and taut with arousal. I take a nipple into my mouth and hungrily suck it, caressing it with my tongue and lips until she’s writhing on the sofa. I’m quickly coming out of my jacket and pulling my shirt from my pants, waiting until the last possible minute to remove my mouth from her tit before I pull it off. She helps me get it over my head before she hungrily cups my face and kisses me again.

I’m undoing my jeans as our tongues lap against each other, fighting for domination of this moment. Our breath is hasty, choppy, and grunting and we press our mouths together, each of us attempting to devour the other.

God, I want her so bad that I can’t even think clearly…

Don’t do it, Grey…

I break our kiss and move to her jaw, her neck…

She’ll destroy you, Grey…

I hear the words loud and clear in my head, but my body and my cock won’t listen, especially with her clinging to me, inviting me…

She’s poison, Grey…

The best poison I’ve ever tasted. My mouth travels back to her bare shoulder, down her chest, and back to her luscious, inviting nipples. She arches her back, pushing her full and ample breasts into my mouth and I gobble them like the starving man that I am—first one, and then the other.

My God, Golden. I’ve craved you so much.

Unable to satisfy myself any longer with just her breasts, I travel down her body to her navel, circling it with my tongue. Her breathing quickens as my hand moves under her dress, move her panties aside, and begin to thumb her clit. She gasps, and I feel her clit harden almost immediately against my thumb. I raise my eyes and her head is back, her eyes closed, both her arms around me.

Stop now, Grey…

The warning beacons are blazing in my mind, horns blaring like the lighthouse warning of imminent danger, but my blind desire can’t see the beacons, and my blood rushing through my body and pumping in my ears are blocking out the horns.

I move my hands up to her waist and push them between the fabric of her panties and her soft, inviting skin to push the rest of her clothing off her body.

Last chance to push me away, Golden…

She doesn’t. She lifts her hips to accommodate me and I quickly work her panties and dress past her ass and down her legs before she changes her mind. I slide them both over her gold stilettos and toss them out of my way, leaving her stilettos in place.

Her fragrance is more than I can stand. I put my hand under her thighs and pull her to the edge of the sofa. Before she can protest, I separate them and throw one leg over my shoulder. She whines in pleasure as I dive into her hot pussy, licking and tasting her hot, sweet juices.

Dear God, she is so fucking ready!

I am not gentle. I eat that pussy with every part of my mouth, only careful not to use my teeth. She voluntarily throws her other leg over my shoulder, grabs my hair, and begins to grind into my face, making some of the sultriest sex sounds I’ve ever heard. My dick is so hard, it hurts. It’s like my cock has anticipated this moment just as much as I have and can’t wait another second.

I continue to devour the delicious, ripe fruit as I rush to undo my pants. Once they’re open, I push them down to my ass and free my aching cock, so hard that it damn near ripped through my boxer briefs. Without even thinking, I crawl up her body, wrap my arms around her, push my hands underneath her and grab that luscious ass I’m been waiting to squeeze for over a year now. I effortlessly and quickly lay her flat on the sofa underneath me with her legs open and thrust into her without even looking to guide my dick. She cries out and presses her body against mine.

“Fuck!” I hiss loudly. “So tight…” Almost too tight. My dick meets some resistance even though she’s as wet as a waterfall. I try to move, to thrust deeper, but her out-of-practice pussy is pushing back. I take a deep breath, look into her eyes, and thrust slow and hard. Her jaw tightens and her hands tighten on my shoulders. I try to relay to her through my eyes that it’ll get better, but I have to break her in again.

I pull my hips back and thrust again, still slowly, but harder this time. It’s almost like fucking a virgin. God knows I can’t remember what that’s like.

I repeat the move two more times and become frustrated with the restriction of my jeans just below my balls. I manage to wiggle them down to my knees, but soon become too impatient to finish undressing. I toe out of one shoe and manage to free one leg from my jeans. I bend my leg and dig my knee deep into the sofa cushion, causing her leg to rise and wrap around my hip.

Leverage! Fucking excellent!

In this new position, I thrust my cock into her open and exposed pussy balls deep. She gasps as she finally takes all of me… finally.

Good God, my cock never wants to leave this place.

I pull out and thrust again, and again, slower and deeper. Fuck, it feels so good. She coughs out a groan that almost sounds mournful and closes her eyes.

Don’t close your eyes. I need you right here right now… with me!

“Open your eyes!” I groan forcefully, so horny and aroused that my cock feels heavy and hard as lead inside of her. She raises her head and gazes at me, desire evident in her eyes.

I stare into her eyes as I thrust up and into her, hard. She pants, open mouthed, with each thrust. I can’t believe this is happening. I’ve wanted her for so long, craved her so much.

I’ve never seen this expression on her face before. Her brown eyes are sultry, sexy, hungry, begging… begging for more… for more of me, and I’m going to give her all I can give.

I’m lost in this activity. She looks so good and smells so good and feels so good and tastes so good… I’m fucking captivated. I thrust and thrust and thrust until my cock starts to stretch and thicken inside of her.

She’s holding me so close to her that I can barely move. Her eyes say that she has wanted this as long as I have… needed this as long as I have.

I grind into her, swiveling my hips so that I can feel every part of her… her walls, her lips, her clit… and she can feel every part of me.

“Ah! Christian!” she whimpers. Hearing her say my name spurns me on and I grind into her again and again.

She closes her eyes and holds her head back, so I lick and kiss her neck and shoulders as I fuck her. This is a goddamn dream come true… literally!

I thrust deep and grind against every part of her, over and over and over until I’m dizzy with pleasure and desire. My dick wants to come but knows that I want this to last as long as possible. I pound into her, deep and hard, my body drenched with sweat from the workout. I instinctively place my hand over her throat and squeeze a little. She groans her approval, pulls her knees up and spreads her legs wider, her nails digging into my asscheeks as I fill her over and over again. This is fucking amazing.

“Can I… can I… come inside you?” I’m close, she better hurry.

“Yes!” she pants. “Yes! Christian! Christian! Don’t stop!”

“Fuck! Golden!”

“Ana…” she pants, “call me Ana…” I look into her eyes, heavy with lust, passion, and a little sadness. With my hand still squeezing her throat, I thrust into her again… and again. I softly kiss the corner of her mouth before I move my lips to her ear and whisper,

“Ana.”

I hear her whimper, feel her shiver and swallow hard under my grip. After a few more deep strokes, her body stiffens, and she bows against me. Fuck, this feels so fucking good. I release her neck and grab a handful of her hair, pulling roughly. If I keep my hand on her throat, I might choke her to death.

“Fuck! Ana! Fuck!” I grind out through gritted teeth as my orgasm sears through my dick and into her pussy. Her helpless cries of passion and her nails digging deeper into the skin of my back help to pull the hot streams of cum right out of me. Fuck, it’s as good as I always thought it would be.

After fucking her, I see how that asshole could take a bullet for it. You get lost in that pussy, in that body, and nothing else matters. I feel sorry for the bastard, but I can see how he could so easily forget himself.

I fall down on top of her, both of us panting like dogs and trembling uncontrollably, riding out our aftershocks.

*-*

When I open my eyes, I’m lying on the sofa alone. I must have fallen asleep. I don’t know what time it is, but I’m still wearing my jeans on one leg and one shoe, and I feel unbelievably sated… and a little guilty.

Ana… where’s Ana?

I sit up and look around the room. I find her standing at the window again, looking out over the lake. There’s no drink in her hand this time.

At first, I want to say something. Then, I want to go to her. I sigh and slide my leg back into my boxer briefs and my pants and fasten them, then put my shoe back on. I pull my shirt over my head and just stand there, watching her back. We stand there silently for several moments, me staring at her back not knowing what to say and her staring out at the lake. Should I address her? If so, how? We just shared an extremely intimate experience where we called each other by first names. Do I call her Mistress? Or would that be insulting after what we just shared? Do I call her Ana? I take a chance. The silence is killing me.

“Ana?” I say cautiously. “Are you alright?” She sighs heavily.

“You can go now,” she says softly. I want to protest, but I can imagine that her thoughts are about as scrambled as mine are, if not more. I grab my jacket and stall, waiting for her to say something else. She doesn’t, and I have no idea what to say next.

I open the door and exit the parlor. I look back at her and she hasn’t moved from her spot at the window. As I head for the door, Belvedere appears.

“Will you… go check on her?” I ask concerned. He furrows his brow at me, then the stoic face is back.

“I always do,” he says impassively. I nod and drop my head. Without a word, he opens the door for me, and I leave.


Briana Evigan 21

GOLDEN

I open my eyes and feel the weight of another body on mine. I’m sated and relaxed and floating and…

Oh, God.

Trey’s body is heavy on mine. Did I shoot him? Of course, I didn’t fucking shoot him!

I masterfully slide from under him without waking him, not that I could right now. I think he’s in a coma, a Golden-induced coma.

What the fuck have I done?

I slide into my silk dress and zip it up. I walk over to the window and look out over the lake, wrapping my arms around myself.

It was incredible.

Did it feel that way because I hadn’t had it in so long? Was it because I wanted it more than I thought… or because I wanted him?

I could have let him go… could have let him stay away like I did before. I didn’t see him for months until we happened to bump into each other at that club. Then he showed up at my house and even then, everything was on my terms.

My terms.

I summoned him. I told him to come. I invited him to tie up lose ends… unfinished business. God, what was I thinking? I put on the entire come-hither garb, I’m hairless all the way down to my toes, and I didn’t expect him to jump on it?

Maybe I did expect him to jump on it. I just didn’t expect to react this way.

Once he grabbed me… once he was holding me against him firmly in his arms, my brain couldn’t think to the next second. I was all thick, angry, hot emotion, and when moments before I had been telling him how much of a thoughtless philanderer he was, when he captured me, I couldn’t put one thought in front of another. In the back of my head, I was screaming, “Don’t let him dry fuck you again! You’re not a goddamn rubber doll!” But we went so much further than that.

All the sirens were there. All the warning bells were ringing so loudly that I couldn’t hear anything else, but everywhere he touched me, licked me, kissed me… it was like “on” buttons that I couldn’t switch off. I felt his yearning… every bit of his need. It wasn’t lust; it was pure, unadulterated desire and longing. It permeated me, completely saturated me through his hands, his chest, his legs, his body. This wasn’t like Lester; it was nothing like Lester. Lester lusted for me and was going to take me even though I said he couldn’t, but not Trey. No. He needed me, wanted me so badly, and his need totally consumed me, totally destroyed all my will and resistance.

He had said something, but all I knew is that I wanted him to stop talking and kiss me…

“Ana? Are you alright?”

Shit. He’s awake. I can’t talk to him. I can’t see him. I close my eyes tight and swallow.

“You can go now,” is all I can choke out. If I say anything else, look at him, I don’t know what will happen. He has to leave, and he has to leave right now.

I close into myself, block out the words completely until I hear another voice.

“Mistress…”

It’s Blake.

“Are you alright?” He asks the same question Christian did.

Christian…

“I let him touch me,” I say sadly.

“Did he force himself on you, Mistress?” Blake asks. I shake my head, holding myself tighter.

“No,” I say, my voice shaking, “he didn’t. I let him fuck me…” I wanted him to fuck me… “I let him come inside me.” Blake is silent for several moments.

“What do you need, Mistress?” he asks, his voice impassive.

“I need to be alone,” I reply. He says nothing and leaves the parlor.

I want to cry, but I can’t. I don’t even know why I want to cry. Is this the end of me? Is this the end of Golden? Can I live with that?

I wanted this. At first, I didn’t, but then, I did. I summoned him, knowing how he was feeling—knowing what he was expecting. I wanted to be the one to end it. I wanted to call it quits. I wanted to have the last word… and now I can, but what did it cost me?

I didn’t know how much my body craved the feeling of a man’s touch until he touched me. Lying on Blake’s lap made me feel protected but being in Christian’s arms made me feel wanted. But they all want me. Why was he any different?

He cried out almost in the same agony I felt as he ripped through uncounted eons of celibacy. Even B.O.B. didn’t prepare me for that. I felt like I would explode as he penetrated me. I had more mini-orgasms than I can count.

And when he looked at me… it was so tender, yet so hungry and savage at the same time. I didn’t know what to make of it. I’d never seen that look in the eye of any man before. I’ve seen the tenderness in Blake’s eyes, and I’ve seen the hunger, the need, and the desire in many men’s eyes, but the combination of the two and what that evokes… I’ve never seen or felt that, much less from a man who was having sex with me at the time.

My body still feels him; my tongue still tastes him; my nose still smells him. I feel his seed oozing out of me as I stand here. I close my eyes and squeeze my legs together, clenching my muscles at the same time. I shiver at the thought of him thrusting into me… grinding against me… there was no part of me that he didn’t touch…

Jesus Christ.

What am I supposed to do with this? I’m Golden! I’m not some sappy girl wanting to be hugged and loved and caressed! I’m a goddamn sadist! That’s what I do! This can’t be happening… it can’t be real.

I turn on my sound system and the one song of two slain enemies plays through the speakers. My revolutionary and his closest friend turned nemesis—how fitting.

I’ve got to get myself together; I’ve got to come out of this… but how?


Eric Dane 22

TREY

Days later, I could still feel our kisses, still feel her coming around my cock, still smell the desire oozing through her skin.

I came clean with Ronnie during one of our lunches as she claims that I’m “wearing the change like a new suit.” I don’t know what I’m wearing. I’m still feeling the afterglow in my private moments, but I’m feeling every bit of the rejection all the rest of the time.

The first few texts I sent went unanswered, so I called her—a few times. I went to voicemail at first, then I went straight to voicemail. So, I went back to texting. About a week and a half later, I sent a text and got the message:

**The party you are trying to reach has ‘Do Not Disturb’ activated and cannot receive your text right now. **

I thought it was just the app that you turn on when you’re driving, so I waited a while and tried again… and again… After a few days and several tries with the same message, I finally give in and call her again. I get a new message this time.

My number has been blocked.

I don’t get angry. I can’t. This is totally unchartered territory for us. The thing is… it’s been weeks. What’s next? What’s the next step if I can’t even get her to talk to me?

By week four, I’ve had enough of the silent treatment and I make one last bid for her attention. I send tribute—nothing suggestive or expecting… a gold necklace, gold earrings, a gold bracelet and a case of the gold vodka.

I wait to hear something from her… thank you, go away, something. For three days after it was delivered, I wait. I get my answer the third day.

I walk into my penthouse, and there are two unassuming boxes on the breakfast bar, one significantly larger than the other. I already know what they are. I breathe a cleansing breath and settle into the decision. I open the largest box and remove one of the bottles. I go over to the bar and retrieve a double shot glass and walk over to the fireplace. I watch the gold-infused liquid fill the glass to the top and throw it back immediately before filling it again.

I won’t drive out there just for her undertaker to tell me that she won’t see me. This is the moment that I’ve feared for quite some time.

It’s over. It’s really over.

I had stopped calling and texting her after she denied me, but I just had to go back when she summoned me. I just had to. I couldn’t let my brain think louder than my dick just this once and leave well enough alone. No, I had to go chasing after something I couldn’t have… I shouldn’t have.

It wasn’t just my dick talking, though, and I know this. I wasn’t just some horny bastard looking to get laid and she wasn’t just another conquest. It was more than that. It wasn’t love, I’m sure, but it was more than that cheap description that she gave it.

Was it worth it? Yes and no.

Fucking her was everything I thought it would be—everything and more!

The only problem is that now that I’ve had her, I want her even more and I know that I can’t have her again. This fucking sucks.

I finish my drink and toss my glass gently into the fireplace. I’m not even mad enough to throw it in there. I have nobody to blame for this but myself. She’s a black widow—I said it, I knew it, and I engaged anyway, so whose fault is that?

When you dance with a snake, you can’t blame the snake when you get bitten.

I turn the lights down in the penthouse and head back to my bedroom to turn in for the night.


Briana Evigan 22

GOLDEN

Shortly after the night I spent with Christian, I’m finally able to get all of the ladies to agree to offer the settlement. I have one hold out who insists that I should take the same cut as all the other claimants and waive my fee since I’m going to be getting a payout of some sort and I’m expecting them to take less than the suit was for.

“Annette,” I press at the meeting, “I told you when the suit began not to expect to get the original amount. We ask for that much in hopes of getting a decent settlement. You’re acting as if we haven’t discussed this.”

“I’m just saying that you should get just as much as the rest of us if you’re suggesting that we settle for this much less than the original amount.”

I can see the other ladies can be swayed either way at this point, even after they all agreed to the settlement which would result in a payout of $1.33 million each after attorney’s fees. What happens next will depend solely on the words that come out of my mouth.

I place my pen on my desk, clasp my fingers together, and face off directly with Annette.  You wanna play chess, you greedy bitch? Let’s play chess.

“Have you found any bedbugs in your home? Because if you have, you haven’t disclosed that information. We were able to file a class-action suit and have a judge possibly hear a case based on a glorified occurrence of the heebie jeebies. This woman wants this case to go away because she’s got bigger fish to fry. That fish fry is coming up really soon and I’m trying to get us something as opposed to us being left with nothing.

“I’ve agreed to forfeit my share of the lawsuit as I am one of the complainants so that the rest of you can split that amount evenly and get a larger settlement. What you are suggesting is that I offer my legal services for free so that you can get even more money because not only am I the attorney, I’m one of the complainants. Did this woman harass you at any of your places of business? Because she’s been here. Did she assault any of you? Because she assaulted me. And you feel like I should be the front man—offer those services for free. Let that sink in for a moment.”

I say nothing and let the silence settle over the room.

“I keep my ear to the ground for information,” I say, turning to the other ladies. “Word is that we don’t know if they are getting divorced, but they are cleaning out bank accounts. Exactly how much do you think she has left to her name without her salons? What do you think is going to be left after she pays for her defenses and a possible lawsuit with Christian Grey?

“Let’s just look at the math for a minute,” I continue pulling out a calculator. “$10 million divided by six is $1.67 million apiece by all of us before attorney’s fees. If I take my third, which I am entitled to as the attorney and we all agreed when we started this suit, we would be dividing $6,666,667 among six people. That means that I and all of you would get $1.1 million each, give or take a couple of thousand, but I would still be entitled to my attorney’s fee before the settlement is even distributed. Instead, I’m saying withdraw my portion of the lawsuit, since I’ll get my attorney’s fee no matter what, and divide the rest among the five of you.

“Now, if you refer back to your email, I indicated that with this settlement, you would each get $1.4 million. If you do your math, that means that I’m not taking the one-third that I’m entitled to. I’m taking 30% and I’m leaving 70% for the five of you to split. If I took my one-third, I’d be taking $3,333,333. I’m only charging $3 million.”

I can already tell that the proverbial nail is in the coffin of her point, especially since I’ve proven that I’m taking less than my fee along with forfeiting my portion of the settlement. Nonetheless, I decide to drive it home in case this conversation resurfaces when I’m not around.

“So, here are your options, Mrs. Bircham, ladies,” I say, leaning forward to her. “I can present the non-negotiable settlement agreement to Mrs. Lincoln’s attorney and see if we can get her to agree to each of you getting a settlement of a million four after attorney’s fees for a glorified case of the heebie jeebies before the bottom falls out of her life and she has nothing left… or I can withdraw the lawsuit, withdraw my participation in it, and withdraw as your attorney. Then, you can all go and see if you can find another attorney who will work for you for free and see if they can get you a bigger settlement before Elena Lincoln goes belly-up. If you decide to go with an attorney that will take the case pro-bono, make sure that you inform them that not only is the possibility of success less likely than the possibility of settlement, but that they most likely will also have to contend with harassment, assault, and various other threats.”

I stay in position and wait for Annette to say something. At this point, all four of the other women are staring at her and waiting for her to speak. She looks at them each before she speaks.

“I was just trying to get the best deal for us all,” Annette says.

“In the meantime, you’re bickering over 270K and you’re going to cost us all 1.4 million,” Liz says before turning to the group. “I don’t know if you all understand this or not, but she’s right. This is a longshot. It’s worth a shot if we don’t lose anything, but I don’t think there’s a judge anywhere that’s going to award us anything let alone set a $10-million precedent for a case of the heebie jeebies that we may not even be able to collect if the cow is broke! You watch the news; you see what she’s going through. Let’s take the settlement and see what we can get!”

There’s a brief pause before another of the women speak up.

“Most of what you just said went over my head, Ana,” Pam chimes in, “but I did see 1.4 million if we divide by five and 1.1 million if we divide by six.” She turns to Annette. “If she’s willing to give up her share, what are you barking about?”

“And what damn attorney in what county anywhere do you expect to work for free?” Jamese asks. “Do you realize how stupid you sound for even suggesting that?”

“It was just a suggestion that we split it all six ways instead of her taking a third,” Annette defends.

“And it was a dumb suggestion,” Amber pipes in finally. “You’re going to cost us all everything and then you’re going to have four new enemies. Agree to the damn settlement, Annette. We don’t even know if we’ll get it yet. At this point, it’s our best shot…”

“Okay, okay,” Annette finally gives in. “I was just…”

“We know what you were doing and we don’t agree you’re outnumbered,” Liz says all in one breath. “Ana, offer the settlement.”

“She’s got to agree, or I withdraw completely,” I say. Yes, you bad faith bitch, say it out loud. I’m recording you.

“Let’s see if she agrees to the settlement first,” she says, still refusing to give in completely. I narrow my eyes at her.

“Agree or I withdraw completely,” I repeat. “I won’t say it again.” She still refuses to respond. I go over to my desk and press my intercom.

“Chanelle?”

“Yes ma’am?”

“Draw up the motion to dismiss to file on the Lincoln case.” There’s a long pause.

“Elena Lincoln?” she says, to be sure.

“Yes, and contact her attorney and let him know that he’ll have the motion to dismiss on his desk tomorrow morning. I’m withdrawing as their attorney and the plaintiffs will have to find another attorney to file their case.”

“Come on, Ana,” Pam says, “we can’t start all over!” I don’t respond. They had my conditions and they didn’t all agree.

“Annette, are you out of your fucking mind?” Liz barks. “You don’t want any of us to get anything, you stupid cow?”

“Annette, so help me God, if you cost me one and a half million dollars…” Jamese begins.

“Okay, okay,” she says more forcefully this time. “I agree. I agree to the damn settlement… if Lincoln gives it to us.” She turns an expecting eye at me.

“Thank you,” I say to Annette. “Now, get the hell out of my office.” Her eyes widen.

“What?” she says in shock.

“You have caused me enough grief for one fucking day. Now get the fuck out of my office!” I’m pointing to the door and glaring right at her. None of her co-plaintiffs offer her any support. She’s slow to move, but I send her a subliminal message without moving a muscle.

Bitch don’t make me physically come and remove you, because today, I will.

She must have gotten the message because not three seconds later, she rises her ass up out of that chair. Throwing a final glance at me, she leaves the office. I release the angry breath I was holding and drop my arm, counting to ten. When I open my eyes, everyone is gone except Jesse.

“You okay?” he asks. I nod.

“Yes,” I say. “I need to call Lincoln’s attorney.”

“Maybe you should take a minute,” Chanelle says through the intercom that I didn’t know was still active. “Maybe even wait til tomorrow…” she trails off. She’s right. I need to calm down. I’m not myself. I need a minute. Or a day. Or something. I leave the office a little while later intent on calling Carver Mason tomorrow to offer the settlement.

It’s been a month since I slept with Christian. He sent me tribute last week, an attempt to establish contact since I blocked him from my phone. I haven’t heard anything since I sent it back. I was dreading that he would show up on my doorstep like he has once or twice before—or dreading that he wouldn’t.

He didn’t.

I put Golden on hiatus for a while so that I can re-center and refocus myself. I go to yin yoga and restorative yoga—without Kevin—and I do a lot of meditating to try to help me regain control of myself and my happiness… to get that night out of my mind, that one night… or to at least deal with the effects of what it’s done to my psyche. I have to move on and be myself even with the memories that I have of the tenderness that we shared. Elena would love how dysfunctional I am as a sadist right now.

Elena…

Goddamn Elena Lincoln!

I was fine! I was doing just fucking fine before I met this man. There was no confusion, no questions about what I wanted or who I wanted or what I wanted to do. My life was mapped out for the next several years at least! And now I’m all fucking confused and verklempt and girly and goddamned needy. This shit is for the fucking birds! I don’t need this shit! I’m a sadist! A goddamn sadist! I don’t do this touchy-feely happily-ever-after bullshit!

Goddamn motherfucking Elena Lincoln.

If I ever get my hand on that bitch, I’m taking her ass to my dungeon and I’m going to make that shit that Linc did to her look like Patty-cake! Fucking bleached blonde bubble-head bitch! I could slit her throat and watch her die slowly for this shit. Goddamn fucking Elena Lincoln!

My guru, my shaman, my guide… where are you now… when I need you?


ericdane

TREY

“Put those feet on my shoulders!” I order her. “I want to be so deep in that pussy that you feel my dick in your goddamn throat!”

I fuck her without mercy, without feeling. I fuck her hard and deep. I want to come… so hard that I forget all about her, all about her smell and her taste, the way she felt wrapped around my dick, the look of passion in her eyes when she came, when I came inside her…

I fuck harder and harder, plunging into this nameless, faceless cunt. I want to fuck her out of my system. I know it’s useless. I know it’s impossible. I’ve already tried. I tried with Caramel, with Joyce, with numerous other submissives, but I still come back to her. She has no equal and she knows it.

I wonder how many other poor suckers do what I do… watch her hopelessly then go back to their ugly wives, nameless women, or faceless submissives and jack off in their pussies to visions of Golden? I dream about her when I’m asleep and think about her when I’m awake. She won’t let me near her. She’s even asked that I don’t be allowed into a private observation room when she’s on exhibition—in any of the clubs. She stopped frequenting the ones that won’t honor her wish.

Suddenly, my dick goes limp inside this pussy. I push myself off her and didn’t even notice that she was crying.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing… Sir… I’m… fine,” she weeps. I roll my eyes, disgusted at her for not being Golden and disgusted at myself for hurting her.

“Go bathe,” I say as I roll away from her. I feel the bed shift as she rises and goes to the en suite, her cries less controlled once she closes the door. I’ve got to get pass this, all the way pass this. I’ve been without this woman before, but this time, it feels like I’m gutted… like I can’t function without her.

And now I’m becoming a pure asshole.

I rise and don a pair of boxer briefs. I go to the bathroom and knock on the door. Her sobbing stops once she hears my knock. I open the door and come inside. She’s still sitting on the edge of my tub. She hasn’t gotten in yet. I walk over to her and take her hand, helping her step into the tub. She sniffles a few times as she gets in.

I don’t say anything to her. I can’t even remember her name.

I take the nearby sponge and wet it, gently squeezing the water over her skin. I repeat the gesture, making sure not to miss any part of her skin. She quietly cries some more, where she thinks I can’t hear her, and then she stops once I begin to wash her skin. I punished her sexually, continuously, not thinking of her pleasure, only my own…

I became Golden.

That behavior has its place, but not tonight. I won’t be her tonight.

I haven’t made love to a girl in years… since Juliet. Golden was damn close, but no, not Golden either. I don’t plan to cross that threshold tonight either, but I can at least offer some tenderness if I can’t offer anything else.

I clean her entire body, then wash her hair with the coconut shampoo that I have in this bathroom. She sinks into the comfort and I feel slightly better about being such an asshole. After I rinse the conditioner from her hair, I unplug the tub and give her my hand again to help her out. When she steps on the bathmat, I dry her body carefully and offer her a terrycloth robe which she takes. I offer her a fresh towel to dry her hair and she dries it and wraps it when she’s done. Then she stands there looking at me, a bit bemused.

“I’m…” I can’t even form the words. “This… was an unusual night for me.” That’s all I can say about it. I give her a fresh hand towel. “Would you like to wash your face?”

“Y… yes,” she squeaks out. “Thank you.” I leave the bathroom to give her some privacy. I hear the water turn on and I just stand there for a minute. I’m not all that great with aftercare. I’ve never really done it. I think I tried it once, a long time ago. But this girl—she didn’t sign up for what I did to her tonight. If she has any other dates, she won’t be able to make them, physically or emotionally. So, I think aftercare is necessary.

I go to my bedroom and pull a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt out of my dresser drawer. Once I put them on, I go back to my fuck room. She has come out of the bathroom and is standing somewhat lost in the middle of the floor.

“Would you like something to eat?” I ask. “A drink?”

“A… drink would be good,” she says. I take her hand and lead her out to the great room and sit her at the breakfast bar.

“Red wine?” I ask. “Something stronger?”

“Do you have tequila?” she asks. I raise a brow at her. Yep, no other dates tonight.

I go to the bar and grab two double-shot glasses. I pull a lime from the refrigerator and cut it in slices. Placing the slices in a bowl, I bring the bowl, the salt shaker and the tequila to the breakfast bar. I pour a shot for each of us and watch as she licks her hand and sprinkles some salt on it. I push the shot over to her and salt my own hand. By the time I take my shot, she’s already sucking the lime. I bite into my lime and watch her react to the potency of the tequila.

“Would you like to stay the night?” I ask. She raises uncertain eyes to me. “To get some rest,” I add. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Shit, when I say this is an unusual night, that’s a fucking understatement!

“I have to call the service,” she says.

“I’ll call them,” I tell her. “Do you want another or is one your limit?” She gazes at me for a moment.

“I’ll take another please,” she says. I pour us both a second shot and we take it with the salt and lime again.

“You sure you don’t want anything to eat?” I say. She shakes her head after shaking off the tequila. Okay, so no more tequila for you. I reach into the refrigerator and hand her a bottle of water.

“I’ll get you something to sleep in,” I say. “Some boxers and a T-shirt or a spare pair of pajamas…”

“The boxers and T-shirt are fine,” she says. I help her off of the stool.

“I’ll be right there,” I tell her. She walks into the room and I pull out my phone to call the service.

“This is Trey Adams. The girl you sent to my home; I want her to stay the night.”

“Yes, sir, her name is Ali.” Very astute.

“Charge it to my account.” I end the call without waiting for a response. I retrieve a pair of boxers and a T-shirt from my bedroom. I knock on the door and when she answers, I give them to her.

“Thank you,” she says sweetly.

“You’re all set for tonight. Rest well.” I walk away from the door and go to the breakfast bar. I take one last shot of tequila for myself before I fall down onto the sofa and stare at the fire.

I knew she would do it. I called it myself from the very beginning. I said she could ruin me—would ruin me, and she did. I want her whip in the worst way. I want to feel her canes, her floggers… I don’t dare allow another Domme to touch me. I don’t trust anybody else. No one would do it the way that she does, and it would only piss me off. She’s the best, and she knows it. That’s why she has that fucking song playing every time she walks into the club…

Nobody does it better,
Makes me feel bad for the rest.
Nobody does it half as good as you,
Baby, you’re the best.


A/N: Golden was listening to Tupac – Runnin’ (Dying To Live) Ft. Notorious B.I.G.

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.

~~love and handcuffs

 

 

Raising Grey: Chapter 87—Exactly Who’s In Charge here?

Taking a break from my studies to commune with my peoples…

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.

I do not own Fifty Shades Trilogy, or the characters. They belong to E. L. James. I am only exercising my right to exploit, abuse, and mangle the characters to MY discretion in MY story in MY interpretation as a fan. If something that I say displeases you, please, just leave. If you don’t like this story or me, please don’t spoil this experience for everyone. Just go away. For the rest of you, the saga continues…

Chapter 87—Exactly Who’s In Charge here?

ANASTASIA

I’ve decided not to go into Helping Hands on Wednesday since the Pamela Whitmore thing shook me up a bit. I send a text to Grace and Courtney that I won’t be in, but that I’ll be available and doing some work from home. Al is in the process of filing a restraining order against Whitmore, and she has officially made it to the “watch list.” I often wonder how the company can keep an eye on so many people at once. It must be a very incredible—and tedious—operation. I’m sitting at the dining table not quite sure what direction my day will take when I see—and feel—a shadow approaching me.

I look up and see my husband, fresh from the shower in a crisp—super crisp—black suit. His hair is neater than usual, but most likely because it’s still wet. His beard is thickening a bit from the usual designer stubble… and he totally looks like he means business. This fresh Master of the Universe look normally causes a little heat in my nether regions, but today, it feels a bit ominous.

“You’re not going in?” he asks as he takes a seat at the table. I shake my head, partially as an answer, but also to break my gaze from him.

“No,” I reply. “I’m working from home today.” I take a sip of my coffee and Ms. Solomon places a plate in front of Christian.

“Are you afraid?” he asks as he loads his fork with eggs. I shrug.

“A little shaken, maybe,” I admit, “but I’ll be fine. Al is getting the restraining order if he hasn’t already gotten it and that cunt doesn’t even have the resources to get within fifty feet of me, unless there’s something I don’t know.” Christian shakes his head as he swallows his eggs.

“No, we got surveillance in place last night. We’re pretty certain that call came from her home and confirmed that she’s there and hasn’t left. She’s going to have covert and visual surveillance. I want that bitch to know she’s being watched.” He takes a sip of his coffee.

“I see you… mean business today,” I say, sipping my own as he tucks into his breakfast. He doesn’t raise his head for a moment, but nearly clears half his plate before he speaks.

“I do,” he says, unapologetically. “I tried something new with my company and it didn’t work, so I’ll go back to the old way of doing things.”

The old way… That doesn’t sound good.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

“That I miss Marilyn and I’m really wondering what’s going on with her right now,” I say. It’s partially true. The other part is that my husband may go back to the old way of doing things and I might lose him completely.

“When was the last time you heard from her?” he asks, finishing his breakfast.

“Two weeks ago,” I reply. “She emailed me before we left for Australia.”

“And Garrett?” he presses.

“I haven’t heard from Gary,” I admit. “I know he’s alive and I know he’s working, but he won’t speak to me.” I roll my eyes. “We’ve been friends for years—longer than he’s even known Mare and this is really making me feel shitty.” He reaches over and squeezes my hand.

“I know it feels shitty, but you can only do what you can do, Butterfly,” he says. “It’s only been a couple of weeks, right?”

“Yeah,” I say. It’s been three, but it feels like an eternity!

“You gotta give them time,” he says. “I don’t know if they’re going to bounce back from this, but you gotta give them time.” I look over at him and see a hint of the tenderness that I know of the new Christian Grey tucked into the mask of the old. I sigh and pretend to straighten his tie.

“Go,” I say. “Run the world and show them who’s boss. I’ll be fine.”

He examines me and I can see it in his eyes that he clearly thinks I’m full of shit, but he kisses me on the cheek anyway.

“I love you,” he says, looking into my eyes and waiting for me to respond.

“I love you, too,” I reply. I touch his cheek and kiss him quickly on the lips. “Go.”

He glances at me again before standing from the table and leaving to start his day.

I don’t feel like I have any direction today. I appreciate Courtney’s help immensely, but if Marilyn was here, I would truly know if there’s anything that I should be doing that I’m not, anything that I had forgotten about, such as the guest that walks into the dining room as I’m lamenting my situation.

“Fuck!” I exclaim as Harmony bends the corner and freezes.

“Oookay, should I leave and come back?” she asks.

“No,” I say, waving her off. “I totally forgot you were here.”

“Well, that’s easy,” she says. “I wasn’t here when you got back from Australia and we’ve been missing each other the rest of the time. I’ve been taking a lot of time going through my mother’s house.” She sits down at the table and almost like clockwork, here’s Ms. Solomon with another plate of breakfast.

“How’s that been going?” I ask.

“Tedious,” she says. “Sad. My mother loved her kids. She’s kept every christening gown, every award, every trophy, scads and scads of pictures—graduations, marriages, babies being born, track meets, recitals, you name it—and look how they thanked her! I hate selling the house, Anastasia. There are literally lifetimes of memories in there, but I don’t want to keep it. If any of my mother’s children had any kind of heart, I would just give it to them, but they’re all cold and heartless, so it’s going up for sale.”

“Have you heard from any of them?” I ask. She shakes her head.

“No,” she said. “They only wanted what they could get from her estate. Once Carl has tended to all of her bills and wishes and everyone gets their cut, I’ll probably never hear from any of them again… except for my father when he needs money.”

I can’t help but think how sad this situation is as I watch her sip her coffee.

“What about all the pictures and the memories and stuff?” I ask. “What are you going to do with those?”

“I’m having them packed and labeled as we speak,” she says. “Each kid can have their respective shit and if they don’t want it, it’s trash. I’ve taken what I want from the house—whatever there is that would remind me of my momma. It’s just a matter of properly disposing of the rest. I plan to have an estate sale the first week of January to see if anyone wants any of that stuff. If not, whatever’s left, I’m donating to charity.”

“That seems so sad that so much of the life that your mother built will be going to strangers and charity,” I say.

“I know, but what else can I do? The mansion has way too many rooms in it. She spent her life decorating it and although the things are nice, they’re quite dated. There’s really nothing I can do with it, and I’m certain that Momma only put the house in my name to keep the Gruesome Foursome from kicking me out once she died. I’m sure that she would be pleased that I’m at least handling things as respectfully as possible.”

I have to agree. There’s no telling what her other children would have done had they been in charge of Tina’s property.

“I don’t cry as much,” she says, “but I’m still sad. I still really miss my Momma, but she’s gone now, and I can’t bring her back. Some days, I can deal with it. I can move forward, and everything is okay. Other days, it’s hard to even breathe. I have to concentrate just to get out of bed…”

I talk to Harmony for a while—something to give me some purpose—and I allow her to vent about losing her mother and her horrid siblings who couldn’t care less if she lived or died. She’s letting the real estate agent handle the staging of the house once she has the estate sale. Inventorying everything is what’s taking so long. Carl also told her that the auction for Tina’s jewelry will be on Friday and informed me that I’m welcome to attend if I want. I don’t know. I’m not sure what I’m doing with today, let alone Friday.

She’s excited about moving into the penthouse once it’s finished. I’m excited for her and I’m just now realizing that Christmas is right around the corner and this will be her first Christmas without her mother. I’m also realizing that with about a week to go, the Greys don’t seem to have solidified any plans either. We all normally go over to the Manor, but this year, we haven’t heard anything.

I really need to know what the plans are, because I have no problem whatsoever having Christmas right here in my home with my babies and my husband. Chuck’s parents are supposed to be coming, too, and I don’t know what the plan is for them when they get here. Were we all planning to get together again? I would certainly love to see Maddie and Nelson. I have a bit more Christmas shopping to do, but I did most of it on Black Friday, and picked up a few things here and there throughout the year.

“So, do you plan to decorate the penthouse when it’s done, or are you going to hire a decorator?” I ask Harmony, feeding her excitement about moving into Escala.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I haven’t even gotten that far.”

“I recommend hiring a decorator,” I tell her, “because you’re in school. Just don’t give them carte blanche.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. Courtney and Vickie have been really cool about letting me impose on their private time. I think I’ll hang around here tonight instead of going over there. Give them some time alone. I don’t want to wear out my welcome.” I nod.

“Have they said anything?”

“No, but I’m an adult. I know when grown folks need their time.” I laugh.

“Well, it won’t be like you’re in the way here,” I tell her. “We’ve got more room than we know what to do with.” I rise from the table. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got to get to my office and get some balls rolling.”

“No worries. I’m headed to class. I’ll see you later.”

“Laters,” I say as I head to my office.

I now appear to have emails from nearly every department head in GEH—some of them two or three—about whatever minutia they could email or CC me on. I roll my eyes and shake my head, thinking how too-little-too-late this gesture is. I create rules to send everything from GEH to one folder with the exception of Christian’s and Al’s emails. I don’t know how wise that is since I don’t intend to check it that often. As I’m filtering the emails, I see that Alex has forwarded me some information that I’d completely forgotten I had requested. The sensitive information on Deanna Corman.

Corman—I never knew that was her last name.

There’s delicious dirt in here on her.

She’s a research assistant at GEH, which I already knew, but apparently, she’s pretty damn good at her job. However, she’s been fired from her last three jobs, twice for insubordination and once under unknown circumstances, and she’s only been with GEH for less than a year.

Did they consider this a pass of a background check?

She’s currently cheating with three different married men, hoping that Christian would be the fourth. All of them are well-to-do or wealthy, so she’s definitely trying to sleep her way to riches.

And she likes to party… a lot. She’s been caught twice with marijuana, but not enough to get arrested and again, only during the last year. Once you hire people and do the initial background checks, unless you continue to update background checks or something happens that causes a red flag, you won’t know if something new has arisen.

So, here’s Deanna… two citations for small amounts of marijuana, three episodes of disturbing the peace that went nowhere—two of which involved two of the married men that she’s currently fucking. I need to talk to my husband about who he’s hiring, but for now, I’m calling Alex.

“Mrs. Grey,” he answers.

“Will you ever call me ’Ana?’” I ask.

“Sorry, force of habit,” he says.

“I’m looking at this file that you sent me on Deanna Corman,” I say. “How does someone with this much shit pass a background check?”

“It depends,” he says. “The company isn’t so much concerned with young people fired for insubordination. Nobody’s perfect and no one could besmirch her work ethic, not to mention that there’s only so much information you can get from a previous job no matter how good your resources. The information that we’ve received after the fact is enough to dismiss her, though.”

“No, I have a better idea,” I say. “How did you find out about the marijuana?”

“You asked for a background check with detailed personal information. That requires digging and investigation. She has a tail.” I nod as if he can see me.

“Affairs with three married men,” I note. “That seems to be her flavor. Current?”

“Yes,” he confirms. “It’s not necessarily her flavor. That’s just who wants her. It’s been my experience that single men with money are not interested in hoochies. Married men in unhappy marriages will often take it from anybody who’ll throw it at them, money or not.” That make sense.

“Well, to be bargain basement, she’s setting her sights awfully high with Christian,” I point out.

“No offense, Ana, but as the saying goes, a closed mouth never gets fed. When you have nothing to lose, you never know unless you try.” I shake my head.

“Well, she tried the wrong one,” I say. “Keep gathering info. I’m about to put my plan into action.”

“Will do, Boss Lady,” he says, and hangs up. And I immediately miss Marilyn. I have a few emails to compose.

To: Marilyn Caldwell
Re: Disabled
Date: Wednesday, December 17, 2014, 10:02
From: Anastasia Steele-Grey

Hi Mare,

I’m writing to tell you that I’m officially a fish out of water without my right hand. Not pressuring you or anything, and I’m holding on to hope that once things settle in your heart and mind, you’ll be back. In the meantime, I’m completely disabled without you.

I hope you are putting things together the best that you can and that you are finding some modicum of peace in the midst of this mess. I hope you took my advice and got out of the house instead of sitting there being religiously bullied by your parents.

Talk soon… please?

Love, Ana

Dr. Anastasia Steele-Grey
Assistant Director, Helping Hands

The next one is to one prodigal friend that I feel owes me more than the silence that he’s giving me. I had to write it, read it over, and rewrite it four times before I sent it as it started out as, “You troll, you monster, does no one else matter in this but you and your selfish feelings?” and became something with just the right amount of sympathy and the correct dose of venom.

To: Garrett Pope
Re: WTF
Date: Wednesday, December 17, 2014, 10:29
From: Anastasia Steele-Grey

Dear Gary,

I’ll start by saying that I hope this email finds you well—as well as can be expected, anyway. I realize this is hard for you and as your friend, I hope your heart can heal from this emotional trauma and that you can successfully move on from it, whatever “moving on” means for you. Having said that…

What the fuck, man?

So, you don’t want to see my PA anymore, and you may never want to see her again. Fine! What does that have to do with me and the rest of your friends? I told you the day that this happened that I had nothing to do with this. I didn’t convince her to do this, nor did I know this was happening until the clinic called me to pick her up.

You may not even read this email since your voice mail is apparently disabled or you’re simply not speaking to me, but my not hearing from you will at least not be from lack of effort.

If you’re still too raw, I get it. There’s no time limit on grief and healing, but at least drop a line that says, “Hey, bitch, I’m alive, leave me alone,” or something. It’s not fair to leave people hanging that care about you… or did you forget the whole ordeal that we had with Val?

I really thought nearly ten years of friendship meant as much to you as it does to me. I’m hurt and disappointed to find that I was wrong. At least get in touch with the others.

Dr. Anastasia Steele-Grey
Assistant Director, Helping Hands

That’s the best I can do. I’m feeling extremely “raw” myself that he would just leave me hanging when I know all the details of everything and could possibly help him even more than Maxie could right now. And the fact that we’ve been friends for so long. Does that mean nothing?

After having gotten sidetracked with my email to Gary, I get my thoughts together and send the third email that I intend to send.

To: Christian Grey
Re: Idea?
Date: Wednesday, December 17, 2014, 10:51
From: Anastasia Steele-Grey

Mr. Grey,

When was the last time your company performed random drug testing?

Dr. Anastasia Steele-Grey
Assistant Director, Helping Hands

Since Ms. Corman likes to party, let’s see if we can get lucky.

I volley an email or three with my husband and go over some of the work that I have for Helping Hands when my phone rings.

“Yes, my beloved?” I answer when I see that it’s my best friend.

“Jewel, are you sitting down?”

“Yeess, what’s up? What’s going on? Is something wrong with Christian?”

“Nothing is wrong with Christian. I’m calling about Pamela Whitmore.”

“Oh,” I sigh. “Okay. Did you get the restraining order?”

“I did,” he replies. “It applies to all matters outside of the courtroom.”

“Okay, so why do I need to sit down? Did you call Larson? What did he say about her contacting me?”

“Yes, I’ve spoken to Larson, but I really didn’t need to. I know why she’s contacting you,” he replies. “I got a package today. Jewel, you’ve got your court date.” My brow furrows.

“What court date?” I ask.

“Are you serious? You can’t be serious…”

“Al, I’m losing my patience. What court date?” Al sighs heavily.

“Grab your traveling clothes, baby. We’re headed to Vegas.”

My brain skips for a minute, but then it kicks in. Oh, hell. I completely forgot about that. I mean I didn’t forget, but with all the shit that’s been going on in my life over the last year, I totally blanked out those assholes from Vegas until Whitmore called, and even then, my brain wasn’t focused on the trials.

“Our court date… we got our court date?” I ask in disbelief.

“We got our court date,” he repeats.

“Who’s going on trial?” I ask.

“Vincent Sullivan,” he replies. “He’s fighting this thing to the bitter end, so we’ll have to appear in court for this one.”

Yeah, of course not Whitshit or Madison-Perry. No, those assholes got plea deals, but I’ll still get to look them in the eyes when they testify. They’ll still get to see what I did with their horrible scar. You didn’t break me, bitches. You came fucking close, but you didn’t break me…

“Jewel?” Al’s voice snaps me out of my daydreaming.

“Hot damn, when do we leave?” I exclaim.

Al is talking about getting the jet ready and spending some time on the Strip even though he knows that this is going to be a very serious situation and suddenly, his voice turns into the teacher from Charlie Brown when I note that I’ve gotten a response to one of my emails.

To: Anastasia Steele-Grey
Re: Hey Bitch
Date: Wednesday, December 17, 2014, 11:49
From: Garrett Pope

I’m alive.

Leave me alone.

I do love you; I just can’t talk about this or anything right now.

Gary

Well, fuck. I didn’t mean literally say, “Hey, Bitch,”… but I get it.

“Jewel? Did you hear what I said?” Al says.

“Um, no, I got distracted. What did you say?” he pauses.

“Nothing important, what’s wrong?” he asks.

“I sent Gary an email this morning and I just got my response.”

“Well, what did it say? Or can you tell me?” he prods.

“Hey Bitch I’m alive leave me alone I do love you I just can’t talk about this or anything right now Gary,” I say all in one breath, my voice downtrodden.

“Oh, you sent him the ‘Hey, Bitch’ speech,” Al acknowledges.

“Yeah,” I say, still disappointed. He’s silent for a moment again… clearly a pregnant pause.

“So, dinner at seven, right?” he says, clearly trying to get off the phone.

“Al don’t harass the man. He’s probably got enough on his plate…”

“Yep, and he’s my friend, too, and I don’t deserve to be treated this way any more than you do, nor does he deserve to be going through this pain alone and thinking he can handle it when he clearly can’t. So, Jewel, my love, I’ll see you at seven, but I gotta bust a mission.”

“See ya, Al,” I say, knowing that it’s no use trying to talk him out of whatever he’s about to do.

I look at my phone, then look at the clock. Hearing this news makes me want to call a few people. I dial the first number.

“Sunflower, hey! A little too long-time-no-hear. How was Australia?”

“It was great, Daddy,” I reply. “How is Mandy and Harry?”

“Mandy’s beautiful, but she’s always beautiful. Harry’s getting too big too fast. The time seems to fly, doesn’t it?” he says.

“Yes, it does,” I tell him. “Don’t blink. It’ll be over in a second,” I laugh, just realizing that in about a month, my twins will be a year old. “I have news, Daddy.” The line is quiet.

Are you expecting again?” he asks. I frown as if he can see me.

“Daddy! No!” I whine. I mean, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, but I haven’t prepared myself for that yet. I’m still on birth control, for Christ’s sake. “No,” I say, recovering quickly, “but it is good news nonetheless.”

“Well, out with it,” he says playfully. “I can always use good news.”

“I’m going to court,” I tell him. “I get to tell my story about what those bastards did to me in Nevada.” Daddy falls silent and I hear a loud noise like someone dropping a bag of clothes.

“That is great news, Sunflower,” he says, his voice sounding like a continuous sigh. “Finally! Finally, your voice is going to be heard! I’m going with you.”

“You don’t have to do that, Daddy,” I tell him. “You’d have to put your business on hold and what about Mandy and Harry?”

“We’ll work it out, baby,” he says. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world, and I mean that.” I sigh. I know when my father says he’s going to do something, he’s going to do it.

“In that case, I’ll keep you posted. You can fly down in the jet with us.”

“That’s right! You do have a jet, don’t you?” he exclaims.

“Yes, sir,” I say. “You’re little girl has hit it big!” I jest.

“No,” he says, “you may have married a really rich guy, but he hit it big when he got you.” My cup runneth over.

“Thank you, Daddy,” I whisper.


CHRISTIAN

Apparently, my attitude is illuminating around me the moment I hit the building. People bypass the usual sycophantic “Good Morning, Mr. Grey” and scurry around, away from, or to avoid me like roaches. Three people even exited a crowded elevator to avoid having to ride in it with me.

Get used to it, troops. The Iron Fist is back.

“Andrea, what meetings do I have on the books today?” I ask when I breeze into my office and past her desk. Ever efficient, she’s behind me in moments and is probably the only person in the whole building who’s immune to my asshole tendencies.

“You’ve got Ros and Lorenz at noon and the auditing meeting at two. Nothing else that I know of.” I nod.

“Have a fresh pot of black coffee sent up from the cafeteria. I feel the makings of a long ass day ahead.”

It’s time to shave some operations to make room for the intensive audit that’s about to take place in my company. Not keeping my eye on basic housekeeping is what allowed that keystone cop motherfucker to get in the castle and eventually kidnap my girl; a mole to be hired in right under our noses; miscellaneous subsidiaries to engage in human trafficking for God only knows how long; and a sympathizer to give classified information to a couple of fucker hackers, which included the biological son of the only real nemesis that I have in the world. Some of these stagnant mergers and acquisitions are going to have to wait until I can give them the attention they need.

In my Research and Development department, there are five sub-divisions—marketing infrastructure, product safety, operations, program development and evaluation, and research and technology services. Each of these divisions are coming under the microscope severally as well as how they relate to each other division in the department and the company. I decided to start with R&D since they have been in the center of my ire thus far.

I’m doing audits internally as well as employing an outside auditing firm to identify weak spots in my company. The last time I did an overhaul, it seems like there was a lot of hefty talk and not a lot of action. Wait til they see what happens this time.

I’ve already set the stage for the upcoming internal audit and I’ll be meeting with Al, Alex, my accounting department head, and the members of the external audit team this afternoon. I’ve also requested that all executive emails be forwarded to my wife. As half-owner of this company, I can’t afford for her to be completely uninformed even if she doesn’t plan to take part in the operations of the company. I really wish she would, but I can’t force her hand. I do like her way of thinking, however, when I get an email from her today.

To: Christian Grey
Re: Idea?
Date: Wednesday, December 17, 2014, 10:51
From: Anastasia Steele-Grey

Mr. Grey,

When was the last time your company performed random drug testing?

Dr. Anastasia Steele-Grey
Assistant Director, Helping Hands

What a fantastic way to weed out a bunch of people that I wouldn’t want in my company anyway! I know for sure that the possibility of random drug testing was introduced in the employment packages of each employee, right along with the NDA’s and releases to perform background checks. My company is zero tolerance, so even though we haven’t had random tests in quite some time, this should come as no surprise.

To: Anastasia Steele-Grey
Re: Idea?
Date: Wednesday, December 17, 2014, 11:17
From: Christian Grey

Dr. Grey,

Capital idea! May I ask what brought about this stroke of genius?

Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc

“Andrea, can you come into my office please?” I summon through the intercom.

“Yes, sir,” she says. A few moments later, she enters the office and I inform her to close the door.

“Who handles our requests for random drug testing?” I ask. She raises her brow in surprise. Yes, this is going to be exactly what’s needed to shake the company up a bit.

“I’m not sure, sir,” she says. “It’s been a while. I don’t think we’ve had random drug testing since I’ve been employed here.”

“Well, that’s about to change,” I tell her. “Find out who does them for me—the most accurate without blood. I don’t want anything invasive. I think hair will be the best option.”

“Yes, sir,” she says, and she leaves the office. I check my computer and there’s another email from Butterfly.

To: Christian Grey
Re: Idea?
Date: Wednesday, December 17, 2014, 11:39
From: Anastasia Steele-Grey

It’s just a hunch I’m following, but it would surely weed out the unwanted element from the company. And in all honesty, a company your size should have this kind of thing regularly, especially with your zero-tolerance drug policy.

Have you also considered enacting a policy of follow-up background checks just to stay on top of things? You also might want to look into how the yearly evaluations are done. I have some ideas.

Dr. Anastasia Steele-Grey
Assistant Director, Helping Hands

She’s right about that. And the fact that Andrea has just informed me that we haven’t had drug testing at least since she’s been here is pretty significant. It adds to the complacency of the staff. However, the follow-up background checks could be a massive undertaking. That would require an entire protocol of reminders and possibly another team dedicated to nothing but that. I know that we have procedure in place in case someone gets an arrest after they’ve been hired, but I don’t think we have anything much more than that. Maybe it’s something I should look into…

“Black,” Ros says when she enters my office. “I haven’t seen black in quite some time.”

“It’s just a suit, Ros,” I reply as she and Lorenz enter the office.

“It has a presence,” Lorenz says, taking his regular seat in front of my desk.

“That’s what he’s going for,” Ros remarks, taking her usual seat as well. “R&D is shitting their pants. The other department heads are turning in status reports as we speak. My guess is that they want to get ahead of the upcoming audits and see what they should concentrate on.”

“Hmm,” I say, opening the file she just sent me from her iPad. “It may be too little too late,” I observe as I scroll through the project titles from the various departments.

“Isn’t that what you wanted,” she says, “to put some fire under the departments?”

“No,” I reply. “I’ve been putting fire under them for the last two years and it hasn’t helped. It’s time to clean. It may even be time to introduce some new talent. I’m all for keeping someone with tenure who has demonstrated continuous progress and improvement in the company, but if that’s not what I’m getting, I’m not going to continue to pay people to sit on their laurels and decide to jump when I start breathing fire. That’s what they always do, and I’m tired of it now.” I minimize her list of projects and go back to the spreadsheet of pending acquisitions I was reviewing when they entered.

“I see that we’re currently courting six companies, we got four on the hopper, and three in negotiations. Tell me what’s cooking with the four.”

“Same thing, different day,” Ros says. “They’re looking over the offer and seeing how it fits into the future of their companies…”

As Ros drones on about the four companies we have approached for mergers, I hear no urgency in her voice. I feel the same complacency that I’m getting from my department heads. I truly hope I’m wrong.

“Drop ‘em,” I say once she’s finished. Her eyes widen.

“Sir?” she asks in horrified amazement.

“Drop ‘em,” I repeat. “I’ve heard nothing that indicates that any of those companies have any real intentions of moving forward. They’re just biding their time to see what I’m going to do.”

“It’s just before Christmas, Christian,” Ros protests.

“Yep, it’s just before Christmas now, and we’ve been doing the one-two step with Hanes and Bristol since just before my grandfather died. What’s that—six or seven months, and no bite? Drop ‘em.”

“And the others, too?” she asks, still horrified.

“Yes, and the others, too. I’ve made serious offers to all of these companies. I don’t have time for them to consult their ancestors to ask what their next move should be.” She shakes her head and types into her tablet. “What about the three in negotiations?”

“Finney has that,” Ros says flatly.

“Firm counter-offers on two,” Lorenz says, “I actually CC’ed you on that this morning. The last one is still giving some ridiculous numbers but is ripe for the picking.” I twist my lips.

“Hmmm,” I ponder. “I’ll take a look at that third one and see if it’s worth the trouble. And stop the courting with the other six.”

Lorenz and Ros both look at me.

“Christian, Veston is prime for acquisition. If we let this go, we may completely miss this opportunity…”

“And there will be another opportunity,” I interrupt Lorenz. “There’s always another opportunity. Right now, I have bigger fish to fry right here on my own front door. Let’s lock down the ones we already have in negotiations. Any others can wait until after the audits.

“Yes, sir,” Lorenz responds skeptically, tapping into his iPad.

“And by the way,” I say, looking through the emails being sent to me and forwarded to Butterfly, “I want executive level emails to be sent to my wife, not all this junk that everyone has decided that they want to send all of a sudden.” They look at each other again.

“Um, how do you suggest we screen what goes to Mrs. Grey?” Ros asks.

“Her name is Dr. Grey, Ros,” I correct. “And you screen it the same way I just did—executive emails only. Keep the junk mail; pass the word—intentional violators will be disciplined. Any other questions on the matter?”

She purses her lips and looks down at her tablet. I know what’s happening with all these random emails. These assholes are trying to prove a point and teach a lesson since Butterfly indicated that she didn’t get a response to her email. All they’re really doing is pissing me off, and that’s something that they really don’t want to do right now.

I go through several more minutes of handing down instructions and deliberately ignoring a barrage of “But, sirs” when Andrea knocks on my open door.

“Sir, I’ve got that information that you wanted,” she says, and I know that she’s talking about the random drug testing. I gesture her in.

“Who’s the company?” I ask, right in front of Ros and Lorenz.

“DISA Global Solutions, sir,” she says, handing me a piece of paper with some information on it. I don’t have to look at my executive team to know that they’ve suddenly become more alert.

“What are the next steps?” I ask.

“We send our specs to them and get a quote,” she replies. I nod.

“Correspond with human resources. Get an approximate head count of the building. I want a 50% sampling of highly reliable testing and if we can get results by Monday or Tuesday, that would be superb. I don’t want this spilling into the holiday.”

“Yes, sir,” she says with a nod and leaves. The silence is so thick in the room you can cut it.

“Drug testing, Christian?” Ros says. “Is that what you think is causing the problems in GEH?” I raise my gaze from my computer screen.

“I know what’s causing the problems in GEH, Rosalind,” I reply, “I am. I’ve been at the helm of a successful company enjoying high profits and low problems for years until I got married. Now, I’m a family man and everyone seems to have forgotten the formula that got us to where we are—myself included. I plan to rectify the situation.”

“Hmm,” she says, twisting her lips. “Rosalind. Okay. Since we’re being frank, I should tell you that random drug testing is simply an unnecessary outlay of funds. And 50%? In three business days? Are you serious? It’s an unnecessary scare tactic.”

“On the contrary, I think it’s very necessary. If I order a 50% random sampling and five people come back with a positive test in a zero-tolerance company, then that’s five people that I can get rid of and replace with employees who will follow directions and remain drug-free. If I order that same sampling, and 300 people come back testing positive, I know it’s time to clean house and I have very well found one of the problems with GEH. One or one-thousand, Ros, this is a necessary operation. The only way it’s unnecessary is if every random specimen comes back completely clean.” Ros huffs loudly and shakes her head.

“Out with it, Ros,” I say. She fixes her gaze on me.

“There are so many other things that we need to be focusing on—operational flaws, problem solving and risk management, flow of information, management and integrity—and we’re deciding to turn our focus to drug testing,” she states incredulously.

“Is there a problem with drug testing?” I ask. “Why are you so dead set against it.”

“I’m not against it,” she retorts, “I just think there’s a better use of the resources, including preventing the downtime of 50% of our staff.” I do the Butterfly bobblehead thing.

“Are we broke and I didn’t know it?” I ask, incredulously. “First of all, no expenditure is too high to ensure that I find any drug-addicts in my company or to ensure that I do not! You know why I have a zero-tolerance for drug use, which is a perfectly logical reason for me to request random drug testing, especially in light of the costly mistakes we’ve had in the past few months. And yes, I do intend to implement and exercise random drug testing across the GEH industries. Now, I’ve told you why I feel like this is a very necessary initiative. Besides the completely irrelevant issue of cost that you keep raising, can you tell me why you’re so against it?”

Ros’ head jerks back like I just hit her. Something I’ve said shocked her and I’m not sure what it is. My points are very relevant, and I’ve supported them with facts. That’s when Lorenz decides to chime in.

“Sir, I don’t see anything wrong with taking a firm hand if the company has taken such a drastic turn. There’s nothing obvious to the naked eye or in the financials that indicates that the company is declining, but again, I whole-heartedly agree with nipping things in the bud—getting behind the problem before it affects the bottom line. However, you don’t want to come off as a small man swinging a big stick because someone broke his favorite toy.” I turn my attention to him and frown deeply.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“One of the first thing you said when we walked into the room was ‘Stop sending junk mail to Anastasia.’ I don’t know what happened between the time you dismissed us yesterday and the moment you walked in this morning, but things have certainly changed. Ros brought up a very valid point yesterday about nepotism that the other department heads are very likely to concur with if the legal department isn’t ripped apart like the rest of the company. Hate it or love it, that’s the truth, and you can’t shoot the messenger.

“If you’re making any decisions that either of us may feel are irrational, we would be doing you a disservice not to bring it to your attention. Now, although we know that the company is going through internal investigations for what appears to be one too many mistakes, a lot of the decisions for measures and guidelines being handed down appear to be personal, and I can’t be ashamed to tell you at the risk of my silence being damaging to the company.”

I can’t fucking win for losing.

I can’t be the ball-buster.
I can’t be the nice guy.
I can’t be the billionaire concerned about his fucking business.
I can’t turn my back for a moment and say, “Hey, let this operation run on its own,” without having to worry about the walls falling down.

What’s more, I can’t initiate a practice or a policy with my own money without being concerned about nepotism, personal feelings, or scrutiny from inside or outside of my company.

Now it’s time to put my foot down… hard.

I straighten my chair and steeple my fingers over my lips, my gaze focused in the space between my two head executives. This is a look that Ros knows well, because it usually means that the next words out of my mouth may have a ripple-effect that reaches from sea to shining sea.

Yes, the asshole is back.  

“While I value your input on these issues, let me clarify something for both of you. I don’t care if I come off as a toddler having a temper tantrum in a sandbox. I’m the one who stands to lose the most if this company isn’t productive. When the ink dries on every audit, every test, every document, guess who’s name is going to be on the lips of every man and woman in the industry if this company is found lacking? Guess who’s ass is ultimately going to be on the line if some outside source discovers that this company—my company—is hemorrhaging somewhere and we didn’t even know it?

“They’re not going to say, ‘Oh, that fucker Finney really fucked up over there at GEH!’ No, they’re going to say, ‘What the hell? Is Grey’s head up his ass?’ And there goes my company, my family and my children’s future, my reputation, everything I built—we built over all these years. Gone—just like that! I could give a fuck less if these assholes think I’m a baby in a crib screaming with a bottle in one hand and a rattle in the other. I’m going to do whatever I feel is necessary to sniff out weakness in my company and eliminate it.

“Can either of you tell me—when you thought I wasn’t listening—the exact cost of the supplies that didn’t make it to our warehouses on time? Can you tell me if it cost us any clients? Can you tell me if anybody reached out to those clients to offer our apologies for the late shipments?

“How about the fire in the New York building? Has anyone reached out to any of the injured parties? Any of the families? It’s my understanding that fire happened while I was in Australia—what was the outcome? Have we offered anything besides health insurance to these people? With this happening right before Christmas, has anybody even made the suggestion to send a representative or to go out to the east coast to see about these people?

“And just how costly was that pharmaceutical fuck up? Do we even have an inkling about that?

“And the piece de resistance, SEEKNID… which has been lying dormant for a whole fucking year and would still be lying dormant now had I not come in the office breathing fire, and we’re really having hissy fits about internal drug testing at my company headquarters?”

“Hissy…” Ros trails off. Her statement is cut short and her body language indicates that I’ve hit a nerve. She looks at Lorenz in disgust and then turns her attention back to me.

“I think I need to take some time off,” she says matter-of-factly. “Christmas is next week and not a lot happens during the holidays. This may be just the time for me and Gwen to get away, maybe see some family.”

She knows that I’m about to implement some changes and that there might be some terminations with the results of the drug test. You want to jump ship, Ros, you do that… but I don’t easily forget.

“I just came back from a vacation and I have no immediate plans of going anywhere else. So, Ros, if you feel that now is the time that you need to make an escape, be my guest. We all need time to reflect sometimes.”

I don’t take my eyes off of her as she raises her brow, excuses herself, and walks behind my desk toward my bathroom.

“You probably don’t want to piss her off,” Lorenz says.

“That’s just it, Lorenz,” I reply. “I don’t care if I piss her off. The name of this company is Grey Enterprises Holdings. I built it from nothing, and although I sincerely value the work, abilities, and dedication of my executive team, I will not now nor will I ever allow them or anyone else in my company to undermine me or disrespect me even if they attempt to do it in a professional or covert manner.

“I don’t want to see my company go belly-up and I’m doing everything in my power to keep that from happening, but this organization can go to zero net profits by day’s end and I’ll still be a billionaire. So, the last thing I need to do is suck anybody’s ass or deal with anybody’s insolence.

“Ros isn’t the only one in this company right now with an I’ll show him attitude, and I know it. And that wasn’t the case two years ago. I get more kickback now from my department heads—all of them—than I have ever gotten since this company began and that’s going to stop right now.

“The heart and pulse—the very life’s blood—of this multi-billion-dollar conglomerate is right here in this building, in the hands of these people. This ship has to be tight, unshakable and able to weather any storm. I cannot and will not tolerate weakness in any area.

“I’m combing through this entire building, department by department, after which I may be doing something similar with my entire organization. I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again. I’ll be making sure that we are as close as humanly possible if not spot on with the vision of what I had when I started this company, before everyone became comfortable, complacent, and sloppy. And if I have to shut down major operations for a year to get it done, I’ll do it. My hope is that I don’t have to deal with kickback from my executive team, because that means that the process will just be prolonged, but I’m still proceeding as planned.

“Each one of us will be knee-deep in responsibilities over the next several months and I expect each of us to hold our own as I intend to do just that. If there’s any problem with that, then I will begrudgingly accept resignations. I will say that with that entire dissertation that I just gave about late shipments, injured employees, pharmaceutical lawsuits, and a possible multi-million-dollar software sitting useless on some shelf for over a year, I’m quite surprised that the only phrase that had any real impact…” I turn around and look into Ros’ face as I knew that she was standing there the entire time…

“… Was ‘hissy fits.’”

I glare at her, because I’m disappointed. I tore myself apart most of the night last night, sneaking out to get some time on the piano before Butterfly awoke, pondering how I was going to balance the old asshole with the new family man because my company can’t seem to appreciate the new guy. They need the old me. If that’s what they need, that’s what they’ll get. And if “hissy fitswas the only thing she heard out of that entire conversation, then she needs some time off.

She stares at me impassively for a moment, then marches ceremoniously around my desk, across my office, and out the door.

I don’t flinch. I need her not to quit; I really need her around, but I’ll do without her if I must.

“Lorenz, do you need time off, too?” He raises his brow.

“No, sir,” he says. “Looks like you may have a lot on your plate.” I nod.

“I’m sure that I will,” I say after a frustrated sigh.

*-*

Three other men are in the elevator with me and Jason when we’re leaving for the day. I usually ride alone, but I didn’t put the code in to make the elevator “express,” and they boarded at the 11th floor. They were jesting with each other when the doors opened; now the car is completely silent. The doors open and Jason and I exit on the first floor. As we’re walking to the front doors, the idiots in the car decide to make a crack loud enough for me to hear it.

“Big Dollar Grey is uptight. The wife must’a withheld that tight ass last night.”

There’s laughter in the elevator as the doors close and I stop at the front desk.

“Stop elevator car #3,” I say to the guard. He frowns and looks at his panel.

“There are people in it, sir,” he says. I just glare at him. He’s got about five seconds to stop that car before the doors open and the idiots get out. He makes that “ooookay” face and stops the elevator.

“Bring up the elevator camera,” I say. As he’s bringing it up, the emergency bell from the elevator comes on.

“From left to right, tell me who they are,” I say to no one in particular. Jason immediately goes behind the desk and starts typing into the computer. The bell is still ringing, and Jason looks at one of the guards and just points at it. The guy pushes a button and the ringing stops but a light on the panel keeps flashing.

“Good evening gentlemen,” he says into an intercom. “Sorry for the inconvenience. We’ll have you on your way in just a moment.”

“Seriously?” one of the voices protests. “With all the money this place makes, the elevators are breaking down? What the fuck is going on?” Jason raises his head.

“Last names only,” I say. He looks at the guy, who nods at him.

“Carter, Jenkins, and Pack, in that order,” he says. I nod and head to the stairwell. Jason says something to the guards at the desk and he knows me well enough to know what’s about to happen. He’s close behind me in the stairwell and in a few moments, we’re in the parking structure in front of elevator car #3.

“Open the doors,” Jason says into his wrist, and I clasp my hands in front of me glaring at my reflection until the angry faces of three detained assholes fill my view. I silently stand there glaring at each one of them.

I’m what the fuck is going on, you stupid assholes.

After standing there for at least a solid minute in total silence and probably wondering why the doors aren’t closing, Pack and Jenkins both turn their gaze to Carter, who hasn’t looked left or right since the elevator opened.

That’s called snitching without saying a word.

I lock my gaze on Carter and give him another 30 seconds of the stare game, which really isn’t the stare game at all because he’s blinking madly and starting to sweat a bit. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the walls of the elevator. I look like Satan at the moment.

“For your information, Mr. Carter,” I begin, my voice menacing, “I get more pussy from that tight-assed wife of mine than you’ve seen all year.”

He swallows hard but doesn’t respond. Jenkins and Pack stand there with their mouths hanging open in stunned amazement.

“Get the fuck out the elevator,” I add. “You’re holding up the car.”

Jenkins and Pack scramble out quickly, maneuvering around me and being sure not to touch me since I’m standing right in front of the elevator and won’t move. Carter is still stunned stiff.

Say that three times fast.

“Are you waiting for a bus?” I hiss, jolting Carter out of his stupor. I see Jason’s reflection in the elevator wall. He shakes his head, his expression disgusted, as Carter scurries out of the car behind his friends. We step into the elevator and ride back to the first floor.

“What are you going to do?” Jason asks as we walk out to the Audi parked in front of the building.

“Nothing,” I reply as I get into the car. He knows as well as I do that the fear and anticipation of retaliation is more affective that any actual retaliation could ever be.

“Diabolical,” he says, closing the door behind me.

*-*

I don’t feel the relief that I normally feel when I arrive home. I feel relief, it’s just not that huge, weight-lifting sigh that I normally get when we get to the garage.

Weight-lifting sigh…

I go to the workout room instead of heading up to greet my wife and children. Butterfly understands when it’s been a rough day and I just need to unwind.

There’s already workout gear in the gym and I quickly change and begin to pound the treadmill.

I was hoping that my wife and I would be the power couple that we presented in that blasted exposé that we did. Unfortunately, it looks like it was all for the cameras. The company is not relating her to me, but they are relating me to her. They’re not seeing her as an extension of me, which is what I had hoped; they’re seeing me as an extension of her—which is a good thing most times, but not in the boardroom. They see me as Anastasia’s husband and Michael and Mackenzie’s father, but they don’t see her as Christian’s wife, a bit of a savvy businesswoman with a keen eye. They just see her as coming in and shaking things up with Daddy. That will never do.

The treadmill doesn’t seem to be burning enough and I’ve got about an hour before our children’s godparents are supposed to be here. This is why I worked out every day and beat submissives every weekend. Even my physique looks different since I got married because I don’t work out as much. Can I be the iron-fisted businessman that I need to be at work and still be the loving husband and doting father at home? Or is this going to be an impossible task?

“Good of you to finally join us, Bro,” Elliot jabs when I enter the dining room after my shower. “We waited so long I thought the chicken would come back to life.”

“Yeah, well,” I retort, and that’s it. I’m still wound a bit tight from the day and I’m afraid that if we get into our usual banter, I might say something highly inappropriate like telling him to stick his head up his ass and inhale.

It doesn’t get by him.

“You alright, Christian?” he asks, and every eye is on me, including my children—as if they understood what Uncle Elliot said.

“Just a fu—… messed up day at the office,” I say, trying to take the focus off of me.

“You wanna talk about it?” Elliot prods, his voice laced with concern, and I can tell by the expressions from everyone else that the concern is widespread. Okay, get it together, Grey.

“Naw, it’s just work shit…” I look at Butterfly, who stops feeding Minnie to throw that glare at me

“Sorry,” I say. “It’s just work stuff. I don’t want to bore you with it.”

“This is your home, Christian,” Val says, “your dinner table. If you need to let it out, this is your sanctuary to do that. You’ve had a hard day—you shouldn’t have to hold onto it.”

Butterfly raises her brow to Val then turns to me and gives me that “she’s got a point” look. I sigh heavily.

“I’m just frustrated with the company… the people,” I begin. “I used to be able to hand down a policy or a command and it was done yesterday. Now, I’m getting kickback from everybody, including my executive staff.”

“What changed?” James asks.

“He became a kinder, gentler Chris,” Al points out. “He goes home at five o’clock; he doesn’t work on Sundays anymore; he gave half the company to Jewel; he changed.”

“It would have been half her company anyway,” I protest. “We’re married, remember? What’s the big fu… freaking deal?”

“Not the corporate assets, Chris,” Al says. “Those still belong to the company.”

“But the company belongs to me,” I point out. “I’m not publicly held, remember.” Al nods.

“I remember, but it’s still a different animal. And even so, a lot of the people in the trenches and even the department heads don’t know that the assets could fall under community property to some extent without a prenup. They just see that you gave your lady 50% of your toy and now, you’re trying to give her the reins, too… or at least one of them. Kinder, gentler Chris.”

“So, basically, when you were a butthole, they all said ‘how high’ when you said ‘jump.’ Now that you’re human, you can’t get anything done,” Val summarizes.

“Basically,” I concur.

“So, no offense, but why not just go back to being an a… a-hole, at least at work?” Elliot said.

“Yeah, did that today,” I inform him. “It’s not hard to sink into that persona. In fact, it can be quite liberating when you need to get things done and people want to treat you like your commands are jokes and you won’t fire their… butts on a moment’s notice. Hell, one of my executive officers announced an impromptu leave because I think I hurt her little feelings. It’s coming out of it that’s the hard part.”

“Her?” Butterfly says, Minnie’s baby spoon suspended in air. “Ros?” I nod just as Minnie protests that her dinner is being delayed.

“Yes,” I say as my wife silences my daughter with a spoonful of food. “We had an entire conversation about issues in the company and the only thing she heard was ‘hissy fit.’ I swear, if I didn’t know that she was married to a woman, I would think she was pregnant.” Butterfly raises her brow at me.

“Were you referring to her when you said, ‘hissy fit?’” she asks.

“Yes, Anastasia, I was referring to her.” Butterfly’s expression changes a bit, from questioning to surprise, then she turns her attention back to Minnie and her meal.

“You’re going to have to find a middle ground, Christian,” Val says, calmly. “If you keep trying to swing from one extreme to the other—one person at work and the complete opposite when you’re at home or with your family—you’re going to have a stroke. Not only that, but that kind of thing never works. You’re going to forget who you are in one place or the other and the results are going to be… less than pleasant,” she adds gesturing her head and eyes inconspicuously towards my wife who pays studious attention to my daughter and her meal.

Shit, what did I say?

“Ugh!” Unable to even remember what I just did that has landed me in what appears to be Silent-Treatment-Ville, I grunt in mock agony and drop my head to the table with a thud that causes the dishes to clatter a bit. I’m certain that I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be the asshole that I need to be at work and then come home and be the family man. I have to start turning the asshole on before I even leave the house for work in the morning. Then as I leave the office, I now have to figure out how to turn the asshole off?

“I’m sure there was a gradual change from asshole to Mr. Nice Guy,” Val says. “You just have to find that medium.”

“It’s too late for that,” I say, my voice echoing off the wood of the dining table. “They only respond to ‘asshole’ and even then, the transition is a nightmare. I’m going to have to go through at least a month of increased sick days, time off, and so-you-don’t-think-fat-meat-is-greasy directives before this company is even slightly back on the right footing.”

“So, what happened in the elevator today?” Al asks. I lift my head and look at him.

“How did you find out about that?” I ask. He shrugs.

“News travels fast,” he says, matter-of-factly.

“Well, that’s pretty fucking fast!” I shoot. That didn’t happen three hours ago, and everybody was on their way home. It’s now that I realized I’ve dropped an F-bomb and moments before, Val dropped the A-bomb. My head snaps over to my wife who’s looking impassively at me. Our children have been removed from the room. Pretty soon, I’ll be banned from them, too. I roll my eyes and… thud, rattle.

“So,” Al prods, “the elevator?”

“When they thought I was out of earshot…”

“We can’t hear you, Bro,” Elliot says. I raise my head and turn to him.

“When they thought I was out of earshot, three idiots from whatever department is on the 11th floor…”

“Telecommunications,” Al says.

“Thank you,” I reply sarcastically. “Three idiots from telecommunications decide to jest about how uptight I am today. So, I stopped the elevator between floors, met them at the ground level and let them know just how uptight I really was.”

“Did you fire ‘em?” James asks.

“No,” I say, “I called them each by name, succinctly made my point, and then told them to get the fuck out of the elevator since they were holding up the car.” The table is silent.

“That’s it?” Val says. “No rolling heads or anything like that?”

“He didn’t need to after he said each of their names,” Al points out.

“I don’t get it,” Elliot says, and my wife still hasn’t said a word.

“He called out each of those jerks by name,” Val says. “They know that he knows who they are.”

“And…?” Elliot says, still not quite catching on.

“All three of them are going to be waiting for the ax to fall, an ax that’s never coming… Am I right, Christian?” James says. I nod.

“You’re right,” I confirm.

“The terror of waiting for what might happen to them is scarier than anything that he could actually do to them. They may just quit or stress themselves out worrying,” Val finishes.

“Especially if I see any of them anywhere and call them out by name,” I say. Elliot shakes his head.

“And… you’re worried about what?” he says. “That’s the assholest move I’ve ever seen.” Val elbows Elliot. “Ow, what?” he asks quietly, but Val doesn’t respond.

“What did they say?” James asks. Oh, shit. I knew this was coming. What the hell? That hole can’t get any deeper.

“’Big Dollar Grey is uptight. The wife must’a withheld that tight ass last night,’” I say. Elliot scoffs.

“Heh, that’ll do it,” he says without missing a beat.


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

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