Grey Continued: Episode 44—Law is Out of Order

Warning—History ahead!

There is ONLY ONE VERSION of this chapter. There was no use in condensing it.

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.

Episode 44—Law is Out of Order


I have no fucking idea what came over me at that moment. All I knew is that if I didn’t kiss her right there and then, we would be somewhere fucking behind some sacred temple, and it’s not my intention to get arrested in Rome for indecent exposure.

We pass the Mamertine Prison—once used for temporary detentions prior to trial or execution and now housing two churches—and head straight to the Forum of Julius Caesar. We can only walk around the peripheral of the ruins, and as we’re walking down the cobblestone road behind the forum to get to where we can see something, suddenly my wife is twelve again. She’s skipping along in front of us… and telling corny jokes.

“A Roman walks into a bar. He holds up two fingers and says, ‘Give me five beers.’”

At first, I don’t get it, but then I visualize two fingers… a “V.”


My wife on the other hand is laughing hysterically and scrolling through her phone.

“Why did the Roman woman never win Hide & Seek? Because Julius Caesar!”

Again, she’s laughing hysterically and all I can think is what the hell has gotten into this woman?

Times New Roman walks into a bar. The bartender says, ‘I’m sorry, we don’t serve your type here.’”

I look at Jason as if to ask if there’s something in the air. He just shrugs.

“What do you call a Roman with a pubic hair in his teeth? Glad He Ate Her!”

She almost drops to her knees in laughter on that one, and Chuck is snickering.

For the love of God, don’t encourage her!

“Two nuns are riding their bikes through some old Roman streets. ‘I’ve never come this way before,’ the younger nun says. The older one replies, ‘It’s the cobblestones.’”

Three of my guards break out in laughter.

“That’s it, I’m taking your phone,” I say, picking up my pace to catch up with her.

“Aaahh! No!” she cackles hysterically and takes off running.

Is she serious?

Luckily, there aren’t many people on this side of the ruins, because she’s flying like the wind! I take off behind her and close the space between us quickly. As if she knew I was about to capture her, this little mouse cuts to her left, does a quick spin, and flies back in the other direction. I’m standing there like the cat who caught the canary, and the canary just got away from me!

I turn around and see my security standing there watching the show—two with folded arms, one with his hands in his pockets, and Jason is taking pictures. I take off behind her again. She yells something to Chuck that I can’t quite make out as she runs past him.

Sorry, sis, you’re on your own,” he calls out as she whizzes past him.

“Traitor!” she calls back, and she’s still haulin’ ass. I stop before I pass Jason.

“What the fuck was in that sandwich?” I ask.

“What the fuck was in that kiss?” he retorts.

I can’t help but laugh as I take off after my wife again. She’s got a good head start and she knows it, but it makes her too confident. She slows down to catch her breath and I pick up the pace. Just as she turns around to see where I am, I bend down and scoop her up in my arms, still running so as not to knock what remaining wind left in her out of her. She’s wiggling and giggling incessantly. Her laughter fills the air and my ears and just makes me want to dance. I spin around with her in my arms and she laughs a carefree laugh.

“Stop!” she cackles. “You’re going to make me dizzy!”

“No more corny Roman jokes?” I bargain.

“No more jokes! No more jokes!” she laughs. I put her down and she wobbles a bit, still laughing so hard that tears are now coming out of her eyes.

“You don’t play fair!” she accuses.

“And you’re out of your mind,” I retort, taking her hand and leading my laughing wife back the way we came while she wipes her tears.

We get towards the end of Clivo Argentario—the cobblestone road that we’re on—and we can see the Forum of Julius Caesar through the iron fence. Butterfly turns into a tourist again and begins to snap pictures. Earlier, she said that the Forum of Julius Caesar isn’t part of the Roman Forum, but I can’t see how that would be true… so I Google it.

“Butterfly, the Forum of Julius Caesar is part of the Roman Forum,” I tell her. She stops taking pictures and frowns at me.

“Well, not an immediate part… it can’t be,” she says, walking back over to me.

“Dear, that’s not the forum,” she says as she looks at my phone. “That’s the Imperial Fori—this street,” she says, pointing to the street on the other side of the Forum. “The best way to put it is that this was part of the first suburb just outside of the Roman Forum. Julius Caesar was building it, and he was trying to deify himself while he was still alive.”

“Okay, but look,” I say, showing her the pictures of the original plans for the Forum. “This shows that the forum was right up against Curia Julia, which was the senate house in the Roman Forum.”

“Those were the first plans,” she clarifies. “The finished product didn’t extend that far. He bought the private lands just outside the Roman Forum with the intention of extending the Roman Forum, but that’s not what happened. Although there were offices and shops open in the Forum of Julius Caesar, it never became an extension of the Roman Forum. The forums outlying the Roman Forum—Caesar, Augustus, Trajan—they all became the Imperial Fori.” I raise my brow.

“Well, that’s confusing, but I kind of get it,” I respond. She chuckles—no doubt at my lack of understanding—and she takes more pictures as we walk around the Forum.

“It’s really astonishing, isn’t it?” she asks.

“What is?” I retort.

“Looking at the ruins and thinking about Rome during the time that they were built—what was going through the minds of the rulers when they thought up these structures and the power they must have exercised to get these things done. The people who walked through the hallowed halls before they fell to ruin. The business that went on in the great halls or banquet rooms—the schemes, the plots, the lives that were made and ruined, what Caesar would think now—or Vespasian or Titus or Augustus or whomever—knowing that their precious temples and palaces and forums are nothing more than piles of rubble. These people were deified and they expected to live eternally in that divination. Yet, their beloved structures are nothing more than open-air museums for a bunch of tourists.”

“It’s all going to crumble one day, Butterfly,” I tell her. “They had to know that.”

“I don’t think they did, Christian,” she replies. “Nero supposedly built this huge, outrageous estate that I’m certain he thought would last forever and at least get passed down to someone else to use. They used it alright! They drained his lake and turned it into the Colosseum. They built palaces and forums over his palaces all the way across the hills. I’m sure that he and anyone else who put all this marble and stone and granite together had no idea it would fall to ruin this way. I mean, what exactly happened to that colossal statue of Nero?”

“Probably reconditioned like everything else,” I say as I search Google for an answer to her question.

“My point exactly,” she says as we stroll along the outside street of the Forum. “It’s still magnificent to be able to see these things and imagine what it must’ve been like.”

Ruins of the Forum of Caesar“Yeah,” I say, looking up from my phone and examining the three columns that remain of the Temple to Venus Genetrix in the back, something I just saw online. “You said he was trying to deify himself. Was that temple for him?” I ask, pointing to the columns.

“Sort of,” she says. “He built the temple to try to link himself to the gods, as a direct descendant. Didn’t help much in the end. He put a gilded statue of Cleopatra in there. It was very scandalous.”

“Why Cleopatra in the Temple of Venus?” I ask. She turns a slightly disbelieving eye to me.

“Because they were lovers,” she says, as if it’s obvious. “You didn’t know that?” I frown and shake my head.

“I did not,” I say upon the revelation.

“Um-hmm,” she says, still taking pictures. “She even had a son by him—Caesarion.”

“Like the C-section when a woman is cut to give birth?” I ask. It’s an honest question.

“Uh, no,” my wife says. “One has absolutely nothing to do with the other. Caesarion is a form of Caesar’s name. ‘Cesarean’ comes from a Latin word that means, ‘to cut,’ and it’s spelled completely differently.

“Even though Caesar couldn’t claim the child as his heir, he knew Caesarion was his son. So, he gave Cleopatra permission to use his name. He loved her, he took care of her, he honored her, but he never married her because he already had a wife. She had her own kingdom in Egypt, which he helped her to reacquire and they fooled around until he died.

“There was a gilded statue of Cleopatra in the temple of Venus over there, and a later painting of Venus and an infant cupid was discovered to actually be Cleopatra and her son, Caesarion. He loved them very much, but he was already married. However, he was not modest at all about advertising his relationship. Cleopatra was a ruler in Egypt, but she was Caesar’s kept woman on every level—highly kept and publicly flaunted.”

“Wow, he was already married?” I say, unable to fathom how he could possibly flaunt his mistress in front of his wife that way. Butterfly nods.

“He was a military man and highly political. He traveled a lot for his job, for lack of a better word—most likely more than he was home. Political climate and duty drove him Egypt where he met Cleopatra and the rest, literally, is history.”

“The man went overseas and made a whole other family. That’s just bullshit,” I say.

“Well, we’re talking about a very decadent time,” she says. “Everything that I’ve seen and read—presently and before—indicates that ancient Rome was all sex, lies, and tablets since there was no video tablets. Yes, there was a lot of conquering and back and forth with religions and so forth, but all in all, the Republic and the Empire had a problem with bigamy—not adultery and fornication.”

Yeah, and I thought I was morally bereft.

“As you know, Caesar was mostly a man of the people. His leadership leaned toward favoring the Romans over the Senate, and the senate couldn’t have that. So, they killed him. Granted, his assassins were brought to justice, but by then, the Senate had gotten what they wanted, and Caesar was out. His death inadvertently struck the beginning of the Roman Empire as his adopted son was the first emperor—and when we went to Palatine Hill, I was able to put everything together.”

“Well, I’ll be honest with you. The extent of my knowledge of Julius Caesar came from the Shakespearean play, and I didn’t remember many details of that. Like many others, I knew that he died on the steps of the senate, but I thought it was the senate house in the Roman Forum. I didn’t know it was the senate meeting place in Pompey until someone here told me.” She twists her lips.

“Understood. I didn’t know it until you told me, and I only knew that she and Caesar were lovers because I saw it in a movie once. When I knew were coming here, I looked some of it up… but there’s so much to look up!” she replies.

“I know, baby,” I say, taking her hand again.

“Is that a milestone?” she says, taking a picture of a white column on the street. “It looks like one—or I should say this is what a milestone would have looked like, but it doesn’t have nearly enough information on it, and there’s another one right there,” she says, pointing to another one within eyesight, only a few meters away. “They wouldn’t be that close.”

“Maybe this is an original one that’s been refurbished and… that’s something else,” I say.

“Maybe,” she says, taking another picture. “There is some writing on it, but I can’t make it out.”

“Just so you know,” I tell her, “this says that the Colossus disappeared sometime after the 4th century and was likely toppled by an earthquake or destroyed when the barbarians sacked Rome in the 5th Century.” She nods again.

“I’m going with the earthquake,” she says. “It took 24 elephants to move that thing. It didn’t get sacked… oh, look!”

Her attention is drawn quickly away from the milestone and the Colossus by another bronze statue a little further down the street. She takes off running like a schoolgirl again and I find myself sprinting to catch up with her.

“Look at it! It’s huge!” she exclaims of the bronze statue of Julius Caesar. “I want a picture!”

I take a picture of my wife standing in front of the bronze statue of Julius Caesar in front of the forum, and then Jason takes a picture of us both. I can’t help but wonder what she was talking about—if the emperors and leaders knew that this would be their legacy, especially when you consider how violently some of them died.

We continue our trek down Via del Fori Imperiali when I hear a phone ringing. With so many people around. I’m certain that it’s not one of ours. I’m surprised to see Jason fishing his phone out of his money belt.

“Taylor,” I hear Jason say when he answers the phone. Who could possibly be calling him? I hope nothing’s wrong at home.

“Excuse me?” he says with a frown, and we all stop walking. “There must be some mistake. We’re here for four more days and then we’re driving to Naples.”

Butterfly looks at me and I just shrug and shake my head.

“I’m at the Roman Forum now. I’ll drop my boss off at the Baglioni Hotel Regina and I’ll be right there… Thank you.” He ends the call and exhales heavily, clearly perturbed.

“What was that about?” I ask. Jason turns angry and frustrated eyes to me.

“It appears that the reservation for the car is only for two days,” he says scratching his head. “I was sure I reviewed this with them before I took the keys, but maybe I didn’t. I’ve never had any problem, so…” My mind immediately goes to that conversation that I had with that woman—Audrey Law—right after Mother’s Day.

“She had us booked in Rome for two weeks!” I snap angrily. “She only had us booked for a car for two days?”

“It would appear so, sir,” he says. “I need to get you back to the hotel and go to the airport and straighten this out. It could have just been a mistake.”

The fuck it was. That woman is trying to prove some kind of fucking point and I have no idea what it is.

“But we haven’t seen the Forum of Augustus,” Butterfly whines. “It’s right across the street and around the corner… and the Forum of Trajan. It’s down the street from Augustus…”

I feel so bad. You would’ve thought we just told her that her Roman vacation was over.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” he says, “but I have to drive all the way back to the airport and check this car in and check it out again—or another one—or they might report it stolen.” Butterfly sighs and her shoulders drop.

“Baby, there’s a lot to see at the Trajan Forum,” I tell her. “We’ll have to save it for another day.” She sighs again.

“Alright,” she laments, and puts her sunglasses on so that we can’t see her disappointment.

“Look,” Jason says, “I have to walk down to Colosseum parking to get the car. Why don’t you all walk over to the Forum of Augustus and I’ll pick you up from there?” Butterfly perks up a bit at the compromise.

“Okay,” she cedes before she turns to me. “And I’ll get to take pictures of the Forum of Trajan before we leave Rome?” she asks.

“Yes, you will,” I promise.

As we’re getting to the crosswalk to go over to the Forum of Augustus, we find the ruins of another forum just behind Julius Caesar. It’s the Forum of Vespasian. Neither of us knew they were there, but Butterfly takes a few pictures to add to her tourist collection.

We walk over to the Forum of Augustus, and Butterfly is in seventh heaven again. We first take a picture in front of Augustus’ statue like we did in front of Caesar’s, then we cross another street and head to the ruins.

Augustus finished his father’s forum after his death, then built his own next door. In modern times, it’s across the street. Although we can’t walk down into these ruins, just like the Forum of Julius Caesar, she stands on the scaffolding and takes a million pictures of the columns and stairs of what remains of the forum.

Fearing that Jason is going to come around the corner any second, she quickly tells us that this is the same Augustus who had the home on Palatine Hill. He was the first Great Emperor of the Pax Romana, which was the time of great peace when Rome peaked right before its decline. The temple in his forum was dedicated to Mars Ultor—Mars the Avenger—vengeance for his father’s death, which he sought, and achieved.

Although Julius Caesar wasn’t an emperor, many emperors died violently the same as he did during the fall of Rome as 16 emperors were killed in 50 years. Augustus, however, was the same emperor that defeated Marc Anthony and Cleopatra in Egypt leading to Cleopatra’s suicide rather than be taken back to Rome with Augustus as a showpiece. Finally, he had Caesarion—his father’s son—murdered as well. I wonder how Caesar would have felt about all that.

A little while later, Jason drops us at the Baglioni, and I’m a bit perturbed that our evening seems to have been cut short. Butterfly is none too happy either. We lick our wounds by quickly having Facetime with our babies and sending them our love.

“So… what’ll it be?” she asks when the call is over. “Room service on the terrace? At least we have a beautiful view.” She’s trying to make the best of it, but I had the beautiful view reserved for another night. Then, an idea hits me.

“Are you tired?” I ask.

“Not even slightly,” she responds.

“Good. Change clothes.” She raises her brow.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“La passeggiata,” I reply. She smiles widely and heads to the bedroom.


“Woman, how many times do I have to tell you not to make me look like a troll?” I ask when my wife comes floating out of the bedroom in this gorgeous, flowing, full-length rainbow creation that’s tied up just under her breasts and has her tits sitting up at wonderful attention. She’s wearing bangle bracelets and her silky mahogany hair is cascading in curls over one of her shoulders. She’s wearing smokey eye makeup that makes me want to lock her in the suite and have my way with her.

“Mmm, I love the way you lie,” she says, floating over to me and putting her arms around my neck. “You’re looking pretty hot yourself.” She kisses me softly, then wipes the bit of pink lip gloss off my lips.

“Nowhere for a money belt,” I note. “You’re carrying your phone?”

“I’ll give it to Chuck… where’s yours?”

“Tucked away… not to worry,” I tell her as I offer her my arm. “Shall we?” she smiles widely and takes my arm, and I lead her to the elevator.

It’s about 7pm and the sun hasn’t set yet. Some of the shops are still open, so we browse in some of the windows as we walk along the cobblestone streets. My wife admires a purse in one of the windows but opts not to get it since purses are too much of a temptation for pickpockets.

“I feel like I’m at such a disadvantage,” she says as we look at fragrances in another shop. “I have a purse for every occasion, and I can’t carry one here because some idiot might try to take it. It’s stupid.”

“I know, Butterfly, but wouldn’t you rather be safe than sorry?”

“Yeah,” she says, opening the top of one of the perfume testers and smelling it. “It’s just a pain in the butt, that’s all.” She puts the bottle down and chooses another one.

“We won’t let it ruin our good time,” I promise.

“No, we won’t,” she says as she tests a second perfume on her wrist. She nods and brings her wrist to my nose. “What do you think?”

I gently take her hand and bring her wrist closer to my nose. I sniff her wrist slowly and cup her hand in mine, picking out the scents like the flavors in wine.

“Bergamot,” I say softly, “jasmine… musk…” I kiss her wrist. “I like it,” I add with a hint of suggestion. She gazes at me for a moment.

“How do you know so much about so much?” she asks as I’m still holding her hand.

“Isn’t that a line from a movie?” I counter.

“It is,” she confirms, “but I really want to know.” I smile.

“I know fragrances,” I tell her. “I know what you like, and I know what smells good on you. You should get that one.”

I know so much about so much because I have to, my love, and it’s not all easy knowledge to come by.

“This one, per favore,” she says to the lady behind the counter, who smiles and reaches down to get a new bottle. She opens the box so that Butterfly can see that it’s the same fragrance, then removes the top so that she can smell it. I reach in my money belt and pay for Butterfly’s perfume. The woman puts the box in a little shopping bag and hands it to Butterfly.

“Grazie,” Butterfly says sweetly, and I’m impressed that she’s picking up a few Italian words.

“So, Mrs. Grey, what do you think of Rome so far?” I say, taking her hand as we continue to stroll down Via Francesco Crispi.

“Except for the whole pickpocketing thing, I like it well enough,” she replies. “Really, I’m enjoying myself. I like it a lot, though I’m very curious about what happened with the car.”

“So am I,” I say honestly while looking at some dismal pastel-colored suits in the next window. “I’m hoping for just an honest mistake, but you never know.”

“You’re not thinking about buying one of those, are you?” she asks. I scoff.

“Can you even imagine?” I say in disbelief, hurriedly pulling her past the jellybean-hued creations. She giggles as she skips a bit to keep up with me.

“What got into you today?” I ask, wondering what turned my wife into a corny-joke-telling, giggling teenager. “At the Caesar Forum, what was that all about?’

“I don’t know,” she says with a shrug, her voice full of mirth. “I just wanted to have some fun.”

“You were adorable,” I reply.

“You said I was crazy,” she laughs.

“You were that, too,” I retort. “I should warn you that Jason now has video proof.” Her shoulders shake with laughter.

“I should’ve known,” she confesses. “I could ask you the same thing… near Saturn’s Temple.” I stop and gather her into my arms again.

“I just wanted to kiss my wife,” I say, planting gentle kisses on the corners of her mouth.

“I gathered as much,” she purrs. “And you were wrong. You had kissed me since the Spanish Steps… on the bridge in Trastevere.” I raise my brow at her.

“I stand corrected,” I croon, kissing her jawline. “Are you complaining?”

“Not at all,” she says as she thrusts her hands into my hair and pulls me down to her, searing my lips with a hot kiss. I do my best not to grab her ass right here on the street and to keep from doing so, I push her against the wall of a nearby shop and devour her until I’ve had my fill.

We zigzag our way down various streets, stopping to window-shop and picking up some small item here and there. We laugh a little when we pass McDonald’s in the Piazza di Spanga, wondering if any real Romans would eat that stuff, and why Americans would come all the way to Rome to order a Big Mac.

As we pass Giuseppe Zanotti, she sees a pair of black and white sneakers with heels that she likes. For the life of me, I don’t understand how anybody can like a pair of sneakers with heels, but she likes them, so we buy them.

A few more steps and we’re back where it all started—well, almost all started—the Spanish Steps. I take a few pictures of her standing on the steps in that gorgeous dress, and Chuck takes pictures of us together as we try to find a space that’s not crowded. It’s evening and just in time for la passeggiata, so there’s a lot of people out here. We get our pictures on the Spanish Steps, Chuck puts all of Butterfly’s wares in his secure backpack, and we’re strolling again.

We enjoy the people watching and vow to take a ride in one of those horse-drawn carriages if we happen to get back this way again. We enjoy each other’s company and chat about everything and nothing, still window-shopping in the stylish stores and not completely paying attention to where we’re going until we end up in Piazza del Popolo—very large square and la passeggiata packed!

“I think it’s time for aperitivo,” I tell her.

“I think you’re right,” she says, and we make our way over to the outdoor cafés. We see some tables available at Canova and decide that this is where we shall rest from la passeggiata. After ordering and paying for two classic spritzes, we fill our plates with delicious meats and cheeses, finger sandwiches and breadstuffs, and take a seat at one of the tables.

Off to one side of the obelisk in the middle of the square are a few men with strings or something on the ends of two sticks or wands about a meter long each. They dip these wands in what I can only assume is soapy water and then wave them around in the air, filling the air with bubbles of different sizes. Children surround them chasing the bubbles, and all I can think of is how carefree their lives must be, even if only at this moment. The most pressing thing in their little minds right now is to catch a bubble.

Bubbles in Piazza del Popolo

I don’t remember feeling that way one moment in my entire childhood. Even after I was adopted, many of my days were spent waiting for Myrick to come out of my dreams and terrorize me. He’s the last thing I want to think of right now… while I’m trying to show my wife the beauty and history of Rome. Luckily, my thoughts are interrupted when the waiter brings our spritzes.

“This is delicious,” she says, as she takes a sip. “So, tell me, what brings us to this particular square? It’s pretty big.” She begins to eat her nibbles and waits for me to tell her why we came to Piazza del Popolo.

“We’re pretty much at what is considered the northern end of Rome,” I tell her. “Without giving you a whole history lesson, I’ll tell you a little about Piazza del Popolo, because it’s very important to Rome. That gate over there is the Northern Gate. A portion of Rome is surrounded by a wall called the Aurelian walls. At the time, it surrounded the critical parts of the city to hold off the barbarian attacks. That gate is the northernmost gate of the wall, and Popolo was the first thing you saw if you came from the north to Rome and the last thing you saw if you left to the north. Its name means the ‘People’s Square,’ and it marks the northern edge of the tourist’s Rome.

“If you look down there, you’ll see those two little churches—the twin churches—with three streets between and on either side of them. That’s the tridente neighborhood because the streets look like a trident. That obelisk there with the lion fountains around it is called the Egyptian obelisk of Ramses II and it used to be in the center of Circus Maximus. Constantine took it from Egypt and put it there, but one of the popes moved it here. He was trying to link all the major churches of Rome together, so each of the major churches are in a square with that trident of streets leading from it, and somehow or another, they all eventually connect.” I take a mouthful of some of the meat and bread.

“I’m assuming that trident has some kind of significance,” she says between bites.

“It does. It represents the Holy Trinity. Now, here’s where it gets creepy…”

“Oh, God, more creepy?” she interrupts. “Like Saint Cecilia creepy?”

“Maybe not that creepy,” I say. “It depends on how you look at it. That church is the Santa Maria del Popolo. Not many tourists go in there, but it’s really a beautiful church. Paci used a phrase with you earlier—in situ…”

“Yeah,” she says. “It means that whatever he was talking about, it was actually in the place it was supposed to be. I think he was telling me that something was not in situ.”

“Right,” I confirm. “Well, all of the art in that church is in situ. There are some amazing pieces in there—the Crucifixion of St. Peter, which is very moving; statues of Daniel in the lion’s den, the Assumption of the Virgin to name a few, but that’s not what makes it creepy. There are a couple of tombs in there, but that church built for the people was said to be built to exorcise Nero’s ghost from the land.” I can almost see her roll her eyes.

“Nero? Again?” she laments. I nod.

“A portion of this land was once the gardens that belonged to Nero’s family. It was believed that his body was secretly buried somewhere around here after he committed suicide.”

“Don’t tell me—somebody dug him up,” she says, placing her drink back on the table. I chuckle.

“I told you it wasn’t as creepy as Cecilia,” I scold. “So, no, nobody dug him up. They did, however, ask that a church be built to exorcise his ghost. Sometime in the Middle Ages, the citizens complained that Nero’s ghost was haunting the area from a grove of walnut trees. So, they chopped all the trees down and built the church… for the people.” She pauses for a moment.

“You’re right,” she says. “Not as creepy as Cecilia… unless there’s more.”

“Nope, there’s no more,” I tell her, “except that the church was in the book and the movie Angels and Demons. I found that movie pretty creepy.”

“Thanks for telling me,” she says. “That’s another movie I’ve never seen and I have no intention of seeing it.” I nod and take a sip of my drink.

We talk a little more and eat a little more, and I order two tall glasses of prosecco, which comes with more food. This time we fill our plates with canapés and treats. I tell her about the twin churches which aren’t really twins, one of which is the Santa Maria in Montesanto, which is right next to where we’re sitting. It’s referred to as “The Church of the Artists,” although I’m not completely sure why. She giggles that the name sounds like her hometown, but not really. When we’re finishing are second drink, I hear live music playing from inside the bar. I stand and hold my hand out to my wife.

“Dance with me,” I say. She smiles and takes my hand. I lead her to just beyond where the tables are and spin her around a few times. She giggles happily as that beautiful rainbow dress blows in the wind. I hold her close to me and sway to the mellow music that wafts from the restaurant. The guy is singing in Italian and I can’t understand a word that he’s saying, but the music is enough for me and my Butterfly to get lost in the moment.

We dance for two more songs and then I kiss my wife on the nose.

“What do you say we find a few more aperitivos and some gelato and call it a night?” I say.

“I say that actually sounds like a good idea,” she says. So, that’s what we do. We head back in the direction of the hotel and hit three more bars for aperitivo and two spots for gelato, stuffing ourselves on goodies and drinks, foregoing the need for an official dinner. Butterfly tries to make it to a fifth aperitivo, but the drinks are finally getting to her. I stopped drinking alcoholic beverages after the second aperitivo so that I could keep an eye on her, but I didn’t want to ruin my wife’s good time. She’s too tipsy to walk and after we’ve gone as far as we can, we take a taxi back to the hotel.

She’s adorable when she’s like this—playful and vulnerable at the same time. I undress her and she giggles the entire time, trying her hand at corny Roman jokes that make absolutely no sense. I don’t want to encourage her to keep going, but the fact that she’s laughing at her own senseless jokes is hilarious by itself. I won’t have sex with her in this condition—she’s pickled—but I will make out with her a bit…

Stopping myself before I took advantage of my adorable wife was torment to my libido, so I head to the private gym to run for a thousand miles or so. Upon my return to the suite, Jason had also returned and informs me that the reservation for the car was indeed only for two days. He will get with me in the morning to tell me exactly what’s going on as he had Andrea checking what reservations she can and he’s been checking some as well. I wanted more information immediately, but he assured me that he’ll be able to tell me in the morning as right now, he only has piecemeal information on what’s happening.

It’s late and I’m very ready to go to bed, but the moment I dry off from my shower, my phone rings. This time, it’s Elliot. Oh, hell, what’s going on now?

“Hey, Elliot, what’s up?” I answer.

“Hey Christian, I didn’t know what time to call you,” he says. “I figured you’d be up around now because if you were here, you’d be up around now.”

“You figured correctly. I won’t be up for much longer, but what’s up?”

“This may sound weird, but I got a text in the middle of the night from your wife telling me to get busy installing bidets in every bathroom of your house.” I try not to scoff a laugh in his ear.

“Ah, yes, she has come to Italy and discovered the elaborate courtyard peristyles and the bidets. I was able to discourage her from putting one of those geometric fountains in our backyard.”

“But apparently, not from the bidets,” he says.

“I didn’t even know she called you about the bidets,” I admit.

“You can discourage her from those?” he asks.

“You can’t do it?” I counter.

“Christian, I have to tear out all of your toilets and re-pipe your bathroom for bidets!” he informs me. “It’s not like those little ones on TV where you can run a line from the toilet and boom, you’ve got a bidet… and I’m not too sure Montana would be thrilled with only having the option of cold water shooting on her ass if I did that.”

“I take it that’s no small task,” I observe.

“You take it correctly,” he says. “I mean, I may get away with not ripping out all of your toilets, but this is something that should have been done with the original design of the bathroom. I have to make sure a bidet fits next to each toilet and if it doesn’t, then I have to redo the whole bathroom. ‘No small task’ is an understatement. Do you know how many bathrooms you have in that house?” 

“I don’t know,” I admit. “Six or seven?”

“I haven’t counted them in a while, but I think it’s more than that,” he says. “You have two in the master suite. Each bedroom has one. There are at least one or two community bathrooms on each floor, and is she talking about bidets in the guest quarters and the boathouse, too?”

I don’t even know. The more he talks about this, the more I see what a massive undertaking this is going to be.

“You do realize you have at least a month and a bottomless budget, right?” I try to entice him.

“When are you rich motherfuckers going realize that it’s not always about the money?” he nearly barks. “Sometimes it just can’t be done!”

I get the feeling this isn’t the first time he’s had a conversation like this. Definitely time to change tact.

“Okay, so, are you telling me that it can’t be done?” I ask calmly. If it can’t, then it just can’t. Butterfly will have to deal with that.

“I don’t know if it can be done, Christian!” he says, his frustration evident. “It’s a lot of fucking work. You’ve got that heavy ass tile in your bathrooms. Breaking through that shit is going to be like drilling through the Washington Monument—and if I remember correctly, the main en suites are made of marble, aren’t they?” I sigh inwardly.

“Yes, they are, but I’m not looking for a bidet in my bathroom.”

“Well, good, that’s one out of what… ten?” he says sarcastically.

“Okay, then, that’s what I need from you,” I say. “I need to know if it can be done. If it can’t, you tell me, and I’ll tell her. If it can be done, well then do it. Simple as that.” He sighs heavily.

“You fucking know how I fucking hate to disappoint Montana,” he laments.

“You and me both, but it is what it is, man. She’s not an unreasonable woman—she never has been. She just got here to the Eternal City, a place she’s never been, and she’s seeing how the ‘other half’ really lives… and keep in mind, she is part of the ‘other half.’ What she’s asking for is really not that extravagant. It’s just that our home is extravagant and outfitting it to fit these specifications is not as easy as ‘Elliot, I want bidets in every bathroom.’ I get it, man. If it can’t be done, she’s just going to have to accept it.”  I hear him sigh heavily on the phone.

“I’ll get on it and let you know,” he says, none too excited

“Thanks, man,” I say. “And Elliott, if it’s a hugely ginormous job, start with her bathroom in our Master suite and we’ll work the other ones out later.”

“Will do,” he says, a little relief in his voice before we end the call.

She wants bidets. This isn’t the worst or the hardest thing in the world. Elliot will make it happen. She just may have to compromise on how many she gets.


“So, here’s what’s going on,” Jason tells me after breakfast in the morning. “With very few exceptions, your itinerary is shit.”

“Be more specific,” I say, my voice nearly growling.

“The car was only reserved for two days. I don’t know why, but it was. We’re lucky we got in to the Palatine Hill and the Roman Forum. You were supposed to have tour guides for those, and some of the places we visited, you weren’t supposed to go without them. We may have gotten a pass because our Italian bodyguard acted as your tour guide, so he may have saved us some headache.”

Yeah, while he was getting all friendly with my wife… but he didn’t cross the line, and he’s obviously conscious of his role. I overheard him telling Butterfly that he would like to keep things friendly but professional when she grabbed his arm, and once the tour was done, he slid into the role of silent observer.

“You’re supposed to have a guided tour for the Domus Aurea and tickets for the Borghese Gardens and Museum and the National Museum,” Jason continues. “You’ve got none of these, and this is just Rome. You have floor seats at La Scala, and I don’t even know if you have a hotel in Naples. I double-checked the reservation here and at the Vatican. This one is fine. The one at the Vatican was never made…”

“We’re fucking here now!” I roar. “What the fuck are we supposed to do?”

“Well, I couldn’t leave anything to chance, so I called in another travel agent and I forwarded your itinerary to her with the situation that we’re all in right now.” He’s kidding, right?

“Am I to understand that you forwarded my overseas itinerary and most likely my credit card information to an unknown while I’m stranded in Rome?” I ask. He almost looks angry now.

“Give me some damn credit, Christian!” he snaps. “First of all, I’m here, too, so whatever happens is going to affect me. Second, my family is going to be here in a month, so whatever happens is going to affect them. Third, I’ve been working for you for damn near a decade. I think I know what I’m doing by now!”

Well, that smarted a bit, but he’s just going to have to lick his wounds because I don’t know what the fuck is going on and I hate being in this position.

“So, what now?” I say, sighing heavily and impatiently.

“We wait,” he says. “I’ve been up all night chasing down computer confirmations and talking to Julisa trying to get you a new itinerary…”

“Who’s Julisa?” I ask.

“She’s your new travel agent,” he says, matter-of-factly.

“How did you find her?” I press.

“I called your mother.” I raise a brow.

“You called my mother?” I repeat.

“Yes, I called your mother,” he says. “Besides Marlow and his family, your parents and your aunt and uncle are the only ones who had commercial flights because their schedules didn’t fit in with the flight times of the jet. So, I called her to ask how she made her reservations and she gave me the name of her travel agent. She said that this woman has booked every trip that they’ve ever taken for years including the first trips that you ever took to Rome.”

I want to be pissed, but on short notice, he did a good job. Besides, I’m not really pissed with him. I’m pissed with that fucking Audrey Law.

“So, what do we do now?” I ask.

“I say you kick it around Rome for a day until we get your itinerary straightened out. I’d hate for us to head to Naples and have nowhere to sleep.” I roll my eyes.

“This isn’t fucking happening,” I hiss under my breath.

“Yes, it is,” he says, “so here are some suggestions from Julisa based on where we are. You wanted to rent a Vespa—today would be a good day to do that. Ride around Rome and see the sights with the wind blowing through your wife’s hair. Let her do some shopping. Go to some of the squares where you don’t need reservations and let Julisa straighten everything out for you. Your previous itinerary had you booked to the walls with what turned out to be nothing. Now, you have a free day in Rome. Worst case scenario, you extend your vacation by a day.” He yawns.

“The others can go with us today,” I tell him, taking the piece of paper with Julisa’s suggestions on it. “You get some sleep. It was hard enough getting used to Roman time. Now, your clock is off again.”

“I won’t argue,” he says. “I’ll be right as rain in a few hours.”

I dismiss him for the day, advising him to let Chuck know that we’ll contact him when we’re ready to go.

Nearly every room in this suite leads to the terrace with a magnificent view of the Eternal City. I just stand out there in my sweats for a while soaking in the beauty. This is the one place where I never minded coming and just letting my mind wander. Before Butterfly, every other moment of my life had to be filled with something—work, working out, fucking, something. Rome was the only time and place ever where I could just do nothing… wander the streets, sit by the river, enjoy the view. I always said that I would move here one day, but I never expected to have a wife and a family. I don’t know how well that would go over with her.

Speaking of wife, where did she get off to?

This isn’t the Crossing, so I can’t ask the two way where she is. Just when I turn to go back inside and search for her, I see her through the window in the jacuzzi terrace. She’s lounging at the end of the curved sofa. Her hair is wet and she’s wearing a very short, very sexy robe.

“Hey,” I say as I enter the jacuzzi terrace. “I missed you at breakfast.”

“I’ll get something soon,” she says, looking over at me.

“Jacuzzi? This early?” I ask.

“Hot shower and jacuzzi,” she says, “detox from last night’s aperitivo.”

“I shouldn’t have let you drink so much.”

“Please,” she says, waving me off. “I’m fine, and I had a great time.” She sits up and put her feet on the floor. “So… what did Jason say? What’s up?”

“Well,” I walk over and stand over her with my hands on my hips, “we don’t have an itinerary for the day. I mean, there’s still plenty that we can do with a little planning. In fact, Jason gave me a list of ideas, but what we thought we had planned is not planned.” She frowns.

“I don’t understand,” she says.

“I don’t either,” I say, “but from what I can see, Audrey Law has us booked for this hotel, a car for two days, a trip to the Colosseum, and nothing much else.”

“You’re kidding!” she says incredulously. “And what did she have to say for herself?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t called her yet.” Butterfly does a small version of the bobblehead.

“You haven’t…” she trails off.

“Well, first, we’ve got bigger fish to fry. Jason has been up all night trying to find out exactly what attractions and reservations we do have. He has secured my parents’ travel agent to try to salvage what we can of the trip.”

“I like you like this,” she says. “Relaxed, laid back… even in the midst of a catastrophe.”

“It’s not that catastrophic,” I say. “Jason was able to come through in a pinch. It may not be what I originally planned, but it’ll still be great.”

“Mmm,” she says, sitting up, “this is what I mean. You’re so cool, calm, and collected. You’re hardly ever like this. I usually have to work to get you here.” She stands and walks over to me.

“But since you’re already here…” she slowly kneels in front of me, her hands caressing my body as they slide sensually down to the waistband of my sweats. She kisses my navel and looks up at me with those big, blue, “come hither” eyes.

Fuck, I’m here, baby, I’m right here.

She grabs the waistband of my sweats and pulls them effortlessly past my hips and down my thighs. My cock twitches. Greystone is anxious, but he’s not at full attention yet.

Raising her eyes to mine, she sticks out her tongue and licks the sensitive skin in the crease of the V of my pelvis. I wasn’t ready for that and I hiss, parting my legs slightly to give her more access. She dives into the tender meat, first on one side and then the other, licking and teasing it until I’m nearly shivering with anticipation. It doesn’t help that my balls and not-so-flaccid cock are now just lying on her face, begging for attention while she teases those creases. And speaking of which…

She moves from my creases over to my freshly groomed testicles. She licks them first, gently, one then the other. Then she takes them into her mouth and massages them deeply. My cock is at full attention now and I’m afraid it’s going to poke her goddamn eye out.

She releases my balls and salaciously licks her hand. I hiss loudly as her wet hand clenches the head of my cock and her stiffened tongue licks madly at my balls. Fucking hell!

And she’s still looking at me.

She’s devouring my balls, relentlessly teasing and arousing the skin as she jerks my head with her wet hand. I’m trying to keep still, trying to absorb the pleasure so that it doesn’t end so soon, but when Butterfly puts her mind to something…

She finally relents from her incessant, drive-me-up-the-wall licking only to replace her tongue with her gentle, titillating hand. She’s rolling my balls in one hand and working my head with the other. This is the only time she takes her eyes off mine, and it’s to look at my dick and balls now wet with her saliva and lick her lips.

She’s trying to drive me insane.

She licks her other hand, moistening her middle finger a little extra and cups my balls again with her wet hand. She uses that wet middle finger to firmly stroke my perineum while she cups and massages my balls, still stroking the head of my cock with her other hand. I can’t control my heavy breathing and the pounding of my dick.

When she finally takes me into her mouth, I almost want to cry. She’s slow and deliberate, teasing the head with her mouth and tongue as she looks up at me. She spits on her hand and spreads it up and down my hard shaft as she pushes the first couple of inches in and out of her mouth… and she’s looking at me again.

Fuck, this is so hot.

She never takes her eyes off mine and she licks the head, still stroking my cock into her mouth and against her tongue. I bite down hard to withstand the pleasure as her tongue tickles the rim and frenulum, and she’s still stroking, stroking, stroking… more saliva to coat my now veiny dick and assist with her handjob-blowjob combo.

My fucking head is going to explode.

She stops her hand and holds my cock tightly at the base, bobbing on the head just firm enough and slow enough to bring the heat. It disappears and emerges from her mouth swollen and wet and hard and hot. She runs her tongue over the entire head once, twice, three times before she masterfully sucks it back into her soft lips and tongues it again. She’s teasing me—mercilessly—and I fucking love it.

Now, she’s sucking me like a lollipop, soft and wet but with just enough pressure to get the sugar out. Good God, I’m going to die. I groan as I fight to keep from grabbing her head as I don’t want to fuck with her rhythm.

She continues with that lollipop lick, attacking my cock from different angles—sideways, right on the head, on the bottom licking from base to tip, sucking the head firmly into her mouth and pushing it out just as firmly, slowly and methodically driving me to the brink of madness. Her tongue and her lips, licking, squeezing, and suckling…

Fuck… baby…

She flicks the frenulum, rim, and head quickly several times with her tongue and I almost crawl right the fuck out of my skin. I cry out and gasp in surprise, clenching my fists to keep from grabbing her. She’s fucking sadistic with this shit!

Now, my wife is extremely talented, but when she takes all these inches down her throat and licks my balls at the same time, my whole fucking body tingles down to my fingertips and my toenails. And she doesn’t do it just once; she does it repeatedly! What the fuck has Rome done to this woman?

She pulls off my dick and there’s a massive amount of saliva, dripping from my cock, streaming from her mouth… She grips my wet dick and pumps hard twisting in opposite directions with both hands, using her saliva as lubricant. With a stream of spittle still hanging from her mouth, she licks her wide-open lips so that it’s now hanging from her tongue and latches onto my head again, sucking deeply as she matches it with this mind-blowing handjob.

I can’t thrust because I don’t know which direction to go. I can only jut my hips out to her lips and hold my fucking breath as she sucks and rubs the skin off my dick in a pleasuring ritual that I’ve never seen from her.

She releases my cock again and grabs my hips, bobbing wildly in a sexy, hot, wet, sloppy, noisy, and feverish blowjob. She’s going deep again, deep and hard as she clings to my hips and ass for traction and concentration, my dick disappearing all the way into her mouth and throat and reappearing with each painfully delicious gobble.

Oh, fuck. She’s being nasty with it, and I can’t help but tangle my hand in her hair and tighten. Fuck, it’s so damn good. I groan deep in my chest. I’m trying to keep quiet, but I can’t. She’s intent in her purpose and I can’t resist.

“Uugh!” I groan, throwing my head back and sinking my cock into her throat. She doesn’t relent. She takes every inch and tightens and relaxes her muscles, saliva dripping from her lips and onto the top of my foot. It spurns me on even more.

“Uugh! Aah!” I gasp, thrusting into her mouth, fucking her cheeks and throat. She grabs my ass and squeezes, digging her nails into my skin, and that’s when I lose the fight.

“Aaaahhh!” I cry loud into the air as my cock thumps madly and deeply into her throat. She presses me hard against her, flexing and relaxing her muscles as my balls give her an endless offering. It fucking hurts and burns, she’s sucking me so deep.

“Gaahhh!” I gasp as she works for this endless orgasm. Both hands are tangled in her hair, pushing her hard against me as I come and come and come…

When I finally release her head, she’s looking up at me with wet eyes, most likely from controlling her gag reflex. She torments the head of my cock once or twice more, sucking it into her mouth and licking the tender frenulum and rim before sweetly kissing the head and wiping her lips with her fingers… in that way… while I tremble helplessly.

I snatch her off the floor, dragging air into my lungs trying to recover from that orgasm. I nearly tear that flimsy robe from her body. She gasps a knowing giggle as I force the thing to the floor. I slam my mouth into her, kissing her deeply and relaying my gratitude, right before I plan to quickly wring a fiercesome orgasm from her.

I lift her in my arms quickly, lodging my arms under her legs like I did that time when I forced orgasms from her in our sitting room. In moments, her tiny body is in the air and hoisted onto my shoulders while I’m still standing. She gasps in surprise, steadying her hands on top of my head and no doubt wondering what the hell is going on.

I use my mouth to separate her lips, then I latch onto her pussy and suck—hard. You won’t last two minutes up there. I promise you that!

She gasps and tries to pull away, but I’ve got her locked. She’s at my mercy like she’s never been before. Well, maybe once… or twice… who knows?

I have a perfect and unfettered view of her as I suckle that clit—hard, deep, and relentless. At first, she’s concerned about being up there, but I’ve got her locked in hard and right now, I’m hungry as a bear and she’s light as a feather.


She’s trying to fight the sensation, but she grits her teeth and I see in her eyes when she starts to rise. She’s looking down at me, tresses of her wet hair falling onto her chest, her face displaying agonizing pleasure as I continue deep suction on her most tender place.


I don’t move my mouth. I don’t want to change the sensation. She tries to move her hips, but I have her immobilized. She thrusts her hands in my now sweat-drenched hair and pulls like I did when she was clamped onto my dick. That’s it, baby, I’ve got you now.


Now, she’s dragging breath into her body, her breath rising and falling madly with each inhale and exhale. She’s gasping loudly and pulling mercilessly at my hair as her thighs harden around my ears.

Come, damn you!

She throws her head back and yowls a visceral cry from her stomach. I can feel her legs straighten behind me and her clit pebbles in my mouth as her orgasm strikes. A few moments into it, she curls her body over my head and I can’t breathe. I hold my breath and keep my mouth clamped mercilessly onto her clit. I imagine she performed a similar breath exercise when I had my dick down her throat.

Her body jerks several times on my shoulders and she makes many different orgasmic sounds. I don’t let go until she cries those magic words…

“Christian! Pleeeeeease!”

I finally release her clit and she straightens her back, out of breath and helpless. I look up at her again and the rise and fall of her bare tits are turning me on so much. I gently lick the tender meat around her clit and inside her lips.

“Pleeeease, Christian,” she mewls, and since I’m not working on a second forced orgasm, I cease my ministrations.

I masterfully lift her off my shoulders and drop her back into my arms. She gasps as I catch her in air and stare at her with what I know are hungry eyes. I thrust my tongue into her mouth, mingling our juices together and feeding off the heady flavor of the combination. She matches my fervor, our tongues lapping in a sensual sex dance. In this position, I’m easily able to breach her asshole and I immediately wish I had a butt plug in here. Instead, I thrust my finger into her ass and she gasps in my mouth as her rosette tightens around it. She pushes back on it as much as her body will allow as I move it in circles inside her.

That’s it. I’m ready to fuck her now.

I lift her slightly and drop her effortlessly unto my aching cock. We both gasp at the entry and with one hand holding her ass and my finger in her rosette and the other arm wrapped firmly around her waist, I fuck her, thrusting deeply up and into her as I hold her in place. Every time I lift her to drop back onto my cock, my finger thrusts into that ass.

“Oh, God,” she laments as she wraps her arms and legs tighter around me. It’s no use, Pussycat. I’ve got you now.

And there’s that “wet and sloppy” again, but this time, it’s her pussy.

“Mmm, you like that,” I taunt.

“Yes… yes…” she pants as she tightens her legs around me. I like that, too, Pussycat. She manages to get some traction and begins bouncing on my dick. Fuck, I remember this move—was it the second time we fucked in her apartment? The third? I don’t know, but that’s when I realized that my girl has dangerous hips and thighs of steel, and if she keeps this up, this is going to be over really quick.

Who am I kidding? This is definitely going to be over really quick.

“Dirty girl,” I scold as I carry her over to the chaise. I lay her on her back and she protests a bit when I withdraw my cock and finger from her. I adjust her in a variation of the scissor and T-position, one of her legs between mine and the other over my shoulder. I position myself just so and thrust deep into her.

Mother of fuck! I don’t know what the fuck I hit, but my head is buried in hot, wet, tight meat. I literally hug her leg to get a good deep thrust and my whole body responds like never before. Fuck, where has this part of her been all my life?

It feels so good, I almost want to cry, and I’m certain I’m going to come any second.

“Christian!” she says, pushing me back by my chest. “Too deep!”

“Relax,” I growl. “Feel it!”

At some point, this has got to be as good for her as it is for me. I keep the deep stroke but adjust it so that our pelvis grinds and my cock hits her walls the way that I know she likes. Shit, it’s even better than before, and I won’t be able to keep this up much longer. She takes two deep breaths and adjusts her hips only slightly and then her expression changes.

“That’s it,” I growl, my orgasm creeping just beyond my reach. She better hurry up. Her breathing deepens, then turns to pants and then whispers.

“Christiiaan,” she whines as if she’s afraid. You should be, Pussycat. You should be. I’ve reach deeper into you than even I’ve ever gone. I’ve been balls deep, but never at this angle. I’m breaching new territory here and it’s a fucking mind trip like you wouldn’t believe. In my head, Greystone is giving me a fist pump and signaling the countdown.

“Christian… Christian… aaaaaaahhhhhh!” My wife’s breast arches towards me, her body covered in sweat and her nipples jutting out at me.

Yes, please!

I grab that mound and pinch that pebbled nipple hard between my finger and thumb as I use it for leverage along with her leg on my shoulder to pull her hard against me and thrust.

“Oh, fuck! Fuck! Oh, God!”

Now, usually, that’s me screaming those profanities, but this time, that’s my wife, grasping the head of the chaise and coming madly around my dick.

And Greystone loses count.

“Fuck! Yes! Goddammit!” I wail as yet another earthshattering orgasm squirts endlessly from my cock.

“Oh, dear God!” Butterfly wails, and I know it’s because my cock is thickening inside her right at the point of her orgasm. She releases the chaise and grabs her other breast, pinching until the nipple reddens significantly, and I swear that Greystone starts a whole new salute inside her.

Goddamn, she’s going to kill me!

When it’s all over, we collapse on the chaise, completely spent and useless. Neither of us can catch our breath, nor can we move. Our legs are scissored together as I lay atop her, wearily peppering her cheek, jaw, and temple with kisses. Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise that the itinerary got fucked up. I can’t move a muscle right now much less drive a Vespa, and Butterfly looks even more spent than I am.

Looks like an inside day today.


This chapters albums include the Imperial Fori and the Piazza Del Popolo. There are lots of pictures in these albums to give you the full effect of the ruins and the history. 

Pictures of places, cars, fashion, etc., can be found at 

Pictures related to the progress of the Italian Villa can be found at

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

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

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

~~love and handcuffs

Grey Continued: Episode 37—Saaaaaaaaailing Takes Me Awaaaaaaay…

Back from the funeral—shit happened there that can only happen in Detroit. Glad to be home. I haven’t emailed yet, but it’s been too long since I posted something.

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 37—Saaaaaaaaailing Takes Me Awaaaaaaay…


“You know, I’ve never been on your boat before,” Jason says as he helps Gail, Sophie, and Ms. Solomon load the food onto the Slayer after they have surrendered their shoes and changed into slippers.

“Never?” I ask. He shakes his head.

“Even with it moored here, it’s patrolled by other members of the team. I’ve never been on it.” I shrug.

“Well, welcome aboard,” I say as we climb the stairs.

“Straight through there,” I say to Gail, pointing her towards the kitchen.

“You forget,” she says, “I have been on here before.” She gestures her head for the rest of her party to follow her. I smile and head to the main aft deck.

“Ahoy!” I hear my wife say as she boards our boat wearing a beautiful flowing sun dress, an oversized sun hat, and her Jackie O’s, carrying our son.

“Hello, beautiful,” I say, giving her a kiss before taking my son from her arms. “You wanna see the bridge, son?” I ask.

“Kay,” he replies, even though I’m sure he has no idea what I just asked him. I head off to the bridge to show my son the command center.

“One day, this will be yours,” I say, standing him by the wheel as I sit in one of the captain’s chairs, “or something like it,” I correct myself. This boat will be way too old by the time he’s old enough to sail.

I remember when I first got this thing. I liked the size and the power. I never intended to have a family on it. Now, my 16-month-old son is trying to steer.

“Shit!” he declares with a full-tooth smile on his face. I shake my head.

“Don’t say that around your mom,” I warn, accepting that the damage has already been done and she has no one to blame but herself.

I pull my vibrating phone from my pocket and answer it.


“It’s Wallace, sir. Harp’s at the gate.”

“Let him in and have one of the guards bring him back,” I say.

“Will do.” I end the call. I can sail the Slayer on my own, but when I plan to entertain, I need a first mate. That’s Harper’s job, to navigate the waters while I spend time with my family. I stay on the bridge for several more minutes waiting for Harper.

“Pleasure to see you again, sir,” Harper says, shaking my hand when he finally arrives.

“Thanks for coming on such short notice,” I reply.

“To sail the Slayer?” he retorts. “No problem. I love being able to navigate this beauty. I brought new boat shoes. The old ones are probably dry-rotted,” he says, showing me his new shoes still in the box. I nod and he steps into his boat shoes.

I give Harper some instructions on what we plan to do today before I head back down to the main floor to see how things are shaping up.

“Jesus, this thing is monstrous on the outside, but it’s even bigger on the inside,” Jason says, when I come down from the bridge. “This is definitely what it’s like to have money to burn.”

I laugh at him. This wasn’t money to burn. I wanted this boat—the biggest thing on the Sound and definitely the biggest on the lake. It was like moving a house getting this thing across the bridge. Hell, it was moving a house because this thing is bigger than some houses.

“Have you seen everything?” I ask.

“Oh, I’ve seen everything,” he says, “including the his and hers bathrooms in the master bedroom. Foresight?” I twist my lips.

“Gia Mateo,” I say.

“Oh,” Jason says, rightfully looking around for Butterfly who is nowhere in sight, thank God.

“Is everyone on board?” I ask. He shakes his head.

“We’re waiting for the Donaldson/Johnson family and we’ll be ready to go,” he says.

“Plan on leaving without us?” Elliot says, holding Valerie’s hand.

“I thought you were going to meet us at Mom and Dad’s,” I say. “You almost got left behind.”

“We thought why wait with Mom and Dad when we could sail?” he says.

“Where’s Steele?” Valerie says.

“Grey,” I correct her. She twists her lips.

“Look, old habits are hard to break, and she’s Steele-Grey. So, where’s Steele?” I shake my head and look at Jason.

“Probably down below,” he says. “She went to show the boat to Al and James and her parents.” Valerie nods and heads towards the bow of the boat.

“Gia Mateo, huh?” Jason says as we head towards the main aft deck to wait for Marlow and his family. “That explains the parlor. Her Highness is a bit possessive when she talks about certain rooms.”

“That would be because she knows that Mateo designed these rooms with herself in mind, and now these rooms belong to her!” I state finitely.

“Yes, I would say that neither of our wives have a liking of Gia,” Elliot says. “With good reason, though.”

“We haven’t missed the boat, have we?” Maxine says as she, Phillip, and Mindy head to the dock. I see Marlow and his family coming around the house. I thought they were the last ones that we were waiting for.

“Um, no,” I say. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Oh,” Maxine says. “Ana told us to come. Something about Elliot and Val’s vow renewal.” I slap my forehead.

“Of course! Duh!” I say. “Don’t just stand there, you idiot. Help the woman get on the boat,” I poke at Elliot.

“Yeah, clean it up, Bro,” Elliot says, reaching his hand out to help Maxine. “Hey, Phil,” he says and he helps Maxine board the boat.

“Hey, El. How’s it hanging?” Phil says, handing Mindy to his wife.

“To the left, I think,” he jests, giving Phil that one-armed bro-hug when he boards the boat.

“Is Garett and Marilyn on board?” I inconspicuously ask Jason.

“Yes, sir,” he nods. Good. That’s all of the Scooby Gang.

“Do you know of anyone else that’s supposed to board that I don’t know of?” I ask him as the Guests change out of their street shoes. He shakes his head.

“You, me, our families, Chuck and Keri, the Steeles, Ana’s Scooby Gang, Elliot and Val that we’re just learning of, and Marlow and his family. I don’t think there’s anybody else. Your parents, Herman and his family, and Mia and Ethan are all going to be at Grey Manor.”

“Well, Mia better not change her mind because she’s going to get left behind,” I say as Elliot takes the Guest family back into the parlor.

“We’re not late, are we?” I hear Marcia’s voice and raise my head to see her family crossing the yard.

“Nope, you’re just in time,” I say. Zac helps Marcia onto the boat and then Maggie and a young lady that I assume is Marlow’s date before he and Marlow board the boat.

“Always lovely to see you, Christian,” Marcia says giving me a quick hug. “You remember Zac.”

“I do,” I say, proffering my hand to Zac. “Welcome aboard.”

“Thanks, good to see you again,” he says. “This is a pretty impressive vessel.”

“Wait until you see the inside,” I say with mirth causing Zac to laugh. “Marlow.”

“Hey, Christian,” he says cautiously. “Elise, this is Christian Grey and Jason Taylor. Christian, Jason, this is Elise.”

At least she’s dressed respectably.

Before she has the chance to say anything, Sophie comes out to the deck.

“Dad, Momma Gail says she forgot some things in the kitchen…” She stops cold when she sees the group of people standing on the balcony, probably embarrassed that she interrupted. “They’re all still on the counter.”

“Did she specifically say what?” Jason asks. Sophie turns her focus to her father.

“She said just bring the bags. You can’t miss them,” Sophie instructs.

“Ooookay,” he says. He changes back into his street shoes and heads down the stairs to the dock.

“That’s Sophia,” Marlow says, not very loudly, but loud enough for me to hear. “I apologize in advance for anything rude that she might say to you because she doesn’t know how to behave around company. I suggest you just ignore her. We’ll have a good time either way. It’s a big boat.”

“I’ll say it is,” Elise says with a bit of wonder in her voice. I see Sophie stiffen in my peripheral vision. That wasn’t very nice.

“Um, Dad, uh, I’ll come with you,” she says. She changes into her sneakers and nearly jumps off the boat.

“I got it, Baby Boo,” he calls back.

“It’s okay,” she says, running behind her father. “I wanna help.”

What the hell just happened?

“Mr. Grey,” Elise says, holding her hand out to me. “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

“Likewise,” I say, taking her proffered hand. Once I shake it, she clasps her hands in front of her and moves closer to Marlow. He must’ve coached her about her behavior, or hopefully she already knows how to carry herself.

“Um… what’s with the shoes?” Maggie asks.

“Well, I don’t like dirt from the ground or the street on my boat. It doesn’t get cleaned as often as the house and certain gravel can destroy the floors. So, you have to change into a pair of these slippers, or you can go barefoot if you like.”

“I think I’ll go barefoot,” Maggie says, and the other ladies concur. The gentlemen all wear a pair of the slippers.

As they all move towards the parlor, I catch Marlow and pull him aside.

“What was that about Sophie?” I ask. It was kind of rude. He looks around to make sure no one is in earshot.

“You haven’t seen it, Christian,” he admits. “She acts horrible around my dates. She talks about their clothes and their hair, their bodies… everything. She’s the worst version of a bratty little sister.” I never got that impression from Sophie. If anything, I would say she was exactly the opposite.

“You’re not talking about that number you brought to my birthday barbeque, are you?” I accuse.

“Okay, Rochelle was asking for it, but even before her—the wedding, Thanksgiving, Christmas… every time. It’s awful. The only way Rochelle and I got any peace is that I told her to ignore Sophie, so I just got it out of the way in the beginning this time.” I twist my lips.

“Hmm,” I say. “Well, I think you may have hurt her feelings,” I add.

“I doubt it,” he counters. “She’s brutal with her insults. So, I really don’t think it’s a big deal.”

“No?” I say. “Did you see the way she just leapt off the boat? She’s lucky she didn’t fall into the lake.” He sighs.

“Well, she’ll just have to get over it,” he says. “Not once has she ever apologized to me or my dates, even when Gail called her on it. I’m not apologizing to her. I meant what I said, and we’re going to ignore her for this trip, because there’s nowhere for us to hide on a boat.”

The inner me is shaking my head at him as he goes into the parlor where much of the family has gathered. I wait for a few minutes for Jason and Sophie to return with the supplies Gail sent them for. It’s not much and Jason didn’t really need any help, so I know that Sophie was making a getaway when she jumped off the boat. I secure the deck as they change their shoes and I catch Sophie right before she enters the parlor.

“Are you alright?” I ask.

“Sure,” she says, her voice unassuming.

“You just… left the boat pretty quickly. It’s obvious that Jason didn’t need any help,” I point out.

“Oh… yeah, well, I just wanted to get my phone and my notebook before we left,” she excuses.

“Okay,” I say. “So, it had nothing to do with what Marlow said.” She twists her lips uncomfortably.

“He’s just a bonehead boy trying to impress his bonehead girl,” she replies without making eye-contact with me. He did hurt her feelings.

“Is what he tells me true?” I ask. “Do you say rude things about his dates?”

“Yeah,” she admits quickly. “It was a phase I was going through—angry or something, I don’t know. It won’t happen again I’m over it.” She says the last part all in one breath.

“He says you never apologized…”

“That’s because he squealed on me!” she retorts, feverishly, finally raising her eyes to me. “I wasn’t going to apologize after he squealed on me!” I seem to remember something about that.

“Are you going to be okay?” I ask, genuinely concerned about her feelings. She moves her gaze from mine again and nods.

“I’m fine,” she says, none too convincingly. “They’re going to ignore me and I’m going to ignore them. Everything will be fine.” I twist my lips and nod. That’s no solution, but it’ll have to do for now.

“Okay. Go on inside. We’re getting ready to leave.” She nods and hugs her notebook to her body. I watch as she walks through the parlor, never looking left or right and going straight back to the dining area, probably to the kitchen.

I love my yacht. It’s really a superyacht, but a certain person who shall be unnamed refused to call it that, so I’ve begrudgingly shortened it to yacht. It’s a beautiful vessel—a water resort if you will. Twenty people can live on this yacht if need be—12 in staterooms and eight in the staff quarters. It’s a statement in mahogany, chrome, and glass. I’d never seen anything like it before and that’s what I wanted.

My boy stands at my feet and pretends to steer as I guide the Slayer away from the dock and into open water. It’s been a long time since I got my hands on that wheel and I miss it. I’m going to have to get into the practice of spending more time on my yacht.

“Getting to know her again?” Butterfly asks when I descend the stairs from the bridge. She takes Mikey’s hand and sends him into the dining area where the rest of the guests are.

“Yeah,” I say. “She’s really yar. I’m going to have to get you into that bridge one day, even if you just sit on the sofa and watch me work the wheel.”

“That sounds so hot,” she says, raising a brow at me.

“That was the intention,” I reply.

“You know, the last time we were on this boat, you got fucked,” she says suggestively.

“And here we are again,” I point out.

“You tryin’ to get lucky, Grey?” she says, closing the space between us and teasing the skin on my chest. She’s the first and only woman in the world able to make my scars an erogenous zone.

“Is that option on the table?” I say, looking down at my bite-size wife in this gorgeous flowing sundress and her bare feet and trying not to growl.

“It’s always on the table,” she purrs, and for a moment, I literally forget that we have several other people on the boat. I take a deep breath to get the beast in check and tame Greystone before he gets started.

“I’ll bring you up and let you watch me bring her back to berth. Then, once we’ve gotten everybody off the boat, I’m going to fuck you on the nearest surface.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” she whispers and my cock twitches. I inconspicuously rub the side of her breast before teasing the nipple with my thumb. It’s immediately taut against my finger, and she takes a deep breath and licks her lips. Yes, baby, if I’m going to be hot and bothered, so are you.

“Let’s get back to our guests,” I say, planting a soft, chaste kiss on her lips before I abandon her nipple.


It’s a beautiful day to sail and everyone appears to be having a good time. Ray nearly expired when he asked, “How much does something like this run you,” and I told him. Yes, it’s extravagant, but I love my boat.

I’m pleased to discover that nearly everyone has a passport and those who don’t have them yet are all on their way. I tell the current parties what information I can before we get to my parents’ house. We’re all snacking and having light drinks for the morning, preparing for lunch when we get there.

The ladies are all sunbathing or soaking in the Jacuzzi except for Marlow’s date, who chooses to stay by his side with the men while we chew the fat about whatever strikes our interest. While we’re sipping cocktails and talking sports or shop, Ms. Solomon brings a lovely platter of sweet and savory petit fours to the Skylounge. Ray immediately digs into the toasted baguettes. I’m not sure what’s on them, but I can see bacon and scallions.

“Mm, mm, mm,” Ray says. “How do you and my daughter stay so thin with a gourmet cook on staff? These are delightful.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ms. Solomon says, “but I didn’t prepare these.”

“Oh! Well, Gail,” Ray corrects as Marlow and Elise come over to partake in the spread along with Elliot, the human vacuum cleaner.

“Thank you,” Gail says, dropping some plates next to the tray and heading towards the deck with a second tray, “but it wasn’t me either.”

“Well, who was it,” Jason asks, “the petit four fairy?”

“In fact, it was,” Gail says, “and don’t let her hear you teasing her or you may not get any more truffles.” I sit up straight in my chair. If this goon fucks up my truffles…

“Sophie?” Jason asks almost incredulously. Gail nods as she clears the door and Marlow looks at the tray he’s been attacking like it just attacked him.

“Why are you so surprised?” I say to Jason. “Those damn truffles almost caused an international incident!”

“And that dinner,” Jason reminisces. “What was it? Coq au vin?”

“How could you forget?” I reply. “And those fluffy mashed potatoes? My wife and I ate the leftovers in bed that night with our fingers.”

“Your fingers?” Zac says and Jason laughs.

“Hey, don’t laugh at me! You were almost in a sugar coma the next day!” I defend.

“Wait, wait a minute,” Marlow interrupts. “We’re talking about Sophie? Sophia Taylor? Little blonde girl?”

“There’s only one Sophie that lives here,” I point out. “And you!” I say, turning back to Jason. “You almost missed Christmas cookies.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, bemused.

“You ate an entire batch of chocolate truffles to keep me from getting any,” I accuse. “You weren’t going to get a single Christmas cookie!”

“Her Highness makes enough of those cookies to feed a third-world country!” Jason retorts. “I’d like to see you try to keep me from getting some of those cookies.”

“Her Highness?” Ethan asks, while chewing on a macaroon. “Wow, these are good.”

“My daughter,” Ray says, still chomping on toasted baguettes. “I’m going to stop eating now before I don’t have any room left for those steaks!”

“You have to call her Her Highness?” Ethan asks. How does he not know this?

“It was a joke,” Al interjects, “and don’t say it to her face or she just may throw you off the boat—mid-sail!” I warn. Ethan chuckles.

“Thanks for the warning,” he says, and I’m certain that’s exactly what he intended to do. Crisis averted.

“Wait, I thought Sophie was up on deck sunbathing with the ladies,” Jason says.

“Nope,” Gail says, breezing through the Skylounge again, “she’s in her favorite place—the kitchen.”

“The kitchen is Sophie’s favorite place,” Marlow says, incredulously. It’s a statement, not a question.

“Yep,” Gail says as she descends the stairs to the main floor.

“So, wait,” James asks. “How—and why—did you plan to keep Christmas cookies from Jason over some truffles? It sounds like you may have averted that situation… may being the operative word.”

“Okay, so…”

I tell them the story of Sophie’s freshman French dinner, how everything was amazingly delicious and how my head of security and best friend was hogging all of the leftover chocolate truffles. I had planned to mooch some from him the next day, but he ate them all before he even went to sleep. As a result, I declared that he wouldn’t be able to partake in any of my wife’s divine Christmas cookies. My wife then enlisted Sophie to make me a batch of chocolate truffles every week so that I don’t have to kill my head of security.

“Wow,” Garett says, with mirth, “you two grown men are fighting over chocolate balls.”

“You haven’t had these chocolate balls,” Jason says. “If you had, you’d be fighting over them, too.”

“Speaking of which…” Gail ascends the stairs again with a large bowl of Sophie’s chocolate truffles. “Sophia says not to fight over them. There are plenty, but they have to stay refrigerated.”

As soon as she moves from the table, I take five of them and pop a sixth in my mouth.

“And you were talking about me,” Jason says, going over to the bowl.

“You heard your wife… there’s plenty,” I say with a mouthful of chocolate. Marlow’s date takes one and tastes it.

“Wow,” she says, the first thing I’ve heard her say since “It’s nice to meet you, sir.” She looks at Marlow, who begrudgingly takes one of the truffles. You can read the surprise on his face when he bites into it. Yeah, chocolate Nirvana, huh, kid?

“They’re alright,” he says, trying to blow it off.

“Well, you certainly don’t have to eat ‘em,” I say. “That leaves more for me.”

“Sophie’s truffles are down here?” my wife asks as she and six other bikini-clad women invade the Skylounge with Gail behind them.

“Why did you tell them?” Jason whines.

“Because I knew you wouldn’t,” she says. “Over there on the counter.”

“You’ve got to try these, ladies,” Butterfly says as she leads the charge to the chocolates.

“And stop whining,” Gail says, “I told you there are plenty.”

“Yeah, sure,” Jason laments.

“Oh, my God, these are great!”
“She made these?”
“Do you think she’ll give me the recipe?”

The women all descend the stairs headed to the kitchen.

“To accost my daughter for the secret recipe to the truffles,” Jason laments.

“Dear God, would you put on your big boy pants?” I say. “She had to get it from somewhere.”

“My daughter’s brilliant. She might have come up with it on her own,” Jason says, and Marlow coughs, drawing all the attention in the room to him. He coughs again.

“Sorry,” he says. “Choked on a truffle.”

I’ll just bet you did. He’s feeling some pretty thick animosity towards that little girl, it appears. I’ve never known Marlow to be unfairly biased or accusatory. Sophie did admit to ragging on his dates before now. Maybe it was worse than I thought. They’re just going to have to work that out on their own.

A short while later, we’re docking at my parents’ house and the rest of the family is boarding the yacht along with insane amounts of meat that Dad has been barbequing since dawn. The boat is definitely on full house as we shove off to sail the lake for the afternoon.

There’s food being served everywhere. Keri and Gail have taken all of the children down to the staff’s quarters to eat together in the common area while the rest of us spread out between the dining salon, the upper aft deck, and the Flybridge to eat our lunch—which is more like a huge dinner. Steaks and burgers and sausages and chicken and grilled salmon, various salads and sides… and Sophie made tarts for dessert—petit four sized and several varieties. I’m certain I’ve eaten enough food for four people.

Once everyone has had their fill of delicious vittles, Dad mans the bar on the Flybridge and we all grab a seat somewhere to talk about Elliot and Valerie’s wedding.

“I was able to get some information from your decorator, Aaron,” Mom says, “and the back patio and lawn facing the lake is absolutely perfect.” She gives Elliot and Valerie printed pictures of the back of our villa and Valerie’s mouth falls open.

“That’s beautiful,” she exclaims. “Look at the view. It’s stunning.”

“I’m so glad you approve,” Mom says. “I need a final head count. If I’m not mistaken, we’re at about 30 people?” It’s a question not a statement.

“Give or take one or two, I think you’re right,” Butterfly says.

“So, I’ll plan for 35 in case I miscounted.” She scribbles something in her little notebook. “I have some ideas for particulars, but I wanted to know what you two were thinking.” She looks to Elliot and Valerie. Elliot shrugs.

“Well,” Valerie chimes in. “I definitely have a particular idea. I hate to spring this on you ladies but Maxie? Ana? Mia? You’re all going to be brides’ matrons.”

“What?” Mia says in surprise. “We’re going to be the only guests at the wedding!”

“Yep, and I want wedding pictures. I didn’t get any before because I was sick. I didn’t expect a wedding because I thought…” she trails off and gets emotional. Elliot puts his arm around her and squeezes her hand. She takes a deep breath.

“I thought I would be very heavy with child and I’m not so I want wedding pictures,” she says all in one breath, her voice cracking. The room is quiet for a moment and Butterfly is the first to speak.

“Then, you’ll get wedding pictures,” she says. “Have you thought about colors… what you would like for us to wear?” She turns to Mom.

“I haven’t chosen any particular colors,” Mom says. “I was going to lean to your urging on that matter, although I did find the most darling arch with an array of colors in it that would go with anything you decide—all the colors of summer.” She hands Valerie another picture and Valerie examines it.

“What a wonderful idea,” she says, looking at the picture, then at Mom. “We’ll do rainbow.” Mom ponders it, then nods.

“Oh, that’s perfect,” Mom says. “I hadn’t even thought of that. It gives me a great idea for centerpieces.” She scribbles in her notebook again.

“I know just where you can get the dresses, ladies,” Valerie says. “The same place I got mine.”

“You already have your dress?” Mia asks. Valerie nods.

“I picked my dress out the day after we said we were having a wedding in Como. I wasn’t taking any chances.”

“Well, thanks, Marshall!” Butterfly complains. “That’s kind of like a rite of passage, you know.”

“Yes, I know, but desperate times call for desperate measures,” Valerie says, and it’s now that I realize that she and Butterfly both call each other by their maiden names.

“Christian,” Dad calls from the bar. “You’re out of Bombay Sapphire. Do you have any downstairs?”

“I’ll go check,” I say and I head down to the Skylounge. I retrieve an unopened bottle of Bombay from the liquor cabinet and move towards the aft deck again. The doors are open and I can hear talking on the deck.

“You said she didn’t know how to behave around company,” I hear Elise say. “Do they keep her in the kitchen for that reason?”

Where the hell are they hiding? I didn’t see them when I came down the stairs.

“No,” Marlow replies. “The Greys aren’t like that. Neither are the Taylors.”

“Yeah,” Elise says, “they seem like really nice people.”

“They are,” he says. I peek my head out and look around the deck. I finally locate them on the far end close to the back of the boat. I wonder if they’re trying to hide. If so, they didn’t pick a good spot.

“So, you’re going to Italy this summer. You didn’t tell me,” she accuses.

“I didn’t want you to get jealous,” he replies mirthfully, putting his hands on her waist.

“Now, why would I be jealous, Mr. Johnson?” she replies. “You’re not my boyfriend. Besides, you’re only going to Europe for a week. I’ll be studying there next term.”

“Rub it in,” he says, before he kisses her.

“’Scuse me, Uncle Christian,” Sophie says, and she’s standing behind me with a tray, most likely to take to the Flybridge… until she looks out onto the deck and sees Marlow and Elise. Her shoulders fall and she turns around to go back the direction that she came. She’s still hurting from what he said about her earlier.

“I’ll take it,” I tell her. She smiles a tight smile.

“Thanks, Uncle Christian,” she says and hands me the tray before she heads back down to the kitchen. I thought she was helping with the kids and eating dinner. I turn around and clear my throat before I step out onto the deck. Marlow and Elise jump when they see me.

“You do know that’s glass, right?” I say, gesturing my head to the door I just exited. Marlow purses his lips guiltily.

“And it’s open?” I add. I wink at him to let him know that he’s not in any trouble, but he should probably take his making out somewhere more private.


Okay, I’ll admit it.

I thought sure that Grace was going to have a “Mia-pink-flamingo-pixies-flying-over-the-water” moment with Val’s wedding, especially a destination wedding at an Italian villa in Lake Como, but I was wrong. Grace put together some really spectacular ideas—modest, yet elegant—without even personally seeing the venue. She presented suggestions, very good ones in fact; she sought input; she offered different options for Elliot and Valerie to choose from. She did better in terms of cooperation and conservatism than she did with either of her prior children.

And Val’s one request of me… how could I refuse? I didn’t know she was still so raw from losing her baby. I don’t remember the due date, but I would imagine that right about now, they would be preparing for the baby to be here. They made the announcement at Thanksgiving and it’s May. She would probably be about to pop somewhere within the next month or so. I won’t ask her when the due date was. I’ll just be there if she needs me.

After lunch has settled, we all take a much-needed dip in the lake. The party moves to the parlor and the main aft where we can lounge and swim easily from the deck, and   Marlow’s date Elise finally comes to join the women. I can only imagine what he must have said to her to make her plaster herself to his side all this time. I didn’t think she was anti-social. I just thought, and probably correctly so, that she was afraid.

It turns out that she’s a trust fund kid from here in Mercer, but she doesn’t have that high-nosed, over-affluent attitude. She’s very well-spoken and cultured, and she’ll be graduating with Marlow in a couple of weeks, after which she’ll be headed off to Cambridge. I must admit, I’m impressed with this one.

That makes me wonder how Sophie’s making out today.

I haven’t seen her since we boarded, but the boat is huge and we’re all spread out. I can’t imagine what she could have thought to say badly about this one. She’s pretty, smart, and the picture of manners and decorum… and Sophie did say that her days of insulting Marlow’s dates had ended. I guess that remains to be seen.

“Mandy, I have an idea and I need to run it by you,” I say while we’re lounging on the deck.

“Okay, what’s up?” she asks,  

“Did you have any specific plans for Daddy for Father’s Day?”

“I got some gifts and I’ll cook dinner, but nothing huge. Did you have something in mind?” she presses.

“Yeah, I did,” I begin. “I’m having professional pictures taken of the twins to present to Christian. I was wondering what you thought of having pictures of me and Harry taken for Daddy.” She gasps.

“Oh, Ana, that’s a wonderful idea!” she says quietly. “I’m sure Ray would cherish that for the rest of his life.” I smile widely.

“Excellent,” I reply, pleased that she agrees. “Our photographer will be setting up here on Wednesday. If that’s too short notice, I can make it another day.”

“Oh, no, Wednesday’s fine. What should he wear? Should I buy him a new outfit?” She’s now positively giddy. 

“Only if you want to,” I laugh. “He doesn’t need to dress up. I think comfortable, casual, Just Harry will be perfect…”

We make a date to meet at the Crossing for lunch to do the photos, and I head to the shower in the master bath to wash my hair and bathing suit. When I’m done, I realize that I’ve packed a change of underwear in my little bag, but no bra.

This is not good.

My boobs are perky and although going braless wouldn’t be the end of the world, it’s just not something that I generally practice. I don’t have to worry about the leakage issue anymore since I’m no longer breastfeeding, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Maybe nobody will notice…


My husband zeroes in on me the moment I come out of the master bedroom, and although no one else can see it, he’s salivating! I can see him swallow the moisture in his mouth from clean across the room.

He makes a B-line over to me and takes my hand, seating me next to him at the dining table with Mia and Ethan and Val and Elliot, like the conversation they’re having requires our immediate attention. I fold my hands on the table and try to pay attention to whatever this riveting conversation is that draws us to the conference, only to discover that my husband only wanted to sit at the table to play “Tickle Me Elmo” with my inner thigh.

At first, it’s tolerable. It’s just a gentle caress. But then, he starts to move his fingertips across the skin, this barely-brushing motion that’s causing chills to creep down… and up… my leg. I try to adjust myself, clear my throat to get my bearings, but it’s no use. He continues what should be a harmless caress on the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, but it’s not harmless, and he knows it.

“Well, you can actually live like a king in Bali for a little bit of nothing,” Mia says. “The exchange rate of the rupiah to the dollar is insane!”

Bali… think Bali… what do you know about Bali?

“We live like kings wherever we go, Mia,” Christian chimes in like he’s not strumming a fucking melody on my skin. “No offense, but…” He gestures a shrug with his free hand. “That’s the kind of money we have.”

And this feeling is now actively creeping up my thigh and hitting its intended mark.

My clit starts to burn—not a forest fire, just a little spark… but Jesus, what a spark!

No matter how I try to concentrate on other things—big, hairy, disgusting men… changing dirty diapers… anything—I can’t distract myself from the incessant tickling on my inner thigh. I can’t move or squirm to alleviate it, and even though I try to will myself to close my legs it just ain’t happening. A few more moments later, the nicest little burst hits my click and causes a shiver to run through me that I must camouflage with a cough and a clearing of my throat and I hold my head down, cover my face, and try to catch my breath.

“Ana, are you okay?” Mia asks concerned.

“Yes,” I breathe. “Yes… yes, I’m fine. I just… suddenly got a little hot. Maybe a bit too much to drink. I’m going to go on over to the bathroom and… splash a little water on my face.”

“You want me to come with you?” she asks.

“No!” For God’s sake, no! “No, I’m fine, really. I’ll be right back.”

I quickly make my getaway and close myself into the nearest head. Good Lord, that man is just… sex personified! He got nowhere near my clit and I nearly burst into flames in front of four other people. How embarrassing!

I splash some water on my face and pull myself together before I open the door to see Christian leaning on the wall across from the bathroom.

“Feeling better?” he says with a knowing smirk. I shake my head at him.

“You are so wrong,” I say.

“And yet, you love me,” he says, playfully wagging one eyebrow. I move to pass him and go back to the dining room.

“Hey,” he says, catching me before I get past him.

“What’s this thing with Sophia and Marlow?” he asks. I can’t hide my reaction, so I just frown really hard.

“What thing?” I ask, trying not to let on that I know anything.

“It’s like a feud or something,” he says. “He saw her come out onto the deck to ask Jason to get something for Gail before we shoved off. He told his date to ignore her because she doesn’t know how to behave around company.”

Ouch! Oh, dear God, he did that again? The agony…

“Did Sophie hear that?” I ask.

“I’m afraid she did,” he says. “I don’t know who else heard it, but I did. It really hurt her feelings.” I roll my eyes. Dear God, this is getting worse. “Didn’t you say there was some argument at Christmas or something?”

“The twins birthday party,” I say. “I can’t remember what she said, but Marlow told Gail, and I think Sophie would have rather jumped off a cliff than to apologize.”

“Well, they should be even now,” he says, “because after he said that, I’m sure she’d hitch a ride on a shark’s back to get off this boat right now.” I grimace.

“That bad?” I ask. Of course, it’s that bad. Christian scoffs.

“You didn’t find it strange that I was bringing you refreshments earlier?” he says, folding his arms.

“Yeah, we noted it,” I say.

“There’s only one stairwell up to that deck,” he says, “and Marlow and his date had it blocked. Wild dogs couldn’t have dragged her out there, so you almost didn’t get them. She would have thrown that tray into the Pacific before she stepped out onto that deck, so I took the tray instead.”

“That explains a lot,” I reply. He raises a brow at me.  

“What do you mean?”

“When we’re at home and we have a get-together like this, I usually see Sophie at least once. Unfortunately, I’m the one who usually catches the smarmy remarks to the girlfriends,” I reply.

“Well, that explains it,” he remarks.

“Okay, now, what do you mean?”

“Those divine chocolate truffles, he would chew glass before he admits how good they were. I almost got offended that he was disparaging my truffles!”

I chuckle about him wanting to defend the honor of the truffles, but immediately sober about the escalating situation between Marlow and Sophie. We’ve got one of them jumping off a proverbial cliff, hitching a ride on a shark, avoiding wild dogs, and throwing hors d’oeuvres into the ocean before she chances an encounter with him while the other is chewing glass to avoid saying something nice.

“Dear God, I hope this blows over soon,” I say. Christian shrugs.

“It’s just plain old sibling rivalry,” he says. “I know they’re not actually siblings, but he’s the closest thing to a brother she’ll after have.”

No, my love, I’m afraid it’s much more than that.

Almost on cue, when we walk into the parlor, Jason asks where Sophie is.

“I’ve seen every other kid on this boat at least three times today,” he says. “I’m not sure I saw Sophie once… at least not since we shoved off.”

That’s because she’s in hiding.

“Settle down, killer,” Gail soothes. “She’s probably somewhere with her face in that notebook.”

“What notebook?” he asks.

“Try to keep up, dear. She’s walking around with one all the time. Last week, it was purple with peace signs. This week, it’s yellow with doodles,” Gail informs him.

“Oh, boy,” Jason says taking out his phone. “Do I even want to know what type of teenage ramblings are going on in those?”

“Probably not,” Marlow scoffs from across the room. Yeah, probably not.

“Sophie, where are you?” Jason says into his phone. “Well, come on up. You’re missing all the fun… Okay, love you, Baby Boo.” He ends the call. “She’ll be up in a minute.”

I could hear Marlow rolling his eyes.

As it turns out, he had nothing to be concerned about, because Sophie never came up until it was time to disembark and Jason never thought to call her again. Even then, she walked right past Marlow without a word.

“Thank you, for having me, Mr. and Mrs. Grey,” Elise says, shaking my hand as she leaves. “I had a really nice time, and this is a fantastic yacht.”

Well, she just earned a brownie point with Christian by calling it a yacht instead of a boat.

“It was a pleasure,” I say with a smile. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.”

Marlow says his goodbyes and we watch as they walk down the passarelle and begin the trek across the back lawn.

“I think this has been the best one,” Christian says, “that I paid attention to, anyway. The only one I really noticed was the last one he brought here.”

“How could you not notice her?” I ask. “I guess that talk you had must’ve sunk in… at least a little bit.”

“Here’s hoping,” he says, “because if he ever brings another ‘junior-skank-in-training’ into this house…”

He trails off as people begin to file off the boat and we’re wishing them goodnight. Between greetings, he keeps inconspicuously rubbing, pinching, and caressing my nipples to notify me that he knows I’m not wearing a bra. This fucker is starting a fire again, and people keep wanting to strike up a quick conversation on the way off the deck. It seems like it’s taking forever to get everybody off this fucking boat.

Chuck and Keri are the last to go, helping Ms. Solomon with some of the utensils and such from the kitchen. The moment their feet hit solid ground, Christian grabs my hand and drags me back to the parlor. I’m flung unceremoniously onto the sofa the minute we clear the sliding doors. I gasp from the surprise and he doesn’t waste time. He drops to his knees and digs right under my dress. Locating his goal, he grabs my underwear with both hands and effortlessly rips them from my body. He tosses them… wherever, grabs both legs and quickly snatches me to the edge of the sofa. I have to move quickly to keep from hitting my head on the hard trim.

Before I have a moment to complain, his face is buried deep between my thighs and he’s on a mission. Good Lord, is he on a mission! His tongue is pressing hard against my clit, digging deep for an orgasm that’s been riding the surface since just after the first one at the dining table and intensifying each time he copped a feel.

The burn is fast, and that’s what he wants. He’s sucking just hard enough the bring that orgasm down and I’m clawing at the sofa as his efforts are bringing me closer and closer to his intended result. Suddenly, the sound of the sliding doors interrupts my ascent and I’m horrified to see Ethan standing there somewhat stunned.

Christian stops his feasting and lifts his head to see who the fuck dares to interrupt us right now.

“I… forgot… um… never mind, I’ll get it tomorrow,” he says and turns around.

“Yeah, you do that,” Christian says, and before Ethan could even clear the deck, he’s back in my pussy again. I grind against his face, my hand grasping his hair, chasing that orgasm that waned when Ethan came to the door.

“Hah… gah…!” I pant as I feel it creeping into my hips again. He groans into my core, locking my hips with his arms and hands while giving my pussy a deep and titillating massage.

“Oh… God…” I breathe, squirming towards the burn and away from it at the same time as my husband hungrily devours my clit, leaving no part of my pussy neglected. My ass isn’t even on the sofa as I grind up into his face, holding a handful of hair for leverage.

“Ye… yes… don’t stop… don’t stop…” I beg as that familiar clenching grasps my pelvis. Dear, God, it’s going to kill me. It’s been burning all day ever since he teased my fucking nipple at the bottom of the stairs, and that orgasm at the dinner table only made it worse.

“Ah… ah…”

“Mmmmmmmmmm,” he hums into my crotch and sends shivers up my back along with the burning that’s flaming in my clit. His hands stealthily move up to my breasts, cupping them firmly as he thumbs my nipples, bringing them to that same tautness he found while teasing me earlier.

I’m nearly crying as the resulting orgasm ravages my body from tit to clit, causing me to rise from the sofa with my thighs firmly clamped around my husband’s cheeks. He rises to the challenge and clamps firmly down on my clit, suckling every bit of juice and pleasure that he can draw out of me. I groan helplessly as I clench the back of the sofa behind me, my body quaking through a powerful climax.

I’m sure that my body hasn’t stopped pulsing when he rises up to me and shoves his tongue in my mouth. My flavor on his lips is so hot and my pussy is still thumping. I wrap one arm around his neck to find that he has freed his cock, and he quickly and roughly thrusts it into me. I gasp in his mouth and he groans a primal sound before he begins to pump feverishly into me, never removing his lips from mine. He tears at my dress, ripping it open to gain access to my neck, and when he does…


He’s pounding into me—hard, deep, and merciless—as his mouth moves to my neck. I feel his teeth against my skin… in my skin, I don’t know… and the suction and grunting as he marks me. God… it’s heady…

“W… wait…”

He’s in another world somewhere, painfully sucking my skin and bringing the blood to the surface, grunting primally with each deep thrust…


He releases his spot, but quickly latches onto the other side, sucking but also lathing with his tongue as he does. I close my eyes and surrender. He’s lost to the passion, to the animal urge, and I have to go with him, let him ride it out…

He grabs my ass with one hand, securing me against him, and the back of the sofa with the other. I hold onto his shoulders as he drives deep into me, the impact and eroticism making me fucking dizzy. He’s primitive right now—animalistic—instinctively and unyieldingly hungry… and I made him this way. It’s… empowering… to know that I can do this to him.

I do my best to meet his thrusts, but he’s in total control of the movement, driving into me and only releasing my skin to yell…


I feel him thumping inside of me, coming hard and long and grunting with each pulse. I can only imagine how it must feel, and it’s turning me on again.

Dear, God, that was the hottest thing ever… and I didn’t even come!

My husband stays there for a moment, somewhat draped over me on the sofa, catching his breath. It doesn’t take long.

He gathers me into his arms and, with my arms and legs wrapped around him and his cock still inside me, he carries me to the dining room and sits me on the table. He’s out of his clothes in nanoseconds and moments later, he’s on his knees on the table above me, breathing like a bear and staring hungrily down at me. He grabs both sides of my dress and rips it open, buttons flying everywhere.

Damn, I kinda liked that dress…

He dives right into my boobs, taking hungry mouthfuls as he positions himself on top of me. He pushes my legs apart with his hips and thrusts into me again.

“Aah!” I gasp. Fuck, he just came! How is he still so fucking hard?

He entwines his fingers with mine and begins to grind hard into me, grunting with each stroke and moving with masterful force and precision. Fucking hell, this is intense. He’s that upward stroke and grind, deep with an awesome amount of friction and pressure right against my clit.

Oh, yes! Oh, fuck, yes!

Over and over, he punishes my pussy with this deep and intense stroke. And when he feels like he’s not getting deep enough, he lifts his leg to get more leverage, causing my legs to open wider and drape over his. He releases my hands and grasps the edge of the table over my head—even more leverage—and his hips pivot masterfully back and forth, up into me, thrusting hard and deep and reaching those places that only he ever could.

I reach down, grab his muscular ass, and squeeze. It spurns him on and he thrusts harder and deeper, as if he could. Feeling his glutes flex and release with each thrust and his cock burning against the inside and outside of my core—the combination is too much. I push my head back, open my mouth, and whimper.

Here it comes…

And then, he stops.

“Noooo,” I whine, but he ignores me. He’s breathing like a marathon runner, still inside me. I’m aching to come, so I try to move my hips to get that needed friction to push me over, but he presses his pelvis hard against me preventing me from moving. He’s calming himself before he comes, but I fucking want to come!

He withdraws from me and climbs off me and off the table, his cock rock hard and angrily standing at attention. I begin to protest, but he gathers me in his arms and wraps me around his body. While walking towards the front of the boat, he masterfully drops me back down onto his shaft.

“Fuck!” I scream in surprise. I assume he’s taking me to the bedroom. I assume incorrectly.

He turns to the curving stairs and halfway through his ascension, he drops and starts to fuck me right there on the stairs… and well!

How he does this I have no idea. The stairs curve and I’m like bent sideways with my ass on one of the stairs facing the banister and holding on with both hands. He’s got one of my legs over his shoulder and one wrapped around his leg some kind of way. He’s on his knees and he’s pounding into me hard and fast.

I’m not accustomed to a hard, fast fuck. It’s always either a slow, deep grind or a medium rhythm with a deep thrust, but the way he has me open right now…

Ho-ly cow!

“Fuck this shit is good!” he grunts, his hips pivoting faster than I ever think I’ve felt. I’m just getting into the rhythm when he stills, and I lament that he may be coming again.

He’s not, but he was apparently pretty fucking close.

He gathers me up again and continues his ascent up the stairs. Holding me up with two handfuls of ass, he hooks a left and carries me to his bridge, depositing me onto the table in front of the settee.

“Lay back!” he growls. I do as I’m told and lie back on the table. He lifts my leg, opening me wide and enters me again. I almost pick up right where I left off.

“Shit!” he hisses, pumping fast into me again and gripping my breast with his free hand. He’s rough and primal and it’s turning me on so much that I can hardly think. This table is smaller than the dining table so I reach out and grab both sides and hold on for dear life.

Just in time, too.

I end up releasing the table and covering my face, nearly clawing at my hair with the intensity of the orgasm that follows. My entire body clinches as I whimper and I feel myself shrinking.

“Aaaww, fuuuuck!” I hear my husband exclaim as he grabs both legs, holds them together straight up against his body and nearly drags me off the table, thrusting into a pussy that is no doubt pulsing and clenching as bad as my body is.

“Oooooohhh,” he laments as my core grabs him and pulls him in and I’m still thunderstruck from this orgasm. I’m still pulsing and I can feel him thickening inside me when he stops moving.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” he’s hissing with each breath as I descend, still holding my legs together and against him with both arms. When my vision clears and my pussy stops pulsing, I look up at him. His head is back and he’s breathing deeply…

And counting… he’s counting… he still didn’t come!

Well, that will never fucking do.

He releases me and falls into his Captain’s chair, his eyes closed, his dick hard, still counting and trying to control himself. What the fuck, man?

I climb off the table and crouch down in front of him. He raises his head and opens his eyes. I gently lick the head and tease the frenulum with my tongue and he stiffens in the chair.


I wrap my hands around his cock and take the head into my mouth, sucking firmly but gently.

“Fuck,” he hisses softly. “Baby… don’t…”

I pretend not to hear him. His cock is angry and thick and veiny and he is moments from blowing. Why the fuck doesn’t he want to come?

I clamp down onto his cock and get to work, tightening my mouth over the head and bobbing up and down, stimulating the hot, tight skin of the shaft. He grips the armrests of the chair and hiss deeply as I fuck him with my mouth.

“Baby, don’t make me come!” he commands. I ignore him. My total purpose is to make him blow like a rocket in this chair so that he thinks of me every time he takes the helm of his vessel. Fuck the fact that we christened the bridge, I’m christening this damn chair.

Baby…. Ssss, fuck, stop…” he hisses as I continue to bob on his cock, squeezing and jerking the base of his shaft. I look up into his face. His eyes are clouded; his teeth are gritting. His face is grimaced in an erotic mask and his abs are flexing wildly. He grabs my hair and thrusts, throwing his head back and forgetting himself for a moment. Then, he glares back at me, passionate fire in his steel gray eyes.

“Ana!” he whispers harshly. “Stop!”

It’s a command… and I still ignore it. Seeing my purpose, he tightens his hand in my hair and attempts to pause my assault. That only spurns me on. I bob harder, faster, using both hands to manipulate his shaft. He growls in his chest with each breath and even though he’s clamping painfully onto my hair, he couldn’t stop me right now if he wanted to. I see that orgasm in his eyes… and I want it!

With one final, gut-wrenching growl, he starts to come. When I taste it in my mouth, I release his cock and madly manipulate his frenulum with my tongue. He’s glaring at me—aroused, angry, shooting his load to the moon. He’s gripping the chair with one hand and my hair with the other as impressive streams of cum shoot from the head of his dick and paint his chest and torso. His dick is still throbbing, his cum-covered chest rising and falling violently with his breath as I gently lick his cock, head, and frenulum post orgasm. But when he catches his breath…

I yelp as he snatches my head back by my hair and glares at me.

“I fucking told you to stop!” he hisses

“I’m… sorry… Sir…” I pant, frightened… and immeasurably aroused at the same time.

“Oh, you’re going to be,” he threatens. He stands from the chair, releases my hair, and grabs me by the forearm.

“In the bedroom… now!” he commands, shoving me towards the door. I scurry into the captain’s quarters and onto the bed. He moves to the edge of the bed and now, he’s standing over me. I really can’t tell if he’s aroused or angry. He’s not flaccid, but he’s not standing at attention. He falls down, mouth at my pussy again, and puts his arms under my thighs.

“Give me your hands,” he commands. When I do, he grabs them firmly, immobilizing me and begins the most merciless flicking assault with his tongue that I can ever remember.

“Shit! Oh, shit!” I exclaim, trying in vain to squirm away from him. I’m trying to kick and do anything to get away from him, but it’s not working. He holds my lips open with his lips and continues to relentlessly flick my clit, nothing else. He just keeps going and going and going and I’m dying here. After a few minutes I know I’m going to come, but then he stops and says those two words that I dread right now.

“Don’t come.”

Oh, he’s got to be kidding! I raise my head and look down at him like he’s lost his ever-loving mind, but he doesn’t care. Seconds later, he’s right back at it again, open-mouthed flicking my clit with no obstructions. The burn never stopped and it’s even more intense when he started again.

“Christian, I can’t…” I plead, but he doesn’t stop. He’s intent on his task and he’s not even looking at me. He stops for a moment and blows on my clit, the cool air soothing and arousing at the same time. When he sets back to his task, the burn is once again more intense than before.

I know what he’s doing. He’s going to drive me out of my fucking mind.

“Christian, please,” I beg. I won’t be able to stop this. With each stop and go, it returns even more intense and he’s ignoring my pleas, and it finally hits…

I shriek out a fiery orgasm that has been building and building from the inside out even though he wasn’t inside me. He maintains that flick, intensifying it only slightly to wring that orgasm from me. My body is a trembling, useless ball of mush when he crawls on top of me and impales me with a steel-hard dick. I’m too weak to even protest.

You’re so disobedient,” he hisses. “I said don’t come. So, since I can’t have it one way, I’ll have it the other!”

He pins my hands down at the wrists and grinds, deep, hard against my clit. He pulls my nipple into his mouth and sucks hard, then bites it. The pain is surprising and the sensations are a bit overwhelming. I’m tender and tired, and I can’t resist. For a few minutes, I just lay there, trying to recover from the last orgasm, but he doesn’t stop—biting and nipping and grinding and thrusting, and even though my body is tired, my pussy has other plans.

“Nooo,” I whine, but he continues, manipulating all the right places, just the right way. I’m rising fast—he’s pushing all the right buttons and a few minutes later, I’m pulsing around him.

“Yes, that’s it,” he croons victoriously. “give it to me. Give it all to me.”

When the orgasm wanes, he flips me over lying flat on my stomach. He climbs atop me again and straddles me, his dick easily breaching my core and going deep, hitting all my inner walls with my legs closed.

“Aaaaaahhh,” I whine as he puts both hands on my shoulders and uses them for leverage. “Yeessss…!”

“Christian…” I whine. He’s going to make me pay. I made him come when he said don’t and now, he’s on his second or third wind and I’ve got to deal with it. And this position usually makes me come pretty quickly. I still tender from the last two orgasms, so it takes a little longer, but it doesn’t fail. A few minutes into the rhythm, my tender pussy is burning again with another forced orgasm.

Once my trembling stops, he’s up on his knees bringing me with him. He effortlessly sits me on his lap and impales me from behind again, holding my face and neck so that my head falls back onto his shoulder, his free hand wandering down to my clit as he fucks me. His breathing in my ear turns me on and I’m completely fucking useless.

“I know your body,” he threatens. “I know how to break you down. How many times do you think I can make this happen? Three? Five? Ten?”

“Please…” I pant.

“Please what, Anastasia?”

Yeah, please what? He told you not to make him come and you did. What do you expect?

Resigned to my fate, I relax my body and let him have it.

“That’s what I thought,” he says, turning my head to his and plunging his tongue into my mouth.

We go at it for hours, and I’ve come so many times, I’ve lost count. Each time I think I can’t take anymore, he brings me right back up—a different stroke, a changed position, a firm bite or a soft nibble, a lick, a pinch—repeatedly until I can’t think straight anymore. Even though he hasn’t said so, the Dom is in full effect and total control.

I try to tell him that I’m tired, but he doesn’t hear me. He just strums those guitar strings again and I’m alive once more. He has me on top of him and he’s fucking me from behind, a handful of tit in one hand and a wet clit in the other. I’m rising quickly to my 99th orgasm—who knows—as he pumps slow and deep into me when he makes an announcement. 

“I want that ass,” he growls as he fucks me. “Can I have it? Can I have that ass?”

“Yes!” I breathe.

“Can I?” He grunts, still thrusting into me. “Can I have if?”

“Yes!” I nearly wail. “Yes, you can have it!”

“Tell me!” he demands, pumping into me and bringing me closer.

“Take it!” I wail. “Take my ass, Sir, please!” Hurry, before I come.

I didn’t know I had slipped into soumise, but he seizes the moment with yet another predatorial growl. On his next withdrawal, he pulls out of me and guides his incredibly hard cock to my rosette. It resists his entry.

Come on, I beg my body, please let him in.

I’m panting like a racehorse and I do my best to relax my muscles to grant him entry. I gasp at the sting when his head breeches the opening. It hurts a bit, but I breathe through it.

“Yes,” he growls, “that’s it…”

My body responds to his voice and to the invasion in my ass. It’s a pain that I like, a pain that turns into pleasure. And as he pushes deeper and deeper into me, slowly inserting another inch and then another into that forbidden place, that pain intensifies and slowly begins to transform into pleasure.

“Oh, God!” I gasp quickly.

“Yes!” he hisses as he pushes deeper into me, then withdraws a bit and goes deeper still. “Fuck, yes!”

He repeats the process, a little more… and a little more… until he’s all the way in my ass, balls deep. I have to control my breathing as he just stays there, buried deep in my ass. It feels glorious.

He begins to move—slowly, pulling out of my ass halfway and then thrusting slowly back in. I almost can’t take it. He groans again with each thrust and my body sings, bending to his will, wanting him to go on and on and on…

And he does.

Once my body succumbs completely to him, he squeezes my breast and moves his hand from my clit to my core, inserting three fingers to fuck me while his palm manipulates my clit… and he deliciously and slowly fucks my ass.

It’s sensation overload. He’s all over me and I’m completely blinded by the pleasure. When I come this time, it will be over.

His hand crosses my body to my other breast and he adjusts his other hand somehow in and on my core. His thrust intensifies and then quickens. I feel him thickening in my ass and even though he’s not pulling out as far as he was before, I can still feel the thrust… and the thickness. His thrusting motions are now guiding my body against his hand—in my pussy and on my clit—and while he’s fucking my ass, his motions are making my body fuck his hand.

I nearly collapse against him as I realize I have absolutely no control.

“That’s it,” he coaxes, his voice primal as he fucks me everywhere, “that’s it…”

The sensation is rising painfully slowly, like an object coming at you in slow motion. You know it’s going to hit you, but you can’t stop it. It starts in my feet and my breast, a little tickle that teases me to let me know what’s coming. It moves up and down simultaneously, and my husband continues to voice his approval. He knows it’s coming. He knows it’s going to rip me to shreds… and he likes it.

It’s still taking its time, but knowing that it’s coming, my husband won’t stop and he won’t change his stroke. My body is already frozen, from exhaustion and from the pre-orgasmic pleasure I’m feeling right now.

“Yes… yes…” he continues, and I don’t know if he’s talking about what he’s feeling, or what he knows I’m feeling. It doesn’t matter… it’ll be over soon.

“I wish I could see you,” he laments, never losing his stroke. “I wish I could see your eyes… I know they’re beautiful… so beautiful…”

Now, how can he say the sweetest, most romantic things when he’s been tormenting me all night?

He continues that thrust in my ass that causes that crazy intense anal orgasm and he’s pulling one through my clit, too, and once the feeling from clit, ass, and tits all converge…

“Oh, Goooooooooooooddd!” I scream as the most intense orgasm of the night rips through my body.

“Fuuuuuuucck, yeeeeeeesssss!” I hear him yell through my screams. I can’t stop. The burn is painful—everywhere. All of my muscles… nothing, I have control of nothing. My throat hurts, my ears are popping, my body is begging for rest and relief. I’m done.

Dazzling colors paint the backs of my eyelids and my body is vibrating with sensation. I’m weeping… truly weeping with every breath and I don’t know what to do with myself.

When I come down and truly realize where we are, I feel him breathing and grasping my body. I still hear my weeping, and I feel my body drenched and helpless against his. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t. I’ll beg if I have to.

“W… whistles,” I weep. “W… whistles… please… no more… please…” he has to stop. My body can’t do anymore.

“Ssssssshhhh,” he soothes, still holding me, planting gentle kisses on my face as I cry.

A/N: Pictures of places, cars, fashion, etc., can be found at 

Pictures related to the progress of the Italian Villa can be found at

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

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

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

~~love and handcuffs

Grey Continued: Episode 35—She Rescues Him Right Back

I can’t remember who said it, but whoever it was that said the episodes needed titles and not just episode numbers, you were absolutely right. I’m in the process of giving the previous episodes titles, but they will be titled from here on out.

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 35—She Rescues Him Right Back


“I can’t tell you what his motive was,” Alex says while sitting in my office later in the week with a very attentive Jason. “He’s married with two kids of his own, but they were recently separated. There’s a couple of domestic violence charges that were dropped. He’s got some petty theft, some traffic tickets, a DUI, but nothing on the books as serious as kidnapping. There is one thing…” He trails off.

“What one thing?” Jason says. Alex hands Jason a sheet of paper.

“Third from the bottom,” he says. Jason’s eyes travel down the page and his jaw tightens.

“Rape?” Jason says coolly.

“You missed it. Rape of a minor,” Alex corrects him. “Again, the charges were dropped, but…” And he trails off again.

“What else could he want with Sophie?” Jason says, his anger rising. “Is he connected to any human trafficking rings?”

“Not that I can see, but if he was, we wouldn’t see it on paper unless he’s been arrested… and they usually don’t get released.” Jason runs his hands through his hair.

“Where is he now?” Jason asks.

“He’s still in lockup,” Alex replies. “With his outstanding warrants, he’s going to be in there for a while and with the nature of this accusation, he’s not making bail.” Jason’s jaw tightens.

“I want every little piece of information you can find on him—where he works, who is friends are, and what he had for dinner last Friday. I want to know what time he takes a shit when he’s in the pen. Every. Little. Thing.” Alex nods.

“I’m on it,” he says, and leaves the room. There’s silence for a moment while Jason’s quiet fury fills my office.

“I know how you feel,” I begin, and he shoots a look of death at me. “All I’m saying is that I know that self-preservation goes out the window when someone hurts someone that you love. I’ll be with you every step of the way, whatever you decide to do, but please remember that people need you—your daughter, your wife… your friends.” I let that last one hang in the air for a moment before I continue. “Whatever you decide to do with the information, just keep your head about yourself. I could have killed David with my bare hands when he kidnapped Butterfly. I can’t imagine what I’d do to someone who took Mackenzie.”

His jaw twitches, but then slacks a bit after a moment. He’s gripping the back of a chair like a vice and the veins are throbbing in his temples.

“Sir, I’m bringing Ben in from the Crossing to be your detail for the rest of the day,” he says. “This information is too sudden and heavy… I can’t be effective at my job right now…”

“I understand,” I tell him. “Take the rest of the day off. Do whatever you need to do.” He nods once, takes a moment to compose himself, and leaves the room. I lean back in my seat and breathe deeply, pondering what I just said to Jason.

I can’t imagine what I’d do to someone who took Mackenzie…

I’ve got to watch this man. He’s a loaded cannon aimed right at Ruiz. I call Alex.

“Yes, sir,” he answers.

“Jason’s a pro and I know that there’s no way to put a covert detail on him, but he’s taken the rest of the day off. In essence, he says his emotions will affect his work. We need to keep an eye on him, Alex. This is his daughter. She’s already been through so much and so has he.”

“I know,” Alex says. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Make sure you keep a tight eye on Ruiz,” I add. “We need to know the very second that man makes it out of police custody.”

“Understood,” he replies, and I end the call. I desperately need to change my train of thought. I need to think of something happy.

Mother’s Day is Sunday.

We were so concerned about Val and Pops last year that we skipped right over Mother’s Day and Father’s Day, and almost skipped over our anniversary. Well, not this year. It’s hard to know what to get the woman who has everything, but I think I made some good choices

She likes her car, but I’ve already ordered her a new one—same make, but next year’s model, newer feature, deeper blue… that blue…

I’ve created a fragrance for her—a mixture of the flowery, pleasant smells that remind me of her with a hint of the evocative flavors she likes that make me want to rip her clothes off, including cinnamon-vanilla. When I mixed them, the perfumer thought I had lost my mind, but when she mixed them, she took one whiff and her eyes widened. I sniffed the fragrance and imagined it intermingled with my wife’s natural scent and couldn’t resist.

“That’s it,” I had nearly growled, not realizing that I had unleashed the Dom voice until I heard it. Unfortunately, the perfumer heard it, too. She quickly applied a bit of the mixture to her wrist and held it out for me to sniff.

“Are you sure?” she said, provocatively, while holding her arm out for me to smell it, so I did. I knew exactly what was going to happen.

“Yes, I’m sure,” I said in the same voice. “Bottle it.”

She smiled sweetly at me and mixed the creation. Once I made sure that it was correct, I gave her the name to etch on the bottle.


She was still all moony and simpering as she giftwrapped my order and handed it to me along with a personalized copy of the formula, and that’s when I dropped the bomb on her.

“Thank you,” I had said. “Do you always test the fragrances on yourself?”

“Only for special customers,” she had replied, suggestively.

“You probably shouldn’t do that,” I had told her. “My wife’s body chemistry is much, much different than yours. Each body releases its own pheromones and when the chemicals mix, the fragrance changes. As a professional, you should know that. You almost blew this sale. Think about that before you apply someone’s custom fragrance to your skin.”

How dare she violate my memory that way? That could have been catastrophic! Yes, she was crestfallen, but I wasn’t trying to blast her. I was giving her a bit of professional advice.

Okay, maybe I was trying to blast her, too.

I have Saturday all planned. I’ve found her the most beautiful and elegant Zac Posen Moda Operandi gown—navy blue silk… or I should say Victoria found it. I’ve convinced Butterfly to have her spa day on Saturday so that she can get her hair done. I’ve already given Franco specific instructions of what I want her hair to look like—and no fragrances in any of her treatments with the exception of a gentle vanilla if she requests it, so that it won’t clash with her custom perfume.

A limousine with a hired driver will take us to the Seattle Opera House for dinner and a showing of the critically acclaimed Ariadne auf Naxos. I’ve never taken my wife to the opera, but she always seems to appreciate the finer things. It’ll also remove the only comparison I’ve ever had to myself as Edward Lewis in Pretty Woman, and that was when I was dealing with that asshole in Madrid… being an asshole myself.

Now for the jewelry. I make that call.

“Thank you for calling Cartier. This is Marvin. How can I help you?”

“Marvin, it’s Christian Grey.”

“Mr. Grey,” he nearly purrs. “Always a pleasure. What can I do for you today?”

“What do you have in the vault that’s opera-ready? Or can you direct me to a store that does have something opera-ready?” He’s silent for a moment.

“Can I get you to hold on for a moment? I’m going to check the computer and the safe,” he says.

“Okay, that’s fine.”

I’m sure this man hit speed dial and called every Cartier in the tri-state area to see who had opera-ready jewelry. In three minutes, he was back on the phone.

“Do you still have the same mobile number?” he asks.

“I do.”

“I have a piece available. I can text it to you if you would like.”

“I would like,” I respond. In moments, I get a notification.

“What do we have here?” I ask as I swipe the screen and open the text.

“Diamond and platinum,” he says as I examine the exquisite creation. “Convertible—the first two tiers can be removed for a more conservative look. The center stone is 34.6 carats.” Jesus, this thing is screaming armored truck. Butterfly will never wear that.

“Anything nearly as exquisite for less than eight figures?” I ask. “I want something along the same lines, but when it comes to jewelry, my wife is somewhat modest. I nearly had to twist her arm to take an $80,000 set.”

“Ah,” he says. “Extravagant, but delicate.” My phone chimes again and I swipe the screen.

“What do we have here?” I ask.

“Smaller stone, white gold, 10-carat total weight,” he explains. It’s perfect. “What color is her dress?”

“Blue,” I reply. Of course. My phone chimes again, and there’s a pair of earrings.

“Talk to me,” I say.

“Diamonds and white gold, embellished with small sapphires and emeralds.” Yes, these will do nicely.

“How do we transport?” I ask.

“The usual. Escala?” he asks.

“No, I don’t own that property anymore. Just deliver to Grey House. You can have them here on Friday?”

“Yes, sir. What time would you like them?”


The Taylors don’t join us for dinner this evening and I’m more than a little concerned about Jason and Sophie. Her actual birthday is two days away, and this is a really fucked-up memory to bring it in on. When I go to my study for the evening, I can hear her in Butterfly’s office. They’re talking about designs and sofas; the fact that they love the Brynhurst coffee table but hate the Luca ivory wood dining table. I get caught in my work and tune out their conversation, and when I’m paying attention again, I hear Sophie say something that makes the hairs rise on my neck.

“It seems like my whole life is one big close call. Do I feel okay about that—you know, that something bad could have happened but didn’t, or do I feel scared all the time?”

Why should a 14-year-old girl have to ask that question?

Immediately feeling like an interloper on what should probably be a very private conversation, I turn on the sound system that pipes through the intercom and allow the soft sounds of Keiko Matsui to pipe into my office—not too loud to arouse suspicion, but loud enough to drown out their conversation so that it may remain private.

And now, I want Ruiz’ blood, too.

Speaking of wanting blood, Sarah’s husband, Fletcher—or Fletch for short—is a mechanic with his own shop and he’s now living above the shop. He stopped paying the bills at the house as he made her responsible for the bills there since he always had a backup plan. Everything is in her name, so he could walk away with ease. He has no criminal record—he’s just a regular old wretch of a man. Fletch, the wretch.

I put her in with one of the financial advisors at Grey House to help her get her financial situation in order. With her permission to speak to her debtors, he’s helping to negotiate smaller lump sum payoffs in return for a paid in full status on her credit report, and less funds to pay back in the interest-free loan that I’m giving her, leaving more to live on and invest if she so chooses.

I offered to buy her a car—nothing flashy, just something useful to get her from point A to point B—but she flatly refused, indicating that the bus was just fine, and that she had her eye on an apartment that was actually walking distance from the office. I take a little comfort in that, but I’ll set her up with covert security for a while in case her husband decides to make an appearance. Her business mail will be delivered to the mailroom at GEH for now. I’m hoping the asshole gets brave and comes down there to harass her. I’ll rip him apart all by myself.

As she has no plans for Mother’s Day, I invited her to our house for dinner since my plans for the opera will be on Saturday.

“I’m not a mother, child,” she had protested.

“Yes, you are,” I retorted. “You’re a stepmother to two children that you helped when they needed it even though they were selfish, inconsiderate, and ungrateful, but more importantly, you’re a fairy godmother to me, my wife, and my children. Everything that you see in terms of me and my immediate family would not have been possible if it hadn’t been for you and a selfless act that you did three years ago that cost your livelihood. So, we’ll see you Sunday, Godmother.”

She was very happy to accept the invitation and the title.

Saturday has arrived and I’m happy to say that the week proceeded mostly without incident. Ruiz was indicted on attempted kidnapping charges and he’s being held without bail… another fucking trial, this time centered on Sophie. Shalane is going to have a field day with this.

“I’m not telling that bitch shit,” Jason says when he hears about the charges. “If she doesn’t find out on her own or Sophie doesn’t tell her, she’s not hearing shit from me. Have you listened to my daughter talk?”

Yes, Jason… yes, I have.

“She knows way more than she should know about life right now,” he continues. “As much as it scares the shit outta me, she should be giggling about boys with her friends right now, going shopping and trying makeup… I’ll take a million purple hairdos compared to the shit that she’s had to contend with! Who becomes a damn-near master chef at 14 from watching the damn cooking channel?”

He was furious the whole day, and I’m sure that it’s one of those days where Sophie could have asked him for anything. Instead, she asked to cooked Mother’s Day dinner for all the mothers with only a little help from Ms. Solomon.

“It’s her passion,” Jason had said. “It makes her happy.”

This kid is a strange animal and I can’t help but wonder what adulthood will be like for her. I don’t know how I feel about her mother not knowing about the attempted kidnapping, though. Granted, she’s a selfish cow and would probably use it to draw attention to herself in some way, or as some kind of ammo against Jason, but I’m still on the fence about her not knowing.

“Well, I’m not telling her,” Jason reinforces. “If it takes forever for that asshole to go to trial—like it usually does—she’ll be released, and she can see it for herself. Otherwise, she can kiss my ass.”

And that was the end of that. I don’t think I had ever seen him that animated before, even when he went to pick her up from the police station.

We’ve also heard that investigations have begun on the business dealings of one Attorney Asshole Blake. We’ll have to wait to see how that turns out.

81fb0a7c599c7f9a3cb86e62abdcbe56 Butterfly is at the salon as I instructed and I’m sitting in my office looking over some emails. Aggie has sent pictures of the two-week-old puppies. I have to admit, they’re kind of cute. We can still have our pick of a boy or a girl from this litter as the entire hoard survived and are all doing fine now. We’ve decided to hold off deciding if we wanted a boy or a girl from the red noses until the brindles are born, but if it takes too long, we’ve committed to a girl and we’re hoping for a healthy boy from the brood of brindles.

I’ve also gotten the list of reservations for the attractions for our trip to Italy. Looking at it, I wonder if Audrey is still interested in being my travel agent.

She has us spending two weeks in Rome, two weeks in Venice, and two weeks at the villa. She has clearly forgotten who she’s dealing with. I’ve been to Italy six times—two of those trips, she planned. Now, she’s trying to send me this bullshit itinerary with three places to visit when we’ve got six weeks in the country? Who the fuck does she think she’s fooling?

To: Audrey Law
Re: Italy Itinerary
Date: Saturday, May 9, 2015, 14:21
From: Christian Grey

Ms. Law,

Is this your idea of a joke? Is my business that worthless to you that you’re willing to literally hand it off to the next agent?

I’m sure that I’ve given you every impression that the first month of this trip is going to be a second honeymoon and you have us spending two weeks in Rome and two weeks in Venice. This sorry list of attractions that you have somehow managed to spread over two weeks in Rome, I can see in three days! An entire day at the Colosseum? Seriously?

And I’m sure that you remember me saying that I wanted to take my wife to see the David. In fact, I very distinctively remember her effectively shielding your attempts to disparage her for not seeing it. Yet, I don’t see Florence on this itinerary. And as much as I plan to take total advantage of the most romantic city in the world, exactly what do you expect us to do for two weeks in Venice?

Where the hell is Naples, Salerno, Capri, Milan? Do you really need suggestions for a six-week trip to Italy with carte blanche??

If you are incapable of doing what I’ve ask for, just let me know and stop wasting my time. You have three days to fix this or I’ll plan my own trip and book it through another agent. I’ll await your reply.

Christian Grey, CEO
Grey Enterprises Holdings. Inc

What the hell is wrong with this woman? She’s clearly pissed because I’ve never brought a woman with me to plan my trip and I brought Butterfly with no warning. But hell, she planned our shopping trip to Paris, our honeymoon in Greece, the babymoon, the Australian cruise… Did she think my wife was a figment of my imagination? The arrogance and stupidity of people truly never ceases to amaze me. Speaking of babymoon…

To: Christian Grey
Re: You’re Never Going to Believe This
Date: Friday, May 8, 2015, 16:42
From: Jason Taylor

Do you remember the sleaze Arthur Daniels from the babymoon? Guess where he is now?

Jason Taylor
Personal Security
Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc

There’s a link in the email and when I click it, there’s a very brief story about how Arthur Daniels has plead guilty to second degree murder charges.

“Murder?” I say, texting Jason to come to my study. “What the fuck?” He seemed like a wimp to me, just somebody trying to take a hit to get a buck. Granted, I knew he couldn’t take a beating, or so I thought. I had him pegged for maybe the guy who would take a good hit and go down, then sue for some insurmountable amount and take a payment out of court, but murder? What the hell?

“You need me, sir?” Jason says, walking into my office.

“I just saw your email from yesterday,” I tell him. “About Daniels? Murder? Is that right?” Jason nods.

“I did a little research on him,” he tells me. “I was just curious and had some time to kill—in an attempt not to put a hit out on Ruiz. Anyway, this guy left such a taste in my mouth that I ran a check and found this.”

“What the hell happened? Was it self-defense?” I ask.

“Not even close,” Jason replies. “It was a baby.” I glare at him.

“He murdered a fucking baby?” I bark. “Was it his baby?”

“Um… well… it was his wife’s baby,” Jason replies. I must be a little loopy because I thought his wife’s baby would be his baby, but of course I’m still stunned by the fact that he killed a baby.

“Okay, his wife’s baby. So, I’m assuming the baby wasn’t his,” I deduce.

“You’re assuming correctly.” Okay, that opens a whole new can of worms. He discovers that the kid isn’t his, so…

“So, he killed the baby?” I ask in disbelief. “What the fuck?” Jason sighs.

“As the story goes, Kiley Daniels had the kid and the moment he popped out black, Arthur Daniels grabbed the kid and slammed him on the ground. They hadn’t even cut the cord yet.”

Oh, fucking hell, I’m horrified.

“Jason, you’re not telling me that a man took a baby straight out of the pussy and killed it right there…” My voice is controlled. I can hardly believe what I’m hearing.

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” he says. “The same doctor that delivered the kid pronounced him dead right there before the wife even passed the afterbirth.

Fucking hell. I fall back in my chair in total disbelief of what I’m hearing. How can a human being have this much rage inside?

“Could it be that he just dropped the kid?” I ask, still trying to find some good in this bastard that I saw with my own eyes isn’t worth a $3-bill.

“He tried that defense,” Jason says, “that he dropped the baby in shock, but there were too many witnesses. No matter how his lawyer tried, he couldn’t get Daniels off, so he pled to second degree instead of first.

“Mrs. Daniels went into a catatonic state of shock and remained that way for months. When she came back to herself, she moved in with family. She didn’t remember being married, being pregnant, her affair, none of it. When they told her who Arthur was and what had happened, she didn’t even recognize him. Her mind had blocked the whole thing out.”

“What about the baby’s father?” I ask. Jason shakes his head.

“He never came forward,” he says. “Nobody knows how much he knew, but he just stayed in the background. I didn’t investigate enough to find out about him. I just wanted to know what happened to the asshole.”

“So, we know what’s happening with him. Where is she now?”

“Going on with her life like nothing ever happened from what sources say,” he replies. “Of course, she filed for divorce because she doesn’t know the guy, and from what she does know of him, he killed her baby. So, that’s that.” I shake my head.

“Talk about getting your comeuppance,” I say. “Damn, murder of a baby…”

“He’s been in protective solitary confinement,” Jason says. “Once they sentence him, if they put him in general population, he won’t last a day.”

“How much time do you think he’ll get?” I ask.

“I think they’ll throw the book at him. They can’t execute him because it’s second degree, but he sure won’t be shipping in pussy anytime soon.” I shake my head again.

“I could’ve gone my whole life without knowing this,” I say, closing my laptop. “By the way, don’t make any more travel arrangements through Audrey Law. Make sure GEH knows—no expensing through her. We’re going to be looking around for someone else to handle the company travel.”

“Okay… you’ve been with her for years. Can I ask what happened?” he says.

“She’s testing me,” I say. “I put her in charge of our trip to Italy and she’s coming back with bullshit. Ridiculous bullshit. She’s pissed because I’m married, and she’s trying to sabotage the trip.”

“She can’t be pissed that you’re married. She planned your honeymoon,” he protests.

“It’s one thing when you know there’s a wife,” I say. “It’s another thing altogether when you put a real face and a body to it. I took Butterfly with me—or I should say, we met at Ms. Law’s office—when I decided to start planning the trip. It was a huge pissing contest that my wife should never have had to be involved in. Law kept making snide remarks that could be camouflaged as valid questions and conversation, but Butterfly didn’t miss a swing. She kept hittin’ ‘em back at her like a pinch hitter in the bottom of the third.

“You would have thought that by the time we left, Law would’ve understood her place, but apparently, she hasn’t. She just sent me a six-week itinerary with two weeks in Rome, two weeks in Venice, and two weeks at Lake Como.” Jason frowns.

“That sounds odd,” he says.

“That sounds stupid!” I reply. “If you’re a tourist spending six weeks to see Italy, why would you want to spend two weeks in Venice and two weeks in Rome? You’ve got six weeks to see the country…”

“Hey, you don’t have to convince me. Like I said, it sounds odd. So… no more Audrey Law?” he asks.

“Nope,” I say. “I’m going to let her think that we’re not booking travel with her until she gets her act together. Then, assuming I let her fix her faux pas and get this trip right, when I get back from Italy, I’ll let her know that she’s fired. So, we need to start looking for someone to handle our travel arrangements from here on out.” He knows I want him to be part of the selection because most often, he’s the one that deals with the agent to arrange my travel.

“You got it,” he says.

“Good, I’m going to get ready for my date with my wife. You’ve reserved the room?”

“I have, and the car will be in the valet,” he replies.

“Excellent. Do you have anything special planned for Mrs. Jason?” I ask. He smiles devilishly.

“I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you,” he says, raising one brow at me.


My wife is a vision as she steps out of Miana’s. Her hair is beautifully coifed in a swooping chignon while tendrils of hair playfully brush her shoulders. The midnight blue, nearly black off-the-shoulder Zac Posen gown is so elegant and fashionable on her that she looks like she’s floating towards me. Her makeup is flawless as usual, her pouty red lips just dark enough to make them kissable, but not too dark for the occasion. My only regret is that I didn’t grace her wrist with diamonds to complement her elbow-long opera gloves, but the exquisite Cartier necklace and earrings stand out enough to accentuate the ensemble. A cuff may have been overkill.

“Mrs. Grey, you’re stunning,” I say as I kiss her hand.

“As are you, Mr. Grey,” she replies, coyly. I’m not modest. I know I’m an attractive man and I look damn good in a Brioni tux, but I always feel like a troll next to her. I open the door for her and help her inside the limo, careful of the flowing folds of her dress, and off we go to the Seattle.

The dress code is usually very relaxed at the Seattle Opera, but tonight is a special night as most attendees are coming to celebrate Mother’s Day. It’s actually more of a red-carpet affair this evening, complete with doormen to open the doors of our limousine. It’s not a Paparazzi sort of affair, but there are a few snapping pictures when my enchanting wife exits the limo. She smiles prettily for the cameras, nodding once in various directions as we make our way into the hall.

The opera is three hours long, so we have dinner at the restaurant inside McGraw Hill. I’ve reserved a cozy table in the corner so as not to be the center of attention in the restaurant, but of course there’s the odd person or three that steals a look in our direction. I opted not to bring security tonight, and I hope that was the right decision as some of the concert-goers look as if they can’t resist coming over to the table and saying, “Hi,” like they’re greeting an old friend.

Luckily, we’re able to enjoy our dinner without interruption—salt-crusted roasted leg of lamb with creamy polenta and choices from the harvest table along with Tuxedo Tiramisu, the richest confection I think I’ve ever tasted.

“I’ve never been to the opera,” Butterfly says as we sip our coffee, and again I feel like Edward Lewis.

“You know that I appreciate music,” I say, “especially classical music. Opera is a little different than classical, but it’s on the same level in that it requires a more sophisticated ear to enjoy it. The oldest operas aren’t written in English, but there are some English operas that date back to the 16th Century. That being said, whether the opera is performed in English or not, the music is usually so powerful that the performance becomes universal.

“There are screens in the auditorium that project subtitles in English, but I feel that takes away from the performance. Opera is always very emotional and generally, how you react to your first opera will determine if you ever truly love it.”

“Why does that sound familiar to me?” she asks as she finishes her cappuccino.

“Because you and I are inadvertently having a Pretty Woman evening,” I say with mirth. “This is your first time at the opera, much like Vivian Ward had never been to the opera in the movie. You’re wearing a beautiful dress, exquisite jewelry, and just like Julia Roberts in the movie, you’re a drop-dead bombshell.”

That elicits a giggle from her.

“And because Edward Lewis says something very similar to Vivian Ward when they’re sitting in their box seats, which is where we’ll be in a few moments. To this day, it’s still the best explanation of opera that I’ve ever heard. He tells her that ‘People’s reaction to opera the first time they see it is very dramatic. They either love it or hate it. If they love it, they will always love it. If they don’t, they may learn to appreciate it, but it will never become part of their soul.’”

“So… do you think this Motown girl is going to love the opera?” she asks.

“I sure hope so,” I tell her. “I very rarely get to go, but when I do…” I trail off. The experience is unexplainable, so why try?

“I will tell you that the opera that we’ll be seeing tonight is an opera in an opera, so you may—for lack of a better word—lose your place if you don’t keep up. It starts with a live orchestra and, of course, we have the best seats in the house. There are opera glasses in the box and, without telling you the story, I think it’s time we get to our seats.”

I stand and pull her chair back and we head to the auditorium. I’m stopped by a few business associates who have also brought their wives for an evening of opera, but we get to our seats without incident as once the opera starts, no one is allowed into the auditorium. If you leave, you have to watch the opera from monitors in the lobby until you are allowed back in.

I watch my Butterfly as carefully as I can throughout the performance. At first, she’s not able to follow the prologue, and without an English translation, it can be hard to follow. I move very close to her and whisper in her ear so that only she can hear me.

“That’s the composer,” I tell her, pointing to the young girl dressed like a man, who seems forlorn for most of the scene. “There are two sets of performers hired to perform after the rich man’s dinner. However, dinner has run past its time, so both performances have to go on simultaneously. The composer’s group is an opera and the other group is a comedy troupe.”

She nods and looks through her opera glasses. She points to a performer at the end of the stage without speaking and I lean in and whisper to her that he is the Music Master trying to convince the composer to make the necessary changes to his opera so that both shows can go on. She nods again and pays attention to the performance. She watches the performance with a curious eye, but not a captivated eye, and I’m concerned that she’s going to be one of the people who can appreciate opera, but not necessarily love it.

I will say that the voices in the prologue are… lacking, that’s the best way that I can put it. For her first opera, I may have wanted to introduce her to one of the shows in Italy. For some reason, this particular company is not capturing the richness in the tones that I’m accustomed to. Their voices are soft and tweeting instead of full and vibrant, and considering that the opera is in German, the audience really needs to be captured with the tones and power of the music since they can’t understand the words.

As such, Butterfly has turned her attention to the monitors that have the English subtitles. She doesn’t need me to explain the prologue to her now as she can read what’s actually going on. I’m a bit disappointed that she has opted to read the subtitles, but I can’t fault her. She tried.

The tedious prologue has finally ended and—to make a long story short—both companies have figured out how to merge the opera with the comedy show, much to the dismay of the composer who has stormed off the stage. Now, the opera portion of the performance begins, and our prima donna—Ariadne—is set on the stage, abandoned on the island of Naxos by her lover. There are three nymphs on stage who are supposed to be Ariadne’s only companions. However, the comedy troupe comes in and unsuccessfully tries to lift the spirits of the brokenhearted Ariadne.

Once Ariadne began singing, I now hear the rich, full tones that I’ve been waiting for. The prima donna’s face distorts in such anguish and despair, and her voice rings deep from her stomach and pulls you from your seat, so much so that Butterfly is now leaning on the rail of the opera box as close as she can get to the talented soprano from this far away from the stage.

This is the reaction I was hoping for.

Butterfly hangs on every word that comes from Ariadne’s lips, as if she can completely understand what she’s saying. Even when the thespians and comedic singers enter with their buffoonery trying to cheer the broken Ariadne, their voices portray the richness that I’m accustomed to. However, it’s not until Bacchus enters that I hear the booming tenor that touches even the deepest part of my black soul. Upon his entrance, his powerful voice causes my wife to gasp and if I didn’t know that she wasn’t privy to dramatics, I think she’d faint right there on the floor.

As such, the opera continues with my wife gasping and crying at various intervals, laughing when the comedic troupe vies for the affections of their saucy comedian Zerbinetta and weeping incessantly when Ariadne begs Bacchus to take her to the realm of death and end her suffering. As Bacchus falls in love with Ariadne, the opera ends with an extremely moving and powerful aria between the two, and my wife looks emotionally exhausted. As the rest of the opera goers file out of the boxes and auditorium, she just sits there with a bit of a catatonic expression on her tearstained face.

“Are you okay?” I ask cautiously. She waves me off as if to signify that she can’t talk at the moment. We sit silently in the box for about five minutes as the opera auditorium empties, and my wife has wrung my handkerchief until I’m certain that the threads are screaming for mercy.

“Okay,” she finally says, once the auditorium is almost empty. She rises from her seat and has to find her legs. I quickly put my arm around her waist, and she raises sad but grateful blue eyes to me.

“Ready?” I ask, and she nods. We leave the auditorium and stand out front with the other opera goers waiting for their cars in front of the opera house. I note that’s it’s chillier than I thought it would be and I remove my jacket and drape it over my wife’s shoulders.

“Thank you,” she says sweetly, shamelessly putting her arms into the sleeves. Even after she’s been crying, she looks lovely. I kiss her softly on the lips.

“You’re welcome,” I say, smiling at her.

“Grey!” I hear from somewhere off to my right. Seriously? I look up and see Steve Wexton walking over to me. Son of a bitch. I’ve got one of his companies on the hotplate right now for acquisition. He’s making his way over to me and I make a point of putting my arm around my wife, who now has a questioning expression on her face.

“Business associate,” I tell her.

“I figured as much,” she replies distasteful. His female companion—wife, girlfriend, I don’t know—is scurrying to catch up with him. She’s wearing a… nice dress.

“Jesus, Grey,” he says, examining me and my wife. “It’s not the Met.” I raise a brow at him. It’s not the office Christmas party either, I think to myself as I examine his off-the-rack suit and his companion’s equally off-the-rack dress.

“Maybe not, but it is a special night,” I point out, “and I like for my girl to look like the belle of the ball.” He raises a brow at my wife.

“She’s definitely stunning,” he says, suggestively, and Butterfly conspicuously grasps my arm.

“I agree,” I say. “That’s why I married her.” Down, you fucking canine. He turns to me and issues a veiled challenge.

“Easy, Grey,” he says. “It’s not like I’m going to take your girl or anything like you’re taking my company.”

“That’ll never happen,” Butterfly says, low enough that she thinks no one heard her, but Wexton’s gaze shoots to her.

“Not enough money, sweet cheeks?” he shoots. My wife is completely horrified and claps back before I can’t even stop her.

“Not enough anything, limp dick!” she retorts angrily. Oh, shit.

“Butterfly!” I scold gently.

“He called me ‘Sweet Cheeks,’” she says quickly. “How would he know?”

“How would you know my dick is limp?” he shoots back.

“Okay, that’s enough!” I snap, glaring at Wexton. “I didn’t deck you for that derogatory statement you made to my wife, so I suggest you stop now while you’re ahead.”

“No offense, Grey, but she started it,” he retorts.

“No offense, Wexton, but you’re delusional. You started it, and I’m going to finish it. By the way, you just lost your date.”

Wexton looks over his shoulder to see his date getting into the back of a taxi.

“If you hurry, you might be able to catch her,” I suggest.

“I’m having more fun here with you,” he smirks. “What do you say we let bygones be bygones and go grab a drink?” He can’t fucking be serious. Like a chariot from heaven, the limo arrives and our driver steps out and opens the door for my wife.

“No, thanks, Steve. I still got my date, and like I said, special night.” I wink at him as my wife gets into the limo, then I slide in beside her just in case this asshole gets any ideas. The chauffeur closes the door behind us and I quickly hit the lock.

“God, what a sleaze!” Butterfly exclaims when we’re safely inside the car.”

“Yeah, I can’t pick who I take a company from,” I say, fastening my seat belt and taking her hand. “I just pick the company. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she replies. “He’s a lightweight. I’ve dealt with much worse.”

“So, tell me,” I begin once we’re on our way, “what did you think?” I already know, but I want to hear her take on the performance.

“I’ll be honest and tell you that the first part moved very slowly for me, but once we got to the opera in the opera, I could feel the pain and emotion of the characters.”

“Could you tell what was happening once you stopped reading the monitors?” I ask.

“I could tell that the female lead was heartbroken,” she says. “I couldn’t really tell what the three angel-like ghostly women in the back were doing, but I knew that the four or five people in the forefront were comic relief of some kind.”

“Ariadne is the main character,” I tell her, “and she was abandoned on a deserted island by her lover. The three characters in the back are nymphs, very inconsequential.”

“Yeah, I figured as much,” she says.

“The comic relief was really the other opera being combined into the Ariadne opera. The comedic troupe were doing what they could to cheer up the forlorn Ariadne to no avail.”

“That’s odd… I thought there was one point where they were all kind of fighting for the girl among them,” she points out. Good eye, Butterfly.

“They were,” I say. “It was probably part of the original comedic routine, and it had to go somewhere.” She twists her lips.

“So… I’m assuming that the guy at the end was the lover that deserted her, but she didn’t look really happy to see him at first.”

“That’s because he wasn’t the lover that spurned her,” I say. “He was the god Bacchus, and he’s fleeing from a sorceress. He mistakes Ariadne for the sorceress and she mistakes him for the god Hermes. In the end, they go off together and that was the last duet that you saw.”

“It was quite powerful,” she says, sinking back into her seat. We have a short ride and I want to get something off my chest before we get to the hotel.

“I have another confession to make,” I say. She raises her gaze to me. “Although I wanted this to be the perfect evening for the perfect girl, there was an ulterior motive involved as well.”

“There’s always an ulterior motive, Christian,” she says with mirth.  I take her hand.

“Besides the fact that I got to see you all put together so beautifully which always warms my heart…”

She giggles.

“… And I got to take you to the opera and watch your wonderful reaction to your first time seeing it—which was just like Vivian Ward’s, by the way…”

She giggles and blushes.

“… I got to replace a pretty bad memory with a much better one.”

She’s silent now. I sigh.

“When I left for Madrid, I foolishly spent most of the night in the first-class private lounge at the airport having a liquid dinner.”

I don’t raise my eyes to her as I tell this story.

“I was pretty pickled by the time we were airborne. I’m sure you know that didn’t make for a very good trip.” I swallow before I continue. “I had ruined the only suit I brought with me—the one I was wearing. We had a layover at JFK and I had to wear a toga.”

My wife unsuccessfully tries to stifle a laugh. Trust me, baby, it looked even funnier than it sounds.

“When we got to Spain, I had to go shopping for clothes, so I had to wear some of Jason’s jogging pants and a T-shirt to the fashionable shops of Madrid. That, of course, went over like a lead balloon.”

Another unsuccessful attempt to hide a scoffing laugh from my wife.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had anybody in a retail outlet treat me with such disdain. It was like a roach had walked into his establishment and asked for service… which, quite frankly, was too good a term for me at the time.”

That’s another story—we won’t go into that.

“My very fashionably-dressed bodyguard had to tell this snooty motherfucker behind the counter that I was richer than Julius Caesar by comparing me to Edward Lewis in the movie. At the time, I didn’t care—the tables turned, I treated the asshole like the scum of the earth and I got what I wanted—no big deal. But as time progressed, I realized that I was the asshole, as was Edward Lewis in the beginning of the movie, and just like Vivian transformed him, you have totally transformed me.

“I don’t know if we’re supposed to believe that after ‘she rescues him right back,’ their ‘happily ever after’ ever involved them running away and getting married or if Edward went back to being the asshole that expected women to be at his ‘beck and call’ like the beginning of the movie. All I know is that I’m glad you stuck around… even when I’m being an asshole.”

I finally raise my gaze to hers and those deep, guileless blue eyes are staring back at me.

“How do you know so much about that movie?” she asks.

“It’s always been one of my favorites,” I confess. “I could relate to the power Edward wielded. I thought it was amazing that the first company he ever acquired belonged to the philandering father that left his mother. I thought he was a sap for blowing that takeover. The whole idea of draping women in beautiful things and being done with them after a certain period of time—oh, yeah, well acquainted with that practice. I just… never thought I’d meet my Vivian.”

She stares at me for a moment before she undoes her seatbelt, leans over to me, and takes my face in her hands. She presses her lips against mine in a deep and searing kiss, setting me alight faster than I can get my thoughts together. I pull her into my lap and kiss her deeply, happy that I have indeed found my Vivian.

The limo drops us at the Edgewater Hotel, and I pick my key up at the front desk before taking my wife straight to our room.

I open the door and gesture her inside. I turn on one of the smaller desk lights and it casts a gentle yellow hue over the room. Damn, that couldn’t have worked out better had I planned it. The Edgewater is one of the higher priced hotels in Seattle, but the room is modest. The hotel is mainly famous because of the famous people who have stayed here. The Beatles stayed somewhere on the second floor and fished in Elliot Bay out of one of the windows. There’s a famous picture of it, but the room didn’t look like much to me for what they were charging. This will suit us just fine—close to the opera house and beautiful views of the Sound.

She walks to the window and takes in the view of the Sound. I drop the key on the nightstand and walk over to her. Standing behind her, I take my jacket off her shoulders and toss it onto the bed. Placing my hands gently on her arms, I caress her shoulders with my thumbs, then brush my lips over her neck, allowing warm breath to tickle her skin before I pepper kisses onto her back. Her breath quickens as she shivers. She holds her head down, giving me unfettered access to her smooth, alabaster skin.

I lick and kiss her neck and shoulders, tasting her skin as I slowly unzip her dress. I want to savor her, the feel of her skin on my fingertips and the smell of that sweet perfume I created for her. God, it’s intoxicating. I put my hands under the dress and slowly push it down her body, kissing down her back the entire way. I’m almost on my knees behind her when I push it off her hips and down to the floor, kissing her ass cheek, her thigh, and the backs of her knees and feeling her shiver again. She’s only wearing underwear under the dress, and that’s all I wanted… underwear, jewelry, and shoes. I slide those pretty little things off her hips and down her legs until she steps out of them, looking all sexy and edible in diamonds and Louboutins.

I turn her around to face me and lift her into my arms by her ass. She gasps in surprise but wraps her legs and arms around me. My lips are only breaths away from hers as I carry her to the desk. I hoist her up onto the desk and kiss her deeply. My body craves her and my soul aches for her. Her soft lips only slightly soothe the fire in me and I realize I want more… I need more… so much more…

I tear my lips from hers and kiss down her body, quickly nipping her nipples on the way. I have to taste her now. I’m fucking starving for her. Once I’m on my knees in front of her, I put one of her legs over my shoulder and dive into her core licking voraciously. She leans back on her hands and cries out, high-pitched breathless pants squeezing from her throat.

My tongue is relentless. She tastes so good that I find myself drooling on her. I want it hot; I want it wet, and I want it now. I reach up to pinch a nipple and grasp a breast while I work intently to bring her to that first orgasm. One of my arms is cradled under her ass and locked over her thigh as she pushes her pelvis into my mouth.

“Christian…” she mewls, her head back, and I know she’s close. That’s it, baby. Give it to me… I need it now.

Her first orgasm comes quick and hard, just like I wanted it. I leap from my knees and press my mouth into hers, spreading her own juices from my tongue to hers. I make quick work of my pants and boxer briefs, dropping them just enough to free my cock. Without moving my lips from hers, I quickly guide my head to her pussy. She’s so fucking wet that I slide right in and thrust deeply. She cries out in my mouth and wraps her legs around me. I wrap my arms around her, pull her closer to me, and thrust deeply into her over and over. God, this is so good…

Her head drops back and my lips once again have uninhibited access to her skin. My mouth waters as I kiss her shoulders, neck, chest, and breast, my orgasm building quick and hot. I hear at least one of her shoes dislodge from her feet and fall on the floor behind me as I’m pumping into her. She’s calling my name in that sexy way that she does, her hands thrust into my hair as her pussy throbs and pulls me in deeper and deeper and deeper…

“Fuck, baby!” I bite out quietly as my cock explodes into her so hard that my back is paralyzed and my legs lock into place.

“Fuck!” I hiss into her neck as her pussy wraps around me and drains me of every little bit of juice I can possibly render. I’m leaning my hands on the desk on either side of her, taking big breaths and trying to regain my strength. Her pussy is pulsing for more and so is my dick, but my lungs won’t cooperate!

After a minute or two, I’m finally able to breathe like a human being. I lift her from the desk and reluctantly pull out of her, laying her on the bed. She squirms in protest like the horny little nymph that she is, and it’s everything I can do to hurry up and get the fuck out of these clothes. I don’t want to do a faceplant on the floor trying to get back to that pussy, so I take my time getting out of my shoes and socks, and my pants and boxer briefs which are now down at my ankles. The shirt and tie are quickly disposed of and I crawl on the bed on top of her and settle between her legs.

“I love you,” I breathe as I intwine her fingers in mine and pin her hands to the bed.

“I love you,” she replies, her voice breathy and desperate. I rub the length of my hard cock against her clit and take large mouthfuls of her skin, intent on marking her as she comes.

“Ah… God…” she breathes, throwing her head back so that I can taste whatever skin I want. “Christian…” she mewls again as she opens her legs and plants her feet flat on the bed. She’s fucking hot and that clit is pebbling against me. She’s going to come again soon. I dare not stop now.

She’s raising her pelvis to meet my cock and I’m rubbing a fire against her nub. It feels so good that it threatens to unman me and I have to concentrate so as not to blow. Still gnawing on that same patch of skin, I stroke and stroke and stroke until…

A squealing sound comes from her throat. It’s not loud or piercing, but it’s shrill and helpless. Her thighs shake violently and she almost sounds like she’s crying. I keep stroking, her clit hard as a goddamn rock against my cock and turning me on so much that I can hardly see straight.

Yes, baby, come for me! Give it all to me!

When I’m certain that she’s plateaued but still feeling the throbbing sensation, I pull my hips back and thrust into her, locking my lips onto hers and boring my hands under her shoulders and up to the sides of her face. Holding her in place, I consume her whimpers and cries as I thrust into her, her core still pulsing around me.

“You feel so good,” I say against her lips as I grind into her, high-pitched breaths escaping her lips with every thrust. Yes… yes… this is what I want.

“God, I love you,” I say, thrusting into her and chasing my second orgasm. “You’re so fucking beautiful… and you’re mine!” I growl the last word as I thrust into her, harder and deeper, now realizing that although I want to come, I want her to come again. She whimpers and gasps as I push both our bodies up the bed over the covers, rolling my hips and grinding into her.

“Christian… please…” she beseeches me. You’ve got one more… I know you do. I know your body and I know you’ve got another one.

“Come on, Pussycat,” I coax, moving my hips from side to side and pushing into her. “Give me more.”

She whines a bit, then whimpers as I grind into her again and again. She looks and feels so divine and it’s delicious torment holding off my orgasm until she has hers. I lean slightly to one side, still grinding into her, my cock and balls absolutely burning for release. Holding her hands above the bed, I clamp down on one nipple and listen to her squeal and shiver. She loves that and I know it. I suck hard and bite a little, feeling her breath quicken as her nipple pebbles in my mouth. I release it and tease it mercilessly with my tongue, feeling her pelvis rising to meet me now. It’s only now that I realize I’ve slipped into Dom mode and I briefly recall calling her Pussycat.

“Hold on to the bed,” I say, so aroused that I can hardly breathe. She grabs the duvet wherever she can and squeezes tight. I grab the headboard again and thrust deep and hard into her, determined to get that third orgasm from her before we finish. I continue to grind hard, pinching, licking, and biting her nipples and her neck, gently squeezing her throat every so often, burning her lips with deep, passionate kisses. Just when I’m about to tap out and give into the wet, velvety heat that is her core, she opens her eyes and gazes helplessly at me…

And there it is, that deep royal blue that only comes at that time. I see that gaze and I almost fucking lose it. I wouldn’t be able to tell if the familiar sheen of sweat was there because we’re both dripping in it. I don’t take my eyes off hers. I keep pushing into her, deeper, this time grinding my pelvis against hers for more stimulation. I need it… I need you to give it to me…

“Gah…! Goooooood!” she cries, closing her eyes. She releases the duvet and grabs my shoulders, digging her nails into the meat as she comes violently around me.

“Fuuuuuuuck!” I growl through my teeth as the pain sets me off. I’m buried deep inside her, coming much harder than I came before, and she’s got her legs—and her pussy—locked around me, her head pushed back in the bed, and I’m certain that her nails are drawing blood. We’re both locked in such an animalistic orgasm that the pain doesn’t even matter. We can’t do anything but ride it out.

A/N: Edward Lewis and Christian Grey are absolutely correct about the opera. Either you love it or you don’t. Ana’s feelings are my feelings about the opera. I listened to three different versions of this opera, and the first two versions were like, “Why am I doing this to myself?” But the third one had me clutching my chest! At the beginning of the opera, it was hard to follow. Once it took off, it really took off. All I can say is if you decide to go to the opera, make sure you research the opera. An opera with a theme that you may not be able to follow is a snooze fest. But if you find an opera where the singers are magnificent, even if you can’t follow the language, you’ll get it.

By the way, snippets of the prima donna Ariadne singing her aria are on the Pinterest page. It is magnificent!!! I got chills even watching her rehearse.

Pictures of places, cars, fashion, etc., can be found at 

Pictures related to the progress of the Italian Villa can be found at

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

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~~love and handcuffs



Grey Continued: Season 5 Episode 32

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.

ea658bf74c2614af055e29a7fe6ebfc7They’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

Aunt Ana,

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.

Aunt Ana

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.

“Mrs. Grey…”

“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.

What’s this?

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 

Pictures related to the progress of the Italian Villa can be found at

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

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~~love and handcuffs


Grey Continued: Season 5 Episode 22

PLOT EXPLANATION—In Carla and Wendy’s defense (OMG, she’s defending Carla? Yes, just this once), you can turn over a new leaf and become a better person. You just can’t go back and undo the things that you did. So, Carla has decided, “I’m a shit person, I need to change,” and she did… but that didn’t help Ana at all. When she could help Ana, she was that shit person, and she stayed that shit person for a long time and that’s all Ana knows. Since we see the story through Ana’s eyes, that’s all we know.

Wendy met Carla after she shed the shit person, so she doesn’t know the shit person. She knows the “wonderful” person that Carla is now, that everybody else knows. Think about it—how many people pre-Stephen Morton are still in Carla’s life? How many people really know what type of person she was?

Think about if you meet someone and they have a wonderful spirit and wonderful characteristics. You get to know them, you like them a lot, you become friends. Then they tell you, “I used to be a really bad person,” and they proceed to tell you all the horrible things they did before they changed including alienating a child. You may say, “Wow, you did all that?” But, if you’re human, you’ll then say, “It’s a good thing you turned your life around.” This is the view that everyone post-Stephen Morton has of Carla. Ana’s camp is pre-Stephen Morton (as are all of us) and that shit ain’t flying with us.

I’m only saying that to say this. Be angry at Carla—we all are, but don’t be angry with Wendy. Wendy doesn’t know the same Carla that we do. Carla told Wendy about her past and Wendy chose to gauge her on her present instead of judging her on her past. She only brought it up to Ana once and told her that Carla was sorry. Ana told Wendy that she wasn’t going to discuss it, and Wendy respected that and never brought it up again. However, Wendy still loves the friend that she knows, just like Ana (and we) despises the woman that she (and we) knows.

I hope this sheds a little light on the subject.

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 22


We decide to have dinner at a French restaurant called the Picasso in the Bellagio Hotel. As it turns out, they have a dress code and almost turned Sophie away because of her sandals. I wasn’t going to argue. Anyone who doesn’t want my green money, I can take it elsewhere, but Chuck sees the disappointment on Sophie’s face, and speaking of green money…

He leans in to the host and whispers, “C’mon man, she’s 13.” I see him discreetly slide something to the host and when he takes a closer look at it, his eyes sparkle.

“Well,” he says, “I guess we can make an exception just this once.”

I know that Christian doesn’t carry anything smaller than $100 bills in his pocket. I wonder if it’s the same with his security, because I know a twenty wouldn’t have elicited that kind a sparkle.

For kicks, I ask Sophia what she would like. She studies the menu for a moment and then announces that she would like the Menu Dégustation without the Sommelier’s wine pairing. I raise a brow at her.

“What’s on the Menu Dégustation?” I ask. She twists her lips.

“Aunt Ana are you testing me?” she asks.

“Kinda,” I admit. She looks at the menu.

“The Chef’s feature—Jamón de Bellota, Iberico, Cinco Jotas—is ham, like prosciutto. The first course, lobster salad, easy enough. The second—pan seared scallop with jus de veau, that’s veal broth. The third—Foie Gras—that’s liver, probably duck, but they’ll have to hold the honey caramel cognac from mine. And for the main course, we already had Wagyu at Once and the halibut seems plain, so I’ll be choosing the roasted tournedos loin of Colorado lamb.” She puts the menu down and awaits my response.

“Wow,” I say. “I’m equally impressed and appalled.” She frowns.

“Why are you appalled?” she asks.

“You’re 13,” she says. “I speak French—that’s why I knew what those things were. You know way more about international foods than I do, and I’ve been to France. That means you’ve had quite a bit of time on your hands.” She shrugs again.

“It happens,” she says, nonchalantly. “We all know about Mom and how I started watching cooking shows.”

“What about school and friends?” I ask.

“School’s fine, but boring. I catch on to everything kind of fast, so… And my friends, they’re cool. We talk on the phone and stuff, hang out at school, but some of the stuff they like I don’t like… and none of them are really interested in cooking.”

“Do you still feel left out?” I ask.

“Only when they start talking about boys they like,” she admits before dropping her head. “I don’t like any of the boys at my school. I’ll probably never have a boyfriend.”

That’s because you’re too busy pining over Marlow, but I don’t say that out loud.

“You never know what the future holds, Sophie,” I tell her. “You’re still so young. You’ve got your whole like ahead of you. Wonderful things could happen.” She fakes a faint smile.

“Yeah, I know,” she says dismissively, and that’s my cue to change the subject.

“Okay, enough of this depressing crap. What did you think of the show?”

And now, her eyes are alight with excitement. She can’t stop talking about “O” all the way through dinner. Even though we could see the changing of the stage from solid to pool, she was still mesmerized by the transformation of the floor to accommodate the different scenes. She pays so much attention to detail that she was the most astonished by the fact that whenever the performers went slowly in and out of the water, their facial expressions didn’t change. They didn’t take deep breaths to prepare for submersion; they didn’t close their eyes—they just came out and went back in like the water wasn’t even there.

And the Marlow crisis is averted.

As Sophie sleeps in the Romper Room suite with the twins and Keri, Gail and Jason take the suite that Daddy had for a little privacy for the evening. I check on my babies and kiss them Goodnight, then check in on Marilyn, who gives me a brief update of all things Helping Hands and Seattle before I head back to my husband and our suite.

“Did you get any rest?” I scold when I see him in the office portion of the suite.

“Yeah,” he replies, looking up from the computer and removing his glasses, “not a lot, but some. You know I can’t really sleep without you, but I was beat.” He walks over to me and kisses me quickly on the lips. “How was the show?”

“Phenomenal!” I tell him. “The performers were unbelievable. Their control and precision were outstanding. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life!”

“Not even Moulin Rouge?” he baits.

“Christian, not even Moulin Rouge. This show was a completely different setting and caliber. I wouldn’t even know how to compare it to Moulin Rouge, but on content alone—better, much better.”

“Wow,” he says, “I’m a little jealous that I didn’t go, but you were right. I was exhausted. As riveting as the show may have been, I most likely would have fallen asleep, and that wouldn’t have made you happy.” I chuckle.

“No, it wouldn’t. Anything new on the home front? How’s GEH?”

“Same old, same old,” he says going back to his computer. “The new initiatives we put in place are working like a charm. People are finally beginning to value their jobs again.”

“Good, because while I love the whole power couple thing, I don’t want to do it as a full-time job,” I say following him back to the office area. “I realize I can’t just drop the ball and run, but I do have Helping Hands to be concerned about. Mosele, however, has one more time to pull that sideways shit on me that he did and I’m going to bounce him out on his ass on GP!” He chuckles.

“I’m surprised you haven’t done it before now,” he says, “but giving him a day or two off was enough to scare him straight. In case he is bounced out on his ass, he knows he’s going to have a record of insubordination. That doesn’t fare well for him.”

“His mouth doesn’t fare well for him,” I respond, stretching my neck. “I take it Jason and Gail are still enjoying Vegas.”

“I think they are,” he says.

“They needed it,” I say with a yawn.

“And you need some rest,” he says. I stretch.

“Christian, my mother is exhausting me,” I admit. He stands from the chair again.

“That’s it—bath, then bed, and if you don’t go to sleep, I’ll eat you to sleep.” I sigh.

“Christian, I can’t possibly have sex tonight,” I protest.

“I didn’t say I’d fuck you to sleep, I said I’d eat you to sleep. Come on, let’s go…”

As much as I would have liked it, I didn’t need the cunnilingus. I fell asleep in the bathtub and had to be carried to the bed.


Wendy’s there when we get there. I have the sneaking suspicion that she never left, even though I don’t remember if she was wearing the same clothes. She tells me that my mother has had several visitors, but that it’s done very little for her spirits. Wendy pulls me out to the hallway to talk to me.

“She’s extremely depressed,” she says, “as I would expect her to be for finding out that she can’t walk. It’s going to take a lot of therapy to bring her out of this, and not just the physical kind. One of her greatest joys was being able to help the people at the rehab center. Now, she may very well be one of the people at the center.”

“Do you think she would want to do rehab at the place where she worked?” I ask.

“Honestly, I don’t know, I was speaking metaphorically,” she points out, “but, no, I don’t think she would want that…”


Wendy turns to the man who’s walking towards her with purpose.

“For the love of God, it took you long enough,” she says and embraces the man warmly. I’m assuming he’s a brother or something. The embrace was more familial than romantic.

“I’ll have you know that I’ve been here,” he scolds her. “I was out of town for the last two days, so don’t give me any of your lip.”

“Well, get in there,” she says, shoving him towards the door. He moves to go into my mother’s room, then looks at me and does a double take.

“You’re Anastasia,” he says, and now I examine him a bit. He’s an older, attractive gentleman, a little older than Chuck maybe… maybe Jason’s age.

“Yes?” I say, questioning.

“She hasn’t told you about me. That’s discouraging.” Who is this guy?

“She hasn’t had much time to tell me anything at all,” like key details of the accident, for instance. He extends his hand to me.

“I’m Abramio Cicci. You can call me Abe.” I cautiously take his proffered hand.

“Abe.” I’m still full of questions why I should know who this guy is.

“I’m—for lack of a better word—dating Carla.”

Dating Carla? He’s dating my mother?

“You know she’s my mother, right?” I ask. He laughs.

“Yes, Ana, your mother is seven years my senior,” he replies, answering my unasked questions.

“You also know that we don’t speak,” I continue. “I’m only here to make sure she’s squared away.” He nods sadly.

“Yes, I know the whole story,” he confesses. “I was hoping that this whole situation—the accident and the trial—would have changed some of that. I’m sure that she was hoping, too, though she won’t admit it.”

“It’s a bit too complicated to discuss with someone I barely know,” I say dismissively.

“I understand,” he says, sadly, then turns to Wendy, who just purses her lips. “I’m going to go in now.” Wendy nods and he goes in.

“Hm, my mother has a boyfriend,” I say.

“Of sorts,” Wendy says. I turn to her, but I say nothing. “She won’t let him get too close. He clearly adores her, but she handles him with a long-handled spoon.”

“Well, maybe that’ll change now,” I say. “She needs all the support she can get.” Wendy raises her brow at me, and her eyes say what I know her mouth won’t.

And yet, she doesn’t have yours.

I’m not moved by her internal judgment. I got past it the day I cried off the nurses talking about me at the nurses’ station. In fact, Christian was summoned to the administrative office to speak to someone about their behavior as soon as we got to the hospital this morning… and none of those nurses are on duty now. It could be that they’re not on shift anymore, but I don’t care.

“You really don’t know your mother that well,” she says, matter-of-factly. “She’ll probably push him away more now than she did before.” I raise my brow at her.

“Why?” I ask.

“She doesn’t want to lean on anyone. She’s only begrudgingly allowing me to help her. She thinks Gabe is only with her out of gratitude and when that wears off, he’ll be gone. My guess is that now, she’ll push with all her might to keep from getting hurt.”

She doesn’t stay to explain. She just walks away down the hall to parts unknown. I’m certain that she’s not leaving. She’s probably just giving my mother and Abe some privacy. I look in the window at them and Abe is sitting on the bed facing my mother, gently cupping her cheek.

I stand there for a moment and watch what appears to be a tender exchange between the two of them for about five minutes before I decide that I want to know more about this guy and their relationship. I open the door a bit to come inside and hear my mother doing exactly what Wendy said she would do.

“It’s no use, Abe. I’m already too old for you and now, I’m a paraplegic. This would be the sum-total of your life if you stayed with me. I can’t do that to you. You’re young, attractive, and you still have many good years ahead of you. It’s not fair. I can’t do that to you, Abe. I can’t…”

“Don’t you get it yet?” he asks, his voice beseeching. “I’m not going away, Carla. I’ll never leave you. I love you.”

“Abe… you’re a wonderful man. Don’t make me send you away. Will you just go willingly, please?” Her voice is cracking. He sighs and stands.

“I’ll leave right now, Carla,” he says. “I’ll give you a little time and a little space, but not much. You’re not getting rid of me that easily, no matter what you say.” He leans over and kisses her gently on the cheek and then the hand before he throws a longing gaze at her and heads towards the door. He nearly bumps into me as he’s leaving, his eyes glassy and reddening with unshed tears. He says nothing as he scurries past me out the door and down the hall.

My mother apparently doesn’t know I’m standing in the door just as her suitor leaves.

“Oh, Steve. We’ve fucked up everything,” she sobs. “Why can’t I just let you go?”

She weeps bitterly into her hands and when I see that she’s just not going to stop, I enter her room. When she looks up and sees me, she reaches for a tissue to clean her face. She’s so waterlogged that the tissue does nothing more than turn to wet balls of cotton on her cheeks. I go to her en suite and wet a clean washcloth with cold water. When I return to her bedside, she’s still unsuccessfully trying to wipe her face with the tissue. I hand her the cloth and she buries her face in it, her sobbing continuing.

“Would you please give me a minute?” she asks, her voice muffled under the cloth.

“Why?” I question. They’re just tears.

“Just… please? Can I have a minute?” Now, you don’t want to show any weakness around me? Cut the crap.

“Why won’t you let that man love you?” I ask candidly. She raises puffy, bloodshot eyes to me. Boy, she looks like shit when she cries. Do I look this bad?

“You’ve never lost the man you love, Dr. Grey,” she says, her voice pained. “Yes, he was shit. He was shit all the way around. He was a horrible person—he was selfish and self-centered, self-serving, any ‘self’ word you could think of, that was Steve. But he was never unkind to me, and I loved him. I still do.” I shake my head.

“How could you love someone like that and hate Daddy?” The question is rhetorical; I don’t think I really want the answer.

“Something wrong in the belfry, I guess,” she says, gesturing to her head, “and I never hated Ray. I resented that he couldn’t give me what I thought I should have had, and I thought Steve would, but I never hated Ray. He was a good man. He always has been. He just… wasn’t meant for me.” I’ll say.

“He’s happy now,” I tell her. “He’s happier than I think I’ve ever seen him, except when you two were together in the beginning.” I fold my arms and examine my mother. “You have no one, Carla,” I say. “As far as you know, I’m walking out of this room one day with no intentions of coming back. Why won’t you let that man love you?”

That’s exactly what I plan to do. I’m going to make sure that she has all the medical care that she needs and then I’m leaving. I’m not staying here trying to reconcile with her. I don’t hate her anymore, but I still don’t want to be around her. I still can’t see her as part of my life.

“You have this man that genuinely loves you, who genuinely wants to be with you and care for you, even now, and you’re pushing him away. Why?”

“Because it’s not fair to him!” she wails. “I still love Steve!”

“And you’ll probably love him until the day you die, but he’s not coming back! Why not find happiness with the living…?”

Then it hits me.


Shit! Shit! Shit!

This is the second husband my mother has lost to death. Even though she expected Stephen to die, she still wasn’t ready for him to go. She’s a professional fucking widow. Now, she’s tried to kill herself, and she’ll most likely do it again. She’s finally accepted the horror of what she did to me, and her life really isn’t worth anything to her anymore.

“Do I need to have you committed?” I ask. “Do you really want to die?”

The scary part about that is that she didn’t even flinch.

“I’m useless,” she says with no malice or emotion. “I’m hopelessly in love with a man that I’ll never see again because I don’t believe in that whole I’ll see you in heaven thing. If anything, I’ll see him in hell and it won’t be a loving and tender reunion, so there’s that. I found some kind of comfort and redemption in my miserable existence in taking care of other people—in being a health aide and helping those who couldn’t care for themselves. Now, I can’t even do that. I can’t walk. I can’t even do any of my volunteer work. You saw it long before now—the legs have nothing to do with it. I’m worthless.”

At one time, I really believed that. I don’t know what changed. I haven’t had this great epiphany like she’s suddenly a wonderful human being and we’ll live happily ever after, but something has definitely changed. I sigh.

“I’m going to make some arrangements for you to go to an inpatient program,” I tell her. “You’re a danger to yourself right now, so you’re going to need intense therapy. You’re going to need physical rehabilitation, too.” She doesn’t raise her eyes to me.

“Why bother?” she says, just above a whisper, and I don’t think it was meant for me to hear.

“Because I’m your last surviving relative and you’re my responsibility, and this is what I say you’re going to do.” She doesn’t respond. “I have to ask you this because I can’t wrap my mind around the answer that you gave me three years ago and I still can’t wrap my head around it now.” She raises her gaze to me.

“You once told me that Daddy was too small for you,” I say, “that you left him because you wanted more, yet the life that you lived with Daddy had more substance than the life that you lived with Stephen. I was there for three years—I saw it. You had the house and the furniture, but you couldn’t afford it. You couldn’t afford to live the way that the people around you lived; they didn’t like you; they talked bad about you; they wanted nothing to do with you.

“With Daddy, I was happy, we had friends, we both fit in as much as we could. Even now, you maintain that Daddy was too small and you don’t regret it. You don’t regret ripping our lives apart—repeatedly—and you never got this big life that you expected to get. Stephen Morton died, leaving you in worse shape than you ever would have been with Daddy! You had his medical bills; he couldn’t work; he left you nothing. How can you still contend that Daddy was too small for you? That he wasn’t for you?” She shakes her head.

“You may never get this, Anastasia,” she begins, “but I loved Ray as a result of marrying him. I married Steve as a result of loving him. Many of my decisions were butt-ass stupid and selfish and I get that. I accept that. I’ve paid for them more times than you’ll ever know, and it appears that I’m still paying for them now. Don’t misunderstand, Anastasia, I don’t feel sorry for myself and I don’t expect you to, either. In fact, I’m surprised that you’re even here. But if you want the real answer to that question, Stephen. Was. My. More! Alcoholic, lying, scheming, gambling, money-sucking, debt-ridden parasite that he was, he was my more!

44d93a91ce7ee24f9811205ef30e6425“I loved him more than I can ever explain to you. Maybe that’s my penance for the horrible person that I am and the horrible things I did—the way I treated you, the way I treated Ray, the whole kit and caboodle! I fell for the ‘donkey,’ hook, line, and sinker. And I still love him now. And maybe you can’t understand that—hell, I can’t understand it sometimes, but it’s the truth. I would have followed him anywhere. I would have done anything he told me to do—and did! And no matter what you or anybody thinks of me, I’d sell my soul to the non-existent devil today to have him back!”

As odd as it sounds, I do understand how she feels. I’d live with Christian in a cardboard box…

But no way in hell would I sacrifice my children.

I don’t respond. I just leave the room and go to the nurses’ station.

“Yes, ma’am?” the young nurse says to me.

“Is Dr. Lee still on duty?” I ask.

“I’m not sure, but I can page him and see,” she replies.

“Please?” I request and she nods. She dials some numbers on the phone and sends the page. “Can I tell him what it’s concerning when can responds?”

“Yes. Please tell him that there’s been a development with Carla Morton.”


“Dr. Grey, this is a very serious accusation, as I’m sure you know. Are you certain about this?” he asks.

“I’m about as certain as a psychiatrist who is this closely related to the patient can be,” I reply.

“But you said yourself that you haven’t had much contact with your mother,” he retorts. “No offense to you, doctor, but I have to be certain that we’re doing what’s in the best interest of the patient.” I nod.

“I see,” I say, “and notwithstanding the fact that before she was even conscious, I put my Amex Black down—which is still on file—and told you to give her the best care possible, you’re thinking that I’m not wanting what’s in the best interest of the patient because I’ve been estranged from her for several years and I’m not all warm and fuzzy right now? Is that it, Dr. Lee?”

I can tell by his expression that’s exactly what he thinks even before he opens his mouth to say my name.

“I’ll tell you what, Dr. Lee,” I say, interrupting him. “You’re obviously not going to listen to me, my suggestions, or what I feel is best for my mother. So, she’s in your care now. You do what you feel needs to be done for her since you’re convinced that I don’t care, but while you’re sitting on that ‘God’ horse, consider this.

“I just told you that I think that woman is suicidal; that she drove her car off that bridge and it was not an accident; that she feels that she is no use to anyone anywhere especially since she’s paralyzed and even in that condition, I think she’s a danger to herself. I have given you my professional opinion as a doctor sworn under the same oath you took, and I have made a personal request as her daughter and next of kin. You can get her the psychiatric evaluation that she needs to determine if she’s in any imminent mental or emotional danger, or don’t, if you choose not to do so. Either way, if she hurts herself, it’s on you. And if she really drove her car off that overpass, you can believe that she’s going to hurt herself. Trust me, I’m a professional,” I add sarcastically.

“Let me know what you decide.” I turn and walk away down the hall towards the elevators without another word.


“I understand your concern, Mr. Grey.”

I’m sitting at the side of a conference table with members of the hospital board as well as a patient advocate—more like a patient’s family advocate. She’s here on my behalf. The gentleman speaking right now is Milton Banks, CEO. I’ve explained the behavior of the nurses and the doctor in the ICU and many of them are appalled by their behavior. One or two sit silent and stoic.

“I agree that no one should be treated that way while seeing to the care of a family member,” he continues.

“It’s deplorable, Mr. Banks,” the advocate points out. “Whatever Dr. Grey’s relationship may be with her mother, no one can say that she hasn’t acted in Carla Morton’s best interest since she entered this hospital. Since when are family members required to behave in a manner that’s acceptable to staff in order to be treated with respect?”

“They aren’t, Mrs. Riddick,” he replies.

“Well, someone clearly forgot to tell the nurses on the second floor!” she retorts. “I’m not sure you know who the Greys are, but they are very powerful people…”

“With all due respect, Mrs. Riddick, the fact that they’re powerful doesn’t entitle them to any extra privileges.” This statement comes from one of the stoic, silent women at the end of the table.

“You didn’t let me finish,” Mrs. Riddick says, throwing a pointed glare at the woman before continuing. “As I was saying, the Greys are very powerful people, but they’re not asking for any special treatment. They’re only asking for the respect that you would give any other family member of a patient in this hospital. Are they entitled to that?

She asks the last question so firmly that the bitch at the end of the table shuts her mouth and doesn’t say another word.

“Mr. and Dr. Grey were already in Nevada dealing with a horridly taxing situation only to discover that Dr. Grey’s mother had been involved in a near-fatal accident in the midst of it, one that left her paralyzed and comatose, thereby requiring constant attention from Dr. Grey while she’s still dealing with this original issue. She’s already dealing with that wretched trial—of which, by the way, she was the victim and the defendant was found guilty, for anyone who might be concerned—and then she had to come to the hospital and deal with the scrutiny of a bunch of supposed professionals who should already know a thing or two about bedside manner and family treatment.

“Now, after informing this room that he has to listen to his emotionally fragile wife come home and cry nearly every day, Mr. Grey has to sit here and listen to the powers that be tell him that his family isn’t entitled to any special privileges when your staff didn’t even extend them the general respect that they were entitled to!

“She’s been in this hospital nearly every day seeing to the care and condition of her mother, and they’re putting her in judgment because she’s not crawling on the floor in concern and contrition? They have no idea what that relationship is like or, evidently, what Dr. Grey is going through and quite frankly, it’s none of their business! Their only concern is to provide quality care to Mrs. Morton and to show respect and professionalism to Dr. Grey, who is the next of kin and decision-maker in this case. Are you suggesting that because they’re powerful, they’re not entitled to that?”

Go, Mrs. Riddick!

She glares at the sow that made the statement, who still sits mute at the end of the table.

“Of course, that’s not what we’re saying, Mrs. Riddick,” Mr. Banks says, glaring at the same woman before turning back to the patient and family advocate. “I assure you that we will look into this matter and the staff members involved will be thoroughly reprimanded. I guarantee you that this behavior is completely contrary to the goals and mission of this hospital. Mr. Grey, you have my sincerest apologies for how your wife was mistreated. I’m deeply sorry about all this.”

“Thank you,” I reply with sincerity. “I truly appreciate it, but I want more than that,” I say.

“Here it comes,” the other silent, stoic bitch says. I ignore her… for now.

“I think there needs to be some kind of sensitivity training for situations like this,” I continue. “My wife’s mother could’ve died and that would have released a whole other can of worms, believe me. No one knows the turmoil my wife is going through inside. Her sanity and grace are balancing on the head of a pin and you have nurses on the floor that are caring for her mother and coming in contact with my wife every day that think it’s okay to treat her this way. Nobody should be treated that way—nobody! Not a bum off the street who comes in for back pain or a billionaire who can buy this hospital right out from under your asses!” I fix my glare on the two bitches at the end of the table.

“And once your organization has developed this sensitivity training that will help your staff to treat people like real live human beings, especially those who may be experiencing some kind of mourning, stress, or trauma of which you have no idea, you two should be required to take it, too!” I point at them both to emphasize the statement. The entire room has turned and is staring at them as they sit cowering under the uncomfortable gazes of their colleagues.

“That’s actually a very good idea, Mr. Grey,” Banks says soberly, still staring at the Stoic Sisters before turning back to me. “We’ll implement a training class and we’ll all take it. Some of us may not need it, but others clearly do!” He glares at the Stoic Sisters again before turning back to me.

“That’s all I ask,” I say standing to my feet and Banks stands with me. “I’ll be honest and tell you that I’m usually a heads will roll type of guy, but all I want is for the patients’ families to be treated with respect and for no one to have to go through the ordeal that my wife went through for simply trying to care for her mother.”

“Understood, Mr. Grey,” he says, proffering his hand to me. I accept his hand and shake firmly.

“I trust that you’ll keep Mrs. Riddick up-to-date on the progress and completion of the training?” I ask, so that she can keep me up to date.

“We will,” he says. I turn to Mrs. Riddick, who stands and walks out with me. I don’t even look at the Stoic Sisters on my way out.

When we clear the door, I see my wife sitting on a bench down the hall a bit. Before Mrs. Riddick starts talking, I guide her to my wife.

“Are you okay?” I ask, noting her appearance.

“Tired,” she says, “you know this place drains me.” I take her hand and turn to Mrs. Riddick.

“This is my wife, Dr. Anastasia Steele-Grey,” I say. Mrs. Riddick proffers her hand.

“Riana Riddick,” she says. “I’m the family and patient advocate here. It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Grey.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Riddick. Likewise,” Butterfly says, accepting her hand.

“You have my card,” she says to me. “I’ll be in touch. Mr. Grey, Dr. Grey,” she says with a nod.

“Thank you,” I say before she leaves.

“Why will she be in touch?” Butterfly asks.

“Because there’s going to be some sensitivity training for the staff as well as disciplinary action for the harpies that treated you like shit, and I want the hospital to stay on top of it and make sure that it gets done. Riddick will be my eyes and ears. She’s good at this—I think she likes her job. She’s almost as good a debater as Allen.”

“Mmm,” she replies disinterested.

“Okay, what happened?” I ask.

“Not here,” she says, worrying her scar. “I’ll tell you on the way home.”

Home. Yeah, we need to hurry up and get you out of here if you’re calling this place home.


“Oh, for fuck’s sake, this just keeps getting better and better!” I bark while we’re driving home. “It’s a good thing I demanded sensitivity training. It looks like this asshole Lee needs it, too!”

“Don’t even get your undies in a wad, Christian. I’ve told him to make his decision and call me once he does. I’m not going back to the hospital until he does and when I do, I’m going to start signing responsibility over to someone else. I can’t take this anymore.”

“We’ll still be financing it?” I ask.

“Yeah, I still want to make sure she gets the best care. I just don’t want to make the decisions anymore.”

“You got it,” I say. “Just tell me what you need.”

“Right now, fuzzy pajamas, chocolate, and old movies…”

I get my wife set up with pajamas, old movies, and every chocolate thing I can order from room service. At the moment, she’s happily lost in a Cary Grant marathon, and I’m busy putting some things into motion.

She already knew that she would soon be sharing her yoga room with the children as a playroom. I’m making arrangements for everything that was purchased for the Romper Room Suite to be shipped back to Seattle when we return, with the exception of the cribs and bedding and the highchairs. We have those things at home, and we won’t be needing more any time soon. My Amex decked that suite out, and I want that stuff to return with us, especially since the children have become accustomed to playing with those things.

I send an email to Audrey Law, my travel agent, and cc Jason that we are planning our trip to Italy sometime this summer and to begin to prepare for an extended trip. I also contact the real estate agent that sold me the Villa to get me detailed blueprints and current pictures of the property with precise measurements so that my wife can begin thinking about how she wants to decorate it. Unless World War III breaks out and Europe sinks into the ground before we get onto that plane, we’re going to Italy this year.

Jason will have to make sure that the weapons for the security team are properly registered as well as each member properly certified with the authorities. I also ran the idea by him of Gail and Sophia coming out for a couple of weeks like Butterfly suggested. After hearing the truth about Sophie’s burn scar, he’d pull the moon down and give it to her if he could. So, I think he’s already on the ball about getting her passport.

I remember my trip to Rome with my family. I think it was our first… no, our second trip to Italy as a family. Although being abroad always appealed to me, I wasn’t very interested in the things that interested my family—the Altar of the Fatherland, the Villa Borghese… No, I was more interested in the Colosseum and the Pantheon; only slightly interested in the Trevi Fountain, but I tossed a coin in there anyway. I knew I would be back.

My most memorable moment in Rome was just outside of Circus Maximus. Being very sensitive to touch, I knew the moment someone was trying to “feel me up.” So, I turned around just in time for some bastard to try to make off with my phone. I confronted him and told him to give my phone back, but he handed it off to some other guy and thought I didn’t see him. I snatched the other guy by his jacket just as he was trying to make off with my phone. Elliot grabbed the first guy.

Mom and Dad were having a fit the entire time and Mia was just stunned as I’m fighting to pry my phone from the guy’s fingers. I ended up actually having to break his hand to get my phone back from him, then showed my parents that it was indeed my phone. The first guy tried to knee Elliot in the balls to get away. Elliot clocked him square in the jaw and the guy dropped right where he stood, unconscious.

We asked Dad what we should do. Once Dad saw that we were right and only trying to get my phone back, he told us to do nothing. The guys were pickpockets, and even if we called the police, they would only get a summons to appear which would most likely result in a small fine and no jail time. So, we left them there for all to see—one guy with a broken hand and the other guy out cold on the concrete. I’d say their tag team pick pocketing was done for the day… at least six weeks for one of them. He’ll have to depend on his fellow criminals for financial support for a while.

I’ll have to caution Butterfly against taking a purse or backpack while we’re wandering various cities, and I’ll have to remember to bring my money belt. I hate using that thing, but in certain areas, it’s utterly necessary.

Andrea has sent me some information that I asked her to gather about caring for a paraplegic. I’m completely in the dark here and I don’t want to depend on Butterfly for all the answers. I want to be of some help to her if she asks my opinion and I want us to be able to make some solid decisions about her mother’s care. Wendy’s right—there are several resources available to help her. She just has to be willing to put in the legwork—for lack of a better word—to apply for the resources and follow-up on the application process until she gets approved. She can even apply for disability since she’s unable to do the work she’s trained to do.

I go through as much of the information as I can until I’m suffering from MEGO, then I go to the bedroom to join my wife.

She’s sobbing.

“What’s the matter?” I say, climbing into the bed behind her. She sniffles and points at the television. She’s watching An Affair to Remember, and Cary Grant has just found out that Deborah Kerr is the lady in the wheelchair who wanted his painting. They’re both crying on screen and my wife is blubbering right along with them.

“You’re such a sap,” I say, pulling her into my arms and spooning her. “How many times have you seen this movie?”

“I don’t… know,” she sniffle-stutters, “a… couple… hundred… I think…”

“Yeah, you and every other sappy female,” I say. I roll her onto her back as the credits roll and begin to dry her cheeks with my handkerchief. She has used an entire box of the hotel tissues. She looks so sweet and vulnerable, looking up at me with her glassy eyes and blotchy cheeks. I kiss her eyelids and her cheeks to make her stop crying, then her lips… then again.

God, her lips are so soft when she’s been crying.

I kiss her over and over, so many times that I lose count. Her breath quickens and she moves my hand from her face to her breast.

“Make love to me,” she whispers, “please…”

So much for the fuzzy pajamas.

I squeeze the breast that she guided my hand to, then quickly unbutton her pajama shirt revealing her beautiful tits. God, she’s gorgeous. Her breath quickens as I take one nipple in my mouth and suck gently, grazing it with my teeth to make it taut. She whimpers and thrusts her hands into my hair. I move over her and pinch her other nipple between my fingers, causing her to cry out. She’s getting very hot very fast.

“Sit up,” I instruct her, moving away just enough to allow her to rise. She sits up and I push her pajama shirt off her shoulders and toss it onto the floor. I quickly pull my T-shirt over my head, tossing it aside before I lean in and kiss her again. She runs her hands up my arms to my shoulders and then my face as I push her back down onto the bed.

My mouth and hands travel down her body once more, to her breasts and then her navel as I push my hands into the elastic. She raises her hips for me, and I pull her pajama pants down her legs and off her feet. I open my fly and pull my boxer briefs down just enough to free my cock, and her pussy is wet and staring at me.


I crawl back onto the bed, still in my bottoms, and settle into the sweet core. She gasps and arches into me when I lick her outer lips, forcing them apart with my mouth so that I can taste the sweet meat inside.

“Christian…” she mewls, thrusting her hand into my hair again and her pelvis rhythmically into my mouth. She tastes so fucking good, and I groan as I devour her juices. I try not to eat until I get my fill because I know she’ll come if I do, but I can’t help it. She’s so hot and she smells so good and tastes so sweet…

“Christian!” she squeaks as her body starts to stiffen.

Fuck! Not yet… not yet, beautiful.

I pull back and allow her orgasm to wane, but I can’t wait any longer to be inside of her. I kiss her belly as I make my way back up her body, using the bed to push my pants and boxer briefs off as my cock is so damn hard, it’s zeroing in to her core like a fucking homing beacon.

Slow the fuck down, Grey. She asked you to make love to her…

Make love. Shit, this is going to be hard.

I’m holding one leg up with one hand on her side still kissing her stomach and kicking off my damn pants when she starts to beg…


I crawl up her body and as my mouth reaches hers, my cock finds its counterpart without any guidance, which wasn’t a difficult task with her legs on my shoulder. I try not to gasp in her mouth, but she gasps into mine and I’m completely blinded by the pleasure when I sink into her.

I try to keep still and let us both enjoy the moment of the initial entry, but I can’t. She’s kissing me hungrily and my dick wants more of her.

I allow her legs to fall down to my hips and I continue to thrust into her, deep and steady—not too fast and not too slow. I hold the back of her neck and her nape in my hands as I kiss her lips hungrily and nip at her neck, shoulders, and chest. Her sex sounds are maddening—like she hasn’t eaten in weeks and she’s starving and gobbling up every morsel I’m giving her. It’s making me fucking primal and I thrust deeper into her, both our bodies moving steadily against the bed.

She’s keening again, and I hold her neck up and thrust deep so that I can look at her, admire her beauty while I have her captured in passion, my shaft burning inside her as she gets tighter… and hotter…

“Open your mouth,” I breathe, “and give me your tongue.”

I know that she’s going to come soon, so I press my body against her so that each long and deep thrust ends with a grind. Then I hold her neck steady so that her head isn’t as mobile, and I suck her tongue and lathe it passionately with my own while it’s hanging helplessly out of her mouth. When she shrieks with her first orgasm, I fight to keep the rhythm of my hips and tongue until she rides it out. The sound of her cries alone is enough to push me over the edge, let alone that pussy tightening insanely on my cock.

I have to breathe through her aftershocks as I sit back on my calves, still thrusting deeply into her as I caress her breasts. She’s sweating a bit now. That pre-orgasmic sheen has given way to full-on perspiration, and our intermingling sweat is beginning to fuck with the Neanderthal in me.

I thrust into her again and again, her legs rising on my hips with each thrust, still clutching her breasts as I do. Her eyes are closed, and her hair is splayed wildly on the bed. Her mouth is open like she’s trying to say something, but she’s keening again, her hands grasping my thighs as I fuck her…

Make love to her…

NO, now, I’m fucking her!

My cock is burning, digging, pushing deep into that body, and it wants to come. I kiss her with abandon, and when she roughly grasps a handful of my hair, I can’t take it anymore.

“Oh, fuck, baby!” I groan. I cover her body with mine and plunge deep inside her, over and over. We’re pouring in sweat, and she holds her legs up and steady, thighs open as I stroke deeper and harder until I fucking see stars.

“Baby, shit, fuck!” I cry as my cock thumps and explodes inside of her. Oh, shit, it feels so fucking good. So fucking good, I can’t fucking see. Goddammit, that was so hard that my cock fucking hurts, but I can still feel her walls thumping against me. She was on her way to number two.

Your wish is my command.

I slide out of her and kiss her softly on the lips, giving my cock a few moments to cool.

“Turn over, baby,” I say.

She turns over and proceeds to get in the doggie-style position, but I push her gently back down onto the bed. Straddling her, I turn her head to the side and arrange her hair so that it’s completely away from her face, off her shoulders, and off her back. When she’s comfortable, I kiss her shoulders softly, then her back, allowing my dick to rub against her glorious ass just a bit, enough to ignite it again for me. I kiss down her back and the moment I get to the Garden, she ignites again. The unquenchable fire shoots right through her body and into mine, and Greystone is ready for action once more.

I pull my hips back and my shaft falls right to the bottom of her ass cheeks, the head nestled right below her anus. I gently push my rigid member just past her perineum and I feel moisture on the head. I know I’ve hit paydirt when I hear her gasp and her ass rises a bit, her fists gripping the bedsheets. I push into her core and sink into her warmth and tightness once more. For the love of God, this woman is going to be the death of me.

She’s got that pretty, round ass at the perfect angle and I’ve got yet another perfect rhythm into the pussy while I’m gently gripping those cheeks and hips. I’m looking down at this round ass and my thick, straining, shiny cock stroking between her legs, feeling the heat and the friction and it’s making my fucking mouth water. This site is so fucking beautiful that I can’t stop staring. My dick is impressive, but to see it disappear repeatedly beneath this beautiful, soft, round ass… I could watch this shit all day. Since I’m just getting started, the arousal and the burn isn’t too deep, and I’ve got this pleasant friction feeling on the skin. So, I never change my stroke…

And I watch…

And watch…

And watch…

“Oh, dear God, what are you doing to me?”

I didn’t even think about the fact that the continuous rhythm was going to bring her to another orgasm until she’s shrieking again and her ass is rising hard against my pelvis, her hands gripping the sheets like she’s going to tear them off.

Hot damn! There’s a picture for the memory banks!

“Baby, you are so fucking beautiful,” I say, and I continue my rhythm and enjoy the view.

A few minutes later, I’ve gotten my fill of the show and my balls are aching to come again. This is going to be the swan song.

My beautiful wife has had a chance to rest and now I want her to ride me a bit. So, I roll us both over so that she’s sitting on my dick.

“Come on, baby, ride it.”

What the fuck did I say that for?

My wife opens her legs around mine, leans back with both hands flat on my abs, and pumps my dick viciously, and I mean viciously.

“Fuck-ing hell!” I gasp, and that only fuels her fire. I swear to God, my cock feels like it’s getting buried in her goddamn uterus and she just keeps pumping and pumping, so deep that I feel her lips every time they slap my balls.

“God… damn… baby…” I gasp again, now holding onto fistfuls of the sheet myself. This woman is literally fucking the ever-loving life out of me. I thought after two shrieking orgasms, she would be a bit tuckered out and I would have to help her out with this, but she doesn’t need my help at all. Dear God in heaven, the fire and friction and depth.

“Baby… shit!” It’s at this point that I realized that I can’t do or say anything else but lay here and be fucked. I want to touch her, but she’s fucking me so thoroughly that if I let go of the sheets, we might both fucking take flight! I close my eyes and open my mouth so that I can get some air. My dick is on fucking fire—delicious, burning, aching, agonizing, searing fire! Fucking hell, my balls are about to pop like grapes. A few more minutes of this maddening pace and…

She stops.

Her body’s trembling, she’s grunting, and her arms give way behind her. She’s coming again… and hard.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t stop now!

I release the sheets and grab those tits for all they’re worth. I’m pumping hard and deep into that pussy like I’m digging for gold, just like she was pumping me.

Don’t leave me now, don’t fucking leave me now!

I thrust and thrust and thrust, looking for that rhythm, and on the third thrust, I find it. I fucking find it.

“Yes!” I grit through my teeth, and only a few thrusts later, I heard the pop. Not sure what happened, but a stream of searing hot cum goes flowing through my shaft and bursting out the head.

“Oooohh!” I cry out in agonized surprise.

Still holding onto those tits, I thrust through this orgasm. At least, I think I’m thrusting. Cum is pumping so hard through my cock that I know I still feel the sides burning. I can’t even feel my balls, just hot, deep, crippling pain and pleasure searing through my fucking loins.

I can’t even breathe. I’m burying my dick deep in that pussy. The head is sandwiched in hot, wet, meat and still beating a mean tattoo inside of her. I can still feel her squeezing me, still feel the cum pulsing out of my shaft and filling her so much that it’s running down my shaft and to my ass.

She’s whimpering against my body now, and I’m still coming… and coming…

I keep pushing my dick into that core waiting for it to stop throbbing. She fucked me until my body begged to come and now that it is, it’s giving her all that it has left. I thrust into her hot core, her legs spread wide as I grip her luscious tits, my cock pulsing and thumping painfully as my balls empty inside her.

We both fall back onto the bed, breathless. Neither of us says anything as there really isn’t anything to say. I roll her over onto her side, spooning her and kissing her gently on her back until she falls asleep. Then, I locate the remote and turn the television off.

That was so hot, I forgot the damn thing was on.


I awake in bed alone. That doesn’t happen often. I almost always wake before Butterfly does. Is she alright?

I try not to leap out of bed in a frenzied rush to find my wife. She’s fine, I tell myself. She just got up before me and she’s probably having coffee or in the shower. When I go to the en suite to relieve myself and she’s not in the shower, I’m only slightly panicked, not frantic. I slide into my slacks from yesterday and go out into the living room.

“Well, I don’t know what to expect, Daddy,” I hear her say. See? I told you she was fine, I scold myself. “I’m 99% certain that my mother tried to kill herself, but her doctor is giving me a hard time about a three-day evaluation.”

I lean over and kiss her on the cheek and she quietly blows me a kiss as I head over to the coffee maker. She’s curled up in one of the dining chairs with a cup of coffee in front of her and a notepad that she’s been scribbling something on.

“I told him that she was in his care now, and that when he decided what he was going to do with her that he could call me and let me know… None of them thinks I want to take care of her. So, since everybody is so in love with her and I’m the big bad wolf and they know what’s best for her, then let them do it. Believe me, I would have done fine not to have this disrupt my life at all.”

I pour a cup of coffee. Once again, I think about Grace and how I could never feel this way towards her, but how I truly feel that Carla deserves every bit of what Butterfly is dishing out.

“That was yesterday,” she says to Ray. “I haven’t been back to the hospital and I’m not going back unless I’m summoned. And they had better make a decision before sentencing on Wednesday because if they don’t, I’m outta here.”

Well, that makes me happy to hear, that she doesn’t plan on hanging around to find out what Dr. Lee plans to do. I say if she wants to do herself, she’ll find a way. And when she does, they’ll see how wrong they were for how they treated my wife.

“I’m fine, Daddy, don’t worry about me,” she says. “I already have a game plan in motion.”

Oh? What game plan is that? I take a sip of the black coffee. I’m transported all the way back to the first cup of coffee my wife made for me at her condo in Seattle. I look down into the cup and smile…

“Black… a man after my own heart.” 

Those were her words when she found out that I prefer my coffee black. As it turns out, I was—am—in fact a man after her heart.

“What’s got you smiling like the cat who caught the canary?” she asks as she refreshes her coffee. I was so lost in my own world I didn’t even hear her finish her conversation with Ray.

“Remembering the first cup of coffee I ever had with you,” I say, putting my arm around her waist and pulling her to me. “You had me at ‘Grey,’” I say, pressing a tender kiss on her lips.

“You were insufferable,” she says, putting her hands on my chest, “fucking insufferable.”

“Some people would say that I still am,” I reply.

“Yes, they would,” she concurs, “but they don’t know you like I do.”

“Oh, you still think I’m insufferable too… sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” she says, pecking me on my lips again.

“How’s Ray?” I ask, releasing her and taking another sip of my coffee.

“He’s fine,” she says. “He called to check up on me. Says he regretted having to leave me here, but he had to get back to be with his family. I already know that.”

“What’s this game plan you were talking about?”

“I’m going to have someone here be responsible for my mother so that I don’t have to come back,” she says. “I’ve already got Alex doing background checks on her boyfriend Abe and her beloved Window.” I frown.

“Window?” I say. “Who the hell is that?”

“That’s what she calls Wendy,” she replies. “She appears to be ready to turn her entire life upside down for my mother and she obviously adores her Window, so she’s the most obvious choice. And then there’s this Abe character, who just showed up out of nowhere and is so in love with my mother. If they’re genuine in their affection and there’s no ulterior motive, it’s the perfect set-up. If not, then she’ll be in the hospital until they release her, and then she’ll go to a nursing home or assisted living.”

“And if the good doctor decides that she doesn’t need a psych eval?” I ask.

“Then she’ll be in the hospital until they release her, and then she’ll go to a nursing home or assisted living,” she repeats. “I meant what I said. I’m not going back to the hospital until I’m summoned and when I do, it’ll be to make whatever final decisions need to be made before I leave this place.”

And that’s that. The queen has spoken, and I have a feeling that no matter what, we only have one week left in Nevada.

A/N: “I fell for the ‘donkey,’ hook, line, and sinker. When Carla said this, she was referring to a part of the Shakespearean play, “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” Without retelling the entire story and for those who don’t know of it, Puck is retrieving a flower that contains a powerful love potion. While at his task, Nick Bottom says something adverse to him and Puck turns Bottoms head into that of a donkey. The king and queen of the fairies—Oberon and Tatania—are fighting, and Oberon uses the love potion on Tatania while she’s sleeping, intent that she would fall in love with the first thing she sees when she wakes. What’s the first thing that she sees? Bottom as the donkey. She’s so in love with him that she actually marries him in the story.

A little useless factoid that I think I mentioned earlier during one of the weddings. Mendelssohn’s Wedding March—the song traditionally played when the bride and groom exit the wedding after the vows—was written for this play. So, when choosing your exit song, just remember if you choose this one, you chose the song where a woman was married to a donkey.

Pictures of places, cars, fashion, etc., can be found at

Pictures from the trip to Las Vegas can be found at

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

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

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~~love and handcuffs