Raising Grey: Chapter 84—Adelaide Antics

More Aussie—get over it.

All other previous disclaimers still apply.

Dedicating this one to Alexis, who sends me a “thank you” email every time she gets a chapter. I may not always respond, but I see every one of them, my friend. You’re welcome, and thank you for sticking it out with me.

Chapter 84—Adelaide Antics

CHRISTIAN

I’m lying on the bed trying to catch my breath and she’s still playing with my cock. She has made it clear that she’s not done with me yet, so I better get my ass and gear and get ready for round two.

I take a few deep breaths to regain control of my body and try to draw my focus away from my aching dick. My wife playing with it before it’s ready is not necessarily a good thing, but I’m not going to tell her that.

It’s time for mind over matter, Grey. You’ve been here before—being tormented after an orgasm. You can overcome this.

My wife is in tune with me, though, even in this pickled state, and she adjusts her stimulation… gently stroking my balls and playing with my perineum like only she’s allowed to do. It gives my tender head and cock a moment of sweet reprieve, but still adds the sweet stimulation of her gentle hands. I close my eyes and absorb the feeling of my wife touching me as my cock recuperates. A few moments later, I sink into the feeling of her hands on me, stimulating my prostate from the outside.

She looks up at me, demanding, opens her mouth wide and descends upon my balls. I take a deep breath and she sucks them into her mouth. My dick twitches a little, but hasn’t yet revived. She rolls her tongue around the skin, tasting it and never taking her lust-filled blue eyes off of me.

Lick, lick, lick, suck… she’s tasting them, savoring them like candy, and after a minute or two, we have liftoff. When she sees my cock respond to the stimulation, she sucks my balls into her mouth, manipulating them like she’s giving them a blowjob.

“Sssss,” I hiss as she sucks them into her mouth, fellating my testicles like two delicious gumballs right before you devour them. It looks insane and feels even better, and it’s not long before Greystone it staring up at me at attention. He seeps a very tiny bit of grateful moisture from the head and settles back into pleasure, occasionally bobbing his applause at her masterful skills.

I gaze into her commanding blue eyes as I push my pelvis down against the hand still massaging my perineum while she gobbles my balls. Without warning, she takes my cock in her mouth again and I hiss in surprise. She bobs down on it and I can’t help but thrust. Then, she’s up on her knees, nothing touching me but her lips and tongue.

“Good God,” I hiss as I thrust slowly and evenly into her mouth, rolling my hips to keep up with her rhythm. She angles her head at just the right moment in just the right way with each thrust to accommodate the mouth fuck. Her mouth is wet and hot and as I stroke into it, saliva falls amply and provocatively from her lips. I swear if she keeps this up, this show will be over a whole lot sooner than we want.

Fucking hell! What was in that wine?

She grants me reprieve and releases my dick momentarily only to zero in on the head once more. Fucking hell.

She licks the head gently, then purses her lips in the most delicious way and sucks it into her mouth. The skin is still a little pliable and oh, so sensitive and it feels so good. Her puckered lips suck the head, the tightness and pressure never relenting, and now I want to crawl up the bed away from her. Her lips never breach the rim and she’s driving me crazy. When she loosens her lips a bit to allow saliva to run over the head of my dick only to suck it into her mouth and clean the skin again, I nearly break into convulsions.

“I want to make you come like this again,” she says, “but I can’t wait anymore…”

She scurries on top of me and drops down on my rock-hard dick, thrusting it so deep inside of her that I think I feel the opening of her uterus. I’m in elated shock as she just sits atop me, her head back and her eyes closed, her hands flat on my chest.

“Yes!” she breathes, as she flexes and contracts her pussy. “Oh, yes…”

Oh, yes is right! I can’t say it because I’m frozen in pleasure, my hands once again gripping the sheet and my mouth open, looking up at this enchantress and panting like a dog. Do what you wish to me… I’m yours… I don’t care…

She rocks her hips infinitesimally, but she may as well be wobbling like she’s working a hula-hoop! Greystone reaches out in every direction to feel her walls and I can barely function. I watch her lick and bite her lip as she widens the stance of her knees for traction and I’m mesmerized. Her mouth is moving but no words are coming out and she looks ethereal, almost like she’s praying—and this feeling in my cock is heavenly. Her walls are squeezing and grinding against my shaft ever so slightly causing this deliciously infernal burn. The light from behind her is causing a “halo” effect around her and it’s either the remnants of the wine or an extreme pleasure-induced haze, but I swear that God has sent an angel to ride me tonight…

Yeah, it’s the wine, but who the fuck cares?

Her grind intensifies just a bit, a tiny bit of roll and a tiny bit of thrust, and I know that she’s finding the angle that’s hitting that spot. I’m not even here anymore. I’m just that body that’s attached to that dick that’s bringing her to her plateau.

Use me, baby. Fucking use me til you scream…

Her hip roll becomes a steady thrust, short and intense, and her nails dig into my chest. The pain ignites my pleasure center, my balls tighten, and I almost lose it. I grunt loudly, grabbing her knees as she continues to ride me.

Yes… touch me…

I don’t know if she said it out loud, but I heard it. My hands travel up the front of her thighs to her hips, pistoning against mine and working Greystone into a fired frenzy.

“Yes!” she breathes, and I squeeze her hips. Fuck that dick, baby. Ride that cock until you’re dripping all over it.

My hands move up her alabaster skin to her breast. I squeeze her mounds and thumb her taut nipples until they pebble.

“Oh, God,” she keens, her thrusts quickening. She moves her hands from my chest and positions them on the bed on either side of my head.

I can’t play with her breasts anymore. I can’t concentrate… too good… too good…

My hands move to her thighs and clench. I have no choice but to hold on for this masterful ride. She drops her head so that her hair falls forward over my face, reminding me of the very first time she caressed me with her hair. It’s longer now, thicker, and it smells divine, and I swear that I’m slipping into a level of subspace where I’m transcending a bit, my shaft and balls being beaten within an inch of their lives as she’s now thrusting with speed and purpose, fucking me…

Fucking me like a man… like a man would fuck his woman, driving into her balls deep with sweet abandon, feeling her wrap around him over and over again as he pursues sweet release. I’m that man, only I have nothing to do with the fucking. I’m being fucked—ridden like a wild animal.

Her breaths are ragged, driven. Her rhythm is fast and smooth. She doesn’t pump and rock me with each thrust, although the bed rocks violently with our movement. No, her motion is smooth, a groove on and off my dick, the only parts of her moving are her hips as she fucks me and her knees as they open and close on either side of me with each thrust, her feet secure under my thighs anchoring her to my body.

Fuck… oh fuck…

She’s primal as she rides me—fucking feral. I can’t see her face through the mask of her hair over mine, but I know that her eyes are closed, her mind and body concentrating on nothing but riding that dick, nothing but feeling it fill her pussy over and over and over…

I grind my teeth and take in a breath as I feel the orgasm quickly rising in my balls again. She’s not ready, and I can’t go until she does.

With her hands flat on the bed, she moves her hips up and down on my cock with a very controlled and rhythmic bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce. With each silent drop, my cock threatens to blow, but I hold that painful nut, waiting… waiting…

She whimpers. Fuck, she whimpers. The sound of her voice turns me on so much. Don’t come, Grey. Fucking hold it…

I squeeze her thighs harder, trying to hold back my climax banging at my balls and demanding to be released.

She whimpers again.
Fuck, she’s killing me here!

She’s bouncing harder, faster, with purpose, her breathing intentional and ragged… Fuck, I’m not going to make it…

“Come! Come!” she hisses heavily. Shit, I hope she was talking to me, because I squeeze her thighs tight and begin to blow fantastically inside of her. Seconds later, she shrieks and begins to tremble on top of me. I grab her breasts as I’m blasting out my insides, pumping all my hopes and dreams inside of my happy place. Her legs tighten on either side of me, her hands clasp over mine on her breasts, and her head falls back, releasing cries of passion as we both ride out our orgasms.

*-*

Sunday has no particular schedule except to be at the airport at 4:30pm to fly back to Seattle. Even though the session last night was hot as fuck, we managed to get to sleep at a reasonable hour. Butterfly awakes with only a slight hangover—fortunate, but surprising, considering that she probably consumed her body weight in wine yesterday and enamored several people in the process. However, after a steaming hot shower, another round with the breast pump, and lots of water and some ibuprofen for my libation princess, she’s ready to face the day.

We start with some Facetime with our babies with a promise that they will see us tomorrow night. Minnie’s separation anxiety seems to have gotten a little worse and I must say that I’m glad we’ll be home soon. I shudder to think how badly my babies suffered while I was away from them in Madrid. True, they had their mother, but I wasn’t there… and she was suffering, too. God, I can’t believe I was such an insensitive asshole.

Intent on forgetting about the huge fuck-up I made a few months ago after leaving my wife and children with no word if or when I was coming back home, I aim to have fun with my wife for our last day in Australia. So, we have a hearty breakfast and plan to spend our last day at the Adelaide Zoo. However, after talking to the front desk staff, we decide to go to the Cleland Wildlife Park instead. According to the locals, the Adelaide Zoo is nice, but you’re going to spend most of your day seeing more of the common animals that you would see in any zoo. Cleland is a bit more interactive and entertaining on short notice. We’ll get a chance to connect with and observe the indigenous species of the land in their natural habitat.

Once again, Lawrence shadows us while Jason gets us checked out of the hotel and our bags checked at the airport. He’ll meet us at Cleland with a picnic lunch we secured from a local café and then it’s to the airport with us all to return home.

My wife is looking adorably casual in another pair of skinny blue jeans and a cute T-shirt that’s tied in a knot behind her with a caption that says, “Baked in Seattle.” She’s wearing another pair of sneakers today and says that she just wants to be comfortable walking around the zoo and traveling home. I pretty much mimic her outfit in a T-shirt and jeans, although my shirt doesn’t have a caption.

We enter the park through the gift shop and past the café before we exit out the back of the building and we’re on our way to see the animals.

There are a lot of exhibits, but for the most part, many of the animals roam pretty freely so as to maintain the aspects of their natural habitat. So, it’s very easy to just walk up to them and start feeding them. However, there are some enclosures, and what’s the first one that we see?

You guessed it—the reptile enclosure.

“I don’t want to go in there,” Butterfly protests.

“Don’t be a chicken,” I say. “We don’t even know if we’ll see the same things we saw at the zoo. We’ll probably see something more interesting and exotic.”

“I see snakes on the display, Christian. We will see the same things.”

“Well, then, you know that they’re in cages, and I want to see the snakes.” I enter the reptile enclosure to see what types of exotic animals are on display. Lawrence stays with my wife outside as I take a look around.

It’s probably a good idea that Butterfly stayed outside, because some of the snakes are contained in the displays and some of them are not. Granted, they’re not crawling all over the floor, but they are on displays outside of the glass. I don’t know why I’ve always been a bit fascinated by snakes. Maybe it’s because I’ve always considered myself a bit of an unsavory character—unkind, undeserving of love, maybe even a little wicked—and snakes have historically been associated with evil, like the serpent that tempted Eve in the Garden.

There are a few keepers in the reptile enclosure, all near one of the reptiles who aren’t contained. I’m fascinated by the one with this huge greenish snake wrapped around his body. I see that a small child is actually stroking the body of the snake and I walk over to get a closer look.

When I say this damn thing is huge, I mean it’s huge! I have no idea how long it is, but I’m fairly certain that it’s non-venomous if they’re allowing a child to pet it while it’s wrapped around another human being. I’ve only seen two other snakes this big. One is an anaconda and I’m pretty certain this ain’t one of those.

“Is that a Burmese python?” I ask the trainer. That’s the snake that accompanies Selma Hayak’s dance at the strip club in From Dusk Till Dawn.

“Thaht’s a good guess, mayte, but no. This is an olive poython. She can get ta be fordeen feet long and up to 20 kilos in body weight…”

Here’s another example of the varying accents in Australia. He hardly has an accent at all, and not only that, but I also note that he used a metric weight and a standard measure of length.

“Theyse ahr warm weathah poythons that eat really big pry—kangaroos, wallabays, things of thaht soht. This guhl here was actually a breedah for a while, but now she’s here with us.”

She looks strangely majestic wrapped around this guy and I reach out to caress her smooth skin…

“Would ya loike to hold hah?” he asks. I’m taken aback by the question and frown, but I find myself agreeing to hold the ginormous olive python. The keeper shows me how to cradle the snake as he helps her wrap her coils around my body. If you don’t cradle or hold them correctly, they can get hurt, which strangely means that in captivity, we’re more dangerous to them than they are to us.

I’m a tiny bit nervous holding the snake, admiring her texture and how gentle she is, and hearing more facts and statistics about how she came to be in the Adelaide preserve when olive pythons mostly inhabit northern Australia. I’m sort of wishing Butterfly was here with me to take a picture of this, but I’m certain that she’d probably have a coronary if she saw me like this. I don’t know why because it kind of feels like a big hug…

“Christian Trevelyan Grey, what the hell are you doing!?”

Is my mother here?

I raise my gaze to see a tiny and enraged Butterfly glaring at me with her hands on her hips, and the entire reptile enclosure falls silent.

“You have infant twins at home, and you come to Australia and suddenly become Steve Irwin! Have you lost your mind?” she scolds.

“It’s not dangerous, baby,” I say, and I feel like I’m twelve.

“Not dangerous??” she shrieks. “It’s a snake! A very big snake! And I can guarantee that it didn’t get that big by eating mice!”

“Thehr hahmless, ma’am,” the keeper says. “She’s not venomous and she’s gentle as a lamb.” Butterfly throws a glare at the keeper that chills my soul, and I simultaneously throw a glare at Lawrence, who simply shrugs. The shrug says a lot—he couldn’t stop her from coming in, but I’m still miffed at him.

“I thought you were staying outside,” I retort, trying to regain control of the situation.

“You’ve been in here forever,” she counters. “I would like to see the park!”

I haven’t been in here that long… have I?

“Sir,” she says, turning to the keeper, “would you please remove the huge, man-eating reptile from my husband?”

“Yes, ma’am. C’mon, guhl,” the keeper says as he gently begins to uncoil the python from my body and wrap her around his. I can see that he’s unsuccessfully trying to hide his mirth as he retrieves the snake. There’s no use in trying to reason with her right now. She might as well have walked in on me with another woman.

Actually, she did.

She does a military turn to leave and marches towards the door. Just before she gets there, we see a group of children gathered around another keeper. I’m sure we have the exact same thought. What in this room could have children gathered around like that?

She approaches cautiously and stands there, easily able to see over the children and somewhat mesmerized, I must say, by whatever has their attention. I look over her shoulder and the keeper is handling a bearded dragon. I don’t know what has Butterfly so mesmerized, but she is completely entranced. When the keeper asks if she wants to hold it, she extends her hand without even speaking. The keeper places the dragon in her flat palm, and she examines it carefully while the keeper gives us little factoids about it, like the fact that its beard does indeed look like unshaved whiskers and extends fully when he feels threatened.

I snicker at my wife’s obvious double standard and lean in to get a laugh at her expense.

“Mommy, can we keep it?” I whine like one of the children watching my wife, causing them to snicker. It breaks her trance and she looks over her shoulder at me. “You can hold a dragon, but I can’t hold a python.” She sticks her tongue out at me and hands the dragon back to the keeper with a “Thank you.”

“I told you at the zoo that I don’t have problems with lizards. It’s snakes that are my issue,” she says once we clear the door. “And how can you even compare the two? That dragon was twelve inches tops from nose to tail. That snake was ten feet long easily.”

“Fourteen, but who’s counting?” I say, walking past her and looking at the full-sized map since she has the small one.

“You are such an a—ah! Oh, God!” I turn around to see my wife leaping backwards and looking at something on the ground. A large ball of fur is running towards her, and she yelps. And then another. I look at the map and discover that these furry little not-so-adorable creatures are potoroos. Butterfly doesn’t like them too much. As a matter of fact, she could very much do without them.

Potoroos have really long tails and are about the size of a young housecat. When they stand, they resemble very small kangaroos. However, when they run on all fours—which they do more often—they look like very large, really fat rats. They scamper right across the trail as you’re walking by, causing my wife to nearly jump out of her skin when she sees the first one. I’m certain she would have scurried up the nearest tree if she could. Once she sees the first one, she has the displeasure of seeing them scamper all over the park in herds looking for food like giant rats in the sewers of New York. She opts not to feed them, although Lawrence gets a kick out of letting one of them eat from his hand.

A tiny bit of fun never hurt anybody.

A wallaby walks up to us on the trail and Butterfly leans down to feed it. However, a potoroo runs over to partake in the feast and Butterfly is having none of that. So, the poor wallaby has to wait until the next person comes with a treat. No worries, Butterfly. We’ll get a chance to see more wallabies deeper in the park.

Our next stop is the rainbow Lorikeet display. Two of the birds are huddled on the fence together and I swear, they look like their snuggling and making out. The minute one walks down the fence for some room, the other walks right back up to it and continues to rub against the first bird’s feathers.

“Is that how they mate?” I ask Butterfly, who has downloaded the Cleland app to help us identify the animals and get more information on them.

“Maybe,” she says, scrolling through her phone. “They’re mostly monogamous and most of them mate for life. So… these two could be a couple.”

Could be? It looks like one is going to mount the other right here on the fence!

After a quick left turn past the Lorikeets, we arrive at one of three kangaroo habitats—the Kangaroo Island kangaroos. You can walk right up to them and feed them right from your hand. From there we see the swamp wallabies, confirming what I said earlier—that we would get another chance to feed the wallabies without being swamped by what Butterfly so lovingly refers to as “wildlife rats.”

She’ll hold a fancy lizard, but she won’t go near the potoroos… My wife is strange.

Next, we walk through one of the aviaries in the park where we see various species of native birds, water birds, and forest birds and on the other end outside of the aviary, we see the cape barren geese and the emu. I think I remember seeing the emu and some kind of kangaroo at the Seattle Zoo, but I’m not sure. I have to say that I’m getting a kick out of not just seeing the usual suspects as I’m certain we would have had we gone to the Adelaide Zoo instead.

We spend a little time looking at the wombats, but unfortunately, they like to hide in their little dens or holes or whatever you call them. So, they’re not really interested in putting on a show for us. However, it’s a warm day, so the echidnas are out and about on display. They’re these tiny little things that favor miniature porcupines, but when I see them, I swear they remind me of powder puffs—maybe not so puffy, but they still look like powder puffs.

Further into the park are the western grey kangaroos and the yellow-footed flock wallabies. We see the wallabies first, and I mistake them for just more kangaroos, but the locals inform us that wallabies have shorter legs than kangaroos. I only see the difference after they point it out.

A western grey kangaroo with a baby in her pouch comes to eat from my wife’s hand, which is somewhat unusual, we’re told, since kangaroos are extremely protective of their babies. She actually holds onto Butterfly’s hands with one of hers while she eats the feed from her palm. Of course, I must capture that for posterity.

Jason calls us to inform us that he has arrived with our lunch, so we head to the picnic area, intent on saving the Tasmanian Devils and the Koala display for last. More time has passed than we thought as it’s easy to lose yourself in the various species of animals in the park, especially watching them thrive in their own habitat.

“Is it me or does is seem like we haven’t really had any alone time on this trip?” I begin as we tuck into a delicious picnic lunch of Thai salad with beef strips; chicken, avocado, and pesto rolls; a stocked deli and Mediterranean antipasto tray; fruit salad, croissants, sparkling mineral water, bottled water and of course, a bottle of white wine. My wife raises her head slowly and cocks it to the side, gazing at me like a strange animal.

“Well, yes, of course there’s been a lot of fucking,” I acknowledge, “but I just mean out and about.” She begins to load her fork with Thai salad.

“Well, we are in a foreign country,” she replies. “We have to have our security. It’s the nature of the beast—you pointed that out to me. And we’re in a very touristy part of the world. It’s not like we went to a retreat.” She takes the forkful of her salad.

“I know. I guess I kind of expected more ‘gazing at sunsets’ and that sort of thing. Speaking of sunsets…” I pull out the camera and scroll back to the pictures of the sunset that I took at Barossa Valley.

“Christian, these are beautiful,” she says as she scrolls through the pictures, temporarily abandoning her lunch. “Where did you take these?”

“Wine country,” I tell her. “Near the end as we were leaving.” She looks at me and frowns.

“Where was I?” she asks. “How could I have possibly missed this?”

“You were asleep, darling,” I inform her with a smile. The fruits of the land had you knocked out completely. She twists her lips.

“You’re going to rub that in,” she complains, handing me back the camera.

“Not as much as you did last night,” I say before taking a bite of my chicken wrap. The words are out of my mouth before I know it, and I don’t regret it. It’s true. She raises a brow to me and helps herself to some antipasto.

“I made a call a few days ago,” I say. “Remember when I said that I wanted us to have some kind of training when we got back to Seattle?” She nods. “Well, a couple of old, trusted acquaintances got back in touch with me and are willing to set something up for next weekend.” She swallows her food.

“That soon,” she says, picking at her salad. I place my fork on the plate and take her hand.

“Is there any reason why we should wait?” I ask. “We need some formal training.”

“What… exactly is involved in ‘formal training?’” she asks.

“We learn from people with experience how the lifestyle fits into our relationship,” I say, trying not to be too obvious to possible prying ears.

“Hmmm,” she says before turning back to her lunch.

“What?” I ask.

“I’m not sure how I feel about ‘formal training,’” she says. “It brings the Pedo-bitch She-thing to mind.” I twist my lips. I hadn’t thought about that.

“It’s going to be necessary, baby,” I tell her. “We’re going about this the wrong way. We jumped into it with both feet, but we never really knew what the other needed from the relationship. I’m feeling around in the dark for your needs and you’re pushing yourself beyond your limits for mine. That’s totally unacceptable.”

“But… strangers,” she says, trepid, “I realize the importance of assistance, believe me, but the thought of training for something so intimate with outsiders…” She’s shaking her head.

“When you needed guidance, you went to your friend, Michelangelo,” I point out. “This is going to be no different.”

“This is going to be world’s different,” she says, firmly but softly. “Someone’s going to be teaching me how to be a submissive. I remember the BDSM club, Christian, I don’t know if I want anybody to see me like that!”

See her like wha…?

“Whoa! Whoa! Wait a minute. I remember the BDSM club, too. I don’t want anybody to see you like that, either! Is that the kind of training you think I mean?”

Her expression softens, a mixture of relief and confusion.

“I tho… well… well, what other kind of training is there?”

I slump back in the chair a bit, my own emotions a bit of relief and amusement.

“Baby, you’re a psychiatrist,” I say softly, leaning in her direction. “You took human sexuality as part of your required studies. You must know that the biggest percentage of the lifestyle is psychological—what you mentally gain from the experience. The physical is an aid; it’s a means to an end. It’s not the meat of the relationship or the lifestyle. You must know that.”

“Well, yes, but…” Just as she begins her protest, I can see one of those three-second-funnels run through her head with a myriad of scenarios and questions and situations and realizations and in just as much time, she says, “You’re right. My mind is totally blowing past that part because it’s wrapped around the physical portion of it. I don’t know how I could have missed it.”

“Because you’re in it,” I point out, stroking the skin on the back of her hand. “It’s the same thing as being able to help someone else face and conquer their fears, but not being as successful about facing your own. It’s a normal human flaw. But now that I understand more clearly, I can tell you. Our training will be all instructional, informational, and verbal. We may take part in an activity or two if it’s required or we desire it, but I don’t want anybody else seeing or touching that beautiful body any more than you do.”

I stroke her cheek with the back of my hand and she physically relaxes. Geez, if she thought for one second that I would want anyone but me exercising any dominance of any kind on her, I’m extremely glad to dispel that theory. Touch my Butterfly? In a pig’s eye! And some other horny Dom watching me spank or flog her so that he can go impose his will on some pain whore somewhere with images of my Butterfly in his head? I think not!

“Yes,” she says, “yes, I think I would like to pursue this… to see… what we need to do to enhance our relationship and… to meet each other’s needs.” She’s choosing her words carefully. I can tell.

“I want to be a good husband, and a good Dom to you,” I say without hesitation or careful choosing of my words. “I want us to come to an agreement of what works for us instead of you feeling like my will must be imposed upon you. When I’ve lost control, I do want you to help me back to where I need to be, but only to the extent of what you can take, not what you think I need. You’re the perfect Domme for me when the time comes—and with very little training—but I’m definitely not the perfect Dom for you… yet.”

“That’s what we’re aiming for?” she asks uncertain. “Perfection?”

“As fucking close as we can get,” I say, bringing her hand to my lips and pressing a gentle kiss on her fingers. She gives me a faint, coy smile.

“I can deal with close,” she says softly.

We finish our lunch talking lightly about the things we plan to do when we get back home, but I can tell that she’s still distracted by the previous content of our conversation. I’ll just have to show her that everything will be better throughout the course of our training. She’s not some mindless, meaningless submissive. She’s my wife, and it’s important that she knows what she means to me—even in that submissive role… especially in that submissive role.

We’re back on the trail to commune with the rest of the animals in the park before we must head to the airport. Our first stop is the red kangaroo area. The kangaroos stick around in groups of two or three—one, occasionally—especially babies with parents. All of the animals are pretty docile and accustomed to human interaction, and the red kangaroo is no exception. I lean down to feed one of them while Butterfly is feeding another. He lies down on the grass in the shade and gets comfortable, forcing me to walk over to him and squat. While he’s chilling under the tree, I extend my open hand with the feed and he just chomps away. I reach up and rub his head, giving him a scratch behind his ear. The freaking diva raises his chin like a dog as if to say, “You missed a spot.” I hear a little giggle and look over at my wife, who’s videotaping my interaction with my latest friend on the digital camera. I give her a good show and scratch him under his neck, since he so obligingly raised his head to give me a better angle.

We continue through the preserve and arrive at the dingoes den. They have a beautiful coat, and amongst themselves, they’re very playful. However, they’re considered “pests” and as an old tale goes, they like to eat babies in Australia. I don’t know how true that is, but according to one of the locals also attending the park, there is a story from the 80’s that a woman named Lindy Chamberlain’s baby mysteriously disappeared while on a camping trip.

Dingoes, like any other animal in the wild, are opportunistic and mostly eat small animals like rabbits and rodents. At the time, the ranger was touting that dingoes in the area were becoming quite aggressive and due to the eating habits and reputation of the dingo, Chamberlain declared that a dingo had eaten her baby. The story is apparently pretty controversial because some people say that dingoes don’t really eat babies. Yet, she lost her baby and blamed a dingo.

Though the infant’s clothing was discovered mangled and bloody about two and a half miles away from the campsite, the child was never found.

The dingo is a carnivorous canine, likened to a reddish-brown wild dog, with a longer snout and sharper teeth. Whether they attack babies or just eat rabbits remains to be seen. However, the pure dingo is an endangered species because of crossbreeding with domestic dogs, so pest or not, the pure dingoes in this habitat are protected.

We finally get to see some real, live Tasmanian devils. The little buggers are tiny little black things that scurry around looking for food or whatever it is they’re looking for. This being my first time ever seeing a live Tasmanian devil, I try to compare it to the cartoon.

“No resemblance,” I say. Butterfly frowns.

“To what?” she asks.

“To the cartoon,” I reply. She pauses for a moment, then laughs loudly.

“Besides the ears, have you ever seen a rabbit that looks like Bugs Bunny?” she asks mirthfully.

She’s got a point.

Many of these devils are very small, but they’ll only get to be just over two feet long at their longest only about 18 pounds. I would say that all of these are less than ten pounds. They can run pretty fast—about 8 miles/hour—and although he’s not leaving utter destruction in his path, this little guy in the enclosure looks like he’s trying to reach that speed as he runs around and around and around in circles while his friends just sit on a rock watching him. I guess the cartoon Tassy is more of a caricature of what the Tasmanian devil should look like, because I see little to no resemblance whatsoever.

f89ffc4a776ac3f2713f338220a4410acdac63ff7627ad6d8888719e51ba70fc

 

Now, of course, Butterfly has to have the experience of holding a koala. They’re cute and lovable and right up her alley, and they’re actually very strong. My wife adores them. Had I jokingly asked if we could take one home like I did the bearded dragon, I’m certain she would have agreed and demanded that I find a way for us to have a Koala transported to the Crossing. I could see myself trying to convince her that we are not the Neverland Ranch and a koala is not Bubbles. Oh, the arguing with PETA and animal control and the zoning board for keeping an exotic animal in the area…

And I quickly bring my mind back from the tangent.

We pet them for a while and learn about their upbringing and temperament from the keeper while they feed on sprigs with eucalyptus leaves. Finally, Butterfly gets her much-anticipated opportunity to hold the koala. The keeper instructs us to don a smock that’s very soft like velvet or something, almost like the koala’s fir and the same color. We each get the opportunity to hold the koala in our arms and Butterfly is completely stricken. She gets her picture taken with the little guy and I think he’s as stricken with her as she is with him—he won’t release her when it’s my turn to hold him.

We finally come to a compromise and Butterfly pets him while I hold him. That’s the only way that he would settle in my arms! When he finally does, though, he cuddles into me and continues to eat his eucalyptus leaves. Butterfly stays by my side while I take a picture with it to keep the little guy from squirming. It’s like holding a small child—well, not my kids. My kids are cuter, but this little guy is pretty cute, too. We have to be careful while we’re handling them as they have powerful claws and can scratch you pretty badly. That’s why we wore the smocks.

Butterfly is sad to leave the wildlife park, particularly the koala area, but we stop at the gift shop where we buy lots of trinkets and souvenirs as well as copies of our pictures from the Koala experience. Oh, and she purchased several stuffed koalas, too.


ANASTASIA

Traveling to and from Australia means that you can literally be traveling for about 48 hours to three days, if you count swapping planes and layovers. What I can’t understand is if we could fly from Sydney straight to Seattle after a 1 ½-hour layover—which is what we did—why couldn’t we fly from Seattle straight to Sydney? Since I’m not the pilot, it’s a rhetorical question. And since the flight is already done, it’s also a moot point.

There’s a bit of fanfare at the airport when we arrive—not much, but more than I expected since no one knew that we had left the country. I assume that someone else must have been flying out or arriving at SeaTac, and they just got a bonus capturing the Greys.

Boy, was I wrong!

I’m sad to leave Australia and my fuzzy koala friends, but I’m very happy to be home with my bed and my babies, though I can honestly admit that I didn’t miss the snow. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on those two little pink bundles when we arrive on Sunday evening, and Gail is right on top of it, handing me Minnie the moment I remove my coat and settle in the family room. Once that order of business is complete, she dives right into the next one.

“Did I correctly see you with a giant snake wrapped around your body?”

Christian and I look at each other and back at her.

“What?” he asks incredulously.

“Either someone has some very good photoshopping skills or there’s a picture circulating around the internet of you with a Burmese python wrapped around your body… in those clothes!” she confirms pointing at him.

“Are you serious?” he asks. “That couldn’t have been a day ago! Did you see any paps around?” he inquires of Jason.

“Um, I was retrieving lunch at the time,” Jason replies, “but Ben didn’t notify me of any press when I got back.”

“Then who took the picture?” I ask.

“It says Renee Schuller took the picture,” Gail says, scrolling through her phone. “She was another visitor at the zoo when she heard someone yell your name. Knowing who you were, she snapped the picture and posted it on her Facebook. It went viral in a matter of an hour.” My husband slowly turns his head to me, and I shrink a bit.

“Well, what did you expect?” I defend. “I walk into a reptile enclosure that I didn’t want to go inside in the first place to find my wayward husband who had spent so much time in there, I thought one of the reptiles had eaten him, and when I get in there, he’s got a god… gosh darn snake wrapped around his body that I discover is over twice as long as he is tall! Yes, I flipped the f… freak out.”

“You called out his name?” Jason asks.

“Yes, I was horrified! He had a frag-nabbit python wrapped around his body!”

“And someone recognized him just because you called out his name?” Gail protests.

“She called out my full name—all three of them—loudly, and somebody knew who I was. I was expecting to turn around and see Grace standing there! Instead, I’m standing there being scolded by my wife trying to convince her that the snake is harmless. Even the keeper was laughing at me. Oh! But not five minutes later, she’s holding a dragon!” All eyes snap to me.

“God, you are so dramatic,” I chastise.

“You were holding a Komodo dragon?” Gail asks surprised.

“No!” I reply, a bit perturbed with my husband. “I was holding a bearded dragon, not a Komodo dragon. Komodo dragons are much bigger than bearded dragons…”

“Yeah, like a hundred and eighty pounds,” Jason points out.

“Exactly!” I say. “I was holding a lizard that was about 10 inches long. He was holding a 14-foot python!”

“And it was an olive python, not a Burmese python,” Christian defends.

“What’s the difference?” I retort.

“About ten feet,” Jason interjects. Christian makes that one-up kind of face, and I just want to punch him.

“Fourteen feet, Christian!” I announce. “Fourteen feet of man-eating reptile wrapped around your body! Exactly how did you expect me to react?”

“I didn’t expect you to be there!” he counters.

“Then you should’ve brought your as… butt out of the reptile cage!” I retort sharply.

“What is this thing you’re doing?” Jason points at me with an open hand. “Gosh darn butt freaking frag-nabbit—what is this?”

“My children are almost a year old which means they’re going to be forming more words which means I don’t want any cursing around my babies.” I announce.

“Yet, you’re cursing me out about a flipping snake,” Christian mumbles, deliberately loud enough for me to hear him. Did I curse once? Did I say even one curse word? One?

“I’m going to hit him,” I say calmly to Jason while pointing to my husband. I’m going to hit him really hard and he may need medical attention.

“Remember, boss,” Jason says, “you have to sleep with her.”

Christian twists his lips but quickly gets the point and goes to the refrigerator.

“Hey! You guys are back!” Chuck comes from the area of the elevator, acknowledging our presence. “It’s been dead here without you,” he says, coming over to the sofa and giving me a kiss on the cheek. “How was Australia?”

“It was an adventure,” I say, somewhat dryly. Chuck sits on the arm of the sofa next to Keri.

“You didn’t have a good time?” he asks, curious. I sigh and kiss my yawning baby girl.

“No, we really had a great time—a couple of adventures here and there, but nothing to write home about… except when someone gets a picture of you and posts it on Facebook.” I twist my lips as Christian comes back into the family room with a Budvar, drinking it straight from the bottle.

“Oh, you saw the picture,” Chuck says. “What did you think?”

“I didn’t see it,” I reply. “I was there!” He turns to Christian.

“What did you think?” Chuck asks.

“I didn’t see it either, but I will,” he says dryly, before taking a drink of his beer.

“Ooookay, so, that’s my cue to shut the hell up,” Chuck says.

“Good idea,” Jason advises, “and watch your language.”

“What did I say?” Chuck says, shrugging.

“Hades,” Jason replies. “Her Highness doesn’t want any cursing around the children since they’ll be picking up words soon.” Chuck nods.

“Will you ever stop calling me Her Highness?” I ask.

“Old habits die hard and you started it, so live with it,” he replies matter-of-factly. I twist my lips and turn to Chuck.

“So, Chuck, tell us about your trip, first. How did things go?” I ask. Chuck sighs.

“Well, I got to see Mom and Dad’s house… not new, but new to me. It’s in Rapid City and it’s really beautiful—four bedrooms and three baths. Mom and Dad don’t need that much room, but they wanted to have room when Sunny and the kids came to visit. It’s a beautiful place and I would have loved to share some of those missed years with them, but…” He trails off and clears his throat.

“You know that we spent the days in court,” he continues, entwining his fingers with Keri’s. “Most of the nights we spent in front of the fireplace with good old-fashioned hot cocoa and marshmallows, going through albums and pictures of old times… and things that I missed—birthday parties, Christmases, Thanksgivings. We had good, home-cooked meals. I mean our meals here are pretty great, but there’s nothing like Mom’s cooking. She made this cabbage soup that she used to make when I was at home. I haven’t had it in forever! And the pan cornbread! Keri had three helpings!” he laughs.

“Eet wahs deleshush!” Keri exclaims, her eyes large. “It wahm an wholesome. ‘S like a huhg from de inside!”

We all laugh, and Chuck continues to tell us how his parents connected with him in their home and in their town, how they saw the sights of the city and even visited Mt. Rushmore. We don’t rush him to talk about the trial. We just let him ramble on for a while about reconnecting with his parents and wanting to go back home to visit more often, now that he actually has a home.

“Joe is a miserable bastard,” he says finally, as if he were saving the worst for last. “He sees what he’s done, and he knows what he’s done. He just doesn’t care. He found a way to make himself the victim the entire time. He told the court about my drinking, my terrible behavior—you know, destroying his wedding and stuff—and how he was desperately trying to protect his parents from my toxicity. It was like he had a catalog of every terrible thing I had ever done when I was drunk. If I were on the outside looking in, I would have taken his side, too.”

“So… what happened? Did he win?” Jason asks. Chuck purses his lips.

“We had an uphill battle, me and mom,” Chuck says. “We had to prove that we had lost something besides time in order for it to be an actionable case. Joe spent months preparing for this case. Every bit of my dirty laundry has been aired in South Dakota… the cars I wrecked, the wedding I destroyed, the break-ups I’ve had—if I stole a pack of gum, it’s now on the court record. At first, everybody was looking at me like I was a criminal, but when we got a chance to speak…”

He clears his throat again and has to regain his countenance a bit. It’s obviously hard for him to talk about it, and now I can see why he waited to discuss it.

“Joe talked for the whole first day, which I thought was strange since he was the defendant. He had all kinds of convincing evidence as to why he felt like I shouldn’t be allowed contact with my parents. He looked like the perfect, simple little country boy just trying to protect his ‘maw and paw’ while I went off to the city to live a fast life and get drunk. He even used our accident against me,” Chuck says, looking at me, “claiming that he came to Seattle to see me last year only to find me laid up, busted, and broken after having an accident from driving while drunk. I looked like Satan when he was done. I didn’t even want to take the stand. We went to a restaurant that night for dinner, and they wouldn’t even serve us!”

He shakes his head while Christian and I exchange a glance. He tried to use my accident to gain ground for his selfish actions—that unfeeling asshole!

“I came back to the house that night, and I told Mom that I didn’t think it was worth it. I would be coming back to Seattle at the end of the week and I would never have to see that town or him again if I didn’t want to, but they have to live there. Mom wouldn’t let me quit. She told me that he stole something very valuable from us and that if we didn’t see this through, win or lose, that he would automatically win. Then Keri gave me a pep talk and pretty much said the same thing Mom said. All I had was the truth—I didn’t have a mountain of memories and journal entries to spill in front of the court. I didn’t know how effective I would be.

“We went to court the next day and got the surprise of our lives. With a town full of angry ass people staring at me, I took the stand. Mom’s lawyer asked me questions, and I told my side. I didn’t deny anything he said. I owned up to everything that I did, except I wouldn’t let him use that accident against me. I told the court about the car that T-boned us and that anyone who wanted to know what happened in that accident could Google my name, the date, and that accident in Seattle and get the truth.”

“Did they do that?” I ask.

“Most of the court was on the phone while I was still testifying,” he responds. “That’s when the tide changed.”

Jesus, I’m glad to hear that! I’m sitting on the edge of my seat—literally—waiting to hear the rest of what happened.

“With one statement and in a matter of about a minute, I had established Joe as a liar and even worse, an opportunist. He not only lied about me and the accident, but he tried to use it against me to his advantage in a court of law, which is perjury. To keep him out of jail, his lawyer recalled him to the stand where he testified that he didn’t intentionally lie on me; he just didn’t have all the facts. With my history and seeing me laid up from a car accident, of course he assumed I was driving drunk. The judge opted not to charge him with perjury, but the damage was already done.

“I told the court about my time in rehab and AA; the years of trying to get in touch with my parents and how he destroyed all my letters; thinking that they hated me and never wanted to see me again; doing my tours of duty and coming back and joining a private security force; getting into that terrible accident that almost killed me; only being able to reach my parents because I had a wealthy boss who tracked them down after Joe came to see me asking for money for them and told me that they still wanted nothing to do with me; having an entire family all across the country that didn’t even know I was alive… I’d say the tide shifted pretty strongly.

“Mom had a plan… a big one. Never try to pull one over on your mother. She’ll get you every time.” He chuckles and shakes his head.

“My family came from everywhere!” he says, “not all of them, but a lot of them. They all talked about watching my mother suffer, about the years she spent researching and following dry trails and trying to track me down, waiting for a phone call or something in the mail to tell her something, anything, any tiny bit of hope. Mom had been searching for years trying to find me—trying to get me some help if that’s what I needed—and all the time, I was okay. I was in full recovery and living a healthy life. What Joe did wasn’t just selfish. It was cruel.

“Three days of nothing but solid testimony against my brother—hours and hours of recounting all the stories he told and the lengths he went to in order to ensure that I wouldn’t be able to get in touch with anybody and that nobody would be able to get in touch with me. Christian, as horrible as it was, had that car not nearly killed me, I never would have found my family, and they never would have found me.

“The parade of people that came through that courtroom talking about how my mother suffered, what she went through and what she did—they laid a foundation for her, and she got on that stand and cinched the deal.

“Mom had records—money that she paid for internet searches and background checks—nothing that panned out because she was using amateur resources and by the time she was searching for me, I was already in the service. After I didn’t hear anything from them, I moved on with my life. Jay called me about this great opportunity, I came to Seattle, and that was that… but Mom, she now had to deal with what she accepted as the death of her son and was going through therapy… money trail.”

I see where he’s going with this. They’re suing for slander and defamation of character, but he didn’t want money—he never did. He just wanted somebody to tell Joe that he was wrong, but you don’t get that kind of satisfaction in civil court. There has to be something lost—like I lost wages when David kidnapped me, and I lost money when that Keystone Cop took my credit cards—that can result in a need for restitution and possibly be a catalyst for punitive damages. Maddie produced that loss. Now, they had a real case.

“Joe had tried to make the therapy seem like it was my fault for disappearing. It didn’t float. Even his ex-wife showed up in court talking about how obsessed he was with keeping me and my parents apart even before she left him. In the end, he lost.”

Those were the words I was waiting for.

“He lost the case?” I confirm. “You won?” Chuck nods.

“Mom showed a monetary loss and had records and witnesses to prove it. I didn’t really show a monetary loss except for the stamps on the letters he destroyed. But when I mentioned the wealthy boss who tracked my parents down, there’s an expense that can be tracked… and it was enough.”

“So, what happened?” I ask, anxious to hear Joe’s fate.

“The jury found in our favor,” he says. “They awarded us one of the weirdest settlements I’ve ever seen in my life. Joe has to pay me and my mom a dollar a week… every week… for life!”

“What?” I ask, a bit surprised as well as a bit appalled.

“Yep, and if he misses a payment, he’ll be held in contempt of court and arrested.”

“You’re kidding,” Christian says.

“I’m not,” Chuck replies. “He can’t file bankruptcy to discharge it, because it’s something that he can pay. There’s no hardship. Even if he had other debts that he couldn’t pay, this one still couldn’t be discharged. He is locked in. If he doesn’t make the payments, he’ll be held in contempt of court and then have to do jail time. Then he’ll have to pay fines when he gets out and he’ll still have to pay our restitution. The only way that he can get out of this is to leave the state, but even that has its repercussions. He would still have to make the payments wherever he goes and if he doesn’t and the court finds out, there’ll be a warrant issued for his arrest and he’ll be a fugitive. He’s locked in.”

“How did things end?” Jason asks. “I mean, I know you had to have something to say.”

“I told him to never darken my door again and forget that I’m alive except when he has to write my check. Then I let him know that every penny that he gives me is going to a local alcohol rehab program so that more people can be success stories like me.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Fifty-two dollars a year—that hardly seems like compensation for what you lost.”

“Can you really put a price on what he did to me?” Chuck says. “To my family? They thought I was dead… my mom thought I was dead. He knew I was alive… and well. He knew I had gone through rehab. He knew I was in the military. He knew, but he was holding this anger for what I did at his wedding, and subsequently somehow blamed me for ruining his life. My mother can’t stand not to speak to him because that’s her son, and I wouldn’t expect it to be any other way, but what he did to us is immeasurable.

“I think the judge did the right thing, because assigning a specific dollar amount would have been an insult. Yet, by saying, ‘Send them a dollar a week every week for life…’ you don’t know when that’s going to end, so there’s no set dollar amount on that. Plus, he’ll never forget. He’ll never forget what he did to us and why he has to pay for it, even if it’s just a dollar. He was wrong. He was very wrong, and somebody in authority confirmed that. Somebody told him he was wrong, and he can’t take out a loan or hock his drawers and pay off the debt and call it even. It’ll never be even. What he did to us will never be even! Yeah, I think the judge did the right thing.”

He takes a deep breath and lets it out while Keri rubs his back.

“Mom surprised me, though,” he says once he’s calm again. “She kissed him in the middle of the courtroom right after the verdict in front of everybody. She told him that she loved him, but that she must have failed somewhere as a mother. She told him that if he doesn’t pay that dollar every week to me and to her like the judge ordered that contempt of court wouldn’t be his only problem. She said that $2 a week was the very least that he could do after what he put his family through, and that if he couldn’t do that, she would never speak to him again. She said that she has unconditionally given the last fifteen years to him and that she was giving the rest to me, and he could be a part of it, or he doesn’t have to. It’s his choice. And then we left.”

“Wow… talk about courtroom drama,” I say.

“I feel so bad for Joe,” Chuck says. I almost hurt myself rubbernecking over to him.

“Why in the he… heck do you feel bad for Joe?” Christian asks

“Don’t get me wrong—I’m not saying he didn’t deserve what he got, but I do feel sorry for him. I don’t know if he has any friends, but he’s alienated his family to the degree that I don’t think it can ever be fixed. I’m his brother. No matter what happened in our lives, I’m still his brother, and look what he did to me. Look what he did to my mom and dad. Nobody’s ever going to trust him again.

“I was under the influence of a controlling drug that I let go of and never touched again. He did this with sound mind and body. He has no excuse. I can forgive him for what he did to me. I really can. I can’t forgive what he did to my mom and dad.”

He shakes his head again and the room falls silent.

“So, on another note, my parents are going to spend an early Christmas with Sunny and the kids, and then, they’re coming here and staying through the New Year. I had a feeling you wouldn’t mind if they stayed here, but they can stay at my place in Bainbridge if it’s an imposition.” His face is alight again with joy, talking about his parents coming for Christmas.

“Now you know better than that,” Christian scolds. “Find out what would make them more comfortable. I’m fine with whatever they want to do.”

“When will they arrive?” I ask.

“I don’t know yet, but I’ll have to get the Bainbridge house cleaned for their arrival just in case,” he says. “Now, enough about me. I want to hear about the trip. I’ve never been to Australia. Jason, what do you think of Sophie’s new look?”

Jason frowns and Gail drops her head.

“Dammit, Chuck, thanks a lot!” she exclaims. I look down at Minnie and she’s asleep in my arms. Mikey is out cold in the Pack-n-Play. Crisis averted. Gail didn’t even notice.

“What new look?” Jason asks. Gail shakes her head and takes out her phone. She swipes the screen and enters something into it. Jason reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone.

“What the fuck!?” he yells.

And two babies are startled and crying.

“God! Thanks, Jason!” I declare and try to get Minnie to settle while Christian retrieves Mikey and gently begins to sooth him. Jason is unfazed, at least by my scolding.

“Gail, what the hell?” he hisses quietly through his teeth.

“She wanted to try something different,” Gail defends. Did she shave her head? Oh, dear God…

“What’s wrong? What is it?” I ask, praying that she didn’t follow Harmony’s lead and scalp herself.

“Purple!” he barks at me. “Her hair is purple! She looks like one of those rainbow horses you used to see in those cartoons! Who’s idea was this?”

0c92ef8bcafa0f5da9440b78ed459cb6And now I’m trying to suppress a laugh. The hormonal, emotional teenage girl dyed her hair purple. Worse things have happened.

“Calm down, Jason. It’s a rinse,” Gail chastises. “It’ll be gone in about three shampoos and then she’ll probably be green.”

“Oh, God,” Jason laments. “Please don’t let child services see her. They’ll probably take her away from me.”

“Um, Jason,” I say, “child services removes a child from abusive and dangerous situations, not because she dyed her hair purple.” He sighs heavily and rolls his eyes.

“This is just a phase, right? Tell me this is a phase. I hope this is a phase…”

“Oh, for God’s sake, man, stop being so dramatic. What are you going to do when she brings home a boyfriend?” Gail chides. I raise a brow and turn to Jason.

“Ugh,” he groans, puts his hand on his forehead, and turns away. Gail and I chuckle quietly, and I just shake my head. She’s already in that stage, Jay. You better prepare yourself.


A/N: The way that this picture was previously labeled in Pinterest made me think I might have made young Sophie’s hair purple before. I don’t think I did, but just in case, someone let me know if I did.

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

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

The Australia Picture Board can be found here: https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/raising-grey-the-trip-to-australia/ and the pictures from today’s chapter are in the Cleland Wildlife Park” sections.

And of course, the regular Pinterest board is here: https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/raising-grey/

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

 

 

Advertisements

Raising Grey: Chapter 82—Now, Where Were We?

Danger—Aussie accent ahead. Turn away now.

There are probably some bad attempts at French laced in here, too. Beware, you’ve been warned!

All other previous disclaimers still apply.

Chapter 82—Now, Where Were We?

ANASTASIA

I am on fucking fire.

My body is completely alight with orgasmic release and I’m still trembling for more. I didn’t know he packed toys and I have no idea when he had the time to do it because I packed his bags, but I’m sure the fuck glad he did.

Maybe he picked something up when we separated in the Marketplace.

Who the fuck cares?! Get back to the “alight with orgasmic release” part!
I have to agree with the Bitch on this one.

He’s rubbing my ass and playing with that heavenly butt plug while I catch my breath and come down from a blinding climax. His hands anoint the sides of my body from just under my arms all the way down my thighs to my knees before he issues the command that I hoped I would hear.

“Turn over.”

I roll over onto my back, still blindfolded and mindful of the butt plug still inserted.

“Are you comfortable?” he asks when I’m situated.

“Yes,” I whisper, my hands resting on the bed on either side of my head.

“Good,” he says. I feel him leave the bed for a moment and I wonder with anticipation what he’s doing. I take this time to try to decipher the scents in the room. Lilac for sure… no, maybe it’s jasmine… mixed with…

I hear him come back into the room and feel the bed dip when he returns. I feel a strawberry against my lips, so I open my mouth and take a bite. As I’m chewing, I feel his body over mine and his lips cover my mouth. I open slightly, and cool wine flows from his to mine. I swallow the mouthful of strawberry and wine, totally food seduced at this point. A bit of the chocolate confection from dessert passes my lips and I savor the flavor as his body rises from mine, and moments later, oiled hands anoint my neck and shoulders.

He keeps me alight with sensations, causing one to flow right into the other—the strawberry into the wine into the chocolate and back into the massage. I purr with satisfaction as his oily hands travel from my shoulders down and over my breasts and nipples over my torso and abs and down to my pelvis. He reoils his hands to spread copious amounts around my mounds, my outer lips, the sensitive crevices at the junction of my thighs and pelvis and my top and inner thighs.

His hands travel masterfully all over the front of my body, touching and tempting me. Then, I feel a strawberry at my lips again. I bite and chew and wait for the wine, but it doesn’t come. Instead…

“Ah!”

Gentle pressure closes over my nipple. I bite my tongue and breathe in. It’s not his mouth—it’s a nipple clamp, the adjustable kind. I wait as he secures it, just enough to plump and sensitize my nipple. He doesn’t dawdle. He goes straight to the other one, which has become taunt in the process, and attaches the second clamp. He pauses for a moment, and even blindfolded, I can tell that he’s admiring his handiwork.

I feel him cover my body again, his erection pressing into my leg—and his mouth closes over one nipple and the clamp. I cry out in arousal, pushing my breast up towards him as his hand teases the other nipple in the clamp.

“Christian…” I whimper, so turned on that I can barely think. I keep my hands on the bed next to my head—it’s better this way—and his mouth feasts on my nipple while his fingers play with the other. Then he switches, giving both nipples the benefit of his talented tongue. I have to hurry and swallow the strawberry so that I don’t choke on it from my radical breathing, and the sweet flavor lingers on my tongue while my man stimulates my nipples.

It’s glorious!

He moves away from my nipples and slowly slides down my body, rubbing and planting kisses along the way. My breathing is more controlled when he gets to my feet and starts a gentle massage with the oil again. Yes, that’s jasmine. It’s a favorite scent of his… and mine, along with cinnamon and vanilla. His massage is gentle and firm at the same time, relaxing my ankles, my calves, my knees… and giving my throbbing clit a brief reprieve to recuperate. I know Christian Grey enough to know that the orgasmic stimulation is far from over, and it’s not the butt plug or the nipple clamp that’s giving it away.

It’s the thigh massage. The way that his hands are spread open on my thighs, kneading upwards so that his thumbs run across the crevices gently over my outer lips, he’s about to attack.

He straddles my legs again and there’s a pause in his massage. When he returns, the texture of the oil is different. Even though I can still smell the jasmine in the air, it’s not as strong. It’s not in the oil, and I’m very soon to find out why.

“Mmm… mmm…” I groan. He continues his massage, up the top of my thigh, across those sensitive crevices, over my outer lips, only this time, the tip of my clit is protruding ever so slightly, and his thumb zeros right in on it. He runs his oily thumb up and down just inside my lips with each upward motion of his hand, pressing my clit in and pushing it up, stroking it just so between my lips. I want to crawl off the damn bed as I try to stifle my whimper.

“Let me hear you, baby,” he encourages.

“Ah,” I gasp, the heat so hot and the moan releasing some of the pressure in my chest. His thumbs feel so good, one stroking my clit and the other teasing the crevice between my pelvis and thigh.

“Christian!” I breathe, grabbing my breasts and stimulating the nipple clamps there. I hear him gasp and he continues to rub intermittently, giving me seconds to recoil before I’m squirming on the bed again in ecstasy.

He moves his hands to my thighs and pushes them open—not eagle-spread, but open enough. He puts his hand over my mons, pressing firmly and squeezing just enough to heighten arousal, using the base to open my lips so that the clit protrudes just a little more than it did when he pleasured it with his thumbs.

Well, maybe more than a little more… I feel air on the underside. I can tell that he’s positioned between my legs, on his knees maybe…

“Oh, God,” I gasp deeply as I feel something I’ve never felt before—wet, smooth, soft. He starts at the tip of my clit with a titillating tickle, and I turn my head and bite my lip, sinking into a pleasure I’ve never felt before.

Is it a feather? No, it’s much heavier… thicker than a feather.

It moves from the tip of my clit, slowly down the underside and over the surface of my inner lips. Then it travels back up the same way that it started.

It moves up… and down… and up… and down… up and down… and up and down… flicking over and off the top of my clit just once… then it comes back… starts at the tip and moves down the underside and over the inner lips… then up again… then down… The strange stimulation is sending ripples through my body and even causing my thoughts to stutter—enough to ignite and keep me burning, but not enough for orgasm unless he keeps going and going and going. He’s exquisite in his meticulous movements, back and forth masterfully, like an artist.

An artist…

That’s what it is! It’s a paintbrush!

This has to me the most agonizing, glorious new thing I’ve ever felt! Wherever he got this idea, I owe ginormous homage and he needs to tell me how I can get some, too! This is fucking genius!

My whimpering is almost embarrassing, but this feeling is divine and irresistible. I can’t be silent… I can’t keep still… dear God, my stomach muscles are fucking aching and my pelvis is actually cramping with pleasure! How can that be?

Several moments later, the brush makes its final stroke and I’m panting in ecstatic exhaustion. Every time I’m about to come, he changes the rhythm and stimulation so that it brings me back a bit, not enough to start over, but enough to stop the rise to orgasm. It’s maddening—and magnificent!

Next, I feel cold air on my clit. He’s blowing on it, I know he’s about to dive in and taste the rainbow. What will he do—deep massage with a firm tongue? Fast, tormenting flicks to bring me to a quick release? A deep clitoral suck accompanied by a two-finger g-spot stimulation? Oh, no. Not just yet. Mr. Grey has other plans for me.

He lays his head on my inner thigh while placing his hand gently on the other to spread my legs. His tongue licks lazily over my inner lips and up to my clit, firming a bit when it gets to that fiery bundle of nerves, up and down like he’s casually licking an ice-cream cone. He repeats his lick over and over, his breath panting gently in contentment as his tongue covers all the necessary skin, never missing a spot in a gentle, sensual erotic caress.

“Oui… oui… mon amour,” I breathe as I flex my tightening clit. His massage doesn’t change, though his grip tightens a bit on my thigh, his hand presses flatter on my stomach and he continues to lick… and lick… and lick…

Fire is burning in my chest and my stomach is quivering madly, right where he’s pressing it—not to mention this infernal butt plug is still in my ass and that pleasure hasn’t ceased since the first orgasm! The rhythm syncs with my body and I feel the tightening in the small of my back.

And so does he.

The rhythm stops and he lifts my legs to expose my core and ass. He holds one leg up and commences a circular feast, around and around with a flexible rolling tongue—his entire tongue—as his free hand pushes, turns, pulls, and manipulates the butt plug.

Putain d’enfer, il l’a encore fait!

I whimper, nearly sob, my protest as my core continues to burn, but the orgasm backs away. I can’t take much more of this. The massage is delicious, round and round with his tongue masterfully covering my clit then traveling down to my vaginal opening and back up to madly manipulate that love button. Over and over he repeats the cycle, causing me to tremble and my muscles to clench painfully, but if it rises again and he changes rhythm, I’ll certainly expire.

I need it deep! I want to come!

“S’il vous plaît,” I whisper my plea, my voice desperate. “S’il vous plaît…”

He groans in his chest and situates himself between my legs. He throws my legs over his shoulders, reaches around my hips and cups both breasts, clamps and all.

“S’il vous plaît,” I groan again, more loudly this time, certain that he’s going to deny my again. Even though it’s heightening my pleasure, I can’t take any more. He massages my breasts firmly, causing my nipples to pebble in excitement. He parts my lips with his and proceeds to give my core the deepest, most sensual kiss—no teasing; his tongue, lips, and mouth are purposeful.

“S’il vous plaît, Christian, s’il vous plaît,” I beg. I’m desperate. The massage is so deep, so hot, I’m right fucking there. If he stops me this time, I’ll scream… I’ll cry… I’ll rip his fucking throat out! He can’t stop!

He massages harder, squeezes harder, kisses deeper, licks and sucks wildly, his mouth is watering all over my core, causing a delicious slip-and-slide sensation down there. I clamp my hands over his and squeeze and he moans, diving deeper into my core…

God, don’t stop… please don’t stop…

My back is so tight that it hurts, and when the orgasm starts to creep, I literally sob in my throat. I won’t be able to stand it if he stops.

I feel my legs cramping, stiffening… no…

I lock my ankles behind him and thrust my pussy into his mouth begging him in my native language not to stop and let me come. His kiss reaches down into me and wrenches a painful, merciless orgasm from my loins that has me screaming, still begging him not to stop—literally paralyzed with pleasure and pain as this climax wraps around my clit, these nipple clamps, and that butt plug all at the same time.

I think I’m still coming in my ass when he leaps to his knees, lifts my already elevated hips to his pelvis and thrusts double-digit inches of hard, hot, pulsing meat inside me. I scream at the pleasure. I love his mouth and tongue, but nothing feels like his dick!

“God damn, you’re so fucking hot!” he growls as the plunges into me over and over, like an animal. He thrusts and thrusts and thrusts, mindlessly, before he throws his head back and growls loudly, his eyes squeezed shut and his face twisted. He’s breathing like a bear and I don’t know if he came, but he snatches his rock-hard dick out of me. He tortures my clit with the head of his dick over and over, breathing and grunting like a bear before sitting flat on the bed.

“Turn around!” he growls, his voice deep and hungry. I move very quickly. “On your knees!” he commands. Okay, doggie-style. “Give me those pillows.”

Okay, not doggie-style.

I get into position as instructed. He opens his legs and rests them on my calves.

“Get comfortable, however you have to. Get on this dick and fuck me til you come.”

Til I come? I just came! You sure about that, Grey? I look over my shoulder at him questioning and he glares back at me as if to say, “What the fuck are you waiting for?’

Okay, you asked for it.

I wait for him to lie back on the pillows and I sit down on his pelvis—not on his dick, on his pelvis. I bring my calves from under his knees and open my legs as wide as I can.

This is my damn party? Then, I’m going to have it.

I grab that beautiful rock hard and veiny piece of flesh and stroke gently. The oil from my pussy is coating his skin and he grunts when I grab him.

“Get on with it!” he demands.

“Quiet!” I hiss. “This is mine now.” He forcefully grabs my hips as a warning, and I throw a glance over my shoulder.

“What are you gonna do?” I taunt. “Fuck me?” I glare at him, still teasing the head of his cock with my oily hands. His hips move ever so slightly to match the stimulation as he grits his teeth.

That’s what I thought. And now, Mr. Grey, I’m going to drive you crazy.

I begin to rock my hips up and down so that my open pussy strokes the side of his dick while my oily fist still grips and manipulates his head.

“Shit,” he hisses softly as he grips my hips. That’s right, Grey, just lay there and let me do what I do.

The veins on the side of his cock stimulate the underside of my clit and I lick my lips. Damn, that feels good. I get a little lost in the feeling of his glorious cock rubbing against my clit and I forget for a moment that there’s a man attached to it that’s going to come quickly if I don’t stop. His agonized groan brings me back to the here and now.

How about a little tease, Grey?

I plant my feet on either side of his hips and steady my hands on the bed on either side of him. Using only my hips, I massage my clit with the head and side of his dick—achingly slowly pumping my pelvis so that my clit rides up… and down…  and up… and down… over the slit and pulsing ridge of his head and partially down the side of his shaft.

“Oh, my God, yes,” I breathe as I watch the show between my legs; the head of his dick appearing and reappearing just beyond my mons; the burn of the friction going straight through my core…

“Jesus!” he prays quietly as his hands reach around my body and tease my tender nipples. One of the nipple clamps has fallen off, but both nipples are still hot and taut.

“Uh!” I groan, throwing my head back as pleasure once again shoots from three different directions. I know this has had the same effect on him that his changing rhythm had on me—that he’s still on fire, but has drawn back from “ready to blow.” I slide against that dick a few more times, biting and licking my lips in my own ecstasy until I’m nearly over the edge myself, and then I stop. I need that magnificent piece of meat inside me for this orgasm.

I resume the initial position he requested, situating myself between his legs and my calves under his thighs, causing him to bend his knees and open his legs very wide. With my ass in the air and the ass plug staring him in the face, I reach between my legs and thrust my finger into my core. I momentarily stifle the moan that wants to escape, but fail in the effort when I drag the moistened finger over my throbbing clit and massage it gently.

“Christ, baby, you’re so damn hot,” he breathes forcefully.

Like you wouldn’t believe, Mr. Grey, like you wouldn’t fucking believe.

I reach down and grab his cock and rub the head against my clit two or three times more before I guide him to my hungry opening. There, I hold him in place while the opening and lips of my aching pussy gently and slowly tease the head of his cock. I can feel the ridge just inside my vagina as the release and reentry make that luscious, wet “kissing” sound. I’m insanely turned on by this, so with him watching it, I know that he’s losing his fucking mind.

“Anastasia,” he breathes, his voice tortured, “God, you’re too much…”

“You make me this way,” I reply, my voice steeped in passion like a mindless horny nymph.

A few more vaginal kisses and I slide effortlessly down onto his cock, all the way to the balls. He groans loudly and places both hands on my ass. I start a rhythmic glide with just the slightest directional roll, raising my ass up towards him when I drop onto his dick, then pulling my hips down and forward when I rise off of it. His pleasure sounds are tortured, deep, and sexy, and my core is on fire filled with his thumping meat.

“Christian,” I mewl, “you feel so good… you’re so hard…”

I fight to keep my rhythm now with him filling me wall to wall. I know he’s rising to orgasm because he so thick and wide inside me, and I am once again producing that heat and wetness that’s accumulating on his dick and leaving an arousal cockring at the base near the balls. It would be embarrassing if it wasn’t so fucking hot and I wasn’t so goddamn turned on.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Grey,” I pant breathily. “I’ll come… I’ll come really fucking hard for you.”

“Fuck!” he hisses as he rubs my lower back, and I can feel his thighs tightening with pleasure. He wants to enjoy it, so he’s going to hold out until I blow. I push back onto his dick repeatedly so that I get maximum penetration and he groans again.

“God!” I gasp as I pump harder. His hands are still grabbing my ass and one of them moves and pushes the butt plug.

“Oh, God,” I exclaim, the pleasure so much that I can’t concentrate on my movement anymore. I straighten my body and balance on my knees, still bouncing on that wonderfully, deliciously hard cock. One hand moves to tease the nipple still painfully confined in the nipple clamp while the other shamelessly moves to circle my burning clit. I feel the sensation rise immediately from my feet, taking only a few seconds to overtake my thighs. Just as it begins to tingle and burn deep inside my core, he grabs my hip and pulls the butt plug out.

I scream and detonate into such a dangerously violent orgasm that I can’t even tell what the fuck is going on at the moment. All I know is fire and light and dizziness and trembling and screaming… lots and lots of screaming. My attempt to seduce my husband has backfired and I’m having one of the longest, hottest, heaviest, most mind-numbing orgasms I have ever fucked myself into.

I don’t know how long it is before I come down from that electric display and experience, but when I do, I’m on my knees, my chest flat on the bed with hair sticking to my sweaty face, panting profusely. Once I’m able to breathe a bit, I lift my head just slightly and catch him in the mirror. I didn’t know it was there.

He hasn’t come. I know he hasn’t because he’s still very hard inside me, but he’s smirking at my back—clearly unaware that I can see him.

Mo-ther-fucker, I’ll show you…

I put my hands flat on the bed and curl my back like a cat stretching from a deep sleep. Then, I roll my hips again, like I did in the beginning, only faster… and harder… and faster!

I get another glimpse of him in the mirror and that smug look has left his face. His hands have grasped my hips again, trying and failing to control my thrust as his mouth alternates between biting his lip and clenching his teeth.

“Slow it down, fuck baby, slow it down,” he begs breathlessly. Fuck you, Grey. Come, you cocky motherfucker.

“Uuuuhhhh!” I moan sensually, knowing that the sound of my voice will help to set him off, and partially because I absolutely adore how he feels inside me, even though there’s no hope of me coming again tonight. I lean up on my knees again and thrust my hands into my hair, lifting it sensually over my head, closing my eyes and puckering my lips as I roll my hips relentless and fast over his cock.

“You feel so good,” I mewl truthfully, “so good…” I add a gasp to the last two words and his breathing is no longer controlled. He’s losing it.

“Good… Fuck…” he hisses as he grabs my hips right below my waist and sinks into the bed a bit to angle his cock more.

That’s it, Grey. Give it to me. I’m going to milk you dry.

I fall back onto the bed with a helpless mewl, steady myself on my hands, and bounce my ass on his dick in an intense buns-of-steel workout while clenching my Kegels so hard that it’s a wonder my IUD doesn’t pop out like an orange seed. After a few minutes of bouncing and listening to my own mewling, I glance in the mirror to check on my husband.

His head is thrust back and he’s firmly holding my hips. His lips are moving like he’s saying something, but nothing comes out. After a few moments, his eyes return to our joined bodies and I reach behind me a stick a finger in my ass where the butt plug used to be.

“Oh, fuck!” he growls at the sight and begins to wildly thrust into me, overpowering my smooth, massaging stroke. He pumps into me feverishly, gritting his teeth and grunting and throwing his head back again. When the first cry of orgasm escapes his lips, I rise off his cock, open my ass, and capture his ejaculating shaft between the cheeks. Surprised and impassioned, his eyes open wildly, and his mouth is gaping as he’s gasping for breath.

I roll my still-oily ass over his squirting dick and watch him gaze in amazement as I hold it between my ass cheeks and pump the cum from his balls.

“Fuck!” he chokes. “Oh, God, do that! Do that! Fuck, yes! That ass! Oh shit! Shit! Shit! Shiiiiittt!”

His eyes are plastered to my ass like he can’t believe what he’s seeing—a fantastic stream of candle-lighting shooting up out of my oily ass from his dick. My husband sounds like he’s passing a kidney stone and I’m taking extreme pleasure in watching his haughty ass irk out an orgasm as intense as the one I just had. In fact…

I raise my hips, swivel and drop my pussy onto his still pulsing cock. He screams as I pull and push slow and hard, flexing my Kegels over his dick to mimic the tighten-release-push-pull of an oily handjob on the head and walls of his shaft.

“Gooooooooooddamn! Goddamn! Goddamn! Goddamn!” He’s twitching and trembling as he rides out the aftershocks and I smile to myself as he finally falls limp, breathless, and helpless, his body silently calling for mercy.

*-*

Had it not been for Jason calling to wake us, we might have missed out on the day’s events. As it turns out, a car will be arriving at 9am to take us to the Barossa Valley for a wine tour. The Valley is only an hour away, but Christian rightfully had them coordinate everything with Jason. I’m a bit jealous right now because for all intent and purposes, Jason is Christian’s Marilyn… and Andrea is Christian’s Marilyn. And Andrea has a Luma. Marilyn doesn’t have a Luma. She organizes my life all by herself.

I really miss Marilyn.

As we’re a bit pressed for time, I use the en suite to pump, shower, and prepare for the day while Christian uses the second bathroom. I can’t have another day where I don’t speak to my children, so when I’m done pumping and prepping, I call my babies for a little facetime. Keri informs me that Minnie is becoming a bit crabby and wouldn’t take her bottle last night. I’m certain it’s because she’s accustomed to the changeup between the rubber nipple and the breast—and she’s not getting one of those. This is further driven home by her elation to see my face on the phone and her subsequent displeasure with having to give the phone back to Keri. I can’t stand to hear her anguish, especially since I’m inadvertently causing it, so I hand the phone to Christian and let him get a little baby time while I try to nurse the wounds of my breaking heart.

“It happens all the time, baby,” he says, putting his arms around me and trying to comfort me while I stare out the window overlooking the City of Churches.

“Was she still crying when you ended the call?” I ask, never turning to face him.

“She settled a bit,” he says, pulling me against him… which means that she was still crying, just not as much. I suddenly can’t wait to have her in my arms.

“I’m a terrible mother,” I say, wiping away a tear.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You are no such thing,” Christian scolds gently. “You’re both having a bit of separation anxiety. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last. Now I want you to stop that ridiculousness right now. It’s not true and I don’t have to tell you that.”

“I just… I shouldn’t have left her,” I protest.

“She’ll be fine,” he coaches. “What are you going to do when she goes to school?”

“Oh, God,” I say, and I’m overwhelmed with emotion. I drop my face in my hands and begin to weep. I hear my husband sigh heavily and I can imagine that he’s totally exasperated with me, and that just makes me cry harder.

“Don’t cry,” he says softly, turning me around to him and wrapping his arms around me. I stand there and weep into his T-shirt for several minutes until it’s covered in colored moisturizer and tears and he has to go and change it, and I have to wash my face and refresh my make-up. I still don’t feel good about leaving my baby, but I feel a little better since I’ve had my cry… I think.

Christian emerges in a white Izod over his jeans, declaring that he has no more T-shirts and will have to have the ones he has laundered since we still have two more days—including today—and the trip back to Seattle. Quite frankly, I like the Izod better.

39f548032e3227319813a69b6ab79224-christian-grey-jamie-dornan

I’m looking very Sex and The City in a comfortable flowy Halston Heritage lavender mini cut just above the knee and a pair of Louboutin Madmonica spiked open-toe cork wedge sandals. We rush down to breakfast so that we aren’t starting the day and an hour-long car ride to wine country on an empty stomach. That definitely wouldn’t be a good idea. My little crying spell and the subsequent cleanup cut our eating time in half, so we have a simple breakfast of eggs, Canadian bacon, roasted tomatoes, toast and juice—something that we can eat quickly, but not too quickly, before the car arrives.

“You were sleeping like the dead,” I say quietly to Christian during breakfast.

“I put in a lot of work last night,” he says proudly. “Bringing your beautiful wife to three orgasms is quite the feat.” He winks at me.

“Oh, really?” I challenge. “And I guess I had absolutely nothing to do with that last one, huh?” I raise my brow at him.

“Well… I… you… um…” Amazing. I’ve brought my husband to a stuttering mess.

“Um-hmm,” I say, filling my fork with food. “Well, while you opted for quantity—which was quite nice—I concentrated my efforts on quality. How do you think I did?” I throw an innocent gaze over at him, full well remembering watching him in the mirror muttering silent prayers while I rode his pulsing shaft relentlessly.

“You…” He clears his throat. “You… um… you did fine.” He quickly takes a sip of his coffee. I smile devilishly at him. I’ll just bet.

“Thank you, Mr. Grey,” I say, eating the food from my fork, chewing and smiling triumphantly. “By the way,” I add once I’ve swallowed my food. “Your choice of music…” I say, trailing off. He raises his gaze to me.

“Did you like it?” he asks.

“It was… a lot of new stuff. Some oldies… I didn’t think you were into the new stuff.”

“I can’t take credit for this song list,” he admits. “I typed a request into Pandora and just let it play.”

“What was the request?” I ask curiously.

“Baby-making music,” he says proudly. I burst out laughing.

After breakfast, a private van picks us up to take us on a beautifully scenic drive through the city of Adelaide and all the way north to the Barossa Valley. The ride will be approximately an hour long with plenty of sites to see along the way.

“Um, ma’am, I nohmally don’t comment on attiyah, but ya moight wanna chaynge ya shoes,” the driver says as we approach the car. Christian glares at him for a moment. He only glances at Christian momentarily before turning his attention back to me.

“It’s… foh ya comfoht, ma’am,” he adds. “There’ll be a lot of walking, ma’am,” he says in an attempt to get me to change my shoes. I immediately see the concern for my feet since I’m wearing wedges.

“Don’t worry about me,” I say with a warm smile. “Heels and I are old friends. I’d be much less comfortable in flats, and I have no problem taking them off if they become unbearable, which is not likely.”

“The touh is mohr than six hours, ma’am. If yoh’re shuh…” he urges once more. I appreciate his concern.

“I’m sure,” I smile. “Thank you for your kindness.” I elbow Christian in the side as he’s still glaring at the guy. “Stop it!” I chide softly. He looks down at me and I cock my head at him as an additional warning. When he appears to behave, I smile again at the driver and get in the van.

“Come on, Christian,” I chide gently to keep him from further harassing our driver. He leans in and sits next to me.

“The first thing he noticed was your shoes, huh?” he says as our security follows us into the van. It’s a late model Mercedes—it seats seven, but I’m not sure of the model.

“He’s probably trained to do that, dear,” I point out. “Can you imagine how many women have come on the tour wearing the wrong shoes and did nothing but complain the entire time?” The driver gets into the car and confirms what I’m saying.

“She’s roight, mate,” he says to Christian. “I don’t know whaht thehy’re expectin’, but plenty o’ sheilas get in wehring six-inch heels and thehy’re miserable halfway through the trip. Imagine how ya’d feel troying to enjoy ya day with blistahs on ya feet!! I always check an’ give ‘em toime and option ta chaynge. I’m sorry… I didn’t mean ta offend ya.” Christian sighs and waves him off.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I’m just… very possessive of my wife, and it’s been an… interesting trip on that note so far.” I chuckle.

“Tell me about it!” I murmur mirthfully. The driver smiles in the rearview.

“Thanks, mate. Roight, then, shall we go?” He smiles widely and starts the car.

The scenery is absolutely breathtaking, including the gorgeous vineyards that lay before us once we clear the city limits. They’re everywhere along the road through the Adelaide Hills, from really small patches of land to huge estates. I’m captivated by the beautiful landscapes, but not so captivated that I can’t tell that my husband is distracted. Is he still pissed off at the driver?


CHRISTIAN

“I wanted to have more information for you before I called you with conjecture, sir,” Josh says as I’m drying my hair. I brought the phone into the en suite with me and it’s a good thing I did. Josh has information hot off “the presses” for me.

“What do you have?” I ask as I begin my grooming routine.

“Lincoln is talking to anyone who’ll listen. She’s a media dream and nightmare at the same time. She’s very indiscreet. She gives enough information to have you chomping at the bit, but it’s not hard for the educated researcher to decipher exactly who she’s talking about—they just can’t afford to speculate without further information.”

“Fuck, I was afraid of that,” I hiss around a mouthful of toothpaste. “How close is she to a release date?”

“She’s aiming for May,” Josh says. Shit, that means she’s got a lot of information already on paper, or at least shared with her fucking ghostwriter. “She’s got a good solid timeline in front of her and nothing between her and the tell-all but air and opportunity.” She picked the perfect time to leak her story—right after our exposé hit the air.

“Did she make you for working for me?” I ask.

“I don’t think so,” he says. “If she did, she didn’t let on, or she just doesn’t care. She didn’t give me the name of her ghostwriter either. She gave me a penname, but at the moment, it leads nowhere. I’ve got Alex looking into some things for me and I’m discreetly chasing a few leads myself.”

“Shit!” I hiss. “So much for nipping this thing at the bud.”

“Don’t lose faith,” he says. “It’s only been a few days. Sometimes, it takes a little more digging to find the buried treasure. That’s why I was waiting to call you…” and I got impatient and jumped the gun.

“She gave me pretty much the same information that she’s giving to any other reporter that comes through there,” he continues. “Everything she said to me, we’ve already read in the papers, but to her, it’s fresh and new information every time she gives it. So, I listen for fresh and new information. I listen for context clues that nobody else would know to listen for. Like I said, I’m chasing a few things to narrow down a few solid theories, but I won’t relay information that sends you in the wrong direction—I have to know for sure.”

“I appreciate that,” I reply with a disappointed sigh. I’ve been literally itching for some information on the crazy bitch, and pretty much… nothing.

“I do have some other information, though,” he adds. “The warden cornered me as I was leaving…”

Oh, now we’re getting somewhere.

“What did he want?” I ask.

He asked who I was working for. I told him that I was freelancing, that I’m hoping to get an angle that nobody else has gotten and I’ll sell my story to the highest bidder. It’s easier to get what you need from a crook if you come off as cutthroat and hungry than if you show any signs of ethics whatsoever.”

“What makes you think he’s a crook?” I ask. He scoffs. “I mean, I pretty certain that he’s crooked. I just want to know what makes you think he’s a crook.”

“Upstanding member of society and leader of industry has been trying to get in touch with you for several days on a matter that you know will directly affect him and you avoid his calls… You’re either crooked or stupid—or both!” I twist my lips. Excellent judge of character.

“He asked if I had gotten any material that was worth printing. I told him that I hadn’t. Everything that she gave me, I already knew. So, he dangles a carrot in front of me. He says the book, the story, and the possible subsequent movie rights are likely to blow the top off the social scene and quite possibly the financial scene. He knows it’s you. He didn’t say so, but he made enough references. I don’t know what Lincoln said, but he knows, and at this moment, he’ll protect her through the screenplay to get his payoff.”

Well, this is just fucking great. She didn’t have to tell him much of anything. Of course, he knows it’s me. I paid his ass off to keep her quiet. Now, he’s avoiding my calls and siding with her, giving her carte blanche when it comes to talking to reporters and her fucking ghost writer.

“He wants to get the profits from the book. She just wants to tell her story, but her story is so sick and twisted, I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to write it. The way she portrays the roles of certain characters, it’s not pretty. Her rendition will implicate people and suggest that they’re pretending to be victims when they fully participated in the activities.” She’s obviously referring to the fact that I became a Dom once I came of age and continued the BDSM lifestyle…

Or at least that’s what I thought.

“The brief description that she gave me made it look like she had a club—a coven, if you will—of pedophiles; that they engaged in consensual sexual relations with minors and that said minors joined the club and continued the cycle when they became of age.”

“Wait a minute… what?” I say, staring horrified into the mirror.  

“I can’t make it any clearer,” he says. “There are underground pedophile sex clubs all over the world. It’s disgusting, but it’s true. It’s a real movement, and there are a lot of people involved… a lot! Her basis from what I can see is that she was part of—or the head or madame of—one such organization. And Christian, she can say what she wants, because she’s writing it as fiction. So, whether it’s true or not, the sensationalism of it will have this shit flying off the shelves. Think O.J. Simpson and If I Did It.

Oh, hell. That’s already a horribly touchy subject. Now, we’re comparing my life and the lives of several other sexually victimized young boys to the story of a man who may or may not have nearly beheaded the mother of his children and her male companion?

And now, I don’t have Holstein’s cooperation because he’s more concerned with a piece of the possible pie. Fine, fuck it. They want to play dirty, then it’s dirty they’ll get.

“And no clue on BD Simmons.” It’s a statement in the form of a question.

“Nothing concrete,” Josh says. “Again, I won’t put flawed information into the hands of the most powerful man on the western seaboard.”

“Duly noted,” I reply. That really wouldn’t be wise. “I need you to keep me posted the moment you do get something concrete. My response to this matter will be swift and sure. Time and discretion are of the utmost essence.”

I end the call and try to pretend that this information has not soured my entire mood.

“You’re not here.”

My wife’s voice brings my attention back to the fact that we’re cruising along a country road on our way to one of Australia’s many famed wine regions. I can’t hide the fact that I’m completely distracted by the conversation that I had with Josh this morning. She’s probably going to be pissed that I called him, but… I have to tell her something.

“Excuse me, parlez vous français?” I say, leaning forward to the driver. He glances in the rearview mirror.

“I’m sorry, mate?” he says.

“Parlez vous français?” I repeat.

“Sorry,” he says, watching the mirror and the road, “not shuh whaht cha sayin’, mate.”

“No problem. Thank you,” I say, turning to my wife to have the entire conversation with her in French.

“J’ai parlé à Josh ce matin,” I say. She sighs.
(I spoke to Josh this morning.)

“Qu’a t’il dit?” she says.
(What did he say?)

“Il essaie toujours de savoir qui est l’auteur, mais Holstein protège Lincoln.” She rolls her eyes in frustration.
(He’s still trying to find out who the ghost writer is, but Holstein is protecting Lincoln.)

“Je le savais!” she hisses. “Je le savais putain! Cela explique pourquoi il ne prenait pas vos appels.”
(I knew it! I fucking knew it! That explains why he was not taking your calls.)

“Ça a empire,” I inform her. “Elle donne l’impression que nous étions un club secret de pédophiles… comme si nous étions un groupe entier cherchant des enfants et les recrutant plus tard dans leur cercle quand ils sont devenus majeurs.” Her eyes widen in horror.
(It gets worse. She gives the impression that we were a secret club of pedophiles… as if we were an entire group trolling for children regularly and later recruiting them into our circle when they became of age.)

“Vous n’êtes pas sérieux,” she whispers incredulously. “Qui dans leur esprit accepterait d’écrire quelque chose comme ça?” I shake my head.
(You’re not serious. Who in their right mind would agree to write something like this?)

“Tu sais aussi bien que moi qu’il y a un public pour tout, bébé,” I reply. “Vous devez juste trouver le créneau qui est prêt à écouter vos conneries.” She drops her head in her hands.
(You know as well as I do that there’s an audience for everything, baby. You just have to find the niche that’s willing to listen to your bullshit.)

“C’est irréel.” she laments. “C’est absolument irréel. Si je n’en étais pas personnellement conscient, je ne penserais pas qu’un être humain puisse survivre avec autant de mal. Je plaisantais quand je l’appelais «démon puant, méchant, sale, visqueux, visqueux, démone pédo-salope de l’enfer», mais que cette horrible reine diabolique appartient vraiment au plus profond les profondeurs du pire tourment éternel jamais imaginable. Il n’y a absolument aucune rédemption pour elle. Elle marche à pied détérioration, damnation et destruction et elle doit être détruite…”
(This is unreal. This is absolutely unreal. If I wasn’t personally aware of it, I wouldn’t think that any one human being could survive harboring this much evil. I was joking when I called her a ‘stank-ass, slutty, nasty, filthy, slimy, Pedo-Bitch She-Thing demon from hell,’ but that horrific, wretched, inhuman, devil queen really does belong in the deepest, hottest depths of the worst eternal torment ever imaginable. There is absolutely no redemption for her. She is walking deterioration, damnation, and destruction and she must be destroyed…)

I had all but forgotten about that name, but Butterfly is right. This woman is pure evil personified, the worst manifestation of Satanic personification—Princess Beelzebub unleashed on this earthly realm, and the world would truly be a better place without her in it.

My wife has completely gone off on a French tangent now. All the men in the car—including the driver—have gone a bit pale and are looking everywhere but at us, and as far as I know. I’m the only one who knows what she’s saying… maybe…

“Do you speak French?” I ask Lawrence. He shakes his head.

“German, sir,” he says. I look at Jason. I know Spanish is his second language.

“A word here and there, sir,” he says, “enough to know she’s pissed.”

“Stop talking about me like I’m not here!” Butterfly snaps. We weren’t… only that last statement, but I’m not going to be the one to dispute her on it. All the men quickly turn their attention to anything else—the scenery, the road, a speck of lint on the carpet, anything safe—while I turn my attention back to one angry little Butterfly.

“I shouldn’t have told you,” I confess, “at least not now. It’s going to ruin your day.”

“No, it won’t,” she says matter-of-factly, “because I know that you’re going to do everything humanly possible to rectify this situation. I know that you’re going to use your endless resources to make sure that this woman is not able to ruin the many, many lives that she could possibly ruin—now or ever again—with this ridiculous undertaking. You’re going to do what needs to be done to put an end to this—or I will.”

Three sets of eyes zero in on my wife and I’m sure it would have been four if the driver could look at her without putting us all at risk.

“Butterfly…” I begin my protest.

“I’m going to let you handle this, Christian,” she says, her voice unwavering. “I’m going to watch, and I’m going to let you handle it. But if for any reason, you are unable to stop this from happening, I want you to remember something—all those boys, their families, my children! I will stop at nothing and no one to terminate this ridiculous pursuit! She wants us to believe she’s crazy? Fine! I’m crazier! She will not jeopardize the lives of my children and that is my final word! And that’s not a threat, Christian, that’s a promise!”

I’m glaring at this woman possessed because I swear, I’ve never seen her before. Al usually tells me which version of “Ana” I’m dealing with when she steps out of herself, and he’s not here to identify this one for me. I’m quickly running through my head all the Ana’s he has introduced me to…

Knife-throwing Ana…
Marine’s Daughter Ana…
First-Blood or Rambo Ana…

Shit, I don’t know. All I know is that she’s glaring at me with the glassiest blue eyes I’ve ever seen, her pupils so constricted, they’re almost invisible. I fucking well better answer her.

“I. Will take. Care. Of this,” I say, finitely. She glares at me for a moment longer before she slowly nods once.

“Good,” she says firmly. “Keep me posted.” She turns her gaze away from me and back to the scenery going by outside the window. I throw a cautionary glance at Jason, who returns my glare before glancing over at Lawrence. A silent conversation ensues between the three of us to not let her out of our sight or she just might hurt someone today. The conversation inside my head is much more detailed.

Get this shit on lockdown or there’s going to be fucking hell to pay.

*-*

Tensions ease once we arrive at our destination. Butterfly has all but forgotten our conversation about the Pedophile, and it’s my job to ensure that her thoughts don’t wander in that direction again. Granted, it’s my fault they wandered in that direction in the first place, but I couldn’t keep the truth from her, especially since my ire and distraction was written all over my face.

“Hello,” a friendly gentleman greets us when we exit the Mercedes. “Ma nayme’s John. OI’ll be yohr touhr goide tahdeye.” I take Butterfly’s hand as Jason and Lawrence exit the vehicle.

“I’m Christian. This is my wife, Anastasia. These gentlemen are my security detail.” John’s brow rises.

“Political official, ahre ya?” John asks. I shake my head.

“No, nothing like that… but perfectly legal,” I assure him.

“Can nevah beh too syfe, eh mate?” he says with a nod before continuing directly to the next topic. “Tell me, whaht’s yohr expehrience with woine?”

Hmmm, how do I answer that?

“My wife is basically a Cabernet woman, but can be easily swayed with smooth reds,” I begin, and Butterfly playfully slaps my arm. “One of her favorites is the Screaming Eagle from Napa Valley. We discovered it on the wine train tours a couple of years ago.”

“Yes, OI’m quite familiah with the Screamin’ Eagle,” John confirms. “Which yeahr?”

“2006,” I confirm. “It’s apparently hard to find, but our concierge was able to locate a dozen and have them shipped to our home.” John nods.

“Have ya had tha pleasah of tha ’92?” he asks. I shake my head.

“I can’t say that I have.” John nods again.

“Extremely rahe vintage, mate,” he says, his voice laced with a bit of awe. “Aged in 60% new oak; it’s mohe puhple than woine colored and has a jammy black currant aroma mixed with hints of oak. Very difficult ta locyte and OI’ve huhd of bottles runnin’ upwuhds of 500,000 Amehrican!” He pauses for a moment. “Sorry thehre, mate. OI get a little carried awy talking about the woines.” I wave him off, playing down the fact that I’m thoroughly impressed with his knowledge of wines.

“Don’t be,” I excuse, “I’m a bit of a connoisseur myself, versatile with a preference to dry whites. I may pick your brain about what exclusive blends the region has to offer.” John smiles widely.

“OI’m yoh goiy, mate,” he says happily.

“I’m afraid we haven’t been able to expand our palates much since our honeymoon,” I add.

“Ah, newlyweds?” he asks. Butterfly giggles.

“Somewhat,” she replies. “We’ve been married for 18 months.”

“Yeah, thaht’s still newlywed,” John says. “Ahr little cornah of tha world hehr is whaht we cahl a woine town—everything hehr is centehred on tha woine.”

“I’ve heard that you have some award-winning Shiraz in these parts,” I coax. John smiles widely again.

“You huhd correct, mate,” he says gleefully. “Did ya do anythin’ special on ya honeymoon? Somethin’ that stuck out to ya, maybe?” I shrug.

“Well, our honeymoon started in Paris, then continued in Greece,” Butterfly says. “To be honest, the entire trip was pretty special, so it’s hard to pick just one thing. We had a tasting at Le Dokhan’s…”

“Ah, Le Dokhan’s!” John interrupts, “worhld-renowned champyne, oldest estahblishment in Pehris. You both must have vehry discuhning palates.”

“We’ve tasted a wine or three,” I confirm.

“Well, in thaht cyse, OI’ve got tha perhfect day in moind foh ya. Fahllow me and we’ll get stahted.”

He walks ahead of us and leads us to a rebuilt and refurbished 1962 Daimler Chrysler. Apparently, this beautiful classic car will be our transportation for the day.

“Ooo, very nice,” Butterfly says as she climbs inside.

John is quite chatty during the course of our tour and I’m very soon to discover why. He’s very proud of the Barossa Valley having lived here most of his life and conducted tours for over 20 years. He boasts having given this tour to dignitaries and wine connoisseurs from all over the world and promises to look me up so that he can add our tour to his updated list of bragging rights. He informs us that our tour has no specific itinerary and that if at any time we don’t like the course of the day to let him know and we can adjust accordingly.

We take a short drive to St. Hugo first. Although my wife was distracted with thoughts of Elena Lincoln’s demise on the trip to the valley, she’s quite attentive as John informs us of the history of St. Hugo. She remembered to bring the camera this time, and she’s taking several shots ranging from the picturesque countryside to quirky street signs pointing in various directions.

At the risk of sounding like the terrible snob that I can be, I’m extremely pleased with the vibe we’re getting from the Barossa Valley, and even more pleased when I hear of the settlement of the area. Most of Australia—particularly the ports we visited earlier in our vacation—was settled by convicts or others who had been exiled to Australia from England. Contrarily, settlers of South Australia and the Barossa Valley came looking for a better life. They were mostly merchants and farmers, those in search of their fortune on the shores and bush of Australia in the late 1800’s. Most prominent in this area were German settlers, and many of the vineyards they planted are still around today.

I’m not ashamed to say that the spirit that my Butterfly is gleaning from this area is much more relaxed and pleasant than the monsters she acquired at Port Arthur. So, yes, the snob in me is much more partial to the Barossa Valley, and I intend to do more research on our excursions in the future.

As we arrive at St. Hugo, John tells us that the current winery is comprised of original structures from the ruins of William Jacob’s winery, which was built over 150 years ago, as well as new additions designed to seamlessly tie in with the old ruins. We travel down a winding driveway with a stunning view of half-century-old cork trees—one of the few plantations of its kind in Australia.

Our tour begins with a short but refreshing walk through the vineyard. We note that some of the vines have been named and John tells us about how some of the names were chosen. One of the royal families came to the vineyard for an exclusive tour called the Sainthood Experience and the row of vines was named after them. Parcels from the vineyard of that row were picked and a custom wine was blended, where it is stored to age for three years and will then be delivered to that family. I don’t bother asking what that experience costs—I can imagine that even I would find it exorbitant.

After the tour, we head into a cozy tasting room, cellar door, and restaurant to literally enjoy the fruits of the field with a few other patrons of the vineyard. It’s easy to see that John is well known in the area. He takes pride in showcasing his knowledge and sharing his personal Barossa friendships and connections. It’s like he’s part of a special club that knows the inside scoop of all the secrets of the land—a wine fraternity, if you will.

Watching the wines being poured into the glasses is almost a spiritual moment. You can almost see the blends flowing out of the bottle and into the glass in slow motion, and your mouth waters with anticipation to taste it. The way the wine washes up from the bowl of the glass and gracefully caresses the sides enhances the experience. It’s almost like you’re watching a vintage being born in front of you even though you know that’s not the case.

Each tasting is accompanied by a very small gourmet entrée to complete the wine-tasting experience—a light degustation, not the complete chef’s experience, but we didn’t want that right now. Unlike the regular practice of pairing the right type of wine with the food, St. Hugo’s chef chooses his foods to complement the wines. After all, the wines are the stars of the show. The dishes are arranged with the wines according to taste—bitter, sweet, sour, fatty, savory, etc. We taste the various wines along with the simple dishes and ingredients and pick our favorites—which flavors we felt went best with each vintage, and which vintages we preferred over others. I’m pretty partial to the signature Shiraz while Butterfly predictably leans to an incredibly decadent Cabernet.

John is only too happy to inform the vintner that we would like three bottles of the 2005 Signature Coonawarra Cabernet Sauvignon to be packed and prepared to take back to the States. Reminding us of the tax and hassle of getting the wine through customs, he offered to send it directly to our address in Seattle. I wouldn’t have minded the tax on the wine—at $1000 a bottle, it couldn’t have been much for someone like me—but he raises a good point about the hassle of customs, and we may find more wine that we’d like to ship home. In light of that information, I agree to have the bottles shipped and give him our information for the shipping.

Just as I’m finishing the transaction, Butterfly scoffs loudly and indiscreetly. I frown and turn to her.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. I know she’s had a bit of wine, but it’s no more than we’ve had at a normal dinner and we’re just getting started, so it can’t be that.

“I must be one helluva hot dish!” she’s says uncensored. Okay…

“Well… yeah, but why is that a bad thing?” I ask.

“Because people can’t believe for the life of them that we just met, fell in love, got married, and started a family. I just have to be a trophy wife!”

That statement tells me everything I need to hear. There’s only one other group of people in the cellar door with us and they’re standing just to the left of her—two couples about our age examining the wine menu. At least the men are examining the wine menu. The women are looking over at Butterfly. They subsequently divert their gaze when they see me glaring at them.

“You are a trophy wife, baby. Get used to it,” I say loud enough for them to hear. They giggle and Butterfly gasps. “That’s because you’re one hell of a fucking prize. And the next time someone says that about you, just remember that they’re only saying it because they’re so goddamn jealous that they could chew out their own fucking tongues.”

I raise my brow at her and wait for acknowledgment. I get it in the form of her beautiful, coy smile that I know is only reserved for me. I lift her chin and kiss her gently.

“Never get upset about trolls, baby,” I say, still holding her chin, but looking at the cunts who disparaged her. “They’ve got nothing on you and they know it, and that’s why they try to cut you down.” I bring my eyes back to Butterfly’s. “Comprendre?”

“Oui, monsieur,” she replies sweetly. I brush her lips with another soft kiss.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say, taking her hand and tucking it into the crease of my elbow. “The riff-raff is starting to bother me.”

As we pass the couples still standing at the counter, I hear one of the men say, “Geez, what the fuck did you say?’”


A/N: Yes, they’re everywhere!

More music from the special night:
Usher—
Trading Places
Nelly and Kelly Rowland—
Dilemma
Usher—Lovers and Friends
Trey Songz—
All We Do
Slo Mo—
Ride
Jeremiah—
Birthday Sex
Guinuwine—
Differences
Trey Songz—
On Top
K Camp—
Blessing

Putain d’enfer, il l’a encore fait!—Fucking hell, he did it again!
S’il vous plaît”—”Please!”

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

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

The Australia Picture Board can be found here: https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/raising-grey-the-trip-to-australia/ and the pictures from today’s chapter are in the “Adeliade,” “Peppers,” and “Barossa Valley” sections, and there are a lot of them!!

And of course, the regular Pinterest board is here: https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/raising-grey/

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

~~love and handcuffs

 

 

Raising Grey: Chapter 81—More Melbourne Mischief

Happy Mother’s Day!

So, I simply delete smart-ass, snarky-ass, or disrespectful comments. I was addressing them at first, but with all that has gone on in my real life and the people I’ve lost—particularly as of late—and the things that I’ve gone through, this place over here is going to be completely drama-free for me. So, if I read the first three words, the first sentence, or whatever place where your comment looks like it’s going downhill, I stop reading and delete it. So, if you want to write an insult or something horrible or harmful just to see that shit on your own screen because you’re going to be the only one who sees it, then be my guest, because it’s immediate trash to me. I don’t read them anymore. The only drama on this page will be between the characters. Have a nice day! 😀 

Falala will like this chapter. 😉

Danger—Aussie accent ahead. Turn away now.

All other previous disclaimers still apply.

Chapter 81—More Melbourne Mischief

ANASTASIA

After we spend a good two hours or more in the aquarium, my husband has the great idea to go to an indoor market for lunch and to look around. He knows that I hate shopping and if I’m aching for an indoor market, I have the Marketplace on Pike Street. Another market in Australia isn’t going to impress me.

Oh, dear God, was I wrong!

Now, I’m not besmirching my beloved Pike Place, but when you see wares from different places that aren’t what you’re accustomed to, you can’t help but get lost in the splendor.

Although I skip past the sport shops and vitamin stores, I wander into this clothing and accessory shop called Pussycat Black. They have a lot of wonderful handmade and local wares, most of it with a vintage flare. I’m not sure what the concept is in the store, but a lot of the items appear to be grossly overpriced. Now, apparently, these prices shouldn’t mean anything to me because I have money to burn. However, just because I can burn it doesn’t mean that I want to. Nonetheless, I wander around with my husband and my bodyguard in tow, seeing if there’s anything that catches my eye to entice me to part with my money.

I see this one dress on the wall that I think is really cute. When I approach to get a closer look at it, I see a picture of the dress on a model and the damn thing is horrendous.

I find a couple of pairs of handmade resin earrings and a bracelet that I like, and I decide to get them even though they’re overpriced, too. I decide that there’s nothing else in the store that I want and head for the cashier to pay for my earrings.

“That’s all you’re getting?” Christian asks. “I would have thought this would definitely be your type of store.” I shake my head.

$129 striped T-shirt“They have some very quaint items in here—things I might even be tempted to wear, but there’s no way in hell you’re going to get me to pay $129 for a striped T-shirt.” I point to the white T-shirt with horizontal stripes. “Who came up with that idea?” He raises a brow.

“Well, maybe they’re catering to a certain type of clientele, baby,” he says.

“Yes, I can see that,” I say, “the type of clientele who just spend money for the sake of spending it.” He shrugs and I turn to the cashier who’s looking at me a bit distastefully. I can’t be angry with her. I am talking about her job after all.

“That’ll be $167,” she says a bit impatiently. Christian frowns.

“I thought you just got earrings and a bracelet,” he says.

“I did,” I say, twisting my lips at him before turning back to the cashier. I pull out my Amex Black and hand it to her with a smile. Her expression is originally a bit put off… until I hand her the card. They never see the name on the card, they just see the card. Black has a name all its own.

Yeah, bitch, I can buy your entire inventory. I just don’t want it.

“Thank you, ma’am. Have a good day,” she says, handing me my card and my wares once they’ve been paid for and bagged.

“Thank you—you, too,” I reply with no malice before leaving.

A short while later, I’m in this trading post called Acanthus and it’s reminding me of that simpler time again, when I had just signed the papers on my condo and the kitchen was in the process of being redone. I only had the quirky, mismatched dishes from my college years and planned for the time when I would buy all new kitchenware, flatware, glassware, and cooking utensils and pans for my new gourmet kitchen. I see beautiful ceramic chargers and vintage glassware and hurricanes from Portugal, jewelry from Spain and Italy. However, the thing that has me spellbound with nostalgia is a set of ceramic dishes in a watermelon motif. They are the gaudiest things I’ve ever seen, and I buy the whole set—two platters, two bowls, three pitchers, everything… the entire awful thing.

As the vendor wraps my dishes and puts them in shopping bags for Ben to carry, I spot Christian coming out of a bookstore, but not just any bookstore… a cookbook store! I can’t help but wonder what the hell made him go in there. Then I remember that lovely dinner he made for me. I’m sure he had help, but all parties involved swear he did all the work. It doesn’t matter, though—the thought and the effort were delightful, and the dinner was delicious.

“What did you get?” I say, walking over to him and his shopping bag. He shamelessly reaches into his bag.

“They had a copy of the original Joy of Cooking from the 50’s. I thought Gail would get a real kick out of trying to teach me some of these,” he says with a laugh. “And I got these so that I wouldn’t be a total failure in the kitchen.” He shows me another book called Quick Easy Recipes Cookbook and a third one, Cooking Basic for Dummies. He’s really serious about this cooking thing.

“I could show you a recipe or two,” I offer coyly with a small shrug, “if you like.” He smiles.

“I think I’d like that a lot,” he says sincerely before planting a tender kiss on my forehead and taking my hand.

We walk by a shop called Lollie Lovers and I’m almost tempted to go inside—candy as far as the eye can see! Then, I suddenly have another flashback…

The Great Candy Caper of Anguilla.

Needless to say, I decide against going into Lollie Lovers.

Further into the marketplace, we stumble on a shop called Pompous Paws. It’s full of the cutest outfits for pets and I suddenly get the strangest urge.

“I want a pet, Christian,” I say, still looking inside the store, “besides the fish.”

“A pet?” he says in horror. “You want a pet? You mean something that has to be cleaned and chased and shits all over the house?” I turn and look at him.

“Yes,” I say firmly. “I want a pet. It’ll be good for the kids, too. We don’t have to decide on anything immediately, but keep it in mind—I want a pet.”

I walk ahead and look at the other shops. I’ve planted the seed, Mr. Grey, I’m not going to change my mind. The only questions to be answered here are what and when.

After I locate three lovely V-neck sweaters for Christian in The Cozy Possum, I realize that my wares will soon be more than I can carry, and I pop into a little store called By Avalon and purchase two shopping bags that serendipitously read, “Hooray!!! I remembered to bring my shopping bag.” I can’t decide if I like the black canvas with the white writing or the gray canvas with the black writing, so I buy one of each and continue with my shopping.

Hooray Bag Gray

Apparently, they tease you with the shops near the door and their “quirky” resin jewelry and $130 T-shirts when the real gold mine is clearly further inside the marketplace. Allepo Style and Fabric Fever have silk and cashmere scarves and soft and luxurious textiles that go on and on for miles and will have me in beautiful wraps, wraparounds, and custom-made genie pants for a year! I’m trying not to go overboard as I choose meter after meter of gorgeous fabric and scarves and then wonder how I’m going to get it back… to wherever we’re going to take it. Just as I’m pondering my dilemma, I see Jason walking in my direction, but no Christian.

“Where’s Christian?” I ask when he closes the space between us.

“He’s in one of the shops over there,” he says. “Do… you need me to take something?”

“Yes, but where the hell are you going to take it?” I point to the pile of fabric building up at the cash register along with the scarves, sweaters, and dishes in poor Ben’s arms.

“Whoa,” Jason says under his voice. “Wait here… and carry on.”

Carry on what? I’ve got enough fabric here to—ooo, that’s pretty…!

A few minutes… and several more meters of fabric later, Jason and Christian return, each with a piece of rolling luggage.

“Jesus, what did you buy?” I ask. Christian holds up his shopping bag from the bookstore and one other shopping bag almost the same size, but I can’t tell what’s in it. I frown.

“Why the luggage, then?” I ask.

“These are for you,” he says.

“Oh, you’re not serious!” I say, affronted. “Are you being sarcastic right now?”

“Really?” Christian says in disbelief. “Let me think.” He pretends to ponder the situation, then points to the mountain of fabrics—that has actually grown since I spoke to Jason.

“Yeah, no,” he says firmly. I twist my lips at him.

“Asshole,” I say, turning away from him.

“Have you paid for these yet?” Jason asks, looking at the stack of fabrics.

“No,” I reply petulantly.

“Give her your card,” Christian says. I glare at him. Reading my expression appropriately, he adds, “I didn’t say you had to stop shopping.  I said, ‘give her your card.’” I twist my lips again and hand the cashier my card who smiles at me accommodating. I think I’ve bought enough anyway.

“So, you’re just going to drag all this stuff around?” I ask as the cashier begins the tedious process of ringing me up and folding the fabric.

“No,” Jason says, “As soon as the boss told me where you were, I secured a car.” Okay, now I am perturbed.

“So, you were just so positive that I would go overboard?” All three men raise bemused glares to me. Jason grabs the first stack of folded fabrics.

“Was I wrong?” he asks with sarcastic blinks.

He’s got me fucking dead to rights and I hate it! I’m standing there pouting for a while until my eyes catch the most beautiful and brilliant flashes of blue. It’s almost as if the world falls away and I’m floating across the marketplace to the magnificent creations that make these really cute and expensive resin pieces that I bought earlier look like cheap pieces of plastic.

This ungodly beautiful creation called opals.

Dear God, I’ve died and gone to jewelry heaven. I don’t remember seeing anything this exquisite since I first saw the Chanel collection. How much of this will Christian let me buy?

I have no idea how long I’m in this booth talking to this vendor about the different kinds of opals—black opals, white opals, fire opals, boulder opals, crystal opals; solid opals vs doublets or triplets. Before the conversation is over, I’ve fallen in love with three sets of earrings, six pendants, four rings, and a bracelet… but I’m a bit stunned that everything is labelled “simple and classic,” yet priced upwards of $3,200 each!

Christian and Jason have taken the luggage with my latest acquisitions out to the car while Ben stands nearby as I shop. Christian most likely has my Amex and I’m going to have to justify this purchase when he gets back. The stones are all the same, but different, and I don’t know which ones I want. The thought of putting any of them back is sheer torment!

I’m trying to make my choices before the men come back to the booth, but it’s agonizing. The opal ring with the red in it is the hardest to find and most sought-after, but the cuts that have the combination deep-blue with iridescent green stones are so stunning. And the pendant with the sunshine yellow burst—I haven’t seen another piece like that in the entire booth! Then I have so many rings and earrings… one bracelet, I think, so I can probably keep that one. I’m toiling over which ones to reject when I see my husband’s arm extending over my shoulder handing a credit card to the vendor.

“Which ones, sir?” the vendor asks.

“All of them,” he says without flinching. I’m certain that I’m standing there with the deer-caught-in-headlights look right now. Christian turns his attention to me.

“You were right about the resin jewelry and the T-shirt. This?” he says, gesturing to the exquisitely beautiful array of jewelry laid out over the counter. “You want this.” He turns back to the vendor.

“Ring ‘em up. Nice boxes, too, please,” he says.

“Yes, sir, of course,” the vendor says gladly. Christian turns back to me.

“Sometimes, you remember who we are, and sometimes I think you forget,” he says. “There’s nothing that you want that you can’t have as long as we don’t have to kill someone or overthrow governments to get it… even stinky pets.”

At first, I feel very contrite, and then I feel warm all over.

“How do I say, ‘thank you’ without turning into a sappy, overexuberant pile of goo?” I ask.

“You just did,” he smiles before leaning down and placing a soft kiss on my lips. “Now, we’ve got a choice. We can go down to that last street down there and see what other things we can spend our money on, or I’ve just learned that there’s a food tour that’s about to begin. I’ve bribed one of the guides to let us slip in and tastes the sensations of the Market, or there’s probably a café or something…”

“Food tour!” I exclaim before he finishes his sentence. He laughs and leads me over to the food area… one of them anyway.

Where to begin?

The booths in the food court and meat alley are so unassuming, but dear God—so much food and the majority of it is produced locally! Let’s start with what I call the “Pesto Bar…” Every variety of olive—pitted, sliced or stuffed—in creation and “pestos” of any kind that you can imagine and even some that you can’t!

Beetroot, tzatziki, olive and eggplant, smoked salmon, something with feta, regular hummus, spinach and pine nuts…

Some of the combinations are like, “why would you do this?” But they were delicious!

We pass by a tea hut and the fragrances are divine. The tea is sold in bulk and I see apple pie tea, Eva’s organic yummy-tummy tea, velvety vanilla chai tea, sleepy slumber tea, and cold and flu tea—complete with a warning to seek medical advice for colds. I take notes as we were passing the bulk spices to see which ones may be available at the Marketplace in Seattle and which ones I may want to have imported. I’m thinking that I might want to start doing some cooking again. I’m missing F&L Ana and I need to get her back.

This of course has me looking at the various fancy cookware available, but I won’t look to that until I know exactly what we have at the Crossing first.

Over to Dianne’s Delights we wander and the apparent “queen” of the antipasto. Oh, dear Lord, the taste sensations here! More marinated olives, fresh falafel and tabouli, Tasmanian smoked salmon, marinated bocconcini, and peppers and deli meats stuffed with the creamiest and most delicious cheeses.

Next, we have a lobster ravioli tasting at the Pasta Shop, then on to the French Shop for tastings of exotic cheeses, including Saint Angel Triple Cream and Truffle Brie.

Truffle Brie… $120 per kilogram! Who the fuck are they feeding???

Nonetheless, I get to taste this heavenly cow’s milk from the gods during the tour along with divine marinated artichokes and amaretto figs before we head over to the Polish Deli for more delicious deli meats coupled with some French Ciabatta from Andrew’s Specialty Gourmet Breads. Now, I don’t know who my husband bribed, but I get the feeling that we’re getting a bit more than what’s normally on the tour because I’m getting healthy pieces of meat and large chunks of bread, and I didn’t see anybody else get any of that truffle Brie.

But who am I to complain?

Until…

We make our way down the meat and fish hall where all the fresh food is butchered. I could have gone my whole life without seeing the giant head of a raw salmon freshly butchered. While I appreciate the work that goes into providing these fresh foods from local growers and farms, I’m not that keen on seeing the preparation process in that much detail. It’s a good thing I’m not particularly squeamish, a point that was put to the test when I saw the fresh lamb brains.

Yum.

Once we get past the indoor slaughterhouse… okay, I’m being dramatic, but still… we get to chomp on some fresh fruits and nuts.

Outside, we get fresh, hot doughnuts from the doughnut truck before we all sit down to a lovely board of fresh cut cheese, exotic fruits, and delicious wine at the outdoor picnic area where the organic fruits are sold. And thus ends our tour.

“That was utterly delightful,” I say as I finish my wine. I lean in to my husband. “I’m not crazy, am I?” I say. “We got a little extra on this tour, didn’t we?” He does that back-and-forth kind of nod.

“The coordinator might have recognized me,” he admits. I frown.

“American?” I ask. He shakes his head.

“Australian, but he knows who I am.” He finishes his wine. I sit for a moment and enjoy the sunshine, doing a little people watching. When I look back at Christian, he’s staring at me… maybe through me, I’m not sure. His mind is definitely somewhere else.

“Christian?” I say his name trying to get his attention. A slight eye movement indicates that I’ve broken his daydream.

“Are you having a good time?” he asks. That’s a strange question to come out of nowhere.

“Yes,” I say. “I went a little crazy in the marketplace, but yes, I’m enjoying myself immensely.”

“A little crazy?” he chuckles. “I can’t wait to see what you’re going to do with all those fabrics.”

“Fabrics,” I say incredulously as if testing the word.

“Yes, fabrics,” he repeats. “When Jason pointed you out and I saw the stack before you were even half-done, I knew that we’d be checking some more luggage.”

“Fabrics!” I repeat. “I easily bought nearly $50,000 in opals and you’re more impressed by the fabrics?” He twists his lips.

“We spent more than that on one piece at Chanel in Paris,” he points out. “You could’ve bought the whole damn store for all I was concerned.”

“Wow,” I say, shaking my head. “More money than sense.”

“It had nothing to do with the money,” he says, moving closer to me and putting his arm around my waist so that no one can hear our conversation. “It’s your eyes.” I examine him curiously.

“My eyes?” I question. He nods.

“When you were paying for your fabrics, you completely floated over to that booth and forgot all about your current purchase and your card—don’t do that again, by the way.”

What was the harm? I knew he and Jason were still there putting the fabrics and scarves in the suitcases, and the cashier wasn’t going to let them walk away without ringing me up. It was a simultaneous process, and he would have to sign the receipt, so I knew he would see the card. Nonetheless…

“Then, I was walking over to you at the booth, you were looking at those pieces with a longing and admiration that I can’t explain, and I knew that you were trying to decide which ones you were going to put back. But most of all…”

He slides over so that our hips are touching, and I suddenly feel very warm… again.

“Those stones were stunning,” he says, his mouth so close to my face that I can feel his warm breath on my neck and the shell of my ear. “The blues in some of those pieces… they’re perfect! Like your eyes… right at that moment…”

His lips gently brush the skin of my neck before his tongue burns a trail up to my ear. I shiver as he licks around the shell of my ear, then whimper at the feeling of his mouth closing gently over my lobe. A jolt shoots through me when he sucks it into his mouth and gives it a sensual nip.

“Stop,” I whisper helplessly. I don’t have a spare pair of panties with me, Mr. Grey.

“I will,” he says, giving my earlobe one final suck and kiss, “for now, but tonight… you’re all mine!”

I take in a deep breath and release, his promise hanging in the air between us.

“Now, Mrs. Grey,” he says, putting only a little space between us. “What would you like to do next?”

“Well, I know Jaxon and the girl at the market both said something about ‘Fed Square,’ so let’s give that a shot.” He nods and stands from the table.

“Fed Square it is,” he says, taking my hand and helping me up from my seat. The parking lot isn’t very far away, and Jason leads us to a black Cadillac SRX parked there.

Well, that’s not pretentious at all.

Anyway, we climb inside and about 15 minutes later, he drops us at Federation Square. When I step out of the SUV, I’m captivated by a beautiful church literally right across the street.

“Is that St. Paul’s Cathedral?” I ask, pointing at the church.

“Yeh, sheila,” a passerby says without stopping.

“We may not have enough time to do both,” Christian warns. “Our flight to Adelaide leaves in a few hours.” Hmm…

“If we only have time for one, I think I’d rather see the cathedral,” I tell him. I can imagine just more shopping, photo ops, and site-seeing in Fed Square. I’d rather have the photo ops in St. Paul’s.

There are no services going on right now, so the photo ops are endless. There are people just chilling outside on the balustrades like college kids milling around the student center having lunch. Even though I’m about to enter what is clearly a very majestic temple, you know that you’re visiting a place that truly belongs to the citizens of the city.

The plaque just outside the door proudly boasts that the stonework of the church was restored between 1963 and 1967 and the undertaking was made possible by “gifts of the churchpeople and other citizens.” Yeah, it belongs to the people.

So, let’s start with the 15-foot-tall stained-glass doors. Honestly, I don’t know how tall they are, but the guy standing in front of the door wasn’t even half as tall as the door and he’s an easy six feet. You can easily make out the depiction of the four books of the Gospel in the beautiful stained glass, which casts a welcome light into the large sanctuary.

There are all kinds of historical bits and pieces to be seen here and heard there, but with a limited amount of time ahead of me, I’m more interested in the features and the stunning architecture.

There are amazing stained-glass windows throughout with intricate dedication plaques detailing to whom the windows are dedicated. There are numerous other plaques commemorating the lives and contributions of several other citizens, not only to the church, but to the commonwealth as well, including but not limited to the lives lost in wars throughout the years. One such plaque honors the shipmates of the H.M.A.S Australia who were killed in action during World War II, all of the plaques marked with the profound words, “Lest we forget.”

The detail in the architecture is a thing of wonder—the stories in the glass windows and the Narthex screen; the eight-point Persian tile that boasts eight titles for the Messiah; the majestic columns of the nave and the intricate carvings in the pulpit and the archbishop’s throne. The floors are made of imported granite, marble, and alabaster tiles and the lectern at the altar is an impressive brass eagle that holds a large bible on its back. Even the large baptism immersion font off to the right is a sunken pool of luxurious marble.

The Chapel of the Ascension is marked for quiet prayer and spiritual meditation. As I enter this seemingly sacred space, I can’t help but think of that scene from that movie from the 50’s with Deborah Kerr and Cary Grant in An Affair to Remember, when he visits his grandmother and Kerr’s character takes a moment to pray in the chapel.

I finally tire of looking at the collection of plates and cushions utilized by different Australian dignitaries and decide to take a seat in the main sanctuary to rest my feet. The pews are much more comfortable than I expected them to be.

Ben informs us that Jason has procured something for them to eat since they didn’t partake in the foodie tour with us and asked if we were going to be leaving the sanctuary anytime soon. Christian assures him that we will stay here and rest until they have finished their meal, which they will be eating just outside the door on the balustrades where I noticed others sitting when we entered. We won’t have enough time to see Federation Square before we have to go to the airport, so we just relax here in the sanctuary.

My mind wanders to the conversations that Laura and I had and the many things I want to change when I get home—my way of thinking and handling things; the press and all the horrible things they say about me and my family; all the preconceived notions which, contrary to what we had hoped, had truly not been dispelled by the exposé we did a while back.

We put our children and our lives in the spotlight for nothing as far as I’m concerned. Yes, a few people have called and requested to become part of the complaint and investigation that I hope to lodge on the licensing board, and I don’t know the extent of the donations and such that can measurably be attributed to the interview, but overall, it seems to just have brought more vermin out of the woodwork. I’ll have to do what I can to combat its effects while trying to decide what other steps I need to take in my screwed-up life. It all seems pretty clear now—the path and steps that I need to take—when just a few days before, it seemed so mottled…

“There’s a reason why Jason has to be so detached when we’re out of the country.”

Whe… wha… huh? Where did that come from?

I look over at my husband who’s gazing ahead at the altar… at least I think he’s looking at the altar.

“What?” I ask bemused.

“There’s a reason why Jason has to be so detached when we’re out of the country,” he repeats. “You never know what’s lurking around the corner, especially when you’re in a foreign country. When you start exchanging the type of money that I do, you’re either very talented or you’re corrupt. I’ve run into both—the latter more than I’d like to admit.”

I don’t say anything. It’s not like I really know how to respond to that.

“I sprung it on him last minute… going to Madrid. He had no time to prepare. I don’t even know how he was able to get the plane cleared and in the air so quickly for an overseas flight.”

I’m not sure I want to hear this right now, but for some reason, he needs to tell me.

“We didn’t know what we were walking into, and I didn’t care. I was reckless and foolhardy, feeling the old Christian Grey that didn’t need anything or anybody—at least that’s what I was trying to get myself to believe. It’s very hard to explain what was going through my mind… or wasn’t going through my mind. Thoughts of my life in Seattle, my babies, you… they were physically painful, so I just… didn’t.”

I fight the tears burning in my eyes. I’ve cried enough over this situation, and I’m resolved not to cry over it anymore.

“I was so hard and cold, I didn’t recognize myself, but I focused on that feeling, that demeanor, and it turned out that I needed it. Capito is a crook, and I may have found it out eventually, but I certainly wouldn’t have found it out had I not surprised him in Madrid.”

So… what’s the thrust—I’m supposed to be grateful that you ran out on your family, your wife and children, because it saved you from a bad business deal?

“I requested to see the factory that he was holding out on. He took us on a wild goose chase to keep us from getting to the factory. He was leading us outside of the cellular signal area and we had to think fast or possibly end up out in the fields somewhere cut off from civilization.”

Uh-oh… I’m not liking the sound of that.

“Jason’s fast thinking and incredible bluffing skills got us out of that situation, but we still weren’t out of the woods yet…”

He stares straight ahead the entire time he tells me about the trip to the tiny little sweat shop this guy Capito took him to and I’m still waiting for the reason Jason couldn’t at least let me in on where they were and that everything was okay…

And that’s because everything was not okay.

“We’re on our way back to the hotel when Jason notices that we’re being followed. Once again, he has to think quickly to keep us from ending up in a ditch somewhere…”

A ditch somewhere…?

“We had no backup, it was just me and Jason as backup was at the factory waiting for us to arrive, which we never did. It was like something out of a spy movie. We’re flying down these narrow streets, swerving and curving at breakneck speeds, coming up with an immediate plan while flying through the streets of Madrid. We didn’t know who was in that car and we didn’t know what they wanted. We only knew that they didn’t care that we were aware that they were following us. We put enough distance between ourselves and the car to dash into an alley and jump out, armed with our Glocks…”

Oh, dear God!

“We had seconds to duck into a couple of nearby doorways before they were right behind us jumping out of their car. I was trying to remember everything Ray taught me in a split second because it was coming down to this moment.”

Even though it’s in the past and he’s alright, sitting here in front of me whole and well, my heart is racing as I anxiously await the outcome of the confrontation.

“I wasn’t taking any chances,” he says. “The guy on my side the of alley saw my Glock before he saw me. I had the fu—…” He pauses, no doubt remembering that he’s in a church. “I had that thing aimed right between his eyes. He could probably look down the barrel and tell you the brand name of the bullet in the chamber. Had he sneezed wrong, his brains would have been splattered all over that alley.”

I’m trying so hard not to lose my cool as he recounts this story to me. He’s right—this is one really bad cops-and-robbers tale.

His eyes are still transfixed in front of him as he recalls that day in Madrid.

“I guess the other guy was too focused on me because Jason had time to come out of his hiding place and plant his Glock right in the guy’s skull. It turns out that they weren’t armed, thank God, or if they were, they never had time to pull their weapons.

“Jason speaks Spanish and he said something to the other guy—I have no idea what. The only word I recognized was amigo. The guy says something about Capito wanted them to make sure that we got to our hotel. Of course, he did. He didn’t want us to take any detours because we knew where the real factory was. We just didn’t know what the real factory was.”

I already know this is bad news.

“Once we ‘convinced’ our escorts that we were okay to find our way back on our own, we made plans to meet Cox and Williams at the factory that night. When we got there…”

He stops talking and I turn to him, waiting for him to continue the tale. He doesn’t.

“What, Christian?” I ask, urging him to finish the story.

“I’d like to know why nearly every major operation or successful venture that I’ve seen over the past couple of years has some kind of ties to human cargo,” he says, his voice low. Oh, dear God, what did he see?

“Human…?”

“Young girls,” he says. “They were loading young girls into trucks. The building was outfitted just for this. When we saw the plans, we thought they were barracks for sleeping between shifts. They were dorms… storage dorms…” He trails off again.

“Oh, my God,” I breathe. He swallows hard.

“There were four of us, each with a Glock. There were at least four guys on that loading dock. We’re certain there were more in the truck and definitely more inside the warehouse for the number of girls they were moving. Best case scenario, we’re outnumbered, and we get into a shoot-out with several guys who have guns just like ours and we all end up dead. Worst case scenario, they have semi-automatic assault rifles and we all end up dead along with several young girls. There was nothing we could do.”

He shakes his head and continues the story without turning left or right.

“We hauled ass out of there before we were discovered, and I helplessly turned the information over to Alex to contact the proper authorities. I thought about the families of these poor girls and just for a brief moment…”

He pauses again.

“That was the first time I thought of you, even for a second… but I was an asshole, and it was only for a second. I refocused back on the situation at hand—on Capito and the hotel and what was right in front of me right at the moment… as did Jason. Our sanctuary was that hotel suite. That’s when he could talk to his wife and his daughter, let his guard down and find out what was going on back home… back home…”

His voice trails off for a moment, then he clears his throat.

“I detached,” he admits. “I couldn’t feel or think about feeling while I was there. There was too much anger—too much rage, and even though I didn’t know it at the time, so much danger. I didn’t really feel anything else until my mother called wanting to know what was going on and told me about your fall. That’s when I demanded that Jason tell me everything.

“And he did.

“He knew every single detail from your first, teary-eyed phone call to the hours you spent in the window seat in the twins’ room to the very moment you moved to the guest room. He knew that I left, but he never knew why. He managed to compartmentalize all this information, but still stayed laser-focused to keep me safe as I went blindly chasing after danger. He knew everything that was going on with you every second from the other side of the world and when I asked for it, he gave me every detail. He’s a professional. He had to remain professional. He had to keep his mind clear, or any one of those situations could have very well ended in our demise.

“I just wanted you to know that he wasn’t ignoring you,” he continues. “He didn’t disregard your feelings or what you were going through back in Seattle. He had to protect me—really protect me, and his task required incredible focus and skill. Under the circumstances, he had to trust the staff in Seattle to take care of you and the twins. He couldn’t protect us both, or I may not have come back alive.” He turns to look at me for the first time in the entire conversation. “I just wanted you to know.”

I swallow hard at the thought that Jason had to be Christian’s veritable eyes and ears in an unknown situation that turned out to be quite dangerous and could have been worse had he stumbled into that warehouse.

“Thank you for telling me,” I say, my voice cracking. He entwines his fingers with mine and kisses the back of my hand. I quickly wipe a tear from my cheek with the other one.


CHRISTIAN

“Sir?”

Butterfly and I have been sitting in silence in the sanctuary of St. Paul’s Cathedral for quite some time now—I’m not really sure how long. She didn’t ask me any questions about the details of Madrid. She never has, really, and this time was no different. I have no idea why I told her this story, especially after Laura explained her version of the Boogeyman to me. God, I hope I haven’t inadvertently opened a proverbial can of worms.

I look over my shoulder and see Jason and Lawrence standing a few pews behind us in the middle aisle of the church—close enough for us to hear them, but far enough to give us some privacy.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but we really should be getting to the airport,” he says. I nod and look over at Butterfly, who’s staring ahead at the same altar I used to give me strength to tell her that terrible story.

“Are you okay?” I ask. She takes a shuddering breath and releases it before she nods and stands. She put her bag on her shoulder and proceeds a few steps down the aisle until she’s face-to-face with Jason. Looking up into his eyes, she stands on her toes and plants a kiss on his cheek. My friend and head of security is quite nonplussed as his brow furrows and he looks over at me.

“Just say ‘thank you,’” I instruct him. Jason touches his cheek and raises one brow.

“Thank you,” he says to Butterfly, his voice rising at the end as if he’s asking a question.

“Thank you,” she says softly, wrapping her arms around his waist and pulling him close to her. He looks at me puzzled and I simply gesture to him to return the hug. He shrugs and returns the hug.

“Whatever it is, you’re welcome, Your Highness.”

*-*

We land in Adelaide at just before 10pm. We didn’t bother eating on the plane because I have plans for us when we get to the hotel.

We check into the penthouse suites of the Peppers Waymouth Hotel with our weekend luggage and the items that I retrieved from the shops in Melbourne. Butterfly is a bit more introspective than I like and I’m hoping I haven’t completely soured her mood with my tale of the events of Madrid.

I dismiss Jason and Lawrence to their suite and head to the bathroom. It’s too late to call Seattle and talk to the twins, so I call down to the front desk to prepare the meal I ordered for our arrival and begin to set up the en suite.

I begin a bath in the large sunken tub with essential lemongrass oil and chamomile bubble bath I acquired from the Marketplace. I set various candles on the ridge of the tub and once the water begins to rise and the aroma fills the bathroom, I raise the shade that separates the bedroom from the bathtub to reveal the ambient light through the glass between the rooms. Butterfly stands frozen gazing through the glass at me as I finish the preparations in the en suite. I watch her sit on the bed facing the glass and place her hands daintily in her lap. When the steam from the bath causes the window to fog, I lean forward and wipe the condensation from the glass and smile at her. She graces me with a coy smile of her own.

I leave the bathroom and as I’m about to proceed to her, the bell rings for the door.

“Stay put,” I say. She smiles and I leave the bedroom, go through the living room and answer the front door. The bellhop brings in a chilled local champagne with strawberries and two glasses and informs me that our special meal will be ready in about twenty minutes. That’s plenty of time to bathe my Butterfly and set up the bedroom.

Leaving the champagne on the dining table, I go back to the bedroom and help my Butterfly off the bed.

“How do you feel?” I ask. She nods.

“I feel fine,” she says softly. I nod back. Hopefully, her melancholy has passed, but I’m going to do my best to make her feel good.

I unzip her dress and allow it to drop down her hips. She pushes it off and it falls to the floor. I pick it up and lay it across the chair, then turn my attention to her strapless bra. The pads are a bit moist inside when I undo it, so I know that her breasts are heavy with milk and need to be relieved. I instruct her to walk to the en suite, which she does, still clad in her blue denim wedges and a pair of white, lacy French cut panties. I watch her walk for a few steps, then follow her into the bathroom.

Butterfly Hair Clip Chapter 81Simple Twisted Bun Chapter 81“Have a seat,” I instruct, and she sits on the side of the bathtub. I crouch down and undo her shoes, removing them one by one. She doesn’t take her eyes off me and her lips part as her breath quickens and her hair falls over her shoulders. I don’t want it to get wet, so I reach into my bag of wares from the Marketplace and pull out an expandable butterfly clip. It wasn’t what I had in mind when I asked the cashier for a butterfly clip, but she assured me that with the length of Butterfly’s hair, this one would work better.

She was right.

I fashion my wife’s hair into a simple bun like the cashier told me and gently secure the teeth of one comb on each side of the bundled mass of hair, capturing the bun in the elastic bands between each comb. I’m proud of my accomplishment, especially since this is my first time doing it.

“Come,” I beckon, and she stands for me. I push her tiny panties down her legs and take her hand as she steps into the bath.

“Too hot?” I ask as she appears to flinch when her feet touch the water. She shakes her head.

“No,” she purrs, “it’s perfect.” She takes the sides of the tub and slides that luscious body down into the water, moaning the entire time, and I have to coax my cock to behave. I didn’t think to get any kind of bath pillow for her, so I roll one of the bath towels into a bolster and position it behind her head.

“Comfortable?” I ask. She nods.

“Yes, but my milk is going to start expressing on its own in a minute…”

“That’s okay,” I tell her. “It’s good for the bath and I’m sure you need relief.” Not that I’m complaining, but her breasts literally spilled from that bra when I released them. She nods.

“I do,” she concurs, sinking into the tub. I smile.

“I’ll be right back.” I leave the room and go to the dining room. I retrieve the champagne and glasses first, taking them to the en suite before going back for the strawberries. I pour a glass for my lady and proceed to feed her a few strawberries while she relaxes in the tub. With my free hand, I gently stroke each of her breasts, allowing the tender caress and the hot water to coax the milk from her heavy glands. The bubbles dissipate a little as they mix with the milk, but Butterfly doesn’t seem to mind. I know I don’t.

After a few minutes of fondling my wife’s breasts and feeding her strawberries, I refill her champagne glass and take to the task of cleaning that beautiful body. I remove my pants and shirt, but remain in my boxer briefs and sit on the edge of the tub, my feet in the water with her. I start with her feet and begin to scrub the grit of the day away with a bath sponge. I move up her legs to her calves, her knees, her thighs. I skip to her shoulders, her arms, her chest and breasts, her back…

Once she has finished her second glass of champagne, I help her stand and gently scrub the rest of her back, her beautiful ass, that luscious peach at the junction of her thighs. She’s thoroughly aroused as I use the sponge to rinse her clean, squeezing the water over her skin to rinse away the rest of the bubbles. I step out of the tub first, then help her out and wrap her in a bath blanket, pleased that I managed not to get her hair wet.

“Do you need your breast pump, or are you okay?” I ask as I dry her body. She reaches up and takes one of her breasts in her hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. A few drops of milk gather on the nipple and drip down to the floor…

And my mouth waters.

I can’t help but lean down and take the soft, pink thing in my mouth, licking the sweet nectar from her skin. She moans involuntarily and I realize that I don’t want to take her all the way to the edge just yet. I pop her nipple out of my mouth and kiss it gently before bringing my eyes to hers.

“Breast pump, I think,” she breathes, “just for a bit, they’re… kind of light… just not empty.”

Okay… I have to get this woman set up on her breast pump right this second or my plans for seduction are going to be shot down the tubes by the instant need to fuck! I instruct her to have a seat on the banquette bench and I help her get the breast pump attached before I kiss her and leave the en suite. I take a deep breath to compose myself once I’m on the other side of the door, then I proceed to the closet with the extra linens to get another bath blanket.

It’s a good thing, too, because while I’m standing there, the doorbell to the suite rings again. It’s most likely our dinner and I’m standing here in my skivvies. I reach into the linen closet to get a towel and find a terrycloth robe folded in there.

Thank God.

I retrieve another bath blanket before donning the robe and answering the door.

“Your meal, sir,” the bellhop says, standing at the door and awaiting instructions. “Where would you like it?”

“You can just bring it inside,” I say, walking away from the door and going to the bedroom to retrieve my wallet. I get a glance of my wife through the glass in the bathroom. She has switched the breast pump to the other breast.

Don’t stand here too long, Grey. There’s a hot meal waiting in the next room…

The other hot meal… in the other next room.

I pull the door shut and return to the living room.

“Thanks,” I say, handing him a bill out of my wallet.

“Thank you, sir!” he says, happily, and I assume I gave him a hundred. Once he’s gone, I put the bath blanket on the rolling table carrying the food and roll it into the bedroom.

Let’s see if we can catch lightning in a bottle twice.

I lay the bath blanket over the bed and place my other essential oils on the nightstand— muscle and joint oil for her shoulders, back, and feet; unscented body and massage oil for those delicate places; and jasmine for some aroma therapy. I go to the bathroom to retrieve her and she’s just rinsing her breast pump.

“There wasn’t much milk in them, but I just wanted to be sure not to make a mess,” she says. I take her face in my hands.

“It’s never a mess, baby,” I say. “You nourish our children with those two miracles, and when we’re alone, I think it’s very sexy.” I kiss her gently and pick up her champagne glass. “Your glass is empty,” I say filling it again.

“Are you trying to get me drunk, Mr. Grey?” she says.

“No, just relaxed,” I say, taking her hand and leading her to the bedroom. If I can get her into half the amorous state she was in when we were in Napa, I will have achieved my goal. Here’s hoping.

I sit her down on the bed and retrieve the candles from the bathroom, placing them strategically around the bedroom before lighting two sticks of lotus incense in burners. When I look over at her, she has finished what’s left of her champagne and the candlelight flickers off her face while casting yet another ambient glow around the room. She looks ethereal, but this time, I’m going to feed her before I ravish her. I remove my robe and join her on the bed.

I uncover the plates and trays for dinner and I’m very pleased with what I find—cracked lobster claws and split lobster tails with mushroom quinoa risotto, prosciutto-wrapped green beans, Brussels sprouts tossed with pomegranate, and fresh herb Italian bread with sweet cream butter, all accompanied by a local Moet. I pour her a glass of Moet and hand it to her. Then, I begin feeding us both from the healthily-stacked plates of lobster.

“Mmm,” she purrs, “That’s superb.”

“I’m very glad you like it,” I reply. I taste the lobster myself and I must agree, it’s very good. “I hope the day was enjoyable for you.”

“It was,” she agrees. “I had a wonderful time at the aquarium and tasting the food in the Marketplace was a real treat.” I feed her more of the lobster and Brussels sprouts with pomegranate. “I never would have thought to combine those two, but that’s a very tasty combination,” she declares. I taste the combination.

“Hmm,” I say, “I’m not really a pomegranate man, but the way they seasoned and combined it, it’s really delicious.”

I continue to feed her and myself from all the dishes as we talk about everything and nothing. Some of our topics are humorous while others lean to the serious side. Nothing has soured my lady’s mood, thank God. We finish dinner and the bottle of Moet and move on to dessert. I chose two local favorites each for a separate taste sensation. First, we indulge in a tipsy cake, a pudding-like scone topped with caramelized fruit and brandy sauce and accompanied by a slice of roasted pineapple. In the words of my Butterfly, it’s divine.

The second confection—or combination of confections—is called sticks and stones. It consists of a mixture of chocolate bark, charcoal passionfruit pebbles, chocolate “soil,” crunchy chocolate twigs, and hazelnut custard.

“Lie down,” I instruct once we’ve finished our desserts. I help her get comfortable on her stomach and remove the butterfly clip from her hair, fanning it over the pillow and away from her body.

To my delight, there are more adult toy stores around Queen Victoria Market than I ever would have known. I didn’t find any in the market, but there were a couple that were just a few blocks away, so I was able to procure a few items to assist with tonight’s activities. I retrieve my goody bag from its hiding place along with a couple of hand towels from the en suite and remove the blindfold inside. We really didn’t need a blindfold—we could use just about anything, but I wanted one anyway… blue, like her eyes. I slide it over her head and adjust it on her eyes, telling her to relax.

Of course, we can’t have a massage without music, but I didn’t think about that until this moment. I retrieve my phone and open Pandora and type in the words “baby making music.” Some kid starts singing about his girl going to the club and I’m not sure that’s what I want until I listen for a minute and the song slows down talking about dancing in slow motion.

New music—hmm. I need to plan better next time, but I’ll just let this station play and hope for the best. I swear to God, I’ll throw that damn phone against the wall if it fucks up our mood.

I won’t deny myself the pleasure of feeling her hot soft skin against my cock, so I quickly remove my boxer briefs before I straddle her thighs.

I rub a mixture of the joint oil and the jasmine oil between my hands and begin a deep soothing massage on her shoulders and back. She moans her approval as I work my way down her spine to the small of her back, outlining little flowers and shapes on her tattoo while gently kneading and massaging away any lingering stresses from the day.

I masterfully use my fingertips and knuckles up and down the muscles of her back until she’s putty and mush on top of the bath blanket. I re-oil my hands and bring them down to her ass cheeks, massaging and kneading and coating her glorious derrière in the lightly scented oil. My God, her ass looks heavenly. I spread the oil into the crease and between her cheeks. I stay away from her core—for now—as I don’t want the scented oil to irritate that luscious pearl, but I thoroughly anoint her inner cheeks and rosette and watch her lick her lips as I stimulate the bundle of nerves.

I move off her thighs and kneel next to her, spreading the oil over her legs and thighs moving quickly to her feet. She sounds almost orgasmic as I apply pressure to the balls and heels, then sensually run my nail up the arch. She nearly leaps off the bed with that move.

So far, the music is cooperating with me as another sultrier tune begins and I strategically travel back up her legs, kneading and massaging the oil into the front and backs of her calves, then just the backs of her knees and the backs and insides of her thighs, paying a little extra attention to that one spot behind her knee that’s attached to her pleasure center. I push her legs apart just a bit, just enough, then continue my massage up the back of her thighs, cupping the crease right under her cheeks for my own enjoyment before teasing the top of her ass crack once more.

Once I’m satisfied that the oil is massaged well enough into her skin, I retrieve more items from the goodie bag—intimate wipes to clean my hands and to clean the items I want to use. I retrieve the next surprise from my goodie bag, clean it with the wipes and dry my hands, anointing both with the unscented oil before I move back to that beautiful ass.

I open her ass cheeks and circle her rosette with my oily finger. She gasps and it clenches ever so slightly, so I massage it again in sensual circles. Her hands clench on the pillows, then release as her back arches and her ass rises only slightly toward me.

Fuck, I’m getting hard.

As her ass rises towards me, I slide my hand between her legs so that my oily fingers run across her clit. She gasps loudly and mewls as I tease her gently, long slides with my oily hand. I feel her clit hardening and I don’t want her to come yet, so I slow my strokes and soften the pressure. I move my hand to her inner thigh so that my oily fingertips gently massage the aroused skin of her clit. Her breath is heavy and so sensual. I see gooseflesh rise on her back when I press my thumb between her cheeks and breach the opening of her rosette.

She moans quick and quietly, and I know that she’s enjoying herself. I am, too… watching her beautiful body respond to my ministrations and massages. I press my oily thumb a little deeper into her asshole and move my fingertips to the opening of her core. My fingers circle at both openings, preparing them for what I have planned next, and she squirms with pleasure, trying to control herself at the same time.

No need to control yourself, baby. I’m going to make you come—several times.

When her breathing has become panting, I take the oiled butt plug lying next to us and gently begin to push it inside of her. She takes a deep breath and I pause with the entry, pushing my middle fingers deeper into her pussy while massaging her clit with my index finger.

“You okay?” I breathe, almost unable to control myself.

“Yes!” she pants. “Keep going.”

Music to my ears.

I push the butt plug in a little further, and a little further, and a little further still, until her sexy ass swallows it and the blue jewel sits out over her rosette.

Fuck, I’m going to make you come so hard.

I push my whole hand between her legs from behind so that the middle finger runs back and forth over her clit while the index and third fingers massage her lips and the sides of her clit. She’s writhing and moaning in so much pleasure and her skin begins to flush. Too soon, but I continue the stroke bringing her right to the edge before I stop the stimulation.

“Please,” she mewls.

“Ssshhh,” I soothe, rubbing her inner thighs. “Don’t worry, baby… I’ll take care of you.” She takes a deep breath and relaxes into the bed. She was so close, it was cruel to pull her back like that. I’ll give her the first orgasm.

I open her legs a little more and straddle one of her legs so that she can’t close them, and it gives me such a beautiful bird’s eye view of her oily and wet, hot pink and ready pussy. I stick my hand into that hot, delicious mess and plunge my thumb into her core.

“Ah! Oh, God!” she cries out as she nearly leaps off the bed. The fingers of that same hand focus on that hot clit, around and around, over and under, massaging ever surface and side of the sensitive skin. Her panting is feverish as she raises her ass to me, affording me full and unfettered access to her pulsing core.

Her ass… mmmm…

I turn the butt plug in her ass, and she cries out again, unable to control her screams. Fuck, that shit is hot! I continue finger-fucking her, massaging that clit, and I gently start to pull the butt plug from her ass—not all the way, just enough to apply pressure to the rosette.

“Christian!” she pants. “God!”

I know, baby. Give it to me.

I pull the butt plug a little more, continue fucking with my thumb, and massaging with my fingers, over and over…

When I see the sheen through the oil and feel her body stiffening, her clit becoming firm, and her leg starts to tremble, I push the butt plug back into her ass hard…

And she detonates.

“Christian!” she screams as her body begins to convulse and her leg shakes uncontrollably. I keep massaging until she stops shaking, stops pulsing, and begs me to stop.

“Please… pleeeeaase…” she’s beseeching me, and I pause.

Pause…


A/N: Every time Falala said, “Opals! Opals!” I was like, “Falala, wait, it’s coming!” LOL.

Trey Songz—Slow Motion
Kelly Rowland—Motivation
Trey Songz—Love Faces
August Alsina—Kissin’ On My Tattoos
Bando Jonez—Sex You
Chris Brown—Poppin
Drake—Hold On, We’re Going Home
Jeremih—I Like ft. Ludacris

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

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

The Australia Picture Board can be found here: https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/raising-grey-the-trip-to-australia/ and the pictures from today’s chapter are in the “Melborne” sections, and there are a lot of them!!

And of course, the regular Pinterest board is here: https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/raising-grey/

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

~~love and handcuffs

Raising Grey: Chapter 77—Something He Can Feel

I love you all from the bottom of my heart and I thank you for rallying to support me when I was beginning to doubt. I’ve always known that I can’t satisfy everyone, but I at least try not to offend. Thank you for your bandages, salve, and love for my weary Muse. She insisted that I give you a bonus chapter for your kindness and support.

As far as the accent goes, I’m not asking for forgiveness anymore. Here’s what you get.

Danger—Aussie accent ahead. Turn away now.

That’s it.

Smoochies!!

All other previous disclaimers still apply.

Chapter 77—Something He Can Feel

CHRISTIAN

This woman is sex on a stick and these fuckers are all nutting in their pants watching her roll that beautiful ass up there on stage talking about giving me something I can feel.

Oh, I feel it, baby. Believe me, I feel it.

When she finishes her song, a crowd of these fuckers rush the stage as if she could possibly be here alone. I take my time getting to the stage, watching her taunting them with her coyness as if she’s attempting to decide which hand to take knowing that she’ll only take mine. When I announce that I’m there to retrieve my wife, the fuckers all look like someone stole their lollipop, but they move the hell out of my way so that I can get my Butterfly. We have a few more drinks and she plays with the idea of going up and doing another number.

Over my dead body.

We leave and go to another bar called The Thorn. It’s an Irish pub with a real arcade in it. We’re the best dressed people in the pub and decide to make a night of it before we go back to our stateroom. We start with a game of bowling, with the smallest balls in the world. As it turns out, Butterfly is a mediocre bowler, and I end up winning two games.

Next, we play two games of pool—or at least that’s what I think we’re playing. We spend the entire time finding ways to distract each other’s shot. We do everything short of stripping and fucking right there on the table, which at this point I would gladly do. She’s determined to make me fuck her in some inappropriate place. I’m ready to tear into her like the succulent feast that she’s threatening to be and it’s taking everything I have to control myself in this setting. At one point, I find myself yanking that ponytail back and planting a shameless kiss on her mouth, wondering how that lipstick never smeared.

Oh… it’s that lipstick.

After a tie on the billiards table, we move on to darts. Now, I don’t know what’s in these beers that we’re drinking, but whatever it is, it lures me into some false sense of superiority that because I’m good at darts, I can beat this Marine’s daughter who once threw three knives at my ex-Domme—well, only one at her, but nonetheless, she threw three knives—and they all stuck in the same spot on the door. Even slightly tipsy, she whooped my entire ass… three times… well! I have been thoroughly spanked and sent out to pasture.

She’s a mixture of haughty victor and giggly schoolgirl and I’m totally triggered by it. I want to tie her up and spank her and fuck her and make her come in 19 different ways… but I don’t want to put a pause on our fun, and I know we’ve got excursions tomorrow and I don’t want to be exhausted. So, I put Sir back in my pocket, and vow to redeem myself in this game. I’m good, dammit! I can beat a girl at least once.

“You’re very good,” I hear someone say, interrupting us just as we’re about to start another game. Butterfly and I turn simultaneously to see who’s standing behind us. The statement came from a raven-haired woman somewhere between mine and Butterfly’s age. She’s wearing a long, white, formal dress with a cape attached, her blonde companion wearing a pair of black slacks with a matching vest, white shirt, and black tie. It appears that we aren’t the only ones who went straight from the formal dinner to the ship’s night life.

The woman is standing there with her fingers clasped loosely at her abdomen with this cat-caught-the-canary half-smile on her face. Her companion is sporting the same unsettling smirk. She’s looking from Butterfly to me and back to Butterfly, so I’m not sure who she’s talking to. I plaster the CEO expression on my face so as not to give away my inner thoughts. Butterfly isn’t so successful. It’s clear that she doesn’t trust this woman.

“Thank you,” Butterfly answers reserved. It’s a safe assumption that the woman was talking to her since she’s won all the rounds. We both stand there waiting for her to get to the real point of her interruption. They stand there gazing back at us, not saying a word, so Butterfly turns her attention back to the dartboard to start a new game. I don’t take my eyes off the couple who doesn’t seem to want to leave.

“I’d like to play a game with you,” the woman says as Butterfly is about to take aim at the board. My wife turns around and examines her. “If you don’t mind,” she adds.

Butterfly looks at the woman, then looks back at me. I shrug, signaling that I don’t mind if she doesn’t. She turns back to the woman.

“Okay,” she says, non-committal. “We can play.”

“Oh,” the woman adds. “I should have said that there’s a wager involved.” What the fuck is this bitch up to? Butterfly’s brow furrows.

“I didn’t agree to a wager,” she says. The woman smirks.

“You’re backing out now?” the woman taunts.

“I’m not backing out of anything because I haven’t agreed to anything,” Butterfly clarifies.

jsl98f-l-610x610-dress-longdress-whitelongdress-capesleevedress-capesleeve-whitedress“You agreed to play,” the woman continues. She’s up to no good. It’s quite clear. Her companion is standing behind her leaning on a table, too cool for words, while she’s smoothly doing all the talking and trying to back my wife into a corner. Now, I’m observing everything—his stance; her demeanor; the fact that they’re both wearing wedding rings; the cut of his slacks to see if they’re tailored or if his suit is from the rack; the fact that her dress is tight around her hips and boobs, but so long that it bunches on the floor and you can’t see her shoes, which means it is from the rack or at the very least she doesn’t have a stylist. A mermaid dress is already restrictive, so it’s not supposed to bunch at your feet. I’ve fucked and dressed enough women to know that.

I’m trying to put a quick profile together of these two to figure out their M-O, and I’m wishing Jaxon was here.

“I didn’t agree to a wager,” my wife repeats. “No one agrees on a price if they don’t know what it is.” It’s not a price, baby. I don’t know what she wants, but she doesn’t want money…

Oh, shit.

“In high stakes, they do,” the woman purrs. “I mean, if you don’t have the balls…” She trails off and shrugs one shoulder infinitesimally. Under normal circumstances, she’d be saying everything to push my wife’s buttons, but not tonight. Tonight, my wife smells a rat and I’m glad she does.

“The answer is ‘no,’” my wife says, turning away from the woman.

“You haven’t even heard the terms yet…”

“And you won’t state them, so the answer is ‘no,’” Butterfly says firmly. “You approached me about a dart game. I couldn’t care less to play with you or not.”

“Well, here’s what I propose,” the woman says, seeing that her tactic isn’t working, and here it comes. Brace yourself, Butterfly. “If I win, we swap… just for the night.”

“Swap what?” Butterfly asks, bemused.

Yeah, swap what? I think to myself… Then I look at her husband. He’s eyeing my wife and I can swear that he’s seeing her naked. His pupils have dilated to the point that the black almost overtakes his blue irises completely, and I can just see his tongue running against the inside of his mouth. He’s so transfixed on her that it’s like I’m not even standing there. I shift my gaze down to the woman and she’s looking at me with pure lust brandishing in her gaze.

Swap.
Shit!

This is worse than I thought. They’re not looking to swing; they’re looking to totally exchange partners. What the fuck have we walked into on this damn cruise? I swear it’s like Woodstock without the drugs! No drugs that I know of anyway.

I’m about to say something, but my wife beats me to it.

“You’re out of your fucking mind!” Butterfly says, her voice low. The woman tilts her head to the side, only mocking slight surprise.

“There’s no need for us to be coy,” she says. “I know it sounds shocking when someone approaches you, but you always get past it.” She waggles her eyebrows suggestively.

“You may always get past it,” Butterfly retorts, “but you’ve got some kind of screw loose if you think I’m going to take part in something like that!”

“You’re afraid you’ll lose,” she taunts again, returning to her original tact now that her hand has been revealed.

“It’s a goddamn game of darts,” Butterfly retorts, her voice murderous. “Who gives a fuck about a goddamn game of darts? And win or lose, I wouldn’t even consider wagering my husband! What kind of sick bitch are you?”

“There’s no need to resort to name-calling,” the woman says calmly.

“Then I suggest you get the fuck out of my face, because there’s a whole lot more where that came from,” Butterfly hisses. Her fists are clenched now and I’m certain that if this conversation doesn’t end immediately, it will become physical.

I take the darts from my wife’s clenched fists and place them on a table that we were occupying nearby. I retrieve her clutch and my suit jacket from the seat where I had been watching it all night, I take my wife’s shoulders and turn her away from Proposition Pam and her trusty sidekick Swapping Sam and usher her quickly out of the pub.

She snatches her clutch from me and begins an intent march down the hallway. I give her a little room as I can see that she’s extremely irritated, but I don’t allow too much space between us. I put my jacket on and wonder if we’re going back to the stateroom now or if we’re going to try to salvage what’s left of the evening at another venue. We’ve taken several steps away from the pub in silence when my wife spins around, prepared to let loose on me.

“Why weren’t you more appalled by that?” she demands. I take a deep breath and release.

“Something that Jaxon said to me last night,” I reply calmly. This won’t be a fight between us. I’ll explain it, she’ll get it, and we’ll get the fuck out of here.

“And that was?” she asks, folding her arms. I straighten to my full height and respond.

“My Dom is showing, baby,” I say. She nearly gasps.

“And that makes that suggestion okay?” she says, damn near choking on her words. “Do you want that?”

“No, it doesn’t and no, I don’t,” I reply, my voice calm. “Last night, Jaxon asked me if we were swingers, not because that’s what he and Laura does, but because he saw something in me… and in you. He didn’t know what it is, and he still doesn’t, but he put me on notice that whatever it is, it’s showing. He told me that there may be other like-minded individuals on board—his term, not mine—that may approach us. He advised that I don’t lose my temper, but kindly tell them we’re not interested, which is what I was going to do, but you handled it quite well all on your own.”

She’s still glaring at me and even though her expression doesn’t change, I can see the thoughts and emotions running quickly through her mind and across her face. She’s trying to analyze the situation, the events of the day and the fact that she saw my Dom earlier and responded accordingly, what just happened in the pub. She’s having one of her three-second funnels but it’s taking more than three seconds.

“I should declare my win by forfeit.”

A smooth, suggestive female voice breaks our pondering, and I’m certain this cunt thinks that we’re fighting over her—which we almost were. Now, it’s my turn to douse that fucking fire.


ANASTASIA

She’s determined to get her claws into my man, even if it means sacrificing hers to me and I want absolutely nothing to do with that slimy looking motherfucker even if I was single! My husband turns around and looks at her. I don’t know what his gaze is saying, but her skin flushes all over.

I’m lying. I know exactly what his gaze is saying.

“What you fail to realize,” he begins in a honey smooth voice so close to his Dom voice that I nearly become a puddle right there on the deck, “is that even if you had played that game and won, you would have lost, because I wouldn’t have agreed to the terms.”

She’s speechless—and obviously hot under the collar—but her husband decides to speak on her behalf since Christian spoke on mine.

“Then you would have lost,” her husband says, conspicuously rubbing her hips and ass before sliding his arm around her waist. She smiles a victorious and seductive smile at my husband and he just shakes his head.

“It looks like you’ve already lost,” Christian says to the man, “because you’re willing to share.” He slides his arm around my waist. “I’m not.” He pulls me close to him and walks past them with a final sharp glare, his arm still around my waist.

And I’m seeing the proverbial “mic drop” with my mind’s eye. I know they’re watching us walk away and I simply cannot help myself.

giphy-1

I scamper in front of him to cut him off and lunge myself at him. He catches me in his arms and I wrap my legs around his waist, my dress falling open over my thighs. His hands cup my ass as he holds me up and we gaze at one another with a deep hunger in our eyes. I tilt my head and burn his lips with a kiss, my fingers thrust into his hair and my tongue lapping his, searching to taste the hunger in his kiss that I just saw in his eyes. He growls deep in his chest, squeezing my ass harder as his cock hardens enough for me to feel the head of it through his pants at the juncture of my thighs. I break the kiss and pull my face back from his. I gaze into his eyes again, still hungry… now ravenous!

“You know what’s next,” he growls in his throat. My lips are parted and even though I do know what’s next, I nod and don’t break gaze with him. He secures his hands on each of my hips and takes long strides down the hallway towards the elevator. I slide my arms around him and rest my head on his shoulder, catching the unnamed woman in my gaze. As I suspected, she and her husband are standing there watching us walk away, no longer touching, none of the make-believe pride and coveting he showed before apparent anymore. I flip her the bird moments before the elevator opens and Christian carries me inside.

He pushes me against the wall, shocking me. He sears me with another deep, hungry kiss and grinds into me for the few floors it takes to get to our deck. I want to dread someone seeing us, someone watching us on camera somewhere as I know they are, but I can’t. I don’t fucking care and I know that he doesn’t. I’m breathlessly horny when the doors open to our deck and surprisingly, no one’s outside the elevator. My husband secures me again and nearly does a sprint to our suite.

I don’t know how he got the door open with the key card. I’m sure he would have kicked it in if he could. He doesn’t bother taking me to the bedroom—the cabin was far enough away as it is.

“Get out of that dress!” he growls, nearly ripping his suit jacket from his body. His eyes are blazing! I can’t tell if he’s mad or horny. I quickly undo the hooks at the neck of my dress and allow the halter to fall taking my breast pads with it. I push it down my body to reveal a pretty pair of lace thong panties.

“Perfect!” he hisses while snatching off his tie. He walks over to the sofa and takes a seat. “Get over here.”

I walk over to him and stand in front of him, my eyes fixed on his shoes. He takes my arm and snatches me hard so that I fall over his lap onto the sofa, only wearing my thong and the patent leather nude stilettos.

“Give me your hands,” he commands. I put my hands behind me and he binds them with his tie and begins to caress my ass.

“What are your safewords?” he growls.

“Bells…” I say softly, “and whistles.”

“And the third?” he says, still caressing my ass. Oh, shit. This is going to be one of those.

“Ladybug,” I reply softly.

“Good,” he says. His hand leaves my ass and comes down hard. I almost cry out.

“You’ve been testing me all day,” he says, his voice low. Shit… I have?

“You wear this blue, thin fucking dress that makes you look delectable…” He slaps me hard on the ass and I jump. Shit, this hurts!

“You taunt me about being able to keep my dick up…” Yeah, I did do that.

SLAP!

“You wear these tight scraps of material wrapped around your body and showcasing everything that’s mine while slithering through the water like a fucking mermaid.” He rubs my ass with this description.

“I could deal with that, but then you get out of the water, glistening and slightly sunkissed, looking hotter than a lingerie model, and you enter a fucking bikini contest…”

Yep, I did that, too.

SLAP!

“Then you put on a red dress that’s screaming of sex and desire with those plump, kissable lips, that slicked-back come-hither hair, and these goddamn fuck-me pumps, and you wonder why the French women couldn’t keep their mouths shut.

Inner sigh… yep, that was me.

SLAP!

“And I won’t even bother describing that display you did on stage at karaoke! You had those fuckers nearly coming in their pants—men and women!” SLAP!

Ouch! Guilty! Fuck, guilty!

“And when it was all said and done, you’ve got motherfuckers wanting to swap partners with us just from watching you play darts…” SLAP!

Wait a minute! That wasn’t just me! She wanted to fuck you, too!

“That fucker would have fucked you right there on the pool table if you had agreed…” SLAP!

“He was salivating all over you like I wasn’t even standing there…”
SLAP!

“He was willing to hand over his hooker wife for one night alone with you. He probably put her up to it!”
SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!

Okay, now I’m confused. Some trick propositions me to switch places with me for my husband and somehow, that’s my fault? I’m so caught off guard by trying to figure out the logic of that last one that the final slap reverberates through me and ignites the pain of all the others before it. Unprepared for the intensity, I involuntarily choke out a sob.

Before I know it, he’s snatched me off his lap and I’m on my knees on the sofa next to him. He’s breathless with uncontrolled arousal and he’s fighting feverishly to unzip his pants. When he reaches inside and produces his cock, it pops out of the little opening standing harder and taller than I think I’ve ever seen it… at least harder and taller than it’s been all weekend.

He snatches the wind out of me by effortlessly flinging me back over his lap—straddled this time—moving my panties to the side with the head of his cock and thrusting so hard into me that I cry out from the initial pain, still sniffling and whimpering. He’s balls deep inside me and breathing like a bear, his hips still as his cock sits fat and wide inside my aching, tight vagina.

He’s sitting there, not moving, panting through his nose and apparently fighting for control. When he opens his eyes, the fire is there again. His arms are wrapped around me, holding me close to him like a vise, and his hot breath is cold against my tear-stained face. He examines me, unable to wipe away my tears with my hands bound behind me or hide my sniffles and stuttering breaths. He does something at that moment that creeps me out and turns me on at the same time.

He licks the tears from one of my cheeks with one gentle lap.

Yeah, it creeps me out for a moment, but hell—he’s tasted my cum, my breast milk… tears can be much stranger.

“It’s because you’re so fucking beautiful,” he hisses. “Don’t you see what you do to men? They lose their goddamn minds over you, present company included! At the passenger terminal before we even got on the damn boat; at the swimming pool; at dinner…”

I hold my head down and try to control my whimpers. He pulls me even closer to him and my head falls on his shoulder.

I will not weep harder.
I will not weep harder.

My ass hurt like hell, but the heat combined with his dick thrust deep into my pussy, him holding me this close with my bound hands clasped in his, him actually licking the tears from one of my cheeks a minute ago, and his primal jealousy right now and the need to be vindicated—it’s all making me hot as hell

“Sit up,” he commands, the Dom back in his voice. I take a deep breath and release it, pulling myself to sit up straight. He drops his arms from around me and lay them on the sofa. I don’t raise my head. I wish my hair was down so that it could hide my face right now.

“Fuck me.”

I’m almost caught off guard by the command… almost. My hands are tied. He’s going to make me use my legs to do it. Fine. I use my knees and thighs to rise and fall over his incredibly hard cock, my pussy producing the needed lubrication almost immediately.

“Faster!” he demands. “Harder!”

I pick up the pace and bounce on his cock testing my strength and stamina with every rise and drop.

“Yes!” he hisses, gazing at me like a serial killer examining his next victim. “That’s it. Just like that!”

I risk a glance at him and he quickly undoes the buttons of his shirt and releases his cuff links, staring at my wildly bouncing tits the entire time. I concentrate on my thighs and on controlling the muscles to maintain my stroke. He groans once as he finally discards his shirt and works on loosening his pants.

“Goddammit,” he hisses as he finally gets his pants open. His cock is still restrained by the pocket of his boxer briefs, but he’s still madly enjoying the ride. One hand grabs one of my bouncing tits while the other firmly clasps my hip. He’s licking and biting his lips deliciously and he looks so fucking good.

“That’s it, baby,” he growls, throwing the typical playtime decorum out the window. “Fuck that dick. Fuck it hard, baby.”

And fuck it hard, I do. I don’t need him to tell me that I can’t come without permission. He made me say my third safeword, so it’s understood. But dammit, he’s going to come like a goddamn rocket if it’s the last thing I do!

I’m fucking him like a master, but he still exhibits that amazing stamina that he does when the Dom is here. He grunts every time I drop my pussy down on him, grabbing, caressing, or tormenting some part of my body or another. He’s licking his lips and biting me and sucking me—he even violently grabs my ponytail and holds on while I ride, but still never moves his hips. The ponytail holder gives up the fight sometime during that exercise, and my hair is free now.

When he’s on the edge, he grabs my ass cheeks with both hands and throws his head back. The shock of pain from my spanking ignites me and almost shakes my concentration. I throw my head back in agony as with the constant stimulation in my pussy and the wild groping, biting, and hair-pulling, losing my concentration means that I’m going to come. Luckily, he beats me to it.

“Oh, yes, Anastasia!” he groans through his orgasm. “Fuck me! Don’t stop!”

I keep the bounce going even though my thighs are burning in torment. I concentrate on the pain to keep myself from coming from this insanely pulsing cock inside of me. Keep… going… keep… going… keep… going…

“Stop! Fuck! For God’s sake, stop…” he begs, and I stop bouncing. My thighs hurt like fuck and I’m gasping for breath, sweat pouring down my face and into my eyes, my hair now free from its ponytail and wild all over my head. He’s panting heavily, still gripping my ass, and I squeeze my eyes shut from the pain, biting my lip to keep from crying out. My thighs are burning and will probably lock in this position in a moment and I’m thoroughly exhausted, just sitting on his lap and his still very erect cock. I’m trying to give myself a pep talk because I know it’s not over.

C’mon, Grey, catch your breath, get it together.
It’s just a little sweat, it won’t kill you.
You planned to work out anyway, so here you go. Don’t be a baby.

“Get up.”

Well, that wasn’t my voice. That was my Dom.

I close my eyes and concentrate one more time on stretching my thighs to rise off his dick. When I’m successful, the damn thing pops out of me and bounces off his belly with a thud, still standing at perfect attention like he didn’t just beg me to stop fucking him. I lift my leg from over his body and throw it over my own, landing on my butt—and my hands—on the sofa.

“Stay there,” he commands. Sure thing. I’m too weak to move.

He stands with little effort and toes out of his shoes, using his feet to step on his socks and remove them as well. He drops his trousers and maneuvers his boxer briefs over his very erect dick before pushing them down as well and stepping out of them both. Now, he’s gloriously naked in front of me and I would be excited except for the fact that I’m exhausted. He takes a seat on the floor with his back against the sofa and his legs bent and spread. He gets very comfortable down there.

“Come,” he demands.

Yeah, I wish I could!

“I actually heard that thought,” he says. “Get over here!”

Whatever. You can’t punish me for what you think you heard. I push myself off the sofa and move to stand in front of him.

“Other way,” he says. “Ass to me.”

Oh, fuck. What is he going to do, make me ride him reverse cowgirl now? I do as I’m told and stand in front of him with my ass in his face. I can’t straddle him because his legs are open.

“Now, that’s a very pretty shade of pink,” he says, kissing one cheek and then the other. I’m a bit shocked by the gesture, but I don’t react. “Sit.”

Now how does he expect me to ride him with his legs open? I’m not doing that shit—my legs are too weak.

“Do I need to repeat myself?” he says, his voice a bit threatening. “Goddammit c’mere!”

Fine, but the moment he commands me to fuck him, I’m safewording.

I bend my legs to sit as commanded, and my right thigh totally gives out on me. Unable to control my stance or support my own weight, I fall in the most ungraceful way onto my Dom with a helpless yelp as I’m going down. I’m terrified that he’ll think I’m being defiant, but even more terrified that I’ve injured his extremely erect penis. I know that he won’t randomly just hit me—that’s not the nature of our relationship. Nonetheless, I’m still tense and preparing myself for whatever backlash there may be for my assumed malfeasance.

The fact that we just sit there silent for several moments heightens my anxiety. I hold my head down, fearing punishment, and it appears that I’ve landed on his abdomen and his erect dick is precariously placed between my legs and against the lips of my vagina.

Thank God for that!

Sure enough, uncharacteristic to the nature of our relationship when we’re in D/s mode, he slides both hands under my arms, places them on my shoulder, and gently pushes me back against his body. I don’t know what to expect from this unusual tenderness, so I just lay back and wait.

His hands roam my body, gently caressing my abdomen and torso before traveling up to cup my breasts. I’m trying not to be lulled into a false sense of security, only to have said security ripped from me by some sadistic command to see me suffer slowly for daring to display my sexiness, but my breasts are swollen with milk and quite sensitive, and his touch is making me hot again. It doesn’t matter that I try to hide this from him, because he knows my body too well—he can smell my slightest arousal.

Just like clockwork, a few moments after I feel that familiar burning twinge in my clit, I feel his body stiffen a bit and his touch is firmer, kneading my body back into his. He pinches one of my nipples while gently teasing the tip of the other with his finger.

Talk about being able to walk and chew gum at the same time!

I bite my lip to stifle the moan that begs to escape my chest. My legs weaken completely and fall open, and my Dom takes his cue. With one movement of his hips, his erect penis is between the lips of my vagina. I take a deep breath as he moves his pelvis back and forth, his dick stroking against my vagina.

Oh. Hell. I. Will. Not. Survive. This.

Still bound by his tie, my hands are pinned between us and I flatten them against his abs. Well, that didn’t help. I can feel his muscles undulating each time his pelvis moves. He cups my breasts firmly and sinks his teeth gently into the meat near my shoulder. He’s trying to make me come.

“No… no…”

Shit, did I say that out loud? I don’t know. I’m delirious with pleasure. My body’s on fire and I want to come… badly!

He puts his hand under my thigh and lifts me just a bit, pulling his hips back at the same time. With very little effort, his cock slides into me and I release a whimpering breath of ecstasy. God, he feels so good…

“God, yes…” he groans, “that’s it.”

He undulates his hips a few times, pushing that magnificent organ up and into its counterpart and I nearly lose my mind. I release my body to him as I can’t fight him anymore and concentrate on holding my orgasm like I did in Anguilla.

Anguilla… no, this isn’t like Anguilla. This is different—much different.

My soft body turns to mush against his firmness and my pussy is getting hotter and hotter, coming closer and closer to climax. One hand moves from my breast and an arm slides around my waist, holding me firmly in place against his stroke, now deeper than before. I whimper in my chest, the friction and penetration so delicious. Can I hold out? Just a little longer?

He torments me this way for several more moments before he puts both hands under my thighs and lifts me up. Spreading my legs wide, he thrusts repeatedly—and uninhibited—into my wide spread pussy. I have no purchase to resist and he has me helplessly spread open, pummeling repeatedly with his masterful stroke.

“Ah!” I cry out involuntarily. Silence is impossible.

“Feel it,” he taunts, “feel the pleasure, Anastasia, but don’t come…”

There’s no pain to concentrate on this time… only pleasure. Only the pleasure of his hard, pulsing cock drilling into me while he’s holding me open. Dear God, I’m going to die.


CHRISTIAN

Fuck, my dick feels so good driving into this hot pussy from base to tip. I hear her whimper and I know she’s close. She’s getting wetter and wetter. I tried to keep the Dom at bay. God knows I tried, but she kept pushing and pushing—even when she had no idea that she was doing it. I’ve been at the very edge for over 24 hours. When she leapt into my arms in front of those crazy fuckers that wanted to swap mates, I couldn’t take it anymore. All of the events of the past 36 hours just overran my primal inner urges. I had to dominate her to keep from jumping overboard. Yes, it’s that serious.

She’s drenched in sweat and whimpering with each stroke into her. It’s torture and I know it is. I’m not going to make it any easier on you, little Anastasia. You’re going to feel the burn tonight.

I move my hands from her thighs to just behind her knees, lift her body off my dick and drop her back down onto it—repeatedly—while I thrust into her. Fuck, I feel my dick getting harder and my balls tightening. I can’t see it, but I imagine that fat pussy wrapped around my dick teasing the head with every thrust and leaving a ring of cream and juices right near my balls.

“Fuuuucck!”

I succumb to the unexpected orgasm, dropping her onto my dick and gripping her around her waist, emptying hard deep inside her. The climax is so hard and we’re both completely out of breath that I’m afraid it might have been the swan song, and I’m not ready for that. But no, Dom Dick indicates that he’s not quite finished yet. My submissive must suffer a little more tonight.

I contemplate taking her to the bed for our finale, but this area rug is soft and plush. It’ll have to do. I reach behind me and retrieve one of the pillows from the sofa, placing it on the floor next to us. I don’t expect her to do anything at this point, just take what I’m giving her. I roll us over so that she’s lying on the pillow and I’m behind and on top of her, straddling her with her legs closed. My dick didn’t even come out of its happy place.

With her hand bound and nestled in the small of her back, I open her ass with both hands and admire her puckering rosette as I stroke between her legs and into her pussy. It’s tight and hot and ready to blow and now, I’ve pushed her legs together. She’s losing her mind. I lean my weight onto her pink cheeks and stroke, stroke, stroke—deep and long. She doesn’t need pressure in this position to drive her mindless. She needs friction and rhythm, and I’m giving it to her just right. She groans mournfully and I watch her rosette again, puckering and opening with each thrust. My mouth waters, and I regret not having a butt plug at the moment.

When she begins to pant, I untie her hands. I need to be close to her, to have her hear me… and feel me.

I pin her hands next to her head with both of mine, entwining my fingers into hers.

“I’m going to mark you,” I whisper harshly in her ear, “so that they know that you’re mine!”

I lean down and first sink my teeth into her neck, causing her to cry out. Then I replace my teeth with my lips and tongue, licking and sucking and bring the blood to the surface of her skin. She moans helplessly as I continue to dig into her sex while giving her a conspicuous love bite. It’s driving me fucking insane. If she doesn’t tap out soon…

When I’m satisfied with the bite on her neck, I move to her back, just below her nape sinking my teeth in first then licking and sucking, just like before. I keep my stroke hard, deep, and steady into that clenched pussy, determined to make her surrender before I do this time.

She’s whimpering so much that she almost sound like she’s crying, and I vaguely remember bringing her to tears with her spanking. My bites now become sensual, open mouthed kisses on her back. Fuck, she feels so goddamn good. I lay onto her body, thrusting hard into her and pulling down on our clasped hands for traction, losing myself in her… over and over and over…

“Lady… l… lady… ladybug…”

“Come!” I command her in a harsh whisper. “Come, baby!”

She squeezes my fingers entwined in hers and buries her face in the pillow, screaming out a violent orgasm and thrashing about underneath me. I thrust repeatedly into that tightening, pulsing pussy until a few moments later, I’m burying my face into her back and repeating her actions, grunting and growling out a fearsome climax until my back, balls, and throat hurt from the pressure and the vibration.

“Fuck,” I breathe as I fight to catch my breath. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…”

*-*

Her milk had begun to express on the rug during our session, so I run a bath for her and have her soak for several minutes, allowing the heat to soothe her aches and to help express the rest of her milk as I wash her hair before carrying her to the bedroom. She stayed on her side and I think I may have gotten carried away a bit, but I’m a Dom and I don’t apologize for being one. Besides, she didn’t safeword… until she was about to come.

I didn’t bring any Arnica cream because I didn’t have any intentions of doing a scene on this trip. I look through her toiletries, hoping to find some baby oil or the olive oil that she uses on her nipples, but I find something better.

Eucalyptus lotion.

Did she know that we might do something like this? Did she do all those things to trigger me on purpose? I’ll have to ask her about it, but not right now.

When I enter with the lotion, she’s lying on her stomach with the covers thrown off her. She’s completely shattered, but her eyes are still open—tiny slits that refuse to submit to sleep. I sit on the bed next to her and warm the lotion in my hands. Starting at her shoulders, I begin to work the tension out of her body. I knead with just enough pressure to ease the tightness in the muscles of her back.

When I get to her ass, I examine it closely. I remember a spanking that made me not want to spank her ever again—where her ass was bruised, and she put coats at every exit of the house. I check for bruising, welting, broken skin. The pinkness has faded a bit and her skin is still flushed from the bath, but there are no vicious bruises like before. I’m relieved to see that.

Coating my hands again, I gently rub the lotion into her ass cheeks. She flinches at first, then settles. I don’t linger there, just enough to get the soothing ointment into her skin before moving to her thighs. She actually whines when I begin to knead them. I know they hurt like hell from the workout she got at the very beginning. I was going to make her ride me again until she fell and I realized that her legs couldn’t hold her up anymore.

Had she decided to do this without me, she would have made a great submissive, because she can endure a lot and she doesn’t readily give in. For the same reasons, I have to learn when to pull back, because by the time she does finally tap out, she’s completely destroyed. She’s convinced herself that I need her to go the distance, so she will, but the distance may be too far for her. She showed me this that night in Anguilla and had she not safeworded in the next few minutes, I would have told her to come.

By the time I finish her feet, she’s fast asleep. I smooth a little more lotion on her bottom, a little deeper into the skin this time since she’s asleep, then go to the bathroom and retrieve a brush. I gently brush the kinks out of her long hair and braid it before it dries, securing it with a ponytail holder.

I examine her face in her sleep. Her resting face tells me much more than her conscious face. She can hide her expressions—except her anger and her intense displeasure—when she’s awake. She can’t hide anything when she’s asleep. Her face tells it all—happy, fear, anguish, distress…

Peace.
Right now, she’s completely at peace.

I turn off all the lights and climb in bed beside her, covering her with the blanket before crawling under it myself. I gently trace her sleeping face and pouty lips as I lay on the pillow facing her.

“Sometimes, I love you more than my soul can handle…”

*-*

I awake before she does in the morning. I’m mindful that we need to get going soon if we’re going to make the excursions with Jaxon and Laura. I look over at my sleeping wife. She’s asleep so hard that I hate to wake her. If she says that she doesn’t want to go on the excursions, I’ll honor that request, but I have to give her that choice.

I reach over and stroke her hair gently, and then her cheek, pushing the stray strands of hair from her face. She protests a bit, but then opens her eyes and looks at me.

“Good morning,” I say softly. She inhales deeply and releases a sigh.

“Good morning,” she says weakly.

“I need to ask you something.” She blinks a few times and tries to focus on me. “Do you remember when we had that conversation about BDSM training? Back in August or September before everything went south?” She blinks a few more times, still trying to focus and wake up.

“Do you remember?” I ask again. Maybe I should have waited until she was more conscious before I asked the question. She gently clears her throat.

“I remember some of it, yes,” she says softly.

“Why don’t you ever safeword?” I ask. Her eyes widen a bit, indicating that she’s more alert than she was a moment ago. “You safeworded last night when you were about to come, but you cried before safewording when I spanked you. Why?”

She looks like she’s about to answer, but she doesn’t, so I continue.

“I think you may have the wrong idea about being a submissive,” I tell her. “Being my submissive doesn’t mean that I break you down until you’re bare. I did that to you in Anguilla and I almost lost you. You may disagree, but I know better. It doesn’t mean being weak either; but it also doesn’t mean having to prove that you’re not weak. The D/s relationship is a give-and-take. We both have to get something out of that experience and spanking you until you cry is not something that gets me off.”

Even though she’s still lying down, her gaze drops.

“I need you to look at me because I need to know that you hear me.”

She raises her guileless blue eyes to me again.

“You set me off in so many ways—whether you were trying to or not. Yes, I wanted to regain control, but not in a way that would cause you anguish. You give yourself to me, and I take that, but I try to give you something in return…”

“You were a full-on Dom before you met me,” she says softly. “Canes and whips and paddles and handcuffs… You gave up a lot to be with me, to adapt to me and allow me into your world. You used to go all out on your submissives before me and I know it. I saw everything in the playroom at Escala—everything!”

“That’s why we don’t have that playroom now,” I say calmly, but firmly. “That’s not who I am anymore. I’m not Christian Grey, single Dom billionaire out whipping little brown-haired submissives on the weekend. I’m Christian Grey, husband to Anastasia Grey, father to Mackenzie and Michael Grey, and part-time Dominant and submissive. There’s nothing about me that’s the same as it was before. Is that why you feel like you have to take everything until your body is wracked with pain? Be spanked until you cry? Fuck until your legs don’t work? Submit until you’re too weak and exhausted to keep your eyes open…?”

“I’m not weak,” she declares softly. “I don’t know how far you need to go until you go, and when you need me to have that strength and stamina to endure, I can!”

“Yes, but to the end of your wits!” I say a bit more firmly. “I don’t want any of the Domination fiascos we’ve have before—where you’re completely shattered and not always in a good way, and I’m feeling guilty for what I’ve put you through. Is that why you take such intense scenes? Because you think I need to be the guy that I was before?”

“Apparently, you do!” she says, sitting up in the bed. “You can go for hours! You can spank or whip or flog until your arm gets tired! You can fuck like a teenager—over and over and over again and never tap out. You’ll go as far as I’ll let you and I’m not weak!”

“As far as you’ll let me!” I repeat. “Did you hear that, Anastasia? As far as you’ll let me! I’ve had meetings with every single one of my submissives to discover what their soft and hard limits are; to see what they could take; to set boundaries. Yes, I’ve tested their limits, but not beyond the point of reason. Yes, I’ve punished them, but they knew when to tell me to stop. Not once did I ever take a submissive past her limits once I figured out what I was doing! I made a few mistakes as an amateur, but not once I found my way.

“I’m a Dom. I’m a full-on Dom. I’ve been a full-on Dom for years, but our relationship is supposed to be different. I didn’t feel anything for those women. I felt care and concern, but not love. I love you. You fulfill a need for me, and I love you for that, too. But when I’m in Dom mode, I can go the distance. I can go all the way and more because I take my cues from the submissive. I never know that you’ve had enough or too much until it’s over—when you’ve been broken over the rack, bottom bruised from a shower spanking, or twitching from not being able to come. That’s not what our relationship is…”

“What am I supposed to do?” she shoots, so near tears that I can see them in her eyes waiting to fall. “Your power seeps through your pores! It’s effortless. Women see you and don’t know what to do with themselves, and if you think it’s just the face, you’re wrong! It’s the way you carry yourself, it’s everything about you. The money and the good looks are just a bonus. You lived a lifestyle for years where when you needed relief, you got it from a submissive.

“I’m under no misconception of who you were, but when you can’t get that relief, you’ll turn into someone else! I love that Dominance about you. I don’t want to see it leave, but I don’t want to lose it because I can’t satisfy it!”

Oh, dear God, is that what this is about? Is that seriously what this is about? All the time she’s pushed herself beyond limits I know she couldn’t take, the times I’ve pushed her thinking that she was reaching her limit and not knowing—until later—that she was already past it? Doesn’t she know I worship the fucking ground she walks on? That even if she never subbed for me again, I would still love her with everything I have? Everything I am? I look at her glassy eyes and remember our conversation from that morning:

“After our talk yesterday, I realized that I didn’t know nearly enough about the dynamics of the D/s relationship to handle what was going on with you. We were on a precipice, and our next move would determine the fate of our relationship. Would we come out of this okay? Would we end up in a totally vanilla relationship? Would you have determined that I was able to give you what you needed as a wife but not as a submissive? Would you resent me and turn to others for your D/s needs? Would this be the beginning of the end for us?”

I never put her mind at ease about those questions because I wanted her to keep talking. They’ve been burning in her mind all this time and probably much longer—through the Westwick thing, the Boogeyman, every fight and disagreement… Jesus, if I felt that way about her, I’d go insane. I gather her into my arms and kiss her eyes before the tears have a chance to fall.

“We’re going to need to do some more training,” I tell her, “and we’re going to start when we get back to Seattle.” I brush my lips against her temple and gently caress her hair. I’m putting the kibosh on playtime until she fully learns what it means to be a submissive—to give of herself without losing herself. All this time, she’s just been some girl taking beatings and fucking for me. I don’t think she’s seen who she really is at all in this process, and if she did, she’s lost it.

Once I’ve brought my wife back from the brink of tears, I fire off a text or two to some old friends of mine back in my training days. We’ll need some very professional training for husbands and wives once we return and I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m out of my element here. She may not be fully aware of her role as a submissive, but likewise, I think I’m off the mark for being a husDom.

Right before I shut down my screen, I see that Holstein has tried to call me three times. Either he has finally decided to return my calls, or he’s got wind that something is on the cooker with Lincoln. Too little, too late, Ron, I’m taking this matter into my own hands.

My girl successfully recovers from the seriousness of our conversation and presents herself in yet another tasty ensemble—this time a pair of white skinny jeans, a yellow and white polka-dot halter… and sneakers! Butterfly never wears sneakers. These are a pair of Nikes—white with a yellow swoosh. She ties a white sweater around her waist that does nothing to cover that glorious ass.

And once again, I feel like a troll.

“I’m never calling Vickie again,” I say when I see her.

“Well, you can hold Vickie responsible for the jeans and the sneakers, but you’d have to blame Grandma Ruby for the shirt.” My eyes bulge out as she does a full turn to show me the shirt… and the love bites on her back and neck.

“Um… baby, you do remember our scene from last night, don’t you?” She looks up at me. God, I never realize how short she is until she loses the heels.

“You mean the hickeys?” she asks, unfazed.

“Yeah,” I reply, and it sounds more like a question.

“Nobody knows me on this trip except Laura and Jaxon and from what I understand, they have a pretty good idea how we get down,” she replies. “No offense, my love, but I have nothing here but a summer wardrobe. Unless you intended for me to spend the rest of the trip with a towel wrapped around my back, somebody was going to see this. Then again, you knew that.” She gives me a sarcastic smile.

Well, yeah, I did know that.

“Turn around,” I sigh. The one on her neck is clearly a love bite, but I want to see what the ones on her back look like. I don’t want anyone to think she’s a battered wife.

Uh, yeah… clearly love bites, too.

“You’ll do,” I lament, knowing that everybody’s going to look at her and then look directly at me.

“Well, thanks,” she says, picking up her backpack. I take it from her.

“I’ll carry that for you,” I say, admittedly still feeling a bit of a sting of guilt from last night. She gives it to me and reads my expression.

“It was grueling,” she admits, “And strenuous, but all’s well that ends well, right?”

I sigh inwardly and nod, just because I really don’t want to talk about it anymore. She let the cat out of the bag that she takes more than she probably would under normal circumstance because of me—because she’s concerned that I’ll be displeased or dissatisfied. Inevitably, she thinks that’ll lead to me leaving her or cheating on her. I’ve tried to impress upon her that that will never happen, but it hasn’t worked, especially considering the fact that I jumped ship when the whole Westwick thing happened—pun intended.

“We better go,” I say, taking her hand. “We don’t want to keep our tour guides waiting.”

I lead her to the door thinking about the texts I sent earlier to mentors that I hope will help us on our path.

Jason and Lawrence follow us to the conference area to meet up with Laura and Jaxon. Other passengers going to port and to excursions are waiting there as well. Laura is dressed similarly to Butterfly in a flowy strappy blouse and jeans while Jaxon looks like me—T-shirt, jeans, and a pair of sneakers. We exchange greetings and Laura gives Butterfly a hug. Just as I suspected, Laura looks at my wife, then turns a wide-eyed gaze and a knowing half-smile to me.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say dismissively.

“The breast is bettah, mate,” Jaxon says with mirth, “an’ less conspicuous.”

“Unreachable at the time,” I say with no further explanation.

“Ah,” he and Laura respond simultaneously, eliciting a giggle from Butterfly. She locks arms with Laura and they effortlessly start chatting away.

We’re out early as our outings to Hobart, Port Arthur, and surrounding areas are going to be squeezed into a day and a half and we don’t want to miss anything. We’ll most likely only be back on board to sleep, and back off tomorrow morning for the rest of our excursion.

We’ve docked in Hobart, but our excursion is yet another boat ride—a ferry from Brooke Street Pier to the Museum of Old and New Art. Twenty minutes or so later, we’re having “brekkie,” as Jaxon calls it, at the restaurant in the museum called The Source since our day started so early. We’re all having “The Big Fry Up,” which is farm fresh eggs, smoky bacon, sausage, grilled tomato and mushrooms, hash browns, and beans. I’m somewhat shocked to see my wife pull out those sexy ass Buddy Holly glasses to eat her breakfast. I try not to react, but Jaxon reacts for me.

“Chris,” he says, dragging my name out in a sing-songy type manner, “no offense, mate, but ‘ow do ya deal with thaht?”

“I need you to be more specific,” I reply.

“She maykes nuhrd glasses look sexy,” he says just above a whisper so that only I can hear him. “Ya must be beytin’ ‘em off with a stick!”

“Oh, you have no idea,” I lament, taking a drink of my black coffee. Like clockwork, Butterfly and Laura’s conversation migrates to last night.

“When you pull lipstick out of your makeup case and the first thing you think when you see it is ‘dick sucking red,’ you should probably put it back. But nooooooo, Anastasia had to wear the dick sucking red lipstick, and now she’s wondering why half the female population of the ship hates her,” Butterfly says.

“It can’t be that bad,” Laura remarks.

“Yes, it is,” we say simultaneously.

“Last night,” Butterfly continues, “two French-speaking cows at our table talked about me through the entire meal.”

“How did you know they were talking about you?” Laura asks nonplussed. Butterfly tilts her head and twists her lips.

“Oh,” Laura says knowingly. “Tu parle français.”

“Yes!” Butterfly retorts forcefully. “Fluently! And you?” Laura laughs.

“Not a word,” she says, “that is, except ‘tu parle français.’” Butterfly snorts a short laugh.

“Well, I’m telling you, I get it everywhere, and probably in more languages, too. I like to wear nice clothes, I like to keep myself fit. I’m attractive, and I know it. I’m tired of constantly getting into verbal sparring matches with women because they hate me because I’m beautiful or for the fact that I’m with a beautiful, wealthy man. I’m going to start finding another way to handle it, just like I did with those cows at dinner. And the glares that I was getting from the women in the front row…” She turns to me. “You didn’t see them—I got the last laugh with them, too, because their men all came rushing to help me off stage. What do they want—they want me to look like a toad standing next to you? Gain 25 pounds because I’ve had twins and that’s what we’re ‘supposed’ to do? Leave you or expect you to leave me because I’m not good enough for you? Fuck ‘em, I’m done.”

“Um, you skipped something,” Laura points out. “Front row? On stage?”

“Oh, my friend, do I have a story for you…”


A/N: 

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

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

The Australia Picture Board can be found here: https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/raising-grey-the-trip-to-australia/ and the pictures from today’s chapter are in the Luxury Cruise Ship” section and the “Hobart” section.

And of course, the regular Pinterest board is here: https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/raising-grey/

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

~~love and handcuffs

 

Raising Grey: Chapter 73—Heading Down Undah

Once again, February 19th was GODDESS DAY and I have officially turned the big “5-0.” I am extremely overjoyed to have made it thus far. Praying for many more years to come!

Had quite a few things happen this week. Along with the celebrating all last weekend, which was really great, my furbaby Meeko had to be hospitalized the night before my birthday. He hurt himself and had to have a minor surgical procedure, but of course, I ugly-cried the whole night and now my little snookums is wearing the cone of shame until he heals. I’m really broken up about it.

Then, one of my coworkers passed away suddenly the day after my birthday. We’re not sure what happened to her. She was a very young woman and I must admit that I’m still a bit shell-shocked from it. She was a sweet and wonderful person, loving wife and daughter, and I ask that you keep Miracle’s family in your prayers (yes, that was her real name).

So, on to the story. To begin, I would like to thank the following people for their input and suggestions on the trip to Australia:

From Facebook (in no particular order)—Bridget Walker, Jaimini Dave, Catherine Parr, Kath Imlach, Kelly Peisley, Kayhla Rae Toia, Belinda Narbey, Stargazer Ninety-Three, Rebekkah Benjamin, Linda McWilliams, Jac Monaco, Racheal Antoinette, Alexis Rae, Heather Ellesley, Kath Imlach, Jeanette Emerson.

From Twitter (in no particular order)—TV Obsessed‏ and Contrite Shadow

If I didn’t mention your name and you gave me a suggestion in any format, please charge it to my head and not to my heart. I tried to mention everyone.

I will also say that this was a somewhat difficult storyline for me to write. I may still be writing it as you read this. It has taken and is taking me weeks and weeks to get it done. I’m sorry to say that I wasn’t very pleased with this trip for a few reasons. I had an entire dissertation written about my experience and once I read it back, I was like, “Nobody wants to hear that crap!” So, I scrapped it—or should say that I just kept it for myself, like a bitch journal.

I will say that I’ve taken some creative license here. While some of it is very true to fact, some of it is fictional—i.e. the places that they visit are real while the boat that they sail on is made up of three different ships. Anywho, here it begins. I hope you don’t feel that the next few chapters are a colossal waste of your time.

In addition, I know I had about four French translators looking over my translations. However, I haven’t used any extensive French lately, and I forgot who they were. SPOILER: there will be some French in a few of the next chapters, including this one. If I’ve translated incorrectly, please shoot me an email in the “contact me” link or hit me on Facebook DM’s and let me know what the mistakes are. It’ll be much appreciated. I apologize for the long author’s note.

This is a work of creativity. As such, you may see words, concepts, scenes, actions, behaviors, pictures, implements, and people that may or may not be socially acceptable and/or offensive. If you are sensitive to adverse and alternative subject matter of any kind, please do not proceed, because I guarantee you’ll find it here. You have been warned. Read at your own risk.

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

Chapter 73—Heading Down Undah

ANASTASIA

One half hour after leaving LAX, we arrive at a luxury hotel in Beverly Hills called the Hotel Montage. We follow our cousins through this outrageously posh establishment to the elevators and straight up to the rooftop. There we find an elegant restaurant with a spectacular view appropriately called the Rooftop Grill where Leo is apparently very well-known and was quickly able to have the restaurant rearranged at a moment’s notice to change a reservation for six to a reservation for eight for brunch as he forgot that we were bringing our security staff along.

“I wasn’t trying to leave anybody out, Christian,” Leo says as we’re seated. “I’m just not that cozy with my staff,” he adds matter-of-factly with no malice.

“Oh, I’m not that friendly with my staff either,” Christian says. “And this is no offense to Lawrence—he’s a consummate professional and I’m glad to have him around, but that man…” All eyes follow Christian’s pointing finger to Jason. “He’s been with me for many years. He probably knows some things about me that no one else knows…”

Ouch!

“Sorry, Butterfly. I love you dearly, but Jason has known me longer.”

“Hmph,” I huff as Christian continues his explanation.

“Anyway,” he continues, “he’s saved my life more times than I even know. He’s gone so far as to take a bullet for me when I was sure to be a goner. So, even though he may be my staff, he doubles as my best friend.”

“No shit?” Leo says, looking down the table at Jason, who just looks back at him. “I’ve got some good guys on my team, but I don’t think any of them are that loyal.”

“Jason’s the best,” he reinforces. “I trust him blindly with my life, and he knows that. If it hadn’t been for him, I may not have made it to the altar.” Okay, now you’ve got my fucking attention.

“What?” I say in horror and he just looks at me.

“It was a bad night and you know it. Do you want to rehash it?” he asks flatly. I raise my hands in surrender and pick up my menu. Everything looks delicious and I’m fucking ravenous.

“Maybe we should find something else to talk about,” Lanie says leaning over to me.

“Yes, I think we should,” I agree, still examining my menu.

“Everything on the menu here is divine. So, just close your eyes and point. Wherever your finger lands, you’ll be happy.”

“Leo seems a lot like Christian,” I say, “eats in the best places, people at his beck and call…”

“Yep, that’s Leo,” she says. “Women throwing themselves at him even though he’s married… It takes some getting used to.”

“Tell me about it,” I lament. “They’re so certain that I’m just the bracelet or the flavor of the month—the trophy wife—that they completely disregard me. Well, they used to, anyway”

“I’ll bet they used to,” Lanie scoffs a laugh. “After that interview you guys did—you’re blowing shit up with a gun that’s bigger than you! I expected you to pull the trigger on that shotgun and at any second, go flying backwards like they do in the cartoons.” I can’t suppress my laughter.

“Yeah, that was a general consensus. People always underestimate my size, except for those who know me,” I point out. “My dad was really big on me being able to defend myself once I became an adult. He started teaching me different things when I was younger, but then we were separated for a while. We reconnected when I became an adult, and now, I’m G. I. Jane. He taught Christian how to shoot, too.” Her eyes widen.

“Your father? He did?” she asks. I nod.

“After that incident he’s talking about where Jason took a bullet for him, he didn’t want to be caught off-guard. He used to be extremely anti-gun, but that crazy woman pointed my gun at him…”

“Wait a minute,” Lanie interrupts me. “Your gun?”

I sigh deeply and give Lanie the short version of the incident that ultimately led to Christian learning how to shoot—the entire ugly ordeal of Jason jumping from whatever secret door was in the room and launching himself between Christian and a bullet hurling at him from a Beretta registered to me. Placing myself back there where the Pedophile nearly destroyed my reason for living at the time, I actually get a little choked up and light-headed for a moment.

“Butterfly!” Christian is nearly holding me up in moments. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine,” I try to brush him off.

“You’re not fine,” he demands. “You damn near fell out of the chair. What’s wrong?” I don’t want to tell him that I’m thinking of that wretched blonde bitch when we’re supposed to be on vacation, but Lanie does it for me.

“It’s my fault, Christian,” she says. “She was telling me about… the incident that caused you to go learn how to shoot.” He and Jason share a look, then he turns back to me.

“It’s not your fault, Lanie, it’s mine,” he says. “I’m the one who brought it up.”

“Oh, gosh, please, everybody, I’m fine,” I protest. “I was slightly overwhelmed for a moment. I’ll be fine after a glass of red.”

“Or a bottle,” Lanie corrects and waves over a server. “While we’re making our brunch selections, we’ll have two bottles of the Napa Valley Mascot 2010 Cabernet Sauvignon, one Domaines Ott Château de Selle Côtes de Provence Coeur de Grain Rosé, one Perrier-Jouët, Belle Époque Épernay—2008, if you have it, and… white or red, Christian?” she asks during a pause. My husband is momentarily taken aback.

“Um… white… dry,” he says. Lanie turns back to the server.

“Um… the Napa Accendo Cellars Sauvignon Blanc,” she says.

“Excellent choices, ma’am,” he says as he retrieves the wine menus and leaves the table. Christian and I are stunned into silence while Leo just smiles.

“My sister was a wine connoisseur before she left Detroit,” Burtie says. “We just discovered it.” He smiles a crooked smile and turns his attention back to the menu.

“Babe, have you tried lobster benedict?” Bernie asks Burtie.

“No, I haven’t, but I was just looking at that. Great minds think alike,” Burtie says and Bernie blushes.

“Okay, so I’ll order the lobster and you order something else and we can share, okay?” Bernie replies sweetly and Burnie nods with a smile and examines the menu again. In moments, Burtie is leaning over to Bernie and they’re agreeing on their menu choices.

“My brother used to be a different person,” Lanie says with a bit of melancholy. “He used to be very vibrant and really full of life—before all this happened. When I went to get him in Detroit, it was like his light went out. You could have led him off a bridge and he would have blindly followed. When he’s with Bertie, he’s like his old self again. It’s like none of this happened, and the Golden Child is back.” She wipes a tear from her eye. “I should have gone back,” she says. “I should have fought my own battle instead of leaving Burtie to fight it. I sent him into the lion’s den and look what happened.”

“Then he would have beaten you,” I point out to her.

“It should’ve been me!” she hisses quietly. “I never should’ve sent Burtie back to face that man alone! He wasn’t prepared. There’s no way he could’ve seen that coming. I knew Freeman was a monster. I knew all along! I saw it firsthand. Burtie didn’t. Burtie never saw it. He was ambushed. It should have been me…”

“No, sis,” Burtie says, his voice strong and unwavering. “It shouldn’t have been you, and it shouldn’t have been me either. It shouldn’t have been either one of us and it shouldn’t have been Mom. He’s the monster, yet we’re the ones left to suffer. He stole our lives and our happiness and he’s sitting back there about to inherit Grandpa’s money and his house… I’m done. He’s stolen enough from me. I’m not letting him steal another minute. Where’s my wine?”

“Right here, handsome,” the waiter says, returning to the table with several bottles of wine on a rolling serving tray and another server to assist.

“Uh, no, darlin’,” Bernie speaks up. “That one’s taken.”

“Ah!” the server gasps, covering his heart with both hands. “Quel tragique.” He drops his head in mock mourning before raising his gaze to Bernie. “Pardonnez-moi, monsieur.” Bernie smiles.

“Tu es pardonné. Il est délicieux, n’est-ce pas?” Bernie replies.

“Oui, très délicieux! Vous êtes un gars chanceux. Pardonnez mon impolitesse,” the server replies.

“I have no idea what they’re saying,” Burtie says.

“Trust me, it’s very flattering,” I say with a chuckle. Lanie turns a gaze to me.

“Parlez vous français?” she asks.

“Oui, madame,” I respond.

“Oh, cut it out,” Leo interjects before turning to Christian. “Doesn’t this get on your nerves?” Christian smirks and I immediately know that he’s thinking about sex.

“Um, no, not really,” he says, and Leo raises a brow. “Je parle français aussi.”

“Oh, dear God,” Leo laments. “Can we please speak English for the rest of the morning?”

The occupants of the table laugh, and the servers uncork our wines and champagnes as we make our brunch choices. I quickly learn that you can easily expect too much by going to brunch in a high-end luxury hotel in Beverly Hills. I’m not sure what I expected, but I’m a bit disappointed with the menu.

The breakfast portion of the brunch menu is outstanding—buttermilk pancakes; fresh, homemade pastries; fresh fruits and berries; a large variety of breakfast meats; roasted potatoes; avocado toast; eggs cooked to order, including cast iron huevos rancheros and lobster benedict—but if you want lunch instead of breakfast, it’s a little lean. They pretty much have mussels, crudité, guacamole, and shrimp cocktail.

Seriously? I plan on drinking at least half of one of those bottles of Cabernet that was just uncorked, and if I want lunch instead of breakfast, my choices are celery and chips and dip?

I do see that if you want something from the grill, you could order that separately—which is what Jason and Ben did. Your choices are basically burgers and fries, patty melts, and fish tacos. And if you’re really adventurous, you can opt for the quinoa salad or the no-meat burger options.

I order an impossible breakfast and do my best to hide my discontent. I won’t disparage my lovely cousins, but we didn’t need to rent a limo and drive all the way to Beverly Hills for this. We could have gotten something like this in the VIP lounge at the airport.

When the food arrives, I dig right in like a starving man having ordered extra helpings of breakfast meat to make up for the lunch I would have rather ordered. Luckily, I don’t look like a barbarian tearing into the meat as Christian had pretty much the same idea. Jason’s and Ben’s burgers look delectable, but only because he must be acquainted with the whole “gourmet burger” thing and ordered “extra meat” in his and Ben’s patties. Shit, that’s what I should have ordered.

The buttermilk pancakes and fresh pastries make up for the fact that I ordered breakfast when I really wanted lunch. Even the lobster benedict looks like a child’s serving.

Our waiter makes sure the glasses remain full and the table is clean. He’s very attentive to us and I’m only too sure that it’s because he wants to get a few extra glimpses at Burtie, until…

“Excuse me,” he says to my husband as we’re finishing our meal, “but did she call you ‘Christian?’” Christian frowns.

“Yes,” he says sharply.

“As in ‘Christian Grey?’” he continues, unmoved by Christian’s ire.

“Yes,” he replies just as sharply. The server turns to me.

“That means you’re Anastasia!” he exclaims. “I thought I recognized you, but I didn’t want to believe it!”

Okay, so now, the wind just got snatched out of me and I have to quickly find my words without looking like a total idiot.

“Um… y… yeah,” I say, more than a bit taken aback.

“Oh my God I never ask this but if I don’t I’m gonna die may I please have your autograph.” He says it all in one sentence, and I’m totally blown away. Christian is sitting next to me, his ire now replaced with badly stifled snickering.

“You’re not serious!” I say in disbelief.

“Oh my God yes I am!” he says in that one breath again. “I have a gaggle of catty females who are just going to die when they see this oh God am I bothering you I’ll go away!” He starts to scamper away from our table.

“No!” I catch him before he leaves. “Breathe, for God’s sake.”

“I’m sorry I talk this way when I’m really excited!” he informs me.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Spencer,” he replies.

“Okay, Spencer, will a picture be better for your catty friends?” His eyes widen.

“Dear God yes!” he nearly growls while taking out his phone. I hold my hand out, and he puts the phone in my hand. I hand it to Christian.

“Here, dear, take a picture of me and Spencer,” I say with a wide smile. He raises a brow at me, and I walk over to Spencer without giving him time to protest. Spencer and I strike a pose together and stand there for several seconds while Christian fiddles with the phone.

“Christian, what are you doing?” I protest with a frown breaking the pose.

“I’m trying to take a picture, but I think it’s recording instead,” he says.

“Oh! Oh! Lemme see!” Spencer turns the phone around and looks at it, capturing Christian briefly on the screen. “Oh my God that’s even better!” He scurries back over to me after handing the phone back to my husband.

“Okay, Christian, Spencer says that’s even better,” I tease.

“I heard him, dear,” he replies, turning the camera back to us. Spencer and I talk very briefly to the camera about nothing, just long enough to get enough footage for his catty friends to know that it’s really me, after which I give him a kiss on the cheek, and he declares that he’s never washing his cheek again.

“Now, I only ask one favor,” I tell him.

“Anything!” he says.

“Wait until after noon to post that on your social media,” I tell him. “That way, we’ll be on our jet and out of California, and we won’t have to worry about being swarmed by the Paparazzi, okay?”

“Absolutely,” Spencer replies. “I wouldn’t want them to ruin my golden moment anyway. Thank you so much, Anastasia,” he adds. “I told them all that you seemed so down to earth and they said I was wrong. Now, I have proof!” He happily twists his phone back and forth.

“If you don’t mind me asking, who’s ‘they?’

“It’s just a group of my college mates,” he says, waving me off. “They’re my friends, and they’re cool, but they’re celebrity chasers—you know, they follow celebrities through the news and stuff and sometimes they make assumptions. I think a lot of times they get it wrong. They said John Legend was gay! I’m gay… I think I’d know if John Legend was gay!” he says with a touch of sarcasm. I chuckle.

“Well, thank you for making our brunch fun,” I say giving him a hug.

“You just made my month, Anastasia,” he replies with a sweet smile before leaving. I sigh.

“Okay, let’s get out of here. We’ve been made,” I say.

“We’ve been more than made, dear,” Christian teases. “Don’t you want to stick around and take a selfie or two with the cook?”

“Stop teasing me or this is going to be the longest, loneliest vacation you’ve ever had.”

“Couldn’t be worse than Greece,” he says, finishing his wine and rising from his seat.

*-*

“I could never live here,” I say after we board the plane again to head to Sydney.

“Why do you say that?” Christian asks as he buckles his seat belt.

“Celebrity chasers? Groups of college girls who follow the news and think they know me? We’d never get any peace! At least they leave us alone sometimes in Seattle! Out here, it’s like collecting bonuses in a video game!” Christian smiles.

“I was pleasantly surprised that he only knew of me because of you,” he chuckles. “It was somewhat refreshing.”

“I was pleasantly surprised that he called Burtie ‘handsome,’” I reply. “I could see exactly what Lanie was saying when she said that he’s changed. He clearly feels that the scars affect his appearance, which they do honestly. They’re the first thing that you see when you look at him, but he’s not disfigured. He’s just… scarred.”

“Well, his fiancé certainly seems very fond of him. That has to help a bit,” he says.

“I’m sure it does. I think hearing his sister wish his fate on herself may have helped to snap him out of his melancholy a bit as well. Burtie’s having a terrible time with what his father did to him. I’m certain he wouldn’t have wanted that to happen to Lanie.” Christian shakes his head.

“It’s beyond me how one person can ruin so many people’s lives in one fell swoop,” he says. “That man is like a plague. I’ve watched so many of my family cry over him—my father, my uncle, his own wife and children… I shudder to think how many tears Pops and Grandma Ruby shed over his worthless ass!”

“Some people are narcissistic to the point of no return,” I tell him. “Look at Chuck and his mom and his brother, Joe. At least at some point, Joe was justified in the anger he felt for the pain Chuck had caused, but the basis is the same. They were both unforgiving of the wrongs they felt were imposed on them—whether real or imagined—and they set out to cause immeasurable harm, misery, and pain, which they did. The difference is that Joseph’s anger is centered directly on Chuck and the results of his drinking, whereas it seems that Freeman just doesn’t care about anybody.

“He doesn’t,” Christian hisses, then sighs heavily. “I hate feeling like the world would be a better place without some people, but I swear to God, as bad as it sounds, he’s one of those people.”

“You don’t really mean that,” I scold.

“I don’t know if I mean it or not,” he says, running his hand across his forehead and then through his hair. “I don’t really wish anybody dead, not really—gone, maybe, but not dead.”

“Well, what’s the difference?” I ask.

“Gone is like that fucker Rossiter,” he says. “I kept meaning to tell you, but right before we left, I learned that he’s out of our lives forever. He accepted a settlement…”

“You paid him?” I interrupt, horrified.

“Fuck, no! Do I look crazy?” he says. Well, then, what does he mean by a settlement? “The gag order is so tight that anytime he talks to anybody in the Seattle area about anything, they only want to talk about me and you and, of course, he can’t. So, he can’t get work. He can’t even get gigs—he can’t get anything. We met with him and his attorney and I swore to drag this thing out to Armageddon.

“He can’t offer a settlement because he doesn’t have anything I want. He’s broke. He has no influence in any market anywhere. The only thing I want from him is to go the fuck away. So, those were my terms… go the fuck away—all the way away. Don’t talk about us, don’t approach us, nothing—go the fuck away. I even suggested that he might want to start over in a new area since everybody here already knows who he is.”

“And he accepted that?” I ask, surprised.

“Not immediately,” he admits. “He asked what was in it for him. Of course, he expected me to pay him off to make him leave. I let him know in no uncertain terms that I would drag him and his little ambulance chaser through court for the next 15 years and wouldn’t give him shit—and he would end up paying my court costs.

“Needless to say, his attorney correctly read that I wasn’t coming off of one thin red dime for this fucker, suddenly became irreparably insulted by something in the conversation that I said—God only knows what—and ceremoniously marched out of the talks. I told the Pussy DJ to give his attorney a call and I would guarantee that he wouldn’t answer or return any of his calls. Seriously, who in their right mind would take a case that wouldn’t pay off?”

“So… no more Rossiter?” I inquire.

“No more Rossiter,” he confirms. “It’s my understanding that he’s leaving the state. He’ll be on the normal watch list with a few tweaks to make sure that his ass isn’t doing interviews or writing books or anything. Speaking of writing books…” He runs his hands through his hair and holds his head down.

“Still nothing on the Pedophile huh?” He shakes his head with both hands on the back of his neck.

“Her,” he says, “I wish she’d die.”

Now, we can’t have that negative energy floating around the universe, especially while in a pressurized tube for the next 14 hours. I stand and move over to him, climbing in his lap and forcing him to raise his head.

“We’re not going to talk about her or even think about her for this entire trip,” I say, snaking my arms around his neck. “She, and anything else that’s going to cause us to feel sour, is off limits unless we absolutely must discuss it. We just met with Burtie and the family, so we discussed that. We don’t need to discuss the rest of this crap.”

I cover his lips with mine and plant a deep kiss on his mouth. He moans into mine and I almost forget that we’re not alone in the plane… almost.

“Fourteen hours until we reach the Land Down Under. Any idea what we can do with that kind of time?” he asks waggling his brow.

“Did you bring the cards?” I ask, waggling my own. He bursts out laughing.

“No, Mrs. Grey, I didn’t, but I’m sure we can find some other ways to amuse ourselves.”

“Amusing,” I say, feigning hurt. “You find it amusing, do you?”

“It… has its moments,” he admits. I punch him playfully in the shoulder.

“Asshole.” I stand from his lap and walk back to the bedroom. “Your ass won’t be laughing when I’m done with you,” I add under my voice.


CHRISTIAN

I watch her walk to the back of the plane, gray and black tweed wrapped tight around her ass and caressing her mid thigh. Bernard made a statement about her looking like Jackie O. I don’t remember any fucking pictures of Jackie O looking like that! The only thing that stands out to me about Jackie O are those pillbox hats and those gigantic sunglasses. I think Butterfly has a hundred pairs of those oversized glasses, and while I’m pondering the thought, that ass switches its way through the bedroom door before she closes it behind her.

I swear to God, if she locked me out of that room, I’m going to break that damn door down.

To my delight, the door slides open when I try it. I make sure to lock it behind me, however. I have to walk all the way into the room to see her. She’s at the foot of the bed getting undressed. She has already removed the short tweed jacket and is unzipping her skirt as I make my way into the room. The skirt drops to the floor, showcasing a beautiful pair of black thigh high stockings held up by suspenders either by Agent Provocateur or Victoria’s Secret. I can’t tell which right now because I’m too busy watching the ass framed under the suspenders to care about the brand.

I watch her shimmy out of the black shirt that was under the tweed suit with her back to me and… what’s this? She wasn’t wearing a bra? How did she pull that off? I continue to observe from my perch against the wall near the door, and I can see her release something that almost looks like pasties from where I’m standing. Whatever they are, she pushes some button and pulls a couple of strings and her breasts release.

Jesus, do they release! I’m drooling over here!

“What are you waiting for? Christmas?” she says, her voice low and husky as she undoes the belts holding her stockings and rolls them off her legs.

Good fucking question. What am I waiting for?

I quickly remove my blazer and pull my black T-shirt over my head, dropping them to the floor before she even gets to the second stocking. I toe out of my shoes and undo my jeans as she rolls the second stocking down her leg and places it on the chair near the wall along with the rest of her clothes. I’m leaving a garment trail behind me and she’s stacking her shit neatly on the chair. Well, she got a head start—I’m trying to catch up.

I drop my jeans and my boxer briefs freeing my aching cock while she undoes the hooks holding the suspenders around her waist. Fucking hell, she’s wearing a thong and her ass looks glorious. I’m going to have some of that ass. I need a good, hard… sleep.

When she turns around to face me in nothing but that sexy ass thong, I’m stepping on each sock to pull my feet from them, leaving a mass of unkempt clothes from the door to the bed. Ask me if I care. She does that finger beckoning thing to call me to her and I’m there so fast that I don’t even feel my legs move.

When I get over to her, I reach for her waist to pull her to me and she pushes me backwards onto the bed… hard! Well, goddamn! I fall so hard onto the bed that I bounce a couple of times. She drops to her knees and before I know what’s going on, she’s locked onto my dick.

“Ssssssss!” I hiss as she sucks my cock deep and hard into her mouth. “Goddammit, Ana!”

She nearly swallows the damn thing, bobbing madly as if I need to be fluffed! Trust me, baby, this dick is very ready and if you keep that up, I ain’t gonna last!

She puts that theory to the test, though, for several minutes. She’s grippin’ and suckin’ and squeezin’ and slurpin’ like a pro on a porno, complete with all the grunting and groaning and wet, sloppy noises! My dick is screaming like, “What did I do to deserve this??”

She slurps and sucks on my dick, saliva coating the shaft and oozing from her mouth, adding lubrication to her skillful stroking hands. Each time her hot mouth releases my head, I feel my balls lift and separate, begging her to continue so they can release. I groan loudly and grab the sheets underneath me, my thighs tightening in anticipation of those velvety lips wrapping around my shaft again.

Her tongue and mouth gently lick and caress the head of my dick, so fucking hot and hard from her feverish blowjob moments before. This teasing is torturous, over and around my frenulum, and I’m literally crawling backwards to get away from the torment, but she just follows me up the bed and continues her rhythm, licking and tasting that tender patch of skin with her whole mouth, the entire time gently stroking the taut skin of my hot, aching balls with her freshly manicured nails. Dear God, I’m going to lose my mind.

She crawls up on the bed and turns around so that her ass is facing me, though she doesn’t straddle me. Her head dips between my legs again and I can no longer see my cock or my pelvis—but I can feel the shaft in her throat.

“Fuuuuuuck…” I groan mournfully, throwing my head back and preparing for the onslaught. She slides her mouth up and down mercilessly on my cock, my head, rim, and frenulum rubbing against her throat with each pass. I can’t keep still, and I can’t control myself. I put one hand on her head and wrap the other partially around her body, matching her stroke on my cock with my hips and mumbling incoherent chants of pleasure with each thrust, but with unusual control, she puts her hand flat on my pelvis and halts my motion and push after about five thrusts. I fucking want to cry.

“Ana…” I breathe mournfully, “God, Ana, please…”

She quickly wiggles from my grasp and straddles me facing away from me. My cock is standing straight up, pink and hard and ready, and she slowly lowers herself onto me. Fuck, she’s so hot and tight. I gasp when she takes all of me inside her. She sits there for a moment and I’m panting like a fucking puppy, feeling the inside of her walls wrapped around me. My hands grasp her hips and I want to thrust…

“No!” she demands, her voice soft, but forceful. I swallow hard and try to prepare for what she has planned. She lays down on my body, her back to my chest, and slowly begins to move.

“Slow,” she coaches as her hips roll sensually over mine, pushing and pulling on my shaft and massaging the head and walls in a slow, hot fuck. I open my mouth to let air in as she fucks me, and I can feel her begin to get wetter, her breathing and sounds changing. Fuck, I’m not going to make it.

She’s writhing against my body and tormenting my dick slowly, pushing down onto it and pulling off of it—I’m afraid to move my hips for fear that I’m going to nut any second, until…

She moves one of my hands from her hip and guides it over to her clit. At first, I’m sure I’m a goner, because my hand can feel my dick going inside of her now. Then suddenly, my brain kicks in…

She’s given me a task!

I reach down to my dick and gather a bit of the moisture that I know I’ll find there, then I press my hand firmly over her Mons and plant my middle finger just under her clit—at the most sensitive point. Now, I’ll match her stroke and let her hips push her Mons against my hand and her clit against my finger. Her response is immediate. Her writhing becomes more sensual and her hands stretch above both our heads. Her tits are sticking straight up with her hands stretched above us that way, so I move my other hand over her breast and hold her against me—just a bit. She’s so feral, there’s no holding her still.

I feel her clit getting stiff under my finger and I dare not move it, but fuck if it’s not making me harder. God, this shit is so hot—a handful of tit, a handful of pussy, and my dick sinking deep into that hot core. We’re moving as one, achingly slowly chasing an imminent orgasm, and just when I think it can’t get any hotter, she places her hand flat against the headboard for leverage and pushes down on my dick.

I cry out from the unexpected onslaught of pleasure as she once again dominates my cock. I keep my hands in place, but she’s running this ride—I’m just the lucky passenger.

She starts to heave and convulse, squeaking pants and wheezing coming from her throat as her control pumps and thrusts become wild flails. It takes me a moment to realize that she’s coming and trying not to let her screams be heard over the Pacific. So, I place my hands between her legs and spread both thighs, intent on giving her maximum pleasure through her orgasm… and not prepared for the effect it would have on me.

I must open my legs to keep up with her stroke. Not only does the air hit my testicles and tightens the skin, but also each stroke is hitting her balls deep.

It’s. A fucking. Wrap.

We are madly thumping in this bed and I’m fucking her like a wild dog. She’s still writhing and wheezing, and I don’t know if she’s coming or if she’s just hanging in there for me, but my balls pop so hard that I start squirming on the bed. I’m squeezing the meat of her thighs like I’m squeezing juice from an orange as I pump and empty hard into her. The throbbing and vibrations are so intense that my dick pops out of her pussy. On cue, she sits up and grabs my cock, jerking the rest of the orgasm out of me.

I cry out like a bitch.

When the ride is over and we’re lying there sweaty and spent, I’m silently thankful for breastfeeding and her IUD. Without them, we would be recounting this story as the day our third child was conceived.

*-*

“Are you awake?” I ask, when I think my wife is stirring a bit.

“Mmm, just barely,” she says as she stretches. “What time is it?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “We’re not going to know until we land anyway.” She yawns. “That was hot, baby.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she says. “So, why do I feel your cock against my thigh?”

“Because I want that ass,” I admit. “I wanted it before we fell asleep, but you wore me out.”

“And you didn’t wear me out,” she accuses.

“One good turn deserves another,” I croon, placing open-mouthed kisses on her shoulder.

“Um… if we don’t know what time it is, how do we know how much time we have left?”

“Because I don’t know what time it is, but I know how long we’ve been in the sky,” I tell her. “We’ve got several hours left.”

“Shouldn’t we eat first?” she asks. I think she’s stalling, but she’s right. We’ve been in the air for hours. It’s past dinner time. I throw my legs over the edge of the bed and reach for my pants.

“I’ll go see if dinner has already been served,” I say. I pull my jeans on, but I don’t fasten them. I pull my T-shirt over my head as I walk to the restroom. After I relieve myself, I walk out into the main cabin area and see that Jason and Lawrence are finishing their meal. The flight attendant comes from the galley area and flushes bright red when she sees me. This is her first flight with me, so I assume that she hasn’t been apprised of the fact that I’ll fuck my wife whenever I want, wherever I want that won’t get us arrested.

“Good… evening, Mr. Grey,” she says, barely able to get her words out and looking past me instead of at me—an elementary evasion tactic. “Would you and Mrs. Grey like dinner now?”

“Yes,” I reply. “What’s on the menu?”

“Chicken Cacciatore over roasted potatoes and sautéed spinach,” she replies, still avoiding eye contact. I nod.

“Mrs. Grey is a bit indisposed, so we’ll be taking our dinner in our room. Just knock when it’s ready.”

“Yes, sir,” she says before making a speedy getaway. I look over at Jason, who is quite unsuccessful at hiding his mirth and Lawrence, who keeps his head down and his gazed fixed on the last potato on his plate as if it may run away. I shake my head and head back to the bedroom. Butterfly is in the bathroom and I hear water running. I walk back into the room and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the dresser.

From my head to my toes, I look totally JBF and I have no doubt that I’m sex funky. I shake my head and remove my T-shirt before climbing back into bed and waiting for my wife and my dinner.

About five minutes later, Butterfly emerges from the restroom in a simple sheath dress and smelling like springtime and heaven.

“Why are you dressed?” I ask.

“I thought we were going to eat,” she replies, replacing and overnight bag near the nightstand.

“We are, but we’re going to eat in here. I thought you would be more comfortable…” and I can fuck you faster when we’re finished with our meal.

“Well, you think of everything, don’t you, Mr. Grey?” she asks, putting her hands on her hips and thoroughly reading my ulterior motives.

“That I do,” I reply, “so you can get rid of the cute little cover-up because it’s obstructing my view.” She giggles and pulls the dress over her head, laying it out with the rest of the day’s wardrobe on the chair.

“You can lose those, too,” I say, gesturing to the sexy lace underwear she’s wearing.

“Only because I don’t have another pair on board,” she says. “I learned my lesson with Anguilla, but I still may feel the need to wash my undies so that I’ll have the other pair available in case of emergency.” She slides out of the sexy white scrap of material and they join the clothes on the chair as well.

“So… what do I do now?” she asks

“Don’t fuck with me, Anastasia,” I warn. “We won’t eat until we land in Australia.” She doesn’t flinch standing there naked in front of me, but I think she doesn’t realize that I will make good on my threat. While I’m pondering the situation carefully, there’s a knock at the door. I don’t move at first, examining her and waiting to see who’ll crack first. There’s another knock at the door.

“It’s me, sir,” Jason says through the door. “Should I return later?”

I still don’t move, then my wife folds her arms, hoisting her breasts up a bit.

“Do you want to open the door?” she inquires, “Or should I?”

Now, I’m not sure who’s the winner of this particular game of stare, because although she spoke first, the idea of Jason seeing that juicy body in all its sensual glory has me damn near scrambling to get the door, a little disappointed that I don’t get to unnerve our poor flight attendant with the view of me in nothing but my jeans coupled with the undeniable scent of sex that’s going to rush from this room the moment I open the door. I make quick work of pulling in the food cart and shooing Jason away so that I can drop these jeans as quickly as possible.

I uncover two succulent servings of Chicken Cacciatore with spinach and crescent rolls along with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon breathing next to two wine glasses. Under another cover and packed on ice is two servings of tiramisu and on the bottom of the cart is an ice cooler that contains four large bottles of water.

Jason—or the poor verklempt flight attendant—was thinking ahead not to disturb us again.

“God, I’m famished!” she says, plopping down onto the bed next to me and retrieving a fork. I calculate the time based on my watch that still set to Seattle time, and it’s been nearly eight hours since we had brunch. Couple that with hot, sweat-inducing, mind-blowing sex and, yes, it’s time to eat!

The Chicken Cacciatore is delicious. Even though the meal is chef-prepared for the trip, the servings are small because you don’t want to eat too much on an airplane, particularly a 14-hour flight. Butterfly savors the meal and we have a little fun with the tiramisu eating it off of each other—which invariably leads to getting caught in that gaze and… well you know the rest.

I got that valium-sleep-inducing ass that I was craving, and we’re both out cold until 90 minutes before we’re scheduled to land in Australia. We’ve got just enough time to get showered, dressed, and in our seats just in time for the descent into Sydney.

You can see the lights of the city at night and the traffic traveling on the opposite side of the road. I always wondered who decided which side was the correct side to drive or to place the steering wheel.

The city is stunning. Butterfly is photographing our arrival over the Harbor and the unbelievable view. You can easily make out the form of the Sydney Opera House even from way up here appearing to float majestically on the water in the dark. I’m already glad that we’re in Sydney and we haven’t even landed yet.

Once we’ve proceeded through customs and finished with inspection, our bags are loaded into a waiting limousine. The last thing I felt like doing the moment I step off a 14-hour flight is scrambling to get luggage inside of a taxi or on a train. That stuff might be okay to get around and see the sights, but getting from the airport to our hotel? Somebody get this luggage and get us where we need to be.

The strangest thing to get used to once we land in Sydney—besides the complete opposite seasons—is the loss of time. We left LAX at about noon on Saturday. However, by the time we check into our hotel in Sydney, it’s about 11:30pm on Sunday night. We lost nearly two days flying to Australia, but we’ll get those two days back when we fly back home.

Now, it may seem like all we’ve done is eat, sleep, and fuck on our trip—which is pretty much the truth—but that light dinner throughout the 14-hour flight was just enough to keep us from starving and, once again, we are famished! Even though we’ll have at least one good meal is Sydney tomorrow, it won’t be dinner. So, once we check into the Westin Sydney, we take a stroll down Elizabeth St. to Martin Place to see what food the nightlife has for us. We decide to head through Hyde Park and see the fountain since there doesn’t seem to be many people in the park this late at night.

Mistake! Big mistake!

We’re all cuddled up walking along being romantic—as romantic as you can be with two security guards walking behind you. The night is beautiful, and the weather is warm. I say something witty to my wife that causes her to throw her head back in genuine laughter that warms my heart.

And then she freezes.

That same beautiful voice that just warmed my heart with a melodic laugh chills my soul with a blood-curdling scream.

She shrinks back into my arms as if she would push herself into my body if she could, staring in terror at the sky. Three grown men all duck in alarm, waiting to see what monster is headed in our direction.

Bats. Lots and lots of bats.

Okay, I could see how that could be scary. I’m a bit alarmed at the sight myself at first, especially since my wife is screaming like someone’s eating her alive. Even I have to admit the sight is pretty fucking creepy. I wrap my arms around my wife and look at Jason.

“Get us a taxi now!” I order him before I turn my attention to my screaming wife.

“Okay, baby, I’ve got you. They’re not going to bother you,” I comfort. Truth is, she’s not okay because I’ve got her. She’s okay because the bats in this part of the world are mostly herbivores. Being as well-traveled as I am, I’ve picked up quite a few tidbits of not-so-useless information. Generally, these bats are harmless to people, but that doesn’t mean you want to pet them.

Jason makes quick work of hailing a taxi, and I hurriedly get my wife inside of it. She’s crying now, sitting between me and Lawrence while Jason sits in the front seat.

“Whehre to, mate…?” The cabbie pauses when he sees my distraught wife. “Is she alroight?”

My wife has taken to shivering and whimpering now, clutching my jacket for dear life and obviously—but unsuccessfully—trying to compose herself.

“Not really,” I say, examining her closely. “The local wildlife just scared the shit out of her.”

“Aah,” he says, “the foxes. Don’t worry, Sheila. Thy only eat berries an’ stuff.” Butterfly is beginning to calm a bit but is still quite shaken up.

“Do you want to go back to the hotel?” I ask. She shakes her head.

“I’m hungry,” she whimpers.

“We can get room service,” I offer.

“We’ve only got one day in Sydney,” she complains. “I don’t want room service!” She sounds like a petulant child. I look to the cabbie.

“Any suggestions?” I ask. “We’re taking a cruise tomorrow afternoon, so tonight and tomorrow will be our only chance to see Sydney.”

“It’s lyte, mate, but thehre’s a few places. Looks like she could use a little fun. Gimme a minute.” He pulls out his phone and swipes at the screen a few times. I had better stick close to my wife because she suddenly looks stricken by the authentic Australian accent, and it doesn’t help that the guy is a good-looking fucker who just rescued her from vicious fruit-eating bats.

“Big Poppas,” the Australian female answers through the taxi’s Bluetooth. It sounds like there’s a party going on in the background.

“Can I speak ta Carla, please?” he asks, although Carla sounds more like Cahlah.

“One minute.” A few moments later, “This is Cahlah.” And the party is back.

“Cahly, it’s ya fyv’rite Aussie, babe. Listen, got a fayhr hehr—Americans—a mate and his sheila and theih bodyguahds…”

How did he know all that?

“… Says they’re only here for one noight and they catchin’ a boat out the hahbah tomarrah arvo. The guhl’s got a bit of a froight from the ole foxes, heh heh.  I’m sure they’ll be etuhnally grayteful if you can get ‘em a table an’ a meal tanoight. Whadya think theh, Cahly?”

Aye, it’s Sunday! Send ‘em on in, mah tips been dreadful! I need ev’rythin’ I can get! What’s the nehm?” The cabby looks back at me.

“Jason Taylor,” Jason says before I can say anything.

“Jyson Tylor, pahty of fouh, three blokes and a sheila. Be theh in a minute, we’he not fah.”

“Thaynks, mate,” and he ends the call.

“It sounds… lively,” I say, cautiously. The cabbie laughs.

“Don’t worry, mate. Just good music. The food’s really good an’ yah sheila’ll get a chance to relax.”

We arrive at a non-intimidating structure about five minutes later—clean, and full! It makes me wonder why Carla’s tips aren’t so good tonight. You can hear the music outside—old school hip hop, it sounds like. I have a feeling my wife is going to like this place.

“Is that… Usher?” she asks, identifying the song playing from inside the bar.

“Yeh,” the cabbie says. “The nehm’s Big Poppa’s, nehmed ahftah Biggie Smalls himself. Ahsk foh Cahlah, she’ll tyke good cah’of yah!” I shake his hand.

“Thanks, man, I really appreciate it.” I slip him $100. “I’m sorry, I haven’t had time to exchange yet…”

“That’s quoite alroight, mate!” he says jovially and hands me a card. “I’m Noah. Heh’s my numbah. If ya need a roide to tha hahbah tomarrah, give me a ring. Wheheveh I am, I’m at cha sehvice!”

“I’ll do that,” I say, tucking his card into my pocket. “We’ll need transport to a few places tomorrow.”

“I’ll sty in the areah, then, mate,” he says.

“By the way, my name’s Christian, and the lovely, frightened girl is my beautiful wife Ana.”

“Lovely to meet ya… who’s Jyson?” he asks bemused. I point to Jason. “Oh, okay. Noice to meet you, too, mate.” Jason nods once.

“How late are you working tonight, Noah?” I ask.

“I knock off at three,” he says.

“Well, I’d appreciate it if you could be here at 2:30. I don’t think my wife wants to stroll at night anymore.”

“Shuh thing, mate. Ah’ll see yah then.” I get out first and examine the building. I assume nothing too crazy can be going on inside of a bar with full glass windows in front. When I reach for Butterfly’s hand to help her out of the taxi…

“Uh oh…” She takes my hand and steps out.

“What?” she says, frowning at me as she steps out of the taxi. I remove my blazer.

“I… think the foxes scared you a little more than usual.” I gesture my head to her dress. She looks down to see what I’m referring to… huge wet spots on her dress that have leaked down the front a bit.

“Oh, shit,” she exclaims quietly. I put my jacket over her shoulders, and she slides her arms in, rolling up the sleeves and buttoning all the buttons. The thing damn near covers her entire dress.

“You still want to go inside, or do you want to go back to the hotel?” I ask.

“Hell, no!” she replies. No to which one? “I’m starving, and Carla’s tips have been dreadful. I’ll go to the bathroom and shove some paper towel in my bra. Let’s go.” She walks ahead of me to get to the bar and I have to quickstep to catch up with her. I still don’t know how and will never understand how this little woman can move so quickly and easily in sky-high stilettos!

We step in the lively establishment and ask for Carla. When I say this place is full, I mean it’s really full—at midnight on a Sunday. A tall blonde walks over to us.

“Ah’m Cahlah. Ya the Amehricans?” she asks.

“We are,” I reply. “Noah told us to ask for you.”

“OI don have any tehbles left in the restaurant, but we’ve got some seats in the bah downstehs. Is that okeh?”

“Can I get food down there?” Butterfly asks. “I mean real food like real people eat?” Carla laughs.

“Shuh, sheila, follow me.”

We fall in step behind Carla, who leads us through the restaurant and down a flight of stairs. We walk through the bar—not as crowded as the restaurant, but the source of the music—and right over a picture of the one and only Big Poppa made from mosaic tiles in the floor.

“That’s kinda cool,” Butterfly says as Carla leads us to the table—a large booth with leather seats.

“OI’ll bring you a treh of stahtehs, and what can OI get ya ta drink?” she asks.

“I’ll have a beer. The lady will have a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon…” I look at Butterfly to get her approval, and she nods. “And the gentlemen will have two sodas.”

“Two sodas, a frothy, and a cab sav for the sheila,” she says, writing on her pad. She places menus on the table. “I’ll be back with your stahtehs and drinks.”

“Um, Carla, where’s the ladies’ room?” Butterfly asks. Carla points to the back.

“Dunny’s roight bahk theh through those doohs and to the left,” she says and Butterfly nods. When she leaves, Butterfly bends down to me.

“Why do they keep calling me ‘Sheila?’” she asks. I shrug.

“I’m not sure, baby, but in context, I think it means ‘woman’ or ‘girl,’” I reply.

“It does,” Jason says with a nod.

“Okay,” Butterfly says. “I just want to know what I’m being called. I had a feeling if it was bad, they wouldn’t all call me that, but still…” She heads off towards the restroom and Jason jerks his head for Lawrence to follow. He stands from the chair and scurries behind her.

“He doesn’t know to follow her?” I ask.

“I’m not making excuses for him. I don’t know why he didn’t get up.” I twist my lips.

“No slip-ups on this trip, Jason,” I say sternly. “He’s been a good egg up to now.”

“I’ll debrief him—make sure he doesn’t drop the ball.” Yeah, you do that, because if he fucks up, he’ll have to find another way back to the states and then he’ll have to hide from me when he gets there.

I find myself bopping to Outkast while waiting for my sheila to return from the restroom. She’s in there longer than I’m comfortable with, so I try to occupy myself with taking in the sights. The locals—at least I think they’re locals—don’t look or behave particularly differently than we do in the states. Everybody’s just drinking, chatting, eating and having a good time. I don’t know what I expect to see, but I guess I just expected to see something different. This is just your usual weekend hangout playing old-school hip-hop and serving food at a later hour.

My attention is drawn to the classic art on the walls in beautiful onyx frames, not because of the art itself, but because of the big white block words printed over the pictures that have nothing to do with the pictures themselves…

The blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice…

Bitch don’t kill my vibe…

What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I mean, I’ve heard the berry quote, but the picture has nothing to do with it. Maybe the vibe picture can be explained by the ancient Grecian woman lying on the daybed looking a bit perturbed…

As I’m trying to decipher the meaning of the pictures, Carla comes back to the table with our drinks and some food we hadn’t ordered yet. Maybe these were the “starters” she was talking about.

“Heh’s yah drinks,” she says, handing each of the drinks to me as I place them on the table. “These ah yah stahtahs. Yah guhl seems like she’s stahvin’ so I brought cha the three plattah meat and cheese.”

The three-platter-meat-and cheese is just what it sounds like—three large platters of various wedges of cheese, breads, crackers, meats… it’s basically a very large gourmet antipasto. Although I’m certain that my wife will be satisfied with the layout, I go about the business of ordering one of just about everything on the menu. I’m looking at the other tables and although the food looks fantastic, the servings look kind of small. If my wife gets another airplane-sized meal, she just might go postal.

After a stunned Carla leaves the table to prepare our veritable buffet, I take note of the fact that my wife still hasn’t returned from the bathroom. By now, Beyoncé has played and ended and now Get Low is playing. Did she fall in? I don’t know what gives away my thoughts, but Jason gets my attention by putting his hand on my forearm.

“I’ll go check,” he says, and begins to rise from his seat. His butt has barely left the chair when we see this tiny figure in a giant Tom Ford blazer dancing her way through the crowd. She stops at one group of raucous women and they all bop there for a moment with their hands in the air pointing “to the window, to the wall.” My wife rolls her hips and shows off her moves to the hip hop music, and I’ve never been so thrilled to see a big man following her than I am at this moment to see Lawrence not three feet away from her as she gyrates in this group of women. She revels there for a few more moments to the unedited lyrics of Li’l John’s music before she high fives one of the women and dances her way back over to the table.

She hasn’t even had a drink yet.

“I was worried,” I say when she sits. “What took so long?”

“I was drenched,” she exclaims, a little breathless. “They had a hand dryer in there, thank God. I had to do something. The dress is pretty much ruined. It might as well be dry.” She throws her hands in the air again to take advantage of the “window” chorus once more, then downs her entire glass of Cabernet.

“I want something stronger,” she says. “Ooo, that looks yummy.” She takes a small piece of bread and stacks it with a piece of the gourmet meat and cheese and takes a bite, popping an olive in her mouth as well. “Mmm, that’s delicious.”

“Don’t fill up on it. We’ve got food coming—and don’t forget we’re going on a cruise tomorrow. I don’t think a ‘hangover’ would mix well with a boat ride.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll only have one or two drinks. What did you order?”

“Um… a whole lot,” I say, knowing that I pretty much pointed at what was on the menu and took some suggestions from Carla. “I wanted to make sure that no one left hungry.”

“Good plan, Mr. Grey,” she declares as she loads a cracker with spreadable cheese and more meat. “They have a lot of cheese varieties here, huh?” she says, uncharacteristically talking with her mouth full.

“Looks that way,” I chuckle watching her shovel gourmet antipasto into her mouth. I’m glad to see that she has apparently shaken the experience with the bats and the milky-dress incident hasn’t left her embarrassed and devastated.

And she really does look quite cute in my jacket.


A/N: 

“Quel tragique.”—”What a tragedy.”
“Pardonnez-moi, monsieur.”—”Forgive me, sir.”
“Tu es pardonné. Il est délicieux, n’est-ce pas?”—”You are forgiven. He’s delicious, isn’t he?”
“Oui, très délicieux! Vous êtes un gars chanceux. Pardonnez mon impolitesse”—”Yes, very delicious! You are a lucky guy. Forgive my rudeness ”
“Parlez vous français?”—”Do you speak French?”
“Oui, madame,”—”Yes, ma’am”
“Je parle français aussi.”—”I speak French too.”

Please do not beat me over the head too badly for my bad imitation of an Australian accent. I’m doing the best I can.

I’ve taken some liberties with Big Poppa’s because they weren’t open yet at the time this story was set and Sunday is actually “bring your own wine” day, but they couldn’t expect a couple of Americans running from bats to have a bottle of wine shoved in their inside pocket.

I also know that taxi drivers and restaurant servers don’t expect to be tipped, but it adds to the story and the “Christian Grey always gets what he wants when he wants it” aspect of the story, so I did it anyway.

MUSIC:
Outkast—
Hey Ya
Beyoncé—
Jumpin’, Jumpin’
Li’l John—
Get Low

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

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

The Australia Picture Board can be found here: https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/raising-grey-the-trip-to-australia/

Pins for this chapter can be found here: 
https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/raising-grey-the-trip-to-australia/1-la-landing-in-sydney-and-big-poppas/

And of course, the regular Pinterest board is here:
https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/raising-grey/

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

~~love and handcuffs

Raising Grey: Chapter 63—Out of Alignment

So, you’re getting two chapters because neither of these could really stand alone without an interruption in flow. For those who celebrate it, Happy Thanksgiving.

This is a work of creativity. As such, you may see words, concepts, scenes, actions, behaviors, pictures, implements, and people that may or may not be socially acceptable and/or offensive. If you are sensitive to adverse and alternative subject matter of any kind, please do not proceed, because I guarantee you’ll find it here. You have been warned. Read at your own risk.

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

Chapter 63—Alignment Shift

ANASTASIA

We’ve both come fantastically, but my husband’s hard dick is bobbing in my face right now, and if I can get a repeat of what I just got, I’m all for it! I gently wrap my lips around the head of his cock and lick. He hisses loudly.

“I haven’t picked a card yet,” he protests.

“Then hurry up and pick one,” I chastise. I can feel him frantically reaching over to get a card.

“Slide down and ride that dick,” he says, his voice raspy. “Reverse cowgirl.”

f174290e6fa8f6850497ed35150dfe8a

He puts the card face-up on the floor near his hip so that I can see it. I slide down his body and take his dick in my hand. I guide his head to my opening, still tender and pulsing a bit from my orgasm, and slide down onto him.

“Ssssssssssss! Aw, shit!” he hisses as his fingers caress my hips. I begin to move back and forth over his dick and his fingers never tighten. They only slide with my hips.

“That’s it, baby,” he says, his voice a harsh whisper. “Just like that… ride that dick… fuck that cock…”

He doesn’t move. He just lets me ride and I can feel him getting harder and fatter inside of me as he exclaims several expletives throughout the five minutes. When the timer goes off, he doesn’t make a move.

“Pick a card,” I taunt, still fucking his growing dick.

“Fuck!” he hisses and reaches for another card.

“Stop… stop for a minute,” he begs, “I need to think.” I stop rolling my hips and he’s damn near breathless on the floor. “I don’t know how we’re going to do this one.” He shows me the card and it’s The Sitting V. You normally need a counter or table to pull this one off. I look over at the loveseat and see the highest point in the room that won’t leave me with a bruised or impaled ass.

3bf596dc8c1bdebe6060a71859a218bb

“The arm of the loveseat?” I say.

“We’ll give it a try,” he says, slapping my ass, signaling me to get up.

Yeah… no.

We tried everything to get that position right. What’s supposed to happen is that my but is on the edge of a counter, my legs over his shoulders and my hands behind his neck. He supports my back and he just fucks me that way. We tried. We really tried, but he’s too tall to stand and too short to kneel to get the position right. We even tried crouching, but he couldn’t get an angle where his knees didn’t hit the side of the sofa. By the time we try every unsuccessful variation of this position, we’re caught in fits of uncontrollable giggles and realize that we had never set the timer. We throw in the towel on The Sitting V and pick another card.

The T-Position

e926a6b0c83809fdbb946d1918f9adc7

“Now we’re talking,” Christian croons as he pulls me from the loveseat back onto the floor. “Lie back,” he instructs me. When I do, he slides between my legs on his side—perpendicular—and lifts my leg over his hip. While I’m trying to figure out how this is going to work, he pushes my other leg away from him so that they’re spread open wider but he’s not lying on my leg. Then he slides into me.

Holy. Cow. Batman.

“There it is,” he says as he begins that masterful stroke that has me rising in a matter of seconds. “Now, we’re back on track.”

He bends his knee so that my leg drapes over his thigh and now, he’s not only free to move his hips, but his hand is also free to caress me as he’s doing this perfect sideways thrust into my core. He’s caressing my thighs and my stomach, kissing my skin wherever his lips and tongue can reach, and I nearly can’t stand it.

I can’t even think of a French exclamation, and I really need one right now.

I open my mouth to get some fair into my lungs and look down at my husband. He’s gazing at me all victoriously, a half-smirk on his face as his body rolls into mine over and over in a perfect water wave, his dick sliding so deliciously in and out of me causing the perfect amount of friction. I reach up and grab my breasts and close my eyes, lost in the perfection of this position that we’ve never tried before. When I open them again, my husband’s expression has changed. He’s still gazing at me, but he’s licking and biting his lips and grasping my leg hard.

“You look so fucking hot,” he says as he plunges into me, his stroke now deeper and seeking his own pleasure while fueling mine.

“Christian!” I breathe, “please…”

“Please, what?” he hisses, grinding and rolling and thrusting his hips into mine, the task seeming harder and harder for him. Yeah, please, what? I don’t know. I groan and fall back onto the floor, welcoming the delicious burn in my core and allowing him to push me higher and higher as he grunts with each thrust.

DING!

I blindly reach for the scattered cards and pull one. I can’t even see it through my passion-induced haze, so I just shove it in Christian’s face. He reaches over and grabs a handful of cards then, wrapping his arms around me, he rises effortlessly from the floor and carries me to the loveseat—with his dick still inside of me. He sits down with me on top, straddling him and just begins to fuck me. I wrap my arms around his neck and ride along with him. His hands are all over me—my back, my ass, my hair—he’s kissing me passionately and loving me deeply. I try to give him back what he’s giving me, running my fingers through his hair, caressing his cheek and chest, kissing him deeply. When his arms slide around my waist, I know that we’re both in passion and chasing the orgasm again. We both groan when the timer goes off and Christian pulls a card from the small stack next to us.

“We’ll change the timer to ten minutes, okay?” he breathes, his voice thick with arousal. I nod and wait anxiously for him to show me the next card.

“Somebody somewhere likes us,” he says, showing me the card. It’s Standing Sex. And again, he lifts me effortlessly and stands to his feet, continuing his stroke right where he left off. Now, we’re both fighting an orgasm and this round has to last ten minutes. I wrap my arms around him and just enjoy the ride.

“Don’t come. Feel the pleasure,” I coach myself inwardly. My body is bursting with sensation all over and I want to come so badly, but I simply can’t let it end yet. It feels too damn good. I know my husband is having the same thoughts and his stamina is much stronger than mine, but he feels so good inside of me that I release a mournful groan that has his knees wobbling and causes him to nearly lose the fight.

“Damn, baby, you’re too fucking sexy!” he exclaims, his face buried in my neck as he pounds into me.

“So are you,” I breathe. “You’re so big and you feel so good…”

“Fuuuuuuuck!” he groans loudly, and I feel him still and pulsing inside me. I thought he came, but he only stops momentarily and starts to thrust again, harder and deeper. The inner coach is somewhere taking a break and I feel myself rising higher and higher…

DING!

“Fuck, that shit was close,” Christian confesses breathily. He sits back on the loveseat with me on his lap and pulls another card.

“And it’s about to get closer,” he says as he shows me another card.

Doggy style.

99ffccb8e80b57cc3bc703d7dccb6856

Fuck!

I rise off of him and get into position on my knees over the loveseat.

“Fuck, baby,” he says, looking down at me, “I think this is about to be a wrap.”

“I tend to agree with you,” I say.

He falls into position behind me and slides easily inside me.

“Fucking hell!” he says, grabbing my hips and thrusting hard into me three or four times. Oh, shit! I’m startled when he stops, takes a few deep breaths, then begins to move in a long, slow stroke.

Oh, hell. Mr. Grey is going to draw this out.

I try to get my mind ready for the onslaught of pleasure that’s about to come over me, but nothing could have prepared me. His slow stroke intensifies when his grip tightens on my hip and one hand flattens on my back. I open my mouth again to get air in, but I can feel the dew forming on my skin. It won’t be long now.

“Baby, fuck,” he groans, and his whole body is over mine, his hips thrusting his cock deliciously into me. My labored breathing becomes whimpers with each thrust and my body is aching to come now. I don’t want to fight it anymore, but my stubborn brain won’t let go. He licks the dew off my back and his hand grasps my shoulder while the other is flat on the loveseat next to mine, supporting his weight.

“Oh, God,” I protest when he licks my skin again, finishing with an open-mouthed kiss on my back. I shiver and release a breath, begging my sweating body to let go so that I can come.

“Fuck, I need you,” he growls. “I need you so much.” His hand dives into my hair and he roughly twists my head to the side. I cry out from the surprise more than the pain and he slams a bruising kiss onto my lips, his tongue plunging into my mouth. I almost collapse on my arms as my body shivers and aches. He begins to moan shamelessly into my mouth and my body signals that if he releases, I can let go.

“Oh, fuck, no, no, not yet!” he chastises aloud as his dick pulses inside of me. Again, I think he comes, but much to my dismay, he doesn’t. There’s no insane wetness to indicate his ejaculation and only moments later, he’s thrusting into me again. “Fuck, so close… so fucking close.”

“If you let go, I’ll let go,” I breathe, not willing to tap out yet.

“No… no… not yet… too fucking good…” he pants as he continues to thrust into me. I moan inwardly. I want to come so badly, I could cry, but my stubborn brain won’t let my body release before he does, and his body is fighting the feeling because it’s too good.

“Fuck, baby, my dick is burning,” he confesses as he reaches around and pulls my nipple, still drilling into me.

“Oh, God, Christian!’ I protest as I fight to hold myself up against him. I close my eyes as his teeth sink gently into the meat of my shoulder. I shiver with delight, feeling my breast fall into and fill his large hand. He alternates between cupping it and gently caressing it to pulling my nipple until it’s taut and aroused.

DING!

Goddammit to hell, that was the longest ten minutes ever fucking known to man, and I don’t protest when he doesn’t stop fucking me. I can’t take it anymore. I need to come again… seriously!

“This is the last one,” he groans. “I need to come inside you.”

“Okay,” I pant, breathlessly.

“You pull,” he commands, still fucking me and pulling on my nipple. I nod and reach for the cards on the loveseat. When I pull the card for the next position, I know it’s going to be a problem…

Yab-yum.

7141b283b014b0aff2468d1b0a2dd065

That’s our connection position, and this has the potential to be dynamic… or disastrous. I’m spent and aching for an orgasm and can’t be responsible for what comes of attempting this feat, but nonetheless, we agree to try it.

I thought the position would be awkward sexually, but my husband has a goddamn Olympic-length dick. So, when he sits lotus-style with his back against the loveseat, I sit in his lap facing him with my arms and legs around him. He guides his cock to my core and they have no problem finding their counterpart. It’s not the deepest penetration that we’ve had, but it feels good… really good… in more ways than one.

The intimacy that I feel is amazing! Yes, my core is still on fire and in a secondary kind of way, I can still feel the pleasure of my husband inside of me… loving me, but something else is going on.

His fingertips caress my arm very softly, then my neck. Silver-gray eyes never leave mine. My hands slowly slide from his shoulders to his chest, my fingers spread far apart. I feel like that’s where they need to be. His arms slide around me, and his hands move to my upper back. He holds me close to him… not too close, but close… close enough to look into my eyes, close enough to breathe the same air…

And we begin to rock.

We rock and rock until we become acutely aware of the physical as well as the spiritual friction between us. The room fades away. Everything fades away for a moment except the sound of his voice…

You’re beautiful. You’re my life. I couldn’t survive without you.

You’re in my soul… in my blood… everything in me is you…

I live and breathe for you, only for you, my love…

I will take care of you…

I will love you for the rest of my days…

I don’t know where I am, and I only feel heat. I only see light. Heat and light. Well, more like warmth… warmth all over. I feel like some of my life’s energy is leaving me, and it’s scaring me.

Christian… please… help me…

I’ve got you, baby.

I want to wail, but I can’t, and I don’t know why—why I want to or why I can’t. I’m frozen somewhere outside myself and it’s scaring me to death.

Christian…

Butterfly… I’ve got you…

The explosion is cosmic—in my chest, in my head, all over me. Light blinds me completely, and I can even see it behind my closed eyelids. My body is trembling wildly, painfully, and I can’t stop it. Dear God, please make it stop…

This burst of… I don’t know, energy, maybe… is wracking my body. I feel like I’m in a room of nothing but blinding light, but I’m not alone. There’s a warmth wrapped around me, loving me, consoling me, and I don’t want to leave. I don’t know how long it lasts, but it seems like eternity. Slowly, very slowly, the light starts to fade. I can barely make out where I am. I hear crying.

I don’t open my eyes, but I’m now conscious of where I am. I’m sitting in my husband’s lap with my legs wrapped around him. My arms are pressed against his chest, my head back. We’re both drenched in sweat, hair dripping, sitting in the middle of the sitting room floor. My breathing is wild and gaspy and tears are streaming down my face, but the only sound I’m making are the gasps from taking in large amounts of air. My husband’s arms are clasped tight around me like a vice and his face is lying on my chest. He’s weeping. It’s his cries that I hear. I feel his sex pulsing inside of mine and the feeling is magical. I don’t want to move. I don’t want it to end. But the crying…

It’s obvious that we connected while we were having sex… or making love, I should say. Didn’t we do this once before? I don’t remember, but if we did, it was nothing like this. To say that it was powerful would be an understatement. To say that it was earth-shattering would be too cliché. There are no words for what just happened, no words at all.

*-*

“I heard you talking,” he says. “You were saying such… wonderful things… Everything you said, I feel about you.”

“I heard you talking,” I confess. “You were saying…” I swallow hard as I fight to focus. “I wasn’t talking,” I breathe.

“Neither was I,” he says. I’m afraid, but I can tell that he feels no fear. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s going on with us?” I say, my voice shaking.

“Only the best and most intense love known to man,” he says, brushing my hair from my face. “I never thought anything like this was possible in my life, definitely not for me.”

“I’ve never felt or known anything like this… ever,” I admit. “I’m afraid that…” I trail off.

“That what, baby?” he asks.

“That if one of us dies, the other won’t survive,” I finish.

“I already know that,” he admits, “so don’t die.”

We sleep in very late the next morning, saving our appetites for the housewarming party that was sprung on us somewhat last minute. Unlike many gatherings before, this will not merely be family and close friends. Many of Val’s former co-workers will be there as well as some of Elliot’s staff—along with their significant others. Val says that many people asked about her and just wanted to check on her, so she thought showing off her new home was a good way for them to see just how well she’s doing—friends and haters alike. Elliot proclaimed that he wanted a few of the slackers to see “how it’s really done” and he and only the best of the best did the work on his house.

I don’t know anybody there except the family and I’m certainly not trying to impress anyone, so I just don my Freddy jeans and a black oversized cashmere turtleneck sweater. Me being me, I anchor the simple ensemble with Valentino black leather stiletto boots with bow embellishments up the back. No fancy jewelry needed—just my wedding and engagement rings, and my hair is in a messy loosened side braid. Christian is similarly dressed in a pair of black jeans, a white cashmere sweater and black suede ankle boots. I’m going to be helping Val as much as she’ll let me, so we pack an overnight bag with plans to stay until tomorrow.

When we get to my sister and brother-in-law’s home, I admit that I expected the outside to be grander than it is. It looks like a big yellow box and I’m thinking to myself, “Why didn’t they do something more to this?” Elliot is an architect, so… why the massive understatement?

949942852ac3d3397dc9295fe5d61cf9“It’s yellow,” I say to Christian a bit dismayed as we drive up the driveway.

“Yep, that it is,” he says matter-of-factly.

“And it’s stucco,” I continue, my distaste evident. My husband’s extended silence causes me to look over at him.

“You might want to get it all out now,” he says. I frown.

“Get all what out?” I ask.

“Your criticisms,” he states.

“I’m not criticizing!” I declare.

“You don’t have to convince me,” he says, “but if you go into this woman’s house with that tone, she’s likely to put you out. I would.” My mouth falls open.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask affronted.

“No offense, Butterfly, but did I stutter?” he asks. “You haven’t even gotten out of the car yet; you haven’t rang the doorbell or greeted anybody, and the first two things you say about the house are critical.”

“I wasn’t being critical,” I excuse. “I was just making observations.” He twists his lips and stares at me.

“Okay,” he says and proceeds to open the door.

“Don’t placate me, Christian…” I begin, and he turns around and cuts me off with a finger pointed at me.

“I’m not going to fight with you,” he says flatly with no malice, “least of all, about this. We’re here for a housewarming party at my brother’s house—your sister’s house. We’re going to go inside, eat some food, hang out with our family and friends and enjoy ourselves. And we’re not going to argue about the yellow house. Comprende?”

I narrow my eyes at him and say nothing. He opens the door and exits the car.

“I speak French, not Spanish,” I say when he turns back to me.

“And yet, you understood what I said,” he points out as he extends his hand to help me out of the car. I glare up at him and scramble out of the car without accepting his hand. The pause behind me can be heard across Lake Washington. After hearing nothing but my heels clicking on the concrete for several seconds, I hear the door slam behind me.

He’s mad.

Can you blame him? He called you out for acting like the quintessential snob and you get all pissy about it.

I don’t need this shit from you… or him. I didn’t do anything wrong.

“How’d I know you’d be the first one here?” Val says when she opens the door. “You even beat the Queen.”

“Well, I’m closer than he is,” I say, breezing into the room and undoing my coat while kissing her on the cheek.

“Wow, chilly,” she says.

“It’s not that cold,” I say, handing my outerwear to a gentleman standing there waiting for it. “You’ve got staff,” I smile.

“Besides a temporary cook, just for today,” she replies, “and I wasn’t talking about the weather.” My brow furrows and hers rises expectantly. We have an entire wordless conversation where I ask what the hell she’s talking about, then she asks what’s with the chilly attitude, what’s going on. I end the conversation by waving her off.

“Show me the house,” I say. She raises her brow again.

“Don’t you want to wait for Christian? We can show it to you both at the same time,” she points out. I shrug.

“Doesn’t matter,” I say as I walk into the house.

“You drinking?” she asks, and I nod. She uncorks a bottle of Cabernet from the kitchen wine rack. We talk a bit about the portion of the house that I can see from here. The vestibule opens right into the kitchen and dining room with the living room actually facing the back of the house and Lake Washington, much like ours. The living room and dining room are all glass walls and doors. Three sets of double doors make up the far wall that faces Lake Washington, and two more sets make up the westward facing wall along with large plate glass panes. A large patio wraps around the back and side of the house showcased by the glass walls.

The kitchen is a chef’s kitchen with stained oak cabinets and high-end appliances, including a five-burner stove in the island of the breakfast bar. Of course, the living room has a gorgeous natural gas fireplace and I’m already drawn to sit in one of the comfy oversized chairs and stare out at the lake for hours, forgetting my troubles like snippy husbands who become all sensitive about yellow stucco houses.

“I’m taking gourmet cooking classes,” Val says, interrupting my thoughts and placing a glass of wine in front of me. “Maybe you can help me out with some pointers and recipes.”

“Absolutely!” I beam. “Did you cook anything for the party today?” She shakes her head.

“No, I wanted the food to actually be edible,” she jests. “Besides, I haven’t been feeling well. I’ve been a little dizzy lately, but that’s to be expected after brain surgery.” I frown.

“You don’t think…” I trail off. If there’s any possibility that her cancer is returning, I want her to get a jump on it the moment it rears its ugly head. I will not lose my sister.

“I don’t know,” she laments, “but I don’t think so. There’s been no hint of Meg in any of my cat scans…”

Meg?” I say, bemused.

“My tumor,” she says. My face is the picture of horror.

“You named your tumor?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says. “I gave it an identity—a dark intruder that needed to be kicked out of my body. She’s an unwanted passenger and I’m kicking her off the bus. It’s a way of taking control of an uncontrollable situation. You diminish the power of the tumor by giving it a name. You’re the doctor, here, Steele. You should read up on this. It’s a very common practice.” I shake my head.

“I’ll take your word for it,” I say. “There are too many facets of medicine for me to be able to cover them all. Oncology and the philosophies that surround it are way too much for me, but if there’s anything that I need to know to be supportive to you, please tell me.”

“Just ask me every so often how Meg is doing,” she says. “If I tell you that she’s still on vacation, we’re good. If I ever say that she’s making an appearance, then it’s time to put our war clothes on.” I nod.

“So… what now? What about Elliot?”

“Oh, dear God, he was ready to take me to the ER,” she replies. “It’s just a little dizziness. It comes with the territory, but I totally understand his concern, especially since I unconsciously hid Meg for something like six months or so. To that end, I’ve got a doctor’s appointment on Wednesday.”

“Do you really want to wait that long?” I ask. “What if Meg really has made another appearance?”

“Then a couple of days really won’t matter, Sis,” she replies. “I need to see my neurologist first, tell him what’s going on, and take the proper steps. If it turns out that Meg is rearing her ugly head, then I’ll go back to the oncologist and we’ll come up with a plan of action. It’s that simple. Now, please, let’s not dwell on it. I want you to tell me how lovely my house is—don’t make me fish for compliments, and if you don’t like it, lie.” She concludes that portion of the conversation with a smile. Just as the conversation changes, Elliot comes into the kitchen.

“I heard the doorbell,” he begins. “Where’s Christian?” Before I could formulate a lie as to why I’m present without my loving husband, Christian comes into the house with our overnight bags. Geez, there were just two bags and his laptop. What took so damn long?

“Dude, what were you doing out there? Did you guys come in separate cars?” Elliot asks the question for me.

“Nope,” my husband quips. “Just separate minds.” He drops our bags on the floor

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

“Oookay,” Elliot says. “Well, I’ve got just the thing for you,” he adds, taking Christian’s coat and handing it to one of the staff. “My very own man-cave stocked with food and refreshments—even beer for those who want to partake. Martin, can you take those bags to the big guest room, please?” He says to the same gentleman who took Christian’s coat. “Come, brother, let the woman fawn over the house whilst we go grunt and scratch ourselves.”

“Lead the way, Bro,” Christian responds, putting his arm around Elliot’s shoulder and, without even looking in my direction, disappears to parts unknown with him. I twist my lips. It’s going to be like that for the evening, is it? I turn to Val

“Well, I guess you can show me the house now.”

*-*

Five bedrooms and five bathrooms in two separate living quarters; nearly 4000 square feet and the lakeside of the house on all floor boasts glass walls or large windows.

In addition to the open great-room-living area, there are three bedrooms on the first floor—the third has been converted to a small home office—a laundry room, and a wine closet. The master bedroom has a view of the lake and the other two rooms are on the east side of the house and only slightly more modest. The master bedroom and second bedroom both have en suites and walk-in closets. There’s also a powder room on the main floor.

It’s listed as a two-story home, because the front of the house is two stories. However, there are three floors as the back of the house reveals that the main story is actually a sublevel.

The second floor is a mother-in-law apartment boasting two terraces on the lakeside of the house and one larger terrace on the east side of the house. It has a separate entrance from outside that opens into another great room—living room, dining room, and kitchen—with more modest furnishings than the main floor. You can access one of the terraces from the dining area of this room, which also boasts a glass wall, as well as a powder room with a shower. Both the upstairs and downstairs kitchens have granite countertops.

The two upstairs bedrooms are connected by a Jack-and-Jill bathroom. The larger terrace can be accessed from one bedroom while the smaller can be accessed from the other.

The third floor is the man cave, Elliot’s workout space, and a small area for storage. It also accesses the full party terrace. We didn’t go up there.

From the front of the house, you can see the 800-square-foot garage and six-car parking spaces inside the security gate. A trail to the right leads to a jungle patio much like ours and a cement water fountain. The trail continues through beautiful landscaping and concludes at a 60-foot dock and a whole lot of private waterfront, which will most likely just be for viewing and swimming since Elliot has no desire to own a boat.

The house is really beautiful and quite spacious on the inside—nothing like my house of course. Then again, not everybody can, nor do they want to, live in the obscenely ginormous brick house with the swinging wrought iron gates that is Grey Crossing. It’s hard not to compare other houses to the magnificent edifice that I call home, but I guess I better stop doing that.

Val tells me that the house is condo, so they only purchased the house from the studs in. The Home Owners’ Association is responsible for the outside and the grounds. I didn’t even know that you could buy houses that way—I thought you could only buy condos that way… you know, apartments. I ask why she didn’t just buy a house, and she says that they want to build their own, so until they can do that, this location will do nicely.

Just as I’m singing the praises of Val and Elliot’s home and its amenities, careful to leave out the yellow stucco, her guests begin to arrive. Of course, Allen and James arrive first after Christian and me. Grace and Carrick aren’t too far behind. After them, many of Val’s former coworkers join the party followed by some of Elliot’s employees. When Maxie and Phil show up followed by Mia and Ethan, Val gives me the unpleasant task of going to the man cave to retrieve our husbands, her excuse being that this is the only part of the house that I haven’t seen. I roll my eyes and do as I’m told.

I make my way to the third-floor man cave—indeed! What a space this is. What happens if Val needs him and she’s all the way on the first floor? Does she send a messenger pigeon?

56238bd948e82c525d10a559c1148b31The first thing I see is a sign declaring the rules of the man cave, referring to things like scratching, belching, farting, and bacon—which are all allowed in the man cave. I enter the room and see my husband and his brother yelling at a large-screen television, and I know they’ve found a football game.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” I say, and they both rubberneck to me like they’ve been caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

“Val sent me to retrieve you,” I add. “Most of your guests have arrived.” Elliot stands and frowns.

“Why did she send you all the way up here?” he asks. “She could have used the intercom.”

Interco…? I know why her sneaky ass sent me up here, but I don’t let on.

“She said she wanted me to see the man cave,” I confess, knowing that wasn’t her real motive. “It’s quite impressive, Elliot.”

“Thanks, Montana,” he says, smiling as he walks by me. “Stay put, bro. I’ll see if I can rescue any other unfortunate fellows. If I don’t come back, you’ll know that I was unsuccessful in my mission.” And away he goes. Christian sits on the sofa still watching the game without acknowledging my presence at all.

“So, you’re just going to ignore me?” I bark. He turns to me.

“Oh! Now, you’re speaking to me?” he asks incredulously.

“I was never not speaking to you, Christian,” I snap impatiently.

“You coulda fooled me,” he says, standing from the sofa. “Just like you, I don’t like being ignored, Anastasia, but you’re the one who threw down that gauntlet. I don’t know what’s wrong, but whatever it is, you need to get it in order.”

“There is no ‘right or wrong’ here…” I begin.

“Yes, there is, and you know it,” he says matter-of-factly, and then he glares at me as if he’s waiting for something. When I don’t respond, he turns away from me and starts to leave.

Say something, you twit! You’re acting like a spoiled, entitled, socialite bitch and I don’t like you very much right now.

“Christian I’m sorry!” I call out before he gets to the door. He stops and turns around.

“For what?” he asks. Oh, geez.

“For talking about the house that way and acting like a snob,” I reply. He twists his lips and shakes his head before turning to leave again. What? I said I was sorry!

“Christian!” I call out to him again. He spins around and closes the space between us in a few long strides.

“I don’t give a fuck what you said about this house!” he hisses quietly in my face. “The yellow stucco is ugly, but we don’t have to live here. What pissed me off is the way you treated me. You attacked me for simply telling you not to offend them in their own home. Then you snubbed me when you got out of the car like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum. When your feelings of anger or displeasure are justified against me, I deal with them—that’s all I can do, but when you act like this…” He looks at me and points at various parts of me with disdain. “… This catty little thing that I can’t even find the words to describe, you can do this by yourself, because I’ll have no part of it.”

He doesn’t wait for me to respond. He marches out of the room and quietly closes the door behind him.

What am I supposed to do with that? I didn’t deliberately… but… shit.

And now, the Bitch is quiet. No sassy comments, no gloating, no unwanted advice… I guess she’s having no part of it either.

I go back down to the party, certain that Elliot was unsuccessful in “rescuing other unfortunate fellows.” I won’t be a stick in the mud. I’ll help Val entertain and I’ll have a good time. Hopefully, Christian will too.

Her friends seem nice for the most part. More than one of them have made comments about my husband or even tried to put the moves on him, but I keep the green-eyed monster at bay, determined not to make a fool of myself or to march over into a crowd of mixed strangers and “piss” all over my man—especially since it appears that he doesn’t want me to. I don’t know if, at this point, he’s ignoring me or I’m ignoring him. I know I’m avoiding him… I’m giving him his space.

After a while, I get my answer. I hadn’t noticed, but one or two of the single guys have been eyeing me all night. When one blatantly makes his move, I inform him that I’m married and that my husband is in attendance. When he asks who my husband is, I point to Christian who still isn’t making eye-contact with me.

“That’s your husband?” he asks incredulously. “He hasn’t said one word to you all night!”

“How would you know?” I ask affronted.

“I been watchin’, baby,” he says. “I been waitin’ for somebody to make a move or stake a claim and nobody did, so…” He shrugs. “I don’t mean to offend you, but with an ass like that and those sky-high fuck-me boots, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.” He shrugs again and walks away.

I look over at my husband again who appears to be holding court with about six attentive listeners, male and female, and not even throwing a glance at me. He normally goes Neanderthal when somebody approaches me or tries to put the moves on me. This time, he didn’t even blink. I don’t even think he noticed.

I go to the kitchen and pour myself another glass of wine. I empty the glass just as quickly as I filled it, then pour another and empty that one, too. And suddenly, I’m exhausted. I’ve been smiling and laughing and conversing and being hostess #2 so that my beloved sister doesn’t overdo it, and now, I want to collapse somewhere and rest—alone. All by myself. In peace.

I look around and no one notices that I’ve left the party. Even my beloved sister is occupied with her previous coworkers. She looks very happy. Good. I quietly open the door to the patio and slip outside.

I welcome the cool air, and the silence. With the lights inside, nobody’s likely to see me out here. Solitude. I have to say that I’m glad to have it. I don’t know how long I’ve been smiling at people and making merry, but I’ve had enough. I sit on the chaise which luckily has an afghan thrown over it and snuggle in looking out at the water—the only thing that has never let me down. If I didn’t want to ruin my heels or freeze to death in the water, I’d walk across the grass, take off my boots, and put my feet in it. My blue savior…

A stranger noticed that my husband was ignoring me, but only because he was watching me all night waiting for his chance to make a move. Nonetheless, a stranger noticed that my husband was ignoring me. When I realized that, I suddenly felt like everyone in the room knew that he was ignoring me. I know that’s not true, but that could be why those who felt so brave as to approach him did so. They thought he was unattached.

A chill runs through me. I’m so fucking tired of feeling this way in some way or another—like something in my life always has to fucking be fixed! Give me a goddamn break!

But this does have to be fixed. I’m just too damn tired to fix it now.

Looking at the water now makes me think of Anguilla, the good and the bad. The promises we made to each other; the passionate love we made; me feeling like I wouldn’t be able to handle intense scenes; the first appearance of the nightmares; Christian screaming at me for answering his phone; all that goddamn candy; standing in the water and feeling it cleanse me…

Somehow, my mind drifts all the way back to when we met. God, I hated that guy, he was the most arrogant, spiteful, conceited son-of-a-bitch I’d ever met in my life. God, what an asshole! How someone could be so cold and unfeeling…

“You planning to jump in?”

Val’s voice jolts me out of my inner musings.

“Jesus, Val, you scared the shit outta me!” I scold.

“You didn’t hear me come outside?” she asks. I look behind me into the house, and it’s almost empty. How long have I been out here?

“You’re trying to kill yourself out here, huh?” she says, holding my coat out to me.

“I’m wrapped in an afghan,” I defend, taking my coat. “I’m not completely unprotected.”

“True, but I bet the coat feels better,” she says, and I have to agree with her when I wrap myself in its warmth. I pull my gloves out of the pockets and cover my hands, thankful for that warmth as well.

“Don’t forget your scarf,” she says handing it to me and I wrap it around my neck. We’re interrupted by one of her serving staff coming onto the patio with warm drinks—spiced lattes. They’re delicious, and very welcome.

“Now, tell me what’s going on,” she says. I raise my gaze to her, nearly begging her not to make me reveal the cause of my absconding, but she’s not going to relent.

“Sometimes, I just need a few moments to myself, that’s all,” I tell her, and it’s the truth. “I told you that Jason helped me realize that I’m suffering from PTSD…” She nods. “Well, there are moments when I need to talk it out, and then there are moments when I just need to sit in a quiet place.”

“So, is that what’s going on?” she prods. “You’re having a bout of your PTSD?”

“No,” the word is out of my mouth before I even have the chance to formulate a lie. “Your house is gorgeous. It really is, but that yellow stucco is horrendous. And when we drove up to the house and I saw that yellow stucco, my mouth and brain disconnected. I swear, I didn’t say anything horrible about the house, but my tone was enough to let Christian know that I was not pleased with the yellow stucco.”

“Is that what this is about?” Val says, unable to hide her mirth. “You two are bickering over the ugly yellow stucco?”

“Well, yes and no,” I reply. “He told me not to come in here insulting your house because you might throw me out. Then he said that if it were him, he’d throw me out, too—and I took offense to that. I can’t remember what all happened after that, but the situation just went south and… here I am. I’m just hoping that the situation will blow over and tomorrow, we’ll just be back to normal.

“It seems like I spend so much time exploring my feelings and looking out for everybody else’s. I filled the pages of three journals already—do you have any idea how much writing that is? And when I start to feel the angst of my situation, I’ll talk to anyone who’ll listen…”

Yes, I know,” she interjects, somewhat absent-mindedly. I raise my gaze to her again.

“Does it bother you?” I ask, disheartened. She’s probably heard the lion’s share of my troubles over the last week.

“Are you kidding?” she exclaims. “No! Of course not! Seriously, Steele?” and I think I may have offended her just now. Great… but I can’t focus on it at this moment.

“Day after day after day of rolling over my feelings, trying to be mindful of others so that I don’t say or do the wrong thing, and then nine times out of ten, the wrong thing flies out my mouth anyway. My shrink threw me out of his office yesterday. Did I tell you that?”

“No!” she says in horror. “Why did he do that?”

“Because I probably did the same thing to him that I just did to Christian,” I admit. “If my feelings are all a-scramble, apparently I mindlessly say and do things that alienate people from me.” I sigh and take a sip of the warming coffee, the only inner warmth I’ll probably feel for the rest of the night.

“Well, I only knew something was wrong because I know you,” she says. “You were the picture of decorum at the party tonight. Everybody really liked you.”

“I don’t think they would let on if they didn’t,” I say with a sad smile.

“I would know if they didn’t,” she reassures me. “I know these people.” I sip my coffee again.

“Wait a minute… You called it ‘ugly yellow stucco.’ You think it’s ugly, too?” I ask bemused.

“Well… it wouldn’t have been my first choice,” she replies. I roll my eyes.

“Then why don’t you change it?” I ask in horror. “You live here now!”

“Because like I told you, it’s condo!” she replies, restating the obvious. “I have full reign of the inside of the house, but the outside—nope. I can’t change the stucco, and the HOA requires that the houses all be some kind of uniform related color. The only other options I have are white, tan, or some other dreadful neutral color, so I’ll spare myself the expense and spend my money on the inside. Besides, yellow is the color of sunshine and I’ve psyched myself out to believe that it’s a beautiful blend with the trees when they’re green and with the blue water all year long.”

“Isn’t it exhausting looking on the bright side of the street all the time?” I accuse wearily.

“I have to, Steele. I’m a cancer survivor. I coulda been dead. For me, being alive, living and loving El, having all my family and friends over today to view my beautiful house… that is the bright side of the street.”


CHRISTIAN

The party is over. I’ve surprisingly made a few connections with people at Val’s job. I had no intention of networking, but when they found out who I was, it was inevitable—and surprisingly productive.

I lost track of my wife early in the evening, which is a bit of a good thing. I simply did not have time or energy for her childish behavior. When the party starts to thin, and Elliot suggests going back to the man cave, I jump at the opportunity.

“Well, this was an interesting night,” Elliot says, drinking his soda.

“Besides the obvious, how so?” I ask.

“Well, it depends on what you’re considering ‘obvious,’” he says. “For instance, when you say ‘obvious,’ do you mean the fact that you and Montana didn’t stay in the same area for 30 seconds? Or are you referring to the fact that when the company whore was hitting on you, she didn’t climb over furniture to scratch her eyes out? Or was it more obvious that you didn’t turn into Tarzan when that guy was hitting on her?” My brow furrows. Some guy was hitting on my wife? “And I take it by that expression that the last bit of information wasn’t so obvious.”

“Who was hitting on her?” I ask. Elliot shakes his head.

“What should concern you more is that I was entertaining and watching approximately 50 people today and I knew that you weren’t speaking to your wife. She was so friendly to everybody except you that you would have thought this was her housewarming. What the fuck, man? Is the honeymoon over.” I roll my eyes.

“The honeymoon’s been over for a long time, Elliot, but it doesn’t mean that I love her any less.”

“Then what gives, man?” he confronts again. “You two are generally inseparable at things like this, so much that only an idiot—like Lily—would dare hit on either of you, let alone someone approach both of you. So, what’s up with that?”

I’m still miffed that someone hit on my wife and I didn’t know about it. Why didn’t he tell me when it happened? How many people hit on her tonight that Elliot didn’t see? I know the felines were in rare form clawing at me tonight. I damn near had to beat one off with a stick. That must have been the company whore that Elliot was talking about. How many hounds were sniffing after my wife?

“Look, man,” Elliot says after I pause for a little too long. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. In all honesty, it’s really none of my business anyway. But if your Butterfly means as much to you as my Angel does to me, you better get to the bottom of this instead of letting it fester and hoping that it goes away… just like that fucking tumor.” I rubberneck over to him.

“What?” I ask. “Is the tumor back.”

“No,” he snaps vehemently, “not that we know of, now stop trying to change the subject.”

He clearly doesn’t want to talk about that subject and I hope he was just speaking in retrospect and Valerie’s tumor isn’t coming back. That was a hard time for all of us.

“Tell me, man. Who was hitting on my wife?” I ask.

“I don’t know the guy,” he says. “He either works at Angel’s old job or he was somebody’s plus one. Whatever he said to Montana, he was dismissed pretty quickly, and then I didn’t see her for the rest of the night.” The rest of the night.

“What? Did she go off with the guy?” I ask before my brain can catch up to my mouth.

“What the fuck do you think?” Elliot barks angrily. “Do you think that your wife and the mother of your two children went off somewhere with a strange man at a party that she never met before? Because if you do, then there’s a whole lot more amiss than you’re letting on. And the fact that you had to ask that question means that this conversation is over, and you need to get up, go downstairs and find your fucking wife!”

Geez, and he’s mad. And he’s right. I don’t know what even made me consider the possibility that Butterfly would do something like that. I really feel like shit for thinking that. She’s still beating herself up for letting that Liam fucker get too close.

“What are you waiting for?” Elliot snaps. “Directions?”

“Keep your shirt on,” I retort. “I don’t think my wife went off with somebody else. I’m just pissed that someone approached my wife and it wasn’t brought to my attention sooner.”

“Yeah, save that anger for yourself, because if you had been paying attention, nobody would have had to tell you. You were heading that guy Brian off at her adoption party faster than he could get the words out his mouth. Now this guy makes a move, moves on, and your wife disappears, and you want to blame somebody else for that? Shut up talking to me and go find your wife.”

“I’m not blaming…”

“Shut up talking to me and go find your wife!” he snaps. God! Okay! Damn! I stand up and walk to the door heading downstairs.

When I get to the main floor, Valerie is in the kitchen with one of the remaining staff, and there’s no Butterfly.

“So, where’s my wife?” I ask somewhat impassively.

“Sulking,” Valerie says with a shrug. My brow furrows as I await elaboration, and she points to the glass wall on the other side of the living room. There on a chaise just outside the glass is a mop of mahogany hair. I can’t see anything else. I roll my eyes, shake my head and sigh.

Why does this woman always seem to escape to the coldest part of the world when she needs to be alone? It’s November, in Washington, at two in the morning. Why the fuck is she on the patio? And ten will get you twenty that she’s asleep out there. Elliot appears just at that moment.

“Our lodgings for the night, good sir and madam?” I request.

“Through there and at the end of the hallway,” Elliot says. “It’s the biggest room besides mine and Val’s.” I nod and head for one of the sets of double doors. When I step out onto the patio, I take in the sight of my tiny wife. She’s snuggled in her coat and scarf and wrapped in another blanket so tight and so small that I can barely make out a body under there. Either she’s fighting the cold with a vengeance…

Or she’s shrinking.

“What am I going to do with you?” I lament aloud. I lean down to the chaise and gather her in my arms, blanket and all. She doesn’t even stir—and she’s warm, so it’s not the cold. When I cross the threshold back into the house, Elliot is waiting to close the door behind me.

“Thanks for a great party, you guys,” I tell them. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

“Not too early,” Elliot says with a nod and a smile. I acknowledge his request and carry my shrinking wife to our temporary boudoir. When I lay her in the bed, she shrinks again—so small and so tight that I can’t get her coat off. I can either wake her to get her coat off or just let her sleep. So, I remove her boots and let her stay there before taking my duffel to the en suite for a shower.

Gentle sunrays wake me in the morning and I immediately know that I’m not in my own bed—and that I’m alone. I dress in my workout gear and sneakers and take off for a run. She’s somewhere in the house, I’m sure, and I’ll talk to her when I get back.

I run through all the things I need to be doing today as my feet pound the cold pavement. For me, Sunday is just a day to prepare for the week ahead—meetings to be had tomorrow and mergers to discuss; acquisitions to finalize…

Smalls and his team will be on their way back to Detroit today and everything in the storage units will have a home or a destination by end of business, Friday. Anything that remains will be shipped back here by my shipping department and housed in one of our numerous warehouses. If anyone wants something after it’s been shipped here to be stored, they may have to pay some kind of fee for waiting so long to claim it unless there’s a really good reason for it. There’s nearly two weeks to decide if they want something on the list, and it’s all free!

The bed was empty when I awoke, so that means that Butterfly was already up and about. I didn’t see her anywhere when I left the house, and Elliot and Valerie were still asleep—or at least they hadn’t emerged yet. I don’t know how far I ran, but when my chest starts to burn, I turn around and start the trip back. Good Lord, it feels like my heart is going to explode. It’s most likely from the exertion and the cold air pumping through my chest. When I get back to the house, I take a deep breath and that aforementioned cold air stabs me in the throat. Shit, I need to warm up.

Imagine my dismay when I discover that the house has automatic locking doors.

I walk through the jungle garden to the back of the house to see if one of the patio doors are open and there I find my wife—in the same place I retrieved her from last night. If I couldn’t tell by the change of clothes, I would have thought she slept out here. She looks calm and serene and her eyes are closed. I then realize that she’s meditating. I won’t disturb her.

I go back to the front of the house and knock, hoping that someone besides Butterfly will hear me. Luckily, the woman from the kitchen the night before opens the door and looks at me expecting.

“Yes?” she says.

“I’m… Christian Grey. Elliot’s brother… I locked myself out when I went for a run.”

Her brow furrows, the realization dawns.

“Oh, yes! I’m sorry. Please come in.” She steps aside and lets me in. I have to say, warmth has never felt so good.

“Thank you,” I say. I peek out onto the patio. Butterfly wasn’t disturbed. That’s good. I have time to go take a shower and put on some clean clothes before I talk to her.


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

Pictures of Val and Elliot’s house can be seen at https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/val-and-elliots-house-in-kirkland/

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 in the menu our you can click HERE.

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

 ~~love and handcuffs

 

 

 

 

Fifty Shades Golden: Chapter 16

This is a work of creativity. As such, you may see words, concepts, scenes, actions, behaviors, pictures, implements, and people that may or may not be socially acceptable and/or offensive. If you are sensitive to adverse and alternative subject matter of any kind, please do not proceed, because I guarantee you’ll find it here. You have been warned. Read at your own risk.

Explicit details of sex and BDSM scenes from here on out. Some may be hot while others may not be to your taste… and not necessary CG with Ana together. Proceed at your own discretion, but don’t say that I didn’t warn you.

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

 CHAPTER 16

Briana Evigan 16

GOLDEN

“Detective Bhingman.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you want?” she asks without acknowledging who I am. “I have things to do, cases to solve.”

“Well, detective, that’s why I’m calling. You and I both know who most likely beat the hell out of Elena Lincoln. You just don’t want to pursue it. Since you worked the night shift last night, I won’t keep you long. Has anyone bothered trying to locate Caldwell Lincoln? Has anyone looked at his face to see if he’s been in a brawl? Did anyone process the crime scene or the crime kit from Elena Lincoln to see that Mr. Grey’s statement to the press this morning was true, and he hasn’t been anywhere near that woman?”

“Press…?” Oh, dear God, tell me this Keystone Cop is not just finding out from me that Christian did a press release this morning.

“Yes, press,” I inform her. “He’s a billionaire who was wrongly arrested and detained for assault. You had to know he would go to the media with this.”

“Yeah, they usually do.”

They? Who the fuck is they?

“Detective is it only the rich and beautiful that you despise or do you just dislike people in general?” I ask. She doesn’t respond, because she knows that I hit that nail on the head.

“I’m used to the rich and beautiful trying to use the press to their advantage,” she says finally. “It won’t dispel the fact that your Mr. Grey is a person of interest.”

“A person of interest, hmm,” I say, contemplating the phrase. “So, he’s still a person of interest even though his alibi is airtight. That’s interesting. You must really like wasting your time.”

“Which is exactly what I’m doing on this phone call. So, would you kindly tell me why you’re calling?” she seethes.

“I just told you,” I say. “I gave you a very solid lead that you should follow if you’re truly interested in catching the actual guilty party who brutalized Elena Lincoln.” She scoffs into the phone.

“Why don’t you stick to… whatever it is that you do and leave the police work to the professionals, okay?” Oh, this bitch…

“I can always let your chief know that I called with a very solid lead, and you ignored it. The choice is yours. And another thing… Christian Grey is going to fucking bury you. So, you might as well have something to show for it when the dust clears.”

“Christian Grey can’t do shit to me. I was doing my job,” she says haughtily.

“Yeah… okay. Keep hope alive. In the meantime, follow the lead or I’ll give it to somebody else.”

“Nobody else would be able to take it. It’s my case,” she retorts.

“That’s what you think,” I say. “Do you want me to show you how wrong you are?”

“Do your worst,” she taunts.

“Done!” I snap. “And Rita, I think a really good anal fuck would dislodge that pole that you have stuck up your ass. You should really look into that—assuming you could find somebody with a dick that’s bigger than yours who’s willing to fuck you. Have a good day.”

I say the last part with syrupy sweetness before hanging up in her ear.

“Blake?” I call out to him. It’s amazing to me that no matter where he is in the house, he can always hear me. In a few moments, he appears inside the door.

“Yes, Mistress?”

“I need my laptop and tablet, dear,” I tell him, “and a glass of water, please…”

*-*

“Mis… Ms. Olivet! To what do I owe the honor of this call?”

“Chief McCulley, I always adore hearing your voice, but I wish I could say that this is a social call,” I purr.

“I am, of course, at your service. What can I do for you?”

“I’m asking a favor that shouldn’t have to be asked,” I say somewhat sorrowfully. “I’m only asking that a detective of the Kirkland Police Department put her personal feelings aside and follow a very valid lead from a reliable source before the trail runs dry.”

“That sounds reasonable. Who’s the source?”

“Me,” I inform him.

“Reliable, indeed,” he confirms. “And who’s the detective?”

“Rita Bhingman.”

“She’s one of the best. I can’t imagine she wouldn’t take a lead very seriously.”

“Have you been apprised of the handling of the case involving the assault on Elena Lincoln?” I ask.

“Not fully, no, but I’ve heard some tidbits.”

“Allow me to apprise you…”

I give him the details of the case thus far as well as my involvement, being careful to illuminate Christian’s current search for new legal counsel as the reason for our meeting. I outlined Christian’s arrest, our treatment by the police department—Bhingman in particular, including her not-so-flattering nickname for me, and the lead that I had given her as well as her flippant response.

“Hmm… Grey. It’s a wonder I haven’t already gotten a call on that one. I know that he’s friends with the mayor and his father golfs with the governor. I would have bet my badge that they would have had an airtight case before they even thought to detain him.”

“Well, sometimes even the best can screw up, and that’s okay as long as you recognize your mistake and do what’s necessary to fix it. She doesn’t appear in any hurry to do so, and I don’t know if it’s because she personally doesn’t like me or if she’s trying to nail the big fish here, and it’s blinding her to the facts. Here are the facts, Fred.

“Caldwell Lincoln visited Christian Grey yesterday at his office to confront him about Christian’s growing timber interest. This is not a secret—he just did a press release on this. Lincoln left the office angry around 6-ish and Christian left his office and met me. I will testify to that; my butler will testify to that; and I’ve recently learned that he has tracking devices in his vehicle that can confirm its whereabouts as well.

“Not two hours after he leaves Christian’s office in a huff, Lincoln’s wife is beaten within an inch of her life and he has disappeared. Mrs. Lincoln fingers Christian, but has the hospital taken DNA evidence from this woman? Christian appears on television this morning barefaced and in a short-sleeved T-shirt—not a scratch or defensive scar on him—hands, arms, and face as smooth as a baby’s bottom. Has anybody seen Mr. Lincoln? Can he say the same?”

“If he’s skipped town, though, there’s no way for us to see if he’s bruised,” Fred replies.

“That’s true, but the absence of scars on Christian Grey coupled with the absence of his DNA on Mrs. Lincoln not to mention his impeccable alibi should clear him of any charges, yet Detective Bhingman informs me that he’s still a person of interest. Now, this is a long shot, but unless Mr. Lincoln left on a ferry boat or cruise ship, he most likely caught a flight out of SeaTac last night. A facial recognition scan of the airport would determine if he was there. Review of his bank records will tell you where he travelled and might indicate where he is now if he booked lodging.”

“That’s a lot of work to capture someone for an assault on his wife,” he laments.

“I understand, Fred,” I say, pretending to capitulate. “I guess this case will just go unsolved, then… unless Bhingman wants to go pick up Bill Gates or Howard Schultz next.” I hear him sigh.

“I see your point,” he says. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“That’s all I ask, and Fred? Grey is livid—he’s out for blood and I’m sure he’ll take this matter as far up as it can possibly go. Expect that call from the mayor… fair warning.”

“Thanks for the heads up,” he says. “You’re a true treasure as always,” he adds with admiration.

“Thank you, my dear. It’s always a pleasure.”

*-*

I don’t watch much television, but I’ve been trying to keep up with the local news to see if there have been any leads on the brutalized socialite still confined to Seattle General Hospital two days after her attack. Of course, there have been no arrests. Why? Because that stupid ass detective is still probably chasing behind Christian instead of tracking down Caldwell Lincoln. I know the type of information and clearances that they need to check out the security cameras at SeaTac and to look into his bank accounts can’t be acquired overnight, but that’s all the evidence they’re going to have to nab this guy because in a couple more days, he’s going to be bruise-free.

I have to go to court in the morning and as far as I know, dear old Uncle Richard won’t be on any of the cases that I’m on, so I don’t have to worry about that… I hope. Nonetheless, I need to loosen up and I don’t want to go to any of the clubs. I need a different kind of release tonight.

I find myself at Divine Movement with a pole room to myself for two hours—just what I need. I haven’t done any new routines since Dirty Diana, so I just spin awhile and allow some of the new music to play. I don’t feel the vibe on anything as all the new music is crap to me. I don’t necessarily have to listen to old school all the time. It’s not like it’s my thing or anything, but the new shit is just that… shit.

I hear a beat that I like though I don’t recognize the song and it prompts me to do a few curls and leg extensions.

Wow, this sound is really groovy.

I do a few floor moves and begin to pay attention to the words of the song. They’re familiar, but the beat is completely different. After a minute or so of feeling the groove, I realize that I’m listening to a cover of Maneater. It sounds nothing like the original, but it has a sinful beat and is motivating me to try some moves…

So I do.

I push my limits and do a super-fast spin on the rotating pole in an impossible position. I even impress myself with that move. I guess I should be thanking Kevin for those times that he held me in those pretzel yoga poses so that he could stare at my ass. I ponder for a moment if this should be the next song to which I formulate a new routine. After all, I am a maneater. But no… it’s got a nice beat, but it’s not what I’m looking for.

Next is another cover of another oldie… Love is a Battlefield. I like this one, too, and it causes me to bend and stretch and curl into positions that I didn’t know I could achieve. When I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror wall, I’m hanging upside down with my ass sticking out and my muscular legs pointing back towards the pole, but my feet and legs aren’t touching it. Every curve and every sinew of every muscle—even my ass—is defined and sculpted, suspended in the air like a magnificent statue.

Fuck. That looks hot!

I commit the pose to memory along with the insane spin I created in the impossible position to add to my new routine. The next song that I hear seals it for me. Yet another cover, this one is Tainted Love, and it’s hot and sensual as fuck!

I spend the next hour and twenty minutes doing incredible moves and poses to make onlookers gasp, the entire time Tainted Love is playing in my head…

Morning comes and I’m a little stiff from my pole workout, a sign that I may need to spend more time at the studio. I almost dread putting my hair back in its traditional bun for court, but I do that on purpose. I don’t want anybody—judges, DA’s, clients, nobody—looking at my beauty and taking my skills for granted. Know that I’m very serious when you see me coming. That’s why it’s serious professional no fucking frills when I’m headed to court—except for the stilettos.

As expected, I didn’t face off with Richard Steele—one of his colleagues this time. I came ready to do battle since I didn’t know what to expect. As it turns out, my petrified client, his mother, and I sat for hours waiting to present our motion to dismiss… and the DA beat us to it! It appears that “new evidence” surfaced that pointed to a different suspect and exonerated my client. When I asked for the evidence to be presented, that motion was denied based on the fact that my client had been cleared and that I am no longer representing the accused party in this case. For some reason, I think that’s just a matter of time.

Well, that was a day wasted, but the outcome was pretty much the same. My client is going home cleared of the charges… but who’s about to take the fall?

I stop in the ladies’ room to relieve myself and just as I’m about to leave, who do I see standing outside of one of the courtrooms talking to what looks like another plain-clothed detective?

Bhingman.

I’m not looking for a confrontation, but I’m sure as hell not going to avoid her. It’s not like I could anyway, because just as I’m putting my purse on my shoulder and preparing to proceed towards the door, she shifts her gaze and sees me walking out of the ladies’ room. She begins a heated stride towards me, so I proceed in her direction as well. What, do you think I’m going to run, bitch?

“Olivet!” she snaps once she has closed the distance between us.

Bhingman!” I retort with just as much malice as she delivered, if not more.

“I bet you thought that was cute, didn’t you?” she hisses.

“Nothing I do is cute, detective, but I’m just dying to know what you’re talking about,” I reply.

“I’ve got nearly every elected official in a 100-mile radius crawling up my ass because of you and your pretty boy!” she seethes. I scoff.

“Is that what you see?” I ask incredulously. “A pretty boy? I’ll admit that he’s nice on the eyes, but you’re missing a whole lot here, Cagney,” I say before closing the remaining space between us.

“Christian Grey is power,” I inform her, my voice low, “more power than you’ll ever know or see in your life. You, my little guppy, ran into the shark tank and tried to bite the fucking shark! Now, that shark is preparing to eat you alive. What the hell did you expect—for him to roll over while you try to pin a crime on him that he didn’t commit? What new type of insanity are you suffering from? That man wiggles his little finger and empires fall, and you don’t think he has the power to land you on a desk job in a lighthouse on the outskirts of nowhere?”

She doesn’t know how to answer, so she turns the conversation onto me and my lead.

“You come in with an idea and you want us to drop everything and chase behind some hunch that you have! There’s a process to police work!” she retorts. “You don’t just jump off a cliff onto a lead without proper protocol!”

“And yet, that’s exactly what you did,” I remind her. “You jumped right off the cliff and landed on the wrong suspect and you’re too asinine to admit it. You went on the word of a woman laid up in the hospital with an obvious ax to grind and nothing else! No witnesses, no DNA, no evidence, nothing! If this is what you call police work, I’m on the wrong side, because the bad guys are getting away and the good guys are constantly in court defending their innocence from blind and bigoted cops who find the most ridiculous reasons not to like them!”

“What I don’t like, Olivet, is people with money and friends in high places who can tell the police not to do their job!” she counters.

To this point, I had been quiet, keeping my voice low. Now, I’m getting angry, because she’s completely ignoring everything I’m saying.

“And I don’t like police who don’t do their jobs!” I retort angrily. She’s a bit taken aback by the force of my statement. “Do you have any idea how many pro-bono cases I take because some lazy ass flatfoot or some gung-ho cop grabbed the wrong kid and was too concerned with nabbin’ somebody instead of getting to the truth? ‘He’s here; he’ll do; fuck that the real culprit is still out there and will probably commit another crime before the day is over,’ right, detective?”

I pause and wait for a response, but I get none. I know that I don’t need one, because I already know that I’m right. I’ve seen it too many times.

“You think whatever the fuck you want to think about me,” I snap. “I don’t care! The fact is that Christian Grey is not your guy. He did not attack that woman, and the real offender is probably on a beach in Cancun sipping mai tais while his bruises heal! And you’re here splitting hairs with me while Mr. Grey has already filed his suit for false arrest. You allowed the woman who assaulted him months ago and left him with broken bones, who is currently under an open protection order to finger him as her attacker with no evidence and you detained him even though he told you he had an alibi. When his alibi checks out, you get mad at me because I’m the one who had dinner with him!

“He’s friends with the mayor; did you know that? Chief McCulley let me in on that tiny tidbit of information. If he had been dining with the mayor that night instead of me, would you be treating the mayor this way? Why are you really pissed, Ms. Bhingman? Is it because you can’t move forward with the case? Is it because you think we’re lying? Or is it because he’s an innocent man and you can’t pin the crime on him?”

She wants to answer, but she looks from left to right, noting that a few people are observing to see why my voice has risen. I also take note of that fact and employ Golden’s take-no-prisoners attitude and tone for my next message. I lean in to her so that inquiring ears aren’t privy to the conversation, but she can hear me loud and clear.

“I’m going to give you a bit of advice,” I say. “I called the chief of police. Mr. Grey will most likely contact the mayor—if he hasn’t already—and his father golfs with the governor. That’s how many degrees of separation you are from an administrative reprimand or worse. You’re trying swim waters that are way too deep for you. This major waterway is a whole lot more rapid than the little pond that you’re accustomed to wading in. Don’t go chasing waterfalls, detective. You just might drown.

“And yes, you’re dealing with a rich man who knows people in high places, but that’s not your biggest problem. Your biggest problem is that when this case blows wide open—and it will—I’ll be right there with our recorded conversation telling the press that I gave you the solid lead before the reward-chasing nuts started calling you and you ignored me simply because you didn’t like me.

“Now I suggest you get your head out of your ass, your nose out of the air and stick that stank ass superior attitude in your fucking pocket and do your goddamn job. I’ll play by the book and I’ll respect your position as long as you respect me, and if you can’t do that, then you stay the fuck out of my face unless you have questions—or answers—about the case. I have a lot of strings in my little violin case, detective. I’ve only pulled one of them!”

Her eyes are screaming that she wants to ask me if that was a threat—you know, like they do in the movies—but of course, she won’t because she already knows that it was. You have to wonder where someone’s mind is that they feel confident enough to threaten a cop, even if the threat is veiled.

Don’t push me, Missy. This isn’t about Christian Grey anymore. This is about me and you.

I can only assume that something in my gaze indicates that I’m ready for a full-on duel if that’s what she wants. Apparently, it’s not. She slowly brushes past me and proceeds down the hall.

“Have a good day, detective,” I call after her before heading in the opposite direction.


Eric Dane 16 small

TREY

I have fifteen messages when I get out of the meeting with Brandon, all from CEO’s in the lumber industry—Linc’s colleagues and some of his competitors. I have Andrea organize the messages and arrange a schedule of callbacks during the course of the afternoon.

And one more, from my father.

“I hear you’re looking for new legal counsel,” he says, when I return the call.

“How did you hear that?” I ask.

“Word gets around,” he says. This is the sum-total of my life. My father and brother are both snakes.

“What do you need, Dad?” I ask.

“This whole thing with Elena Lincoln,” he begins, “what’s the real story there?” And here we go.

“There is no story,” I reply. “She’s a delusional bitch who used to be a friend and now she’s not. And if there was a story, I’d be off my fucking rocker to tell you. You’re about as trustworthy as a scorpion.”

“Christian!” he says, mocking injury. “You wound me!”

“Not yet, but I could…” if you don’t keep your nose out of my fucking business.

“You’re not threatening me, are you, son?” he asks coolly.

“You take it how you want to,” I say. “Just take it the fuck out of my personal affairs. That bitch hit me with a potted plant because she thinks I’m responsible for the fall of her business, and now she’s fingering me for some shit I didn’t do as revenge and caused me to spend a night in jail. I’m going to destroy her for that shit. Now, as you can see, I’ve got enough of my own fucking problems without you sniffing around trying to find some where there are none. Stay the fuck out of my life, Dad, and if this is the bullshit you call me with, don’t bother calling me at all!”

I end the call without another word and summon Andrea.

“Yes sir,” she says through the intercom.

“If my father calls, don’t patch him through to my voice mail and don’t take a message.”

“Yes sir,” she says without hesitation.

*-*

The sixth day after that bitch had me arrested, there’s a break in the case.

I knew that my outrageous reward would mean that the police would be inundated with crackpots just looking to cash in, and boy did that work. They got calls from everywhere—people who claimed to be witnesses to the attack and know who did it; people who clearly teamed up for one to report the crime and the other to take the fall with the intention of splitting the reward money once it was collected; and of course, various sightings of Linc.

The fact that on live television, I questioned where he was while his wife was injured and in the hospital shed light on him as a person of interest, but that Bhingman bitch wouldn’t get off my ass. She would show up at places where I was having lunch with clients and sit there and watch me or she’d be standing across the street when I got out of the office. As I’m escorting some key officers of a company I’m planning to merge with to their limousines, I see her sitting in her car not a hundred feet away from the front door of Grey House. I was trying not to call in any favors and do this by the book, but this has to stop.

“I’m willing to take to social media with this harassment,” I say to Bhingman’s superior. “Everywhere I look, there she is. I didn’t commit this crime. While you may not know who did commit it, you have proof that I was nowhere near that woman. Yet, this crazy cow is everywhere I go, like a psychotic groupie! If I did the same thing to her, you’d have me in cuffs, but she gets to do it to me because she has a badge?”

“Mr. Grey, I do apologize,” he says. “She’s just following a lead, and she’s required to be thorough in her investigation…”

“And while she’s thoroughly harassing me after I’ve been cleared, the real culprit is running around out there and she’s not solving the crime! That’s okay. You go on and sit on your butt. I’ll handle this myself.”

I put in the call to the mayor that I was trying to avoid, and to the governor since he’s good friends with my slimy father. I give them the details of the case and let them know that I’m not looking for any favors—I just want her to leave me alone and go catch the real culprit. Within an hour, she was away from my door and I haven’t seen her since.

The best news came in the form of pictures forwarded to me and to various members of the press this morning. A tip came in that was, once again, ignored by the police, so the tipster took to social media and the web. She posted pictures of a badly bruised Caldwell Lincoln checking into a swanky hotel somewhere, as well as a few pictures of him in compromising positions in a nightclub and on the beach with more than one woman… in the Bahamas.

The Bahamas? Seriously? He’s in the Bahamas? Of all the places that loser could abscond to, he went to the Bahamas? For the love of God…

The pictures are very clear, and he looks like utter hell—horrible scratches, a black eye, he’s got a chipped tooth, and bite marks on his hands. She may have taken a beating, but she beat the hell out of him, too.

Once the pictures were released, suddenly the cops announce that they have DNA evidence that eliminates me as a suspect and incriminates her husband. Because she fought back, she had his blood on her and a lot of DNA evidence under her nails. Her house was still a crime scene and with her still recuperating in the hospital, CSI just went back in and took hairs from Linc’s brush.

When they were questioned about why they sat on the evidence or what may have taken so long, a spokesperson indicates that Elena and Linc shared a common space, so they couldn’t immediately assume that he was the culprit just because his DNA was present.

“But you could immediately arrest a man whose DNA wasn’t present based solely on the word of a woman who attacked him several months prior?” I hear one of the reporters ask.

Bullseye!

Needless to say, they are looking to extradite Linc back to the states, assuming they can get it done. And he’s most likely going to stall to give his wounds some time to heal.

Almost simultaneously, I get the notification that Elena is being released from the hospital and has requested police protection—from me! The request was vehemently denied, and she was advised to employ private security if she feels threatened.

Lying ass cow, you should be afraid of me!

My small victory lap is interrupted by Andrea informing me that my 2:00 has arrived. I’ve been interviewing for new legal counsel. Dad probably heard that from just having his ear to the ground as I’m not keeping it a secret. What I am keeping a secret is that I’m looking for an asshole—not a yes man, but someone who understands that I hold the power and doesn’t try to step on my toes like Rockford did. He was once an asshole—still is, actually… he just got too comfortable and lost his edge. Then he decided to play that game with me that lost him his job.

Once they’ve been vetted and cleared, I personally sit down with candidates that will hold key positions in my company, particularly legal. I’ve met with several applicants that were intelligent, industrious, and ambitious—but they sucked up to me too much, or they recited my portfolio like they memorized it right before the meeting, or they just didn’t have the edge.

This guy does.

Daron Wester—very cocky. He’s good and he knows it. He’s currently employed with another corporation downtown, but when he heard about the opening in Grey House, he couldn’t allow the opportunity to pass him by.

“I’m a shark, Mr. Grey,” he says, “I smell blood in the water and I go for it. I’ve been filling up on goldfish for the last few years and I’m tired of it now. So, do you have some meat that I can chew on, or should I take my inquiries elsewhere?”

Oh, I’ve got meat alright. Let’s throw you a few morsels and see how you work out.

I hire the guy for the probationary period, which is usually three months, but he negotiates six instead with the requirement that he gets to work the entire six months at his agreed upon salary without fear of dismissal except in cases of gross misconduct or breach of contract. He’s convinced that he would truly have nothing to sink his teeth into in three months and therefore, wouldn’t be able to show his chops. He’s right.

He’s shrewd. I like him already.

Sink your teeth into suing the municipality that had me wrongfully arrested, destroying the bitch who wrongfully accused me, and gathering the needed information and contacts to uproot Caldwell Lincoln as the timber giant of the United States. By the time I’m done with this piece of shit, he’ll go from being Paul Bunyan to Tom Thumb.

Daron is all for that idea.

I want to get a message to Linc so badly that I know what he did and I’m taking him down but contact with him right now is definitely not a good idea. The best way to get the message to him is to just pull the rug out from under him and keep it moving.

My afternoon is filled with meetings from various representatives of the timber industry. The verdicts are mixed. Many of them don’t know which side to take. Linc has been in the catbird seat in the industry for so long that his name certainly holds clout with the powers that be. However…

“There’s a new face on the timber scene, now, Mr. Granger,” I point out to the President CEO of Wurchiest, one of the largest lumber suppliers in the United States. I don’t let on that having him on my side would most likely be the biggest coup ever and would secure my position in the industry. However, this is personal, and he knows that even if I don’t say so. Wurchiest boasts 12 million acres of timberland in the US alone and produces the lion’s share of wood and paper products from its mills in the northwest and the Midwest.

“You’ve got me in a precarious position, Grey,” Granger says. “I know you’re a corporate giant, but when it comes to timber, you’re an upstart. Lincoln has been in this business for decades and his name is not one that’s spoken softly. A man in my position can’t afford to run behind someone who’s simply trying to satisfy a vendetta only for him to lose interest three or four years down the line and I’ve alienated one of the most powerful men in the business.” I nod.

“I see,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “I can understand you wanting to play it safe, but I have to ask you—and this is not a set-up. Are you a powerhouse on your own, or does your success depend on Lincoln Timber? Ultimately, you just have to decide where you’re going to be standing when the weapons are dropped, and the fight is over and the way I see it, you shouldn’t have to worry about alienating Lincoln. He should be worried about alienating you.

“I don’t need to tell you about GEH’s impressive holdings across several industries. I’m a corporate giant not because I tame the bulls, but because I run with them and sometimes, I capture them. You don’t get to be who I am by playing it safe.

“Lincoln has gotten comfortable. He knows what you know, that his name means something, but that’s all he’s got right now is his name. His contracts are antiquated and the deals that I’m offering are causing his longest-standing colleagues to sweep him by the wayside. Now, it may be today, or it may be tomorrow—hell, it may be next year, but I’ve got my sites set on being the next timber giant. To you, that may just mean that I’m gnawing on a bone. To me, it’s another lucrative endeavor that I can add to GEH’s multi-billion-dollar portfolio. It would be a whole lot easier if you were on board with me, but if I have to be number two for a while, that’s fine by me. Gathering up all the little shards of glass may be a lot of work, but there’s still going to be a whole lot of glass in that pot when it’s all said and done. Putting that big blue marble in there would sure make it a whole lot sweeter. And here’s another thing…

“Lincoln’s time is coming to a close. He may be trying to hold on to what he has with a death grip, but sooner or later, that grip is going to slip because he has a young, vibrant, hungry upstart with unlimited funds under his mattress coming up behind him taking bites out of his ass. You can see it as whatever you want to see it, Mr. Granger, but sooner or later, I will be number one. My success with Mobilecom should serve as an example.”

Granger’s eyes flash at the mention of Mobilecom. It was—as he mentioned—an upstart telecommunications company that I acquired several years ago. Almost immediately upon acquisition, GEH began gobbling smaller telecommunications companies and ISP and cell service providers—small shards of glass to put in the big pot. Within three years, we were competing with large companies, offering the same services at discounted rates because we could afford to. The larger companies were offering “Cadillac” packages at “Cadillac” prices, but people where just beginning to recover from the blows of the housing bubble and the banking crisis and couldn’t afford the Cadillacs. Long story short, Mobilecom is now one of the largest telecommunications providers in the area, all from an even smaller upstart than he’s considering me to be right now.

While these points are marinating in Granger’s head, there’s a knock at my office door. I plan on firing the person on the other side of the door and having them thrown off the premises when Wester sticks his head in. Okay, he’s new, but this doesn’t look good for him.

“Forgive me for interrupting, Mr. Grey, but in light of your meetings this afternoon, I thought this shouldn’t wait.” He walks in and crosses my office. “Utz answered your bid for the clearing rights of their lands in North and South Carolina and Georgia with a contingency on their lands in Oregon.” He hands me a piece of paper with a counter bid from Utz Timber that’s right in the area I was hoping. I aimed very low with my bid, knowing that I was outbidding Linc’s current contract, but still not coming in as high as I could on what the land and the rights were worth. Utz played right into my hands, sealing the bid at within five million of my target offer. I could counter, but I’m sure that Wester timed this little announcement for Granger’s benefit.

“Oo,” I exclaim quietly. “Lock it down. Inform him that I can have contracts on his desk in an hour for his review and we can Skype and have this puppy signed, sealed, and delivered by dinnertime.” Wester nods.

“Done, sir,” he says as he leaves the room without even acknowledging Granger.

“Utz,” Granger says, almost to himself. “Small company…”

“With considerable interests,” I add. “Shards of glass, Mr. Granger.” He twists his lips and stands.

“I’ll be in touch,” he says. I stand with him.

“You do that, sir,” I say proffering my hand to him. He shakes it firmly, buttons his suit jacket and proceeds to the door. When he opens it, at least seven executives from different timber companies are waiting in my lobby area.

“Sirs, I apologize. My meeting ran a little longer than I expected. Since I’m sure that you’ve been chatting among yourselves, would you mind terribly if we all met together in the conference room? I can reschedule anyone who would rather have a one-on-one for a later time.” We’re not talking numbers after all—just yet. We’re just working on an agreement. The gentlemen all agree to a meeting and I have Andrea show them to the conference room while I show Granger to the door.

This couldn’t have worked out better had I planned it this way.

“Mr. Granger?” I say, gesturing towards the elevator.

“Shards of glass,” he points out as I push the call button.

“There’s still room in the pot, sir. Let me know.” We shake again before he boards the elevator.

“Get some refreshments in that room quick,” I tell Andrea. “Coffee, water, soft drinks, pastries. And tell security I need three details, now.  It’s showtime.”

And showtime it is. Linc’s diehard supporters all but accuse me of trying to destroy a national treasure while the others have valid questions concerning my plans and reasons for wanting to enter an industry so far outside the spectrum of my current interests. I give them the whole Manifest Destiny-type speech that this is a lucrative industry and I want in.

“And this would have nothing to do with the personal issues that you’re currently having with Lincoln and his wife, would it?” Stuver taunts.

“Of course, it does,” I say to his surprise and to the surprise of the other men in the room. They’re not surprised that I’m having issues with Linc, just that I admitted that those issues are the foundation of my interest.

“I’m a straight shooter, gentlemen,” I say, standing from my chair and buttoning my jacket as I circle the room. “My intense—and justified—dislike of the Lincolns is exactly what brought my attention to the timber industry. If I wanted to sneak in through the back door, all I had to do was buy stock. Not only would that give me voting rights, but I would also be driving up the price of my own investment. It would also make any one of the companies that I’m approaching ripe for a takeover. That’s not what I want. I want to be a part of the industry, of the growth, the profits. I have the money and the power to do it. I want the profitable companies and operations to stay intact, and I can still enjoy the prosperity of the expansion while contributing to the profits that you deserve that you’re currently not getting through your contracts with Lincoln Timber.”

Various murmurs spread over the conference room.

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable being a part of your cat-and-mouse game with Caldwell Lincoln,” Stuver continues. “He’s been a captain of this industry probably longer than you’ve been alive and I don’t think it’s the best idea to put the future of our companies in your hands.”

This sonofabitch. So, now he’s the spokesperson? Time to strip him of his imagined power.

“Very well, Mr. Stuver. You can leave now.” To say that he’s taken aback would be an understatement.

“What?” he barks with heavy emphasis on the “wh.”

“You’ve made your position quite clear. You are obviously pro-Lincoln, and I am not. So, our business here is done. If you would like to hold a meeting with any one of these gentlemen at a later date, I suggest you contact their office and make an appointment. In the meantime, thank you so much for coming and you can leave now. Taylor, please show this gentleman to the elevator.” Stuver’s eyes widen and he scoffs disbelieving.

“Is this how you do business, Grey?” he accuses. “You invite people to your business and then throw them out when they disagree with you?”

“Feel free to disagree with me all you want,” I defend. “However, you’ve spent the afternoon throwing veiled insults at me, wasting my time, and defending my adversary. You’ve made it very clear that you want nothing to do with this endeavor. So, our business is done and yes, I’m throwing you out. You should be questioning my cojones if I allow you to stay.” I turn to face the other gentlemen in the room. “If anyone shares his opinion, please join him now.” One other person stands and heads for the door.

“And thank you for coming as well, Mr. Warner,” I say to the asshole who stood up. “Taylor?”

“Gentlemen?” Taylor says as he holds the door open. Stuver and Warner both leave, conspiring as they walk to the elevator.

I’ll deal with them later.

“Now, back to business. Should I stop talking now or are any of you gentlemen interested in my hope for expansion?”

The room is silent for a several moments before someone finally speaks up.

“Well, you’re right about one thing,” Spires says. “Lincoln is lowballing the hell out of me and he doesn’t give much if any at all when it’s time for renegotiations.”

“That’s because Lincoln is the Rockefeller of timber, so to speak,” I admit. “A long time ago, he did what I’m doing right now—locked down one lumber interest, then two, then four, then eight, and so on. Pretty soon, he was one of the biggest names in lumber. Those above him saw no need to take him down, or he’d be down by now. His lateral colleagues may keep an eye on him, but as long as he’s a good boy and stays in their good graces, they continue to allow him to play in the sandbox with them. Those below him haven’t had the desire or the ability to go up against him. I fall into none of those categories.

“Where I am now is where Lincoln started when he began Lincoln Timber. The difference between me and him is that I’ve already secured several timber interests as my startup. In addition, Lincoln doesn’t have the buying power that I have—or the drive. The only reason why Lincoln Timber is a giant right now is because he enjoys outrageously massive profits by keeping his costs low—you all!” I point around the room to each of them. “He buys a lot from you, but at a very low price, and you all know this. What if you could maintain the same level of production at a profit margin 10-33% higher than you’re recognizing right now?”

The murmurings begin across the room again.

“I only say that, gentlemen, because once the contracts are signed, the numbers are available to whomever may ask for them under the Freedom of Information Act. Lincoln is definitely lowballing you. Some of you are operating on profit margins that weren’t acceptable a decade ago. Others of you—and you know who you are—are enjoying near or at-market profits because you held out for a better deal, but I can still make it sweeter. I must tell you that I’m determined, gentlemen. I’m not going to let anyone stop me. I’ll keep going until I build my own industry giant if I have to.”

Of course, Wester comes knocking at my door again. Does he plan this shit?

“Again, my apologies, sir. Just thought you should know that I just got another call—Wurchiest is a go.” I suppress a smile.

“Wurchiest,” I hear someone whisper. “I knew I recognized that guy.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wester,” I say. He nods and leaves the room. Yeah, he’s cocky as fuck.

“Gentlemen, those battle lines are being drawn. What say you?” I say, taking my seat again.

“Fuck,” Spires says, “I don’t want to be on the losing side when the dust clears. Count me in.”

Four out of five of the remaining executives agree to come over to my side before the meeting is over. The fifth wants a little time to think about it. Don’t think too hard, junior. The offer may not be on the table for long.

By the time I get home that evening, I get the best news yet. I don’t know who made a call to whom or what happened, but the police in the Bahamas pulled Linc in and took several pictures of his scars and bruises. I have no idea how this works, but I have a feeling that they have all the evidence that they need to pin that motherfucker and I have all the evidence that I need to begin my lawsuit.

I fire off a text to Wester to get the ball rolling and file the needed documents with the required agencies. I wasn’t born yesterday. Most likely, nothing will come from this lawsuit, but it’ll ruffle enough feathers to make sure that this case is going to be examined with a fine-toothed comb.

*-*

She’s on her knees on my bed, facing away from me with that glorious ass on display. The plump lips of her pussy peak from just beyond the junction of her parted thighs and she’s looking coyly over her shoulder, her mahogany hair cascading down her naked back, caressing her creamy skin.

“What are you waiting for?” she taunts, her voice like melted butter.

I have no fucking idea, I think to myself, fisting my unbelievably stiff erection in my right hand. I climb onto the bed and crawl up behind her, my dick pointing due North and seeping in anticipation. I don’t dawdle. I want her too much—have wanted her for months!

Her ass is fucking beautiful—the source of many scenes and vicarious orgasms with other women as well as orgasms at her hand in her dungeon… strapped to her table, chained to her ceiling, bound to her wall. That ass is calling me, but I’ve wanted that pussy for too long to let this opportunity pass me by. I’ll have to get the best of both worlds.

I release my dick and close the space between us, caressing her bare back, her hips, then her stomach, committing the feel of her skin to memory. Mmmm, she feels divine. I move my hands down to the front of her thighs and splay my finger firmly across the soft skin. I press her body against mine as I nip her shoulders, tasting her flavor. Her ass sandwiches my dick and I can’t help it. I push my cock between those soft, sweet cheeks and let the feeling of the meat burn my shaft as I stroke a few times. I groan at the feeling… so fucking good.

 “Stop teasing,” she warns, her voice even. “Handle your business.”

With pleasure, Mistress.

I pull back and grab my cock. Guiding it between her parted legs, the head finds its way to her luscious peach without much coaxing. I push forward and breach that sweet pussy with a loud grunt, shivering at the feel of the inside of her. I’m going to come.

Fuck! No! Not yet.

I pull out slowly and push into her again. So fucking good… slowly… don’t come too soon.

“Faster,” she commands, her voice is controlled the whole time. I move a little faster, exercising every bit of dick control that I can. Her pussy is hot and burning my dick, coaxing and commanding me to come. My fingers sink into her hips as I settle into a sensual roll that gives me continuous stimulation. Fuck, she feels so fucking good and I’ve wanted this for so fucking long.

“Shit!” I hiss, not sure how much longer I can hold out.

“Poor Chopper,” she taunts, wiggling her hips seductively on my dick while still holding on to the headboard. “Can’t hold out much longer? We’ve only just started.”

“Fuck!” I groan as that pussy rolls masterfully over my dick. “Shit, that feels good.”

“I know,” she says, wiggling her hips again, and I still for fear that I’ll blow my load inside her right this second if I thrust into that hot pussy against that delicious, round wiggling ass.

“Ummmgghhh!” I groan, fighting for all I’m worth to hold my nut.

“Sit back, ass on your feet,” she commands. I take a deep breath and do as I’m told. Her ass sticks a little further out, a little further up, on perfect display—and I can clearly see her hungry pussy lips wrapped around my aching cock. Fuck, the site is almost unbearable.

“Now, fuck me,” she commands, her voice a mixture of sensual and demanding. God, I’m not going to last long.

I push my cock into her resisting pussy, groaning deep as I watch and feel it rubbing against her lips and the velvety inside of her core.

“Dammit!” I groan, as she stays stock still and gives me the pleasure of watching my dick sink into that deliciously soft and wet pussy, over and over again. I groan mournfully as I feel my pleasure creeping through my rolling abs and the tightening muscle in my back. Too soon. Too fucking soon…

“Hold it, Chopper,” she coaches in that playroom voice. “Enjoy it… you know you want it.”

She starts to move, raising her ass on my withdrawal and pushing down when I thrust—not too fast, not too hard, not to eager. Just enough to match my stroke.

“That’s it,” she coaxes, “keep it steady.”

My muscles ache from trying not to thrust into her like a horny rabbit. I keep the stroke even like she instructs me, licking my lips at the sheer pleasure of the burn. I use my fingertips to gently lift her ass. I’m not holding anything up, just lifting slightly so that I can feel her skin against my hand. Her ass is softer than I expected and as she grinds down onto me, my hands cause her to open more, giving me an even more tormenting view of her assault on my cock.

“Sweet Jesus!” I hiss as I watch her pussy greedily gobble my shaft. I’m shaking with pleasure as we cruise into and against each other, my dick threatening an offering that she won’t soon forget.

And I feel the crack of a lunge whip across my back.

“Fuck!” I cry out as my dick stiffens immediately inside her unforgiving pussy. Fucking hell! The combination of my most recently discovered guiltiest pleasure—or pain—and the culmination of something I’ve wanted so much that I could barely think of anything else is almost more than I can take.

I run my hand up her back and thrust it into her hair, grabbing a handful of it as I watch her body drop down on my aching dick.

“Fuck… Golden…” I groan as I thrust into her and she pushes back onto my erection, matching me stroke for sensual stroke. “God!” I gasp as my free hand roams up her body to her perfect breast and we continue the hottest, sensual tango I’ve ever felt in my life—a synchronized fuck where each stroke burns deeper than the one before with an unbelievable rhythm that has my dick desperate to come.

The whip bites into my flesh once more, searing across my back and causing my mouth to water.

“Fuck!” I bite out as it feels like she’s getting tighter around me. “Fuck!”

“Don’t lose it,” she purrs. “Keep your rhythm. Keep it deep…”

I groan in my chest, rolling my hips as I lean back and thrust into her, making sure that every millimeter of my dick sinks into that tight, wet pussy.

“Shit!” I curse. “I… can’t! Too… fucking… tight…” Too fucking much…

“Feel it, Chopper,” she coaxes as she rolls her hips in the opposite direction of my gyrations. Her control is maddening, and so fucking hot! My dick stiffens and now it hurts to roll my hips. I can only thrust into her, repeatedly, watching my dick disappear and reappear—wet, red, and angry—in and out of her luscious pussy.

“It’s coming!” I grunt, rolling my abs and getting lost in the wet sounds our sex makes as she pumps my cock with her juicy pussy. “It’s… coming!”

“Mmmm,” she moans. “Well, like I said… what are you waiting for?”

One final crack of the whip across my skin and my balls pop like eggs, my cum spilling helplessly out into her.

“Fuck!” I hiss, one hand fisting in her hair, the other grasping her hip as I try to still my stroke and enjoy the pulsing of my dick, but it’s no use. Both our bodies continue that sensual, even grind as I’m coming relentlessly inside that wet pussy.

That maddening, even stroke has my dick thumping and pounding so hard and my balls saluting magnificently. I squeeze my eyes shut and howl in agonizing satisfaction, the sound echoing in my ears…

The pain and pleasure are so deep that I open my eyes and I’m face down in my bed, sweating like a man on trial and coming so hard that my ass muscles hurt from the tension. I’m fucking my mattress and the orgasm is still going on and on and on. I’m gripping handfuls of my sheets, biting my pillow as I thrust into the mattress and still see her in my head, riding my cock.

“Golden! Golden! Golden!” I bite out into my pillow as my body comes so hard, I almost want to cry.

“Yes! Fuck! Yes!” I groan as I tremble through the intensity. When the orgasm finally wanes, I fall helplessly onto the bed, breathing heavily and trying to recover. I knew it was a dream. I knew it when I was fucking her, but I didn’t care. I had to have her any way that I could, and that was the best fuck that never happened to me in my entire life.

I fall back into an exhausted sleep, pondering what tribute I’ll be sending to my Mistress for this wonderful gift she’ll never know she gave me.


A/N: Chris Cagney was one half of a female police duo from a series from the 80’s called Cagney and Lacey. So, when Ana calls Bhingman “Cagney,” she’s referring to the cop show.

The Pinterest board for this story can be found at https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/fifty-shades-golden/.

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

~~love and handcuffs