Fifty Shades Golden: Chapter 26

Two more chapters after this…

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 26

Eric Dane 26

TREY

I didn’t get the whole lowdown on sexual activity once I’m released from the hospital, so I’m pretty sure that I’m just going to take it easy until I’m cleared by the doctor. In light of that, I have one last hurrah on Sunday night. I do every freaky thing in the book—anal, deep throat, titty fucks, you name it…

And I don’t come once.

I know it’s a combination of being worried about the surgery—if Mia will be okay, if there’ll be any complications for either of us—and the fact that I still have residual thoughts of Golden.

 

She let me call her Ana while we were maki… having sex. I don’t refer to her as that anymore.

I let Ronnie know that I’m going to be unreachable for about a month and a half so that she doesn’t think I’ve dropped off the face of the earth. I told her to call me if she needs me, but that I’m really going to be tied up in a very important project. Of course, she gave me a hard time about the pun. I’m really glad that we’re still friends.

I’ve already packed my bag and I’m heading out of the penthouse with Jason when I look back at Mrs. Jones standing in the kitchen. Her hands are clasped together, and her expression is unreadable. She’s clearly concerned. I hand my bag to Jason, walk over to her, and I take her clasped hands in mine.

“I’ll be fine,” I tell her with more conviction than I feel. “People do this all the time.” She nods quickly and looks at the floor.

“Yes, sir,” she whispers.

“I’ll need lots of your soup,” I say, trying to lighten the situation. She scoffs a chuckle-sob.

“Yes, sir,” she says again. I kiss her hands and she never raises her gaze to me. I quickly walk out the door with Jason before I get all emotional and lose my nerve.

When I get to the hospital on Monday morning, I have Jason wait in Admitting while I go see Mia. I’ve been here just about every other day to make sure that she’s okay. At first, she was surprised. Now, she’s accepting of it even though I think she may be kind of cautious. I still haven’t told anybody that I’m going to be her donor. Like Ronnie, I tell them that I had some important business that couldn’t be rescheduled.

“Wow, Christian,” Elliot jibes. “You couldn’t put your business on hold for even a minute to make sure your sister is going to be okay?” I ignore him. I could blow his entire world with three sentences right now…

“Why yes, brother, I did in fact put my business on hold to make sure that my sister is going to be okay. I’m her donor since you are somehow physically unfit to donate your kidney. Why don’t you tell us how that came about?”

That’s not the priority right now, however. Mom has that same question in her eyes as I move next to Mia’s bed.

“Hey, Pest,” I say, taking her hand.

“Hey, Lucifer,” she replies with a smile. She’s scared. I can tell.

“You ready?” I ask, sitting on her bed next to her. She shrugs.

“I really don’t have a choice, do I?” she laments.

“We talked about this,” I remind her. “You’re going to come through this okay, and you’re going to take better care of yourself, right?” She nods quickly.

“Right,” she whispers.

“Aw, isn’t this sweet?” Elliot chimes in. “Hell has officially frozen over. Lady Capulet and Lord Montague are playing nice and all we needed was a life-threatening emergency. Go figure.”

“Elliot, stop being such an asshole,” Mia says without looking over at Mom, which she usually does when she curses. I think we all know that she gets a few “gimmes” today.

“So, look, I really have to get going, but I know you’re gonna knock this thing outta the park. Just give it as much hell as you’ve given me.” She smiles weakly.

“Get better,” I say, trying to make a hasty getaway. She raises sad eyes to me.

“Come on,” she begins. “Admit it. Your life would be a whole lot simpler without me.” Her voice is maudlin with a touch of that sarcasm I know so well.

“Of course, it would,” I reply with a half-smile, “but I don’t want you to die… because it would also be quite boring.” I fight the urge to hug her. I’m sure that I’ll spill my guts if I do. “I gotta go, Pest. I gotta see a man about a dog.”

“Of course, you do,” she says, her sarcasm returning. She drops her head again and I can’t resist. If this doesn’t work out right, I may not see her alive again. I lean down and kiss her on the cheek. She raises surprised eyes to me that quickly soften when we make eye-contact.

Yeah, sis, I may not like you that much, but I do love you.

“What’s your hurry, bro?” Elliot taunts. “What could possibly be more important than your sister’s health?” I turn a hateful glare to him.  I could destroy him in front of everybody right now with the information that the doctor insinuated and come out the hero for giving up a perfectly functioning piece of my body to a woman who obviously hates me… well, hated me, but I don’t do that.

I don’t know how long I stand there glaring at him, but I watch as his expression changes under my cold stare. I don’t have time to play this game with him. I have to go and get checked in myself.

“Nothing,” I nearly growl in response, and I’m about to prove it when you can’t, you asshole. I leave the eerily silent room and, as usual, Elliot has to have the last word. He just wasn’t brave enough to say it in my face.

“Then, why are you leaving?” he yells out of the room. “She could die, you know!” I hear my mother scolding him.

“I’m aware of that, Asswipe,” I say lowly to no one. “That’s what I’m trying to prevent.”

I walk slowly down the hall and press the elevator button to head to admissions, pretending that this isn’t the scariest thing I’ve ever done in my life.

*-*

You get this drunk, hungover feeling without the headache when you wake up from anesthesia. My mouth feels like cotton and my throat stings a bit.

“Mr. Grey, you’re awake,” some nurse says. “That’s good. Let me get some readings from you and the doctor will be in shortly.” I smack my chops trying to create some saliva in my arid mouth.

“Dry mouth?” she asks. I nod. “We’ll get you some water for that.” She marks something on her chart and leaves the room. I look around and see that I’m in what looks like a common recovery room. Well, I don’t like that.

“Sir?” I slowly turn my head and Taylor is walking into the recovery room. “Just checking on you, sir.” I gesture my hand around the room. “They’re going to be moving you to a private room soon, sir.”

Yeah, soon. The last thing I want is for my parents—or heaven forbid—Elliot or Mia to see me in here.

Mia!

My facial expression must have given it away.

“No one knows we’re here, sir,” he says, “so I haven’t been able to get any information on your sister.” I lay my head back on the pillow. I don’t even want to open my mouth.

“Mr. Grey, how do you feel?” The next voice I hear is a large black man in scrubs—our doctor. I open my mouth and point inside.

“You’re hungry?” he asks. “That’s new.” I make a gesture like I’m drinking something.

“Oh, you’re thirsty,” he says. “Well, that’s good. We’ll get you some water.” Like an angel from heaven, the nurse comes back with a picture of ice water and looks at the doctor for approval. He nods and she hands me the small picture.

“Small sips, Mr. Grey,” she says while helping me raise my head. My tongue and throat are saying, “That’s not gonna happen,” but when I get the straw to my mouth, my strength says, “Small sips.”

“Your stats are looking really good, Mr. Grey,” the doctor says. He shines that infernal light in my eyes, and I blink and glare at him. He does a couple of other things to test my reflexes and such. When my throat feels better and my head is slightly clearer, I’m able to form a word.

“Mia,” I say, my voice rough. The doctor looks up at me and raises his brow.

“It looks really good, Mr. Grey,” he says. “She’s tired as you would expect. Her resistance and immune system aren’t as strong as yours with the dialysis, but she’s looking good.”

I nod. The last thing I want is for her to go downhill, especially since part of me is inside her now.

A while later, I’m hungry and cantankerous, and I want to go to a private room. I’m tired of laying in this bed and I want some food. I’m wearing a catheter and I fucking hate it. After enough bellyaching, either they finally got my room ready or the squeaky wheel got the oil.

I’m in a wheelchair and Taylor is rolling me down the hall with the nurse walking close by—not my nurse, but a nurse. The minute we exit the recovery unit, I hear it before I see it. It’s the unmistakable raucous of the press. What the hell are they doing inside the hospital? The moment we round the corner, I see them, a cluster of them trying to get into one of the rooms. I’m only glad the poor bastard in the room ain’t me. I make to hide my face until I see something that causes me to cringe.

“What are you doing here? Get away! This patient has had major surgery and is trying to recover. What’s wrong with you people? How did you even get in here?”

That’s my doctor demanding that these vultures cease and desist. My doctor… Wait a minute! Does that mean…? He turns around and sees me in the wheelchair about 50 feet from him and his brown skin turns white. His expression tells me everything I need to know.

That’s Mia’s room.

And suddenly, I feel no pain… just pure rage.

I’m up out of that chair and storming down the hall before anybody can stop me. The catheter bag is dragging on the floor behind me and I don’t know what disconnected. Somewhere along the way I get my hands on a crutch from God only knows where and bellow at these fuckers as loud as I can… which turns out to be pretty loud for a guy who just gave up a kidney.

“Move the fuck outta my way!”

My voice carries over the clamor of the reporters and they all stop. A nurse rushes down the hall and moves to assist me.

“Get your hands off me!” I demand, and she nearly leaps away from me, startled. “How the fuck did they get in here?” I roar. “This is a goddamn hospital! Why the fuck are they here?”

“I… I don’t know, sir…”

“Get security and the police on the phone and do something!” I turn back to the press. “Get the fuck away from her room or I’ll start swinging crutches and anything I can get my hands on.”

“And we’ll sue you for everything you have, billionaire boy,” one of the reporters says.

“Good luck convincing a judge about a man in the hospital in a gown hours after giving his sister a kidney!” I raise the crutch and they begin to back away, enough for me to get into Mia’s room.

I walk in and there’s a nurse smiling for the cameras over a sleeping Mia.

“You!” I bark, and another nurse nearly jumps out of her skin. I read her badge and commit her name to memory. “I’m going to have your fucking life in the palm of my hands. Kiss your career goodbye!” With the crutch at the ready, I start swinging. Fuck a warning—I’ll blame the meds.

“Get the fuck outta my sister’s room!” I demand. The crutch cuts through the air and the crowd leaps back, Dammit, I missed every one of them. Now, I want blood. I swing again, but these bastards are fast.

“If I see one picture of me or my sister in the press, you will all sorely regret it! I promise you that!” I swing again and connect with a wall. Pain rings through my hand and wrist and shoots up my arm… the bad arm. Fuck, I forgot about that thing.

The crack of the metal crutch against the wall was enough to clear the room, except for the petrified nurse.

“You inconsiderate, hateful, selfish, heartless bitch!” I seethe. She takes a step back as I walk toward her. “How could you? How could you violate her privacy that way? She’s unconscious! Totally indisposed! What the fuck is wrong with you?” I’m angrily pointing at Mia to illustrate her helpless condition and when I throw a glance at her, she’s looking at me. I’m shocked to see her eyes open.

“Mia?” I squeak, caught off guard by her gazing at me.

“Chr… Christian…” she says weakly. “Wh… what are you… doing here?”

That’s right. She doesn’t know that I’m the one who gave her the kidney.

“I…” As soon as I try to formulate the words, something happens. My head gets fuzzy and starts to spin and I feel weakness in my body. I think I say something, I don’t know, but suddenly, all I see is darkness.

*-*

When I open my eyes, my head feels like lead. I can feel that irritating oxygen tube in my nose and I can’t move a muscle. My body weighs a ton. I’m trying to focus—it looks like I’m in a different room—more machines, more IV bags, more fucking tubes. Whatever happened, I ain’t gettin’ up no time soon.

I turn my head and try to focus on the form sitting next to my bed, but I can’t make it out for shit. Nobody but Taylor should know that I’m here, so maybe it’s a nurse.

Shit!

Mia knows I’m here now. She probably knows that I’m the one who gave her a kidney. So, there’s no telling who this is by my bed. I try to focus my eyes a little more, but it’s hard as hell. I can tell by the fuzziness that they’ve got me on some drugs. I fight harder to focus, and the blob begins to take form. These must be some really good drugs because that woman looks like Golden.

This is so unfair. When I’m at my weakest and can’t clear my mind enough to fend off thoughts of her, she haunts me in my drug-induced haze.

“Go away,” I manage. Maybe if I can fully wake up, I can make the apparition disappear.

“What?” Oh, dear Lord, and it speaks, too.

“Go away!” I say again. Haven’t you hurt me enough?

“I hurt you?” it asks. Did I say that aloud? Of course, I didn’t. Hallucinations are all in your head, so of course they can read your mind. I close my eyes and try to make her disappear. “I warned you not to fall in love with me, Chopper.”

Chopper. Fuck. I forgot all about that name.

“And as far as I knew, I didn’t,” I retort weakly, “but I like you enough to be confused. Now go away and stop haunting me.”

“Haunting you?” it asks. “What do you mean haunting you?

Oh, for fuck’s sake! I swat at the apparition, hoping it will dissipate and leave me the hell alone. A manicured hand reaches up and catches my wrist, stopping it cold before it gets anywhere near the apparition.

The apparition… what the fuck?

I glare at the hand, then into the face of one very angry madam.

Oh, hell, the haze is clearing up now!

I have no idea what expression is on my face, but whatever it is, hers morphs from anger to sheer confusion to questioning uncertainty. I, on the other hand, haven’t cleared the haze enough to know where or when I am, but I know one damn thing for sure.

“Mi… Mistress??”

7bd497e296c232ffba49c6bffa0997f6-briana-evigan-beautiful-things

GOLDEN

So, from what I can see, Linc is the primary suspect in his wife’s murder and the prosecutor’s office is looking for an indictment. This is a high-profile case, and they’re pressed to solve it.

The coroner’s report was gruesome. Elena died from blunt force trauma. The thing is… she didn’t just get cracked over the head and die. Somebody beat the hell out of her—brutally. The medical examiner is a friend of mine from college, and she gave me all the gory details.

Blondie was beaten and kicked and strangled mercilessly. Her body was bludgeoned so badly from head to toe that some of the strikes actually broke the skin on her body. Her face was so swollen that she was nearly unrecognizable. Although she was identified at the crime scene, her identity had to be officially confirmed by fingerprints and dental records.

After all of that, she took 15 blows and kicks directly to her head. That’s what killed her. The bleach was a means to clean the body of DNA and evidence. So far, it’s been pretty effective. However, since they discovered that Linc had motive, they’ve been on his ass, combing his financials, tracing his every step to pin it on him. His passport has been revoked—not seized, revoked. He can’t even go to Canada or Mexico. He even tried to move back into his house, but the police have it sealed off as a crime scene… even after all these months.

I really hope he did it—not because I’m that macabre or because I want to see him go down, but because they’re combing the very hairs in his asshole to find evidence against him. If they find out that he’s guilty, then he deserves it. If they don’t find anything or it turns out that someone else did it, he’ll be the victim of the biggest and worst persecution campaign I’ve ever seen in my life.

While spending the holiday with my father’s family—my family—I discovered that Reynard approached them first. I knew he had approached Richard, but I didn’t know he had approached the entire family. He displayed about the same amount of grace, poise, and tact with them as he did with me. Except for that empty shit he said leaving my house, he hasn’t made any real threats. Nonetheless, even though the Blondie threat is no longer an issue, I still keep Jesse around.

I come home one day after another big win and a heavy fee being transferred to my account to Blake preparing a delicious dinner.

“Well, this is wonderful,” I say.

“I’m sure you closed Hamilton and Ryers successfully, Mistress,” he says matter-of-factly.

“I did,” I say, trying to see what he’s preparing.

“Make yourself at home, Mistress. I will set the table.”

I change into jeans and a sweater and I return to the dining room. We have a delicious meal of gazpacho with pa amb tomàquet, paella, empanadas, and homemade churros for dessert. He tells me about his day while we eat, that his whore ex-wife has finally sold the house to a nice family, which means that the home will be used as it was intended at last. I tell him about the cocky male corporate lawyers who underestimated me once again. We’re toasting to my success when he rolls his eyes and reaches for his phone.

“I apologize, Mistress,” he says. “It’s incessant.” I try not to be irritated as he pulls out the phone and looks at it. He frowns, looks at me, then back at his phone.

“What?” I say.

“It’s nothing, Mistress,” he says, and puts his phone on the table. He begins to clear the dishes from the table, and his phone buzzes again… and again… and again.

“Blake, what is it?” I ask again.

“It’s nothing,” he says, putting his phone back in his pocket without looking at it.

“It’s clearly something. Your phone is buzzing like a ticking timebomb, now what is it?” His expression is a combination of melancholy, regretful, and angry… which is some fucking combination.

“What do you hear of Christian Grey these days?” he asks, and I’m totally taken aback to the degree that I jerk like someone just hit me.

“Are you telling me that your phone is going batshit because of Christian Grey?” I ask, nearly in horror. Blake doesn’t respond. “Who in the fuck is texting you like a goddamn crackhead over Christian Grey?” I ask sincerely irritated.

“They’re not texts, Mistress,” he confesses. “They’re more like… notifications.”

Notifications? What the… Never mind.

“I hear nothing of Christian Grey these days,” I say, pretending that I’m not fucking dying to know what those damn notifications are all about. “And I really don’t want to,” I add for effect.

“Mistress,” he sighs, “there’s something you should know.”

“What?” I ask, impatiently.

“It’s about Mr. Grey.” I roll my eyes.

“Look,” I begin. “I thought we had this conversation. Trey is no more. He doesn’t exist to me and I really don’t want to hear about him. What is your obsession with this man?”

“Permission to speak frankly, Mistress,” Blake says coolly.

“Not if you’re going to disrespect me,” I retort.

“I would never do that, Mistress, but I am going to say something that you may not want to hear.” I cross my arms. Fine, fire away.

“Permission granted,” I say firmly.

“He does exist,” Blake says. “He’s a walking, breathing person right here in the county where you live. He has affected you and although you may deny his existence, he’s alive and kicking and still on this side of eternity. He has permeated that shell that you’ve erected for everyone else that doesn’t work with me. I know you care for him and that he has affected you and you think of him often because you’ve changed—not enough for anyone else to see, but enough for me.”

I’ve changed alright. I’ve changed back to who and what I was before I met Trey—to that sadistic, hedonistic goddess that has my clients clamoring for me. There’s not a damn thing wrong with that.

“Are you finished?” I shoot.

“Not quite,” he says softly. “You’re right. I am obsessed with Christian Grey—the same way that I’m obsessed with Caldwell Lincoln, Reynard Stamper, Kevin Sheardon, and the same way that I was obsessed with the late Richard Steele and Elena Lincoln. I’m obsessed with these people only to the degree that they affect you. And he affects you, so I just keep tabs on him from time to time.”

“Well, there’s no need,” I say flatly. “I’m fully aware of Christian Grey’s new love interest and it doesn’t affect me,” I say with more conviction than I feel.

“Well, that’s good to hear, but you may be interested in knowing that he’s not with his new love interest anymore. The relationship didn’t last three weeks. They’re good friends now, but not lovers.”

Are you kidding? I don’t talk to the man for months and he hooks up with someone for three weeks—three fucking weeks—and I see them during that damn three weeks? That shit knocked me completely off my square, made me totally doubt everything I was and everything I felt, and they weren’t together for three fucking weeks. This is why I don’t get attached. That shit is too damn messy.

“Well, I’m sorry for him that his relationship didn’t work out. This has nothing to do with me, and I’m weary of this conversation.” I turn to leave.

“One more thing before we conclude… please, Mistress.” I roll my eyes and turn back to my errant submissive. If it were the nature of our relationship, I would chain him to the ceiling and lash him until he wept.

“Yes?” I seethe.

“Are you at all familiar with the term nephrectomy?” I frown.

“No,” I reply, waiting for him to get to the point.

“It’s the procedure where one of your kidneys is removed.” My eyes widen.

“What?” I say just above a whisper. “Are you trying to tell me that Christian has renal failure?”

“No, but his sister does, so he donated one of his kidneys to her.” He pauses. “I’m still a little gray on the details—no pun intended—but something happened, and he’s had some complications. He’s not doing well.”

I suddenly feel my throat constrict. Something’s happening in my chest and I feel a bit lightheaded. My arms fall to my side as I attempt to appear unaffected.

“What hospital is he in?” I ask.

“Seattle General,” Blake informs me. I take a deep breath and purse my lips.

“Send some flowers,” I say before turning and leaving the room.

“Yes, Mistress,” I hear from the room I just left. I ascend the stairs, go into my bedroom and close my door. I almost can’t breathe. Christian is in the hospital, he’s short one kidney, and he’s having complications. What kind of complications? Why didn’t I ask that question before I left the room? What if he doesn’t make it? Will I be okay? I said that he didn’t exist to me, but is that what I really want? What if he really didn’t make it? What if he dies?

What was that you said about not getting attached?

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and grab my car keys.

*-*

“He hasn’t had any visitors,” the nurse says. She didn’t want to give me any information, but I effectively convinced her that I’m close friends with him and just wanted to make sure that he was okay. “He didn’t list anyone as next of kin except his bodyguard, Jason Taylor. His sister didn’t even know that he gave her a kidney until the anesthesia wore off and she’s been in no condition to come and see him, so…” She trails off. Even though she didn’t give me everything, she may have still given me too much information.

“I’ll make sure that his family knows,” I tell her. She raises a brow at me.

“You’re associated with the family?” she asks. I nod.

“I know his father very well,” I tell her. “We’re colleagues.” She looks at me skeptically.

“The judge?” she questions.

“Yes,” I say, reaching into my purse and giving her a business card. “Like I said, we’re colleagues.” Her expression softens as she reads my business card.

“Oh,” she says. I’m startled by a somewhat familiar voice down the hall.

“Ms. Olivet?” I turn to see that a confused Taylor is coming down the hall with two coffees in his hand. I turn to the nurse.

“Thank you,” I say with a nod.

“You’re welcome,” she says softly. I walk towards Taylor.

“How is he?” I ask when I close the space between us. At first, he doesn’t answer. “Taylor? How is he?”

“He…” he begins. Then he breezes past me to a door where another guy is standing. He hands him one of the coffees, then peeks into the room. Expressionless, he comes back over to me and gestures me to a community waiting area.

“Have you seen him?” he asks.

“No,” I reply. “What’s happening? I know that he gave a kidney to his sister.” He looks at me in surprise. This must have been the world’s best kept secret if his family didn’t know—not even the sister who received the kidney. Taylor is looking at me now no doubt wondering how I found out. Don’t look at me; I’m trying to figure out how Blake found out.

“Taylor, please tell me before my imagination starts running away with me,” I beg, trying not to sound too desperate.

“He had some trauma only hours after he left surgery,” he begins. “Right before they were to remove the catheter, he discovered that the press was in his sister’s room. An unscrupulous guard apparently colluded with an equally unscrupulous nurse and… the rest is history. Mr. Grey physically kicked them out of Mia’s room and collapsed shortly thereafter. Apparently, once his adrenaline dropped, he succumbed to his condition. There was some tearing, some internal bleeding, something about a fistula or something… They had to take him back to surgery. He… he’s been out for three days. He’s not comatose, but he should be awake by now.”

“And you haven’t called his family, Taylor?” I scold. “Really?” He avoids my gaze. “I know Carrick Grey,” I tell him, and his eyes rise to mine.

“For God’s sake, Taylor, he may not wake up! If you don’t tell his family what’s going on with him, goddammit, I will. And I think they would rather hear this from someone that they’re somewhat familiar with than a total stranger, but if you can’t do it, I guarantee you that I can have Carrick Grey’s home number in twenty minutes.” I sit there folding my arms. He rolls his eyes.

“I’ll call his mother,” he cedes.

“You better,” I warn. “I’ll put my guy on getting that number just in case.”

“I’ll call her,” he says like an errant child, and I believe him. I nod.

“Can I go in and see him… or should I just leave?” He twists his lips and shakes his head.

“I really don’t know,” he says. “He’s… different lately… even before the surgery.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Go,” he says, scrolling through his phone. “Go in before I lose my nerve to make this call.” He puts the phone to his ear, and I walk to the door that I assume is Christian’s. “Ms. Olivet?” I turn back to him.

“If I find myself unemployed, I’ll be knocking at your door for a job.” I have to suppress a smile as he turns back to his call. “Mrs. Grey?… Hello, ma’am, this is Jason Taylor… Yes, Christian’s security…” I leave him to his call and make eye contact with the guy standing at the door before I go inside.

the-tragic-demise-of-mark-sloan-1518199391

I’m not prepared for the sight that greets me. He looks weaker and more helpless than I’ve ever seen him. There’s a tube down his throat helping him breathe and he’s attached to more machines than I’ve ever seen on one person. Jesus, is he dying?

I sit next to his bed and say nothing. What can I say?

Hiya Chopper, remember me? I was your Domme once, but we had sex and it blew my mind. I didn’t know how to handle it or you, so I cut you off, but now that I think you might be dying, I’m back. So, how the hell are ya?

I sit there for several minutes, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat on the monitor. It’s comforting… somewhat. At least he’s still here.

He’s still here…

“He does exist. He’s a walking, breathing person right here in the county where you live. He has affected you and although you may deny his existence, he’s alive and kicking and still on this side of eternity. He has permeated that shell that you’ve erected for everyone else…”

How do I deal with this? I’m not satisfied anymore with this life. I want… something else. But this? Can I give up who I am for this? Do I want that? Does he even want that?

My thoughts are interrupted by the door opening, followed by the ceremonious entering of what looks like doctors and nurses.

“His numbers look better and his saturation… Who are you?” I stand from my seat.

“I’m… a friend,” I reply.

“Mr. Grey asked not to have any visitors,” the doctor says firmly.

“It’s okay,” Taylor says coming into the room behind the doctors and nurses. “Ms. Olivet, if you’ll come with me, the staff need to do some things for Mr. Grey.” He holds his hand out to me. I look back at Christian and weave through the inquisitive faces with an “excuse me” or two before joining Taylor.

“What’s going on? Can you tell me?” I ask as we walk toward the community area again.

“Well, the good news is that his stats are looking better,” Taylor says, guiding me past the community area and to the elevator. Is he kicking me out? “They want to remove his catheter and his breathing tube.”

I sigh and try to appear unaffected… again. The elevator rings and he gestures for me to get inside. I want to say something like, “Tell him I was here,” or “Don’t tell him I was here.” Instead, I just step inside. To my surprise, he steps inside with me.

What does he think? That I’m going to troll around the hospital or something? He presses the button for the first floor and continues what he was saying.

“The bleeding has stopped from what they can see, but there were some other complications that went way over my head. It was touch and go for a while, but any improvement is better than unconscious for three days.”

The elevator rings on the first floor and he gestures for me to exit. I leave and turn towards the outside doors.

“Wrong way, Ms. Olivet,” he says. When I turn around, he’s standing at the elevator gesturing in the opposite direction. I don’t question. I follow him and he leads me to the cafeteria as he continues to apprise me of Christian’s condition.

“Would you like something?” he asks. “Some food or some juice or coffee?” He gets two more coffees and I frown.

“You guys drink a lot of coffee,” I say. “Didn’t you just bring coffee a couple of minutes ago?” He frowns.

“No, I got coffee for us when you went in to see Mr. Grey,” he says, bemused.

“That’s what I said,” I reply, equally bemused. He pauses.

“Do you know how long you’ve been in there?” he asks. I shrug. I don’t even remember what time I got here. His expression softens.

“Would you like a muffin… or a Danish? Something else?” he asks. “A bagel, maybe?”

“Taylor, how long have I been in that room?” I ask him.

“About three hours,” he says matter-of-factly. “There are salads and sandwiches on the other side, or maybe you’d like something hot?”

What the fuck?!?

“Three hours?” I say horrified. “You gotta be kidding!”

“No, ma’am, and I’m certain that very soon, his parents are going to be here.” I roll my eyes and rub my neck.

Don’t get attached. Yeah, sure.

“Do they have corned beef?”

*-*

“Taylor, how long has he been like that?”

An older, beautiful blonde woman is grilling Taylor about Christian’s condition. She looks terribly worried and I deduce that this must be Christian’s mother.

“About three days, ma’am,” Taylor replies. “He’s doing much better than he was.”

“Much better?” the woman exclaims. “He was worse? He looks like he’s dying!” My sentiments exactly.

“Please, Mrs. Grey, let me take you to talk to the doctor. I’m certain that he’ll put your fears to rest.” Taylor begins to lead Mrs. Grey away just as the elevator rings.

“Grace!” I hear a familiar voice call.

“Cary,” her voice cracks. I drop my head so that my hair falls over my face and watch through my tresses as Carrick Grey opens his arms to accept his wife in a warm embrace. She weeps gently on his shoulder as he rubs her back and comforts her. The inner me rolls my eyes at the display. The outer me can’t help but gaze at them in awe of their love and care for each other and wonder what it must be like to have that. After more than three decades on earth, I’ve never had that.

Judge Grey puts his arm around his wife, and they follow Taylor down the hall. Goddammit, these feelings! I don’t want these fucking feelings! Why the hell can’t they just leave me alone?

It would be so easy to just stand up, go downstairs, walk the hell out of here and don’t look back. So, why can’t I just fucking do it?

“Ms. Olivet?”

Taylor is rousing me from my sleep. My head feels like a rock and there’s a crick in my neck. I fell asleep in the chair in the waiting room.

“What time is it?” I ask.

“It’s just after 2am,” he says. “My replacements are here and I’m about to call it a night. Why don’t you go home and get some rest now?”

I stretch and look around. The staff appears to have changed and there’s no one in the waiting room.

“Are his parents still in there?” I ask. He shakes his head.

“They’ve gone to see Mia. Then, they’re going home for the night.” I nod.

“I’m confused,” I say. “Why didn’t his sister tell his parents what he did and that he was here?” He shakes his head and sighs.

“They’re a strange family, Ms. Olivet,” he replies. “I couldn’t answer that question for you because I don’t know.” I nod again.

“Maybe I’ll just go in and say goodnight,” I say, standing and cracking my stiff joints. Taylor nods and walks with me to the door. He holds it open and I go inside. Christian looks a lot better now. That tube is gone, and he has the small oxygen tube in his nose. He looks like he’s sleeping now as opposed to dead.

I sit in the chair and gaze at him again. He’s such a handsome man. He looks so peaceful, but still very weak and vulnerable. I’m just feeling sympathy for him, that’s all. It’s nothing more than that. I don’t want him to die and I’m concerned about him. That’s all this is…

“Go away…” I hear a frail voice say. I slip out of my daydream and focus on wet, gray eyes groggily gazing at me.

980x“What?” I ask. I’ve been here for hours worrying about your ass, afraid that you were going to die, sleeping in a very uncomfortable waiting-room chair and your first words to me are go away, you ungrateful asshole?

“Go away!” he repeats. “Haven’t you hurt me enough?”

Are you kidding? Is he serious? He knew what this was.

“I hurt you?” I ask incredulously. He doesn’t reply. He just closes his eyes tight, like he’s trying to wish me away. “I warned you not to fall in love with me, Chopper.”

“And as far as I knew, I didn’t, but I like you enough to be confused. Now go away and stop haunting me.” His voice is barely above a whisper.

“Haunting you?” What the fuck? “What do you mean haunting you?

He raises his hand and swats at me like he’s trying to swat away a fly. You disrespectful… I grab his flailing wrist and hold on tight. You better put that thing away. You’re short one vital organ. You want to be short a limb, too?

He stares at my hand grasping his wrist in disbelief, then up at me—and I am pissed. How dare you fucking swing at me, you insolent…

But his face… he’s horrified. It’s like he’s seeing a ghost, or death itself has walked into the room. He’s silent for several moments before he breathes, “Mi… Mistress?”

Oh, shit. How did that happen? Does he regularly talk to manifestations of me? Should I be afraid? Instead, I just sigh and shake my head.

“I’m not your Mistress anymore, Chopper… Trey,” I say, placing his arm gently back on the bed. I only ever really called him Chopper during a scene—maybe a few other times.

“I know… I mean…” His voice is still weak. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard you weren’t well,” I say, crossing my legs and girding up my armor, “or I should say I heard that you weren’t doing well.”

“How did you hear that?” he asks. “Are you having me followed?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I reply. “I know people who know people…”

“But no people knew I was in here, so how did you know? My parents don’t even know.”

Somebody knew,” I tell him, “and your parents know now.”

“What?” he shoots, and his monitors spike. I stand and put my hands on his chest.

“You need to calm down,” I tell him. “You became upset and from what I understand, you may have attacked some reporters. You ripped your sutures—inside and out—and you put yourself at risk. A lot of people thought you may not make it. You’ve been out for nearly four days. I know your father—he’s presided over a lot of my cases. I threatened Taylor that if he didn’t call him, I would. Taylor and I both agreed that it would be better that they hear this news from someone that they know as opposed to hearing it from a stranger.”

“Let’s see if he still feels that way when I fire his ass,” he croaks.

“Then, he’ll just come and work for me,” I say, and Christian glares at me. “If I was a mother, I would very much rather come and see my very alive son who may not be doing well than to come to the hospital and identify his remains when I didn’t even know that he was sick, much less that he gave my daughter a kidney.”

“You know too damn much,” he squeaks. You’re right. I do.

“Are you in pain? Do you need any pain meds?”

“Yes, and yes,” he says, laying his head back on the bed. I press the button for the nurse. He tries to adjust himself in the bed, but he can’t move. A few moments later, a petite nurse enters the room.

“Mr. Grey,” she says, her voice bubbly. “Ma’am,” she nods at me and I nod back before she comes to the side of the bed. “You’ve decided to join us. How do you feel?” She looks at his chart and some of the machines.

“In pain… and I’m thirsty,” he croaks. She nods.

“Let me get the doctor and we’ll see what we can get you, okay?” She proceeds to check his pulse and blood pressure, looks at his IV bag and checks some other stats.

“Glad to see you’re awake, Mr. Grey. Your vitals look good and I’ll be right back with the doctor.” She smiles and nods at me again before leaving the room.

Christian and I are completely silent for several minutes. Neither of us knows what to say to each other. When I thought he was dying, I could think of nothing but getting to him, being by his side. Now that I know he’ll be fine, I just want to get the hell away from him—put as much distance between us as possible.

“Mr. Grey, hello. We must stop meeting like this…” The doctor comes into the room and starts talking to Christian, and I take this moment to make my getaway.

“Mi… Go… Ana!” He’s coherent enough to go through all of my names before I make it to the door. He’s still weak and fragile, but his eyes are beseeching. I give him a weak smile.

“I’ll check on you,” I say softly. I turn away and walk out before I lose my nerve and stay. I look at the guard at the door—some guy I don’t know—and he gives me a nod. I turn away and walk to the elevator.

What was the purpose of this exercise? I keep asking myself that question during the entire ride home. I went running to this man’s beside like… like… like he meant something to me. Why the hell did I do that? The minute I saw that he was going to be okay, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. So, why did I go in the first place?

I sit in front of my house for several minutes when I get home. I’m seeing Judge and Mrs. Grey, holding each other warmly in the hospital hallway when they didn’t know what was going on with Christian. It was very tender and loving, and you could tell that they cared for each other very deeply. I don’t want that. I don’t want to be dependent on anybody and I don’t want anybody to be dependent on me… do I? I look at my front door and see Blake there waiting for me to come in. I sigh heavily, open the door and step out of the truck. I close and lock the door behind me and proceed towards the only man in the world who can see right through me.


Image result for eric dane in bed

TREY

I should have known. I don’t know why I was surprised. Day one and day two, I watched that door. I asked Taylor if he had heard anything from her or seen her, or even if she asked if I were dead or alive. Nothing. Nothing at all. Day three, I have a lovely showdown with my family… in a fucking hospital bed.

“Christian,” Mom says, her voice pained, “why didn’t you tell us? They just told us that they had found a donor. They didn’t tell us that it was you.”  I can’t come up with an answer for her.

“I asked you,” she accuses. “You lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie to you, Mom, I avoided the truth,” I defend.

“It’s the same thing, Christian!” she says, fighting back her tears. “I could’ve lost two of my children and I wouldn’t have known until they were gone!” She covers her mouth and turns away. Dad raises his eyes to me.

“This was an incredibly selfless thing that you did, son,” he says, sounding more fatherly than I’ve heard him sound in decades, “and very foolish to do on your own. Your mother needs to know… and I need to know… why?” I sigh and try to rely on divine intervention to give me an answer, but I realize that nothing is going to suffice but the truth.

“I don’t know why Mia hates me,” I begin, “but she does, or at least she did. It can’t just be Harvard. It can’t. There has to be something else. I’ll never find out what that is, but she hated me. If she knew that she was getting my kidney, she might’ve said ‘no’ just to spite me. She would’ve thought I would try to use it to hold over her head, like she would be indebted to me for the rest of her life! And she would’ve said ‘no.’ Then what? She goes back to the end of the list and hopes for another kidney because she turned down a perfectly good one. And then we hope that she finds one before she dies? I couldn’t take that chance. We couldn’t afford for that to happen!”

“Is that what you thought?”

I hear Mia’s voice and look over at the door. She’s sitting in a wheelchair just outside the threshold.

“You thought I hated you so much that I wouldn’t take your kidney?” I sigh. Jesus, she wasn’t supposed to hear that.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” I scold.

“No,” she retorts. “I’m doing a hell of a lot better than you because I wasn’t swinging crutches at people three hours after surgery.” Oh, shit, she saw that. “You really thought that, Christian? That I wouldn’t accept your kidney?”

“And once again, the golden boy has to take the spotlight,” Elliot jeers. “You weren’t the only kidney, Mr. Perfect. Did you forget I was a match, too?” God, did he have to use that word? I’m still not 100% sure her visit wasn’t a figment of my imagination.

“Then why didn’t you give your kidney?” I ask. I won’t out him, but if he keeps it up…

“Oh, because billionaire boy beat me to it!” he snaps.

“How was that possible when they tested you first?” I ask. “The doctor told me that I was the perfect match—the perfect choice to save Mia and to extend her life. Now, why would they even need to test me if they had already found a match with you?” Drop it, Elliot.

“Most likely because of his cocaine use,” Dad blurts out. Elliot’s head whips over to Dad and my eyes transform to the size of saucers.

“Dad? Seriously?” Elliot accuses.

“Yes, seriously!” Dad retorts. “I’ve had enough of you walking around here like you’re so goddamn high and mighty. This isn’t about you!”

“Dear God, Elliot! Cocaine?” Mom exclaims horrified. “How long? Never mind! Never mind! I don’t want to know.” Elliot smiles nervously.

“Chill out, Mom,” he says in that slimy voice that he uses to make your skin crawl. “It’s not the end of the world. It’s just a little nose candy.”

“I’m not hearing this!” Mom says, throwing her hands up. “I am not hearing this.” She turns to Dad. “Carrick? You knew?” Dad sighs.

“Unfortunately, I did,” he says to her before turning to me. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t!” I reply, awestruck. “The doctor wouldn’t tell me, but he was adamant that I was Mia’s best chance of survival even though we were both a match.” Elliot is clearly floundering, so instead of walking that plank that he was standing on and taking his medicine like a man, he decides to shoot a hole in the bottom of the boat.

“Well, since we’re telling secrets,” he says with a devious smile, “I suppose you already know that Christian is into that same shit Dad was into.”

You can actually hear the skin ripping as his knife sinks into the bodies of nearly every person in the room and drags down their torsos, spilling fresh blood onto a sterile floor.

“Wha…?” Mom shrieks. Dad and I quickly look at each other and have a silent conversation about what really needs to be said here. Elliot is looking to drag everybody down with him, even if it destroys Mom in the process.

“Christian, is this true?” Mom shrieks. I screw up my courage and spit it out.

“Yes, Mom, it’s true,” I say impassively, “but Mom, you can’t be angry with me. I’m a consenting adult. This was after Juliet—I wasn’t in a committed relationship, so nobody was hurt. I shielded you, the family, and everybody from it, and if it wasn’t for Chicken Little over there, you still wouldn’t know.”

“How did Chicken Little know?” Dad asks.

“I heard the two of you talking,” Elliot says victoriously, and Mom turns her horrified glare to Dad. Oh, great.

“I asked questions, Mom,” I clarify. “It was no secret that he was familiar with the lifestyle and I was curious. I didn’t want to go wandering off into some crazy cult shit… so I asked.”

Mom looks back and forth between me and Dad, not sure which of us to be angry with more, no doubt, but Elliot’s not done yet.

“Yeah, Dad has dirt on everybody. He’s been holding us hostage for years. So, since my secret is out, let’s lay everybody’s dirty laundry on the table. So, what about the Little Princess over there—Little Miss Throw-Everybody-In Judgment? What’s the dirt on Mia?” Elliot says snidely.

“You just saw the dirt on Mia,” Dad hisses without looking at him, then turns to Mom.

“Mia’s been on dialysis for the last seven years. You’d already been through so much we didn’t want to tell you. Of course, it got to the point where we couldn’t keep it a secret anymore.”

Seven years… dear God. Even I didn’t know that. It wasn’t that she wasn’t taking care of herself. It was just that… she was waiting. It was time.

“Secrets,” my mother chokes through her tears. “Secrets and lies! That’s all this family is built on—secrets and lies!” She runs out of the room in tears. Dad sighs mournfully and looks down at Mia.

“Are you okay?” he says softly. She shrugs.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m glad it’s out. We’ll work on the rest later.” Dad takes her hand and looks over at me. I give him a half shrug to indicate that I’m indifferent about the whole thing, but there are really no hard feelings. He raises angry eyes to Elliot but says nothing. Then he leans down to kiss Mia’s cheek, releases her hand, and leaves the room, most likely to go find Mom. I turn to Elliot.

“Well, congratulations,” he sneers. “You’re the golden boy once again.” And there’s that word. I glare at him.

“You thought I was leaving her hanging for a business trip, and I was shit. You find out that I gave her a goddamn kidney, and I’m still shit.” I just look at him and shake my head.

“Get the fuck outta my room, Elliot,” I say with no emotion. I’m totally done with my brother, and I have nothing else to say on the matter. He gazes at me for a moment, then at Mia who has her back to him and hasn’t raised her head, and wordlessly leaves the room. Mia wheels over to me.

“It’s Harvard, Christian,” she says, placing her hand on the bed on top of mine but still not raising her eyes. “It’s always been Harvard. I resent you… resented you because I didn’t get a chance to go. Everything fell apart between Mom and Dad right after you dropped out, and I didn’t get a chance to go. It was my dream to go to Harvard, and I felt like you took it away from me. I resented you, but I don’t hate you. I never hated you.” She sniffles.

“When I saw you in that room with that crutch, swinging it at strangers and cursing out some nurse with your ass hanging out…” I try not to laugh. That’ll be in somebody’s paper if it’s not already. “… All I could think was, ‘What the hell is he doing here?’ When I finally shook the anesthesia, the doctor told me that you had given me your kidney and that you weren’t doing too well.” Her voice cracks on the last words. I swallow hard.

“You looked so weak every time I came to see you,” she squeaked. “I kept thinking, ‘He gave me the kidney to make up for stealing my chance to go to Harvard.’ I just wanted you to wake up, so I could say ‘thank you’ and ask you why you didn’t want me to know… but when I came in and heard the real reason…” She trails off and begins to weep. I turn my hand over and grasp hers in mine. She’s been crying a lot these days, and I don’t know if I can get used to it. She’s always been outspoken, and she can be a real pill, but I’ve never seen soft Mia.

“I’m sorry,” she sobs. “I’m so sorry. How can I ever make this up to you?” I squeeze her hand.

“By taking care of your body and living a good life… and agreeing to stop all this bickering. I think we’ve both seen that life is too short for this shit.” She nods through her tears.

“And Mia?” She raises her gaze to me.

“You’re smart, you’re resourceful, and you do a good thing. I’m proud of you for chasing the bad guys… but I’m not one of them.” She nods again.

“I know,” she says, still in tears. “I wanted to make you the bad guy, and I found a way through the whole ‘capitalist’ thing, but… I’ve always known.” I nod.

“So… you’ll give your brother a break?”

“This one,” she says, wiping her eyes and I deflate a bit.

“You’re going after Elliot?” I ask, knowing how this will affect our already upset Mom.

“No,” she says. “There’s nothing to go after. I don’t know what he does, and I don’t have the will or energy to chase him down. I’ve always known he was a creep and now—today—I know he’s a drug addict. I don’t see any redeeming qualities and until he shows me some, I have to let that go. Besides,” she strokes my hand gently, “I’ve got some serious bridges to mend on this side of the water.”

I don’t tell her that she never really hurt me; she was just a pain in my ass, but she needs to work through how she’s feeling, and I’ll be there to help her. I’m glad to have my little sister back.

“We’ll get through it,” I say softly, twisting my lips to avoid that twinge in my chest that’s making me feel a bit sappy.

“Christian,” she says just above a whisper, “thank you.” I squeeze her hand again.

“You’re welcome.”

*-*

Day four, Mia is my only visitor, and we spend the entire day together, including meals. Day five, we both get to go home. Elliot is M.I.A. as expected. Mom and Dad come to get Mia and Taylor comes to retrieve me. My mother doesn’t speak to me and that smarts. It’s a double-edged sword along with the cat-and-mouse game that Golden keeps playing with me. I get in the car after hoping—futilely—that my mother would at least acknowledge my presence. And suddenly, I’m weak again. I’m weak and I’m tired and even though I spent a week in bed, I just want to get back in bed again.

“Taylor, I need a little help,” I say when we get back to the penthouse. I feel like all the energy has been sapped out of me just by leaving the hospital and getting in the car.

“Do you need a doctor, sir?” he asks. “Should we go back to the hospital?

“No, the doctor said this might happen…” Sudden drains of energy, feelings of emptiness, loss, and depression. I just have a feeling that this isn’t just from the nephrectomy, that it’s quite possibly more emotional than physical.

“Can you just help me get to bed please?”

I put my arm over his shoulder, and he helps me to the elevator.

I spend the rest of that day as well as the next several in my bed. Mrs. Jones brings me meals and Taylor checks on me regularly. I shower each morning and change my pajamas, just to get back into bed and lay there or watch TV or talk to Mia or Ronnie—who reams me a new one once I tell her what really happened.

I deserved that… and she comes to check on me when she can.

The rest of the time, I think about Mom… and her.

Until day ten… when she shows up at my penthouse. She’s like a ray of sunshine showing up in my room and my spirits suddenly soar.

“I… said I would check on you,” she says almost timidly.

“That was more than a week ago,” I reply. “I could’ve been dead.”

“But you aren’t,” she says.

“What took so long?” I ask, really needing to know why she made me wait for ten days.

“I… I was busy,” she says, and I immediately see her whipping some poor, fortunate soul chained to the ceiling in her dungeon.

Cat-and-mouse. She’s playing with me again.

I told you not to fall for me, Chopper.
I’m not your Mistress anymore, Chopper.

Indeed, you aren’t, and suddenly, I’m weary again.

“I need you to leave,” I say, quietly. She’s silent for several moments.

“What?” she asks.

“You can’t fathom the concept that someone wants you to go away, can you?” I ask, wearily. “I said the same thing to you at the hospital—basically the same thing—when I didn’t know it was actually you sitting there, and your reaction was exactly the same. You said, ‘What,’ like you couldn’t comprehend the words that were coming out of my mouth. So, I’ll say them again so that you’ll know that I’m not under the influence of any drugs. I need you to leave,” I repeat, shaking my head and barely believing that I’m hearing myself say it.

“You play with me,” I continue, “I’m one of your toys. You’re a true sadist—you said it yourself. You win—I’m in agony; I can’t take this anymore. You make me want you, but then you say I can’t have you. Then you go away, but you make me want you again. I can’t get you out of my mind. You’re in my blood. I’m pussy-whipped, and it’s not because you fucked me. I was pussy-whipped long before that. I had dreams about you; I saw you in other women before and after you cut me off. It’s always been you and as far as I know, it’ll probably always be you. Fuck, I almost took a damn bullet for this shit!

“You got what you wanted!” I say with clenched fists. “You broke me down after I swore that another woman wouldn’t do that to me. I’m your ultimate trophy! Or maybe not—maybe I’m just another notch in your belt. But congratulations! You win. You really are a sadist—a divine, magnificent, beautiful, horribly cruel sadist. Whoever fucked you up, you got them back in spades—with me! Now, please, just leave before I make a bigger fool of myself than I already have.”

I grit my teeth to keep from saying what I really want to say; to keep from begging her to stay with me if only for tonight. I can’t take this anymore. My emotions are way more involved than I ever intended and it’s just too damn much.

“Christian…”

“For God’s sake, just go!” I yell. Her soft, concerned voice is like nails on the chalkboard of my soul—literally. And hearing her say my name smarts even more.

“Please, just go, Ana,” I say softly. “Just go…” I shut her down. I can’t hear her anymore. I don’t know how long I sit there in my bed with my head down, but the next voice I hear…

“Can I get you something, sir?” Taylor says. “Or I can have Mrs. Jones make something for you…” I sigh heavily.

“Something to drink, please,” I say, my voice barely audible. “Maybe some soup, too. My throat hurts.”


A/N: This was one of the chapters that I wrote near the middle of the book when I decided how to expand on the family dynamic. It was very hard to write.

We’re really closing in on the finale. So, remembering the warnings I’ve been spouting all through the story, any predictions at this point on how the story will end?

Will it be a “Your girl is lovely, Hubbell” ending like in The Way We Were?

Will it be the moment when Sayuri finally wins the affections of the Chairman in Memoirs of a Geisha?

Or will it be some calm (or wild) variance in between—The Secretary? Wild Orchid? The Story of O?

Two more chapters to find out…

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 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

 

 

Fifty Shades Golden: Chapter 18

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 18

Eric Dane 18

TREY

“We think it was Linc, but was it really him?” Wester asks, reviewing the article about Linc being extradited back to the states and now in custody of the Kirkland Police.

“It was him,” I reply. “I’d bet my fucking fortune on it. Elena is beat all to hell not two hours after he leaves GEH with a bloody nose, and come morning, he’s gone.”

“That’s my concern,” Wester says, folding the paper and putting it back on my desk. “You’ve been cleared of beating Elena Lincoln. Is there any possible way that you can be pinned for his face looking that way? That would clear him for beating Elena and pin you for beating him.” I hadn’t even thought of that.

“Wouldn’t he need some kind of proof that I hit him?” I ask. “A witness, or DNA, which he certainly doesn’t have? Besides, I hit him in the nose and that was it. That man looks like he’s been through Saigon!” Wester nods.

“This is true,” he says. “There’re all kinds of holes in the story that Linc won’t be able to fill. First, his wife falsely accuses you. If he tries to accuse you, too, it’s likely that no one would believe him even though you knocked the stuffing out of his ass. It’s obvious that he exhibits all the benchmarks of a guilty man, but I look beyond the obvious, sir. I look for all the loopholes that some sleazy DA or some gung-ho cop can use to make the big pin and do the famous televised perp-walk. That’s why I’m asking if there’s anything at all that can link you to assaulting that man?”

I twist my lips and ponder the situation. I like the way he thinks. He’s three steps ahead of everything and he’s got raw killer instincts. Once we got him out of here, I didn’t think twice about Linc or anything that he thought he might have been able to do to me. I had shown him who’s boss and he dare not cross me.

Until…

“There’s nothing I can think of besides the fact that he left here with a bloody nose,” I say. “If someone saw him leave, or his exit was caught on someone’s exterior security camera somewhere…” Wester nods.

“We’ll prepare for that eventuality,” he says, typing into his phone. Fuck, I’m glad he’s on my side.

“Could this whole thing be a scheme or plot of some kind between him and his wife? To nail me for this so that I can become a non-factor in his lumber interests while negating the cases that I have against his wife?” Wester nodded.

“It would be quite the coup, but it could. From what I know about Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln, I don’t think they collaborate that way.”

“Don’t put it past them,” I say, typing into my computer. “A common enemy can create an alliance between the Hatfields and the McCoys.” He purses his lips.

“You’re thinking like me,” he says, with raised eyebrows.

“How do you know you’re not thinking like me?” I ask. He laughs and shakes his head.

“I’ll cede this one to you this time, Mr. Grey, because you’re the boss… but I think you know better.” Asshole. He’s a straight shooter and a straight cutter. He’s just what I need for my team.

“I want my mugshots back,” I inform him. “I never should have been booked and I don’t want those in the system.”

“I’ll get on it,” he says. I bring up my email and see that the piece that I’ve commissioned is ready to be shipped. Fucking hell, it took long enough. I asked for the damn thing nearly a week ago. She’s going to think I completely forgot my tribute. I pay the fortune it costs to have it shipped overnight and order another case of the gold-infused vodka to accompany it.

I’ve been resisting the urge to touch my lips all day, her kissed still bruised in my skin like it was yesterday. It’s my turn to leave an impression.


Briana Evigan 18

GOLDEN

Just when I thought I was in the clear for that temporary slip of the lips, it comes back to bite me in the ass. A week after I absent-mindedly kissed Trey after a scene, I get two pretty fucking remarkable gifts…

Another case of the gold-infused vodka, as if he knew that I had run out…

And a golden sculpture of lips—a very large sculpture of golden lips. They’re like two-feet wide.

“He seems infatuated with the anatomy,” Blake says, eyeing the lips.

“This is gaudy,” I say, pointing to the horrid thing. “This is something I would expect to see in someone’s psychedelic 1970’s bachelor pad along with horrible shag carpet, beaded curtains, and lava lamps. How dare he send me something like this!” Blake examines the sculpture carefully.

“If I can be so bold, Mistress,” he says, “this is certainly not some gaudy piece worthy of a 1970’s bachelor pad.” He lifts the sculpture. “This—like the statue—was commissioned. Even though there may be others out there like it, this is a custom piece. It’s not mass-produced, it’s made of gold fiberglass, and it was created by an international artist. That writing on the bottom is German. As you well know, the States doesn’t have many mass imports from Germany.”

“It’s still gaudy,” I maintain.

“It’s not gaudy, Mistress,” Blake retorts. “It may not be to your taste, but it’s not gaudy. Like the statue, Mr. Grey wants you to know that your body has left a lasting impression on him. This time, it was your lips.” I shake my head. This can’t happen.

“How do you know so much?” I ask him.

“It didn’t come easily,” he says. “What would you like to do with it?”

“Ship it to his home address,” I say without hesitating. “I’ll keep the vodka, but not the lips. Please make it clear that I don’t want it returned.”

“Very well, Mistress,” he says, and he takes the ugly thing and the packing that came with it and leaves the room. This is not part of the plan, Trey. If you want this to continue, you have to get your head out of the clouds. In fact…

I pull out my phone and fire off a text to him.

**The kiss was a mistake. It won’t happen again. **

*-*

“So, you kissed him,” Kevin says as we eat lunch after our yoga session later that week.

“Yeah. Temporary insanity,” I admit.

“Or could you just like the guy?” He raises a brow at me.

“I like his dick,” I say finitely, eating some of my fried zucchini. He scoffs.

“And you’ve never seen a dick you’ve liked before,” he says, his voice low, “because it’s obvious that you’ve never voluntarily kissed some guy… at least not in the current context.” He takes a big bite of his burger.

“I’ve seen other dicks that I’ve liked,” I say after swallowing my food. “And actually, I choose one person a month to kiss. So, yes, I have voluntarily kissed someone else before.”

“So, what’s so different about this one?” This one wasn’t the one I chose to be this month. In fact, I hadn’t chosen anyone to be this month…

“I just got carried away. It happens,” I say dismissively.

“Really?” he says, his mouth full of burger. “And how often has that happened to you?” he confronts.

“That’s not the point…”

“It’s exactly the point!” Kevin laughs. “You may be starting to feel something and it’s scaring the shit out of you. Is it the fact that you’re feeling something or the fact that you’re feeling something for him?”

“I’m feeling something for his dick!” I clarify, louder this time. A few people in the café turn and look at us.

“I’m sorry to be the one to burst your little bubble, Annie, but there’s a body attached to that dick!” he says, just as loudly as I do. “You can’t just cut it off and pretend that it doesn’t exist.”

“I may not be able to cut it off,” I say, lowering my tone, “but I have absolutely no problem pretending the body doesn’t exist. You wouldn’t understand, because you don’t adore the penis like I do.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t kiss his penis,” Kevin says, taking a bite from a fry.

Yeah, there is that.

“What I’m so miffed about,” he says, wiping ketchup from his mouth, “is that I didn’t think you were even slightly interested in that kind of relationship at all, so I didn’t even try.”

“I’m still not interested,” I clarify. “Like I said, it was temporary insanity and it won’t happen again. God, I wish I hadn’t even brought it up now.”

“You brought it up because you needed to tell somebody. You needed to tell somebody because it was eating at you and you couldn’t handle it on your own. That’s probably the case because you like this guy more than you’re willing to admit and denying it to me—even though I wanted you first—to him, or to yourself is not going to make it any less true.”

“Wanted me?” I say, pretending to be slighted. “You don’t want me anymore?”

“What does it matter? We’re friends now,” he says, chomping on another fry. I roll my eyes and move to take another bite of my sandwich when I catch an unpleasant sight over Kevin’s shoulder.

“Oh, what the fuck is this?” I hiss, dreading the next few seconds. Kevin frowns and looks over his shoulder just in time to catch Jake strolling in our direction.

“What the hell?” I groan. “Do I have a fucking tracking device attached to me?” I don’t see or hear anything from this guy in 17 years and now, he just seems to pop up where I am. I understood him popping up at the restaurant because I was in his neighborhood, but the grocery downtown? And now here? Am I releasing dog pheromones or something?

“Fancy meeting you here,” he says with a suggestive smile.

“Yeah, fancy that,” Kevin says, a near-scowl affixed to his face. Jake turns to Kevin.

“Yeah, you, too Kev, but…” he turns that creepy ass smile back to me, “I was addressing the lady.” I fold my arms and glare at him.

“Well, the lady is clearly not addressing you,” Kevin replies. Jake doesn’t tear his eyes away from me.

“I don’t know why I was so… driven… to get a Mickey’s patty melt—this place is so far out of my way—but now I see. When I want something, I just do whatever I have to do to get it.” He bites his bottom lip and I just want to hurl. I’m in a public café, not one of the clubs. I can’t floor him like I normally would. I have a few choice words bubbling up in my stomach, but I’m certain that it would just egg him on. Instead, I turn back to my lunch and continue to eat.

“Look, man, you’ve come to speak. You got your sandwich. Now, if you don’t mind, you are interrupting our lunch, which is pretty rude,” Kevin warns. I know just from his strength and his size alone that unless Jake has been working out or doing some MMA fighting that I’m not aware of, Kevin can most likely squash him. Hell, I can most likely squash him, but there would be some police intervention involved with either of those options. Even though I don’t make eye contact, I can feel his gaze boring into me.

“The lady hasn’t expressed an interest in my leaving, and even if she did, I would do my very best to dissuade her.” Dear God, if he only knew how much his sad attempt at seduction is making my stomach turn. He really is ruining my lunch.

“My mom always told me that if you ignore a pest, they eventually go away,” I say, taking another bite of my sandwich.

“Except flies,” Kevin says to me before turning a searing glare back to Jake. “Those bitches don’t go away til you swat ‘em.” I raise my eyes just in time to see the gentlemen glaring at each other about to square off.

“You wanna catch this fade, mothafucka, let’s go!” Jake taunts. Oh, I’ve had enough of this shit.

“And exactly what would you be fighting for?” I say loudly, now standing to face Jake and deliberately raising my voice. “When I wanted you, you didn’t want me. Now, you precariously pop up everywhere I’m trying to get something to eat, often muscling in on my meal, and now you want to fight because I won’t pay you any attention? It’s my understanding that you can—and already did—have any piece of pussy in town that you wanted. What’s the problem? Go find one that wants you, too. Just leave!”

I’ve had enough! I want this asshole to leave me the hell alone. He won’t take the cold shoulder; he won’t take rejection; let’s try humiliation.

“What the fuck you say?” he says, surprised that I had the nerve to call him out. “This mothafucka disrespected me. What makes you think I would fight over you, hoe, you ain’t shit!” I violently wave him off.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever the fuck you say! You made that shit very clear several years ago—until you fuckin’ started stalkin’ me again. Now, say that shit while you walkin’!”

Jake eyes me with serious distaste and raises one nostril like he’s smelling something bad.

“You think you hot shit ‘cause you white?” he spits.

“What I think is that we were trying to enjoy our lunch before you brought your ass over here fuckin’ with us. You said I ain’t shit, so why are you still here? Get the hell away from our table!” He’s so busy trying to humiliate me like I just humiliated him that he doesn’t see Jesse come up behind him.

“Shut the fuck up, puppy, and sit yo’ ass down,” he retorts.

“The lady said leave,” Jesse says from behind him. “You’re disturbing her lunch.”

Jake turns around and whirls right into a wall of angry, buff security guard about five inches taller than him. Not to be outmatched, he aggressively looks up and down Jesse’s form.

“What? You fuckin’ her, too, white boy?” he accuses.

Oh, little boy, if you only knew that nobody in this room right now is fucking me, least of all, you.

“No, but I may have to restrain you and kick you out for insulting the lady and disturbing her lunch. You are now in her personal space which makes you a threat, and I won’t be responsible if your face meets a little road rash on the way down.” Jake scoffs.

“You think I’m scared o’ you?” Jake asks incredulously, his voice rising two octaves. “Nigga, where I come from, the bigger they are, the harder they fall!”

“Please… oh, please test that theory,” Jesse invites and stands there, waiting for Jake to make a move. Jake glares at Jesse but doesn’t dare to make a move. “Air and opportunity, young’un,” Jesse adds.

Now, where Jake comes from, “air and opportunity” is short for “Stop yappin’ and make your move. Ain’t nothin’ between us but air and opportunity,” So, now Jake has to shut the fuck up and make his move or get the fuck on. He takes the latter option. My guess is that he has assessed the situation, weighed his options, analyzed the likelihood of actually leaving the building with a face full of road rash, and decided that outcome would not be favorable for him. He’s going to leave… but not quietly.

“Please,” he says, disdainfully, “ain’t none o’ y’all worth none of this shit.” He moves around Jesse to leave and calls out “bitch” just as he’s getting to the door.

“Yo’ momma’s a bitch,” I retort before the door even opens. He doesn’t pause. He brushes right out the door.

And I’m pretty sure that’s the last I’ll see of him.

“God, what is it with that guy?” Kevin asks. I nod at Jesse thanking him for coming to my rescue and he nods and goes back to his table and his sandwich.

“Is it usually volatile when you guys get together?” I ask. “Does he have something to prove?”

“Yes,” Kevin says. “He sees me with you and you’re the only one in the neighborhood that he hasn’t fucked. So, he has to prove he can fuck you, too. Ain’t shit with me and him. I’ve seen him around here and there, but I haven’t seen him this much in years. It’s like your pussy starts moving in his general vicinity and he can smell you coming.”

“That can’t be it, because I’ve been back in Seattle for a while. So, if he was smellin’ my pussy, he would have smelled it long before now.” I pause. “He does realize he called Jesse the ‘N’ word,” I point out. Kevin twists his lips.

“You said you come from the hood,” Kevin says. “You know that’s not what he did. He used the ‘gga’ not the ‘gger.’”

“But if Jesse had said that to him…” I begin my protest.

“Yes, I know,” Kevin interrupts. “The entire café would have been in an uproar. At the risk of defending that asshole, you know we throw that word around a little more than we should and in different ways.” I twist my lips and don’t touch the rest of my unfinished lunch.

“I don’t approve of black people disparaging white people any more than I approve of white people disparaging black people—and he does that pretty freely. Jesse was the ‘gga’ and ‘white boy’ and I supposedly thought I was all that because I’m white, but had I made even the slightest reference to his race, that would have been an entirely different conversation.” Kevin puts his hands up.

“Hey, I’m on your side, remember?” he says, surrender evident in his tone. I roll my eyes and shake my head. I’m going to start carrying a police whistle and blow the shit out of that bitch when I see him coming!

“Well, I’d say lunch is sufficiently ruined,” he says, pushing away the rest of his burger. I raise my eyes to him and his disgusted expression.

“So… since we’re friends and all, I guess I can make this up to you. That asshole wouldn’t have come to the table had I not been sitting here. Dinner at my house on Friday?” He raises surprised eyes to me. “That is if you don’t mind crossing the bridge.

“Uh… no, I don’t mind,” he stutters. “I got a car.”

Yeah, I surprised the shit out of him.

“Well, then, I’ll text you my address, and don’t be surprised when my butler answers the door.”

“Ooooo, a butler! Fancy,” he teases, and it adds some levity to our ruined lunch.

*-*

I invited Kevin to dinner. Why the hell did I do that? I still have a few days where I can cancel, but I’m not going to. I’m sadistic, not selfish, and I do feel that Jake ruined a perfectly good lunch because of me.

My phone has been ringing and buzzing with texts… from Trey. I’m sure he has received those ghastly ass lips back and wants to know why. I would rather not see or speak to him right now. I’m not totally certain why I succumbed to kissing him and right now, I’d prefer not to make that mistake again. In fact, Golden has other plans this evening…

**I would be eternally grateful if Mistress could find it in her schedule to fit me in tonight. Or even tomorrow, or whenever you have available. **

The text came right after lunch and right before Trey’s. I would like nothing more than to get my hands a little dirty at one of the clubs. I need to beat the image of Jake out of my fucking head…

And the taste of Trey off my goddamn lips.

**Club Syndrome. 8:00. Tonight. Don’t be late. **

I do a quick gold-chrome nail cover before I don my attire for the evening.

Tonight, it’s the vintage boned gold corset with the mock alligator texturing over high-waisted gold panties. I have to tape my boobs and the corset down so that they don’t fall out during my new routine. Adorning my chest is the Majestic Gold Filigree Indian Wedding choker with matching jhumka earrings—tribute from another satisfied client valued at over $12,000. I have to double-side-tape this piece as well as the necklace falls elegantly over my chest and will droop over my chin while I’m performing unless I secure it.

Wonder WomanThe best wigs that money can buy will ensure that my raven hair won’t end up on the floor somewhere. Gold contacts reminiscent to sunsets and gold eyeshadow on my lid and under my eye lend a dramatic contrast to the black lashes and brows with just a dusting of gold at the end of the brows. I slide into a decadent pair of gold thigh-high stiletto boots and slide two gold arm bracelets on my arms. They almost look like the “Wonder Woman” symbol.

When I’m satisfied with the look, I descend the stairs to find Blake waiting for me. He doesn’t react to my attire, but then again, he never does.

“Which wrap, Mistress?” he asks unfazed.

“Gold leather,” I reply. I check my reflection in the mirror at the foot of the stairs. My lips are done in matte, non-smearing lipsticks—gold and black in a fierce design. I’m extremely proud of my creation. I look every bit the sexy, golden nightmare and I’m beginning to feel more like myself again.

Blake assists me into my gold leather trench just as the doorbell rings. As I fasten my belt, I see my driver and my bodyguard waiting on the other side of the door for me. Right on time, as usual…

“Thornton will be meeting me this evening. Set him up and let me know when he arrives,” I say to Zane, the head dungeon monitor, when I arrive at Syndrome. “And cue the new music.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I remove my coat and walk right to the stage to my usual theme song. This will be my first time doing my new routine, but I’m not concerned. As usual, I just want to show the amateurs how it’s done.

Moments after I mount the stage, the music changes and a dangerous, sultry beat begins as I circle the pole. The crowd goes from a gentle roar to a tiny murmur as I bend one leg and wrap it around the pole behind me.

Sometimes I feel I’ve got to run away…

As Claire Guerreso begins to sing, I reach behind my head, grasp the pole, and begin to climb it backwards.

The murmur falls to silence.

Half-way up the pole, my body bends in half, then fully extends with my stiletto heels pointing perfectly to the ceiling and my raven wig hanging dramatically towards the floor,

It’s nothing but me and the music now.

I’ve lost my light for I toss and turn I can’t sleep at night…

Like hell. Maybe you, but not me.

a2ca8bf11648826dc78841c9918824c9I reproduce the incredible move where my body is bent but not touching the pole. I saw this move in the mirror at the studio, so I’m well aware of how sexy it looks now.

Once I ran to you, now I’ll run from you…

The idea behind a good pole dance is to look sensual and sexy and desirable without looking raunchy. If I wanted to be a stripper, that’s what I would do, but that’s not what I do here. My routines have the same effect whether I’m wearing a pair of lamé panties, thigh high boots, and a corset, or if I’m wearing a catsuit and strappy stiletto. It makes you wonder what’s underneath, not just want to fuck.

My moves display incredible control over my body and muscles—unbelievable leg extensions, midair ab and hip rolls, and insane upper body strength that allows me to sensually animate my body while my hands or arms are the only things touching the pole. My attitude sends a message to men and to women not to come at me with bullshit, because I’m not the one and I won’t have it.

The crowd is once again silently mesmerized as that one line is sung that reminds me that I’m Golden…

You need someone to hold you tight and you’ll think love is to pray,
But I’m sorry, I don’t pray that way…

Nope, not I. Find somebody else to love you.

I writhe down the pole in an awesome finishing move that has my knees bent and my body lying backwards with one arm over my head and my hair splayed on the floor—not even having broken a sweat. When the music dies, I rise to my knees and then to my feet before sauntering to the stairs. There is no applause, but I can clearly hear the murmurings of the crowd—some talking about how sultry the dance was while others asked who I am. They must not be the regulars.

“That’s Golden,” I hear someone say. “She’s a Domme and she damn near owns the place.”

“Well, I never heard of her,” another says.

“You must be new, then,” the first guy says. “She’s extremely exclusive. They’ll blackball you if you do something to piss her off.”

“Your client is ready in room three, ma’am,” Zane says to me as he helps me off the stage. I can’t hear the conversation anymore as I descend the stairs and thank him, but I hear the end of it.

“If she’s here, she’s going to be in one of the exhibition rooms. Come on, get ready for the show of your life.”

That’s right, boys. Golden is here in full effect and now, I have fresh meat to impress. It’s not that I’m looking for any more clients, but I just adore performing for Golden virgins.

Thornton is into humiliation. That’s just what I need tonight. It’s like somebody somewhere knew that I needed to remember who Golden is and what she does. I open the door to the exhibition room and there he is, standing in the corner with his back to me. He’s only wearing his pants, and he’s not allowed to look at me without my permission.

I remove my corded whip from the wall and, dragging it on the ground behind me, skillfully approach my subject.

“Hello, Thornton…

*-*

Last night was perfect. I stretched my Golden legs—and my Golden whip—and I am back! Not that I went anywhere in the first place, I just needed to remind myself who I was. All this kinda touchy-feely shit had me out of touch for a moment.

I don’t answer any of Trey’s calls or texts, which aren’t as frequent as they were at the beginning of the week when I first returned those garish gold lips that he sent me. Those things were horrendous. What the hell did he expect me to do with those?

What’s more, he knows that I know exactly what they were all about. He had as many questions about the kiss as Kevin did… as I did… and I answered them. It was a mistake. It was temporary insanity and it won’t happen again. I told him that and when I feel like he finally understands that, then I’ll answer his fucking texts.

I made sure to tell my clients in the Lincoln lawsuit that she came by in an attempt to settle, but that she wasn’t apologetic, which means that her offer would have been laughable had I listened. They agreed with me that we should take it to court if she doesn’t admit fault and try to make it right.

Make it right. That’s hilarious to me. Each of these women knows that they’re taking this woman for a ride. Maybe one or two of them might have suffered the real heebie-jeebies. The rest are just on the bandwagon for the buck. I’m usually not the slimy lawyer, but in this case, I don’t care. Blondie took the gloves off on me a long time ago, and since I’m so damn ethical in everything else that I do, I don’t mind being the corrupt attorney this time. Not one bit.

It’s just what she deserves.

True to my word, I agree to fix dinner for Kevin on Friday. I get the feeling that I may have to squash his hopes for l’amour as he’s convinced that Trey is breaking me down. Dinner may not be the best idea under the circumstances, but as a friend, I promised. And as a woman and a Domme, I know that if I back out, I’ll be feeding his idea that I’ve been weakened and I’m afraid to be alone with him.

As usual, I can’t find what I need in my area, so I visit the grocery in my old neighborhood and hope to God that the Jake-radar isn’t alerted that I’m in the area. I manage to avoid seeing Jake, but I should have known that I wouldn’t leave this area unscathed.

“Ana?”

I turn to the voice that called my name. It had to happen. At some point, it had to happen. First, Richard in the courthouse; then Jake at the restaurant… and the grocery… and the café. Now, this.

I sigh heavily as I look into the face of my cousin, Tracy. Of course. It had to happen. I raise my eyebrow at her as if to ask, “What the fuck do you want?” but she totally ignores the gesture.

“Wow,” she says as she closes the space between us. “You look really good. You haven’t changed one bit.” I’m a little taken aback by the compliment.

“Thank you,” I reply, trying to appear unmoved.

“I haven’t seen you in years. Have you moved back to these parts?” she asks.

“No,” I reply. “I… needed some ingredients that I can’t find in my neighborhood.” She twists her lips.

“Well, I know what you mean about that,” she says, looking over her shoulder as if looking for someone. “I’m not living around here either anymore, but Mom needs a few things, so…” She trails off. Figures. Why couldn’t Sheila’s lazy ass husband come and get what she needed? He can track me down and chase me around the city. How about you tend to your ailing wife and leave me the hell alone! God, I want to be a total bitch, but…

“I heard about Sheila,” I say. “I’m sorry.” Tracy frowns a bit and just as she’s about to speak…

“Baby, they’re out of cumin. We may have to see if we can find it somewhere else. I know the exotic spice stand at the Mar… Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

The gentleman who joins us is a handsome, older man, distinguished looking and well-built. He’s pushing a grocery cart with a child in the seat, maybe two or three years old. Another little girl is latched to his hand, six or seven years old.

“Ana, this is my husband, Lance. Lance, this is Ana, my cousin.”

Lance’s eyebrow rises in obvious surprise. Yeah, yeah, I’m white, so what?

“Ana, yes,” he says with a sincere smile. “Tracy has mentioned you. I’m glad you reconnected.”

Reconnected? Mentioned me? What the hell?

Not in a public grocery, Ana. Don’t make a goddamn scene, and definitely not in front of children.

“It’s nice to meet you, Lance,” I say, trying not to sound stiff. Noticing my discomfort, Lance turns back to his wife.

“I’ll go pay for these and meet you outside, okay?” he says. Tracy smiles and nods as he leans down and kisses her on the cheek. He turns a half-smile to me. “Ana, hope to see you around.”

“Thank you, Lance. Take care,” I say, trying not to be rude. When he’s out of earshot, Tracy turns her attention back to me.

“Ana, what did you mean by that,” she asks, “when you said you’re sorry about Mom? What did you hear about Mom?” I try not to frown at her. Is she in denial? What the hell?

“That she has cancer and she’s dying,” I reply, stating the obvious. Tracy frowns at me like I have no idea what I’m talking about. I soon find out that I don’t.

“Mom’s not dying,” she says, her frown burrowed deeply. “Dad is.”

I know I must look like I’ve seen aliens. Richard’s dying, not Sheila. Why would he say it was the other way around? What would be the purpose of that?

“I…” I’m at a loss for words, something that doesn’t happen often. I quickly find myself and lean on my attorney instincts instead of the diplomacy I can’t seem to locate when I’m dealing with this family. “I… was misinformed,” I excuse. “I was told that Sheila was the one who had cancer—stage four, in fact.”

“Well, someone must have gotten their facts confused,” Tracy retorts, a slight bit of anger hidden in her words. “My father’s dying, not my mother. We’re not quite sure how much time he has left.” I sigh a bit inwardly. I hate being made to look like a fool and I won’t apologize because Richard lied to me.

“I should be going, Tracy,” I say turning to leave. “Take care of yourself, okay?” I can’t tell her that I’m sorry to hear about Richard, because I’m not. As cold as it sounds, I’m not sorry in the least that he’s dying.

“Ana, wait,” she says as she falls in step behind me. “If losing someone shows us anything, it shows us that we should hold on to who we have left. Don’t be a stranger.”

Oh, God, I almost want to gag. Give me a fucking break. This is your first experience with loss, girlie, and you’re an adult. I lost my Mommy and Daddy almost 23 years ago and I was a child—an innocent, forsaken, isolated child with nothing and no one. Who the fuck held on to me? As long as I wasn’t a burden or a disgrace, I could stay tucked away in the corner, but as soon as I brought any attention to myself—even slight attention—I got abandoned, so I’d rather not hear about holding on to who we have left, because nobody bothered holding on to me!

“You take care, Tracy,” I say, my voice cold, before leaving her and my groceries in the store.

I walk to my car as quickly as I can. I don’t have Jesse with me as I sent him home already. I kind of wish he had been with me. Maybe Her Fucking Majesty wouldn’t have approached me. Fuck! I left my groceries in the store. I’ll just wait until I see her leave, then I’ll go back and get them.

I wait almost forever before she finally leaves, then I run back in and retrieve my basket, grateful that all my things are still there. As I’m paying for my items at the cashier, my phone rings.

“Yes, Blake,” I answer.

“Ma’am, you have a visitor.” He’s calling me ma’am. That means someone is in his face.

“Kevin? He’s extremely early,” I say, looking at my watch.

“His name isn’t Kevin, ma’am,” he says coolly. I frown as I place my bags back in my basket.

“Is it Trey?” I reply, my voice just as cold.

“No, ma’am,” he replies, “but he refuses to leave without speaking to you. I can remove him if you like.”

“Who the hell is it, Blake?” I ask, irritated.

“He says his name is Steele, ma’am.” Steele. Did that fucker come to my house? Did Tracy say something to him? “His name isn’t Richard, ma’am, but it is Steele.”

Steele. Not Richard. Who the hell is at my house?

“I’m on my way home,” I say as I load the groceries into my Range Rover, “but I’m quite a ways away.”

“Would you like for us to wait for you, ma’am?” he asks.

“I want to know who the fuck this guy is,” I exclaim, climbing into the car.

“We will wait for you,” he says flatly.

“It could take me quite some time…”

“We. Will. Wait. For you,” he says finitely. I pause for a moment.

“Very well,” I say as I start the car and end the call. Now, this is what that statement really means:

Some guy shows up at my front door and got my “butler,” who informs him that I’m not there. From the way Blake is speaking, this guy has pushed himself into my house, at which time, he made some kind of demand that Blake get me back home, stating that he’s not leaving until I’m there. Blake can easily, and legally, put this man out on my doorstep—in pieces, if necessary—but he won’t do it without my permission. He won’t even touch the guy.

When Blake came to call me, this fucker followed him to the phone, which means he took great liberties walking through my house. In my mind’s eye, I can see Blake’s scalp boiling during this encounter, but he won’t let it be seen. When he first spoke to me, he indicated that someone was at the house, and let me guide the conversation from there.

Someone’s there.
Not Kevin.
Not Trey.
He won’t leave. Blake offers to remove him.

I have another idea. I want to know who the fuck he is.

Steele. Not Richard, but Steele. Now I really want to know who the fuck he is.

At this point, the rules have changed because Blake can’t afford to let him leave. We both need to know who this fucker is. This means that if Blake has to break his legs and tie him to a chair, they’re going to wait for me.

I drive home as quickly as I can, from several miles away, in rush hour traffic… which means it’s still taking a long time to get home. It could be my other cousin—Tracy’s brother—I can’t even remember his fucking name right now. He wouldn’t come to my house like that… would he?

I leave all my groceries in the car and dash to the stairs to find out what’s going on. I burst through my front door and I see a stranger—a black man—standing there playing “slaps” with Blake… or at least that’s what it looks like. He keeps trying to get a hit in—a shove, a slap, something—and Blake just keeps forcibly pushing his hand away. Blake is clearly blocking his escape, so I’m assuming that sometime during the wait, our guest decided that he didn’t want to stay, probably once he realized that he wasn’t going to get the free reign of the house that he enjoyed while Blake was calling me.

“What the hell is this?” I ask, bemused.

“Well, it’s about time you got here!” the stranger says, no longer sparring with Blake. I’m taken aback by his boldness.

“I was unaware that I was on a clock,” I retort, folding my arms.

“Well, I’ve been waiting for you for a while,” he shoots, moving to close the space between us. Blake steps in front of him and he huffs impatiently. “Dammit, she’s here now! Can you move outta my way now?”

“You said you wanted me,” I say folding my arms. “You wanted me to drop what I was doing and come all the way home from clean on the other side of the bridge. You’re lucky I was on my way home or you might be standing here playing “slaps” for another couple of hours. Now, here I am. What do you want?”

“I want you to call off your damn dog!” he says, unsuccessfully trying to get around Blake.

“Well, you see, we don’t know who you are or why you’re here, so it’s not very likely that he’s going to heel,” I informed our visitor.

“He’s holding me against my will,” he says. I scoff.

“You show up at my home, demanding to see me and refusing to leave until you do. I’m sure my butler didn’t invite you in because he asked me if he could remove your ass. I’m also sure that you followed him around my house without permission because I could tell by the way he was talking when he called me. Now, you want to say that he held you against your will? Make up your fucking mind!”

He’s shocked that I most likely called him on exactly what happened in my home before I got there. He’s nervous at first, but he recovers very quickly.

He has ammo.

“You’re gonna want to hear what I have to say,” he says cockily. I put my hand on Blake’s shoulder, signaling him to stand down.

“Don’t go anywhere,” I request. He nods and takes a step back. “Make it quick,” I say to my now unwanted visitor. He smirks and looks around.

“Nice digs,” he says. “Nice house in an affluent neighborhood, butler, late model Range Rover. Seems my dad’s money set you up real nice.” I frown.

“Your dad’s money?” I say, shaking my head. Is he the son of one of my clients? I only have two black clients, and I would have fucking remembered if either of them was named Steele. He smiles fiendishly.

“I should say our dad,” he oozes, “even though he really wasn’t your dad.”

Our dad? What the hell? Dad? Dad? Daddy?

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I nearly growl.

“I’m talking about Raymond Steele!” he hisses. “The asshole who got my mother pregnant and left us to rot!”

I sincerely feel like somebody hit me in the chest with a sledgehammer. Nobody has ever said a harsh word to me about my father. My defenses are down, and I don’t know how to react.

“How… did you find out about me… where I live?” I stutter. He scoffs disbelieving.

“I just told you that your so-called father—even though he’s not really your father—deserted me and my mother and all you want to know if how I found out where you live? Are you for real?”

I don’t respond. I don’t know how. I don’t know who this man is or even if he’s who the fuck he says he is, but I don’t have shit to say to him until he tells me how…

Uncle Richard told me where you were,” he says disdainfully, and I can easily tell that he has about as much love for Richard as I do.

“Richard?” I hiss, finding my words. “Richard told you where to find me?”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head, Buffy,” he sneers. “He didn’t know anything about me either. Seems Dear Old Dad just hoped I would disappear.”

I narrow my eyes at this fucker. I’m beginning to hate him more and more. He doesn’t look anything like my father, and I don’t believe a word he’s saying.

“How do I know you’re even who you claim to be?” I seethe angrily. “You don’t look like any of the Steeles to me and my father is not here to defend himself.”

“Well, I have plenty of pictures of my father and my mother together before you were even born! So, even though you may not know who your daddy is, I know who mine is.”

He has no idea how much of a gift he just gave me. The fact that his mother and my father may have been together before I was born means that Daddy didn’t cheat on Mommy.

“Well, whatever your name is…”

Reynard,” he hisses, “but you can call me Ray,” he adds with a sinister smile. The hell I am.

“Well, Reynard,” I spit with all the venom I can muster, “I know who my daddy is because his name is on my birth certificate and my maiden name is Steele.”

“The fuck you say!” he barks. “Richard told me you were adopted!”

“I gives a fuck what Richard told you!” I bark back. “Check vital records, mothafucka, you’ll see my name is Steele. Now, why the fuck are you in my house?”

“I came to claim my share of my father’s money—whatever he left you. I’m entitled to half of it, because he was my father, too.” Now, I laugh loudly.

“Is that what this is about?” I cackle. “Money? Boy, did you come to the wrong place. Daddy was a great man. He was known and loved by many people, but he certainly wasn’t rich.”

“You’re living awfully comfortably, Ana, so Daddums must’ve left you something!” he accuses.

“Well, whatever you think Daddy left me, you better go harass Uncle Richard before he kicks the bucket. Whatever I may have had, Richard took for those couple of years he took care of me—right before he abandoned me. Everything you see here is mine! I worked for it; I paid for it; I own it. So, if you came here looking for a payout, you came to the wrong place, asshole, cuz I have nothing for you.”

He needs to recoil a bit. He sees how Richard lives, and he sees how I live. In his mind, with all the wealth that he’s seeing, there’s no way that after all this time, Daddy didn’t have something that he left behind that this jerk could lay claim to.

“I’m going to drag him through the mud,” he says calmly. “I can see that you love him very much, and I’m going to soil his name so badly that there’ll be no recovering from it. I’m going to tell everybody who’ll listen that Ray Steele had a little Steele that he left to die because his mother wasn’t white and the black baby that he made wasn’t good enough to have a decent life!”

Does it always come down to this? Does it always come down to the black world hating me because a black man wanted me as a daughter? Because a black boy wanted me as a girlfriend? Because another black man is attracted to me? Because I’m white? Is that why Richard deserted me? I’m, once again, extremely angry.

“You slime-sucking piece of shit!” I declare. “You haven’t asked how he died or even where he’s buried. You just show up on my doorstep looking for a damn handout from a man who’s been dead for over twenty years, and you have no fucking idea who he even was!”

“I may not know, but according to you, quite a few people do,” he taunts. I scoff.

“Who do you think he was, the fucking mayor?” I ask. “My father was a Seattle cop. He was loved by everybody who knew him, but he was still just a Seattle cop. You’re just another illegitimate child from somebody’s past, buddy. Nobody’s going to give a fuck about you. I knew my father. I’m sorry for you that you didn’t get a chance to, but I knew my father and he was a wonderful, kind, and generous man. And believe me when I say that nothing you can say now or ever will change that in my eyes or in the eyes of anybody who ever knew him. And you may want to be careful who you go spouting your bullshit to, because you don’t have any proof, and if you go spouting it to the wrong people, they may just squash like the insignificant little bug that you are!”

“I thought you said he was nobody,” he nearly growls.

“I didn’t say he was nobody,” I say. “I said he was a Seattle cop. I also said that he was loved by everybody who knew—in so many words. So, go ahead, do your worst, Reynard, because you’re not going to get a fucking dime from me. Now, get the fuck out of my house.”

“Oh,” he says, folding his arms. “When I wanted to leave, this fucker wouldn’t let me go. Now, I’m supposed to leave because you said so?”

“Yes, sir,” Blake says, stepping between me and Reynard. “Allow me to show you out.”

Reynard stands there looking at him for a moment, a bit incredulously.

“Man, get the fuck outta my way,” he says, moving to brush Blake aside. In less than three seconds, this asshole is pressed against the wall, his arms pinned in a mummy-like pose in one of Blake’s hands with Blake’s other forearm under his chin and precariously close to his neck.

“We’ve played this game already, sir,” Blake says calmly. “Would you like to move to level two?” Reynard struggles a bit against Blake.

“Get the fuck off me, man!” he threatens.

“I’m taking that as a yes, sir,” he says, and I can see him press his arm further against Reynard’s throat. “So that there’s no misunderstanding, I’ll ask again, sir. Would you like to continue this game, or would you like to leave?”

Blake hasn’t broken a sweat, hasn’t raised his voice. Reynard, on the other hand is looking a little pale.

Is he choking him to death?

“I’ll leave,” he squeaks out. Yeah, he was choking him to death!

Blake releases Reynard and shoves him in the direction of the door.

“You haven’t seen the last of me, cracker bitch!” he seethes rubbing his neck.

“For your sake, you better hope I have, you fucking bastard!” I retort. “I’m strapped and I’ll pop a cap in ya ass if you show up at my door again. Then, I’ll give what’s left of you to him and my bodyguard. They’ll need dental records to identify you.”

Reynard’s eyes pierce and he looks at me like a Martian. Blake forcefully shoves him out the door that he opened behind Reynard, who stumbles onto the porch and nearly down the stairs.

“Have a good night, sir,” he says, slamming the door behind him and immediately turning to me.

“Mistress?”

“Another… child,” I pant, putting my hand on my forehead, my adrenaline immediately dropping. “A brother… Daddy… couldn’t have known. He… never would have left…” I crumble to my knees and Blake catches me.

“Mistress…”

“I need… I need to speak to him…” He owes me an explanation. He doesn’t owe me any fucking thing else, but he owes me an explanation.

“Maybe you should rest first, Mistress…”

“I need to talk to him!” I shriek. Blake pauses for a moment, then helps me to the parlor and sits me on the sofa. I’m nearly hyperventilating when several moments later, I hear him dial the phone.

“Is this Richard Steele?” he pauses. “One moment please, sir.” He hands me the phone.

“How!?” I scream. “How could you send that fucker to my home?”

“Anastasia?” he asks, surprised.

“You know who the fuck this is!” I shriek through my tears. “How the fuck could you send that sonofabitch to my home?!” I hear him sigh.

“I’m sorry about this, Ana…”

“Is he my brother?” I scream. “Dammit, is he my father’s son?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I know Ray was seeing his mother years before he met Carla, but I never knew or heard anything about a child.”

“His name is Steele!” I accuse. “How could you not know?”

“What? His name is not Steele. It’s Stamper.” Well, he knows that much.

“How the fuck do you know?” I say through my tears. I hear him sigh.

“Ana, must you curse in every statement you make to me?”

“How the fuck do you know?!” I scream. He pauses, then begins to speak again.

“He came to me a little while back. I had him checked out.” Wha…?

“A little while back,” I squeak incredulously. “A little while…” How long ago? It doesn’t matter. It was long enough to have him checked out.

“I tried to tell you,” he says calmly.

“Like hell, you tried!” I shoot. “You came to me with bullshit, each time trying to get me to bow or give in and listen to your sob stories about why I should forgive you for deserting me. You remember how you callously blurted out that lie that Aunt Sheila was dying, hoping to get a reaction out of me? Well, you should have blurted out the truth instead—that I possibly have a psychotic half-brother looking for me trying to get some of my dead dad’s non-existent money!”

“I wasn’t sure…” he interjects.

“But you knew!” I interrupt, sobbing. “You knew he was vindictive and spiteful. That’s why you had him checked out! You knew Dad didn’t have anything, and if he did, I never got it. You knew that! Why didn’t you tell him that instead of leading him right to my front door? You couldn’t do right by me if your fucking life depended on it! You ditched me when I was 15 and now, I’m 32 and given the second chance, you still threw me to the dogs. And you have the nerve to say that my father would be ashamed of me? Old man, if Daddy was here right now, he’d have you bound, gagged, and publicly flogged in the middle of the Marketplace. Then, he’d shoot you in the knees with his service revolver!”

“Don’t say that about my brother!” he says, threatening.

“I’m not saying that about your brother! I’m saying that about you, you miserable fuck!” I scream. “You’re a wretched excuse for a human being, and I hope you die a miserable fucking death!” I hiss.

“Well, apparently, God agrees with you,” he laments, “because it’s not your Aunt Sheila that’s dying from cancer. It’s me. Stage four metastatic melanoma—the baldness isn’t a fashion statement.”

“You’re late with that news, too, Unc! I already knew. You’re coming into court looking like hell and ill-prepared, having the judge question my ethics and motives—you need to go the fuck home and die!” I curse him.

“Do you really hate me?” he asks, and he sounds a little remorseful. “Do you really hate me that much, Anastasia?”

“With the disdain of a thousand plagues,” I growl. “My only regret at this point was that I wasn’t able to watch you rot! I did everything in my power to forget that you abandoned me! That you left me to die or to be a statistic and I was determined not to let that happen. And I survived! I survived and I succeeded despite what you did to me! And you have a hissy fit because I won’t run into your arms for a warm embrace after seventeen years? And we only met by accident? After all the pain and disappointment you’ve already caused me, you unleash that vermin on me? Lead him right to my fucking door? You are the worst form of subhuman I’ve ever known in my life and I have no idea how a kind, gentle, noble and loving man like Raymond Steele could have ever been related to you. I hope your last days are agonizingly, painfully miserable and I can only hope and pray that on your way to your eternal afterlife, you get one last glimpse of my father so that he can tell you just what a rotten, miserable asshole you really are right before he throws your ass off a cliff to rot in hell!”

I slam the receiver down onto the carriage, heaving with sobs so uncontrollable that I can barely breathe.

“Ana?”

I whizz around to see Kevin standing in the door of my parlor staring at me. Shit. I forgot about our dinner.

“I… I don’t think… I…” My sobbing is so heavy that I can’t get my words out. Nothing on this earth ever upsets me like things that have to do with my parents. Nothing! Now this asshole shows up opening old wounds, looking for money that Daddy never even had. I sink to the floor, my knees unable to hold me up anymore. What is it about the Steele bloodline? Had it just produced a bunch of leeches and monsters with my daddy being the only good egg? Was Daddy like this and I just didn’t know it?

Of course not!

Daddy loved Mommy endlessly, and he showed it all the time. He was a wonderful father to me, and I have nothing but good memories of him. He adopted me and gave me his name. He didn’t have to do that. He married Mommy—that would have been enough for me, but no. He went all the way. He loved me. And he was a good man… a really good man, and I’m not going to let some possible hateful offspring from a relationship—probably even a one-night stand—before he met my mother or some judgmental, heartless asshole of an uncle change my opinion of him.

But to have them spit on his memory like this hurt so badly that I can barely think or breathe. I feel Kevin lift me off the floor and I’m back on the sofa again, weeping in his arms. When did he get here? Did Blake let him in? Where’s Blake?

“Ssshh, ssshh, shh,” he says, rubbing my arms. “Calm down. You’re going to pass out.”

Blake comes in with a glass of water, but I can’t drink anything right now. I can’t even think…

*-*

“So, do you think he’s really… your father’s son?” Kevin says, still sitting on the sofa with me and stroking my arm once I’ve finally calmed down. Blake has retrieved the groceries from the car and prepared some hors d’oeuvres since I was in no condition to cook.

“I don’t know,” I say, my head swimming. “My wretched uncle says he did some kind of background check on him. I’ll do one, too. His name isn’t Steele. I don’t know if he’s really an illegitimate child or just an extortionist.”

“What if he is your dad’s child?” he asks.

“What if he is?” I repeat. “He better go get to know Aunt Sheila and their crew, because he doesn’t mean a damn thing to me. He comes barging in here, asking for money, not even asking about Daddy…”

“Okay, okay,” he says. “I don’t want you to get upset again.” He rubs my arms and I sigh.

“Kevin, what do you think this means?” I ask.

“What what means?” he says.

“This,” I say, gesturing around us. “All this. What do you think this means?” He sighs.

“It means that we’re friends,” he says. “You told me that we’re friends, and I’m okay with us being friends. But I saw you at two very vulnerable moments, which lets me know that you’re not as untouchable and unmovable as you always pretended to be.”

“Kevin…” I protest.

“Do I expect you to change? No,” he interrupts. “What does this mean? It doesn’t mean anything. As long as you are who you are and you gotta do what you gotta do, I’m okay being your friend—but if things ever change, and you need something different in your life… just know that my hat is in the ring.”

“There is no ring, Kevin,” I tell him, slightly frustrated.

“And yet, I’m here,” he says, gently caressing my arm. “If there ever is a ring, my hat is in it.” I shake my head. Give it up, Sheardon. It’s never going to happen.

“This is going to change things between us, Kevin,” I say, sadly.

“I’m a big boy, Ana,” he says. “This changes nothing between us… unless you can’t deal with it.”

I shake my head and pop some cheese into my mouth. A few moments later, Blake comes into the parlor.

“Mistress, I really hate to disturb you, but you have another guest.”

What is this, Grand fucking Central Station?


A/N: 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 17

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 17

Briana Evigan Ch 17

GOLDEN

“Whoa!”

I’m stunned into silence when I step into my living room. I know who this is from—it could only be one person, but I haven’t seen him in nearly three weeks. Is that why he’s sending me tribute?

“This is incredible,” I say, examining the gift. It’s a near life-sized golden statue… of me! I’m naked with a cloth of some kind covering my breasts and vagina. My ass is perfect! It’s reminiscent of the statue of Aphrodite and I’m wondering how he commissioned it without me being present. How could he describe my ass so perfectly that an artist could mimic it without a picture, because I know there are no pictures of my ass anywhere.

“It’s a good likeness, Mistress,” Blake says, examining the sculpture and never taking his eyes off the face. “He’s very fond of you.”

I look over at him, then back at the statue.

“Is it real?” I ask, touching the cloth covering my private areas. Blake touches the hand that’s covering my breast.

“It’s gold fiberglass, Mistress. Generic pieces like this cost upward of two or three thousand dollars. Custom pieces very likely cost two to three times that much.”

“What brought this on?” I wonder aloud. We haven’t had a scene in weeks—since he was arrested.

“Like I said, he’s very fond of you, Mistress,” Blake says, raising an eyebrow before leaving the room. I twist my lips and shake my head at him before turning my attention back to the statue. It’s exquisite. Honestly, these are the two things he’s had in his face more often than not—my face and my ass—so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that he can describe them from memory. That’s not creepy at all… right?

“Can we get it out of the living room please?”

*-*

When I get to my office, I’m greeted by an unwelcome visitor. If I cared at all, I’d be concerned that he looks tired—haggard is more accurate. His face is sunken in a bit and he’s pale… and his lips are dry.

“I told you not to come back here,” I say, walking past him and into my office.

“Ana, if you’ll just give me a minute…” Richard begins.

“I don’t have a minute for you, Richard,” I say, spinning around to glare at him. “I had 17 years—time’s up!” I look over at Jesse. “Get him out of my office.” I slam the door to my back office and wait for them to tell me he’s gone. I sit down at my desk and pretend that my estranged uncle didn’t just infringe on my personal time and professional space yet again. My phone buzzes with a text as my computer is firing up.

**Good morning, M. I hope my gift arrived safely. **

It’s from Trey. As we have no protocol for texting, I’m grateful that he only refers to me as M instead of Mistress.

**It did. It’s beautiful, and a bit overwhelming. **

**Too big? **

**Too precise. **

**You are unforgettable, M. **

I’ll just bet I am. His next text is almost immediate.

**I was hoping to get some time this week. The sooner the better. Is there anywhere that you can fit me in? **

I smile. How droll, Trey.

**Tomorrow night, about 7pm. **

I could fit him in tonight, but why make it that easy for him?

**Thank you, M. I’ll see you then. **

I don’t know what took so long to get rid of Uncle Richard, but Chanelle finally comes in several minutes later as I’m well into planning my week.

“He doesn’t look well,” she says, handing me a small stack of papers.

“His wife is dying,” I say unconcerned. “He’s probably exhausted.”

“Well, he looks like he’s about to go into the grave behind her,” Chanelle observes. I raise my eyes to her.

“A little less concern for the man who deserted me at 15, please,” I say, matter-of-factly. She raises her hands in defense.

“My bad,” she says, also matter-of-factly. “You should look at the meetings for today, particularly the tentative one set for 2pm.” She turns around and leaves the office without another word.

Two PM… Elena Lincoln and Carver Mason, Esq. What does she think she could possibly have to say that I would want to hear? This isn’t divorce court, bitch. We’re not negotiating terms. I want your ass. The clients can have whatever little money you have left.

“Chanelle, you can confirm that 2 o’clock.”

This is gonna be fun.

*-*

“This is a fishing expedition and you know it,” Mason says. “The health department cleared Mrs. Lincoln. There was no infestation of bed bugs on any of the properties.”

“Then why did she pay for the fumigation and cleaning of three residences?” I ask. “Money to burn, Mrs. Lincoln?” She jeers at me.

“That was damage control,” she hisses. “I didn’t want it to get to this point where ambulance chasers and opportunists would try to capitalize on my misfortune.” Her attorney puts his hand on her forearm. Yes, Mrs. Lincoln, you’re attempting to negotiate, so insulting the opposition isn’t a good idea. I laugh aloud.

“No, Mrs. Lincoln, that’s not damage control. Damage control would have been making an announcement that this was a mistake or even that someone was out to get you, as you so verbosely claimed to all the wrong people. This was hush money.”

“This was no such thing!” she exclaims. “This was more like extortion!”

“All the more reason for you to go public with ‘the truth,’” I say, making the finger quotes around the last two words. “You’re so busy running around pointing fingers at all the wrong people that the people who are or may be responsible for your misfortune are all getting away with it. The truth is buried so deeply under your mess of lies and deceit that nobody knows when to believe you. Every time you’re in the public eye, forth comes a lie. So, what is anybody supposed to believe when you open your mouth?” I clasp my hands on the desk in front of me. “You seem to be healing very well, Mrs. Lincoln,” I taunt. “I truly hope they catch your assailant very soon.” Her eyes narrow.

“If we could stick to the matter at hand,” Mason says.

“Oh, we are,” I say, turning my attention back to her attorney. “You should already know that aside from the facts, credibility is the foundation of any punitive lawsuit, and the credibility of your client is being questioned all over the media since she fingered one of Seattle’s most prestigious citizens as her attacker. Coincidentally, her husband disappeared the same night she was attacked and was discovered lying on a beach in the Bahamas sunning with a few beauties that weren’t his wife and recuperating from battle scars reminiscent of an assault. So, unless they were blindfolded and attacked at the same time in the same place, causing his blood and DNA to be splashed on her body and under her nails, she’s a liar! And when they choose the jury for this case, the assault case and the details surrounding it will have played out all over the press. So, if you’ll allow me to be frank, no one’s going to buy that poor little rich girl victim role that she’s playing right now.

“And you can insult me until the sun goes down, but the bottom line is that this lawsuit doesn’t belong to me—it belongs to the clients. So, go ahead and hurt my wittle feewings and think you can chase me off the case. They’ll just get another ambulance chaser to pick it up. You set a precedent by agreeing to clean out and fumigate those other people’s houses and not asking for the records to be sealed. Now, unless you’re coming to me with a settlement that’s going to satisfy the six clients in this class action lawsuit, a jury is going to decide if you are responsible for their discomfort.”

“This entire thing is ridiculous, and you know it! You know it!” she screeches.

“All I know is that you’re untrustworthy,” I reply. “You’re conniving, you’re violent, and you’re a liar. You tried to pin this mess on me and I had no idea any of this was going on until well after the fact. You assault a highly respected businessman in his office, and then have him arrested for assaulting you when he was nowhere near you that night. You will use any means necessary to get what you want, and it doesn’t matter who gets hurt in the process, then you turn around and have a temper tantrum when people don’t roll over for you…”

“There’s clearly a conflict of interest here,” Mason interrupts. “You two obviously have history.”

“Your point, sir?” I ask. “What gave it away? The fact that you were fine with her calling me an ambulance chaser a minute ago, or the fact that I know intimate details about her life?”

“I know intimate details about your life, too,” she seethes. I raise a brow at her.

“Don’t be too careless with your threats, Mrs. Lincoln,” I say calmly, “or being thrown out of fundraisers is going to be the least of your worries.”

“What is she talking about?” Mason whispers to Elena.

“I’ll tell you what she’s talking about,” I say, turning to Mason as Elena’s skin pales. “We were at a fundraiser a while back with several key individuals in the city and state when Blondie here decides that she wanted to spread some very unpretty stories about me. Subsequently, her frosted husband came onto me very strongly on the smoker’s balcony requiring my bodyguard to intervene and subdue him. When security and aforementioned key individuals heard about their behavior and activities that evening, they were both ejected from the premises. Now, she wants to exploit the fact that she has details of my personal life like she can’t be destroyed with the twitch of a little finger.”

“Now, that sounds very much like a threat, Ms. Olivet,” Mason scolds.

“I didn’t say my finger,” I say throwing a glance at him. “Do you want to tell him, Blondie?” I jeer. “Do you want to tell him exactly what he’s getting into?”

Her hands are clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles are white, and I think I hear her teeth gritting. Why does this woman insist on crossing me when she knows she’ll never win?

“A word of advice, Mr. Mason. Stick to the case and only to the case, because if she opens that Pandora’s Box that she keeps hinting at, she’s going down…” I stand up and lean over my desk. “… And she’s gonna take you with her.” I look over at Blondie, who now has a sheen of sweat forming on her brow. I get the feeling that someone has already talked to her… or maybe she’s having flashbacks of her conversation with Blake.

“As you well know, this isn’t a criminal case,” I say to Mason. “She could have been personally responsible for the death of my parents and I could still represent my clients in suing her,” I inform him with a smile. I straighten my body and stand up.

“This conversation is over. This meeting is an obvious attempt to persuade me to drop the case, which isn’t going to happen, and since I don’t see an offer on the table for a settlement, you two can leave now. Jesse?” Jesse moves forward.

“Mrs. Lincoln, Mr. Mason, if you please?” He holds out his arm gesturing to the door.

“You are the epitome of the slimy lawyer,” Blondie says. “You’re exploiting a situation that has no foundation based on the rumor mill. You’re destroying my life based on hearsay and not fact. You’re despicable!”

I can’t argue with her, because when it comes to her and this case, she’s right. After all, I fed on the fears of a few and created a case that wasn’t there.

“If that’s true, then you’re in like company, because it’s no slimier than openly planning someone’s demise or having someone falsely arrested and thrown in jail.” I turn to Mason. “On your way out, sir, please educate your client on the exact moment that a visit becomes trespassing. She apparently didn’t believe me the last time she was thrown off my property.” Mason’s pupils constrict, and he proceeds to stand.

“We’re done here, Mrs. Lincoln,” he says, glaring at me. I see the challenge in his eyes. Bring it on, Esquire.

“And Mr. Mason?” I fold my arms. “I’m well acquainted with that look. Do some thorough homework before you throw down gauntlets.” I play legal, but I don’t play fair. His gaze sharpens, but he says nothing as Blondie turns angrily on her heels and marches out of the office with Mason right behind her.

“This looks like it’s going to be a fight to the death,” Jesse says when he comes back into the office.

“No, it’s not,” I reply. “She’s got bigger fish to fry. Caldwell Lincoln is being extradited back to the states, so she’s got to contend with the false arrest of Christian Grey and then the trial of her and her husband which will most likely end in a very costly divorce. Once that’s said and done, there won’t be much left to pick from for my clients and by that time, everybody is going to be willing to settle, Lincoln most of all. Not my first time at the rodeo, Jess,” I say, scrolling through the trending news online.

“How can you be so sure that it’ll work out that way?” he says.

“Because I also failed to mention the criminal charges she’s facing for assaulting Christian Grey, and if I’m reading this correctly, he’s suing the police for his false arrest. Do you think Blondie’s going to get out of that one unscathed? Somebody’s going to hit her with something—charges for a false report, another possible lawsuit from Christian, she could be facing more jail time. I’m just a thorn in her side. Today’s meeting was an attempt to make me go away so that she can tame this veritable wildfire she’s got going on in her life.

“Mason’s got this gleam in his eye because he thinks she has something on me that can really cause me grief. I can live through anything she has on me—that’s why I taunted him to do his homework, because any piece of information on me that he or she can find or reveal will lead to some powerful person somewhere that will have both of their asses on a spit like a pig at a luau.”

127db6638fb571d98b91c53b2c8c1847

I continue to browse through the trending stories on Trey—all the different conspiracy theories, including that he paid the police to tamper with evidence or that he really did assault Elena to get back at her for attacking him last year. There’s even one theory that he’s doing this to set Caldwell Lincoln up for a fall so that he can take over Linc’s lumber interests. The theories range from reaching to utterly ridiculous.

My interest is particularly piqued by a thumbnail of a beautiful woman—Brazilian, I think—looking over her shoulder at one of the cameras. Curious of what she could possibly have to do with Trey, I click the thumbnail. It’s a video with a short blurb underneath it:

Financier and socialite Gisela Serra sears members of the press for presumably incorrect assumptions.

I click the video and watch as Gisela Serra exits a luxury car and heads towards one of Seattle’s posh spas and beauty boutiques. Various reporters are trying to get a statement from her, yelling questions about none other than Christian Grey. At first, she ignores them until someone yells out the magic inquiry.

“We never see him with anybody else but you, Gisela, and only rarely. Is Christian gay?”

That woman stops in her tracks and throws a piercing glare so cold and hateful in the direction of the question that I feel a chill on this side of the computer screen. Jesus Christ! The questions cease, but cameras continue to flash, and I’m sure that expression is going to end up on a gossip rag somewhere if it hasn’t already.

“No!” she barks angrily. “He’s discreet! Discretion does not make one gay, you uncouth sow! Or do you advertise all of your sexual partners?” she chastises in a heavy accent.

The other reporters fall silent and look at the one who answers the question. Gisela breaks into a string of words in another language—I assume it’s Portuguese—which one could easily interpret as curse words from her angered and irritated demeanor. She ends the rant with four words in English before disappearing into the salon.

“Classless, tasteless American reporter!”

Financier. Hmm… is she Trey’s money manager? Why has he only been seen in public with her? And where do people see them? She’s very pretty, and she became seriously pissed when someone suggested that Trey was gay. What’s that all about?

And why do I care so damn much?

I shake my head to rid myself of these useless thoughts of Trey.

“What sounds good for lunch?” I ask Jesse.

*-*

He’s different tonight. He’s receptive—his entire body is alert and anticipating what I’m going to do next. He really loves the whips, I mean really loves the whips. I’m surprised by how much he loves the whips, more than any submi— er, client I’ve ever had. He’s writhing each time the leather makes contact with his skin, but I know ecstasy when I see it. I could stripe his back like the flag and he’d moan and wait for more…

… And I like it… a lot!

I’ve only paid this close attention to his body one other time—the first time I undressed him. His body is still as magnificent as it was then, and now, it’s glistening in sweat and streaked with pink marks from my whip.

Chopper likes any whip. He prefers the single-tailed toys over the multi-tailed on his back, and floggers on his thighs, but he loves the flat paddle so much on his ass that I believe I could make him come from the spanking alone if I could regulate the amount and intensity of the sting.

After a few more blows, it’s time to move to my special chair. It’s an antique dentist’s chair with a few modifications to fit my purposes. The chair is leather and metal, and the armrests not only collapse to allow easier access to my subject, but they’re also equipped with leather restraints—good for immobilizing my clients with their arms straight down to the sides of the chair.

The seat and the footrest have both been widened. The seat allows the client to comfortably spread his legs wider and the footrest is also equipped with restraints and can double as a spreader bar.

Knowing that it may irritate his stripes, I cover my special chair with a memory foam pad and instruct him to have a seat. I bind his wrists to the leather cuffs on the armrests before blindfolding him with a half-folded scarf that drapes gently over his entire face. His breathing quickens in anticipation, his sweat-drenched abs and chest rising and falling quickly. His dick is standing at perfect attention, not ready to blow, but eager for whatever I have in store.

He’s magnificent.

I reach for one of my favorite oils—a special blend of mint and Hinoki oil from my homeopathic apothecary. He adds a special ingredient that gradually warms with friction, but never gets too hot.

I oil both hands with my Hinoki mix and approach my masterpiece, my crop handy to chastise any missteps on his part. I grab that beautiful erection with both hands, squeezing hard and massaging the minty emollient into the skin of his shaft, paying special attention to his balls and head. He’s trying not to squirm in his binds, but I know that the texture of the oil and the pressure of my hands are driving him wild.

Settle down, Chopper. We haven’t even gotten to the fun part yet.

I stroke his entire cock a few times to begin the heating process of the oil as well as for the sheer joy of feeling his stiffness in my hand and watching the oil coat this glorious organ. I love the feeling of the rim of the head against my palm and watching his body jerk with each pass as he fights not to make a sound. His dick isn’t angry and veiny just yet, but it’s getting a fucking good start.

I clasp my hands together and run them repeatedly up and down the top portion of his dick. His thighs tighten and his back arches slightly, and I feel the oil beginning to warm. He’s standing at attention with no assistance from my hand or a cock ring, so I release his dick and do single quick strokes from three-quarters down all the way up and off the head to watch his cock thump and bob with anticipation for me.

It’s showtime.

Using my thumb and forefinger, I begin the torturous process of edging his frenulum. His breathing calms at first, and I’m certain that he thinks he’s getting a reprieve from the stimulation of his cock. It only takes a minute or two for my favorite part of his body to show him just how mistaken he is. The shiny head seeps a tiny offering of precum as his dick begins to pinken and thicken for me. That wide vein pulses a time or two and his balls lift once and drop.

Yeah, it’s alive.

His breathing picks up again and I continue the taunting of his cock. I always imagine what this process feels like. I had one client explain it to me as a pleasurable agony where you ache for more stimulation of your entire shaft while the stimulation of the pleasure point is so intense and repetitive that you nearly can’t stand it. I tried to liken it to getting my clit stimulated, but I don’t think that’s the same. When my clit is stimulated, I may welcome other stimulation like in my ass or my pussy, but the clit stimulation is enough…

… Says the woman who hasn’t fucked in an eternity.

The way I understand it, the frenulum orgasm sneaks up on you. Your body is aching and yearning for more intense stimulation—begging the hand, the tongue, or the mouth to cover more ground—but the dick is in heavenly torment and preparing to give up the fight. The balls are reluctant, also expecting more stimulation to aid in the orgasmic process, but that constant stimulation results in an impulsive and involuntary regurgitation that’s so powerful that the giver may end up hurting themselves—or you—in the process… which is why I tie them down.

Then again, I always tie them down.

This process is so much more fun than a regular hand job, even more fun than a blow job only to the extent that I get to pay close attention to the dick as it changes before my eyes. To me, the dick is the most expressive part of the human body, even more expressive than the face. The face has 43 muscles for expression while the penis doesn’t have any—yet it speaks to me more than smiles, frowns, tears, grimaces, or sneers ever could.

As I watch the skin change from pale to pink, the main vein thicken while the capillaries begin to appear, the girth widen and the head become nearly smooth as glass from the skin stretching taut with arousal, I have to restrain myself from taking it in my mouth and tasting it, running my tongue up the unforgiving vein on the underside, licking the sensitive rim… I’m getting hot just looking at it, but I won’t touch myself. I won’t allow anything to distract me from this beautiful work of art.

“You have the most perfect dick, Chopper,” I say as I watch his shaft lengthen and stiffen at my touch. His breathing becomes choppy under the scarf. As I gently stroke him with just my two fingers, he tries and fails not to match my stroke with long, sensual thrusts, but I don’t care. This is the closest we’ll ever get to fucking, and I’m savoring this moment.

“It’s the most perfect dick I’ve ever seen,” I coo as I use my forefinger and thumb to edge his growing cock… slowly… slowly… He groans sensually under the scarf and I can barely see his gluts tighten with each forward thrust and contract as he pulls his dick between my fingers for maximum friction, as much as you can get from two fingers, but it appears to be working.

“I’ve seen so many beautiful cocks, but none as magnificent and flawless as yours,” I praise. It’s stiff and shiny and has a life of its own when he becomes aroused. He would like to think that he’s in control of his dick, but his dick is clearly in control of him—at least when it’s aroused, it is. It moves to and fro and bobs and throbs without his permission. His balls rise and separate each time my finger caresses his frenulum and drop and retreat each time he pulls his hips back. It’s a beautiful dance, executed by his fantastic nether regions, and he would love to believe that he’s the choreographer, but he’s not. His body does this dance all on its own, without any instruction from him.

His hips begin to rise with more fervor, even though I haven’t changed my stroke. His ass tightens even more to push his cock between my welcoming fingers, to increase the friction of the tease, and the groan in his chest rises an octave or two. I know that he’s close, not only by the instinctive thrusting of his hips, the impressive roll of his eight-pack abs, and the change in the sex sounds emitted from his throat, but also from his uneven breathing pattern, and mostly, from the thickening of his cock. It gets harder and stiffer, and the vein down the base starts to pulse.

So, I stop.

He’s panting like he just ran a marathon. His biceps and triceps tighten and bulge as he clenches his fists in frustration and growls from his chest.

Such insolence, Chopper!

A whack of my crop across his thighs surprises him into a low yelp and he’s panting again, his fingers extending and stretching from the fist and his arms relaxing. Dear God, this man is beautiful.

I bind his ankles to the footrest and tilt the chair so that he’s lying back in it at about a 130-degree angle… so that his dick is sticking straight up.

Yeeeeeeesssssss… that’s delectable.

My mouth actually waters at the sight. But I won’t taste it. He won’t feel my mouth tonight, only two fingers, and I start the torturous process again. In this position, he’s able to thrust his hips higher and it’s fucking beautiful. I pay attention to the warm feeling of his tightened frenulum over the skin of my fingertips. His hands grip the armrests even though they’re vertical right now, and his feet are planted firmly on the footrest, allowing him to raise and roll his hips freely into the stimulation of my two fingers.

I’m a master… or I should say Mistress… at this kind of stimulation. I’ve studied the dick medically—how it behaves and responds to different levels of stimulation and just what to do to make it suffer or give me everything.

Make them want you…
Make them crave you, then only give them a hint of you…
Make them desire what they can’t have…
Tease them with a promise… deliver satisfaction, but don’t give them all of you…
Never give all…

My guru’s voice is in my head to remind me who I am and what I do, and with newfound determination, I manipulate that cock with fiery precision—just that tiny little pleasure spot, taunting with the promise of total satisfaction until his hips suspend in anticipation of that final blast…

… And I stop again.

He actually whimpers this time. If he could speak, I’m certain that he would say, “How could you?”

You’re a virgin at this particular type of play, Chopper. I need to train you, so relax and be trained.

And the stimulation starts again. Sweat is pouring down his chest and into the sinews of his abdomen. He’s being tortured. I believe he would give his kingdom for an orgasm right now. Veins are popping up all over his body, not just his dick, and I can see him trying to resist the pleasure, which makes it even more fun for me. His body tenses in the chair and he’s fighting a fearsome fight, but I can tell from his cock that he’s about to blow yet again. Just as I feel the offering about to pulse up his dick…

He’s breathing through his teeth now, hard, like he’s in the ring. His fists are clenched, and he could rip this metal and leather chair to shreds at this moment. His dick seeps a bit of cum just as I stop the stimulation, and a bit more once my hands have moved away. Chopper is in pain—sensual pain. I know he’s never felt anything like this because he’s never allowed anyone to do anything like this to him before.

I have to give him a few moments to settle, or he’ll blow the second I touch him.

“This is new for you, isn’t it, Chopper?” I purr.

“Yes, Mistress!” he nearly chokes, frustration lacing his voice.

“You don’t sound pleased,” I note with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m… just unfamiliar, Mistress,” he excuses. He’s not pleased, not in the slightest, but he’ll see it through just because he knows what I do.

Good boy.

I anoint my fingers a little more and resume my task. This time I take my time and examine his dick, caressing the head and frenulum gently with my fingertips and nails—not enough stimulation to cause orgasm, but enough to cause frustration. He heaves heavily then groans his lament. I watch his body jerk in frustration and I can feel his inner mournings through his skin. He’s at the very end of his rope, somewhere I can guarantee no other woman has ever taken him.

And I’m loving it!

I begin the relentless stimulation of his frenulum again, after allowing it to cool and calm for several minutes, and my poor little marionette begins to thrust between my fingers, seeking his satisfaction with fervor. I see is pelvic muscles flex and his cock pushes forward involuntarily. When the little soldier is ready to blow…

“Oh, God… please… please…” There’s agony in his voice as he laments another instance of denied release. He’s aching to come so badly that he’ll do anything to feel that orgasm, and since this is my first time performing full-on ruined orgasms and denial on him, I won’t make him go home without a climax for his insolence, but he will still know that I’m in control. I reach over to my rack and retrieve a flogger.

Whack!

His entire body jerks and trembles with surprise as the straps bruise his chest and his dick drips a bit, stiffening even more. His chest rises and falls violently and his fists clench once more.

“Did you speak without permission, Chopper?” I chastise. His body stiffens in pain as he groans and mourns heavily.

“Yes!” he coughs. “Yes… Mistress… I’m sorry… Mistress.”

“Good, and I’m glad to see that you corrected your other faux pas as well,” I scold, referring to his failure to address me properly when he does speak. I whack him once more with the flogger to see that magnificent recital of his body before I decide that it’s time to put him out of his misery. I grasp his cock again between my two fingers and begin the assault anew. I hear a slight whimper in his chest as I’m sure he thinks I’m going to ruin his orgasm for a fifth time.

Not this time, Chopper. You get to spout for me.

He resists at first, trying to spare himself the agony, but that only lasts about a minute or so. Although it doesn’t get hot enough to cause discomfort, the heating sensation in the oil can get pretty intense and right now, it’s about as hot as it can get. Jesus, I want to suck that thing so badly, but the change in sensation can actually be anti-climactic and set him back further than I would like. Once again, his body tightens tremendously and he’s fighting to keep from moving his hips. He loses that battle, too.

And the final dance begins.

He begins to convulse as he physically resists the urge to come. There’s no more mind over matter here. Chopper is using every muscle imaginable in an attempt to control the uncontrollable, but I know the inevitable is very close. In fact…

“I love and hate to see you come,” I breathe as I watch his balls rise and tighten. “It’s beautiful to watch the transformation of your cock into this majestic tool that’s standing up to pay pleasurable tribute…” He grunts as cum shoots from the head of his dick, squirting into the air and landing where it may, most of it dripping back onto his shaft and balls as he squirms and shivers through his orgasm.

He screams. He actually screams.

Well, not a shrill, girlie scream, but the scream of passion that a girl does, only in a deep, throaty, manly voice. It’s one of those screams that you hear in a torture chamber, carrying some small modicum of relief from the pain.

“Then you spray this fountain of arousal that wracks your body with such pleasure that you can only surrender to it and allow it to run its course. Even as it holds you captive, your cock still throbs and fights, determined to have the last word in the battle.”

His body is stiff with pleasure as I continue to edge the last of the orgasm from his oh so willing cock. When it has given its final offering, Chopper falls back into his seat, spent and breathless, his breath choppy and gasping as I continue to play with his cock, now dripping in cum, still hard as stone though his balls are visibly empty and hanging—sated—in his scrotum.

He won’t be multi-orgasmic tonight. He is done!

“And then it’s over,” I say, my voice melancholy, still gently fondling his dick as he tries to take in slow, deep, controlled breaths. I look up at the scarf covering his face, unable to see his sated expression, but I can tell by his relaxed body and the fact that his head is turned away from me that he is spent and satisfied, just by my two fingers.

Yet for some reason, I feel bereft.

I move away from him and wipe my hands, cleaning them of his arousal. I undo his ankle restraints then move to undo his wrist restraints. Before I do, I take his face by the chin. He doesn’t fight me. He turns his blindfolded face to me and I lift the scarf only above his mouth to reveal his lips. I press my lips to his and thrust my tongue into his mouth. His response is immediate. His lips mold to mine and he matches my tongue in an exotic tango. I cup his face, almost expecting him to slide his arms around me, but forgetting that I have him bound… forgetting why…

Forgetting that I’m Golden, and not some love-starved girl wanting to be kissed.

Nonetheless, I gently end the sensual kiss between us with a sexy bite to his bottom lip before replacing the scarf, undoing his wrist restraints, and leaving him in the dungeon, fighting the urge to run full speed up the stairs and to my room.

I ascend the stairs slowly, deliberately, the words of my mentor ringing repeatedly in my head:

Your power comes not only from what you do to them, but also from what they can’t have.

What they can’t have…
What they can’t have…

What they can’t have…

“Mistress?”

I’m standing at the top of the stairs, half-dressed. I’ve never half-dressed in front of Blake. His eyes don’t leave mine. He has never looked at me sexually and even now, with my breast partially exposed and my ass hanging out, he examines my face carefully, his gaze laced with concern.

“Send him home,” I say softly. “I won’t see him.”


TREY

I open my eyes and I feel like I’ve lost some time. Did I fall asleep?

I lie still for a few moments to determine if I’m alone. She usually unbinds me before she leaves. I’m not bound, but this blindfold is still over my face. I slowly reach up and push it over my eyes.

I’m alone. Thank God… I think.

Did I dream that? I dreamt she fucked me—who’s to say that I didn’t dream that she kissed me?

My. Dick. Hurts.

That was so damn powerful that I may need to pack this shit in ice later. The outside skin doesn’t hurt because she barely touched it, but the insides and my balls got quite the workout. The head is tender, and I don’t even want to touch that one spot she kept manipulating. I look down at my nether regions. My abs are covered in cum as I assume my dick is, too, but I can’t see it as the poor, limp thing has fallen down between my legs and over my balls. I’m surprised it hasn’t retracted completely back into my body hiding for cover and taking my nuts with it.

I have a bit of a sting from the crops, whips, and floggers, but nothing too intense. No, the torment today was all on my dick, and I’ll be damned if I let the manservant handle that part of my anatomy.

I stretch in this instrument of sexual agony that she had me strapped to and completely remove the scarf from my face. I touch my lips and swear that I can still feel hers against mine. I must be fucking delirious. Golden wouldn’t voluntarily kiss me any faster than she would voluntarily fuck me. I swing my legs over the sides of the chair and once I’ve gotten my balance, I proceed to the restroom to clean up.

I turn on the light, then the cold water, because my Johnson is going to need some coolness after that heated exchange—pun intended. Was it her hands that had my skin all hot, or something in that damn oil? Whatever it was, soap and cool water soothe it quite nicely. I use a washcloth to clean the cum off my abs and balls and after thoroughly cleaning, rinsing and drying my skin, I wet the cloth with cold water again and wrap my limp organ in the coolness.

“Aaaaahhhh,” I sigh contentedly as I allow my head to fall back and enjoy the relief. Once the cloth warms, I raise my head and open my eyes… and the sight in the mirror causes me to do a double-take.

Lipstick.

There’s lipstick on my mouth, the deep pink shade of Golden’s lipstick… is on my mouth. She did kiss me!

I take a moment to recall the kiss—deep, hot, and passionate. I remember thrusting my tongue into her mouth, or her thrusting hers into mine. Either way, it was a hot, sensual exchange of intimacy that’s almost enough to make me forget that orgasm.

Almost.

I look at the fool staring bemused back at me in the mirror and touch my lips where her lipstick is left. I almost don’t want to wash it off, but I can’t go in public like this. What am I—some fucking moonstruck teenager?

“Oh, this is ridiculous!” I hiss as I reach for tissue to wipe away the lipstick. Before the tissue reaches my face, I pause again unable to wipe it away. I’m just standing there staring at it.

Why did Golden kiss me?

The only other kiss that we’ve ever shared was that dry fuck kiss where I ripped that orgasm from her against the wall in her parlor. What’s the meaning of this?

Still lost in my confusion, I go over to the valet and retrieve my clothes. As I don each piece—shirt, boxer-briefs, jeans, socks—I ponder the implications behind the kiss. Maybe it’s because she never edged me like that before and she was giving me a reward, but wouldn’t the orgasm had been the reward?

And dear God, she is brutal. It’s cliché to say that I see why her clients always come back, but dammit, I see why her clients always come back! Have I been on the wrong side of BDSM all this time? Even when I’m balls deep in some pussy, I come like a faucet when I think about the feeling of her whip across my back. Hell, that same thing happened when I dreamt of fucking her.

Having the whip in my hand gives me some pleasure, but I barely do that anymore if ever. Being in control of an orgasm is quite fun and if I’m honest, I just like to fuck big asses now. The joy of the domination for me is just in the sex—in being in charge. Even though it can be quite torturous, I like the receiving end of things now. I like it more than I even liked anything else, except of course the fucking—but I come like a goddamn freight train every time and sometimes, more than once.

Am I really a submissive?

I pull my jacket on and catch my reflection in the mirror as I stand just beyond the door of the restroom. I push my hands through my hair to tame my short, wild mane a bit, then realize that I still haven’t wiped away the lipstick.

Every time I see it, I feel her on me… touching me, kissing me… she even cupped my face. I forgot where I was for a moment and wanted to hold her, but my arms were still bound to the chair. If I wipe it off, I might wipe away the memory, and I don’t want to. The painful truth is that I just don’t want to.

I reach in my inside pocket and retrieve my handkerchief. With one last look in the mirror, I wipe away the lipstick and shove the handkerchief back in my pocket before ascending the stairs.

I’m still uncertain of what this all means. Should I ask her? Would I be out of line? When I get to the top of the stairs, there’s Blake standing in his usual spot, expressionless. I take a breath to ask where she is, but I’m overcome with some other sensation, something I can’t really identify. I shake my head in resignation. I can’t do this tonight.

“Can you… make my apologies to Mistress, please?” I say to Blake. “I really need to get home.” His brow furrows as he examines me.

“Yes,” he says. “Is everything alright?”

How do I answer that? No, I’m all verklempt and tied in knots because I don’t know why my Domme kissed me… and I’m not sure that I want to know.

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you. I just… have a bit of a drive ahead of me and… I’m quite spent, and I need to get home. Please, extend my apologies. Goodnight.”

I hope I don’t face any punishment the next time I see her… maybe I hope I do…

Yeah, I’m losing it.

I dash out of Golden’s front door and to my car. I turn the ignition and peel off as fast as that little sports car can take me.

I’m raw. I don’t know why, but I’m raw and all I want to do is get home. I focus on the road and think of nothing else. My insides are in a knot and I don’t know why. I don’t have feelings for this woman… at least, I don’t think I do. But I love what she does to me and how she makes me feel, the physical passion that she wrings from me. Hell, I only see her once a month, maybe twice. I know I’m not feeling anything emotional.

But that kiss. Fucking hell, that kiss. And if I count all the times I think of her when I’m fucking other women, the times I feel the sensation of her whip on my back or my ass when she’s not even there, the great fuck we had in my dreams…

If I count all those times, I see her considerably more than once a month—considerably more.

I run my hands over my forehead and through my hair as I’m sitting at a red light. I’ve played that kiss over and over again in my head so many times, it’s ridiculous. I’ve even added my own touches to the vision—wrapping my arms around her waist and holding her close to me as I massage her soft tongue…

The angry horn behind me reminds me that I’m actually still operating a very large piece of machinery, and I check traffic, then hit the gas.

I’m glad there aren’t any fucking police waiting for me like the last time I returned from Golden’s. At this point, damn near anything is possible—starving submissives wondering where the hell I’ve been, assassins sent by Linc to remove this most recent thorn in his side, Elena with a goddamn butcher knife or a fucking rubber-tree plant…

A bunny cooking on my stove…

Jason nods when I enter the penthouse, acknowledging my arrival. I return the nod and walk straight to my bedroom. After I start the shower, I strip out of my clothes and walk under the rainwater stream. As the water begins to warm and beat down on my slightly stinging skin, I think about her again—about her fingers tormenting my dick, the tassels of her flogger on my thighs…

Her lips on my lips.

I hold my head down and allow the warming water to saturate my head and stream down my face. I suddenly feel so… empty… and alone. The water sounds like pebbles as it hits the marble floor. As I lather my body and hair, I try to wash away the melancholy feeling that has suddenly taken over me. My personal space feels strange, foreign—large and hollow—when it used to be my sanctuary.

16a653944541dbdd18437662184d1f5a

Just because we could all use some eye-candy…

I rinse the soap from my body and hair, turn off the shower and grab a towel. As I’m wrapping it around my hips, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My chest is as smooth as a baby’s bottom. She only struck me there once. As I stand there gazing at myself, the image of my reflection with her lipstick smeared across my mouth comes back to mind. I shake my head to rid myself of the image and proceed to brush my teeth. When I’m done, I don a pair of sweats to sleep in and retrieve my clothes from the floor, placing them in the dirty laundry in the bathroom. I empty my pockets of my keys, my cell, my money clip…

And my handkerchief.

I don’t know how long I stand there fondling the damn thing. I feel like some stupid lovesick fool pining over some piece of ass across town—a piece of ass that I haven’t even fucked by the way. I really need to get my shit together.

Yet, instead of tossing the lipstick-soiled handkerchief in the dirty laundry, I open the drawer of my nightstand and tuck it in there instead. I crawl into bed and look for the warmth that I felt earlier in the evening—anytime in the evening. I feel cold and lonely, my empty bed emptier than I think it’s ever been. I pull the covers up over my chest and as ridiculous as it is, all I can think about right now is…

I need a hug.

*-*

I wake up the next morning from a dreamless sleep. I resent the fact that my Domme didn’t visit me in my slumber, and my bed feels colder and emptier than it ever has before.

What is this fucking shit? Do I need to talk to somebody about this? I don’t need to be pining or mooning over some female! I’m Christian Grey—women pine and moon over me! Yeah, she’s the hottest woman I’ve ever met in my life, but still…

And I touch my lips…

Goddammit!

I throw the covers off me and get out of the bed. Am I seriously that gone over this woman?

It’s Saturday morning and I consider going into the office, but quickly put the kibosh on that idea. Even if I just sit around the penthouse, I don’t feel like going into the office.

I walk into my study and open my laptop. I begin to go through my emails, responding to a few from Wester and confirming meetings for next week. In a very short time, that man has proven to be worth his weight in gold. Let’s just hope that he doesn’t come in like a lion and go out like a lamb, like that fucker Rockford. Welch informs me that he has secured employment with Randall and Seveld. If they suddenly start gaining a corporate advantage that looks mysteriously like mine, I’m going to fry his fucking ass and serve him for lunch in the public square.

And I touch my lips…

Oh, for fuck’s sake!

I check the news sites and some gossip rags to see if there’s anything on Linc and his bitch wife. There’s nothing yet. He’s still in the extradition process and she’s hiding out in her mansion, claiming to be afraid of retaliation from me. I can’t believe she’s holding fast to that lie knowing that her wife-beater husband is on his way back to the states. The pictures tell the whole story of all of us—I’m walking around with no bruises whatsoever and they both look like they’ve been in combat. Who’s telling the truth here?

And I touch my lips…

Sonofabitch!

I open my browser and type in the last word I thought I would type in a search bar—not mouth, not kiss, not tongue—lips… and I learn an immediate lesson.

Never type “lips” in a search bar all by itself. There’s a lot of goddamn freaks on the internet.

Hell, if I’m honest, I’m one of them, but that’s not what I’m looking for at the moment.

Okay, let’s narrow this down to the not-so-freaky… golden lips.

Still freaky, but more of what I’m looking for. I latch on to the idea that’s plaguing me and lift the receiver on my desk phone to make the call. She’s sending enigmatic messages. Now, it’s my turn.


Briana Evigan Ch 17

GOLDEN

I’m sipping a shot of vodka on the rocks—not my gold-laced vodka, though. I drank the last of that tribute, but don’t want to request any more. Not only that, but he’s gripping my thoughts enough tonight. I think the vodka would be a bit too much right now. I’m looking out the back window of my parlor at the lake off in the distance when I feel his presence in the doorway.

“I heard him leave,” I say, noting to myself that even his car sounded pissed. “Was he angry?”

“No, Mistress,” Blake responds. “He was… confused.” I turn my gaze to him.

“About what?” I ask.

“I’m sorry, Mistress. I misspoke. I should say that he appeared confused. I don’t really know that he was.” What the hell does that mean?

“I don’t really catch your meaning, Blake,” I say. “Did you tell him what I said?”

“No, Mistress,” he says. “I didn’t get the chance. He asked me to make his apologies for not coming to speak to you. He said that he was really very tired and wanted to go home.”

What? He avoided me? The nerve! I’m the one in control here.

“Mistress?” Blake calls my title and I raise angry eyes to him. “If I may ask, did something happen… again?”

What do I tell him? I’m certainly not telling him that I kissed my submi… er, client and it has me a bit shaken.

“No,” I tell him. “Nothing happened.”

“Hm,” he says, twisting his lips and diverting his gaze.

“Something you want to say, Blake?” I demand. He raises his eyes to me.

“With all due respect, Mistress, I don’t believe you any more than I believed him,” he responds. “That mountain of power came up those stairs totally verklempt, and when I looked at him, I swear I saw a little boy looking back at me. I didn’t want to give him your message because I was sure that he would have a temper tantrum and I would have to forcibly remove him from the premises. Instead, he all but begged me to apologize to you for him not coming to you, and it wasn’t his words, Mistress. It was his demeanor, his stance. His shoulders were dropped, he slouched slightly, and he couldn’t wait to get out of this house. The most aggressive thing of the entire exchange was the screeching of his tires. Whatever happened in your dungeon that broke you down, it broke him down, too.”

Nothing broke me down! I was just… taken aback, that’s all! But it appears that Chopper was completely overcome. He had to escape as quickly as possible, even at the risk of inciting my wrath.

But isn’t that what you did, too? Dash up the stairs and hide out, leaving Blake to get him out of here without a word from you? Didn’t he do the exact same thing? At least he offered his apologies.

“Exactly what did he say?” I probe.

“He said, ‘Can you make my apologies to Mistress, please? I really need to get home.’ When I asked if everything was okay, he assured me that he was fine, but that he had a bit of a drive ahead of him. Then he added, ‘I’m quite spent, and I need to get home. Please, extend my apologies. Goodnight.’”

He’s right. Chopper was verklempt.

Even if he was tired, he would have made his way in to see me. He’s been beaten all to hell and still came into that parlor when he could barely sit.

“Thank you, Blake,” I say dismissing him. He nods and leaves the room and I take another sip of my vodka.

Make them want you…
Make them crave you, then only give them a hint of you…
Make them desire what they can’t have…
Tease them with a promise… deliver satisfaction, but don’t give them all of you…
Never give all…
Never give all…


A/N: Before people start disputing me—because someone always does—about the penis having muscles or being a muscle, please do your research first. The penis is actually like a sponge and fills up with blood to get stiff for intercourse. It’s not a muscle nor does it contain any muscles. The muscles that control that area are the pelvic muscles that create a pelvic “floor” between the tailbone and the pubic bone, and support the prostate, bladder, seminal vesicles, bowel and rectum. They help guys control urination and defecation as well as play a role in sexual function.

Sorry about the clinical breakdown of the dick, but I’d rather do it here than in response to x-number of comments to dispute the fact that the penis is not a muscle.

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 16

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 16

Briana Evigan 16

GOLDEN

“Detective Bhingman.”

Well, of course they put me on the phone with this big ball of joy and laughter.

“Rita, how the hell are you?” I ask, as jovially as possible.

“Who is this?” she hisses. No doubt, she’s wondering how I know her first name because she didn’t say it and I didn’t ask for her when I called.

“It’s that ‘prissy little wannabe cunt’ that you love to hate,” I say, repeating the words that she didn’t know I heard. She’s silent for several moments.

“You know that many ‘prissy little wannabe cunts,’ do you?” I mock. “I’ll try to help you out a little more… the one with no cojones?”

The conversation was not twelve hours ago. I’m sure you remember it.

“What do you want?” she asks without acknowledging who I am. “I have things to do, cases to solve.”

“Well, detective, that’s why I’m calling. You and I both know who most likely beat the hell out of Elena Lincoln. You just don’t want to pursue it. Since you worked the night shift last night, I won’t keep you long. Has anyone bothered trying to locate Caldwell Lincoln? Has anyone looked at his face to see if he’s been in a brawl? Did anyone process the crime scene or the crime kit from Elena Lincoln to see that Mr. Grey’s statement to the press this morning was true, and he hasn’t been anywhere near that woman?”

“Press…?” Oh, dear God, tell me this Keystone Cop is not just finding out from me that Christian did a press release this morning.

“Yes, press,” I inform her. “He’s a billionaire who was wrongly arrested and detained for assault. You had to know he would go to the media with this.”

“Yeah, they usually do.”

They? Who the fuck is they?

“Detective is it only the rich and beautiful that you despise or do you just dislike people in general?” I ask. She doesn’t respond, because she knows that I hit that nail on the head.

“I’m used to the rich and beautiful trying to use the press to their advantage,” she says finally. “It won’t dispel the fact that your Mr. Grey is a person of interest.”

“A person of interest, hmm,” I say, contemplating the phrase. “So, he’s still a person of interest even though his alibi is airtight. That’s interesting. You must really like wasting your time.”

“Which is exactly what I’m doing on this phone call. So, would you kindly tell me why you’re calling?” she seethes.

“I just told you,” I say. “I gave you a very solid lead that you should follow if you’re truly interested in catching the actual guilty party who brutalized Elena Lincoln.” She scoffs into the phone.

“Why don’t you stick to… whatever it is that you do and leave the police work to the professionals, okay?” Oh, this bitch…

“I can always let your chief know that I called with a very solid lead, and you ignored it. The choice is yours. And another thing… Christian Grey is going to fucking bury you. So, you might as well have something to show for it when the dust clears.”

“Christian Grey can’t do shit to me. I was doing my job,” she says haughtily.

“Yeah… okay. Keep hope alive. In the meantime, follow the lead or I’ll give it to somebody else.”

“Nobody else would be able to take it. It’s my case,” she retorts.

“That’s what you think,” I say. “Do you want me to show you how wrong you are?”

“Do your worst,” she taunts.

“Done!” I snap. “And Rita, I think a really good anal fuck would dislodge that pole that you have stuck up your ass. You should really look into that—assuming you could find somebody with a dick that’s bigger than yours who’s willing to fuck you. Have a good day.”

I say the last part with syrupy sweetness before hanging up in her ear.

“Blake?” I call out to him. It’s amazing to me that no matter where he is in the house, he can always hear me. In a few moments, he appears inside the door.

“Yes, Mistress?”

“I need my laptop and tablet, dear,” I tell him, “and a glass of water, please…”

*-*

“Mis… Ms. Olivet! To what do I owe the honor of this call?”

“Chief McCulley, I always adore hearing your voice, but I wish I could say that this is a social call,” I purr.

“I am, of course, at your service. What can I do for you?”

“I’m asking a favor that shouldn’t have to be asked,” I say somewhat sorrowfully. “I’m only asking that a detective of the Kirkland Police Department put her personal feelings aside and follow a very valid lead from a reliable source before the trail runs dry.”

“That sounds reasonable. Who’s the source?”

“Me,” I inform him.

“Reliable, indeed,” he confirms. “And who’s the detective?”

“Rita Bhingman.”

“She’s one of the best. I can’t imagine she wouldn’t take a lead very seriously.”

“Have you been apprised of the handling of the case involving the assault on Elena Lincoln?” I ask.

“Not fully, no, but I’ve heard some tidbits.”

“Allow me to apprise you…”

I give him the details of the case thus far as well as my involvement, being careful to illuminate Christian’s current search for new legal counsel as the reason for our meeting. I outlined Christian’s arrest, our treatment by the police department—Bhingman in particular, including her not-so-flattering nickname for me, and the lead that I had given her as well as her flippant response.

“Hmm… Grey. It’s a wonder I haven’t already gotten a call on that one. I know that he’s friends with the mayor and his father golfs with the governor. I would have bet my badge that they would have had an airtight case before they even thought to detain him.”

“Well, sometimes even the best can screw up, and that’s okay as long as you recognize your mistake and do what’s necessary to fix it. She doesn’t appear in any hurry to do so, and I don’t know if it’s because she personally doesn’t like me or if she’s trying to nail the big fish here, and it’s blinding her to the facts. Here are the facts, Fred.

“Caldwell Lincoln visited Christian Grey yesterday at his office to confront him about Christian’s growing timber interest. This is not a secret—he just did a press release on this. Lincoln left the office angry around 6-ish and Christian left his office and met me. I will testify to that; my butler will testify to that; and I’ve recently learned that he has tracking devices in his vehicle that can confirm its whereabouts as well.

“Not two hours after he leaves Christian’s office in a huff, Lincoln’s wife is beaten within an inch of her life and he has disappeared. Mrs. Lincoln fingers Christian, but has the hospital taken DNA evidence from this woman? Christian appears on television this morning barefaced and in a short-sleeved T-shirt—not a scratch or defensive scar on him—hands, arms, and face as smooth as a baby’s bottom. Has anybody seen Mr. Lincoln? Can he say the same?”

“If he’s skipped town, though, there’s no way for us to see if he’s bruised,” Fred replies.

“That’s true, but the absence of scars on Christian Grey coupled with the absence of his DNA on Mrs. Lincoln not to mention his impeccable alibi should clear him of any charges, yet Detective Bhingman informs me that he’s still a person of interest. Now, this is a long shot, but unless Mr. Lincoln left on a ferry boat or cruise ship, he most likely caught a flight out of SeaTac last night. A facial recognition scan of the airport would determine if he was there. Review of his bank records will tell you where he travelled and might indicate where he is now if he booked lodging.”

“That’s a lot of work to capture someone for an assault on his wife,” he laments.

“I understand, Fred,” I say, pretending to capitulate. “I guess this case will just go unsolved, then… unless Bhingman wants to go pick up Bill Gates or Howard Schultz next.” I hear him sigh.

“I see your point,” he says. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“That’s all I ask, and Fred? Grey is livid—he’s out for blood and I’m sure he’ll take this matter as far up as it can possibly go. Expect that call from the mayor… fair warning.”

“Thanks for the heads up,” he says. “You’re a true treasure as always,” he adds with admiration.

“Thank you, my dear. It’s always a pleasure.”

*-*

I don’t watch much television, but I’ve been trying to keep up with the local news to see if there have been any leads on the brutalized socialite still confined to Seattle General Hospital two days after her attack. Of course, there have been no arrests. Why? Because that stupid ass detective is still probably chasing behind Christian instead of tracking down Caldwell Lincoln. I know the type of information and clearances that they need to check out the security cameras at SeaTac and to look into his bank accounts can’t be acquired overnight, but that’s all the evidence they’re going to have to nab this guy because in a couple more days, he’s going to be bruise-free.

I have to go to court in the morning and as far as I know, dear old Uncle Richard won’t be on any of the cases that I’m on, so I don’t have to worry about that… I hope. Nonetheless, I need to loosen up and I don’t want to go to any of the clubs. I need a different kind of release tonight.

I find myself at Divine Movement with a pole room to myself for two hours—just what I need. I haven’t done any new routines since Dirty Diana, so I just spin awhile and allow some of the new music to play. I don’t feel the vibe on anything as all the new music is crap to me. I don’t necessarily have to listen to old school all the time. It’s not like it’s my thing or anything, but the new shit is just that… shit.

I hear a beat that I like though I don’t recognize the song and it prompts me to do a few curls and leg extensions.

Wow, this sound is really groovy.

I do a few floor moves and begin to pay attention to the words of the song. They’re familiar, but the beat is completely different. After a minute or so of feeling the groove, I realize that I’m listening to a cover of Maneater. It sounds nothing like the original, but it has a sinful beat and is motivating me to try some moves…

So I do.

I push my limits and do a super-fast spin on the rotating pole in an impossible position. I even impress myself with that move. I guess I should be thanking Kevin for those times that he held me in those pretzel yoga poses so that he could stare at my ass. I ponder for a moment if this should be the next song to which I formulate a new routine. After all, I am a maneater. But no… it’s got a nice beat, but it’s not what I’m looking for.

Next is another cover of another oldie… Love is a Battlefield. I like this one, too, and it causes me to bend and stretch and curl into positions that I didn’t know I could achieve. When I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror wall, I’m hanging upside down with my ass sticking out and my muscular legs pointing back towards the pole, but my feet and legs aren’t touching it. Every curve and every sinew of every muscle—even my ass—is defined and sculpted, suspended in the air like a magnificent statue.

Fuck. That looks hot!

I commit the pose to memory along with the insane spin I created in the impossible position to add to my new routine. The next song that I hear seals it for me. Yet another cover, this one is Tainted Love, and it’s hot and sensual as fuck!

I spend the next hour and twenty minutes doing incredible moves and poses to make onlookers gasp, the entire time Tainted Love is playing in my head…

Morning comes and I’m a little stiff from my pole workout, a sign that I may need to spend more time at the studio. I almost dread putting my hair back in its traditional bun for court, but I do that on purpose. I don’t want anybody—judges, DA’s, clients, nobody—looking at my beauty and taking my skills for granted. Know that I’m very serious when you see me coming. That’s why it’s serious professional no fucking frills when I’m headed to court—except for the stilettos.

As expected, I didn’t face off with Richard Steele—one of his colleagues this time. I came ready to do battle since I didn’t know what to expect. As it turns out, my petrified client, his mother, and I sat for hours waiting to present our motion to dismiss… and the DA beat us to it! It appears that “new evidence” surfaced that pointed to a different suspect and exonerated my client. When I asked for the evidence to be presented, that motion was denied based on the fact that my client had been cleared and that I am no longer representing the accused party in this case. For some reason, I think that’s just a matter of time.

Well, that was a day wasted, but the outcome was pretty much the same. My client is going home cleared of the charges… but who’s about to take the fall?

I stop in the ladies’ room to relieve myself and just as I’m about to leave, who do I see standing outside of one of the courtrooms talking to what looks like another plain-clothed detective?

Bhingman.

I’m not looking for a confrontation, but I’m sure as hell not going to avoid her. It’s not like I could anyway, because just as I’m putting my purse on my shoulder and preparing to proceed towards the door, she shifts her gaze and sees me walking out of the ladies’ room. She begins a heated stride towards me, so I proceed in her direction as well. What, do you think I’m going to run, bitch?

“Olivet!” she snaps once she has closed the distance between us.

Bhingman!” I retort with just as much malice as she delivered, if not more.

“I bet you thought that was cute, didn’t you?” she hisses.

“Nothing I do is cute, detective, but I’m just dying to know what you’re talking about,” I reply.

“I’ve got nearly every elected official in a 100-mile radius crawling up my ass because of you and your pretty boy!” she seethes. I scoff.

“Is that what you see?” I ask incredulously. “A pretty boy? I’ll admit that he’s nice on the eyes, but you’re missing a whole lot here, Cagney,” I say before closing the remaining space between us.

“Christian Grey is power,” I inform her, my voice low, “more power than you’ll ever know or see in your life. You, my little guppy, ran into the shark tank and tried to bite the fucking shark! Now, that shark is preparing to eat you alive. What the hell did you expect—for him to roll over while you try to pin a crime on him that he didn’t commit? What new type of insanity are you suffering from? That man wiggles his little finger and empires fall, and you don’t think he has the power to land you on a desk job in a lighthouse on the outskirts of nowhere?”

She doesn’t know how to answer, so she turns the conversation onto me and my lead.

“You come in with an idea and you want us to drop everything and chase behind some hunch that you have! There’s a process to police work!” she retorts. “You don’t just jump off a cliff onto a lead without proper protocol!”

“And yet, that’s exactly what you did,” I remind her. “You jumped right off the cliff and landed on the wrong suspect and you’re too asinine to admit it. You went on the word of a woman laid up in the hospital with an obvious ax to grind and nothing else! No witnesses, no DNA, no evidence, nothing! If this is what you call police work, I’m on the wrong side, because the bad guys are getting away and the good guys are constantly in court defending their innocence from blind and bigoted cops who find the most ridiculous reasons not to like them!”

“What I don’t like, Olivet, is people with money and friends in high places who can tell the police not to do their job!” she counters.

To this point, I had been quiet, keeping my voice low. Now, I’m getting angry, because she’s completely ignoring everything I’m saying.

“And I don’t like police who don’t do their jobs!” I retort angrily. She’s a bit taken aback by the force of my statement. “Do you have any idea how many pro-bono cases I take because some lazy ass flatfoot or some gung-ho cop grabbed the wrong kid and was too concerned with nabbin’ somebody instead of getting to the truth? ‘He’s here; he’ll do; fuck that the real culprit is still out there and will probably commit another crime before the day is over,’ right, detective?”

I pause and wait for a response, but I get none. I know that I don’t need one, because I already know that I’m right. I’ve seen it too many times.

“You think whatever the fuck you want to think about me,” I snap. “I don’t care! The fact is that Christian Grey is not your guy. He did not attack that woman, and the real offender is probably on a beach in Cancun sipping mai tais while his bruises heal! And you’re here splitting hairs with me while Mr. Grey has already filed his suit for false arrest. You allowed the woman who assaulted him months ago and left him with broken bones, who is currently under an open protection order to finger him as her attacker with no evidence and you detained him even though he told you he had an alibi. When his alibi checks out, you get mad at me because I’m the one who had dinner with him!

“He’s friends with the mayor; did you know that? Chief McCulley let me in on that tiny tidbit of information. If he had been dining with the mayor that night instead of me, would you be treating the mayor this way? Why are you really pissed, Ms. Bhingman? Is it because you can’t move forward with the case? Is it because you think we’re lying? Or is it because he’s an innocent man and you can’t pin the crime on him?”

She wants to answer, but she looks from left to right, noting that a few people are observing to see why my voice has risen. I also take note of that fact and employ Golden’s take-no-prisoners attitude and tone for my next message. I lean in to her so that inquiring ears aren’t privy to the conversation, but she can hear me loud and clear.

“I’m going to give you a bit of advice,” I say. “I called the chief of police. Mr. Grey will most likely contact the mayor—if he hasn’t already—and his father golfs with the governor. That’s how many degrees of separation you are from an administrative reprimand or worse. You’re trying swim waters that are way too deep for you. This major waterway is a whole lot more rapid than the little pond that you’re accustomed to wading in. Don’t go chasing waterfalls, detective. You just might drown.

“And yes, you’re dealing with a rich man who knows people in high places, but that’s not your biggest problem. Your biggest problem is that when this case blows wide open—and it will—I’ll be right there with our recorded conversation telling the press that I gave you the solid lead before the reward-chasing nuts started calling you and you ignored me simply because you didn’t like me.

“Now I suggest you get your head out of your ass, your nose out of the air and stick that stank ass superior attitude in your fucking pocket and do your goddamn job. I’ll play by the book and I’ll respect your position as long as you respect me, and if you can’t do that, then you stay the fuck out of my face unless you have questions—or answers—about the case. I have a lot of strings in my little violin case, detective. I’ve only pulled one of them!”

Her eyes are screaming that she wants to ask me if that was a threat—you know, like they do in the movies—but of course, she won’t because she already knows that it was. You have to wonder where someone’s mind is that they feel confident enough to threaten a cop, even if the threat is veiled.

Don’t push me, Missy. This isn’t about Christian Grey anymore. This is about me and you.

I can only assume that something in my gaze indicates that I’m ready for a full-on duel if that’s what she wants. Apparently, it’s not. She slowly brushes past me and proceeds down the hall.

“Have a good day, detective,” I call after her before heading in the opposite direction.


Eric Dane 16 small

TREY

I have fifteen messages when I get out of the meeting with Brandon, all from CEO’s in the lumber industry—Linc’s colleagues and some of his competitors. I have Andrea organize the messages and arrange a schedule of callbacks during the course of the afternoon.

And one more, from my father.

“I hear you’re looking for new legal counsel,” he says, when I return the call.

“How did you hear that?” I ask.

“Word gets around,” he says. This is the sum-total of my life. My father and brother are both snakes.

“What do you need, Dad?” I ask.

“This whole thing with Elena Lincoln,” he begins, “what’s the real story there?” And here we go.

“There is no story,” I reply. “She’s a delusional bitch who used to be a friend and now she’s not. And if there was a story, I’d be off my fucking rocker to tell you. You’re about as trustworthy as a scorpion.”

“Christian!” he says, mocking injury. “You wound me!”

“Not yet, but I could…” if you don’t keep your nose out of my fucking business.

“You’re not threatening me, are you, son?” he asks coolly.

“You take it how you want to,” I say. “Just take it the fuck out of my personal affairs. That bitch hit me with a potted plant because she thinks I’m responsible for the fall of her business, and now she’s fingering me for some shit I didn’t do as revenge and caused me to spend a night in jail. I’m going to destroy her for that shit. Now, as you can see, I’ve got enough of my own fucking problems without you sniffing around trying to find some where there are none. Stay the fuck out of my life, Dad, and if this is the bullshit you call me with, don’t bother calling me at all!”

I end the call without another word and summon Andrea.

“Yes sir,” she says through the intercom.

“If my father calls, don’t patch him through to my voice mail and don’t take a message.”

“Yes sir,” she says without hesitation.

*-*

The sixth day after that bitch had me arrested, there’s a break in the case.

I knew that my outrageous reward would mean that the police would be inundated with crackpots just looking to cash in, and boy did that work. They got calls from everywhere—people who claimed to be witnesses to the attack and know who did it; people who clearly teamed up for one to report the crime and the other to take the fall with the intention of splitting the reward money once it was collected; and of course, various sightings of Linc.

The fact that on live television, I questioned where he was while his wife was injured and in the hospital shed light on him as a person of interest, but that Bhingman bitch wouldn’t get off my ass. She would show up at places where I was having lunch with clients and sit there and watch me or she’d be standing across the street when I got out of the office. As I’m escorting some key officers of a company I’m planning to merge with to their limousines, I see her sitting in her car not a hundred feet away from the front door of Grey House. I was trying not to call in any favors and do this by the book, but this has to stop.

“I’m willing to take to social media with this harassment,” I say to Bhingman’s superior. “Everywhere I look, there she is. I didn’t commit this crime. While you may not know who did commit it, you have proof that I was nowhere near that woman. Yet, this crazy cow is everywhere I go, like a psychotic groupie! If I did the same thing to her, you’d have me in cuffs, but she gets to do it to me because she has a badge?”

“Mr. Grey, I do apologize,” he says. “She’s just following a lead, and she’s required to be thorough in her investigation…”

“And while she’s thoroughly harassing me after I’ve been cleared, the real culprit is running around out there and she’s not solving the crime! That’s okay. You go on and sit on your butt. I’ll handle this myself.”

I put in the call to the mayor that I was trying to avoid, and to the governor since he’s good friends with my slimy father. I give them the details of the case and let them know that I’m not looking for any favors—I just want her to leave me alone and go catch the real culprit. Within an hour, she was away from my door and I haven’t seen her since.

The best news came in the form of pictures forwarded to me and to various members of the press this morning. A tip came in that was, once again, ignored by the police, so the tipster took to social media and the web. She posted pictures of a badly bruised Caldwell Lincoln checking into a swanky hotel somewhere, as well as a few pictures of him in compromising positions in a nightclub and on the beach with more than one woman… in the Bahamas.

The Bahamas? Seriously? He’s in the Bahamas? Of all the places that loser could abscond to, he went to the Bahamas? For the love of God…

The pictures are very clear, and he looks like utter hell—horrible scratches, a black eye, he’s got a chipped tooth, and bite marks on his hands. She may have taken a beating, but she beat the hell out of him, too.

Once the pictures were released, suddenly the cops announce that they have DNA evidence that eliminates me as a suspect and incriminates her husband. Because she fought back, she had his blood on her and a lot of DNA evidence under her nails. Her house was still a crime scene and with her still recuperating in the hospital, CSI just went back in and took hairs from Linc’s brush.

When they were questioned about why they sat on the evidence or what may have taken so long, a spokesperson indicates that Elena and Linc shared a common space, so they couldn’t immediately assume that he was the culprit just because his DNA was present.

“But you could immediately arrest a man whose DNA wasn’t present based solely on the word of a woman who attacked him several months prior?” I hear one of the reporters ask.

Bullseye!

Needless to say, they are looking to extradite Linc back to the states, assuming they can get it done. And he’s most likely going to stall to give his wounds some time to heal.

Almost simultaneously, I get the notification that Elena is being released from the hospital and has requested police protection—from me! The request was vehemently denied, and she was advised to employ private security if she feels threatened.

Lying ass cow, you should be afraid of me!

My small victory lap is interrupted by Andrea informing me that my 2:00 has arrived. I’ve been interviewing for new legal counsel. Dad probably heard that from just having his ear to the ground as I’m not keeping it a secret. What I am keeping a secret is that I’m looking for an asshole—not a yes man, but someone who understands that I hold the power and doesn’t try to step on my toes like Rockford did. He was once an asshole—still is, actually… he just got too comfortable and lost his edge. Then he decided to play that game with me that lost him his job.

Once they’ve been vetted and cleared, I personally sit down with candidates that will hold key positions in my company, particularly legal. I’ve met with several applicants that were intelligent, industrious, and ambitious—but they sucked up to me too much, or they recited my portfolio like they memorized it right before the meeting, or they just didn’t have the edge.

This guy does.

Daron Wester—very cocky. He’s good and he knows it. He’s currently employed with another corporation downtown, but when he heard about the opening in Grey House, he couldn’t allow the opportunity to pass him by.

“I’m a shark, Mr. Grey,” he says, “I smell blood in the water and I go for it. I’ve been filling up on goldfish for the last few years and I’m tired of it now. So, do you have some meat that I can chew on, or should I take my inquiries elsewhere?”

Oh, I’ve got meat alright. Let’s throw you a few morsels and see how you work out.

I hire the guy for the probationary period, which is usually three months, but he negotiates six instead with the requirement that he gets to work the entire six months at his agreed upon salary without fear of dismissal except in cases of gross misconduct or breach of contract. He’s convinced that he would truly have nothing to sink his teeth into in three months and therefore, wouldn’t be able to show his chops. He’s right.

He’s shrewd. I like him already.

Sink your teeth into suing the municipality that had me wrongfully arrested, destroying the bitch who wrongfully accused me, and gathering the needed information and contacts to uproot Caldwell Lincoln as the timber giant of the United States. By the time I’m done with this piece of shit, he’ll go from being Paul Bunyan to Tom Thumb.

Daron is all for that idea.

I want to get a message to Linc so badly that I know what he did and I’m taking him down but contact with him right now is definitely not a good idea. The best way to get the message to him is to just pull the rug out from under him and keep it moving.

My afternoon is filled with meetings from various representatives of the timber industry. The verdicts are mixed. Many of them don’t know which side to take. Linc has been in the catbird seat in the industry for so long that his name certainly holds clout with the powers that be. However…

“There’s a new face on the timber scene, now, Mr. Granger,” I point out to the President CEO of Wurchiest, one of the largest lumber suppliers in the United States. I don’t let on that having him on my side would most likely be the biggest coup ever and would secure my position in the industry. However, this is personal, and he knows that even if I don’t say so. Wurchiest boasts 12 million acres of timberland in the US alone and produces the lion’s share of wood and paper products from its mills in the northwest and the Midwest.

“You’ve got me in a precarious position, Grey,” Granger says. “I know you’re a corporate giant, but when it comes to timber, you’re an upstart. Lincoln has been in this business for decades and his name is not one that’s spoken softly. A man in my position can’t afford to run behind someone who’s simply trying to satisfy a vendetta only for him to lose interest three or four years down the line and I’ve alienated one of the most powerful men in the business.” I nod.

“I see,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “I can understand you wanting to play it safe, but I have to ask you—and this is not a set-up. Are you a powerhouse on your own, or does your success depend on Lincoln Timber? Ultimately, you just have to decide where you’re going to be standing when the weapons are dropped, and the fight is over and the way I see it, you shouldn’t have to worry about alienating Lincoln. He should be worried about alienating you.

“I don’t need to tell you about GEH’s impressive holdings across several industries. I’m a corporate giant not because I tame the bulls, but because I run with them and sometimes, I capture them. You don’t get to be who I am by playing it safe.

“Lincoln has gotten comfortable. He knows what you know, that his name means something, but that’s all he’s got right now is his name. His contracts are antiquated and the deals that I’m offering are causing his longest-standing colleagues to sweep him by the wayside. Now, it may be today, or it may be tomorrow—hell, it may be next year, but I’ve got my sites set on being the next timber giant. To you, that may just mean that I’m gnawing on a bone. To me, it’s another lucrative endeavor that I can add to GEH’s multi-billion-dollar portfolio. It would be a whole lot easier if you were on board with me, but if I have to be number two for a while, that’s fine by me. Gathering up all the little shards of glass may be a lot of work, but there’s still going to be a whole lot of glass in that pot when it’s all said and done. Putting that big blue marble in there would sure make it a whole lot sweeter. And here’s another thing…

“Lincoln’s time is coming to a close. He may be trying to hold on to what he has with a death grip, but sooner or later, that grip is going to slip because he has a young, vibrant, hungry upstart with unlimited funds under his mattress coming up behind him taking bites out of his ass. You can see it as whatever you want to see it, Mr. Granger, but sooner or later, I will be number one. My success with Mobilecom should serve as an example.”

Granger’s eyes flash at the mention of Mobilecom. It was—as he mentioned—an upstart telecommunications company that I acquired several years ago. Almost immediately upon acquisition, GEH began gobbling smaller telecommunications companies and ISP and cell service providers—small shards of glass to put in the big pot. Within three years, we were competing with large companies, offering the same services at discounted rates because we could afford to. The larger companies were offering “Cadillac” packages at “Cadillac” prices, but people where just beginning to recover from the blows of the housing bubble and the banking crisis and couldn’t afford the Cadillacs. Long story short, Mobilecom is now one of the largest telecommunications providers in the area, all from an even smaller upstart than he’s considering me to be right now.

While these points are marinating in Granger’s head, there’s a knock at my office door. I plan on firing the person on the other side of the door and having them thrown off the premises when Wester sticks his head in. Okay, he’s new, but this doesn’t look good for him.

“Forgive me for interrupting, Mr. Grey, but in light of your meetings this afternoon, I thought this shouldn’t wait.” He walks in and crosses my office. “Utz answered your bid for the clearing rights of their lands in North and South Carolina and Georgia with a contingency on their lands in Oregon.” He hands me a piece of paper with a counter bid from Utz Timber that’s right in the area I was hoping. I aimed very low with my bid, knowing that I was outbidding Linc’s current contract, but still not coming in as high as I could on what the land and the rights were worth. Utz played right into my hands, sealing the bid at within five million of my target offer. I could counter, but I’m sure that Wester timed this little announcement for Granger’s benefit.

“Oo,” I exclaim quietly. “Lock it down. Inform him that I can have contracts on his desk in an hour for his review and we can Skype and have this puppy signed, sealed, and delivered by dinnertime.” Wester nods.

“Done, sir,” he says as he leaves the room without even acknowledging Granger.

“Utz,” Granger says, almost to himself. “Small company…”

“With considerable interests,” I add. “Shards of glass, Mr. Granger.” He twists his lips and stands.

“I’ll be in touch,” he says. I stand with him.

“You do that, sir,” I say proffering my hand to him. He shakes it firmly, buttons his suit jacket and proceeds to the door. When he opens it, at least seven executives from different timber companies are waiting in my lobby area.

“Sirs, I apologize. My meeting ran a little longer than I expected. Since I’m sure that you’ve been chatting among yourselves, would you mind terribly if we all met together in the conference room? I can reschedule anyone who would rather have a one-on-one for a later time.” We’re not talking numbers after all—just yet. We’re just working on an agreement. The gentlemen all agree to a meeting and I have Andrea show them to the conference room while I show Granger to the door.

This couldn’t have worked out better had I planned it this way.

“Mr. Granger?” I say, gesturing towards the elevator.

“Shards of glass,” he points out as I push the call button.

“There’s still room in the pot, sir. Let me know.” We shake again before he boards the elevator.

“Get some refreshments in that room quick,” I tell Andrea. “Coffee, water, soft drinks, pastries. And tell security I need three details, now.  It’s showtime.”

And showtime it is. Linc’s diehard supporters all but accuse me of trying to destroy a national treasure while the others have valid questions concerning my plans and reasons for wanting to enter an industry so far outside the spectrum of my current interests. I give them the whole Manifest Destiny-type speech that this is a lucrative industry and I want in.

“And this would have nothing to do with the personal issues that you’re currently having with Lincoln and his wife, would it?” Stuver taunts.

“Of course, it does,” I say to his surprise and to the surprise of the other men in the room. They’re not surprised that I’m having issues with Linc, just that I admitted that those issues are the foundation of my interest.

“I’m a straight shooter, gentlemen,” I say, standing from my chair and buttoning my jacket as I circle the room. “My intense—and justified—dislike of the Lincolns is exactly what brought my attention to the timber industry. If I wanted to sneak in through the back door, all I had to do was buy stock. Not only would that give me voting rights, but I would also be driving up the price of my own investment. It would also make any one of the companies that I’m approaching ripe for a takeover. That’s not what I want. I want to be a part of the industry, of the growth, the profits. I have the money and the power to do it. I want the profitable companies and operations to stay intact, and I can still enjoy the prosperity of the expansion while contributing to the profits that you deserve that you’re currently not getting through your contracts with Lincoln Timber.”

Various murmurs spread over the conference room.

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable being a part of your cat-and-mouse game with Caldwell Lincoln,” Stuver continues. “He’s been a captain of this industry probably longer than you’ve been alive and I don’t think it’s the best idea to put the future of our companies in your hands.”

This sonofabitch. So, now he’s the spokesperson? Time to strip him of his imagined power.

“Very well, Mr. Stuver. You can leave now.” To say that he’s taken aback would be an understatement.

“What?” he barks with heavy emphasis on the “wh.”

“You’ve made your position quite clear. You are obviously pro-Lincoln, and I am not. So, our business here is done. If you would like to hold a meeting with any one of these gentlemen at a later date, I suggest you contact their office and make an appointment. In the meantime, thank you so much for coming and you can leave now. Taylor, please show this gentleman to the elevator.” Stuver’s eyes widen and he scoffs disbelieving.

“Is this how you do business, Grey?” he accuses. “You invite people to your business and then throw them out when they disagree with you?”

“Feel free to disagree with me all you want,” I defend. “However, you’ve spent the afternoon throwing veiled insults at me, wasting my time, and defending my adversary. You’ve made it very clear that you want nothing to do with this endeavor. So, our business is done and yes, I’m throwing you out. You should be questioning my cojones if I allow you to stay.” I turn to face the other gentlemen in the room. “If anyone shares his opinion, please join him now.” One other person stands and heads for the door.

“And thank you for coming as well, Mr. Warner,” I say to the asshole who stood up. “Taylor?”

“Gentlemen?” Taylor says as he holds the door open. Stuver and Warner both leave, conspiring as they walk to the elevator.

I’ll deal with them later.

“Now, back to business. Should I stop talking now or are any of you gentlemen interested in my hope for expansion?”

The room is silent for a several moments before someone finally speaks up.

“Well, you’re right about one thing,” Spires says. “Lincoln is lowballing the hell out of me and he doesn’t give much if any at all when it’s time for renegotiations.”

“That’s because Lincoln is the Rockefeller of timber, so to speak,” I admit. “A long time ago, he did what I’m doing right now—locked down one lumber interest, then two, then four, then eight, and so on. Pretty soon, he was one of the biggest names in lumber. Those above him saw no need to take him down, or he’d be down by now. His lateral colleagues may keep an eye on him, but as long as he’s a good boy and stays in their good graces, they continue to allow him to play in the sandbox with them. Those below him haven’t had the desire or the ability to go up against him. I fall into none of those categories.

“Where I am now is where Lincoln started when he began Lincoln Timber. The difference between me and him is that I’ve already secured several timber interests as my startup. In addition, Lincoln doesn’t have the buying power that I have—or the drive. The only reason why Lincoln Timber is a giant right now is because he enjoys outrageously massive profits by keeping his costs low—you all!” I point around the room to each of them. “He buys a lot from you, but at a very low price, and you all know this. What if you could maintain the same level of production at a profit margin 10-33% higher than you’re recognizing right now?”

The murmurings begin across the room again.

“I only say that, gentlemen, because once the contracts are signed, the numbers are available to whomever may ask for them under the Freedom of Information Act. Lincoln is definitely lowballing you. Some of you are operating on profit margins that weren’t acceptable a decade ago. Others of you—and you know who you are—are enjoying near or at-market profits because you held out for a better deal, but I can still make it sweeter. I must tell you that I’m determined, gentlemen. I’m not going to let anyone stop me. I’ll keep going until I build my own industry giant if I have to.”

Of course, Wester comes knocking at my door again. Does he plan this shit?

“Again, my apologies, sir. Just thought you should know that I just got another call—Wurchiest is a go.” I suppress a smile.

“Wurchiest,” I hear someone whisper. “I knew I recognized that guy.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wester,” I say. He nods and leaves the room. Yeah, he’s cocky as fuck.

“Gentlemen, those battle lines are being drawn. What say you?” I say, taking my seat again.

“Fuck,” Spires says, “I don’t want to be on the losing side when the dust clears. Count me in.”

Four out of five of the remaining executives agree to come over to my side before the meeting is over. The fifth wants a little time to think about it. Don’t think too hard, junior. The offer may not be on the table for long.

By the time I get home that evening, I get the best news yet. I don’t know who made a call to whom or what happened, but the police in the Bahamas pulled Linc in and took several pictures of his scars and bruises. I have no idea how this works, but I have a feeling that they have all the evidence that they need to pin that motherfucker and I have all the evidence that I need to begin my lawsuit.

I fire off a text to Wester to get the ball rolling and file the needed documents with the required agencies. I wasn’t born yesterday. Most likely, nothing will come from this lawsuit, but it’ll ruffle enough feathers to make sure that this case is going to be examined with a fine-toothed comb.

*-*

She’s on her knees on my bed, facing away from me with that glorious ass on display. The plump lips of her pussy peak from just beyond the junction of her parted thighs and she’s looking coyly over her shoulder, her mahogany hair cascading down her naked back, caressing her creamy skin.

“What are you waiting for?” she taunts, her voice like melted butter.

I have no fucking idea, I think to myself, fisting my unbelievably stiff erection in my right hand. I climb onto the bed and crawl up behind her, my dick pointing due North and seeping in anticipation. I don’t dawdle. I want her too much—have wanted her for months!

Her ass is fucking beautiful—the source of many scenes and vicarious orgasms with other women as well as orgasms at her hand in her dungeon… strapped to her table, chained to her ceiling, bound to her wall. That ass is calling me, but I’ve wanted that pussy for too long to let this opportunity pass me by. I’ll have to get the best of both worlds.

I release my dick and close the space between us, caressing her bare back, her hips, then her stomach, committing the feel of her skin to memory. Mmmm, she feels divine. I move my hands down to the front of her thighs and splay my finger firmly across the soft skin. I press her body against mine as I nip her shoulders, tasting her flavor. Her ass sandwiches my dick and I can’t help it. I push my cock between those soft, sweet cheeks and let the feeling of the meat burn my shaft as I stroke a few times. I groan at the feeling… so fucking good.

 “Stop teasing,” she warns, her voice even. “Handle your business.”

With pleasure, Mistress.

I pull back and grab my cock. Guiding it between her parted legs, the head finds its way to her luscious peach without much coaxing. I push forward and breach that sweet pussy with a loud grunt, shivering at the feel of the inside of her. I’m going to come.

Fuck! No! Not yet.

I pull out slowly and push into her again. So fucking good… slowly… don’t come too soon.

“Faster,” she commands, her voice is controlled the whole time. I move a little faster, exercising every bit of dick control that I can. Her pussy is hot and burning my dick, coaxing and commanding me to come. My fingers sink into her hips as I settle into a sensual roll that gives me continuous stimulation. Fuck, she feels so fucking good and I’ve wanted this for so fucking long.

“Shit!” I hiss, not sure how much longer I can hold out.

“Poor Chopper,” she taunts, wiggling her hips seductively on my dick while still holding on to the headboard. “Can’t hold out much longer? We’ve only just started.”

“Fuck!” I groan as that pussy rolls masterfully over my dick. “Shit, that feels good.”

“I know,” she says, wiggling her hips again, and I still for fear that I’ll blow my load inside her right this second if I thrust into that hot pussy against that delicious, round wiggling ass.

“Ummmgghhh!” I groan, fighting for all I’m worth to hold my nut.

“Sit back, ass on your feet,” she commands. I take a deep breath and do as I’m told. Her ass sticks a little further out, a little further up, on perfect display—and I can clearly see her hungry pussy lips wrapped around my aching cock. Fuck, the site is almost unbearable.

“Now, fuck me,” she commands, her voice a mixture of sensual and demanding. God, I’m not going to last long.

I push my cock into her resisting pussy, groaning deep as I watch and feel it rubbing against her lips and the velvety inside of her core.

“Dammit!” I groan, as she stays stock still and gives me the pleasure of watching my dick sink into that deliciously soft and wet pussy, over and over again. I groan mournfully as I feel my pleasure creeping through my rolling abs and the tightening muscle in my back. Too soon. Too fucking soon…

“Hold it, Chopper,” she coaches in that playroom voice. “Enjoy it… you know you want it.”

She starts to move, raising her ass on my withdrawal and pushing down when I thrust—not too fast, not too hard, not to eager. Just enough to match my stroke.

“That’s it,” she coaxes, “keep it steady.”

My muscles ache from trying not to thrust into her like a horny rabbit. I keep the stroke even like she instructs me, licking my lips at the sheer pleasure of the burn. I use my fingertips to gently lift her ass. I’m not holding anything up, just lifting slightly so that I can feel her skin against my hand. Her ass is softer than I expected and as she grinds down onto me, my hands cause her to open more, giving me an even more tormenting view of her assault on my cock.

“Sweet Jesus!” I hiss as I watch her pussy greedily gobble my shaft. I’m shaking with pleasure as we cruise into and against each other, my dick threatening an offering that she won’t soon forget.

And I feel the crack of a lunge whip across my back.

“Fuck!” I cry out as my dick stiffens immediately inside her unforgiving pussy. Fucking hell! The combination of my most recently discovered guiltiest pleasure—or pain—and the culmination of something I’ve wanted so much that I could barely think of anything else is almost more than I can take.

I run my hand up her back and thrust it into her hair, grabbing a handful of it as I watch her body drop down on my aching dick.

“Fuck… Golden…” I groan as I thrust into her and she pushes back onto my erection, matching me stroke for sensual stroke. “God!” I gasp as my free hand roams up her body to her perfect breast and we continue the hottest, sensual tango I’ve ever felt in my life—a synchronized fuck where each stroke burns deeper than the one before with an unbelievable rhythm that has my dick desperate to come.

The whip bites into my flesh once more, searing across my back and causing my mouth to water.

“Fuck!” I bite out as it feels like she’s getting tighter around me. “Fuck!”

“Don’t lose it,” she purrs. “Keep your rhythm. Keep it deep…”

I groan in my chest, rolling my hips as I lean back and thrust into her, making sure that every millimeter of my dick sinks into that tight, wet pussy.

“Shit!” I curse. “I… can’t! Too… fucking… tight…” Too fucking much…

“Feel it, Chopper,” she coaxes as she rolls her hips in the opposite direction of my gyrations. Her control is maddening, and so fucking hot! My dick stiffens and now it hurts to roll my hips. I can only thrust into her, repeatedly, watching my dick disappear and reappear—wet, red, and angry—in and out of her luscious pussy.

“It’s coming!” I grunt, rolling my abs and getting lost in the wet sounds our sex makes as she pumps my cock with her juicy pussy. “It’s… coming!”

“Mmmm,” she moans. “Well, like I said… what are you waiting for?”

One final crack of the whip across my skin and my balls pop like eggs, my cum spilling helplessly out into her.

“Fuck!” I hiss, one hand fisting in her hair, the other grasping her hip as I try to still my stroke and enjoy the pulsing of my dick, but it’s no use. Both our bodies continue that sensual, even grind as I’m coming relentlessly inside that wet pussy.

That maddening, even stroke has my dick thumping and pounding so hard and my balls saluting magnificently. I squeeze my eyes shut and howl in agonizing satisfaction, the sound echoing in my ears…

The pain and pleasure are so deep that I open my eyes and I’m face down in my bed, sweating like a man on trial and coming so hard that my ass muscles hurt from the tension. I’m fucking my mattress and the orgasm is still going on and on and on. I’m gripping handfuls of my sheets, biting my pillow as I thrust into the mattress and still see her in my head, riding my cock.

“Golden! Golden! Golden!” I bite out into my pillow as my body comes so hard, I almost want to cry.

“Yes! Fuck! Yes!” I groan as I tremble through the intensity. When the orgasm finally wanes, I fall helplessly onto the bed, breathing heavily and trying to recover. I knew it was a dream. I knew it when I was fucking her, but I didn’t care. I had to have her any way that I could, and that was the best fuck that never happened to me in my entire life.

I fall back into an exhausted sleep, pondering what tribute I’ll be sending to my Mistress for this wonderful gift she’ll never know she gave me.


A/N: Chris Cagney was one half of a female police duo from a series from the 80’s called Cagney and Lacey. So, when Ana calls Bhingman “Cagney,” she’s referring to the cop show.

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