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…
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.
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?”
“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.
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…
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.
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…
“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.
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.
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?
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.”
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