This is a work of creativity. As such, you may see words, concepts, scenes, actions, behaviors, pictures, implements, and people that may or may not be socially acceptable and/or offensive. If you are sensitive to adverse and alternative subject matter of any kind, please do not proceed, because I guarantee you’ll find it here. You have been warned. Read at your own risk.
I do not own Fifty Shades Trilogy, or the characters. They belong to E. L. James. I am only exercising my right to exploit, abuse, and mangle the characters to MY discretion in MY story in MY interpretation as a fan. If something that I say displeases you, please, just leave. If you don’t like this story or me, please don’t spoil this experience for everyone. Just go away. For the rest of you, the saga continues…
Season 5 Episode 32
Thank the Lord, Gary and Marilyn are moving closer to resolution with their relationship issues. It’s a slow process as we expected that it would be, but slow progress is progress, nonetheless. We encouraged them to get back to a level of intimacy, simply because if they were unable to obtain a level of intimacy, they were fighting a losing battle. Marilyn was having none of it until she could secure birth control from her doctor who wanted to wait for two more weeks before prescribing her anything. She wanted to be sure that Marilyn was gaining healthy weight before she introduced hormones into her body. So, poor Gary has to wait before there will be any christening of the new relationship.
They’ve decided to stay in separate places for a while. There’s still more healing to be done and all therapists agree that this is the best course of action. It also eliminates the urge to be intimate before Marilyn has secured birth control and is completely comfortable. To that end, they are courting again. He comes to see her, and they spend time together, or he comes to pick her up and takes her out on a date, then brings her back to the mansion. It’s kind of cute to watch them. He’s given her a beautiful sterling silver necklace with two intwined hearts—one made of silver and one covered in diamonds. She wears it proudly but hasn’t donned her promise ring again just yet.
Sophie and I exchange wonderful ideas for the villa through email several times a week, but our big powwow always happens on Sunday afternoon. She always makes delicious finger foods for our meeting after delivering Christian his weekly supply of chocolate truffles. It’s a good thing that my husband and I are both fit and athletic or we would both be expanding severely in the midsection.
Sophie and I have a wonderful time during our weekend decorating meetings. She has a pretty good eye for the baroque and rococo looks, even though they may be a bit modernized. She admitted that they looked the same to her and tries to find something that has the general feel of the period. She’s right, the looks are painfully similar as one is just a continuation of the other.
One Sunday, I ventured to ask about her visit with her mother, and she sadly admitted that it was about as fruitful as the others. She tried a different tactic this time, though. She turned her back to the visiting window and removed the receiver from the wall. Shalane is not allowed to tap on the glass or to raise her voice, so she sat there for the entire hour talking into the phone to no one and looking at the back of Sophie’s head. Sophie has decided that this will be the protocol for her visits to her mother from now on.
I feel sorry for Sophie. I have a horrible relationship—or really, a non-existent relationship—with my mother and I wouldn’t wish the absence of a female parental unit on anyone. Sophie, however, is coming to detest her mother, for all the horrible things that she did to Sophie and the bad predicaments that she put her in. Even now, Shalane is being unbelievably selfish. It’s like she doesn’t want Sophie to be happy at all. She almost sold her to her drug dealer, for Christ’s sake. What did she think would happen to the poor girl? She’s had to fend for herself for years, and even now when there’s nothing more that she can do for Sophie right now but sign some papers, she won’t even do that?
She should be spending her visits showing Sophie that she’s rehabilitating—physically and mentally. Sophie had to sit and watch her drug use knowing full well what she was doing. That child had the weight of protecting her mother when all she wanted to do was to see her father. After all that she’s done to this girl, she can’t even give her this?
I turn my thoughts to other things beside Sophie’s wayward mother and concentrate on the beautiful ideas that she has chosen for several beds in some of the rooms. I forward the beds to Aaron and tell him to place the orders for the beds and the area rugs that Sophie has chosen for eight of the bedrooms. However, when it comes to Italian beds for toddlers, she and I agree that there may not be anything particularly Italian that will keep my two little loves from having a fall. So, we change direction and keep looking.
We didn’t have to look for long. One Thursday afternoon, I’m eating a late lunch in my office at Helping Hands when my email pings with a new message.
To: Anastasia Steele-Grey
Re: Beds for the Babes
Date: April 16, 2015 15:16pm
From: Sophia L. Taylor
I think I found the perfect beds for Minnie and Mikey. Most of the beds we liked were canopy, so what about this? Let me know what you think.
Imbedded in the email is the cutest picture of a twin sized bed that’s built like a house but looks like the front porch of a cabin, complete with rails. It’s adorable, and just rustic enough to work.
To: Sophia L. Taylor
Re: Beds for the Babes
Date: April 16, 2015 15:21pm
From: Anastasia Steele-Grey
They’re perfect, Sophie! You’ve got a good eye. I’ll forward the email to Aaron to get them ordered.
Dr. Anastasia Steele-Grey
Assistant Director, Helping Hands
I forward the email to Aaron to acquire the beds which my little helper found for a steal on Wayfair. Just as I’m finishing the email, my intercom beeps.
“Ana, are you expecting anybody?” Chuck asks.
“No, but somebody’s always subject to come by. What’s up?”
“There’s a Malcolm Healy here to see you. His business card simply says Ventures Production and Marketing. He specifically asked to see you.” I sigh.
“Is he a reporter?” I ask.
“Not that I can tell,” Chuck asks, “but that doesn’t mean that he’s not.”
“I would be happy to apprise Mrs. Grey of the purpose of my visit if I could just have a moment of her time,” I hear someone say in the background. I sigh.
“If he’s brave enough to come in here and ask for me, we’re not going to get rid of him, and we need to keep unwanted publicity away from the Center. Make sure he’s not armed—or wired—and come back with him,” I reply.
“Will do,” Chuck says and ends the call.
What the hell is this? I haven’t even finished my lunch yet. I finish the email to Aaron and pull up Google just as Chuck and Mr. Healy are entering my office.
“Mrs. Grey,” Mr. Healy greets.
“Dr. Grey,” I correct him. He nods.
“Dr. Grey,” he corrects himself. “This is a homeless shelter, a community center, a place where someone seeks solace and assistance, and your staff patted me down like a criminal. Is it usually this hard to get in?” I intwine my fingers in front of me.
“First of all, sir, you’re correct about our facility. What you left out is that it’s also a place where our residents may be seeking sanctuary from a violent or abusive spouse, which is why there’s security at the door and throughout the facility.
“Second, you didn’t come here asking for any one of those things. You came here asking directly for me. Having been assaulted on these premises before and having been required to pull my firearm to protect myself, I require that anyone requesting to see me under ominous circumstances be subject to a search. You would have been completely within your rights to refuse that search, but then we wouldn’t be speaking right now. What can I do for you?”
“Actually, Dr. Grey, it’s what can I do for you. May I sit?” Truthfully, he’s less of a threat if he’s sitting and Chuck is standing, so I gesture to the seat in front of my desk.
“By all means,” I say. He takes a seat and crosses his legs.
“I followed your trial on television,” he says. “That was really an awful thing that happened to you. It was quite the harrowing tale.”
“Yes, it was,” I agree. “Are you a reporter?”
“I’m not a reporter, Mrs… forgive me, Dr. Grey, but I am a storyteller. I’m a movie producer.” I frown.
“I have nothing to do with movies,” I say, typing his name into Google as I’m speaking. A short bio comes up. “Why would a movie producer be coming to see me?”
“I’d like to tell your story,” he says, “from your perspective, in your words. It would be the catalyst for conversation nationwide, maybe even worldwide, about bullying and the price of social acceptance. We’ve all seen or heard the story of the young misfit being bullied at school, but nothing like this! This is horrific and graphic, and the world needs to see this through your eyes, hear this story in your voice.”
I feel the room spinning a bit, like I’m stepping out of a vortex and the vertigo hasn’t quite worn off. This must be a joke, a terrible joke…
“You’re kidding, right?” I ask.
“No,” Healy says. “Your story is phenomenal and harrowing, but ultimately has a happy ending. It’s better than fiction, and I’d like to be the one to tell it for you.”
“You’ve got to be kidding!” I bark. “You’re trying to make a dime off of my suffering? Are you fucking serious?” He’s quiet, momentarily stunned. For the love of God, hasn’t he paid attention to headlines—to me—before he took it upon himself to barge into my office with this foolishness? He had to know this is how I would react.
“Well, of course, there’s going to be money to be made, but that’s not…”
“No!” I yell, before he finishes the sentence. “For God’s sake, no! Where do you people come from? It’s bad enough that they want to plaster my horror, my personal life and my tragedies all over the goddamn news; you want to put them on the silver screen! Are you insane? What if this was your daughter? Your wife? Your mother?”
“They’d want to tell their story, and I’d want to help them tell it,” he replies flatly.
“Well, I don’t want to tell my story. It’s been all over the fucking news already!” I declare. There’s silence for a moment.
“With all due respect, Mrs. Grey, I don’t need your permission to make this movie. All I have to do is change the location, the names, some of the key details and make it fiction. So, you can be a part of this, or you don’t have to.”
Oh, so now I’m Mrs. Grey again, and he wants to make an enemy of me… fine.
“Oh, I’ll be a part of it alright,” I promise, calmly. “You do that, Mr. Healy, but I want you to keep something in mind. I’m certain you’ve followed our life enough before you called me. Think hard. Think really hard. Who do you know anywhere, who can you find that can say they got one over on Christian and Anastasia Grey? I’ll wait.”
He doesn’t respond, nor does he break my gaze.
“Yeah, you’ve probably got a studio behind you or maybe you’ll be presenting the storyline to one. Maybe you’ve got the funding as I’m sure that just about anybody would be willing to get a piece of this, but I can guarantee that you’ll be ruining the lives and careers of anybody willing to touch this piece of shit including yours. We’ll start with injunctions against anybody involved in anything that looks remotely like my life—fiction or non-fiction, and that ‘purely coincidental’ shit won’t save you. But that’ll just be the start. You, or anybody else, who thinks they can go about the business of exploiting the most horrific part of my life to make a name for themselves will fall prey to such a personal crusade that will rival Armageddon in its magnitude. I will own the skin on their very balls they will have to get my permission before they can even take a piss!”
I say the last statement all in one breath without pausing.
“Mrs. Grey, in case you’re not aware, unauthorized biographies are published all the time. There’s really nothing you can do to stop this train from leaving the station.”
“Mr. Healy, try me.” I reply. I pause, gesturing to Chuck to get this piece of scum out of my office.
“Mr. Healy, this conversation is over. Now, you can leave on your own right now, or I can have you thrown out, and when I say, ‘thrown out,’ I mean physically. Thrown. Out.” I glare at him for a moment and he has three seconds to get out of that chair before I have Chuck drag him out by his collar. He stands and smirks at me and that’s enough for Chuck.
“Move your ass,” Chuck says, clasping his arm. He snatches his arm away.
“Get your hands…” Chuck opens his suit jacket.
“Let me rephrase—move your ass before I splatter your goddamn brains against that wall behind you!” Chuck threatens. Healy looks at his body and I assume he sees Chuck’s body holster. He raises his hands.
“You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man, would you?” he says.
“I’d shoot a piece of scum like you any day, armed or unarmed.” Chuck grabs his arm and shoves him into the hallway. “Now, move your fucking ass!”
Healy stumbles into the hallway and I hear him hit the wall.
“Do you see this?” he says. “Do you see him manhandling me?” and now he has an audience.
“I don’t know what you did, but I suggest you move your fucking ass,” I hear Grace say. I want to laugh when I hear her say that, but I’m too damn mad. I dial the front desk and ask for Oscar.
“Yes, ma’am?” he answers.
“Get the year, make, model and plate number of that guy that just came back here with Chuck,” I tell him.
“On it,” he says. I disconnect the call.
“Ana, what was that about?” Grace asks.
“Movie producer,” I tell her. “Wants to make a movie of that horrible shit that happened to me and the trials. When I said, ‘No,’ he told me he would do it anyway.”
“Oh, dear God,” she says. “Does he have the means?”
“I’ll find out soon enough,” I say as hit Alex’s speed dial.
“Your Highness,” he answers.
“I’m anxious… and angry… I called you too soon,” I blubber.
“Oookay… too soon for what?” he asks.
“I need information… right now!” I bark. “On a guy. His name is Malcolm Healy. He’s supposed to be a movie producer, but I can’t find much of anything about him online.” I hear Alex typing.
“I’m looking, but may I ask why you’re looking for information on a movie producer?” Alex asks.
“Because he pissed me off!” I retort.
“That’s obvious,” Alex says, still typing, “but I’d really like… oh, shit! Were you approached by a movie producer?”
“Yes, and when I told him, ‘no,’ he had to be physically removed from my fucking office!” I snap.
“Oh, dear. Should we get more security down here?” Grace says, taking a seat in front of my desk.
“That’s not his real name,” Alex says. “He doesn’t have any hits online and I’m not getting anything for any kind of hits on the federal database of producers with that name. What were his physical characteristics?”
“He sat down kind of quickly but I would say 5’10” maybe 5’11”, 160 – 180, brown hair, brown eyes, white… I don’t have anything else.”
“Approximate age?” Alex asks. I sigh.
“Early 30s, maybe,” I say, uncertainly. Chuck comes back into the room.
“He really is a piece of scum,” he says.
“Why do you say that?” I ask,
“Just talking a lot of shit. That guy has no clout, I can guarantee you.” He hands me a piece of paper.
“Do you still have that business card that he gave you?” I ask. Chuck reaches into his coat pocket and gives me a business card that only has the name and phone number on it—nothing else.
“Okay, Alex? His business card boasts Ventures Production and Marketing. The phone number is 221-5…”
“221?” Alex interrupts me. “Wait, wait, 221? Are you sure?” I look at the card again.
“Yeah, 221,” I reply. I hear him typing.
“Do you have anything else on this guy?” he asks.
“Yeah, Chuck just gave me the possible year and the make, model, and license plate number of his car.”
“What is it?” I look at the paper and frown.
“Is this right?” I ask Chuck.
“That’s what I shoved his ass into,” he says. “The year may be wrong, but that’s the make and model and the license plate.” I shake my head and look at the paper.
“It’s a 2006 or 2007 Toyota Corolla,” I say incredulously. “Blue, license plate #S47R251S.” I hear Alex typing on his keyboard.
“I figured as much,” Alex says. “That guy is a total fraud.”
“Details,” I say. Alex types some more.
“That car is registered to Armando Ramos,” he pauses and types a little more. “Brown hair, brown eyes, 172, 5’11” … good guess…”
That’s what I do.
“That 221 area code, that’s a Senegal country code. It’s probably a burner phone, most likely forwarded to a local cell.”
“Why would he do that?” I ask.
“For clout, maybe—or so he thinks.” he says. “It’s part of the image. Nobody knows that his ‘international cell’ is a phony… and that’s a 2005 Toyota.”
“Or for the love of God,” I say.
“What?” Grace questions.
“He’s a fraud,” I tell her. “A nobody…” and here I was hoping I’d have something to sink my teeth into. The nerve of that guy!
“I was wondering why someone would contact you about movie rights instead of GEH,” Alex says.
“Why would they contact GEH first?” I ask.
“Because you’re an officer now,” he says. “Everybody knows that. If they didn’t know it before, they know it from the trial. You are GEH. Interviews and news spots, you can do that on your own. Books and movie deals, you’re getting into proprietary information because you represent the company. There are all kinds of legal ramifications of that! Any amateur knows that… well, except for this amateur.”
I Google Armando Ramos and realize that this guy truly is less than nobody. He had a couple of below-D-list films, one that made the list of worst films of 2012 and the other that couldn’t even be bothered with bad publicity. He’s probably desperate for a hit since the information that I’m seeing says he’s been at this producer thing for years with nothing to show for it. I can’t help but wonder what this guy was thinking.
“You’ve gotten quiet, Mrs. Grey,” Alex says. Smart ass.
“Just looking at some general information on this asshole…” Sorry, Grace. “Have you found anything good on him?”
“A couple of average-joe arrest records, petty stuff. A few low-budget movies to his name. This is just some bottom feeder trying to make a name for himself.”
“Send me the information that you have. Were you able to get his cell phone number?” I ask.
“Yep, I’m tracking it as we speak,” he says.
“Send me that, too,” I say. “He isn’t still on the premises, is he?”
“No, he just pulled up at the museum at Union Park… We may want to keep an eye in this guy. He may be intending to come back when you’re off work.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” I say. “I’m not worried about him, but I have a feeling that he might be persistent.”
“Will do,” Alex says. “I just sent his preliminary information to your email. I’ll keep you updated as we find additional information.”
“Good, and Alex, I want personal information in case he decides to play hardball.” The line is quiet for a moment.
“I really don’t think he’s in that type of position, Ana,” he says.
“Just in case,” I reply. “You can’t be too careful. Also, he’s not the only one to get this cock-and-bull idea in his head. He’s just the first one to approach me. My story is gruesome, and gruesome sells. I might as well prepare myself.” I hear him sigh.
“Roger that,” he says and we end the call.
Less than nobody… coming to my place of work, interrupting my lunch, and telling me that he’ll make my story whether I give him permission or not. I look at his information again:
Armando Ramos—alias Mani
In less than twenty minutes, I have his personal cell phone number, his location, his arrest record, his home address, and a short list of the crappy movies that he’s made and he really thinks he can fuck with me? He’s relaxing in the park, probably enjoying his lunch and celebrating what he thinks is a coup.
“Let’s go,” I tell Chuck. He frowns.
“Where?” he asks.
“Union park,” I reply, “and I’m not arguing. You can go with me, or I’ll go alone. Either way, I’m going… and I’m driving.”
“Ana…” I’m up and out of my seat before he can try to stall me. “Shit! Fine, but I’m calling Jay. I’m telling you that now.”
“I don’t care,” I tell him. “Walk while you talk…”
Ten minutes later, I pull up to the museum at Union Park with Chuck in the passenger seat and a back-up security detail in the back seat. I see Armando sitting on a bench near the fountain. He’s finishing a sandwich and he appears to be people watching. At least, I hope that’s what he’s doing and not some weird stalker shit.
“Give me your phone,” I tell Chuck. I’m effectively cutting off his ability to give a play by play, at least from his phone, but that’s not why I want it. He begrudgingly hands me his cell and I dial the asshole’s number.
“Hello,” he answers.
“This is Anastasia Grey.” I see and hear him scoff a laugh.
“Have you changed your mind, Mrs. Grey?” he responds cockily.
“No, I haven’t, Mr. Ramos,” I say, using his real name. I watch him stiffen immediately, nearly dropping the remainder of his sandwich on the ground as I begin to walk the trail around him, observing his reactions. The line is so silent, it seems like the traffic has stopped and the birds aren’t even singing anymore.
“And just so you know,” I continue, “I’m not using that phony number on the card with the Senegal country code that you left me. I’m calling you directly. This is what I can do in thirty minutes with little to no information. Please… give me a mission.”
The thick silence remains on the line and I have to check and see if he has disconnected the call.
“Did I lose you, Mani?” I ask.
“How much do you know?” he nearly growls after a few more moments of silence.
“Enough,” I say unfazed, coming around the trail behind him and closing the space between us. “And then some. You should really get to know your target before you start throwing your supposed weight around. Seriously, Mani, you’ve got a string of Z-rated movies and you want me to associate my name with you. Not that this is a venture that I’m even slightly interested in pursuing, but even if I were, you would be the last person I would want to tell that story.”
I’m still walking towards him, watching as he clenches and flexes his free hand, occasionally rubbing his fingers together and impatiently fidgeting in his seat.
“If you really want to play with the big boys, bring it on, Armando, but please remember this. That story is a very painful part of my life, but even if it’s published or televised, it could do no more than make me a bit uncomfortable. However, it could have a horrible future impact on my children. And by the way, you may want to turn around.”
I end the call and hand Chuck his phone just as I approach Armando’s perch. He spins around on his park bench and at first, he’s angry, but then his face pales. He knows that he left me in my office 30 minutes ago. I’m standing here interrupting his lunch in a public place where he most likely didn’t tell anybody that he was going.
“Surprised?” I say calmly, clasping my hands in front of me. He just sits there looking at me, stunned.
“So, what, you followed me,” he says, once he regains himself. I shake my head.
“Unless you’re as stupid as you look,” I give him a once-over, “and you just might be… you were in your rearview mirror for at least three blocks after you left my office, probably more. And even if you weren’t, you know as well as I do that I didn’t follow you. I tracked you, Mani.”
He twitches a bit. His poker face is one big tell, and for him to threaten to do something that would displease me, he’s actually nothing more than a small-time manipulator. I want to punch him in his fucking face… literally punch him in his goddamn face, but since I can’t do that, I talk a figurative gut punch or two.
“Like I said,” I begin, “it won’t hurt me, but it could hurt my children. To that end, and this is where I need you to listen carefully, if I see or hear anything on the big or the little screen that even slightly resembles any of the horrific events of my life, I swear on my children… you’re going to wish you were dead.”
Clear horror flashes across his face for a moment, but he recovers quickly.
“I’ve taken down bigger fish than you,” he threatens.
“Where?” I ask incredulously, while opening my hands in a shrugging motion. “All I’ve seen associated with you is a string of psychotronic duds for which you weren’t even the front man!”
“You really think your money is going to get you far enough to stop me?” he asks, his voice condescending.
“Money?” I scoff a laugh. “How many people do you intimidate with that line? Have you been hiding under a rock? Haven’t you heard, Mani? Money is just the gateway drug. Power is the real addiction. Do you want to find out how strung out I really am?”
I glare at him and await a response. When I get none, I don my Jackie O’s. I said what I came to say.
“What? That’s it?” he taunts with obvious false bravado as I turn to walk away. “No ‘you’ll never work in this town again?’” I stop and look back at him.
“Finding work should be the least of your concerns,” I say, still unfazed, and I can tell by his expression that those eight words made a bigger statement than anything I previously said. I know he’s heard all of the I’ll destroy you and you’ll never work in this town again lines, but I’m certain that what scares him the most is someone not telling him what they’ll do to him, particularly a woman with the power of scorn and a force of a mother’s vengeance who discovered exactly who you were from a phony business card in 20 minutes.
I let that sink in and turn to walk back to my car just in time to see two new black Audi Q7’s pull up behind Chuck’s car. Hmm, restocking the fleet, I see.
Christian nearly leaps out of the back of one of the SUV’s and four other members of security spill out of the two cars, including Jason. The five of them are walking to my car with purpose, but I never stop my leisurely stroll in his direction. My lack of urgency calms and bemuses him at the same time.
“Anastasia, what’s going on?” he demands once we approach each other.
“I can’t talk right now, baby. I need to get back to the Center,” I reply, and kiss him sweetly on the cheek. “Chuck will fill you in.”
I finish the short trek to the parking lot, leaving an even more bemused Christian Grey standing behind me. I glance over at Armando, and even under my Jackie O’s, I can tell that he’s a few shades paler than when I left him. After all, he was just confronted by me and two of my security staff, one of whom threw him out of my office earlier, and now I’m leaving him to answer to five more very tall, very determined men—one of which is my very protective husband, and he probably doesn’t even know that yet.
I get in my car, start it, and head back to the Center, leaving my husband and his confused entourage in the park to deal with Mani.
When I get back to the Center, I can’t concentrate at all. My adrenaline is up, but not in a way that makes me want to cry. It’s flying high in a way that needs to be burned off—and now! Knowing that I’m not going to be able to get anything else done, I let Chuck know that we’re heading home for the day.
Once there, I spend quite some time in the gym trying to release the adrenaline that had accumulated. I want this asshole to try something. I want to leave him crushed under my heel and I want to see his face while I’m doing it. Fucking jerk piece of shit nobody motherfucker.
I wail away on the heavy bag, but it’s only a slight relief. I head to my bedroom and my en suite for a scalding hot shower.
Things had been quiet. The two biggest things in our lives that didn’t fall into the everyday drama of GEH or Helping Hands have been the counseling with Garrett and Marilyn and the recent developments with Shalane Deleroy.
Things are progressing slowly with Garrett and Marilyn, as we expected they would, but they’re progressing, nonetheless. Butterfly is right—I see a lot of us in them, what we would have been had I not been so fucked up and we had met at an earlier time. Garrett is headstrong like me. He just doesn’t display it as openly as I do, but if you brush him the wrong way or he becomes emotional, as he calls it, you’re in for a battle.
Marilyn is, for lack of a better word, bipolar. I don’t mean that in a bad way. I only mean that either this experience or some experience before this put her in a state of quiet resignation and acceptance. Most of the time, she has that whole it is what it is demeanor about her, even when she’s silently weeping. However, on those rare occasions where she wants to be heard, her back straightens and she becomes logical and frank. I’m actually happy to see the Marilyn who told me that she would quit if she had to put up with my shit as opposed to the silent, depressed waif who had been haunting the halls of Grey Crossing for the last several weeks.
As for Shalane Deleroy, Jason came into my office yesterday incredulously telling me that she had agreed to sign the papers for Sophie to get a passport. This is tremendous news. We can only hope that she doesn’t change her mind before she actually signs the papers. Sophie has been taking out her frustrations on her cooking, and I’ve been getting those delectable chocolate truffles every weekend, requiring me to happily put in a little more time at the gym or an extra-long run.
When he told Sophie the news last night at dinner, her reaction was appropriately muted, accompanied by a declaration that she’ll believe it when she sees it. I can’t blame her—I had a similar reaction when I heard the news. That woman is so selfish, catty, and unpredictable that anything could happen between now and the time that she signs on the dotted line.
As it stands, the document has to be notarized and Shalane doesn’t have any ID in prison. So, Jason has asked me to be a credible identifying witness to Shalane’s identity and we will utilize a prison notary. We don’t know any of Shalane’s friends, nor would we want to try to contact any of them for this assuming that she has any besides her drug dealer. Jason hasn’t been in touch with any of her family since the divorce, and a credible witness has to be able to identify the signer as the signer.
As a credible witness, I have to attest that I know Shalane personally, have had several interactions with her, and know that this is her legal name. In essence, I’m her ID card. I do know the cow; I have, unfortunately, had several personal interactions with her; and of course, I know her name. Oh, and I can’t have a personal interest in the transaction, meaning that I’m not named in or signing the document in question, which is the application for Sophie’s passport. We have an appointment to go to the prison next Wednesday to get the documents signed.
I asked Jason last night what he thought finally changed Shalane’s mind. He told me that his daughter is apparently a master at emotional warfare. At first, she would go to the visits and just stare at her mother. That graduated to turning her back, taking the phone off the hook, and just sitting there for an hour.
Shalane called Jason berating him in every language saying that he told her to do this. Jason says that he calmly told her that he wished he had come up with that brilliant idea, but that this was all Sophie. He told her that this situation was of her making and that she was the only one with the power to undo it. That must’ve done the trick because that’s when she decided to sign the papers. Now, we’ll just have to see if the passport carriage turns into a pumpkin before next Wednesday.
Luckily, Butterfly and I have already taken care of passports for Minnie and Mikey. That reminds me that I need to make the announcement that we’re planning the family vacation sometime in July or August so that anyone without a passport can get it secured.
I got a little comfortable in the serenity of the last couple of weeks, and this afternoon, Jason comes running into my office to tell me that Butterfly is on her way to the park about to meet some seedy producer about making a movie of her life.
What the fuck?
“Why the fuck would she do that?” I ask.
“I have no idea, but Chuck says they’re on their way down there right now. Her Highness insisted on driving.”
“I have so many questions right now, but they’re going to have to be answered in transit…”
I call Alex as we’re in the elevator to the parking garage to get the background information sent to me that Jason says Butterfly requested. Three more security detail meet us in the parking structure as Alex gives me the full breakdown of his and Butterfly’s conversation. The way that he left things, there appears to be absolutely no reason for Butterfly to be concerned, so I’m wondering why she went to meet this guy.
When we get to Union Park, I can see that body a mile away—well, maybe a few hundred feet—talking to some guy by the fountain. She looks like she’s walking back to the parking lot as we park, but then she stops and appears to say something else to the guy.
What the hell is going on?
I’m walking so quickly towards my wife and two of our security details that I feel the wind blowing through my hair. She’s walking towards me like she just had a leisurely conversation with an old friend. When she calmly tells me that she has to get back to the Center and kisses me on the cheek directing me to ask Chuck what was going on, I nearly lose my shit.
“She just wanted to strut,” Chuck says with a shrug. “I’ll call you.”
He steps double-time to get back to the car and I watch as Butterfly pulls out, waves sweetly, and drives off. I turn to the loser sitting on the park bench eyeing me and my security detail. I go over to talk to the guy and he’s damn near pissing his pants when we get to him. He guarantees me that he won’t bother my wife again and he doesn’t want the story. I don’t know what Butterfly said to him, but he’s scared shitless.
I go back to the office, hoping that this whole thing is a false alarm. Chuck calls as promised to tell me what happened in the park and that they guy turned out to be as big of a loser in person as he is on paper. He tells me something else that concerns me, though. Butterfly has cut her day short and now she’s at the mansion taking her fury out on the heavy bag.
Something else is going on.
I finish up what I’m working on, which takes another hour, and decide to head home to see what’s going on with Butterfly. When I arrive, she’s done in the gym and now she’s in the shower. I hope that means that she’s worked off whatever frustration the day brought on her and we can have a peaceful dinner. I take this time to shower as well since the day had me a little wound, too. I don’t rush with my shower. I wash my hair and let the hot water rinse away my stress. When I’m done, I dry myself thoroughly then take to briskly towel drying my hair. I head for my dressing room to change into some more comfortable clothes.
I don’t get that far.
My wife is standing in the doorway between our bedroom and the sitting room when I come out of the en suite… and she’s naked.
“Go in the sitting room,” she says. “Sit on the loveseat.”
Okay. She’s bossy, which means she’s hot.
I follow directions and sit on the loveseat only to find that she’s right behind me, dropping to her knees when my butt hits the seat. She takes most of my cock into her mouth and throat and sucks quickly and sloppily.
Whoa! Shit! Hard and wet in an instant. I move my hand to her cheek and she quickly grabs both my hands and slams them down on the cushion. She looks up at me with a mouth full of my dick, spiking my arousal to feverish proportions but warning me with her eyes not to touch.
Fucking yes, Mistress!
Still holding my hands down with hers, she bobs madly on my cock, fucking me deliciously with her throat. I don’t know how she’s doing it, but I don’t care. I just sit there like the sacrificial lamb being gobbled by my wife, insane amounts of saliva falling from her mouth and coating my dick—which is becoming angrier and veinier by the second.
The intense and building pleasure draws a groan from deep in my cock burning up through my chest. She releases my cock from her lips, and I can hardly breathe. I don’t know whether to lament the cessation of stimulation or to be grateful for the reprieve.
She stands to her feet and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She grabs both legs behind the knees and pulls my body so that my ass is on the edge of the loveseat. I’m so weak and disoriented from the flash blowjob that my body moves willingly with no protest. She straddles me and I soon discover when she opens her pussy exactly what kind of torture she has in store for me.
She wraps the lips around my hard, wet, angry cock, but she doesn’t allow me to enter her. She grabs the back of the sofa on either side of my head and begins to grind. She starts by looking down at us, watching the head of my cock appear and disappear between her legs. Her hips have a vicious roll—back and forth, hard and deep, up and down the outside of my cock. She’s riding me, grinding me, masturbating me with the lips and clit of her pussy.
Fuck, this shit is killing me! I can guarantee you I won’t get any harder, Mistress!
I hear her breathing become heavy as she continues to grind, now closing her eyes and riding for dear life. Dammit, she’s going to make me come like this!
I soon realize that’s her intention… or at least she’s going to come.
Back and forth, up and down, round and round, relentlessly she grinds against my cock. God, it feels so good and with no reprieve, I can feel it rising up in me and getting ready to blow. I’m trying to stay still, grabbing viciously at the cushions to keep from grabbing her. My pelvis is cemented to the seat, but my aching cock is reaching high for her ministration. My head digging back into the sofa and my cock trying hard not to succumb to her quickening hot, deep, and hard strokes and circular grind, I groan loud and cry out, surrendering completely to a throbbing orgasm sending thick, long strings of cum across my abdomen up to my chest.
She doesn’t slow or lessen her movements and my offering continues to stream from the head of my gloriously releasing dick. Her rhythm doesn’t stop and although my erection doesn’t wane, the head is becoming slightly tender from the intense orgasm and continuous friction. I keep my head back and grit my teeth, waiting to discover my Mistress’ purpose. I hear her whimper a few moments later, and my head is still tender—not as tender as it was before but tender. She keeps going, a few more strokes, then a few more, and I feel her tremble slightly. She only whimpers; she doesn’t cry out, and a few moments later, I feel her clit throbbing against the head of my cock. She’s pressing it hard against me, deep, moving only infinitesimally against me as her body jerks violently. Her head has fallen forward, and her hair covers us both in wild, wet, untamed strands as she grunts quietly through her orgasm, then breathes heavily through the aftershocks.
Oh, my fucking hell, that was so fucking hot.
Only a moment later, she masterfully moves her hips, taking my head inside of her.
“Fuck!” I hiss. She takes one hand, gathers her mane of hair, and tosses it behind her back. She puts one hand at the nape of my neck and the other on my shoulder and pushes herself all the way down onto my dick. I hiss again at the tightness—the depth, warmth, and wetness. Shit, I just came, and this is rushing me to round two.
She begins her grind again, long, melodic strokes like a fucking dancer making her way across the stage. She briefly makes eye-contact with me before she tightens her grip on the nape of my neck and plunges her tongue into my mouth.
Oh, God, help me.
She’s ravishing my lips with delicious sex kisses as she works my hard but helpless dick inside of her hot core. This is quite mentally and physically stimulating as my wife has taken the reins and is doing with me what she pleases, and Greystone isn’t protesting one bit.
However, I can’t have her gyrating on me like this and I can’t touch her.
I wrap my arms around her body, gently caressing her as she moves, closing my eyes and losing myself in kisses that speak to the very deepest part of my libido. For several moments, she grinds into me and I cautiously move my hands to her luscious ass. I don’t try to press her into me, I just need to feel it as she moves.
This woman is owning me… kissing and sucking my neck, licking my shoulder and ear, and pinching my nipples. I am being fucked—and well. I surrender to every sensation, my body completely on fire as I give it to her. She has owned me in several ways tonight, and this is no different. With my hands on her ass, my fingers pressing into her supple skin, I follow the deliciously deep, flowing movements of her hips over mine. For a moment, my mind separates the feeling of my cock from the motion of her pelvis against my hands. I love how she feels against my hands. I love the feel of her skin and the soft roundness of the meat. The movements are so sensual and sexy and I follow her with my wrists, palms, and fingers, delighting in the fluid rolling of her body that I love so much, physically and emotionally.
I’m caught up in the wonderment of this body, of this woman that belongs to me, all mine… and in my feelings for how much I love and revere her. I almost forgot about the physical feeling in my cock…
… Until I remember.
My mind immediately goes back to my dick, to the hot, warm friction and delight this woman is invoking upon me. I’m thrust right back in the middle of the pleasure at its highest level and I’m not prepared for it. My body can’t take it.
“Dear God!” I mourn against my Mistress’ mouth and Greystone begins a spectacular tribute to her skills. My balls are so tight that they’re painful and I slide back down onto the loveseat, clinching her ass, opening my legs, and pressing my cock as far into her as her ministrations will allow.
“Oh, God, yes!” she cries as she finally surrenders to her orgasm, her nails digging into my shoulder and her hips pressing as hard against mine as mine are against hers.
Jesus Christ, that was insane!
I can’t say that I mind being at my wife’s mercy. Even though she didn’t dominate me, she dominated me. Good God, did she dominate me.
We’re catching our breath, drenched in sweat even though we both just showered. The rise and fall of her chest and body on mine is making me want her again even though I just came. Between her panting, she locks her lips to mine again, kissing me deeply and causing the heat to rise between us again. I wrap my arms around her waist and sink into her kisses, allowing her to take me wherever she wants to go.
Sure enough, her hand moves from my neck to my cheek, and she positions her knees to ride again. I move my hand from her waist and gently stroke her round ass, cupping it delicately as she softly starts to move her hips again.
“God, baby, you’re so beautiful… and insatiable.”
“Mmm-hmmm,” she purrs, as she locks her lips to mine and begins her slow, delicious grind once more.
The final round lasted forever last night, for both of us. Butterfly took me several ways—cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, scissors with her on top, and one that I’m still trying to figure out… one of my legs over her shoulders. I don’t know how she came up with that one, but I was so deep inside her that I swear I could feel her tonsils on the head of my dick. I almost came with that one, but I didn’t want it to end. We finally met our end lying on the sofa—her on top, of course—and some kind of right angle where she was fucking me sideways from on top and causing my dick to do this deep in and out circular motion where every part of me was hitting every part of her. Once we got that right rhythm and movement, that position only lasted for about a minute before we were both locked in mind-blasting orgasms that lured us into immediate exhausted and satiated slumber.
And believe it or not, right now, sitting in my office, my cock is throbbing, thinking about fucking her again.
I almost can’t wait to get back to the Crossing and to my wife. It’s like we didn’t fuck at all last night and I need her now!
When I get home, I take the stairs—both flights—two at a time because I simply can’t wait for the elevator.
She’s in the shower. Fucking perfect!
I quickly go through my closet through the meditation room and to the playpen and get a pair of cuffs on a chain. I’m delighted to discover that the shower is still running when I come back. I remove my jacket, tie, socks, and shoes, and proceed to my wife’s bathroom.
Unaware that I’ve joined her, she continues to lather her body with the natural sponge. I watch her as the bubble coats and caress her curves, licking my lips in anticipation of touching her. I remain silent and motionless as she finishes washing, then rinses the soap from her body. When she begins to rinse the conditioner from her hair, that’s when I know that it’s safe to move in.
I’m come closer, not too close so as not to startle her when she turns the water off. Once she does, she wrings out her hair, then takes her towel and dries her face. After wrapping her hair in her towel, she turns and sees me and her breath catches.
I’m in uniform—not intentionally, it just worked out that way. She raises her eyes to mine.
“You’re home,” she says, her voice soft.
“Sorry I’m late. Work was hell,” I reply, slowly moving closer to her and allowing her to see the cuffs in my hand.
“Is everything okay?” she asks, somewhat cautiously. I nod.
“Everything’s fine,” I reply. When I get to the edge of the shower, I gesture to her to come to me with my finger. She slowly walks to me, her body glistening with water.
“You were so untamable last night,” I say, salaciously looking down at her. “I couldn’t wait to get home to take you again, maybe not as intense as last night, but one or two… maybe three… I don’t know how you’re feeling.”
“I’m fine,” she says, her head dropping a bit and the blue in her eyes darkening. I raise the cuffs.
“Not a full scene,” I say, “just a little play.” She nods.
“Good. Stand on the ledge.”
She moves to the six-inch ledge on the edge of the shower meant to keep the water from escaping. I loop the chain of the cuffs over the shower bar.
“Turn around. Hands up.” She turns around and raises her hands over her head. Seeing that the cuff is a little long, I twist the chain a couple of times and lock her into the leather cuffs. I remove the towel from her head and examine her. The ledge gives me just enough height to play with the little gap between her legs.
“Perfect!” I say. “Open your mouth.”
When she opens her mouth, I reach around her and put my first two fingers inside.
“Suck,” I command. She closes her mouth over my fingers and my cock immediately stiffens. I cup her breast with my free hand and run my thumb across her wet nipple. She shivers and begins to shamelessly felate my fingers.
Fuck! Enjoy that torment while you can, Pussycat.
I continue to tease her nipple as I know that it’s much more sensitive than my finger. Her nipple becomes pink and taut and she really begins to felate my finger. That’s enough, Pussycat.
I move my wet fingers from her mouth straight down to her clit. She gasps as I manipulate that precious little center of nerves with my wet fingers. Thank you so much for the lubrication, Pussycat. It’s just what I needed.
She licks her lips as she pulls at her cuffs a bit, slowly thrusting her crotch against my massaging fingers. I wrap her hair around my hand and give it a gentle tug causing her to gasp a bit and her head to lean over, giving me full access to her neck.
“Keep still,” I warn, and her hips still immediately. I begin the torment on her that she inflicted on me last night, tasting her neck, shoulders, ear, and skin, fondling her breast and masturbating her clit with my fingers, occasionally dipping my hand into her wet core to moisten them a little more. Her breathing deepens when I cover her mans with my palm and manipulate her entire pussy with my whole hand, my wet fingers stroking back and forth between her lips and over her clit much like my dick did last night.
My dick… no use in letting her have all the fun.
I watch her body—stroking, kissing, licking, waiting… I won’t let her climb too high. I’m not trying to punish or torture her. I just want to make her feel good… and have some fun in the process.
When that body and that sensual breathing tells me that she’s beginning to ascend, I slowly remove my finger so that it’s not too shocking. I release my cock from my pants and boxer briefs and use her juices on my hand to anoint the head. Fuck, that feels good. Greystone is good and ready.
I slide it between her legs, bending my knees just a bit to get the right angle, the head right between her lips and brushing against the clit. She moans as I hold her hips and grind against her from behind. She grabs the chains and her head falls back as she absorbs the friction.
I know, Pussycat, I feel it, too.
She steadies herself with the chains and begins to move again against my cock in small thrusts, dropping her head forward to watch it like she did last night. I slap her taut nipple firmly to get her attention and alert her of her malfeasance. She gasps audibly, her breath quickening and one leg trembles a bit.
I slap the nipple again and she whimpers through her breathing, her hips still moving slightly.
Well, I’ll be damned. She likes it.
I immediately set to the task of firming the other nipple, pinching and teasing it gently as I grip the first one, still grinding against her lips and clit.
“Since you can’t follow directions and keep still,” I begin, “grind that dick like you did last night.”
She clasps her hands together, stands on her toes, and begins to grind deliciously against an already very erect Greystone. She doesn’t have the angling that she had last night, so she has to use her feet to help her get the friction she needs. She’s moving like a beautiful and well-oiled piece of machinery, pushing her lips back on my cock and pulling them forward so that her clit gets the full benefit of head—and vice-versa—flat-footed when her ass comes back to me so that she can grind down on me as she pulls forward, rising to her toes as she reaches the head so that she can easily keep the cycle going.
To add to her stimulation—and my enjoyment—I alternate slapping and pinching both now-taut nipples, causing her to gasp at first, then cry out a couple of times. I wet both fingers and thumbs and reach around that beautiful body, teasing and gently pulling her nipples in that way that I know makes her want to cum. She intensifies her grind on my cock, tormenting us both incessantly, and her leg starts to tremble.
That’s it, Pussycat. I won’t wear you out, but we’re going to have some fun before this is done.
I continue fondling her nipples, trying not to concentrate on my burning cock, and she continues to grind, chasing this orgasm that I know is just at her fingertips. She whimpers and mewls again, grinding a little faster, and I know right when it hits. She won’t cry out at first, but as the wave moves through her, she succumbs and whines out her release.
I grab her collapsing body, glad that I get a reprieve. I don’t want to come yet. After last night’s escapades, I need dessert, but I probably only have one good shot in me… maybe two, but I don’t want to chance it.
Once she has caught her breath, I check in that she’s okay. When she confirms, I fall to my knees on the wet shower floor—still in my pants—and position my face at her pussy. She’s looking down at me to see what I’m about to do. I raise my gaze to her, lean in, and gently blow on her protruding clit. Her tongue shoots out of her mouth and caresses her top lip, so I do it again. She shivers, so I do it again, and again. Each puff brings a different, delightful response, so I combine them with a single gentle lick.
Now, the mewling starts, and I love it.
I don’t go in on a full attack on her clit. I just puff and lick for a little while, just until she’s squirming a bit. Then, I do a mini-assault on her clit and lips, just to make her hot again. Greystone has calmed, but he’s definitely still hard. The scent and taste of that sweet juice did nothing to soften him.
I rise to my feet and lick her lips so that she can taste herself on my tongue, then I tease her with my incredibly hard dick—just the head… top of her clit, over her clit, under her clit until the head just reaches the opening to pick up some juices there, then back over the journey to the top of the clit… and repeat. Each time the head pulls out and caresses the bottom of the clit before it starts again, she jerks and trembles, and I know this will be her second orgasm.
I keep that rhythm going and she closes her eyes and licks her lips. I don’t lose my stroke as I remove my shirt, watching her suffer in ecstatic agony as I tease her just right on her clit. She starts to move a bit and I know that she’s trying to control the stimulation.
“Don’t. Move.” I command, licking her lips again and she stills once more. I’m in front of her now, and I launch a full assault on her breasts, bending my body so that I can occasionally suck and bite the nipples without losing my stroke. She can barely stand that and her entire body trembles. I decide that I want her pulsing when I slide into her, so I craftily remove my pants and boxer briefs, still concentrating a stroke on that clit, and clamp down on those nipples.
It doesn’t take long. Ten or twelve more strokes and she’s detonating. Mid-orgasm, I lift one of her legs and slide into her.
“Fuck!” I hiss quietly, wrapping one arm around her to hold her up. I thrust deep into her pulsing pussy as she’s coming and she whines again this time, her head falling back with the climax. I hold her leg up and drill gently but deeply into her to get the full penetration. I am so fucking hard and horny, but denying my own orgasm means that as good as it feels, I have to coax it back to the forefront again.
I lock my lips to hers, my tongue invading her mouth in those same sensual sex kisses we did last night, and her tongue meets me lap for lap.
Yes, that’s it.
We’re feasting on each other’s mouth as my dick drives deep into the hot, velvet core. Several minutes of delicious, hot, wet sex and kisses later, I finally feel that hidden Nirvana begin to rise. My Pussycat is wet, and I don’t know if it’s from the workout, the impending orgasm, or her prior shower, but Greystone is about to give it to you.
Fuck, I need that ass!
I adjust the hand that’s holding up her leg to get a full and healthy grip of that beautiful ass, and Greystone approves immediately. With the invitation of an open ass, my other hand finds its way to Pussycat’s asshole and I breach the rosette without warning. She jumps a bit, protesting in my mouth, but quickly settles. I begin to wiggle my pelvis to get—and give—full friction as I squeeze that ass cheek and use it to push her hips against me, still finger-fucking her in the ass with the other hand. She’s been ordered not to move, so I feel her body stiffen and she moans a time or two in my mouth.
Give it to me, baby. I’m coming this time.
I continue to drill into her, grinding, manipulating, finger-fucking and kissing. The burn is delicious and I can feel my own sweat and the tug in my thighs signaling my pending release. I won’t stop it this time. It was too hard to bring it back and I want it. I’ll have to finish her off orally. That orgasm strikes me in the middle of my back and totally immobilizes me. I don’t know if I’ll be able to hold her up, but in a futile attempt, I tighten my hands on her… including the one in her ass, thereby thrusting my entire finger inside.
We cry out simultaneously in each other’s mouths, me gripping her with my hands and her gripping me with her pussy. MarysweetmotherofJesus!! Don’t fall, Grey, don’t fall. I have to release the kiss so that I can breathe.
“God! Oh, God!” I say through clenched teeth. I hear my wife… whining? Keening? Sobbing? I don’t know, but that pussy is still pulsing and throbbing and clenching my dick and literally sucking the life out of me!
“Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit,” I groan as this never-ending orgasm continues. Every muscle in my body is giving out on me and it’s torture to stay in an upright position, but I have to. My wife is still chained to the shower rack and if I let go, she might break an arm.
I don’t count the moments until the orgasm stops. I just practice yet another stamina exercise and stay there until it’s over. My wife is breathless and crying, and I reach up and undo one of the cuffs. The chain unravels quickly, surprising me, and I have to multitask, making sure the damn thing doesn’t hit us in the head and taking both of our weight on myself to break our fall. Luckily, we land on the marble floor with no casualties.
A/N: Pictures of places, cars, fashion, etc., can be found at https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/grey-continued-misadventuresseason-v/
Pictures related to the progress of the Italian Villa can be found at https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/italy/italian-villa/
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