Raising Grey: Chapter 60—Warfare

A while back, I posted on Facebook that I had written a scene that I never thought I could or would write. The scene from chapter 15 of Fifty Shades Golden is that scene. There are a lot of reasons why I thought I couldn’t write that scene, but it came out pretty good under the circumstances.

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 60—Warfare

CHRISTIAN

For you! I do it all for you! Everything I do, I do for you! You’ve made me crazy!

I’m grinding deep in hard into my wife. We’ve been at it for hours, but no matter how long I’ve been fucking her, my dick can’t seem to get enough.

I need to go deeper, harder, I want to feel the burn in my balls.

“Christian,” she breathes, “please…”

She’s holding on to the part of the headboard that she can reach, and I roll my hips hard and deep and thrust into her again… and again… and again…

I can’t seem to find my satisfaction.

I can’t believe what happened today. I can’t believe I let it happen. I wanted to protect my wife… and myself… but if I’m honest, more my wife than myself. I couldn’t risk something getting back to her that would throw her into a dark place. I was a kinky, cold asshole back then, and one day, I know that’s going to be revealed to the world, but not today… God, not today.

I felt completely powerless when I got home. I went straight to the gym and ran on the treadmill until I felt like my legs were going to explode. I did sit-ups, push-ups, bench presses, curls, everything—and nothing seem to tame me. I knew that I needed her. I needed to be inside her to forget what happened today.

After I showered as much of the day and the sweat off me that I could, she came into the bedroom and I just attacked. I couldn’t get her clothes off fast enough and I was glad that I was already naked…

And we’ve been fucking ever since.

Her hair is now as wet as mine, though mine was wet from the shower and hers is soaked with sweat. I was holding her hips at first and watching her body push violently up the bed with each stroke, but it seems like my dick wasn’t getting deep enough. So now I have one hand on the headboard and the other holding her leg up and open while I push my cock into her so hard that the bed is shaking. Her tits are bouncing up and down and her nipples are shiny, either from sweat or from milk. Either way, it’s urging me on. I’m wild while I’m chasing this orgasm, and she’s already had two… or three… I’ve lost count.

“Christian… Christian…” she pants, and I continue to drive into her. I’m mindlessly fucking, my dick is in control, driving deeper and deeper into that canal that brings me this pleasure. Her voice is soft, weak, surrendering, and her vulnerability makes me thrust even deeper.

“Christian!” she cries, and when I raise my head to look at her face. She throws her head back and yells out her third—or fourth—orgasm, this time a few tears come with it.

I pause for a moment at the sight. It’s so fucking beautiful. She’s so fucking beautiful. And as she trembles through her climax I push into her a few more times and finally explode powerfully deep inside her. My muscles tighten and my body trembles painfully as my dick thumps inside her pussy. God… It’s insane.

My body is stiff with pleasure while she mewls in exhaustion, and when my orgasm finally releases me, I fall exhausted on top of her, panting wildly.

It only takes a moment for me to catch my breath and realize that we’re not done yet. I roll her over on top of me still inside of her, my cock still thumping and ready.

“Christian… please…” she weeps.

“Ssssshhh,” I comfort her as I stroke gently up and into her. I lay her head on my chest, close my eyes, and wrap my arms around her so that each hand is grasping the opposite butt cheek as I slowly stroke inside her. Her gentle weeping gradually becomes rhythmic breathing and I grind myself slowly and gently inside of her, allowing my cock to rub her clit with every stroke. Her hands are on my shoulders and she squeezes them gently each time I thrust into her.

That’s it, baby, feel it. Feel that cock getting hard and stiff for you. Feel how hot I am for you… only you.

“God,” I groan as my balls start to tighten. She digs her nails into my shoulder and mewls in pleasure and I feel her legs falling slightly open.

“Fuck!” I growl at the pain and I’m trying not to lose my stroke. I grip her ass tighter and push her harder down onto my cock.

“Fuck!” I say again as the heat in her core envelops me and threatens to unman me in seconds. I move one of my hands from her ass to the back of her neck and bring her face to face with me so that I can gaze into her blue eyes, thick with passion and teetering on the edge. She whimpers with each stroke as my angry, veiny, dick pushes deep inside of her core, withdraws, and pushes again, ringing indescribable pleasure from us both.

“Oh, God, baby,” I groan as the heat and the friction are almost becoming too much for me to bear. I can’t help but to stroke faster, deeper, harder, holding her against me. The headboard is banging behind me again as I fasten my hand behind her nape pulling her down deliciously onto my anxious, heated shaft. My face is close to hers, almost forehead to forehead, and I’m breathing like a bear.

I see surrender in her eyes as her pupils dilate and turn that unmistakable shade of blue. Dear God, I’m going to blow inside her any second.

“Give it to me,” I growl, rolling my hips so that my dick hits all her walls while the shaft burns her pebbling clit. I move my mouth to her ear and move my hand to the very top of her ass crack holding her hard against me.

“Come on, give it up. You know that pretty little pussy wants to pop,” I breathe sensuously in her ear. She tries to move but I’ve got her locked, top and bottom.

Her body stiffens, her muscles lock, and she groans deep in her chest as her orgasm rips through her. Merciful God in heaven! She’s got that pussy locked so hard on my dick that I can barely move. I close my eyes and manage to pull out to the head and allow it to edge inside of her pulsing pussy. Good God, the pleasure is blinding, and I haven’t even come yet.

“Shit! Shit!” I whisper almost inaudibly as she violently flexes and contracts as she continues to ride out a massive climax. I hold her against me and push in and pull out only slightly, continuing to edge inside this violently vibrating pussy. Before I have the chance to prepare for it, my cock is springing and gushing hard. I push in a little deeper to get a little more stimulation through orgasm, and I feel like my head is going to pop off… Both of them!

“Uuuuuggghhh! Oh, Gooooood!” I groan mournfully as my dick painfully empties all that it has to offer. I’m still edging inside of her and I can feel my cum sliding out of her and down my dick to my balls. It’s the hottest, sexiest thing ever.

“Oh, fuck,” I mourn as I attempt to stay still and ride out an orgasm hours in the making. The first one was just practice. This was the Megatron!

My wife is silently trembling on top of me, drenched in sweat and exhausted when my dick finally gives up the fight. I have to catch my breath before I can think or move or anything. With my cock now flaccid and still wrapped inside of her, I wrap us both in the blankets, wrap my arms around her, and finally fall asleep.

Morning comes quickly—too quickly—and I know that I owe my wife an explanation. I slide quietly out of bed and go to her bathroom. I start a bath and fill it with her Desert Bambu Lemongrass Citrus bath soap. She hasn’t used it in a while and I’ve always loved the way it smells. It reminds me of simpler times.

I go back to the bedroom and sit on the bed next to her sleeping form. Her hair is a stringy, matted mess and she is shamelessly drooling on her pillow.

“Butterfly,” I rouse her gently and she doesn’t move.

“Mmmm,” she groans. “Please, my pussy aches.” I stifle a laugh.

“I…” I begin. “Come get in the bath.”

She moans again, then turns over to face me. She gazes at me sleepily for a moment before her gaze becomes questioning.

I know.

“Bath first,” I tell her, “then talk.”

She doesn’t protest, so I pull the covers back, pick her up bridal style and carry her to her en suite.

The tub is nearly full and the space smells heavily of lemongrass citrus. She takes a deep breath and fills her lungs, closing her eyes and no doubt, savoring the scent.

The lemongrass was the right choice. I lower her into the bubbles and retrieve the shampoo and a comb and brush.

“Too hot?” I ask. She adjusts herself in the tub after grimacing.

“Sore pussy,” she says, looking up at me. I won’t live this down anytime soon.

I climb in the water and kneel over her. Using her freshwater sponge, I gently scrub every inch of her, after which I massage key points of her body that I know would be aching the most—her shoulders, her back, her legs, and I throw in a foot massage for good measure. When she’s totally relaxed, I take to the task of tackling her hair.

And what a task it is!

I thought she cut it a while back. It’s still at least three feet long! At least it seems that long.

I don’t let on that I think the task is a bit daunting. I get out of the tub so that I can maneuver around her more easily and lather her hair with a generous amount of soap. I work the sweat-tangled portions through my fingers first. Then, using the comb, I start at the ends and work my way up, combing through the kinks and laying her mahogany mane down on her back. When I’ve worked all the kinks out, I rinse it with fresh water and add a generous amount of her conditioner.

“You soak for a moment,” I tell her. “I’ll be back.”

I look at the clock on the nightstand and see that it’s nearly noon. Any plans that either of us had of going into the office are a wash now. I slip on a pair of sweats and step out of the bedroom into the hallway.

“Activate two-way communications.” The system comes alive. “Locate Gail Taylor.”

“I’m right behind you.”

I nearly jump out of my skin.

“What are you doing creeping around like that?” I snap.

“Ssshh!” she scolds. What the…? “Jumpy much?” she hisses quietly. “End two-way communications.” When the system disconnects, she turns her attention back to me. “I just put Mikey back to bed. Now, what can I do for you?” I frown.

“Is he okay?” I ask. She raises a brow to me.

“He’s a baby,” she says matter-of-factly. “Babies sleep.”

“Well, where’s Minnie?” I ask.

“Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Keri has her,” she informs me. “Sometimes, babies don’t sleep.” I roll my eyes at her.

“What’s quick to eat?” I ask her.

“I’ll put something together,” she says as she heads for the stairs.

“Tell Jason to call the office and tell them I won’t be in today.”

“I’m sure they figured as much, but I’ll tell him,” she says as she descends the stairs. I go back to our bedroom and retrieve one of my wife’s vintage night shirts. She can get dressed later if she wants, but I want her in this right now. When I get back to the en suite, she has fallen asleep in the tub.

Geez, I really wore her out last night. If I’m honest, I could use a little more rest myself.

Using more fresh water, I rinse the lemongrass conditioner from her hair. It smells divine. She wakes as I’m squeezing the last of the water from her hair. I retrieve a bath blanket and extend my hand to her. She stands and takes my outstretched hand, ascends the stairs in the tub and walks into the open bath blanket. I dry her skin and hair before sitting her in front of her vanity. I painstakingly dry her hair, combing it through so that it doesn’t tangle again before braiding it into a long braid down her back. I slip on her night shirt and let the water out of the tub before taking her hand and leading her to the sitting room.

Gail has prepared a pastry tray with a few cheeses, some coffee and orange juice and a note to summons her if we wanted more. This would do me just fine. Butterfly takes a seat on the loveseat and I roll the tray over to her.

“We fucked through dinner,” I say, handing her a croissant from the pastry tray.

“That we did,” she says, taking a bite from it. She’s not rushing me to say anything. I pour her a glass of orange juice from the carafe before sitting on the ottoman across from her.

“One of my ex-submissives contacted me yesterday…” I begin. She stops chewing. “If you stop eating, I stop talking.”

“So, it begins,” she says as she begins to chew again.

“Natasha Gaines,” I continued. “Our contract ended when I discovered that she wasn’t a natural brunette.” Her brow furrows.

“Hmm,” she says.

“What?” I ask. She shrugs.

“I don’t know, it seems a little harsh, I guess,” she says taking another bite of the croissant.

“Yeah, she agrees with you,” I say sarcastically, pouring myself a cup of coffee. She raises her brow at me and I sigh. “I put her through a very… grueling orgasm-denial session the night that I found out that she lied, and then I dismissed her without letting her come.”

“How long ago was this?” she asks.

Years,” I tell her, “years before I even met you.”

“So, if she came back after all this time, she was pretty bitter…”

“You could say that,” I say. “She came back for what I owed her.” Butterfly frowns again.

“She wanted you to fuck her?” she asks.

“No, but she did want me to make her come.”

“What?” Butterfly hisses angrily.

“I didn’t touch her, Anastasia,” I excuse quickly.

“Well, what exactly happened?” she says, placing her half-eaten croissant back on the tray.

“You’re not eating…”

“Fuck this food! What happened?” she barks, and I know I had better spit it out fast.

“She threatened me with a flash drive,” I begin. “I didn’t know what was on it. She told me if I didn’t meet her, she would release it to the press. She kept taunting me with how you would feel if you saw what was on it. I couldn’t take that chance.”

“So, basically, once again, somebody used me to get to you,” she says angrily. I sigh.

“Yes. She did,” I confess.

“And what happened next, Christian?” she says impatiently.

“She told me that she was at the club—my club downtown, a public place—and that she wanted me to meet her there. So, I did.”

She doesn’t say anything. She just waits for me to continue my tale. I just fucking spit it out.

“She popped a couple of Ben-Wa balls into her twat and she wanted me to sext with her, Ana, right there at the goddamn table so she could cum while we were doing it.”

“And did you do it?”

“Not willingly,” I mumble.

“And what the fuck does that mean, Christian?” she barks. “Did you sext with the bitch or didn’t you?”

“As far as she’s concerned, I did!” I bark back. “She wanted me to recount that night, so I did. She pissed me off to no end and I let her know in no uncertain terms what a horrible fucking sub she was. I called her names and berated her, told her that she was conniving and deceitful. I disparaged her in every way imaginable, and you know what? That fucking cunt came—right there at the goddamn table like she was possessed! I was sitting as far away from her as possible and several other diners looked at her like she had lost her mind. And then the trick thanked me, gave me the flash drive, and left. She says it was her final step of becoming a Domme.” My wife folds her arms.

“And that’s all that happened.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“Isn’t that e-fucking-nough?” I snap. “Here I am thinking I’m giving her what for and I’m giving the bitch exactly what she wanted. She wanted the asshole. She wanted to come in my presence because I didn’t let her come all those years ago and I gave her exactly what she wanted! And there was nothing on the fucking drive! Nothing but her taunting me because she used my arrogance against me. Fucking cunt!”

I’m getting angry again and my wife is sitting there glaring at me with her arms folded. What? She doesn’t believe me?

“So, in essence, I got Natasha’s punishment fuck.” I’m too ashamed to respond. “Did you see her while you were fucking me?”

“Good God, no!” I exclaim. Fuck no! “If anything, quite the opposite. I was definitely trying not to have that bitch taking up any of my mind space whatsoever.” She rolls her eyes at me.

“I don’t know how to feel about this,” she admits. “I’m definitely not thrilled in any way, shape, or form of having any other woman be the reason why you come home and fuck my brains out, but at least it was me and not somebody else.” I run my hands through my hair in frustration.

“So, we’ve had our first test and we failed,” she says, standing from the loveseat and pacing around the room. “Why did we do this whole ‘we ain’t hidin’ come get us’ exposé if we’re going to buckle when someone comes for us? There was no one being held at gunpoint; no bomb threats; no death threats. Just some desperate bitch who wanted to prove that you didn’t have a hold on her anymore—which is a crock of bullshit, because she sure wouldn’t have come across the country if that were true.”

Damn, I didn’t even think about that.

“Did you enjoy it?” she asks frankly. I scoff.

“About as much as a Dominant would enjoy fucking a submissive he never wanted to touch in the first place!” I growl, remembering the sickening feeling I got watching that cunt come at the table. My wife falls silent.

“You were psychologically raped, Christian,” my wife says softly. “You were forced to perform a sexual act that you didn’t want to perform under duress.”

What the hell? What kind of psychological mumbo-jumbo is this?

“I’m not a victim!” I hiss.

“But you were used, and that’s what’s pissing you off!” she accuses. “That’s what made you come back home and exert control over me in the only way that you could—and that’s okay. That’s one of the terms of our relationship that we set from the very beginning… but did it work? Do you feel in control?”

I ponder her words. I think about what that bitch took from me at that table in the club. She took more than an orgasm and she knows it. She knew exactly what she was doing to me. She was stripping me of my power. She had to in order to move on from that last night with me. She’s sitting knowing this is happening right now. She knew exactly what she was doing… exactly what she was doing…

“No,” I confess, almost inaudibly. “No… it didn’t work. I don’t feel control.”

“No, you don’t,” she confirms, returning to her perch on the loveseat, “and you could fuck me all night and all day and you still wouldn’t feel it. You won’t get it from me. You won’t get it from this.” I raise my eyes to her.

“What am I supposed to do?” I ask her. She sighs.

“You have to do what she did,” she says. “She took what she needed, and it had to come from you because of what you withheld from her all those years ago. Now, she’s robbed you of something, too… and it wasn’t an orgasm. It was something else. Either you have to get it back or you have to let it go. You need to figure out which.”

Jesus. Psychologically raped… Christian fucking Grey. Don’t that beat all?

“In light of this new revelation, would it bother you terribly if I discussed this with my shrink instead of…” I trail off. The idea of discussing any kind of rape with my wife… She smiles softly, leans over and kisses me on the forehead.

“Of course, not,” she says, sweetly.

*-*

“How do you always manage to make time for me on such short notice?” I say to Dr. Baker as I take a seat on her sofa.

“I always leave a slot or two open for emergency sessions,” she says after closing her office door. “You’re not my only patient, Christian, and emergencies arise all the time.”

“Yeah,” I lament.

“So, what’s your emergency today?” she asks. “You sounded a bit anxious on the phone.”

“My wife seems to think that I’ve been psychologically raped,” I say flatly. She raises a brow at me.

“And what do you think?” she asks.

“I’d like your opinion on it,” I reply. “It’s not an easy topic to discuss with your wife, even though she’s a mental health professional.”

“And how does she feel about that,” Dr. Baker asks, “I mean about you wanting to talk to me and not her?”

“She’s fine with it,” I say. “You’re my shrink, and she knows that.” Dr. Baker twists her lips.

“How open-minded of her,” she says, but for some reason I don’t hear reverence in that statement. Nonetheless…

“Tell me what happened to bring Dr. Grey to this conclusion,” she says as she settles back in her chair.

I recount the story of Natasha and how she finagled me into doing what she wanted and the subsequent fuck-fest with my wife last night, as well as the conversation we had before I found myself here in Dr. Baker’s office. She listens attentively, occasionally taking notes on her notepad, before turning her attention back to me.

“Psychologically raped,” she says as if testing the phrase, “I’m not sure I agree with that diagnosis, but I think I know what she’s getting at.” I sigh. She’s taking little shots at my wife—tiny, almost indecipherable shots…

Almost.

“Dr. Baker, it’s obvious that you and my wife will never see eye-to-eye,” I begin. “I don’t know if your techniques are vastly different or you come from different schools of thought, but right now, I’m having a problem with a situation that needs to be solved. What my wife said sounds like it makes a lot of sense. Spend less time disparaging her opinion and more time trying to help me figure out what’s going on with me here. Is that okay with you?”

“I assure you, Christian, that I wasn’t disparaging your wife’s opinion,” she says. “I was just saying that I don’t necessarily agree with it.”

“Well then, what is your professional opinion, doctor?” I seethe. I’m starting to get a little pissed off. Noting my agitation, either she decides to change tact, or she realizes that she’s being unprofessional.

“Are you the same man that you were before, Christian?” she asks. “That’s who Natasha needed, and she manipulated you until she thought she got that man… or maybe she did get that man. But whatever she got, she got from him. Does he want it back? Does he want that life… what she stole?

“Don’t answer for me, or even for Ana. Don’t think about what anybody wants to hear. Think about yourself. Think about how you feel and what you want. You left your wife and family, you went to Madrid and you didn’t look back. You turned into that guy again even though you didn’t have sex with any women. The only thing that even made you blink was the thought of your wife dying. Her suffering didn’t mean anything to you, but the thought of her dying and being totally taken away from you—that tipped the scales. So, who is Christian Grey today, and what does he want?

“She stole a power from you that you had over women—over her—at that time. You don’t have that power over women anymore, not even over Ana, and you know it. So… what? Do you want it back? What do you want?”

I honestly have to think about the question, not because I’m indecisive, but because I really need to examine the answer. Instead of thinking of Natasha, my mind goes to my wife.

My beautiful wife, the very reason for my existence.

What I did to my wife—deserting her without a word and flying halfway across the world where she had no hope of finding me—after all the promises we made, was sadistic. It was selfish, beyond egotistical, beyond narcissistic. It was the worst thing I ever could have done to her second only maybe to cheating on her. I rocked her to her very soul—on purpose. Now, when I watch her trying to recoil from it, it makes me ill. All I want to do is take it back, make it all go away, but I can’t. One of the biggest reasons I can’t make it better is because I didn’t do it.

That old Christian Grey did it.

And he did it with no remorse. Nobody I know in the world can hurt and destroy a person like that guy can, and I set that guy loose on my wife. Yes, I was hurt and confused, and I felt betrayed, but that was no reason to unleash that asshole on my wife the way that I did. I think Natasha knew that I wasn’t that guy anymore, and her ultimate victory was in bringing him back… and defeating him.

“Hell, no,” I say definitely. “Hell, no, I don’t want that guy back. I don’t want anything to do with that guy.”

“This isn’t the last sub that’s going to try you. What are you going to do?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I’ll talk to my wife, but that guy is gone…”

“Hello, Mr. Grey!” The doorman says. “It’s been a long time. It’s good to see you.”

“Thank you, yes, it has…” Been a long time. And that’s why I have no idea what your name is anymore. Jason and I walk to the elevator and I press the call button. When the doors open, I enter my express code and it takes me straight to the penthouse.

I barely recognize the place when I get there. I remember picking out everything in this apartment. It looks exactly how I wanted it to look. Now, it looks like a cave… Somewhere that someone would hide when they wanted to get away from the world. It’s dank and dark and there’s no warmth in here… no family, no love…

It’s all still furnished exactly like it was before. Nothing but our personal belongings went to the new house. I ascend the stairs and go right to the playroom.

It’s still a beautiful room. Luscious deep, red color, high-end furnishings, my Chesterfield sofa & chair, my Baroque bed. I look up at the ceiling at the carabiners and the chains hanging there, my St Andrew’s cross…

This is where I often found my solace, my peace. But every time I left this room, the same monsters were still waiting for me on the other side of the door.

Many women found themselves in this room; other women lost themselves in this room. Some of them even lost their minds.

I take one of the canes from the wall and swing it into the air. It makes a satisfying swish sound, and I imagine it falling onto the back of one of my prior submissives. The moment I see it make contact with her skin in my mind’s eye, I drop it.

Like scenes from a horror movie, the faces of different subs in this room flash before my eyes. The faces of the same subs as they were being dismissed also flash before my eyes. That man, that monster, that asshole…

Not that man anymore.

I back out of the room as if I may be snatch backed in by some unknown specter if I turn my back on the implements. I quickly descend the same stairs I ascended moments ago and note Jason standing at the breakfast bar.

“Let’s go,” I say quickly rushing to the door … to my freedom…

“Christian,” the heavy Greek voice greets me over the phone. “Good to hear from you again. You need something new?”

“No, Artemis,” I say into the phone. “In fact, I have another favor to ask of you.”

“Anything, Christian,” he says, “you are one of my best customers.”

“Thank you,” I say. “How soon can you dismantle the playroom at Escala?”

*-*

I feel like I’ve been through a prize fight when I walk into the house. I’ve got yet another monster to battle.

Myself.

Nobody can help me this time—not Dr. Baker, not my wife, nobody. I have to fight this battle all on my own.

I go in search of my wife and find her in her office. I can tell that she’s taking care of business because she has that take-no-prisoners tone to her voice.

“Yes, we’ll have you get started next Monday. You can start getting the lay of the land, so to speak. We’ve never had maintenance full-time, just the odd handyman repair here and there. So, we’ll be expecting you to educate us about a few things about the facility as well as keep things running smoothly. Any assistants as well as the cleaning staff will be reporting directly to you.”

It sounds like she’s found her new head of maintenance. I wish she would have let me send someone over from GEH to check things out before she hired a stranger.

“I hope so, too, Mr. Collier,” she says. “I look for excellence in my employees no matter their station, and I have no problem letting someone go who can’t toe the line. I trust you won’t let me down.”

Hmm, stranger or not, she seems to have this under control. I come around the opening and into the door, causing her to raise her head at me.

“I’ll have to go now, Mr. Collier. Something’s just come up. I’ll see you on Monday…? Good. Have a good weekend.” She ends the call and gazes at me.

“New maintenance staff?” I ask, sitting in the chair in front of her desk.

“Head of maintenance,” she says. “We’ll see how he works out, then build a staff around him.” I nod. The silence between us is deafening, so I break it.

“Whenever I’ve thrown down the gauntlet, I’ve never had to worry about anybody but myself. Nobody counted but me, nobody mattered but me… I didn’t have to worry about anybody’s feelings because no one else’s feelings mattered. It was so easy to be cold and aloof and obtuse because, hell, I was the king and everyone else were peasants.

“Even when I met you,” I say, raising my gaze to her eyes, “you were just someone else to bend to my will and when you didn’t, it pissed me the fuck off. There’s not a woman alive who could resist me, who could defy me… until there was.” I drop my head to my hands.

“All those women,” I say, thinking back on the sea of brunettes that have trailed through my life. “They meant nothing to me. They could have all been blow-up dolls for all I cared as long as they had brown hair. I felt nothing—nothing at all for any of them and to think, they all revered me. Some of them lost their fucking minds. Some of them lost their lives and of the ones that are left, some of them are still out to get me, and I’m only just now understanding why.”

“Christian,” my wife pushes her chair away from the desk and stands up, “you were a real asshole. I know that from experience. I met the guy. This is what I don’t understand.” She walks around her desk and comes around to where I’m sitting.

“I’d like to know what it is about these submissives that they think they’re on some other level, or some pedestal, or they’re playing by some different set of rules where they’re not supposed to get hurt,” she says.

“Unconventional? Yes. Taboo? Of course, but it’s a relationship nonetheless! So the fuck what, there’s a goddamn contract? There’s a contract involved in marriage and people get divorced all the time. People get hurt all the time in relationships. It’s part of life. Sometimes they work out, sometimes they don’t. But for some reason, your submissives act like they’re some kind of extraterrestrial beings that aren’t supposed to be crossed, or dumped, or hurt. Where did I miss the memo that these women are not supposed to feel like the rest of us do?

“I gave my heart to an asshole, and guess what happened? I got hurt. That shit happens in real life. What the fuck is wrong with these women that they can’t just walk away from a fallen relationship and move on with their lives? Why are we constantly under some kind of microscope or living in some kind of bubble because one of these nutjobs may be waiting around the corner for us with a gun or a car or a flash drive?

“We did this exposé, and now we need to let these creatures know that we meant what we said in that exposé. If there are other lovesick, forlorn submissives out there that want to come at us, let them come! But don’t you ever put yourself in a position where you’re stuck and cannot get out like you did with Natasha. If they want to blackmail you and back you into a corner, then they need to deal with both of us because that shit is not going to happen again!”

Okay, my wife is pissed. Release the Tiger!

“So, what do we do if somebody shows up and say they have this kind of information again?” I ask. “I mean this kind of thing can be damaging to our whole family. What if they have something like that on me and threaten to go public?”

“Call her bluff,” she tells me. “Let her go public.”

“What about our kids?” I ask. “Something like this could destroy any chance they have at a normal life.”

“What’s normal?” she asks. “Was your childhood normal? Was mine? We live in a castle and we can’t go out alone. What. Is. Normal? We’ll fucking make our own goddamn normal, but the whole idea of doing that exposé was to tell people that we weren’t going to be afraid anymore. You had to know some vermin were going to crawl from under the rocks. Let the fuckers crawl! You’re a powerful billionaire and a respected businessman. Nobody can ruin you. They can make it uncomfortable, but that’s it. What that woman did—holding your psyche hostage—you can’t let that happen again. We can live anywhere in the world we want, do anything we want, but we’ll find our fucking normal. As a matter of fact, call that bitch.”

“What bitch?” I ask. “Natasha?”

“Yes,” she hisses. Oh, hell.

“Baby, I have nothing to say to that woman…”

“But I do,” she snaps. “She used me to get you to do what she wanted, and I am fucking sick of this shit. I am going to be heard! Now you can call her, or I will!”

“You can call her. I’m not doing it.”

“Then give me the goddamn number.” He pulls out his phone.

“Call her Myshka. She hates that shit…”


ANASTASIA

The days of the delicate fucking flower are gone. I opened this door and a motherfucker walked in. If this is the Boogeyman, so be it. Let’s dance, asshole… show me what you got!

“Hello, Natasha,” I say when she answers the phone.

“Who is this?” she asks after a short pause.

“Seattle area code. Can’t you guess?”

“I’d much rather you tell me,” she says cockily.

“Gladly,” I oblige. “This is Anastasia Grey.” The line is momentarily silent.

“And what can I do for you, Mrs. Grey?” she says, and I can tell that she’s smiling on the other line.

“You can stay the fuck away from my family, including my husband,” I reply. I can hear her laugh.

“He must have told you about our little meeting,” I can hear her smiling. “He still has great skills.”

“Nice try, Myshka, but I know everything.” I can taste the animosity oozing through the phone when I say that name. He’s right… she clearly hates that shit.

“I got what I wanted from him,” she says. “He made me come right there in his restaurant. That’s all I needed. Now you figure out how it happened.”

“How it happened?” I laugh loudly. “Sweetheart, should I be upset with the fact you’re so fascinated with the mere thought of my man that you nutted on a seat in a public place in his presence? Are you really proud of that? He had you chained to the ceiling, cuffed to a cross, or tied to the bed and wouldn’t let you come, and you found closure in creaming on a bench like a dog in heat? You could have saved yourself the plane fare and did that over the phone.”

“Oh, no, that would never do,” she taunts. “Then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of seeing his beautiful face… being reminded of how those hands feel on me… and that mouth…” Oh, this is good. This is really good.

“Oh my God, that is so amateur!” I laugh. “Try again, you desperate cunt. He tells me fucking everything, you little bitch, and I would have to be out of my rabbit-ass mind to believe anything that you have to say about that meeting except that he sat there looking at you and you came on the seat like a common slut. Congratulations. Consider this.

“Years ago… years ago…” I stress the years so that she can see just how ridiculous this is, “… he called you to his penthouse at which time, he used and humiliated you, then turned you away and threw you out of his mind. Years later, you lure him to his club with blackmail where he proceeds to degrade you again, and you cream all over yourself like a teenager. Then, you and your wet, stinky panties—assuming you were wearing any—walk out of the club all satisfied and fulfilled, and you call that closure? It seems to me that all this proved is that you’re still his puppet!”

“I am not under his control!” she hisses. Ooo, I’ve hit a nerve.

“If you say so, but the fact that you flew all the way across the country just to sit in his presence and nut contradicts your claims,” I say sweetly. “Like I said, stay the fuck away from my husband and don’t even consider letting the Grey name escape your lips after this conversation or I’ll make you regret the fucking day that you were born.” It’s her turn to laugh.

“What makes you think that if I wasn’t afraid of him that I’m going to be afraid of you?” she asks incredulously.

“Because you haven’t met my kind of crazy,” I say a little too calmly. “I’ve been through a hell that would make your brown hair stand up by its blonde roots—or whatever color it is today—and if you think for one second that I’m going to stand by and allow you to jeopardize my peace and happiness, you got another fucking think coming. Try me… I’ll make you wish you never met Christian Grey.”

“Oh, this is good,” she taunts. “Master has a little Fireball on his hands. You’ll give him a good run for his money.”

“You shouldn’t worry about the run for his money that he’s going to get, you should be more concerned about yours.” I seethe. “Don’t think that I can’t find out every little thing there is to know about you, crawl into every little aspect of your pathetic little life and make every bit of it a living fucking hell and have a great time while I’m doing it.”

“You’re sounding more and more like him,” she says, a bit of her confidence slipping.

“That’s the difference, Ms. Gaines. I ain’t him. He’s accustomed to his power. So, he can control it. I’m just getting a taste of it, so I’m drunk with it… Absolutely fucking insane from it. And I can’t wait to unleash it and just get all this frustration out about stupid little ex-submissives who seem to think they have power over our existence. He hurt your wittle feewings and you couldn’t get over it. Instead of being a woman and moving on with your life, you fly clean across the country and decide you want to disturb the peace.”

“Seems like I did a pretty good job, too. I got what I wanted from him and now you’re calling me,” she says haughtily. “You sound so high-and-mighty, but if it didn’t bother you, why are you calling me?” she continues to taunt.

“Oh, no,” I chuckle. “You didn’t bother me, you worthless little sow. You pissed me the fuck off. That’s why we’re having this conversation—but the more I talk to you, the more pissed I get. The more I feel the need to do something about this. I don’t give a fuck that you nutted on a leather seat in public. What I do give a fuck about is that you exploited my husband and you got off while you were doing it. Yeah, you won that round—good for you, but now I’m feeling the need to step into the ring. Maybe your conniving little ass needs to know what another woman’s touch can do.”

“That’s big talk for a bitch who doesn’t know what I’m even capable of,” she hisses. And now she’s pissed, too. Good, I broke that little façade of hers.

“Oh, where does that confidence come from, your Domme training?” I tease. “Make you feel all big and strong, does it?” She’s silent for a moment. “What are you gonna do… whip me?” I taunt. “You’re right,” I concede, “I don’t know what you’re capable of. And that’s why you should be very afraid, because I don’t fucking care.”

“Afraid of what?” she snaps. “For all you know I could have you begging for your fucking life.”

“Oh, please, Mistress, I beg you… try it!” I hiss. “Go ahead, be my guest. Do your worst! I guarantee that I can top it exponentially. If you need to be my first public example to the world that I mean fucking business, then so be it. Give it your best shot, Natasha, and I’ll make damn sure that I hit everything you hold dear. I don’t even have to see you coming to cut you down at the knees and have you groveling for mercy. If you think Master had you whimpering, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. I’ll rip your heart out and eat it in the Marketplace. So, come and get me, subby… you know where to find me.”

The line is silent for a long time and I finally realize that she has nothing else to say. What could she say? What exactly is the comeback for someone who says that they’ll physically rip your heart out of your body?

She was ready for Christian because she knows who he is, but she doesn’t know me. She just thought she did. I put my phone on speaker for my last message.

“Say goodbye, Christian,” I say loud enough for her to hear and wait for Christian to speak.

“Goodbye Natasha,” he says and nothing else. I hold the line long enough to hear her gasp before I disconnect the call.

Neither of us says anything for what feels like several minutes. He’s the first to break the silence.

“I don’t think you know what you’ve done,” he says.

“I know exactly what I did, Christian,” I say. “I’m a psychiatrist. That power that she took from you, I just took it back. She and bitches like her need to know that they’re not going to weasel their way into our lives and expect us to bend. They want a fight, they’ll get one. As far as I’m concerned, this is a test, and I plan on passing with flying colors.

“She can make a move if she wants to, and if she’s brave enough to make it, I’m brave enough to take her down. I know from experience that you may never get closure from something that someone did to you. My advice is that if you ever come for closure like she came for you, just make sure you really are the biggest dog in the yard. She came at you like a pit bull and came face to face with the rottweiler standing behind you.

“I’m all for getting closure if someone has wronged you, and what you did to her was more than a little harsh, but she came at you threatening your reputation—to expose some horrible thing to the world and your family—all because you hurt her little feelings! Who does that? This isn’t her confronting the bully who taunted her and tortured her in high school! She signed up for this! She knew what she signed up for and she knew what you wanted. She knows the rules! I’m not even that deep in the lifestyle and I know the rules!

“If a counterfeit would have sufficed, you could have hired a prostitute and put her in a wig! But you had detailed specifications and she didn’t meet them. She may have wanted to be what you wanted, but the fact of the matter was that she wasn’t. So, she wanted you to be all gentle when you called her out for breaking the rules when she knew better than that.

“She needed closure from her little humiliation all those years ago, and she got it too… But it was short-lived. Because your wife just came in and showed her just who she really isn’t when she finally thought she was somebody. Now let her come at me. I’ll rip her apart and feed her to the rats.

“So, now, all the vermin are going to crawl out of the woodwork because of that exposé. We didn’t scare anybody, we taunted them. Well, let them come! I’m tired of sitting back waiting for Armageddon! If it’s coming, bring it on. I’ve got some hell that I need to unleash.”

“But Butterfly,” he protests, “you made it look like you were already coming for her.”

“Who says I’m not?” I seethe. His head snaps back and he’s silent for several moments. I’m pacing around the room, full of anger and aggression and no way to tame it.

“I want you to tie me up and fuck me like there’s no tomorrow,” I say. He raises a brow at me.

“That won’t be a problem,” he says. “That was fucking hot… and you’re topping from the bottom.”

“No,” I correct him, my voice firm, “I’m topping from the top.” I want you to fuck me until your dick doesn’t work anymore and if you don’t tie me down, I might hurt you. He glares at me and I glare right back.

“Yes… Mistress,” he says after a pause.

*-*

I awake the next morning with some pretty brutal bruising on my wrists from trying to get out of the binds my husband put me in. He did the classic four-corner bondage and fucked me until I was insane… again, and I fought to get out of my bounds. I didn’t know until this morning just how hard I fought. It’ll be long pants and exaggerated cuffs for a while for me.

BW...precioso detalle

For some reason, I feel like my husband and I have traded places. He’s all introspective about the man he used to be and I woke up with two things on my mind…

Destroying Natasha Gaines and fucking.

No, I didn’t jump his bones again—we were both too tired from last night… but I can still fuck.

“Butterfly!” Christian seems surprised to see me this morning. He examines my attire, paying special attention to the exaggerated cuffs of my blouse. “I… thought you would sleep in today.” I chuckle softly.

“No, Tarzan,” I jest. “I’m fully able to walk.” I hear the toaster and correctly assume that Ms. Solomon is preparing my jam and cream cheese bagel. I turn to look in that direction and Ms. Solomon is concentrating on that bagel like it’s the most interesting thing she’s ever seen.

“Well, yes, but…” He trails off.

“But, what?” I ask.

“But… nothing. I just thought you may have wanted to stay home.” He looks towards my sleeve again before sipping his coffee and turning his attention back to his phone, and I deduce that he probably doesn’t want anyone to see my wrists. I chuckle and pour my own cup of coffee.

“There’s nothing to fear, Mr. Grey,” I say, “I’m thoroughly garbed,” I add softly. He raises a brow to me.

“So, I see,” he says, “almost too garbed.”

“I can put on a mini skirt and a tank top if you like,” I jest, raising my own brow.

“No, that won’t be necessary,” he backpedals, placing his phone on the breakfast bar. “You usually stay home for the first part of the day and go to the Center for the afternoon. Why the change today?”

“It’s Friday,” I reply. “I’m going in this morning, so I can see Ace this afternoon.” He nods, and I take a healthy bite of the cream cheese and jam bagel. “Oh, God, that’s good,” I say with my mouth full.

“Since you seem to be enjoying yourself so much, I won’t harass you too much about not having a real breakfast.”

“This is a real breakfast, Christian,” I quip. “A continental breakfast.” I take another bite of the delicious bagel. “Mm.”

“If you say so,” he says finishing his coffee.  “Is everything okay with Garrett?” I glare at him. What does he know about the Garrett situation? He wasn’t here.

“No, they’re not telling me your every move,” he clarifies, trying to read my expression. “A guard was kicked off the premises yesterday, and my head of security thought I should know. Is that okay with you, Dr. Grey?”

“Don’t be a smart ass,” I tell him. “I had every reason to believe someone was reporting on me and you know it.” He doesn’t respond. “And Gary is fine. By the way, when will I be getting my butler back? I miss him.”

“He’s only been gone a week, baby,” Christian scolds.

“And I still miss him,” I point out. “Admit it. You miss him, too.”

“I’ll admit no such thing,” he says indignantly.

“But you’re not denying it, so I know what that means.” He shakes his head. “Oh! I never told you. Harmony’s ex signed the papers.” He raises his gaze to me.

“He did? When?” he asks.

“I think it was Tuesday,” I tell him. “I told you he would be signing those papers by Tuesday,” I say triumphantly before finishing my bagel.

“That you did,” he says. “Now if we could just find something on him and Roger for what they were doing to Harmony and Tina…”

I thought you said you had footage,” I point out.

“We thought we did,” he counters. “It turns out that this was just a bunch of cheap recording equipment and no evidence. Wherever that stuff went, it was temporary storage and it’s most likely destroyed by now.”

“Well, that fucking sucks… nonetheless, Harmony was happy as a lark to be rid of him. Now, it’s just for Carrick to go and file the documents with the court, if he hasn’t already.”

“Well, good riddance!” Christian says. “Asshole.” He stands and kisses me on the cheek. “I’ve got word that the cars are supposed to be in town today. They’re dropping the Fairlane and the Coup at Dad’s before they head to California with the T-Bird. I promised Uncle Herman I would help him sort out the situation of the items in the storage units, so I’ll actually be working from Dad’s today. I plan on stopping by Tina’s, too. Any sweet nothings you want me to whisper to your butler while I’m there?” He raises an eyebrow at me.

“Don’t tease me, Christian,” I scold.

“You were the one who said you missed him,” he defends.

“Fuck you,” I retort.

“Don’t worry, you will,” he says shamelessly. “Jason,” he beckons without breaking his gaze from mine. Jason appears from I don’t know where and falls in step behind his boss, who turns away confidently and strides cockily out of the kitchen.

“Cocky sonofabitch,” I mumble before finishing my coffee. I know I can’t summon Chuck the way His Highness just summoned Jason, which only irks me even more about his over-confidence.

Who am I fooling? He’s not over-confident. He has just enough confidence for his station. Asshole.

“Activate two-way communications.” The system comes alive. “Locate Charles Davenport.”

“Davenport,” his disembodied voice says.

“Any day now, Davenport,” I respond, already headed to the garage.

“On my way…”

I’m still a little irritated when I get to Helping Hands. There’s no word on Ebony Carson’s background check. We got information on Harmony’s no-good husband in less than a day. Less than a week later, he was signing those divorce papers…

“Now, I have one girl with a common name, no criminal history that we know of, and maybe a gangland boyfriend in prison and we can’t find anything concrete on her. What’s the deal?” I fuss on the phone at Alex.

“Sometimes, it’s harder to find something on people that are clean than it is on people who are dirty,” Alex replies. “Take your stepmother, for instance. I think she had a traffic ticket or something, so we had something to go on, but had she been squeaky clean, we might still be looking for a definite background check on her. Even you—you had that fiasco in Green Valley that caused you to change names when you were 15… 15! Do you know how hard it is to find something on a minor? But you had something, so we had information on you in about two weeks.”

“Well maybe that’s it,” I defend. “Maybe she’s just squeaky clean.”

“Nobody’s squeaky clean,” he says. “In fact, if you find nothing on someone, you should keep digging. They’re probably more dangerous that someone with an open criminal background.” I sigh heavily.

“Are you saying that I should just let this goldmine go?” I ask defeated. “Someone who could need our help and could also be a great asset to Helping Hands at the same time, I should let her slip through my fingers because we can’t find anything on her?”

“I can’t tell you what to do,” he replies. “I can only say that I tend to err on the side of caution due to my experience. You have to make your own decision. And for the record, I never said that I can’t find anything. I said I’m not finding anything concrete. Like you said, ‘Ebony’ is a common name and so is ‘Carson.’ So, I might find one thing on Ebony Carson that doesn’t match up with something else on Ebony Carson and I have to decipher if this is a mistake or if this is two different people. Her social security number even goes to two different people with two different names, but I’ve seen these kinds of mistakes before, too. None of the Ebonys that I’ve found have any known affiliations with anybody in prison, but again, that doesn’t mean anything either. There’s a lot of information to comb through and then not enough information at the same time. Like I said, I can’t tell you what to do, but if you’re going to make your decision based on a background check, you’re going to have to wait a little longer until I can nail down something more concrete.”

I can’t afford to sidestep when it comes to the Center. There’s too much at stake, but Ebony is just so perfect for us. She’s just what we need, and she can do so much more than the glorified babysitting position that she applied for. I don’t doubt that she’s been turned down for many other positions for this same reason—that two and two just don’t equal four and she’s too afraid to be any more forthcoming with information for fear that her past may physically catch up with her one day. Nonetheless…

“Just… keep me posted on what you find,” I cede. “Look very hard, Alex, because if you don’t find anything solidly adverse on this girl, I’m going to hire her. She could have just been living in the shadows and that’s why we can’t find anything, but at the same time,I don’t want to take any chances.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I end the call and drop my head on my desk in frustration. It’s obvious that Ebony has a history—some kind of story—but don’t we all? I just don’t want her story to somehow come back and bite the Center in the ass. I also don’t want to let the opportunity to acquire a great asset slip through my fingers. This could be her chance to turn her life around and excel—conquer or overcome whatever ghosts are chasing her or holding her back. Good grief, this is a tough decision.

“Bosslady?” Marilyn’s voice brings me out of my musings.

“Yeah?” I say, raising my head from my desk.

“You alright?” she asks.

“Yeah, just pondering a conundrum,” I say, rubbing my forehead.

“What are you doing here?” she asks. Huh?

“Um, I work here?” I declare, the statement sounding more like a question. At that moment, Grace sticks her head into the doorway and glares at me like an exotic animal.

“Oh, Ana! Hi,” she says in surprise while stepping into the room. I raise my brow.

“Hi,” I say, and it almost sounds like a question, too. “Is… something wrong?” She and Marilyn look at each other,

“No… nothing’s wrong. I’m just… surprised to see you here today.” I frown.

“Why wouldn’t I be here today?” I ask, and why is everybody surprised that I’m here?

“Well, because of what today is,” she says. Today is Friday. What am I missing?

“You’ve lost me,” I say, awaiting the punchline. She and Marilyn look at each other again and now, I’m getting irritated.

“Will someone please tell me what I’m supposed to know that I obviously don’t?” I ask impatiently.

“Ana,” Grace begins, “today is the one-year anniversary of your accident.”


A/N: Pictures of places, cars, fashion, etc., can be found at https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/raising-grey/

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

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Fifty Shades Golden: Chapter 6

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.

Chapter 6

602b4a7d8922ca2529a14d3a0119243a

GOLDEN

 

I can’t lie. It was hard not returning to Crimson for the first few weeks. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I wanted to see him. No one had ever pursued me so fervently—he could even verbally spar a bit like no one else would even dare. It was that power that I noticed in him that I allowed to break me down—not completely, but enough to let him get in even if only a little. Elena must be ecstatic that she has Crimson all to herself now. I haven’t seen her at any of the other clubs I frequent, not even once. I can operate in peace…

Without her…

Without him…

I was just fine before I met him, and I’ll be just fine once I get him out of my mind.

I’ve been sticking to meeting my clients at The Incubus, Temptation Station, and Club Syndrome. Those fuckers were so happy to see me back in those places that I might as well own the joints. This is what I’m accustomed to. I know word will get out that I’m frequenting these clubs… and he’ll probably come looking for me. I’ll just go to another club when that happens. I can’t risk running into him. Even the strongest of us must admit a weakness—and he very well could be mine. But I’ll never give him the chance to find out.

Blake has noticed a change in me and has shown some concern about it, particularly since I’ve been cooking more often. Cooking has always been one of my pastimes, I just stopped doing it as much when I found my… place in the lifestyle. Now, I feel the need to get back to my roots.

My roots. Fuck. I don’t have any roots.

Aunt Sheila taught me how to cook the only way I know how. I was too young to learn when Mom was alive… and Mom didn’t cook soul food.

It was so hard getting used to the food Aunt Sheila made when I first moved in with them. My uncle thought I was in mourning and that’s why I wouldn’t eat, but Aunt Sheila figured it out and started separating my food before she got heavy with the seasoning for the rest of the family. Gradually, she introduced more spices to my food. I hate to stereotype the Steeles—or myself, for that matter—when it comes to the “differences” in “white people food” versus “black people food,” but there was a difference. At least to me, there was, and Aunt Sheila understood immediately. I can’t help but wonder why she didn’t come for me… didn’t ask about me after I disappeared. My cousins saw me almost every day. Nobody cared what was going on with me? Where I was living? How I was living?

Cooking always brings these thoughts to mind. That, and the fact that my uncle is still harassing me to speak to him. Why? Why does he want to speak to me now?

I turn the fried chicken in the frying pan and check the potatoes boiling in a pot nearby. I always make enough food for an army, then eat one plate and send the rest home with Blake. He eats some of it and gives the rest to the homeless. He jokes that they’re very happy to see him coming in various tent cities and under the bridges and viaducts. Blake is a good man who has made a very big mistake, and he can’t let himself off the hook. He’s an impeccable dresser, a total gentleman, and one of the most tortured souls I’ve ever met.

Much more tortured than me.

I’m only dealing with disappointment and disillusionment. Yes, it’s on a massive scale, but that’s still all it is. Even the incident with Lester didn’t traumatize me—it just pissed me off. I wasn’t hurt or scarred… unless you count not allowing anyone to fuck me. It’s not that I don’t want to fuck. I just won’t give it up that easily. It doesn’t matter my fetish or how I choose to exercise it. That part of my body is sacred to me and it always has been. I dish it out the way that I want and nobody has the right to take it. I gave it away in college until I realized the power of holding it back.

It’s mine. I decide, and contrary to my last encounter with a certain copper hottie, I still choose.

I hear Tupac “Changes” playing on the counter and wipe my hands before I retrieve my cell phone. I don’t recognize the number and my first inclination is to let it go to voicemail, but why bother? If I don’t want to speak to whomever it is, I’ll just hang up. I swipe the screen.

“Hello?”

“Ana?” I don’t recognize the voice. It’s male and sounds somewhat familiar, but I can’t tell you who it is.

“Yes?” I reply.

“Ana… it’s Kevin.” I pause. Kevin. I still don’t know what to say to him after what happened in the gym.

“Hi, Kevin,” I say. What else there to say?

“I… just wanted to make sure you were okay. You haven’t been to the studio in three weeks. Even your friend Elena is wondering what happened to you.” I just bet the fuck she is.

“Well, I’m fine,” I tell him, “and she’s nosey, not concerned.” He’s silent for a while.

Well, I’m concerned.” I don’t reply. “I’d like to take you to dinner,” he says, finally.

“I don’t date,” I reply.

“Who said anything about dating?” he counters. “I said I want to take you to dinner.”

“And hope for a payout afterwards?” I ask, honestly. I made him come hard and I know for sure that he would like a repeat. He sighs.

“It was great, Ana. I won’t lie about that, but right now, all I’m asking for is a meal and conversation. Is that alright with you?”

What’s his game? I know he wants pussy. They all do, but I’ll take his food.

“I’ll meet you somewhere,” I finally agree. “Where and when?”

“You decide,” he says. I think about it for a minute.

“Simply Soulful,” I reply. He’s quiet for a moment.

“You sure?” he asks, uncertain.

“It’s where I grew up,” I tell him. I hear him scoff quietly.

“That explains a lot,” he comments. “Okay, Friday night at Simply Soulful, then.”

*-*

“We can go somewhere else, if you want,” Kevin says as we examine our menus. I know what he’s referring to—the table of sistahs sitting next to us glaring at me like I’ve violated the terms of the Geneva Convention.

“I’m fine,” I tell him. “You have no idea how accustomed I am to the Mad Woman Stare Down. I get it more than you know.” I leave the obvious descriptive word out on purpose to avoid a public scene that I know is forthcoming anyway and turn my attention back to my menu. One of the girls at the next table scoffs loudly.

“She must be a prostitute,” she says, loud enough for me to hear.

“Yo’ momma’s a prostitute,” I say, loud enough for her to hear me without taking my eye off the menu.

“You talkin’ to me?” she barks directly at me.

“You talkin’ to me?” I retort.

“You must want yo’ ass kicked!” she counters, rolling her head at me.

“Here it is. Get to kickin’,” I taunt with my arms open. That just pisses her off.

“White trash bitch!” she hisses.

“That ain’t what yo’ daddy said,” I throw back at her. One of her friends whimpers to hide a laugh while the other gasps loudly with a long intake of breath in complete shock.

“Say something else about my parents and I’ma kick yo’ motherfuckin’ ass!” she snaps at me.

“Something else about your parents,” I taunt. At first, it flies right over her head until her girls start snickering again. Then, she rises from her seat.

“Take it outside, Rayjene,” someone says from behind the counter. “You always startin’ some shit.” She narrows her eyes at me.

“I’ll see you outside,” she says.

“Gon’ out there and wait for me, bitch,” I tell her. She clenches her fists and storms out of the restaurant. Her two friends remain at the table glaring at me. I turn me attention back to my menu.

“What you gon’ do?” Kevin asks. I raise my eyes to him.

“She wants to beat my ass? She can wait right there until I’m finished eating. She’s a damn bully, and she thinks I’m going to back down because I’m white. Backing down from a bully because I was white is the very fucking thing that changed my life, and I’ll never back down from a bully again. I want to see her try to beat my ass, but not until I’ve had my meal.” I look down at my menu and wait for the waitress to come over.

I can feel the eyes at the next table boring into me. I don’t turn to them because I don’t want to give them the satisfaction of my attention. When the waitress comes to our table, I place my order.

“I want the combination catfish and chicken wings with macaroni and cheese, collard greens, and corn bread.” The waitress glares at me for a moment.

“Where does all that food go?” she asks.

“I work out a lot,” I answer honestly. “I grew up on this food—my dad’s family was black.” Kevin’s eyes pierce at me.

“You never told me that,” he says.

“You never asked,” I reply, handing the waitress the menu. She looks at Kevin.

“I’ll have what she’s having,” he says, handing her the menu.

“Anything to drink?” she asks.

“Do you have sweet tea?” I ask. She nods.

“I’ll have a Coke,” Kevin says. When she leaves the table, he turns his attention back to me. “You said, ‘was.’” I frown.

“What?”

“You said that your father’s family was black. What happened?” I clasp my hands on the table in front of me.

“Well, of course, they’re still black, but my father died when I was young. He and my mother were killed in a car accident, so I went to live with his brother and their family. We lived around here.” That’s all I say about the matter. He nods but doesn’t press the issue.

“Why haven’t you been back to the studio?” he asks. I shrug.

“Didn’t feel like it, I guess,” I say pulling a napkin from the dispenser.

“Was it because of what happened?” he asks. I look up at him and only just realize how handsome he really is before dropping my eyes.

b7c18b3ba1ea9266bfcf1a1779dcd372“It was a mistake,” I say. “It shouldn’t have happened.”

“Then, why did you do it?” he presses.

“I don’t know. I wasn’t myself.” It’s the truth. Under normal circumstances, there’s no way in hell that would have happened, but right now, I have no good explanation for why it did.

“Yes, I know,” he says, frankly. When I raise my eyes to his, he raises his eyebrows challengingly. I can’t argue with him. He does know. He’s been flirting with me for months and I suddenly break down and give him a blowjob.

The waitress comes back with our drinks and the bill for the table next to ours, the one with the girls looking down my throat and hanging on my every word, so I stop talking. Kevin notices and turns conspicuously glaring at the girls at the next table. Once they note his displeasure, they quickly make their exit, taking their bill to the counter.

“Now maybe we can talk,” he says, taking a swallow of his soda. “I know what she does,” he adds. I raise my eyes to look at him.

“Hm?” I question.

“Your friend, Elena,” he says. “I know what she does.”

“How do you know?”

“She propositioned me once,” he replies. “You do the same thing?”

“I’m in the same arena,” I tell him, “but what she does and what I do is not even close.” He nods.

“I can imagine,” he says.

“I take it you declined,” I say. He looks at me puzzled. “Elena… you declined?” He sits back and sips his soda again.

“It’s not really my thing,” he answers. I nod.

“Yes, it’s an acquired taste,” I say, sipping my tea.

“Interesting choice of words,” he counters, never taking his eyes off me. “How is what you do different from what she does?” I sigh.

“You’d have to understand the lifestyle to understand the difference. It’s too hard to explain otherwise.”

“Educate me,” he says, leaning forward on the table and giving me his undivided attention. I chuckle and shake my head.

“It’s no use, Kevin,” I say. “People outside the lifestyle almost never understand the concept of what we do or why we do it. More than once, I’ve heard people refer to it as ‘a bunch of crazy white people beating each other,’ and they have no idea the diversity of people who practice, what all they engage in, why they practice, what they get from it…” I just shake my head. The dynamics of even a few facets of the BDSM lifestyle are just too intricate to cover with a civilian over catfish.

“I’m not asking you to give me a Ph.D. thesis on why you do what you do. I’m just asking for a little education on what it’s about.” He sips his soda again.

Okay, fine. I can try to give him a little information on the lifestyle without having him run away screaming.

“There are many aspects to the BDSM lifestyle,” I say quietly, “so many aspects that there are way too many to cover with you right now. I will tell you that they can range from kinky sexual fantasies to seemingly downright inhumane and brutal practices that would churn your stomach. No matter what the practice, the entire concept of the lifestyle is built on mutually satisfying activities that are considered safe, sane, and consensual… although some people—myself included—might question the sane part in some of the activities I’ve witnessed.” I stir my tea with my straw.

“Is that why what you do and what Elena does is so different?” I look up at him and he’s looking at me with genuine interest, like he’s hanging on my every word.

“No,” I say honestly. “The reason why what she does and what I do is so different is because she does what she does for her own enjoyment. I do what I do for mutual satisfaction. I get satisfaction from seeing the intense reaction of my… partners, while she gains satisfaction from total domination, if you can call it that. Anybody can teach a puppy how to speak and when to roll over. That what she does. That’s how she treats her pets.”

“And you?” he asks. “What makes you different? How do you treat your pets?”

“I don’t treat them like pets in the first place,” I say squarely and his eyebrows rise. “They’re people… with specific needs and desires… They’re singular and particular, and I pinpoint those needs. I enhance them, I satisfy them, and yes, I exploit them. As a result, they’re loyal. They come back to me, and each time, I read them, and I give them what they need. Often, it’s better than it was before, because I pay attention. I tweak my techniques based on how they respond and I aim to take them higher each time they come to me, and they thank me handsomely for it.” That gets his attention.

“They pay you,” he says, and it’s a statement, not a question.

“They give me gifts,” I correct him. “They come in many forms… jewelry, clothes, trips, favors, and yes… sometimes money.” I stir my tea again. “I don’t have a price, Kevin. I never have. I know my worth—in the courtroom and in the playroom. I don’t have a menu where I perform an act and you pay up. I take them on mind trips—bring them out of their bodies, make them transcend sensation more than they ever thought they could. In return, they give me what they feel is appropriate, and I can say that I’ve never been shortchanged. It’s an exchange that I’d never be able to explain to you. You would only understand it by experiencing it yourself… and no, that’s not an invitation.”

“I know it’s not,” he says matter-of-factly. “Like I said, it’s not really my thing. I’m not just saying that. I speak from experience.”

You could catch a fly in my mouth right now. What the fuck? Kevin is familiar with the lifestyle? I don’t get a chance to rebut as the waitress comes over with our food and begins to put the plates on the table.

“You need hot sauce?” she asks.

“Yes, please,” Kevin says.

“She alright?” she asks, gesturing to me. I shake the shock from my face and run my hands through my heart.

“Yes,” I say absently. “Mind blown. Sorry. Hot sauce, please.” She chuckles and shakes her head.

“Comin’ right up,” she says with a snicker. She leaves the table and quickly returns with a bottle of Frank’s RedHot sauce.

“Y’all let me know if you need anything else,” she says before leaving the table. I turn my attention back to Kevin.

“You practiced the lifestyle?” I ask, intrigued. He nods.

“Only for a little while,” he says, smashing his cornbread into his collard greens. My cousin Tracy used to eat them that way.

“Were you a Dominant or a submissive?” I ask. He looks off for a moment as if pondering the question.

“I think I might have been a little of both,” he says, mixing the greens and cornbread. “It was mostly kink for me, but there was some bondage involved… blindfolds and a little flogging.” He raises his eyes to me. “I’ll admit that I like a good, hard fuck, but the bondage and discipline thing just didn’t appeal to me as much as I thought it would, so…” He shrugs and shakes some hot sauce on his chicken and fish before offering it to me. I take it from him and shake a good amount over my chicken, fish, and greens.

“Yeah, you grew up in the hood,” he chuckles after swallowing a mouthful of his greens and cornbread mixture. “So, from the description, you’re more into the S&M part,” he says, nearly cleaning the meat from the ding of a wing with one swipe of his large lips.

Geez, man.

“Yes, I am,” I tell him, “as is Elena, only…” I sigh. “If you want a dog to keep doing what you want it to do, you give it treats. That’s why she has to pay her subs. If you’re satisfied with your service, you leave different types of gifts—like tips and praise. That’s why I’m so popular and she and I are so different.”

“You don’t think it has anything to do with the fact that you’re just sexy as fuck?” he says frankly.

“Well, you can’t do what I do without sex appeal,” I retort. “At least you can’t do it well. Seriously, Kevin, who wants to look at a dog while they’re coming to orgasm?”

“Point taken,” he says as I take a healthy bite of my fish.

“Mmm,” I say, groaning while I chew and swallow my food. “This is so good!”

“So, um, what’s with Elena?” he asks. “She acts like you guys are so close, but I knew before you told me so that you weren’t cool with her. What’s her deal?” I ponder the answer while a swallow another mouthful of my delicious food.

“Did you ever see the movie Bring It On?” I ask.

“Ironically, yes,” he says. “I have a thing for Gabrielle Union.” I nod.

“Do you remember the red-haired head cheerleader captain who graduated, but kept coming back to practice because she couldn’t fucking let go?”

Kevin almost chokes on his food and I can’t help but laugh.

“Um, she was named after gum or something,” he says after he takes a swallow of his soda.

1438977673-tumblr-m8ezu8jgia1rw5yn2o1-500“Big Red,” I say. He nods as he’s pointing at me, his mouth full of soda. “Yeah, that’s Elena. She needs to get the hell off the field and let go, but she keeps coming in trying to bump hips with me and move me out of the way when we’re not even playing the same game!”

“I’ll say,” he confirms, placing his soda on the table. “No offense, but it’s obvious y’all in two altogether different leagues.” I hold my hand up.

“My point exactly. So, trust me, there’s no concern there on her part. She’s picking your brain for information.”

“Well, I haven’t seen her for a couple of weeks now,” he says before shoveling more food in his mouth.

“That’s because she’s certain that I’m not coming back,” I tell him. “I haven’t been to the club that we normally frequent and I haven’t been to yoga, so she’s wondering what the hell is going on.”

“What the hell is going on?” he asks.

“I’m just going to different clubs,” I confirm.

“And different studios?” he asks and waits for an answer.

“You know why I wasn’t coming into the studio,” I confess. He nods.

“Um-hm. I know,” he says.

We carry on conversation about Elena and BDSM, why it wasn’t his cup of tea and why I like it, until we finish our dinner and the waitress asks if we want desert.

“I want some banana pudding,” Kevin says. I almost agree with him until I see something in the dessert choices that I haven’t had in years. It’s a recipe that I’ve never perfected, so I would rather not try it than to fuck it up.

“Ooo, gimme some of that sweet potato pie!” I say, damn near drooling in anticipation. The waitress smiles and goes to retrieve our dessert choices.

“You are a black woman trapped in a white woman’s body!” Kevin declares playfully.

“I take that as I compliment,” I say with a hearty laugh. When I look up, I see someone at the counter staring at me… so hard, in fact that our waitress is trying to get his attention to take his food and his eyes are trained on me.

Fuck. It’s Jake.

60e9e4e4257eb8c4e6a8ca904a641762Kevin turns around to see what has caused me to stop laughing and stare behind him. Jake snaps out of his trance when Kevin turns to look at him.

“You know him?” Kevin asks, turning his attention back to me. I shrug and look down at the table.

“Yeah… long time ago,” I say, somewhat flippantly. I know him, and I used to like him a lot, but I stole a candy bar from his family’s party store while a bunch of spiteful bitches busted up his dirt bike and he never spoke to me again after that. “Old childhood sweetheart,” I admit truthfully.

“Well, don’t look now, but…” and he trails off. I look up and Jake is on his way over to the table. What the hell? I mean, is that proper protocol… to crash someone’s date? True, we’re not on a date, but Jake doesn’t know that.

“Hey… Kev,” Jake says, speaking to Kevin first. Yeah, do that. Pretend like he’s the reason you came to our table. I fix my eyes on his, steeling my stare in a mixture of stoicism and disinterest. I was only disarmed for a moment, but I’m back.

“Hey, Jake. How’s finance?” Kevin asks. I hadn’t even noticed that Jake is wearing a matching gray vest and slacks with a black tie and white dress shirt. He looks like he just stepped out of the office and took off his jacket.

“It’s good, as usual,” he says, occasionally turning his brown eyes back to me. They’re cloudy around the edges, like a storm coming in through a sunset. “Ana,” he says, by way of greeting.

“Jake,” I reply, nothing more than he gives me.

“I thought you moved out of these parts,” he says, now ignoring Kevin.

“I did,” I say… and again, I give him nothing else.

“What brings you ‘round now?” he asks.

“Home cookin’,” I say. He stands there staring at me for a while and I have to admit. He’s just as good-looking now as he was all those years ago.

“Jake…” Kevin says, his tone a bit warning. Jake turns his attention back to Kevin.

“Sorry, man,” he says, before throwing another glance at me. “I guess I’ll see ya ‘round,” he says, still looking at me.

“Yeah, see ya,” Kevin says, his voice sharp. Jake looks from me to Kevin, then leaves the restaurant with his dinner. I look at Kevin in awe and jest.

“Alpha male much?” I tease, but Kevin’s face is still serious.

“He was outta line,” Kevin retorts seriously. “He didn’t know what was going on here. Yes, we’re having a friendly dinner, but he didn’t know that. That was rude!” I twist my lips and ponder. I was thinking the same thing when Jake walked over to our table.

“Yeah,” I say, “I have to agree with you on that one.” He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I guess I should apologize, too.”

“Naw,” he says, waving me off. “You were just trying to be polite.” I shrug.

“Pretty much,” I reply.

“You guys got history?” he asks. I shake my head.

“Not really,” I say. “I mean, he didn’t hit it or anything like that. He just reminds me of a time in my life that I’d much rather forget.”

“Is that why you do what you do?” he asks, showing the same interest he did before we were interrupted. “To forget?” I shake my head.

“No,” I reply. “I do what I do because I like it… a lot. I know people have a lot of different reasons why they do this, but I think mine is the best. I just really enjoy it.” He nods.

“I think yours is the best, too,” he says. Our waitress brings our dessert to the table along with our check.

“I hope y’all enjoyed your meal,” she says with a smile as she leaves the table. Kevin digs his spoon into his banana pudding as I sink my teeth into some of the yummiest sweet potato pie I’ve tasted in years.

“So… why don’t we do this?” he begins. “You come back to the studio and get your yoga on and we’ll use this conversation to squash all that awkwardness. Then, you let me take you out for a meal and some sweet ‘tae-ta pie once in a while and… that’ll be that?” He shovels another spoonful of banana pudding in his mouth and just like that… I think I’ve made a friend.

“That’s cool, Kevin,” I say, digging into my sweet tae-ta pie.

I guess the girl who wanted to kick my ass found better things to do with her Friday night than to wait around for me to finish my catfish, because she was gone once Kevin and I had left the restaurant. He saw me safely to my Range Rover, kissed me on my cheek, and waited for me to drive away before he got into his car. I have a feeling that he really was hoping for more from this dinner, but knew it would be impossible once he confirmed that I actively practiced in the lifestyle. At least he was a gentleman about it instead of trying to find a way to get around my wishes and still get into my panties…

… like a certain copper-haired god I’d much rather forget.

Blake is at the door when I get home and I can’t say that I’m surprised. With my uncertain schedule, he usually just stays at my house over the weekend in the quarters that I had built for him.

“You’re too good to me,” I say, when I walk in the door while he holds it open for me. He says nothing, and I pick up on his mood immediately. He probably thinks tonight was a date since I’m dressed like a civilian and coming home at a decent hour. I turn around and look at him. “Blake?”

He raises his gaze to me and his eyes say it all. Blake needs someone to need him and if I find love, he feels like I won’t need him anymore.

5086-javier-bardem-pb“Blake,” I say softly, “don’t you see how much I need you? Don’t you see how much I wouldn’t be able to function without you.” He smiles a small smile.

“Yes, Mistress,” he replies, his voice melancholy, “but it won’t always be that way.” I smile at him.

“We live in the real world,” I reply, touching his cheek gently, “and nothing last forever… but I need you now, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon.” His smile widens infinitesimally.

“Yes, Mistress.”

*-*

“Oh, for God’s sake, send him in.”

My uncle has been harassing me at my office every day for weeks and now, he’s at it again. Seventeen years… seventeen fucking years, absolutely nothing. Now, I face off against him in court and he just has to see me. After seventeen fucking years. What’s so goddamn important now?

He hasn’t changed a bit in seventeen years except that he was balding at the time and now, he’s completely bald. When he walks into my office, I stand from my desk and finally face off with this selfish fucker.

“Why. Are you. Harassing me?” I ask, my voice controlled.

“I’m not harassing you, Ana,” he answers calmly. “You’re my niece, and I’m just trying to talk to you.”

“No, I’m not,” I say firmly. “I’m not Daddy’s biological child, so you have no connection, no obligation to me. Daddy loved me. Daddy gave me his name and welcomed me into his family out of love, but you don’t have that obligation. It died with my father, and any obligation that would have passed down to you would have been passed down through love. You don’t have that, so you have no connection to me.”

“Goddammit, Ana…” he begins.

“What?” I hiss. “Does that bother you? Does that hurt you to hear? Love—do you have any idea of that concept, Uncle Richard?” I speak venomously. “Do you have any idea the capacity of love that it takes to welcome a child into your heart that doesn’t belong to you and give her your name? That’s the capacity of love my Daddy felt, and that’s the love he showed me every day until his very last breath. And when he left this earth, he took that love with him to heaven. So, don’t worry. I know how it feels, but that love and obligation died with my father. You haven’t broken any rules, Richard, only broken trust.” He looks down at the floor as if to gather his thoughts.

“I didn’t know what to do, Ana,” he says, “I was confused—really, and young…” Is he serious?

“Oh, God, please stop,” I say, putting both hands in the air and using them as a barrier between us. “Are you really here to plead your case why you left me out in the cold when you knew that I had no one and nowhere to go?” I ask incredulously. I glare at him for a moment, but don’t give him a chance to answer. “I was fifteen… I was fifteen fucking years old and my mommy and daddy were dead. I was a good kid, a really good kid, and you have no idea what I went through after you left me. And you have the nerve to stand here and try to explain it with that ‘I was young’ bullshit?”

As he stares at me now, all I can think of is the disgust in his eyes when he shook his head and walked out on me that day. That wasn’t inexperience in his eyes. That was disdain! I have no idea what was going through his mind at the time, but I know that he wanted to be anywhere but there… anywhere but with the little white girl his dead brother adopted…

“Was I not perfect enough, Uncle Richard?” I snap, my control disappearing. “Do you have any idea what happened to me after you walked out that day? Do you even care? Do you even know the whole story of what happened? Did you even bother to find out?” I laugh tragically. “God, I hope you didn’t, because if you did, and you still left me out in the cold…” I shake my head and roll my eyes. “Get out of my office.”

He gazes at me like he wants to say something, but he just stands there for several moments. A shroud falls over his face—something like defeat—and he turns and walks towards the door.

“Your aunt Sheila is dying,” he says, his hand on the doorknob poised to turn it. “We don’t know how much time is left. Breast cancer—very aggressive.” He turns his head to look at me. “Stage four.”

That’s not why he’s here. It’s just a piece of information he threw in there. I have no idea why he’s come and I really don’t care. And no offense to Aunt Sheila, but in seventeen years, she never came for me either. Nonetheless…

“You have my condolences,” I say flatly. “Now, leave.”

He drops his head, his shoulders rising and falling in a heavy sigh before he turns the door handle, opens the door and leaves my office.


mcsteamy-eric-dane-464227_267_400

TREY

Six weeks in a goddamn cast after that bitch hurled that fucking potted plant at me. Six goddamn weeks—I was too uncomfortable to even fuck properly.

That’s okay, though, because so was she.

After security cornered her ass at her car that day, I had them call the police. They had to… that bitch fractured my fucking arm. And I had her ass arrested for assault and yes, I’m pressing full charges. I don’t know what that pot was made of, but I swear to God it must have been cement. I’m still trying to figure out how the hell she lifted that damn thing off the ground!

The entire incident made the news, of course. She was portrayed as a scorned lover in some articles, a hysterical socialite at the end of her rope for losing her businesses in articles that got it right. I really didn’t care. She posted bail and now, she’s waiting for trial for second degree assault charges. I wonder what her precious Linc will have to say about that?

She might get off with probation since this is her first offense, but I’m hoping she does some time. It won’t be much—three to nine months for first offenses—but I still want her to do some time. If I hadn’t sacrificed my arm to protect my face, the bitch would have killed me or at the very least, I would have ended up a fucking vegetable. What is it with psychotic women trying to kill or maim me?

That, of course, brings my mind back to Golden. Back to Golden… who am I kidding? My mind was never off Golden. She’s all I fucking think about. The more I try to forget her, the more I think about her. I haven’t seen her in over six months—no word, no mention, not even a whisper in the club. Yes, I’ve returned. I’ve been to others around town, but I’ve occasionally returned to Crimson with hopes of just getting a glimpse of her. I’m a glutton for punishment.

When the day finally arrived to get this fucking cast off my arm, I almost wanted to celebrate. I had to go through a couple of weeks of physical therapy, but I really needed to start working out again. Working out meant that I get my strength back and I could wield a cane or a flogger again, grip a hip and fuck some poor pussy senseless.

That was my total intention—to get a hold of Caramel and fuck her within an inch of her life. She ruined that for me, though. Three weeks after the cast came off, Caramel showed up at Escala in a gold raincoat. I thought it was just coincidence, though I suspected that she knew she was a substitute despite all the time that we had been fucking. I knew that it wasn’t a coincidence when I ripped that fucking raincoat off and there was a golden negligee underneath.

She’s fucking with the fantasy. The fantasy is abstract, not direct. If I wanted something that trite and insignificant, I’d hire a fucking lookalike. It irritated the fuck out of me that she dared make this kind of statement to me, and I made sure that she knew it.

I never punished Caramel. She never got a flogger or a whip or a paddle because that wasn’t her purpose. That night would be no different. I wouldn’t dare mar that beautiful skin, but she was punished—sexually and emotionally.

I fucked her so hard and so many ways that I almost felt sorry for her. I wouldn’t let her put my dick in her mouth. To me, allowing her to suck my dick was a reward because it gave her power. I didn’t want her to have that power. She wasn’t as good as Joyce at it anyway.

No, I needed to bury my dick in that pussy and that ass in every way imaginable. I made her bounce hard on it, backwards and leaning over me until I was nearly ready to blow. Then I pushed her off of me while I watched my dick throb almost painfully until the orgasm fell away before I turned her over, locked her arms behind her at the elbows with my hand and fucked her doggie style to the brink of insanity again—repeating the process over and over and over until she’s damn near delirious. I don’t know if she fucking came or not. That night was all about me and my dick and making up for six weeks of fucking celibacy…

…And six months of never being able to get this woman out of my fucking mind…

…And one night of this silly little cunt thinking she had control.

Once I had enough of tormenting myself with pleasure and I was ready to come, I put her face down on the bed and I crouched over her. I lubed her up and fucked her hard and deep in that ass. I made her hold those cheeks open so that I could get my dick into that asshole all the way to the hilt. I fucked that ass like a goddamn wild man… no fucking mercy. It was outstanding! And when that insanely painful orgasm that had built up for weeks now intensified through hours of fucking and denial began to blast through my dick, I reached down and squeezed and caressed my balls roughly, forcing every bit of cum from my nuts as my fingers dug into her hips. I nearly howled through the blinding pleasure.

I collapsed breathlessly on top of her, pushing us both down into the bed as I continued to stroke my pulsing dick in short strokes into her ass, drawing out every fucking last moment and drop of this powerful climax. I don’t know if it was because I waited so goddamn long, her ass was so fucking tight, I built it up so much or I was angry and I took my aggression out on her, but that felt like the best, longest, and hardest nut of my goddamn life. As it waned, I rolled my hips around so that the walls of her ass rubbed against the wet skin of my dick to remind me how that shit felt moments prior. It was fucking amazing.

Now it’s over, and I lay here next to her, wanting nothing more than to get her the fuck out of my house.

I roll over with my back to her and relax into the pillow and the comforter.

“I won’t need you anymore, Caramel,” I say coldly. “You can leave, and don’t come back after this.”

I can feel her staring at me even though I’m not looking at her. She has to know why I’m doing this. She has to know she crossed a line. We had no commitment and no rules, but she had to know this was unacceptable. I feel her throw the covers off and get out of bed. Next, I can hear her gathering her things. I hear the door open and she pauses.

“Tammy!” she says harshly, tears lacing her voice. When I look over my shoulder at her, she’s only wearing her thong and she’s carrying her nightie, coat, and shoes, her large eyes trained angrily and sadly on mine. “My name is Tammy!”

I say nothing as she lingers a few moments more at the door before exiting without closing it behind her.

She knew what this was. She couldn’t expect more. When it’s over, it’s over. It’s that simple. It’s like that movie, Nine and a Half Weeks. When the thing was done, it was done. No matter who was hurt, it was over. If you caught feelings, wrap up your little broken heart and get the fuck out of my face. I’m not sorry that I’m not all tortured by her departure like Mickey Rourke’s character.

She was never the one torturing me in the first place.

*-*

“Hello, Christian.”

Well, I guess I should have expected this call. It took him long enough. Shit, the bitch could be dead by now for all he knew.

“Lincoln,” I say impassively. Elena’s absentee husband has finally contacted me. I’m wondering if he’s calling in a sad attempt to cock strut, or if he’s trying to pay me off to drop the charges on his wife.

“I hear you had my wife arrested,” he says coolly.

“You hear correctly,” I retort.

“May I ask why?” he says. Is he being fucking funny? Where the fuck has he been for the past several months—hiding under a goddamn rock?

“Google it,” I reply with the same coolness that he’s giving me.

“I’ve already heard what the press and the rags have to say,” he responds. “I want to hear your side of the story.”

My side? My side was plastered all over the newspaper when the ambulance took me from Grey House. Fuck this. I’m not feeding into this asshole.

“You’ll hear it in court, that is, if you can be bothered to stick around to see what’s happening with your beloved wife.”

“You and I both know that trials take forever, when you can just tell me what’s going on.” Boy, he’s really working with a pair.

“Then talk to the police,” I say impassively.

“The police can only tell me what happened, but they can’t tell me why.” Sucks to be you, then.

“If you have any other questions, contact my attorney.”

“Hiding behind a lawyer, Grey?” Linc taunts. “That’s not your style.” I won’t bother to ask him what he means by that because he’s trying to lure me into some bullshit. When I don’t bite, he continues with his bait. “What I don’t understand is why Elena was at your office that day in the first place.”

“Have you been gone that long, Linc?” I say. “Have you forgotten that we were once friends?”

“Were?” he continues.

“Yeah, having someone break your arm tends to put a bit of strain on the relationship.”

“So… you’re saying that before she broke your arm, you were still friends.” I see where he’s going. He’s trying to get answers from me that he can either use against her or that he hasn’t gotten from her yet. And I’ve had enough of his fucking game.

“Lincoln, why the fuck are you calling me?” I say, my voice sharp. “You should already know that I’m not telling you shit. So, if you want answers, you’re asking the wrong person. Ask your goddamn wife or talk to my attorney. I shouldn’t even be talking to you considering the fact that your little Misses tried to fucking kill me.” He chuckles.

“I’ve never heard of anybody dying from a broken arm,” he taunts.

“She threw that thing at my fucking head!” I hiss. “I blocked it with my arm or otherwise, that would have been my goddamn face… and I’m done talking to you.”

“Come on. What’s a chat among friends?” he counters insincerely.

“Nothing, except we’re not friends and we never have been. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have business to tend to.”

“Just one more thing,” he presses. “Why did she throw a potted plant at you in the first place?” Fine, fucker. You want it, you got it.

“Oh, that one I’ll answer for you,” I say in my own taunting voice. “Her business failed… did she tell you that?” I pause for several moments and his silence tells me that she hadn’t told him that. “Yeah, the fall of Esclava, Salon to the rich and famous. That’s been all over local news. She came to ask me for help and when I refused, she got it into her demented head that somehow, I was the cause of her demise. While I’m trying to figure out how the fuck she came to this conclusion, she starts hurling shit, so I had the crazy broad arrested.”

“Careful, Grey,” he hisses threateningly. “It’s not a good idea to talk about my wife that way.”

“Then keep that psychotic bitch on a leash and stop harassing me!” I end the call before he has the change to retort. Linc should know better than to try to fucking cross me. What’s his major malfunction? I summon Taylor to my office.

“Sir,” he says as he crosses the threshold.

“Linc is back in town,” I tell him, “and he’s none too happy about the situation with his wife. Be on alert in case his ass forgets who the fuck I am, and feel free to send him a little reminder if necessary.”

“Yes, sir,” he says before leaving my office. Lincoln almost found out about me and Elena back when we were fucking. I’m sure he’s still suspicious, even though he never caught us or found any real proof. He sent me a warning in the form of an ill-placed rumor and the press knocking on my door asking about the nature of my relationship with the lumber king’s wife.

My response?

Three of his sawmills shut down in Germany and acquisitions of four of his U.S. operations—one debarking and bucking operation, two processing and seasoning plants, and one paper mill—all within twenty-four hours of his little stunt. His only hint that it was me, a black card delivered to his main offices with only the words, “Keep fucking with me.”

Linc is the last fucking thing I want to think about now. I let Caramel… Tammy go and now I need a new pastime. Joyce was boring me well before Car… Tam… fuck it, Caramel even came on the scene and nothing has changed. Good head can only get you so far in this world.

Elena did have a way of finding the tastiest little morsels. She’s how I ended up with Caramel in the first place. Now, she’s out of commission and anyone in her little coven right now will be desperate for a Dominant.

I don’t do desperate.

For the first time in years, I log onto my Fetlife profile. I need another new flavor, like Caramel. I’ve probably only fucked two black women in my life and I must say, I loved Caramel’s big ass. Pounding into her from behind was one of the hottest pleasures I can remember. That meat would slap hard against my dick while I dug my fingers into her skin for a good grip and held on while those cheeks wobbled and rolled and smacked. Fuck, I’m getting hard just thinking about it! And I sent her away…

I fucking had to. Every time I would have fucked her after that, I would have just resented her ass. It’s only now that I’m realizing that I don’t think I’m going to remember too much what she looks like. I think I’ve only looked at her face twice… once when I first fucked her, and again when I sent her away. Even now, all I can remember is that ass.

Big asses… nice, big, round asses. Maybe that should be my next type. I could definitely get into that.

I browse around Fetlife for a little while, but I’m sure that I won’t find what I’m looking for there. Hell, I didn’t really like trolling Fetlife even when I first got into the lifestyle. I don’t know what made me consider going on there now. I do have a newsletter of private and semi-parties sent to my alias’ email though. Maybe I can find my new flavor there. I get a little thrill just thinking about it. I’ve always looked for pretty girls—preferably petite, that could take a good beating. Now, I’m searching for thick girls no matter what nationality that can take a good fucking with a little Domination thrown in.

For the first time in a long time, I’m actually looking forward to something.


A/N: Tupac was a revolutionary just like his mother Afeni Shakur, but unfortunately, the only thing most of America saw was the “Thug” rapper. And I know someone somewhere is going to bring up that sexual assault conviction, but I’m personally only TOO AWARE of how the “Just-them” system can put the wrong person in the hot seat, so we ain’t going to even discuss that. Let’s just say that if I contend that you forced me to do something in a club that I didn’t want to do, I’m not going to end up in your fucking hotel room… but I digress. I won’t preach, but I will ask that if you get an opportunity, you look at or listen to the lyrics to “Changes,” and you’ll see that in the 21 years since his death, a lot still hasn’t changed. Ana chose Tupac as one of her heroes, one of her mentors, because of what he stood for. His music guided her through life and still does. Get to know him if you’re interested. You might be surprised.

I’m expecting to lose a few more readers after this…

“Changes” is on my Pinterest page at https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/fifty-shades-golden/, and the link to Tupac’s page is https://2paclegacy.net/ for anyone who may be interested.  

The
Hate
U
Give
Little
Infants
Fucks
Everybody
Inside my mind, couldn’t find a place to rest. Until I got that THUG LIFE tatted on my chest.” -2Pac

For those who may not know, the “descriptive” word that Ana was talking about was Mad BLACK Woman. It would take forever to explain, but in short, it’s a movie by Tyler Perry that started out as a play about a sister who was dealt a very raw deal by her man and she was pissed. Ultimately, the term ended up spreading across the whole of “sisterdom” and was applied to any black woman who was upset for any reason whatsoever, including black women who just acted out and had bad attitudes. Many brothers have often tagged it as the “Mad Black Woman Syndrome,” using it as their excuse for turning to other races as wives. There’s no shame in finding love in other races; but when they use this made-up syndrome as an excuse, it just creates more Mad Black Women. In the end, the “Mad Black Woman” was supposed to represent the Black Queen who was tired of being mistreated by her Black King, and the term just ended up getting a bad rap. 

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 22—Submissive

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 22—Submissive

CHRISTIAN

I can feel myself rising to full height before I even get out of the car. The ride back to the Crossing was silent and I haven’t heard a word from my wife, which is a bit surprising considering she spent part of her morning with one of my prior submissives. I, on the other hand, spent the afternoon grilling an uneasy Jason on how Sandra Beasley was able to get so close to my wife so easily. I also set Alex to the task of finding out exactly what the hell happened to one Ashanda Beasley—information that I plan to keep on tap in case I need it to deal with Sarah Bradley in the future.

My wife isn’t home when I arrive—another fact that I find surprising, but it’s still a bit early. I head to my office to try to finish some work, but I’m widely distracted by the events of the day and the fact that Anastasia still isn’t home yet. Early in the evening, Jason requests an audience.

“I have an answer for you, sir,” he says, as he marches across the open area of my office. He hands me the file on Ashanda Beasley, a preliminary background check requested about ten days ago as protocol for the interview. Initially, everything is standard and nothing is cause for concern except for a red flag for age and date of birth. Further investigation required was returned as the outcome. I raise my gaze to him.

“This report came in this morning, sir, right before the interview. She decided to do it anyway.”

She… my wife.

“Why wasn’t I notified?” I ask.

“We didn’t know who she was,” he says. “As far as we knew, she was Ashanda Beasley with a flag on her birthdate. It could’ve been a typo. We were still investigating and as quickly as the information was filtering in, I was processing it and giving it to you. The moment I discovered that Beasley was Bradley, I turned on that cable channel. That’s when I came to your office.”

“So, we knew something wasn’t right before she went to the interview. We just didn’t know what it was.”

“Correct.”

“And because we didn’t have all the information, and this small thing got past us, she made the final call to do the interview,” I summarize. Jason sighs quietly.

“Correct.” I nod. I can’t blame him. It was a small security issue, so we thought, and he was working to handle it. My wife, who can be a force to reckon with, is the one who decided to break protocol and proceed with a yellow light on the background check.

“Thank you, Jason.”

“Sir…” I raise my gaze from the report. “You should know that this happened before.” I glare at him.

“What?” I nearly hiss.

“We had one other instance where Her Highness proceeded with an interview before a final report came in. We had a preliminary background check and we were awaiting confirmation of a few more details. It was one of the larger networks where security definitely wouldn’t be a concern and in the end, the complete background check came through okay—after the fact—and there weren’t any issues. It turned out to be a situation of a judgement call which worked out in her favor, but nonetheless… sir—protocol.”

“I get it, Jason,” I say, turning my gaze back to the blaring red flags on the preliminary background check in my hand. “Thank you.”

He leaves me alone in my office to wait… so I wait. Wait for my wife to arrive so that I can hear her side of this story.

I don’t have to wait long.

“I’m surprised you didn’t call me,” she says as she marches a bit indignantly into my office.

“I’m surprised you didn’t call me,” I retort coolly, and she’s a bit taken aback by my tone.

“You sound displeased,” she says, crossing her arms as she reaches the front of my desk. Displeased… I test the word.

“Curious,” I say. Displeased doesn’t quite describe one of the emotions that I’m experiencing right now. “That was a very uncomfortable situation with Ashanda Beasley.”

“Very,” she confirms, her voice sharp, and now I know why her tone didn’t sit well with me when she was in the studio right before she left.

She knows. And she’s cross with me. Interesting. I rest my elbows on the armrests and entwine my fingers in front of my chest.

“So, what’s your take on it?” I ask. She scoffs a sarcastic smirk.

“My take?” she says, sardonically. “Well, how about yet another catty little misinformed bitch trying to get information?” I nod.

“Perhaps,” I concede, “not to mention the curiosity of a spurned ex-submissive,” I add. She raises her brow.

“Oh,” she says, in surprise, “we’re being forthcoming.”

“I see no reason not to,” I say matter-of-factly. Her eyes narrow a bit.

“I had been saying that I had an interview with Ashanda Beasley for days. It might have been useful to know that I was facing off with one of your ex-submissives,” she says, her voice crisp.

“Well, I might have been able to forewarn you had I had any clue in the world who Ashanda Beasley even was,” I say nonchalantly, my hands still casually clasped in front of me. “That’s not even her real name, but then again, those kinds of things are revealed in thorough background checks.”

I gaze knowingly at her and wait. I can see the moment the penny drops. Thorough background checks.

“Right now, I’m trying to ascertain who’s responsible for this,” I say calmly. “I agreed that you be able to do these interviews if we take the necessary precautions so that you aren’t exposed to danger, discomfort, emotional blackmail, or being ambushed and in one way or another, I think you’ve gotten some of all of those.” I know I’m right and she can’t even argue with me. She’s standing there trying to find a rebuttal, but she’s knows I’m right, too.

“Right now, what I want to know is who dropped this ball.” She doesn’t know that I already know who dropped it. She’s going to have to tell me. “Rapping with Rob, there was no way to know that asshole was going to sit there with a pussy in your face. The ratings whore, they’re everywhere. That’s a chance that you take sitting in anyone’s seat. But an ex-sub… that can be found with a little digging. It apparently didn’t take you or me long to figure out that’s who you were sitting with this morning and a little due diligence would have told us that before you sat in that seat… so who dropped the ball, Anastasia?”

My voice is eerily calm and even and she raises her eyes to me.

“You already know,” she says.

“Do I?” I ask. “What is the protocol when you plan to do an interview? Who gets notified first? What’s the chain of communication? What’s the approval process so that we know that it’s safe for you to be sequestered in a booth with another person… or other people? Who gives the go-ahead or the red light on such actions? How do we know you’re going to be okay? Who. Dropped. The ball?” She takes a deep breath and releases it.

“I did,” she says, though unapologetically.

“You were adamant about being a part of your own security,” I remind her. “You wanted to know the protocol; you wanted to be informed; you even wanted to be present in some of the security meetings. Suddenly, you’re going into the public eye to discuss intimate details of your life and security isn’t important anymore?”

“It was a small cable station in Lynnwood. It was the last interview I agreed to do. I wanted to reach a small community of people who may have thought there were no resources available to them. I didn’t see the harm in it…”

“Except that there was harm in it,” I say finitely. “There was a predator lying in wait for you and although she wasn’t aiming to physically harm you, she was aiming to harm you—to defame you on her little show and expected you to sit there and take it. It could have been avoided had you followed protocol and waited for the clearance, and now I find that you did this more than once.”

I sit quietly and wait for her response. She stands defiantly gazing at me, not challenging me, but not taking down either.

“That’s twice,” I say, standing from my chair and walking around my desk, “twice this past life has come back and smacked me in the face in less than two weeks, not to mention the many times it’s smacked me in the face before now.” I clench and release my fists and pop my neck while looking at the floor, my control hanging on by a thread. I’ve got to do something about this.

I’m weighing my options carefully. My old methods aren’t effective anymore. Out of sight, out of mind means that opponents—in this case, these fucking ex-submissives—grow more and more brazen when you’re not in their faces all the time. Sarah Bradley was married and had moved on. She was supposed to be the least of one of my fucking worries. Hell, I have two ex-submissive that I don’t even know where the fuck they are! I’ve got to do something I haven’t done before. I’ve got to throw some water on this fire somehow or it’s just going to get bigger. But tonight…

I raise my eyes to my wife. My wife, who can’t follow simple instructions put in place to guarantee her safety. Her expression is a bit more contrite now that mine has hardened slightly, but only slightly.

“We agreed on a protocol when you decided to do these interviews and you didn’t adhere to it,” I say, flatly.

“I did adhere to it,” she retorts. “I only strayed a couple of times.”

“It only takes once to fall into the wrong hands, and you did,” I counter.

“I had Chuck with me the entire time,” she defends. “You saw that.”

“And what if this had been someone desperate, like Elena when she had your gun?” I shoot back coolly. “At that close proximity, would Chuck have been able to save you?”

Her face pales and I know that I’ve made my point. I turn away from her to indicate that I won’t take a rebuttal to my next statement.

“We’ll address this more later,” I say finally and wait to hear her leave the office. It takes a moment, but she leaves. I release the breath I’m holding and pop my neck again, that fragile control still teetering on the head of a needle. I sit down at my desk, steeple my fingers over my lips, and ponder my next move.

*-*

“Activate two-way communications.” Ding. “Locate Anastasia Grey.”

“Ana.”

“Mrs. Grey, may I see you in our bedroom, please?” After a long pause.

“Okay.”

“End two-way communications.” I go into my dressing room and retrieve a box that I’ve had for a while containing an object that I’ve only recently acquired. I come back into the bedroom and wait for my wife. She enters a minute or two later, a curious expression on her face.

“I am who I am,” I begin. “I won’t change. I’ll always require structure and control. When something interferes with that, I struggle to maintain balance.” I pause. “You broke the rules today in a big way. What’s more, you’ve done it before and you know that’s unacceptable.” I hand her the box in my hand—a large, black velvet box that can easily be mistaken for jewelry. However, she jumps in surprise when she opens it to reveal something quite different.

“Oh!” she gasps. Then she examines the object inside carefully. “It… looks like… you,” she says, her voice soft and incredulous. What she sees is a life-sized dildo—a perfect replica of my semi-erect dick.

“Yes, it does,” I confirm. “I’ve had a mold for years. I only had them made for… special submissives. I’ve done some pretty deviant things with them in the past and now… I’ve had a fantasy for a long time of doing some things to you… with you. This is the perfect opportunity.” She swallows hard. Yes, my love, you should. “I want you to shower—thoroughly—with the natural coconut body wash and the microfiber towels. Miss nothing, and I mean nothing! When you’re done, your garments will be on the bed. Put them on and come to the playroom.”

She swallows again, then drops her eyes before walking to her en suite. Good girl. I go to my closet and retrieve the bag of items I purchased a while ago for just such an occasion—a pair of black lace thongs, a short black silk robe—deliberately too short to cover anything, and a pair of sky-high black Louboutins. Yes, I know that she has several pairs, but this pair is mine! Solely for my use, pun intended. It’s a simple pair of shoes, really—whole pumps, patent leather, red-bottomed platforms. I take the rest of the items in the bag to my dressing room to change into my uniform.

If she’s as thorough as I told her to be, I’ll have plenty of time to set up. After I’ve changed, I go to the playroom to make sure all of the new items that I’ve been dying to use on her are ready to be broken in. I have a shit-ton of new toys that have been crying for my attention and today, I’m going to finally put them to use.

I’m a patient man. I place my oils, flogger, crop, wrist restraints and various other items in clear view. I want her to know that her body is mine and I plan on playing every inch of her skin like my goddamn piano tonight. Oh, the things I plan to do to her… the anticipation is succulent!

I hear her before I see her—those sky-high stilettos announcing their approach across the wooden floor outside the door. It slowly opens and there she stands. I can smell the coconut all the way over here, or maybe it’s the coconut oil I brought in with me. Nonetheless…

“Come in, Anastasia,” I command her. She walks into the room and her eyes nervously dart to the floor as she attempts to see whatever she can see without raising her head.

“You can look around, Anastasia,” I tell her. “I want you to see what I have in store for you.”

She raises her head and her eyes scan the room. She’s seen most of the things before, but I don’t think the sex sofa or the spanking bench were here before. The sex chair, the bondage chair, and some of the mechanical masturbators may be new editions as well… all waiting for you, Mrs. Grey. We won’t use them all… tonight, anyway.

I approach her and as I get closer, her eyes drop to the floor. I stroke her nipples, protruding from the silk robe and her lips part. I pull the belt holding the robe together and untie it, allowing it to fall open and reveal her beautiful breasts and that sexy thong. I begin to circle my prey.

“If you have never believed me before, believe me now when I say… I’m going to fuck you senseless.” She gasps loudly at the revelation. “I’m going to have you in every way possible, in every orifice that I can fill—several times. I’m going to bring you to your very wits ends. This will be like no workout you have ever had in your life.”

Her breathing increases as I pull the robe from her shoulders from behind her and let it fall to the floor. Yes… that ass… that beautiful, juicy, alabaster ass… well, not for long.

“You’ll feel pleasure and pain, ecstasy and torment. You can make noise—you’ll have to, trust me—but you can’t speak unless you safeword. Only two tonight. You won’t need the third, because you’re going to come so many times that you’ll be delirious before the night is over.” I lean into her and speak right in her ear. “What are your safewords, Anastasia?”

She jumps when I ask her, then in a breathy voice, says her safewords.

“Bells and whistles.”

“Bells and whistles. Very good.” I quickly attach leather and fur cuffs to her wrists. “Now, I’m going to punish you a bit for your disobedience. Then, I’m going to use you and fuck you until I’m satisfied. Don’t. Forget. Your safewords, Anastasia.” I say the words firmly. I’m going to take her to the very edges of pain and pleasure, of control and insanity. If it becomes too much for her and she doesn’t say so, I’m going to be fucking pissed. I believe my tone has communicated my drift.

“Yes, Sir,” she acknowledges. “Bells and whistles, Sir.”

“Very good.” I move her to the portable deluxe bondage frame and attach her wrists to it above her head. I twist her hair in a messy bun and secure it with a hairclip. Time for a few lashes…

“Ah!” she cries out as the first lash of the flogger wraps around her body. It was a bit of a surprise. I should have warned her, but I wanted the element of surprise. Her body responds immediately. Her breath is wild and ragged. She’s flushing in parts of her body that I haven’t even struck and she has already started to sweat… that erotic sheen that shines over her body when she’s aroused.

Anastasia likes the flogger.

She told me from the very beginning, from the first time we discussed my involvement in the lifestyle, that the flogger fascinated her. Every time I’ve used it since that day, she has responded spectacularly.

I strike again, allowing the straps to wrap around her hip and slide off her ass. She jerks in her restraints, but gasps and moans like the sexual nymph that she is. I strike again, two times quickly. Her fists clench and he head falls back. Her mouth is open, gasping for air. I strike her again and again and again, reigning blows on her back and ass. Her skin is slightly pink… and beautiful. Fuck, I’ve missed this! We haven’t been in the playroom in so long and I have fucking missed this. I strike her a few more times until her moans sound a bit tortured, then I drop the flogger, my dick literally about to explode out of my goddamn pants. I walk to the front of her panting body hanging from the frame.

I’m horny to the point of pain. She’s panting and I take her chin in my hands, lifting her face to mine. I think she started to enter subspace and I need to bring her back. I need you lucent for this session, Mrs. Grey.

Wakey, wakey, Mrs. Grey. We haven’t even started.

“Open your mouth.” She obeys without opening her eyes, and I insert a fairly large item into it.

“Suck,” I command as I walk behind her and admire her now hot pink skin—not yet as red as I want, but getting there. I pull a blindfold from my pocket and apply it to her eyes, depriving her of sight. This should be interesting… and intense.

“Stick your ass out, Anastasia,” I command. She bends slightly and sticks out her ass.

“Farther!” I bark. I know she has to stand on her toes a bit and stretch her arms to stick that ass out like I want it, so do as I fucking say! Like magic, her ass is out and ready for me.

“It’s so fucking beautiful,” I tell her, caressing the cheeks and squeezing hard. “Yes… it’s lovely.” I kneel behind her and kiss each cheek. Then I rip the lace thong from its place and toss the pieces somewhere out of my way. I kneed and kiss her ass, parting the cheeks and blowing a long gust of air against her rosette. She gasps and it puckers then pushes back out to greet me. I like that. I blow again and somehow, the heels of those sky-high stilettos lift off the floor. I knew you could bend over more, Mrs. Grey. Let’s see how far you can go.

I lick the rim of her rosette with just the tip of my tongue. She gasps loudly and lets out a surprised whimper. When I do it again, she trembles a bit. Yet another thing I know that she loves—anal play, but she’s never had it like this. I open her wide and lick deep, massaging her rosette repeatedly with my tongue. I’ve never done this to her before and she gasps, and squirms and pulls on the restraints. Her voice is high pitched, ecstatic, surprised. She loves it, but doesn’t know how to handle it. When she seems like she can’t take it anymore, I stop and come around to the front of her.

“Open your mouth,” I tell her, hardly able to contain my own arousal. She opens her mouth and releases the large butt plug I put there, one with the big black fluff ball on the end. The last time she had one of these things in her ass, she drove me out of my goddamn mind! I can barely contain myself now. I hope I don’t come in my goddamn pants.

I walk around to the back of her and slowly start to insert the large plug into her ass.

“Huhh, huuuhhhh,” she starts to whine a bit, trying to relax and remain still. I slowly push it in a bit farther and a bit farther, watching her nipples getting harder and harder until they’re almost red. When her ass accepts the plug and swallows it up to the fluff ball, I have to stop and take a moment. I’m breathing almost as hard as she is.

‘Oh, that’s beautiful,” I groan, rubbing my dick through my pants and admiring her ass. I pick up the flogger again and run it up her legs and between her thighs so that she knows what’s coming. I reign a few strikes over her body—just her back and the back of her thighs—occasionally pulling and twisting the butt plug. Her noises are so fucking carnal that I almost come just listening to her. It’s time to move on.

I release her from one frame and attach her to the adjustable frame that I have over the sex sofa. Not really a sofa at all, this wonderful piece of machinery is a super hands-free sex machine, made to accommodate two women at the same time. Though I never intend to have two women on it, I liked its versatility better than the one-person machine. It’s fitted with a masturbator, but not just any masturbator. This custom baby has 27 settings, ranging from moderate vibration to damn near electric shock, slow and circular stroke to rabbit fuck, and not only can the ribbed base move independently to massage her clit in the right position, but the shaft can be adjusted to any angle to accommodate whatever position I place her in.

Oh, but here’s the best part—it accommodates any dildo with open-end attach ability, and it has expanding sides and a lube release function. I have attached the ChrisDick dildo to it, so she will truly have the sensation of my live dick inside of her. This damn thing cost a fucking fortune, but I’m hoping it’ll be worth every penny.

“Climb aboard,” I instruct her. She can’t see anything, so I have to guide her, verbally and physically, to climb on to the sex-horse portion of the sex-sofa, then guide a dick to her opening that’s technically mine, though not attached to my body. I position her backwards on the horse and very close to the edge as the front of the machine has the seat for the second “girl,” and I want to have access to all sides of her.

“Slide down on it, Anastasia.”

Her breathing is rapid as she slides down on the life-like dildo. She has to take her time because although it’s the same size as my semi-erect dick, when it swells, it may be a bit bigger than me.

“Sit,” I command her. “All the way down.” She swallows hard and sits on the dildo, and I know that it’s filling her. Now that she’s on the horse, her arms aren’t stretched as much as they were before. Now, it’s time to test the settings.

With the controls in my hand, I start with a low hum and a small circular grind.

“Haahhh!” she breathes passionately. Fuck, she’s so goddamn sexy. I only leave the setting there for a few moments before I intensify the vibration and the stroke. She whimpers helplessly and throws her head back. I experiment with several combinations, watching her body squirm and listening to her cry out as she pulls on her restraints. Occasionally, I push and pull and twist the black puff ball hanging out of her ass, and watch her shiver.

“God, I wish you could see yourself,” I groan. “You are so fucking hot!”

I set the masturbator at a medium stroke and vibration with no clitoral stimulation. I don’t want her to come too soon. While she’s still bound I move the restraints on the frame so that her arms are straight out to the sides and slightly raised. The ChrisDick is slowly circling inside her. She tries to regulate her breathing, but watching her and knowing that she is so turned on that she can barely stand it is making me hard as a fucking rock. I oil my hands thoroughly with the coconut oil so that I can touch her. I can’t wait to get my hands on that body. I’m going to torment the fuck out of her tonight; use her sexually in every way possible; make her come until she completely surrenders and then, if I’m not quenched, make her come some more.

I stand next to her trembling body. Her legs are open on the horse, so she has no other choice but to absorb the pleasure, absorb the punishment. I look over the front of her and see ChrisDick—pink and veiny just like when I’m ready to fuck all night—sliding in and out of her, slowly teasing that sweet pussy. The way that I have her bound on the horse, she has no purchase to move. She can only sit there with her legs open and let the dildo fuck her… or so I thought.

I slide one oily hand behind her upper back, stabilizing her. She gasps at my touch. Oh yes, sweet girl, we’re just getting started. With the other hand, I spread the oil generously on her breasts, kneading and massaging them expertly by cupping the mound and with a gentle squeeze and upward rub, caressing the oil into her skin and closing my hand over the nipple before allowing each finger to run over the nipple against my thumb with a brushing pinch before I release the breast. I repeat this move several times on each breast and her breath quickens uncontrollably, pushing those soft, ample mounds into my hand with each pant. I can feel the electricity surging through her body every time my full, oily hand rolls over the nipple. I know I can make her come this way, and I torment her for several minutes while I watch her breasts pink up and pebble in my hands. She slowly starts to grind her hips into ChrisDick, imitating—and I can imagine, complimenting—its circular motion. So much for no purchase to move.

“You like that,” I groan in her ear and my voice causes an immediate tremor.

“Yes… Sir,” she pants.

“Still,” I command softly as I admire her breasts in my hand. She stills immediately, panting as if she’s run a marathon and whimpering in frustration. Oh, I could do this all night—watch her tremble and her beautiful glistening breasts, but I guess I should move on. There are so many other ways I want to torture her.

I indulge myself a little more with her breasts as I move the other oily hand from her back to her ass, spreading the oil across the cheeks and into the top of her crack. The puff hanging out of her ass is bobbing with each heated breath and I pull on it, just enough to make her rosette pucker outward a bit with the pressure. She throws her head back and cries out in unfettered ecstasy. I push the butt plug back in and turn it, then pull gently again and hold it against her puckering ass. She cries out again, like a trapped animal.

“Sir… please… ladybug!” she squeals.

“I told you not to use that one,” I warn her, still pulling on the plug and massaging her breast while ChrisDick rolls inside of her. “If you come, you come, but if you come before I tell you to, I’ll punish you.”

I hear her whining in her chest, fending off her orgasm which I make her do for a few more long minutes—not long, but probably an eternity to her. I guess it’s time for her first orgasm. This body has been through a lot and I don’t want her to be too wrung for what I want to do next.

I adjust the bondage frame and move her restraints so that her arms are above her and bent now. She breathes and audible sigh of relief when I release the butt plug and cease the breast massage. Only a brief moment to catch your breath, Lady Anastasia. She’s now slightly tipped back and I have to adjust the masturbator so that it tips with her or the stroke can be quite painful. She’s leaned back like she’s in a reclining chair, not a lot, just enough so that the horse can push against the butt plug and her clit is exposed.

“Oooooohhhh,” she laments, no doubt feeling the sensation of the butt plug inside of her.

Hold on, Mrs. Grey. I’m about to blow your mind.

She will have to use her muscles to counteract discomfort in this pose. She picks up on that quickly and grabs the frame to hold herself up. I adjust ChrisDick to a slow stroke and swell—the orgasmic pulse she’s accustomed to when I’m about to come.

“Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!” she cries, long and loud, her ab muscles tightening and her own juices beginning to coat the dildo. She’s so close.

“Fuck it,” I command. “Let me see you grind it.”

She moves her hips and that beautiful ass against the slowly pivoting dildo that looks like my dick. I could just watch this for hours, it’s so fucking hot! I quickly step out of my shoes and socks, drop my pants, and unbutton my shirt. Taking my dick in my hand, I stroke it gently, mimicking the move of the dildo and pretending that it’s my actual dick sliding in and out of her making that delicious wet sound. There’s still a little oil on my hand, so when I run it across the head, the sensation is torturous! I don’t want to come in my hand, so I stop the stroke and roll my examination stool right up to her trembling body on the horse.

“You can come, now, Mrs. Grey,” I command, and I latch my mouth onto that tender throbbing, waiting clit. The sound that rips from her is feral and primitive as I watch her ab muscles tighten and she shamelessly strokes into my mouth and against the dildo and the butt plug, restraints be damned! Oh, my fuck, this is too much even for me! I reach up and massage and pinch those aching pebbled nipples. With the sensation onslaught—her pinched nipples, the butt plug being pushed into her ass by the horse, ChrisDick slowly pulsing and fucking her like I would, and my hot mouth clamped down on her pulsing pussy while my tongue flicks her pebbling clit—she erupts into one of the most violent and explosive orgasms I have ever seen. Her biceps and forearms flex impressively as she pulls herself in a continuous chin up. You could break bowling balls on her tight abs right now, and I can visually see the muscles thumping in her pelvis.

I move her body back to an upright position after the first orgasm and the cock moves with her. She’s wheezing and breathless as I remove her blindfold. I take a few moments to admire her gorgeous body, covered in sweat and wrung from her first orgasm. Having her at my mercy revives a bit of that control I felt slipping earlier… and arouses the fuck out of me.

“Look at me,” I nearly growl as I touch my body, she slowly raises her head a bit and her hair splits like a curtain as her eyes land on my body. My muscle tone isn’t as sharp as it could be, but I’m still very well defined, and her eyes feast hungrily on me as I outline the sinews of my abs. I caress my stomach with one hand while pouring the coconut oil down my chest with the other, allowing it to drip slowly down my body undisturbed until it reaches my dick.

Her head bobs with each breathless pant, and she raises it a little more to get a better view of me. Still bound to the frame, she’s looks like a starving, horny, wet nymph hanging from a cross and gazing at a feast. I rub the oil over the skin of my stomach, causing it to glisten and my abs to look more defined. Even from here, with her hair partially blocking her face, I can see her pupils dilate. I pour more of the oil down my stomach while she watches and I see her hips start to move. The dildo is still fucking her.

My dick starts to pound, so I take it in my hand. I grip it hard and spread the oil up my shaft starting from the base and all the way up and over the head. Fuck, it feels so good as I fuck my oily hand, and I close my eyes for a brief moment to feel the burn in my cock. I can’t help but groan as I reach down and caress my tight, aching balls while pumping my rod slow and hard, punishing the sensitive skin of the head with every pass.

I open my eyes to see her focused on my cock, literally drooling and licking her lips and still fucking that dildo while she watches me masturbate. It’s almost my fucking undoing.

I quickly release my cock and watch it jut upward angrily, spilling a bit of precum in protest.

I adjust her position on the sex-horse and angle her body and the dildo so that she’s still bound to the frame, but she’s now lying forward, face down with her head hanging off the horse. Perfect.

While I set ChrisDick to an upward Doggie-style circular grind and thrust behind her with an occasional squirt of female lubricant and a gentle vibration on her clit from the ribbed base, I adjust my examination stool directly in front of her so that my dick is right at her face. I have a joyous time fucking her mouth in this position. She’s completely helpless and I get to watch her body sensuously and wetly thrusting and grinding on a hard, pink replica of my dick. I gather her hair at the nape and guide her head over my cock, thrusting slowing into her mouth and feeling my orgasm burning hot and fast in my balls. I watch that pretty round ass and that ball of fluff bouncing on the horse and I know that she’s about to come at any moment. I want to reach down and grab that butt plug one more time, but I’m too busy concentrating on these masterful jaws locked on my cock. I cup her chin and cheek at the same time and bring her mouth down onto my dick over and over, the sensation causing a freezing stillness in my spine until…

“Good God!” I grind out of my throat as I explode hard in her mouth, my knees shaking hard with the release. I squeeze my eyes shut as my dick pulses in her mouth and when it’s finally over, I open my eyes and bring my gaze down to see my wife coming a second time. Right in the middle of her orgasm, I reach down and pull the butt plug from her ass, causing her to scream and nearly weep around my dick. I always wanted to do that while she was coming. It’s such delicious torment and ecstasy at the same time and I know it intensifies her orgasm.

Her body is convulsing as she begins to descend from her climax and my cock is reloading for the next round. The Dom is alive and well and ready for action. Although it’s obvious that she’s my lover—and I’m loving the fuck out of her—tonight, she’s completely my submissive and no matter what we do, she’ll spend this night in cuffs.

I climb on the horse behind her and hear her whimper in what sounds like dismay. I squeeze the coconut oil on her ass and watch is slide over her cheeks and down her split. I rub the oil in, paying attention to her sensitive rosette and her skin still pink from the flogger. Now, that shit turns me on.

I grip my cock and spread the oil on my hand over the pink skin. I concentrate on the head for a moment, then direct it to her rosette, using her asshole to increase the stimulation of my sensitive skin. She’s a bit open from the large butt plug and I groan as my head slips in—a slow, but easy, wet, oily, hot insertion.

“Ugh!” I lament as she closes around me, enveloping my head and causing the rest of my dick to harden instantaneously. I love Anastasia’s ass. When I say I love Anastasia’s ass, I mean I fucking love, love, love Anastasia’s ass!

I grasp her hips and sink my fingers into the meat, pulling her ass back onto my dick over and over and watching the head reappear and disappear inside that gorgeous tight hole. When my dick is hard and thumping and has to be deeper inside her, I adjust her to sit up and lean back against me.

“Fuck us both,” I command her, and she grinds against my cock in her ass and the dildo in her pussy the same time. The whole time, I’m grasping her hips, rubbing her body, and tormenting her nipples at the same time, enjoying the feeling of her coming apart in my hands… which she does, exploding in orgasm once again around both my cocks.

I keep my dick in her ass, but I lift her from ChrisDick from a moment. I’m still not done torturing her, though. With my dick still pulsing inside of her, I’m able to reach to a nearby table and retrieve more tools—nipple clamps and a smooth, silver vibrator. I torment her nipples from behind her for a while, making sure the nipple clamps are one setting too tight to heighten each orgasm from this point forward. She’s more sensitive now, so she’ll need more stimulation in order to come. Once her nipples are ready to pop like squeezed berries, I turn the vibrator on and stroke it up and down her tender clit—stroke, then remove… stroke, then remove… stroke, then remove. Too much stimulation, and it’ll hurt instead of arouse.

I can hear her getting wet again; I can smell her arousal; and my dick is still hard and buried in her ass. So, I start to stroke. I thrust deep, fucking her ass, stroking her clit with the dildo, and tormenting her tits. I’m so ready to blow that I rise very quickly and, to my surprise, so does she. She’s keening with each stroke, then moaning, then crooning. Several strokes later, she tightens like a fucking vise on my dick and comes quite violently—tears springing from her eyes and sweating like crazy. I grab her tits and hold her down onto me as I blow hard into her pulsing, gripping ass.

Now, I have to wait. Her ass always knocks me out for the count, but not this time. Oh, it was magnificent and explosive, but Dom Dick is still alive and kicking. He’s just pulsing like a fucking monster. She could use a break and I need to clean up before Dicky Boy can see any more action. I slide out of her ass and adjust her—restraints and all—to lie down on the sex-horse. I use the leg rests to get off the horse and come around to her face.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” I say to her panting, weeping face before I proceed to the en suite. I almost feel a little guilty for putting her through the paces this way… almost. I close the door and take my time, washing and sanitizing my dick with soap and water and personal wipes. It doesn’t stand down, but it relaxes a bit, and the pulsing stops. I really don’t want it to stand down. I’m just trying to give her clit a little break. I moisten two clean washcloths with cold water and go back into the playroom.

bdafcb1a1580b33a0b8113faa16fb629She’s not panting anymore. She looks motionless. Is she asleep? I approach her face to see that she’s awake, but quite subdued. I adjust her on the horse again so that she’s sitting up. I scan the floor to find the clip that has long since escaped her hair, leaving her ridiculously long tresses falling wildly over her head like that girl in that one horror movie.

We can’t have that.

I find her clip over by the wall underneath the table that holds an assortment of toys. God only knows how it ended up over there. I retrieve it and gather her hair behind her head again, clipping it loosely in the hairclip.  Her eyes are downcast and her arms hang listlessly from the wrist restraints. She’s shredded, but submissives often are during a good workout. I lift her chin and wipe her face with one of the moistened washcloths. Her skin comes back to life as I clean the salty treks of tears from her cheeks.

I move behind her and remove ChrisDick from the sex-horse. It’s time for position two, my friend. I attach it to the second masturbator at a right angle to the “sofa” portion of the sex-sofa. I imagine that it’s only called a sex sofa because the seat reclines a bit. Nonetheless, I get ChrisDick into position and oil him up so that he can take her ass while I enjoy the walls of her succulent core.

I come back to my wife and release her from the bondage the frame. While she’s still on the sex-horse, I retrieve ankle cuffs and attach them to her ankles. I take her hand, help her off of the sex horse and lead her to the sex sofa.

“On your knees, Anastasia.”

She situates herself on her knees on the seat and I attach her ankle cuffs to loops the leg rests on either side of the sex-horse. There are slots in the headrests that were perfect to insert a chain, so her wrist cuffs are fastened there.

I slap her still-stripped-pink ass and command her to back up onto ChrisDick as I guide it into her anal opening. She inhales sharply as the head of the dildo breaches her rosette.

Now, it’s my turn to get into position.

I attach the control to ChrisDick to a slot on the seat next to where I’ll be sitting and crawl into the seat underneath her. Now, she’s no longer on her knees. She’s lying on top of me, in my arms, and she’s looking very vulnerable. This is intimate… too damn intimate to just be fucking, and just like that, the submissive is gone.

I gaze at her for a moment, into the eyes of the woman that I love, and I kiss her softly. Surprise registers on her face, so I kiss her again, and again, and as I deepen the kiss, I starts the dildo in a slow, torturous motion, in her ass. She moans softly in my mouth and I grasp her cheeks, opening her more to the dildo and its penetration. She whimpers and her body responds, her tongue tangoing sensually with mine. I’m getting hard against her belly and I feel her grinding against me. I don’t want her to go without me, so I adjust, pull my hips back, and slide into her. She gasps in my mouth and I gasp right along with her as I thrust into the heat of her core.

“Oh, good God, this is fucking perfect,” I hiss as I cling to her hips, find the right position, and thrust up unto her. She writhes on top of me so perfectly, so lusciously, my dick aching inside her almost instantly. She’s so hot and so beautiful and we fit together so perfectly on this goddamn machine.

“Talk to me,” I say, softly. “Tell me what you feel.”

“So good,” she breathes, “it feels… so good…”

“Good,” I say with a quick wet kiss. “Good,” another wet kiss. “That’s what I want.” I kiss her deep and sensually and continue the slow fuck in front while ChrisDick runs that beautiful ass. I can feel the push and pull through her walls; the tremor of her ass and I wonder if the front and back orgasms will be simultaneous.

I don’t know if they’re simultaneous, but I feel one of them in this position. I think it’s vaginal, but I can’t tell. I just hold her close and keep fucking her because her body feels so good against me. I don’t move into a faster stroke. I maintain a slow, deep grind and keep the same grind with ChrisDick in her ass, unrelenting even when she comes a second time on top of me. Her body is weak and I know it, but she won’t tap out. She won’t give in, and I’m glad that she won’t because I’ve only had one orgasm in this position, and I want to keep loving her this way until I’ve had my fill.

I don’t know how long we’ve been at it, staring at each other when she could hold her head up; kissing softly, then sensually; me rubbing her hips, her back, anywhere I could touch her; deeply and slowly sexing her pussy and holding her cheeks open while ChrisDick fucked her ass; marking her on her chest, shoulders and neck below her collar-line. I swear I’m nearly ready to tap out when I feel that familiar ache in my lower back that signals the approach of a paralyzing orgasm.

Fuck, we’ve been working towards this one all night.

I fight not to quicken the pace, but can’t help deepening the stroke. My wife responds immediately. I have unwittingly clamped my hands tighter on her hips and ass cheeks, holding her immobile as ChrisDick and I drill relentlessly and deliciously into her. She closes her eyes tightly and moves the only part of her body that she can. Pushing off the back of the headrest, she lifts her upper-body from mine and throws her head back, her face frozen in a horribly painful sex grimace.

She stays that way for several long moments as the growing ache in my back now traveling through my tailbone and my rectum to my prostate causes my hips to thrust a little harder. Just as the ache begins to burn lava in my nuts, she stiffens like steel and releases a blood-curdling scream from her very soul. Her body tightens around me and I only have moments to pump wildly into her and chase my own pleasure before we lock together like mating dogs and her vacuum syphons pulse after agonizing pulse of madly climaxing ecstasy from my body. I can’t even describe these sounds I’m making. I hear them, but I can’t describe them…

Long, primal animalistic, grunts? I have no fucking idea.

I hear momentary popping in my ears, probably from my wife’s screaming, or maybe from my own primitive noises, but my body is spent. If she doesn’t safeword, I’m going to.

I float down to Planet Earth and realize that I won’t have to. My wife’s body has fallen limp on top of mine. She’s no longer in any kind of kneeling position and ChrisDick is no longer inside of her. He’s just thrusting uselessly back and forth, occasionally kissing an ass cheek with the tip of his head. I push the controls to stop his thrusting and turn my attention back to my wife. She had an orgasmic tear-burst earlier, but now, her full weight is pressed against my body, her head turned so that she’s lying on my shoulder facing away from me, and she’s weeping freely and deeply, her body shaking slightly with her sobs.

I slide my arms around her to comfort her, my dick still pulsing inside of her vibrating walls, and allow her to weep.

*-*

“You’re quiet,” I say to my wife as we ride into Grey House on Tuesday morning. She’s looking out the window at the scenery as it passes by before she turns to me. I can tell that she’s searching for her words, but instead, she shrugs one shoulder and turns back to watching the buildings pass by out the window. I reach over and gently caress her hand, garnering her attention once more.

“Are you okay?” I ask, concerned. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, Christian,” she says, “of course not.”

“Did I upset you?” I ask, still searching for the answer to her melancholy mood.

“No, you didn’t upset me,” she replies.

“Then, what did I do?” I ask, “because I know I did something.” She throws a quick glance at the back of Jason’s head, a gesture that tells me two things. One, she doesn’t want to discuss anything in the car with Jason and two, I’m right… I did do something. Resigned to the fact that I’m just going to have to wait to find out what’s bothering her, I bring her hand to my lips and place a gentle kiss on her skin, which elicits a small smile from her. I place our clasped hands in my lap, where they remain for the rest of the ride into Grey House.

She’s quiet the entire time—through the walk through the lobby, the long elevator ride up to the top of the ivory tower, down the hallway to my office… and I never release her hand, afraid of what I’ve done to put her in this mood. We stop momentarily at Andrea’s desk where I give her instructions to have Mac meet us here in half an hour and Butterfly greets Andrea and Luma with a wave and a smile.

I usher my wife into my office and close the door. She finally releases my hand and walks over to my desk. Even though we were both thoroughly well-fucked last night, watching her walk in these suits that she wears to Grey House that are supposed to be business suits turns me on to no end. The fact that she pairs these suits with the sexiest stilettos known to man doesn’t help the matter, either. That Hugo Boss suit looks as if it were tailor-made for her body and that jacket is cut just short enough to give me the perfect view of that ass.

Focus, Grey.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” I say, cutting the silence. “What have I done?”

She sets her purse in one of the chairs in front of my desk and releases a sigh.

“I don’t know what to think about last night,” she says, her voice uncertain. My brow furrows.

“What do you mean?” I ask. “I thought you enjoyed yourself.”

“I did… for the most part…” I cross the room and close the space between us.

“There was something you didn’t enjoy?” I ask. She shrugs one shoulder.

“Not as such,” she says hesitantly. “I felt… and you said…” She sighs. “There was some punishment,” she says finally. “I don’t really know why.” I raise my eyebrows at her.

“You don’t know why?” I ask. “But we discussed it. You clearly broke protocol…”

“But is that why I was being punished, Christian?” she says, turning around to face me. “This meeting that we’re having, the conversation that we had yesterday, the entire tone of our scene last night and the fact that I slept in cuffs—all of that speaks to a larger intent, not a breach in protocol.”

She’s getting flustered as she speaks. I’m looking for some kind of defense and I’m finding none. I was angry that we didn’t know beforehand that Butterfly was going to be interviewing live with Sarah Bradley, but angry with whom? Sarah Bradley, yes; maybe my security staff for not keeping a closer eye on her; maybe myself for not being more diligent about background checks before Butterfly made appearances, but she’s right. Her breach in protocol may have been what brought this to light, but it wasn’t what really set me off. What really set me off was my lack of control over the whole situation…

Over these subs who keep popping up like recurring fucking nightmares…

Over my security staff who would have alerted me the second that inconsistencies showed up on a background check, but didn’t because there were only moments to make a decision and Anastasia had already made it…

Over my wife, who didn’t follow simple instructions put in place for her safety and as a result, put herself directly in the line of fire…

For one moment, I missed the unquestioned order of my old life and I needed to have it back. My wife is a smart woman. She’s a doctor—a psychiatrist at that, and as I play back the conversations and events of last night, besides what she’s already pointed out, I know what the clues were that led to how she’s feeling right now.

“I am who I am. I won’t change. I’ll always require structure and control. When something interferes with that, I struggle to maintain balance.”

“I’m going to punish you a bit for your disobedience. Then, I’m going to use you and fuck you until I’m satisfied.”

My thoughts about how much I missed flogging her, about being with a submissive. They obviously came out in my actions. I even made a mental note that she would be a submissive all night and subsequently had her sleep in the wrist and ankle cuffs. I know the moment I felt my control slip and the moment I got it back… but I wasn’t open with her about the reason for the scene, and she knew it.

I fucked up.

I run my hands through my hair. I don’t know how to explain this. I could easily tell her that it was my need to regain control over the situation—but that’s not what I said. I said something else and that’s not what she felt… and that’s not good at all.

“I’m sorry,” I breathe heavily, leaning against my desk, my chin in my chest. I feel like shit. Our relationship is never supposed to have this type of undertone—never—even when then physical outcome may be pleasurable. I can feel her staring at me, but I can’t even look at her right now.

“I should have said something,” she says, after a long silence. Yes, you should have. I wasn’t in the right mind and yes, we both enjoyed ourselves, but last night could have gone wrong in so many ways and if it left her feeling this way, it did go wrong. I don’t know if I’ll be able to use any of the toys or apparatuses on her from last night again.

“I’ll… be more careful,” I say. It’s all I can think of, but it hardly seems like enough. I almost feel like I’ve battered her or something.

“Look at me, Christian.” I can’t. I can’t even raise my head. “Christian, look at me!” I know I have to or I’m punishing her for my bad behavior again. So, I turn my head to meet her gaze.

“You didn’t hurt me,” she says, trying to assure me. “It was intense and very pleasurable, but your reasons… you have to be careful.” She walks over to me and puts her hand on my cheek. “As your submissive and your wife, I have to be able to know why you’re doing the things that you’re doing to me. I have to be able to draw the line in my mind between our activities.” I nod.

“I accept that,” I say firmly, “but as your Dominant, I need you to tell me when you’re unsure. Just like you have a problem with me imposing something on you after the fact, revealing something like this to me after the fact is unacceptable. That’s why you have safewords, Ana.” I drop my head again. This is one of the fundamental rules of BDSM—trust. She trusts me with her body and limits and I trust her to tell me when I’m going too far or breaking the rules… and she didn’t.

“I’m… sorry, too,” she says, her voice small. I can’t comfort her right now. As her husband and Dominant, I’m a combination of angry and disappointed… in us both. Neither of us handled the mechanics of this situation well at all and although it could have turned out much more disastrously than it did, the psychological impact on our relationship could be a bit intense. What’s going to happen the next time we decide to play? The next time a punishment is issued? Has her trust in me been shaken to the point of questioning my intentions each time we engage? What about my trust in her to tell me if something is unacceptable or beyond her limits?

Am I reading too much into this?

We must have stood there pondering the concept for much longer than we thought, because my intercom buzzes and Andrea tells me that Mac and Josh are here for our meeting. I tell her to give us a minute and stand up straight to face my wife. It’s only now that I realize that she’s been crying.

“I didn’t mean to do this to you,” I say, wrapping my arms around her waist. “It’s a sorry excuse and I know it, but that fucking control thing, and I didn’t exercise it the right way.” She nods as she takes in a shuddering breath.

“I know,” she says. “I know you well enough to know that’s what it was. I just needed you to realize that… and recognize that’s what it is before we start… and not label it as a punishment, because it’s confusing for me. I don’t know what to think and I don’t know how to process it… and when I question punishments…” She trails off and looks up at me, letting me know that I haven’t made it easy for her second-guess my decision to punish her, and she’s right. I nod.

“Point taken. We’ll both do better… okay?” I say, my voice beseeching. She nods and I kiss her gently on her lips. “Now, go wash your face before Mac and Josh think I’m a monster.” She nods and I kiss her again before sending her to the bathroom. When she’s in the restroom, I summon my publicity team to my office.

“Well, either you’ve just been fucked or you’ve had a rough morning,” Mac says. What the fuck?

“What?” I nearly hiss at her.

“Your hair looks like a goddamn Wildman,” she says, pointing at my head. I run my hands through my hair in a futile attempt to tame it.

“The latter,” I say, taking a seat behind my desk. “You’ve seen Ana’s interview by now.”

“We have,” Josh says, moving Ana’s purse to my desk and sitting in the chair. “I would ask what that was all about, but there are so many answers to that question.”

“I don’t think my wife is going to be doing any more appearances,” I say, “by her own choice. However, I feel that if we allow that to be her final public appearance, it sends a negative message to the media—that she can be frightened away, and I know that’s not what she wants.” Mac twists her lips and nods.

“I see what you mean,” she says. “She needs to do at least one more.”

“It needs to be strong, controlled,” I tell her. “We can’t have any more Judd Rossiter, Random Ratings Whore, local cable chicks trying to piggyback off of her. This has got to stop. She’s going to have to lay low for a while until I can find a way to gag Rossiter. With charges against him for assaulting Ray, he’s going to be talking to anybody who’ll listen and getting a gag order is proving to be harder than I thought.”

I’m considering gagging this fucker my own way.

“We could do a taped interview,” Mac suggests.

“That’s what I was thinking, but I have a bigger agenda in mind.” Butterfly comes out of the restroom, looking refreshed and ready to face the world—nothing like she did moments ago.

“How do you make everything you wear look so good?” Mac says. Butterfly smiles.

“It ain’t easy,” she replies. “So, I know my husband has a plan in light of the bitch who cornered me yesterday. Has he let you in on it yet?”

“No,” Josh says. “I think he was waiting for you.”

“I was,” I say as I bring her over to me and coax her onto my lap. “There needs to be one more interview—television. Local or national, I prefer national. It’s going to be pre-approved material; it’s going to be pre-recorded; and it’s going to be both of us.” Mac’s eyes widen.

“Are you serious?” she exclaims. “Why would you want to do that?”

“For a lot of reasons,” I begin. “First, if we give them a little of what they want, we take away some of the splendor of what they’re looking for. Remember the press conference in 2012? Things got a little quiet after that. Now, my wife has been doing these appearances and dropping little tidbits. All the while, other cans of worms are being opened along the way. Give them a tiny peek into our lives, how we met, who we are—take away some of the mystery. At the same time, press a couple of our own agendas.”

My wife looks over at me and realization dawns. She gets what I’m trying to do. Not only do we need a unified front, but we also need to send a message to stop fucking with us.

“She knows something I don’t know,” Mac says about Butterfly. Butterfly turns to Mac.

“Just like GEH knows that the Greys stand together as an impenetrable unit and enemies and oppressors will fall at our feet, my husband wants to send that message to the world.”

“And you agree with this?” Josh asks.

“Wholeheartedly,” she responds without hesitation. “I’m tired of being under attack—emotionally, physically, and figuratively—so much so that I’m willing to stand at the front gate of my mansion with a loaded AK-47 to prove it.” Mac frowns.

Physically?” Butterfly’s eyes widen.

“Hello? Car smashed into me in November? Coma for twelve days? Lost memory?”

“Oh… yeah… sorry,” Mac apologizes. “So, you’ll have your choice of networks. Any preferences?”

“I’ll let you get started on that, first. Let me know what you come up with and we’ll narrow it down,” I tell her. She nods.

“Let’s start putting together a platform, then,” she says and takes a seat in front of my desk. “This should be interesting…”


A/N: Pictures of places, cars, fashion, etc., can be found at 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 19—So Much For Normal…

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 19—So Much For Normal…

ANASTASIA

I don’t know what the big deal is about leaving us the fuck alone. Yes, I’m still looking for a little bit of normal in a whole lot of crazy. Yet, somebody somewhere feels like I’m not entitled to that.

Judd Loser went on a total tirade in the days after the Pacific interview. I addressed everything he could possibly throw at me, so every time he tried to cut me down or retort, they’d just throw a sound bite at him from the interview. It just made him angrier and what’s worse—for him, anyway—even more women came out with sexual harassment claims. One woman at his old job even went past sexual harassment and said he actual physically pushed himself on her. There was no sexual act or penetration, but it was enough to shed a really bad light on the current allegations and may result in some sort of criminal investigation.

There’s been no peace this week. Radio and local television shows are now trying to get me to make appearances, and I know that all they want is to rile me up over Judd in hopes of getting a bad reaction from me. As a result, I’m refusing any new appearances and only agree to do the three that I already had scheduled over the next two weeks with strict instructions that there would be no addressing the Judd Rossiter issue.

Al has kept a close eye on mine and Daddy’s adoption petition and so far, there’s been nothing from Nevada. I know that the court won’t contact Carla, but hell, there’s just no telling what might happen between now and the time that everything becomes legal. I’ve come to hope for the best, but expect the worse in light of everything that has happened to me in my life. It doesn’t matter, though. I don’t care what my mother does; this adoption is going through. Daddy will be my legal father and that’s that.

I’m doing my best to ignore Judd Loser for the weekend. Any time I see his name in the news or someone brings him up in conversation, I ignore it, change the channel, go to another website, or change the subject. In other news, Helping Hands receives some kind of form-letter-cookie-cutter response from the licensing board about the letters that I’ve been sending them—something about the process of approval or whatever the case may be. In response, I send two more letters on Friday with different wording, but the same questions… what’s the damn hold up?

Sunday is mine and Daddy’s big date—behind the dugout at the Mariners game versus the White Sox. Oh, my Daddy and his baseball. He gets quite passionate when his team is slacking, and quite colorful, too. If I wasn’t partially raised with a sailor, I’d be blushing the entire time.

“I’m gonna freeze with that breeze! Hit somethin’ for Christ’s sake!”
“You asshole! The plate hasn’t moved in 100 years and you still can’t find it!”
“Hey Morse, they killed a cow to make that glove! You could at least try to use it!”
“The ball is behind you, fuckhead!!!”

Even the bullpen isn’t safe…

“Shut up! You been sittin’ on that bench for so long, you should have enough splinters to make your own goddamn bat.”
“Yeah, I bet it’s hard sittin’ around for nine innings and twelve games. Stand up and stretch your legs.”

The best one is after a strikeout while gesturing to his torso…

“Just in case you forgot, when the ball comes in this area, you swing!”

It’s really fun to just let loose with Daddy at the game. I can understand his frustration, though. We’re in the fifth inning and the only scoring in the whole game was when a rookie hit a line drive down to left field with bases loaded, allowing the Mariners to score three runs. Thank God it was our team that scored or Daddy would have had a conniption. Just before the bottom of the sixth, I have to use the restroom, but I’m almost afraid to leave Daddy on his own. I nod to Chuck sitting a few rows behind us and he gets up to follow me to the ladies’ room, signaling Ben and Chance to keep an eye on Daddy.

Of course, there’s a line at the ladies’ room and I have to sing songs and think of ridiculous things to distract myself so that I don’t pee on myself. It was a close call, but I made it. After I wash my hands and join Chuck to return to our seats, I swear that I see Judd Loser get a beer at one of the stands, but when I look again, the guy is gone. I assume that I must have imagined it since the asshole seems to be flooding my conscious and my subconscious mind and just go back to my seat.

Of course, I get there just in time to miss the same newcomer knocking in another run for the Mariners. I thought this would make Daddy happy—his team is winning! Instead, he has more heckles for the seasoned players…

“Hey Seagar, rough night? The newbie’s makin’ you look bad.”
“Hey Miller, that’s a $200 bat. If you’re not gonna use it, can I have it?”

I’m in pain with laughter by the end of the game and very happy that the only four runs made possible by a newcomer name Jackson was enough to give us the win. The final score—Mariners, four, White Sox, two.

We stop at the souvenir shop on our way out and I can’t help but buy an 18” Mariners souvenir bat to give to Daddy after the crack he made to Miller. Just as I’m paying for my wares and I’m about to leave, I hear a voice over my right shoulder that I don’t recognize, but it still gives me a fucking chill.

“Wanna see my tattoo?”

I whip around right into the face of Judd Rossiter. I fucking knew it was him at the beer stand. Shit. I gotta get out of here. I turn and look for Daddy, anxious to get away from this asshole as quickly as possible.

“What’s your hurry, doll? That ass looks a whole lot better in those jeans than it did in that get-up you were wearing before!”

Do not engage. Do. Not. Engage. Where the fuck is Daddy?

“Not so big and bad with no mic shoved in your face, huh?”

Oh, this is bad and it’s only going to get worse. Just when I’m getting desperate to find my father, I run right into him.

“Annie! What’s the matter?” he asks, holding my arms.

“We have to go—now, Dad,” I say quietly.

“Aw, Annie, that’s so cute!” Loser taunts. My father raises his eyes to Loser, clearly not amused.

“Something I can do for you?” Daddy says coldly. Oh, shit. This will not end well.

“What happened to your billionaire?” Loser hisses. I can tell he’s had a few beers. “You like ‘em older now? He’s old enough to be your father.” Daddy moves me behind him.

“That’s because I am,” Daddy growls. Loser laughs loudly, drawing attention to himself.

“You should’ve asked for a blood test there, Pops! She looks nothing like you!” His two friends laugh heartily at his tasteless joke.

“Daddy, let’s just go, please?” I beg.

“I make it a point not to allow anybody to chase me from anywhere,” Daddy says, facing off with Judd Loser. He’s taller, bigger, younger, and drunker than my father. Daddy’s going to get hurt.

“Daddy, it’s fine. He’s not worth it, please, Daddy…”

“Fuck you, bitch!” he hisses. “Listen to your bitch daughter and leave, Daddy…” Judd Loser is poking my father in his chest, which infuriates me, but immediately sets off the Marine in my father. Daddy moves so quickly that I don’t even see what he does. I think he grabs Loser’s finger, because the next thing I know, Loser is kind of bent over going in the same direction as his hand, yowling in pain. Once Daddy releases his hand, he recovers quickly and comes back at my father with a clenched right fist.

… And all hell breaks loose.

I don’t know what exactly is going on, but all I can see are my father’s fists flying and two men about to jump him from behind. I have immediate flashbacks of the fight in Anguilla and the drunks jumping my husband in the barfight… and I have a bat in my hand that’s half a meter long. It’s about to go upside somebody’s head.

“Get away from my Daddy!” I scream, pulling the bat back for action. A hand catches my wrist before I’m able to swing.

“Whoa! Settle down, killer! We got this!”

I turn around to see Chance disarming me while Ben and Chuck quickly subdue the two men that were about to attack my father. Daddy has beaten Loser Boy down to the floor and has him face down on the concrete. One hand is holding his neck down so that he can’t move his head. The other hand has Loser’s arm bent in some kind of really uncomfortable-looking submission hold behind him while Daddy’s knee is pressed firmly in the small of his back.

I breathe a sigh of dread as the whole thing plays out before me. Chuck and Ben have produced cuffs from I don’t know where. Daddy doesn’t need them. Somebody’s calling the cops. Everybody here will be detained until they get to the bottom of what happened. In the meantime, Loser is still trying to get from under my father.

“Get off me, you old fuck!” he demands. “You’re hurtin’ my goddamn arm! Get the fuck off me!”

“Son, the more you fight, the more it’s gonna hurt. Wait for the cops,” Daddy says calmly.

“I’m gonna fucking sue you!” he threatens, his voice muffled since his cheek is pressed into the concrete.

“Good luck with that,” Daddy says calmly. “You’ll have to wait until after I press assault charges against you. There are witnesses and surveillance cameras that saw you poking me in the chest and taking a swing at me.” I roll my eyes and take out my phone.

“Ana! What is it?” Vee’s voice is frantic. It should be. I’m calling her on a Sunday.

“Vee, call Al, call my husband. We have a situation.”

“Why did you call me before you called them?” she asks horrified.

“Because the press is everywhere, and they’re going to see it first, so he might see it live.” Vee sighs.

“Give it to me…”

*-*

I’m sitting on the same bench in the same spot at police headquarters that I sat when we came to get Sophie the night that Shalane was arrested. I want to just bury my head in a hole and disappear. I keep my face covered since the sea of paparazzi outside have a bird’s eye view right into the precinct doors. It’s not hard to do since I’m so sick with anguish that my dad is back there in a cell with that asshole that I can’t lift my head anyway.

A commotion at the door causes me to look up and I see an angel burst through the crowd.

Christian. Please hold me. I feel like I’m going to die.

I can’t even find the strength to stand when he walks into the door. Sensing my weakness, he strides quickly over to me and squats down to me, gathering me in his arms. I can’t even speak. I just cling to him like life itself and lay my head on his shoulder, trying to find a way to cope with all this bullshit. My father’s in a cell along with Chuck and Ben and this asshole and his drunk friends who accosted us at the ballgame. A normal day out with my dad has turned into an utter fucking nightmare.

“We had such a great time,” I mutter into Christian’s shoulder. “Daddy was a total nut, and the Mariners won.”

“I know, baby,” Christian says softly, caressing my back and hair.

“He made a crack at Miller about the bat. I just wanted to get him a bat…” My voice is shaking.

“Sssshh,” he soothes. “This is not your fault…”

“It’s totally my fault,” I weep. “If I had kept my mouth shut in the first place, none of this would have happened!”

“I’m not going to even address everything wrong with that statement,” Christian says. “Let’s just get Ray and the guys out of here.” I nod into his shoulder and he reaches into his jacket and retrieves his ever-present handkerchief. He lifts my head and gently dries the tears from my cheek. Even though I’m already crying, I feel the adrenaline rushing through me at a back-breaking speed. I can hear my blood rushing through my ears. It’s sounds like a baby’s heartbeat and just as fast…

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!

I don’t know how much longer I sit on that bench while Christian and Chance and Al talk to whomever they talk to over and over and over. Christian had Marilyn call Mandy, but we insisted… somebody insisted… that she stay with Harry while we straighten things out. I’m not weeping anymore, but the tears haven’t stopped falling. And the blood hasn’t stopped rushing.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!

I put both hands on my forehead in pure frustration. Yet another open case in the life of Anastasia Grey. Dear God, will I live to see a year without a courtroom?

“This is getting ridiculous! Should I have just let the guy sit there with the pussy in my face?” I ask aloud to no one in particular. I want to scream. This whole thing is so fucking ridiculous. He was clearly trying to antagonize me and I called him on it, and somehow, I’m the bad guy?

The sun has gone down… and the two guys who tried to jump my father from behind are released. They walk right pass me. They don’t even look over at me. I really don’t think they even know who I am. I wonder how it feels spending Sunday afternoon in jail simply because your friend is a classless, arrogant, uncouth piece of…

“Sunflower?”

I think I get whiplash snapping my neck in the direction of my childhood nickname. The only other time I remember my father looking this good to me was when he showed up in the hospital after the Green Valley beating. My body is moving before my brain and I only remember being on the bench, then being in his arms, squeezing him for dear life and saying his name over and over again.

Daddy… Daddy… Daddy… Daddy… Daddy… Daddy… Daddy…

“It’s okay, Sunflower,” he says into my hair. “I’m okay.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” I say softly, my voice barely audible.

“No,” he replies, just as softly. “That blowhard ran his mouth the entire time he was in the cell. There’s no way I’m letting you take responsibility for that. He’s a real piece of work and my only regret is that I didn’t break his jaw so he would shut the hell up.”

“Everybody’s out now,” I hear my husband say. I release my grip on Daddy to look over at him.

“Everybody?” Daddy asks.

“Yes, everybody, so let’s make it quick.” I take the hint and try to walk to the door, but my head starts swimming and I feel like shit. I’ve been crying for hours and the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh has only just now started to calm. Daddy’s on one side of me in a moment and my husband is on the other. Trying to look as normal as possible—as normal as two large men can look holding up small woman—we head for the door.

The flashes light up the night like the first dawn of morning and the questions fly like crazy as Daddy and Christian maneuver me down the stairs and to a waiting Audi. Daddy gets in on the street side of the car while Christian helps me into the back-passenger seat. Just as I sit my butt down on the leather, I hear that loudmouthed fucker projecting from the top of the precinct stairs.

“That bitch is trying to ruin my life! Just because she can’t take a picture of a pussy!”

Christian’s neck jerks in the direction of the voice and before I have the chance to say a word, he has put me in the car, closed the door, and is now running back to the stairs… towards that horse’s ass. The crowd splits immediately, leaving a straight path right to Judd Loser. Fuck! You won’t let us out of the hospital when the babies are born, but you’ll make a fucking pathway for Christian to get up there and kill the guy!

In the mayhem with cameras flashing, I can see a fight ensue in my mind’s eye, one or both men being beaten to a pulp in front of the police station, and my three-second funnel produces the inevitable outcome.

Christian spends the night in jail.

I could barely stomach the thought of my father in a holding cell without vomiting all over the precinct floor, but the idea of Christian doing time is more than I can handle.

The tears start before I can stop them. I can’t take this shit anymore. I have to think fast before my husband finds himself with another assault charge. I leap out of the car with clenched fists. It’s time for another sacrificial lamb.

Me.

“I have had enough of this shit! Christian, get in the goddamn car!”

My sobbing, screaming voice pierces over every sound in what seems like a 50-mile-radius and all eyes are on me… including my stunned husband’s. Don’t lose your nerve now, Steele… um, Grey.

“Nooooooooooooooowwww!” I scream through my tears, shaking my fists like a toddler having an uncontrollable temper tantrum. My husband is horrified and everyone else is frozen in place until…

“Yeah, Christian, get in the goddamn car…” he says in a taunting voice. Christian turns his gaze back to Judd Loser, but before he can move or speak, one of the reporters close to him says,

“You’re a real asshole, you know that?”

I’m almost shocked that someone came to my defense, and like lemmings often do, the others fall in line behind him, criticizing Judd Loser and snapping pictures of his shocked face, but I don’t have a chance to enjoy it. The adrenaline is getting the best of me and I feel myself going down. I don’t know who catches me. All I know is that I see flashing cameras, I feel strong arms, then muffled sounds, then darkness.

*-*

“There she is,” he says softly. I’m cradled in my husband’s arms in the back seat of the slowest moving Audi on the bridge. My head is fuzzy and my vision is blurred, but I feel him stroking my cheek and kissing my temple… and I feel like there are leprechauns tapdancing on my skull.

“Wha…” The word is a breathy sound, and that’s pretty much all I can muster.

“I didn’t panic,” he says. “I remembered… crying or fainting.”

I think I nod, glad that he didn’t waste the rest of the night rushing me to the hospital just to hear that I had one of my adrenaline fainting spells. It’s been a really rough, very emotional, extremely fucked-up day. It’s a wonder that all I did was cry and faint. I wouldn’t have been surprised had I given birth to a unicorn on the precinct stairs. That would have given the press something to talk about.

The press… fuck!

I think I’m going to hide in the mansion for a few weeks. As if reading my thoughts, my husband quickly addresses the issue.

“I think we moved too fast for them to get pictures of you,” he says. “They were too busy taking pictures of the asshole.”

I don’t know what I do after that… I’m too damn tired…

Christian and I had the same idea Monday morning… no work for me. I’m certain the paps are camped at the end of the driveway and I just can’t deal with it today. I won’t stay in bed all day, though, although I’m certain that my husband would like to convince me otherwise.

“You’ll see it anyway, so you might as well see it now,” he says as I join him for breakfast in the dining room. He hands me the paper and who do I see on the front of the local page.

Judd Rossiter. What bullshit is he spewing now?

The headline reads, A Real A**hole. Priceless! This I gotta see…

A stunned Judd Rossiter stood at the top of the stairs in front of the doorway of police headquarters yesterday after a reporter called him out for unseemly behavior. Rossiter allegedly assaulted Raymond Steele—local small-businessman and stepfather of Anastasia Steele-Grey—at the gift shop of Safeco Field after the Mariners game. Rossiter, Steele, two members of Grey’s security team and two other unknown men were all detained at police headquarters after the incident. Pictures below depict a clearly distraught Anastasia waiting at the precinct for her stepfather along with a very caring Christian Grey trying to calm her.

The paps had a field day with the cameras yesterday. The pictures could have told the story without any of the narrative.

Me with my hands over my face sitting on the bench lamenting the entire situation.
Christian squatting in front of me holding me protectively in his arms.
Christian wiping my tears as I sob.
Daddy on one side of me and Christian on the other side, both of them basically holding me up as we leave the precinct.
A not-so-flattering picture of Rossiter taunting us from the top of the precinct stairs—they didn’t even bother to blur out his horrible tattoo.
My husband rushing the stairs.
Me with my mouth open, fists clenched, and screaming—also a very un-flattering picture.
A stunned Rossiter staring into the camera.
Christian carrying me, my head on my husband’s shoulder, my face shielded.

How did he get to me so fast? He was easily half-way up those stairs when I started screaming at him?

Rossiter was charged with assault while the other men face no charges. All men involved were released late last night. Rossiter continued to taunt the Greys after his release, prompting Christian to charge him on the stairs of the precinct. Anastasia clearly suffered some kind of breakdown, screaming for her husband to “get in the g**d**m car” before he tore Rossiter to shreds. Rossiter continued his taunting, prompting a freelance reporter on the stairs to call him out as a genuine donkey’s poop chute. Anastasia lost consciousness after her screaming fit and can be seen here once again cradled protectively in her husband’s arms before the Steeles and the Greys are whisked away in a fleet of Audis, leaving Rossiter to face the angry press alone.

Rossiter and Steele-Grey have an ongoing feud about Rossiter’s inappropriate behavior during a live taping of “Rapping with Rob,” and the subsequent fallout. So far, a total of ten women have come forth with allegations of lewd and lascivious behavior on Rossiter’s part—a situation for which he continues to hold Steele-Grey responsible as she dared to speak up about his X-rated tattoo.

There’s a close-up of the same picture of him at the top of the stairs with a zoom-in of that disgusting tattoo. The photographer—or the paper—had the decency to blur out the woman’s clit, but the rest of it is in grand detail. So, one can easily imagine what the entire thing looks like without even seeing it.

Rossiter tried to defend himself, taking another moment in the spotlight to degrade the Greys and their relationship, but to no avail. For the most part, he just came off as a drunken, cursing buffoon defaming a distraught woman for calling him out on bad behavior. Exactly how many beers did you have at Safeco Field, Judd?

I bet his inebriation is going to be my fault, too.

I fold the paper closed and place it on the table, not even bothering to finish reading the story. I pick up my cell phone and dial Daddy’s number. I’m so hurt and humiliated that he had to be brought into this. The phone is answered on the first ring.

“Hello?” What the fuck? Who the…? Oh, shit.

“Brian?”


CHRISTIAN

We could barely get out of the driveway with the paps blocking the street. I thought I’d get used to this shit after a while, but I have to admit that I was falling blissfully into my wife’s quest for “normal.” So, I’m resenting the presence of the noisy press more now than I ever have before.

“So, when did he get into town?” I ask Alex during the drive to the office.

“As near as I can tell, yesterday evening. It looks like Mandy may have called him once she found out that Ray had been arrested.”

It appears that our friend, Brian Cholometes, is in the Seattle area visiting Ray and Amanda. I can’t say that I blame him. His best friend was being detained at police headquarters, but I still don’t fucking trust the guy. We’ve been keeping an eye on him and his Ana-look-alike girlfriend, but nothing has given us cause for concern… until now.

I just don’t like him being here.

“What’s he been doing since he’s been here?” I ask.

“Nothing that gives immediate cause for concern,” Alex says. “He got in last night and went straight to the Steeles’ home. He stayed there until Ray was released, and then he left about an hour after Ray returned home and went to the Fairmont. He’s at Ray’s office right now. I would just say he’s checking on his friend and he’s no cause for us to be worried, but I know if he’s here and you don’t know, somebody’s head is going to roll.”

He’s right about that shit.

“Let’s hope that’s all it is. Keep your eye on him,” I say. “Is she with him?”

He knows who I mean… Colostomy’s Ana look-alike.

“No,” Alex says, “Not that we can tell.” That means that either he doesn’t plan on staying long or that he’s hoping to get a glimpse of Ana.

“Just keep your eye on him,” I reiterate. Out of respect for my father-in-law and my wife, I will not engage, but I need to know if he tries to. At that point, all bets are off. My next call is to Allen.

“I’m on my way into the office. I want a restraining order on Judd Rossiter. I don’t want him to be able to come anywhere near my wife, me, or any of her family.”

“Do you really think that’s necessary?” Allen protests. “After they massacred him in the news, I don’t think he wants to see any of you guys any time soon.”

“That man attacked my wife and her father in a public ballpark. He continued to harass and taunt us on the stairs of the police station in front of the press after he had been charged with assault. I don’t know if he’s desperate, unstable, or just plain stupid, but whichever it is, you’re getting a restraining order for his protection. I’m ordering my security to shoot to kill if he comes anywhere near my wife or our family again. Hell, I’ll shoot him myself!” Allen sigh.

“’Nuff said. I’m on it,” he says, before we end the call. “Cholometes is in town,” I say to Jason. He sighs.

“Yeah, I got the text this morning,” he replies.

“How soon before he speaks to Butterfly? Any bets?” Jason shakes his head.

“I’ll give it until noon,” he says while pulling into the parking garage at Grey House.

*-*

“Did you know that Brian is here?” my wife says when I call to check on her. I look at my watch. Ten thirty. He didn’t even make it to noon.

“Yeah, I found out on the ride in,” I reply. “How did you discover?”

“I called Daddy’s office and he answered,” she says. I’m quiet for a moment, waiting to hear the rest. “He didn’t dawdle,” she continues. “He asked how I was and about the twins. I told him that we were all fine and he handed the phone to Daddy.” I sigh and try not to say anything about what I think of the asshole. Instead, I just change the topic.

“I’m getting a restraining order against Rossiter,” I tell her. “I don’t want him to come anywhere near you or our family. I shudder to think what might happen if the twins are with you and that guy approaches you again.” She’s quiet for a moment.

“I suppose it’s for the best,” she says. “I would imagine that he wouldn’t have a single friend in the city willing to be seen with him after yesterday’s fiasco, so I can see him feeling the need to settle a vendetta now. My question is why does everybody feel the need to come after us? The things that people do or want to do to us are so damn drastic, I just don’t understand it. I had people who didn’t like me when I was just Anastasia Steele, but nobody came after me. It can’t be the money, because nobody has tried to get any except my mother and Ginger Creepy Guy, so what the hell?”

“It is the money, honey,” I tell her. “They may not want money, but the money makes us a bigger target if for no other reason than that people think that we can buy our way out of any situation. You know, ‘More Money, More Problems,’ ‘With great power comes great responsibility,’ and let’s not forget ‘What’s she got that I don’t.’ The list is endless as to why they want to come after us—we have everything, or we’re capable of having everything—and they’re not. They had one of us or want one of us or want something we have or are upset that we’ve got something they don’t or don’t think we deserve what we have or are angry that we can get whatever we want. Fill in the blank, baby, but trust me… in the end, it boils down to the money.” I hear her sigh.

“I’ve got one last radio show that I’m doing next Monday, then I’m done,” she says. “It’s one of those live shows that runs simultaneously on camera on a local cable channel. I think I’ve gotten enough publicity for my causes for now… I need to let it rest. I need to focus on the accreditation of Helping Hands anyway. The process is taking way too long.”

“I can make some calls if you want,” I offer.

“Oh, God, no, please don’t do that. We already know that Gloria Felton is holding us up somehow. If you get involved, it’ll just throw fuel on the fire. No, we just have to figure out what needs to be done to get this thing moving the right way.”

“But here’s the thing,” I protest. “If you know that she’s holding you up, then the reason is obviously personal and there’s going to have to be some sort of outside involvement or interference, if you will. If this is a personal vendetta, she’s going to run it into the ground. She’s going to wait until you give up or she’s going to hold you back forever.” I hear my wife sigh.

“Just… don’t do anything, please,” she beseeches me. “Being on this side of things, I understand now why Grace didn’t want you to give money to the center. You’re a very powerful man and the last thing we need is the impression that you somehow bought or finagled our accreditation… and believe me. That’s exactly how she would make it look if you got involved.”

I understand what she’s saying, but she doesn’t understand that people with the slightest bit of power and an ax to grind are going to grind it in your ass until there’s no blade left. Whether she knows it or not, at some point, I’m going to have to get involved, but for now, I’ll respect her wishes… and just wait.

“Whatever you want to do, baby,” I say. “So, what’s on the agenda for the rest of the day?”

I listen to my wife talk about what she plans on doing with her afternoon, the entire time thinking about Cholometes presence in this part of the state and the Felton woman that’s holding up the accreditation for the center. I make a mental note to talk to Allen about exactly what’s needed to acquire accreditation and to discreetly look into whether there could actually be a legitimate delay in the approval. We should just wait it out for now, but I want to know first-hand exactly what the delay is.

Now, Cholometes.

I know from experience that waiting to see what move someone is planning to make can often be disastrous. I want to know what his intentions are and I want to know now—how long he plans on staying in town, what he’s going to be doing while he’s here, if he’s really here in support of his friend or in hopes of getting a glimpse of or a moment or two alone with my wife. I still don’t trust him. I’ve seen determination before—I’m the epitome of it. I’ll burn down cities for that woman and so will he. I know he will, and some Ana doppelganger isn’t going to change that. David was living, breathing proof of that.

“Put another tail on Cholometes,” I tell Alex. “Have him conveniently be discovered.” He’s silent for a moment.

“You’re playing with fire, Christian,” he warns, “or have you conveniently forgotten your last encounter with that man?”

“Just do it,” I reinforce. He sighs into the phone.

“Yes, sir,” he agrees skeptically.

*-*

“You’re leaving breadcrumbs again. What do you want?”

His voice is impatient over the phone and even though I engineered his contact, I fucking hate this arrogant asshole and really could do without talking to him.

“I don’t know what you mean, Brian. I’ve kept my eye on you ever since my wife kicked you out of our house and our lives. You’re a wildcard and I don’t trust you, so just like you’re watching me, I’m watching you.” He’s silent for a moment. Yeah, I know, asshole. “So, if you’re just now finding breadcrumbs, you haven’t been paying much attention…” I wonder just how overt Alex made the men I had him put on Cholometes? It’s only been a couple of hours and I didn’t tell them to go and wave at the fucker.

“Are you that insecure in your relationship, Grey?” he asks. “I realize that your world begins and ends with your wife, but here’s a news flash for you. There’s life after Ana.”

Did I mention that I hate this arrogant asshole?

“You could’ve fooled me,” I retort. “You followed her around for years sniffing her ass and hoping she would fall into your arms, even after we were married and she was pregnant with my children, and now you’re going to pretend that you’re suddenly disinterested?”

“And now you’re following me,” he counters, “and what am I doing? It was okay when you thought your men were being covert, but then you stick them right in my face to summon me like errand boys. And now, you’ve got my attention, so tell me, Grey. What the fuck am I doing?”

“Well, right now, you’re hanging out with a woman who looks exactly like my wife. So, while your mouth says you’re over her, your actions say that you’re not. In fact, your actions say that you’re dangerously close to obsession and that you’re trying to recreate a woman that you can’t have. Ana’s important to you and I know that she is,” I continue, “To you and to me. She gets into your blood and you don’t just shake her off. So, don’t try that coy shit, because it doesn’t work with me. I know exactly what you’re doing, and trust me—I’m keeping a really close eye on you and your new girlfriend.” Another pause.

“Is that what this is about?” he says, his voice actually rising an octave. “This is about Shawna? Oh, boy, I could have saved you some trouble,” he chuckles. “I have a type, Grey, just like you. There are things that I find attractive—that I’m drawn to—just like you, and I find Ana attractive. What’s the matter? Your feelers all up in the air because my girlfriend looks a whole lot like your wife?” he accuses. Yes, asshole, that’s exactly why my feelers are up in the air.

“Take a good look at all of your past submissives, you ass,” he continues. “How many of them could be sisters? Some of them twins? Don’t try to find something wrong with me having a relationship with a girl who looks a whole lot like the girl I fell in love with. Sha knows all about Ana, all about how I pined over her for years and was forced to finally let go. We don’t have any secrets. And yes, I know some of your subs changed to fit the bill…”

How the fuck did he know that??

“… But to answer your unasked question, no—Sha didn’t change. She didn’t dye her hair. She doesn’t wear contacts. She’s exactly three inches taller than Ana and she looked like that when I met her. So, stop thinking you have the monopoly on brunettes. Sorry to burst your bubble, but I don’t covet your life, even though I may have coveted your wife at one time, and there are other attractive women in the world that don’t want you!”

I know that’s supposed to be a stab, but for some reason, it’s not. I only want my Butterfly. As long as that sucker isn’t trying replicate her, which can only turn out badly when he discovers that the person he’s connected to is not Ana, I’m fine. He can get as many fembots as he wants. Hell, he can have my ex-subs—all of them, since he appears to know who they are.

“It might surprise you to know that I really don’t care who you fuck, as long as it’s not my wife. My only concern is for the people you might hurt and who might be hurt because of you.” He scoffs into the phone.

“You’re one to talk,” he jeers. “You’ve got one dead sub—because of you, one living in total obscurity—because of you, one off her fucking rocker in jail—because of you, and your wife was almost killed—all because of you, and those are just the ones you know of. If you don’t want me nosing and poking around in your life like I was before, get the fuck out of mine.” That leaves me uneasy. What the fuck don’t I know? “Listen to me carefully, because I’m only going to say this once. You’re harassing me, Grey. Don’t make me show you just how untouchable you’re not. Stay the fuck out of my life.”

“Don’t give me a reason to go nosing and poking around, and I won’t,” I retort.

“Keep it up, Grey, and you’re going to get more than you bargained for!” he ends the call without another word.

I fucking hate it when people hang up on me. It gives them that superiority that they’ve put me in my place. That shit does not sit well with me at all. I call Alex.

“Who the fuck did you put on Cholometes?” I demand.

“Is something wrong?” he asks.

“He just called me basically taunting me for incompetence!” I retort.

“You told me to make sure they were discovered…”

“What did they do—wave a flag at him?” There’s silence for a moment.

“Look, sir, I’m confused,” he begins. “I told you that this was a bad idea before we even embarked on this endeavor. You told me to do it anyway, and I did. I followed your directions exactly as you said and now you’re yelling at me. Did I miss something?”

No, you didn’t miss anything. I’m just fucking pissed! And I want to hold somebody responsible for me being pissed!

“No. Nothing.” I end the call. There’s no use in dwelling on this. I might as well get some work done or this conversation is just going to niggle at me all day.

I manage to forget my conversation with Colostomy and dive into some documentation and projections about a Spanish company that I want to acquire. I spend the better part of the afternoon picking apart the financials and synopses of the company when I’m interrupted by a text from Butterfly.

**Check your email. **

Well, this can’t be good.

I open my email and go to the folder that I have specifically for emails that come from my wife. And there’s a forwarded email:

To: Christian Grey
From: Anastasia Steele-Grey
Date: Monday, August 11, 2014, 16:14
Subject: FW: Curiosity Killed the Cat

Do I even want to know what this is about?

Dr. Anastasia Steele-Grey, M.D.
Assistant Director, Helping Hands

—————————————————————————————————

To: Anastasia Steele-Grey
From: Brian Cholometes
Date: Monday, August 11, 2014, 15:59
Subject: Curiosity Killed the Cat

I’ve respected your wishes. I haven’t bothered you. I haven’t called or emailed you. I haven’t even spoken to Ray unless he initiated contact until he was arrested. Tell your husband to stop poking around in my life and my business unless he wants me to go back to poking around in yours.

Brian Cholometes

What the ever-loving fuck? I’m dialing his number faster than I can even think. He answers the call, but doesn’t say anything. He knows who it is.

“You threatened my goddamn wife? Seriously?” I bark into the phone.

“I didn’t threaten her,” he hisses. “I told her to keep you out of my goddamn hair just like I told you and you’re in it again. I don’t want your fucking wife anymore and I don’t give a fuck about you! Ray is my friend. He was my friend before you ever fucking came along and he’ll be my friend when you’re gone. I’m going to see about him when something is going on with him, and you can’t fucking stop that. Now you and I have nothing else to say to each other. Call off your fucking dogs and get out of my goddamn business. I’ve already told you that I’m not going to repeat myself and I’m a man of my fucking word. Don’t push me!”

The call ends abruptly—again—and I find myself at a crossroads. I. Am. Pissed. I want to drag this fucker through the mud just because I don’t fucking like him, but what’s worse is that I hate for people to get the last word on me! And he did it twice in one day!

However, I’m a smart guy. Yes, I’m a hothead, but I didn’t get as far as I am by doing dumb shit. Cholometes has something on me. He’s got information on my past submissives which is damaging enough, but more so, he’s got information about the outcome of a certain hacker situation last year. There are three guys who conveniently disappeared off the face of the earth and I have no idea what happened to them or where they are, but I’m certain that he does. So, even though it goes against every Alpha-male cell in my body, this is one time that if he says that he’s willing to stay out of my life if I stay the fuck out of his, I should stay the fuck out of his.

I sit back in my chair and think about what he said to me earlier. Part of me knows that I shouldn’t take what he said to me to heart, but this time, I can’t help it…

One dead sub…
One living in
total obscurity…
One off her fucking rocker in jail…
My wife was almost killed…
All because of me.

I don’t get it. All I did was fuck ‘em and beat ‘em and that’s the truth. The only tenderness I showed was aftercare. I didn’t show any true emotion until I met Ana. Yes, there was a time when I thought I had feelings for Elena when I was a teenager, but she beat and fucked that out of me, made sure that I knew that it was all about pleasure, pain, and sex and nothing else. I learned. I learned from the best… or the worst, depending on how you look at it, but I learned. So how is it that all these women losing their mind is my responsibility?

And why is it that I feel like he’s right?

I open the file containing the information on my prior subs. One has a Dom. One is a Domme. Four have moved on and are married. Three worked for Elena until she was arrested—not 100% sure what’s going on with them right now. One was chased into obscurity… by me. One hopeful is sitting on the sidelines, most likely losing her mind and plotting my demise as we speak, and three are dead—one as a result of trying to kill my wife. Two of them seem to have disappeared into thin air.

“It was just sex,” I say aloud. “I never promised them anything more. I told them I didn’t want anything more. How is it my fault?”

Is it my fault? Can I really be held responsible for someone wanting more than I could give them when I told them I couldn’t give them any more from the very beginning? Look at Ellison, for Christ’s sake. She went completely rogue and all we did was talk!

Would my wife check out like this if we ever split up? Of course, she would. I’ve unleashed all kinds of sexual, passionate, emotional hell on that woman. She’d go completely out of her mind, just like I would if she left me. It’s a good thing we’ll never find out.

I couldn’t have been all bad. Some of these women have moved on with their lives and forgotten all about me. Others… well…

I really have to know.

I click on one of the names and scroll down to the contact information. This is something I never expected to be doing in a million years.

“Hello.” I swallow hard.

“Hello… is this Charity?”

“Who’s calling?”

“It’s… Christian Grey.” There’s a pause.

“One moment.” I hear her talking to someone in the background before then a door closes a few moments later. “Well, I can’t say that I expected this call.”

“I can imagine,” I concur. “I never expected to make it.”

“Are you looking for a submissive? Because I’m not in the lifestyle anymore…”

“No. No, that’s not why I called. I’m married now.”

“I know,” she says. “The whole world knows,” she adds facetiously. “Christian Grey, married. I never saw that coming in a million years.”

“Trust me, neither did I. I… heard that you were married, too.”

“I am,” she replies, “very happily.” I nod.

“That’s good. I’m glad to hear that.” I really am… one less psycho bitch to worry about. I run my hands through my hair. “I…” I trail off.

“Well, this is definitely a first,” she acknowledges. “Mr. Grey is at a loss for words.” I sigh.

“I wouldn’t say that,” I say. “I just don’t know how to ask this question.”

“It’s the same thing,” she says, and I can tell that she’s smiling. “Just ask it. What’s the worst that could happen?”

You could tell me that I’m a living, walking, breathing, real-life monster and totally responsible for driving these women batshit crazy.

“When we were… together, did I ever give you the impression that I wanted more?” She scoffs.

“Not in the slightest!” she responds, “and for the record, we were never ‘together.’ I was your submissive. It was nothing more. I served a purpose in your life and you served a purpose in mine. When it was done, it was done. When I wanted a relationship, I left the lifestyle because I knew that I wasn’t going to find what I was looking for in that arena. What is this, some kind of ‘come to Jesus’ moment?” I nod as if she can see me.

“Yes, it is,” I admit. “There are several women that I engaged that seemed to have just lost their fucking minds. You’ve seen what happened to Elena. It was all over the news.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know that you engaged Elena!” she retorts. “That explains a lot.”

“It’s a long story… and like what?” I ask.

“Like why she was always so particular about your girls. Like why she was always around. Like why she fawned over you and pawed at you when nobody else could touch you. She pissed all over you and anybody in the lifestyle knew that getting close to you meant going through her first. Girls were auditioning to be under her just to get to you. Being Christian Grey’s submissive was almost like being a part of this weird ménage à trois.”

How did I not know that?

“Are you still in the lifestyle?” she asks, curious.

“Not as such, no,” I reply. “I’m in a monogamous relationship now.”

“You were monogamous in the lifestyle,” she retorts. “At least that’s what you told me.”

“Well, yes, but you all were contracted… temporary…”

“So, your wife is your only submissive now.” I’m silent. Do I want to answer that question? “Don’t worry, Christian. I have as much to lose from exposure as you do.” It’s strange to hear her call me Christian when I was accustomed to her calling me Master or Sir.

“Yes, she’s my only submissive,” I confess. “I love her very much.”

“Oh, trust me, the world knows,” she replies.

“If that’s the case, then why are they acting so crazy?” I blurt out before I think about it.

“You’re asking me?” she says, puzzled. I sigh.

“I really need the point of view of someone that used to be my submissive,” I say honestly. “I told you all that I didn’t want anything more, and I didn’t offer anything more until I met my wife. So… why the crazy?” There’s another pause.

“I can only explain this from my point of view and from what I think I know,” she says. “You bring out feelings in women that they’re not accustomed to feeling. Your technique as a Dominant keeps a woman on the edge of her sanity, and for those who are already teetering on the edge of reality, that’s a dangerous combination. It’s very easy to topple over the edge and when you go over one of them, you go over them both.

“You were looking for something when you wielded that cane or when you cracked that whip. We were looking for something, too. Some of us are and were not willing to admit that we were hoping that you would fall in love with us. You’re a powerful man, Christian, not just in your money and your position. You’re powerful in every way. You overtake a woman, and when she turns her body over to you, you can best believe that she’s turning her mind over to you, too, and sometimes, her heart.”

“But I told these women,” I protest. “I didn’t have a heart, and if I did, there was no way that I was giving it to them.”

“And then you proved yourself a liar and gave it to Anastasia!” she retorts. “You clearly found everything that you ever wanted in Anastasia. Now, imagine finding that, having it for a period of time, and then being told that you can’t have it anymore. Would it matter when or how many times she told you that she couldn’t give herself to you, that she couldn’t give you anything more? Would it matter that she told you that she was incapable of loving you? How would you feel?” 

“I’m not sure I could imagine that,” I admit. “Anastasia’s ability to love me despite how fucked up I was, is what drew me out. So, if our relationship had been solely physical, I don’t think I ever would have fallen in love with her in the first place.”

“You couldn’t see yourself falling in love with anyone, Christian, so just go with me for a moment,” she counters. “If after you realized that you were falling for your wife, she told you that she couldn’t be with you, would you have been able to just walk away?” I physically shiver at the thought.

“No,” I reply finitely.

“Now, imagine her giving to some other man what she claimed that she would never be able to give to you…”

I don’t only shiver—I actually squirm at that thought. I can feel my teeth grind inside my mouth.

“You and I both know that Dominance and submission is a totally different animal than these flighty ass relationships with these people talking about ‘I looooooove you….’”

She drags the word “love” out in a comical manner to demonstrate her point.

“The amount of trust that goes into a D/s relationship is often deeper and more intimate than some marriages. You were a master, Master, and then you snatched that away from women who were probably hanging on by a thread and told them to just get over it. You told them that you couldn’t give them what they wanted and then they had to stand by and watch while you publicly gave it to someone else.

“I didn’t pine for you, Christian. I just wanted more. If I could have gotten it from you, I might have taken it, I don’t know… but I just wanted more. Not so for other women. I’ve had some before you and a few after you and trust me, you were the best. You can’t turn a woman’s body inside out and expect her heart not to follow. If that happens and she’s rejected and her mind is already fragile, what do you think will be the end result?”

“These women aren’t fragile!” I retort. “They’re psychotic! Possessive of something they never had…”

“But they did have you, Christian!” she counters. “We were your submissives, but you were our Dom… exclusively. That small part of you belonged to them and then you told them they couldn’t have it anymore. You took them on the ride of their lives. Then when it suited you, you stopped the car and told them to get out. I know from experience that some of those women are hanging on to sanity like a rubber band ready to snap, and you cut it. You gave them a drug and then you cut off the supply.

“You’re obtuse and unattainable, but what you do offer is magnificent and completely out of this world. Women would give anything to have it—that kind of passion and devotion, even if it’s not real. A dream is real while you’re in it until you wake up. Oftentimes, when you wake up, you’re broken-hearted that the dream has ended, and when you’re faced with your reality, it’s too much for you. That’s when they snap. That’s when they look for the object of their dismay… or affection. It may not be logical, but it’s true. You leave an impression on women that can never be removed or undone. You have stalkers that have never even touched you…”

Don’t I know it.

“… Imagine what it’s like for someone who has experienced the full impact of your passion or your fury… or worse yet, both. Imagine what it’s like for a woman who’s barely holding on to herself to withstand a Christian Grey punishment fuck, or one of your never-ending infernal orgasm-denial sessions.”

Shit. I remember how that left Butterfly the first time I did it to her in Anguilla. It was almost unbearable to watch her reaction. I had to make her come.

“So, it really is my fault that these women lose their minds,” I conclude. She pauses again.

“Not totally. You can’t take it all on yourself,” she says, “but there is a responsibility when you impose yourself upon someone the way that you do. You’re remarkably superb as a Dominant, but when someone has the skill that you do, it’s not something that should be passed out like a deck of cards. You did it because you couldn’t commit to one person, but with your talent and ability to consume someone the way that you do, with the passion that you have and the seduction that you emit, you did right to get married. You can’t hand that out like party favors and then tell people they can’t have it. In your defense, you took precautions—or at least you thought you did—to avoid attachment or expectation. But fragile or hopeful or even delusional minds can’t see that. They see happily ever after and one day, he’ll be mine no matter what he says.”

“Did you ever see that?” I ask. She laughs, a little sadly, I think.

“Not even once,” she replies firmly. “Which is a good thing, don’t you think?” I nod as if she can see me again.

“Are you allowed to say things like this?” I ask. “That I’m seductive and passionate and the best you ever had… and you’re married to someone else now?”

“I didn’t say that you were the best I ever had,” she clarifies. “I said that you were the best, meaning that you were the best Dom. You were passionate and powerful and you made me feel things that I had never felt before and will probably never feel again. But it was different… much different than it is with Niko and I sure that you know how that feels.” I nod again. She has effectively answered all of my questions, and maybe left me with a few more, but her last statement brings to mind the times that I told my wife that my dick knows “the difference.”

“Yes, Charity,” I say, “yes, I do…”


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

Becoming Dr. Grey: Chapter 1—Poor Little Anastasia…

For information purposes, I received “bounced emails” from a few email addresses over the last couple of months. If you are reading this post but you didn’t get an email, please make sure that I have the correct email address for you. You can send it to me on the “Contact Me” link on the front page left hand side of the blog, or you can join the mailing list again (it should be on the same link).

So, welcome back to the saga of the couple that we love to love… and hate. No big prelims, let’s get right into the drama, shall we?

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. I hope you—as a fellow fan—enjoy it, too.

Chapter 1—Poor Little Anastasia…

ANASTASIA

The honeymoon is definitely over.
Christian is working late hours.
We haven’t had real sex in weeks!

We were having sex all the time. I couldn’t get enough of him! My appetite was voracious… is voracious! All of a sudden, we went from sex nearly every night to a quickie every now and again to nothing for the last month! I guess my nearly five month pregnant belly has turned him off completely. I’m not that big… at least I don’t think I’m that big.

Who am I kidding?

I’m huge. I’m nothing like the pretty, petite brunette that he married. True, I’ve gained a nice rack and I have truly come to love my round hips and butt. I can usually compliment them quite nicely with the clothes that I wear, and I enjoy the small amount of attention it draws until I turn around and become “Ana without Chris with the huge babies-bump.”

Pretty, petite brunette…

Yes, that thought plagues me all the time. My husband is a dominant—a hot, handsome, sexually charged dominant who has never voluntarily gone without sex in his adult like, and even if he did, it wasn’t for long. Women throw themselves at him. Ex-submissives come back to him panting, just gagging for it. Three more popped up just last month after the ultrasound picture of the twins somehow made it to mainstream media. I was 14 weeks pregnant at the time and still not really showing yet, but the moment it was confirmed that I was having babies, here come the hoes! Ex-subs, new hopefuls, women looking for a date, even a few men, just showed up out of nowhere!

They camped out at Grey House; they followed him when he left; they were at the door of Escala—all promising him the good time that the pregnant wifey was unable to give him. How the fuck do you think the wifey got pregnant, you fucking morons!? However, as soon as I start to think that they’re stupid and don’t know what they’re talking about, I remember that I haven’t seen my husband for more than five minutes in the last month and that his voracious appetite is not getting satisfied by me. So I end up doing something to put it out of my mind.

I did confront him about it a few weeks back and it turned out to be a catastrophe. We talked for more than five minutes that time, only to argue about how ridiculous I was being and how the last thing he wants to do right now is try to convince me that he’s not out chasing some random piece of ass while he’s neck-deep in trying to keep his company from going topsy-turvy. Pregnant-hormonal me shot that his company must be more important than me, and that created a whole new argument. It was nasty! We ended up having sex after that, but it turned out to be more of a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am than make up sex, and when it was all over, I felt like it was a pity-fuck. I never brought it up again.

It’s hard to deal with sometimes. I’ve become a bit of a hermit. The Scooby Gang comes to see about me, but for the most part, it’s me, my patients, the decorator, blueprints, Helping Hands, and that site that’s helping me build my family tree. I’ve thrown myself full-force into Helping Hands. I’ve lost some of my interest in my practice because my remaining patients are still using me as a crutch, I feel, and I haven’t taken on any new ones. Some of them have left because we made tremendous progress with their treatment and they want to see if they can function and move on. My Stoleys… my success stories. Though no doctor really wants to lose patients, having you live a happy and healthy life and never—or very rarely—having to come back to see me means that I’ve done my job.

Most of my patients have become maintenance—every now and again and only as needed, but there are still three who just can’t let go of the therapy. It’s not that they’re whiners or anything like the losers that used to come to group therapy. I know I shouldn’t call them that, but I just can’t see them as anything else. These people were real basket cases when they came to see me and that’s why I take them seriously. I can’t just leave them all to fend for themselves just yet because I’m concerned of what would happen if I did. However, I’m also concerned that they may have a touch of the Florence Nightingale syndrome in that they can’t bear to be without me—not treatment, me. So now, I’m trying to figure out how to handle that.

Helping Hands has been a godsend. Grace has used some of the money that I donated to build—or rebuild—new offices and workspaces for the more permanent staff. It’s nothing fancy as we are a non-profit organization, but it’s much more functional than having Grace’s desk bump up against a desk that John and I share in an office that’s too small for even one of those desks to fit comfortably. It’s not that we didn’t have the room in the building. It’s actually pretty large. We just didn’t have the finances to be able to utilize all of the space.

Christian is never home when I get there, so I stay around Helping Hands until late evening some nights looking at the books and working on whatever project, activity, or event may be coming up. We have our first few residents in the dorm, a couple of small families in hiding from a violent significant other. I go in and check on them most nights to see if there’s anything that we need. The money that I donated isn’t gone, but it is dwindling as the original renovations weren’t cheap and now, we have regular operating expenses that we didn’t have before. We won’t run out in the very near future, but we definitely need to secure some more substantial donations and pledges than we have in the past.

Yay! A purpose!

“So what do you think, Ana?” Grace asks me about the latest event that she’s been planning. I’m sure that we’ll be able to secure some donations from it, hopefully quite a bit, but what we’re really looking for is sustainability.

“That’s a good idea, Grace, but I think we may need to look at some income generating strategies in addition to the fundraisers. We need something more permanent. I’d hate to see us put in all this work just to have to go back down to the bare necessities again.” She nods.

“I agree,” she says. “I have to say that a couple of really good annual donations will put us right over the top. Then we’ll be able to proceed with our regular fundraising activities and invest in something more permanent that will give us that sustainability.” I twist my lips.

“I see what you mean. Any suggestions?” She sighs.

“I don’t know. I have this meeting with a group of businessmen that I have a couple of times a year, but I’m never able to coax them out of more than a couple of hundred thousand if I’m lucky. Those are wonderful donations, but from the operating side and everything that we do and hope to do for these families, you know that’s not a lot of money.”

“I know. What’s the hang-up? Why won’t they open their fists a bit?”

“I wish I could tell you,” she says, falling into her seat. “I don’t even know why they still agree to meet with me. They seem so disinterested when I start talking about the center and the work that we do, but they still donate—just enough to keep us open.”

“Christian has told me that he has offered to donate whatever you need on more than one occasion. May I ask why you won’t accept the donation?”

“Because I work hard at this and I don’t want it to be said that my son bought me a cause.” Ouch, I can see how that could be a problem.

“I understand why that would bother you. I just don’t get why it should matter where the money came from, just where it’s going,” I say.

“I understand your thinking and I agree, dear. I’m not so much concerned about what people will say. I more concerned about people taking us, the center, and this cause seriously.” I nod.

“Why don’t you let me talk to these gentlemen, see if I can pry their fists open a bit?” I tell her. “We have the new learning center and the dorms upstairs for battered and displaced families. I have the gift of gab… Let me see if I can get us a little more this year.” She looks at me skeptically. “Honestly, Grace, the worst that can happen is that I fail to sway them and we get that same few hundred thousand that we’ve been getting every year.” She twists her lips and nods.

“You’re right, and it sure wouldn’t hurt to put a fresh face to the cause, especially since you were on the PSA.” I nod, too.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” I tell her. “So give me the particulars and let me go and talk to these guys. They may surprise us.”

Grace tells me that these guys range in age from mid-thirties to well into their fifties. One of them never stays for the entire meeting and usually throws a check at her before he leaves. She thinks he may be doing it to appease his wife… or maybe soothe his guilt; she hasn’t worked that out yet. She admits that they do look at the projects in detail, so she tries to make sure that everything is in tip-top shape when she presents it to them.

“Where do you usually meet them?” I ask her.

“Here,” she says, “In one of the larger rooms. The meeting would probably take place in our new conference room… or maybe in the large classroom. What do you think?”

I twist my lips and the wheels start turning.

“I think the setting is too… stuffy,” I tell her.

“Stuffy?” she asks, surprised. I wave my hands.

“Not stuffy in the sense of being high-nosed or snooty. I might not be using the right word. What I mean to say is that it’s hard to say ‘no’ when you see the battered families milling around. However, it’s easy to appease yourself by just giving a couple hundred grand. That’s why the one guy throws a check at you and leaves. It is more than likely the guilt, and he doesn’t need to be reminded why he’s here. I say let’s change things up a bit. Let’s still make sure that our presentation is flawless, but let’s make the surroundings less obligatory. How about a lunch meeting—something informal, businesslike, in a quiet but classy restaurant? It’s the middle of the day, say around one or two in the afternoon. I can cover lunch—that way, I can dictate where it can be held and still give us some kind of home-court advantage.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” she says. “You’re talking lunch for seven to ten men and yourself.” I shrug.

“You’re not asking me to do it. I’m doing it—and it’s a business expense! It’s actually pretty perfect. If I can’t get these guys to give us a little bit more for the center, then they’re not going to do it and we may need to look at other avenues… more aggressive tactics.”

“I’m with you there,” she says. “I’m tired of begging these same guys over and over again for help every year, only to come out with less than half a mil between the lot of them.”

I can’t believe how we’re talking about huge sums of money like they’re pennies! I remember a time when this kind of money was unheard of to me and now, it’s like there’s not enough to cover our expenses—even with all those zeros behind it.

“I haven’t heard you say anything about the Adopt-A-Family Affair. Are you and Christian planning to take part this year?” Grace asks.

“I would assume so. I can’t see why we wouldn’t. We’ve plenty of time for that, though. Let’s slay this dragon first, shall we?” She cocks her head a bit at me. “What?”

“Is everything okay between you two?” she asks. Oh, shit. I don’t want to talk to her about this. “I’m sorry. I know that it’s none of my business. It just seems like one of you doesn’t know what’s going on with the other, and that’s a little strange to me.” I frown.

“What do you mean?” I ask. She sighs.

“I called Christian the other day to ask when your next doctor’s appointment was and he said that he had to ask Andrea. I just find it strange that an expectant father doesn’t know your every move—especially the nearly-OCD control stickler that I know my son to be.” Well, she’s got me there. Christian hasn’t missed a doctor’s appointment, but Andrea is the one that keeps him on his toes with that one.

“Fret not, Grace,” I tell her, trying to hide my melancholy. “He knows exactly where I am every moment of the day. He’s just been working really hard on some new ventures and I’ll admit that it takes up a lot of his time…”

“Oscar says that you and Charles are often here late into the evening. He’s gotten to know Charles quite well while you work on… whatever it is that you’re working on.” Oh, hell. I didn’t think it would be that obvious. I was trying not to publicize it. I wonder how obvious it is to everyone else. Did Oscar tell her about the time he found me crying in the classroom? I blamed it on pregnancy hormones and he didn’t push, but he must have said something to her or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

“Like I said, it’s taking up a lot of his time. He’s been very tense and worried lately and I don’t want to be another thing that he’s worried about.”

“Of course, he’s going to be worried about you, dear,” she says. “He loves you and you’re carrying his children.” His children. Yes, he’s very concerned about his children.

“I know, Grace,” I tell her. “He’s a good man.” My words lack conviction, and I don’t think it gets by Grace.

“So when do I get to know the sex of the babies?” she asks, quickly changing the subject.

“As soon as we do,” I say, welcoming the change. “I love all of the things they have in white, yellow, and green, but I’d like to know if I’m going to be decorating the nursery in pink and purple or blue and white.”

“Christian with a little girl,” she says aloud, but more to herself. “He’d be unbearable.”

“He’ll be no different with a little boy,” I point out. “The poor kid will never get to do things other kids do, like roller-skate and skin his knee. Mr. Grey will have a hospital built inside the house just in case one of the children gets a splinter!” I shake my head. That’s one thing that I’m sure of is that he will dote on our children, even if it appears that he has lost interest in me. “He’ll be a wonderful father,” I say, noting the hope as well as the sorrow in my voice. It doesn’t get past Grace, but she just smiles compassionately at me.

“I’ve got some other things to do, dear,” she says standing from her desk. “I’ll have the reports ready for you to look over this afternoon. I’ll show you my little pitch and you can spice it up with your own presentation.” She gives my arm a squeeze. “If you need to talk…”

Talk… hmm… no. Don’t want to hash out why I’m feeling like my husband’s interests are elsewhere instead of at home with his wife, and I’m not talking about Grey House. The truth is that I could be blowing this whole thing out of proportion—pregnancy hormones and all. I’m feeling needy… and lonely, I won’t deny that, but Christian has honestly never given me any reason to believe that he would be unfaithful to me…

…Except he has this enormous libido and I’m not fulfilling it right now.

“Thank you, Grace. I’m fine, really,” I say, brushing the situation off. She nods and leaves the room. I take this moment to just look out the window, and reflect.


CHRISTIAN

This is getting more and more frustrating by the second. We still haven’t found Myrick and I pretty certain he’s the fucker who’s hacking into my network. His actions are becoming more and more brazen. Ever since he hacked into my personal files and my phone, I have spent nearly every waking moment concentrating my efforts on finding this fucker… that is, when I’m not trying to save deals that the company has been working on for years. We haven’t approached any new ventures since this threat presented itself—it’s just too risky to invite outsiders in right now. However, there are always a solid 20 to 30 deals in the works with GEH that require my attention in some way. Since that attention is split between finding this intruder and making sure none of these deals go south, I don’t have time for much else.

Unfortunately, that includes my lovely wife.

She’s getting more and more beautiful as her body begins to fill out with the babies. It’s actually pretty remarkable to watch the transformation. She’s curvier and sexy, and her skin has that cliché pregnancy glow. She’s adorable when she sleeps, which seems to be the only time I see her nowadays. My hours lately are horrendous, and I don’t have the heart to bother her when I come home at the wee hours of the morning. I know that she and the babies need their rest, so I just wrap myself around her as usual and take comfort in her presence.

My dick is going to explode if it doesn’t get some attention soon, but that’s really my fault. The last time we had sex was sometime last month and it was one of the worst quickies I’ve ever had in my life… again, my fault. I haven’t even approached her for sex since that day, mainly because I’m pretty ashamed of my behavior. I was acting like a petulant child because we hadn’t spoken for a couple of days except for nervous greetings in passing. I finally just grabbed her and fucked her quickly, but it was more like “take this dick and shut up” than it was “I love you, I want you, I’m sorry.” Whatever the argument was fell dead in the water and neither of us has even attempted to get sex since that day.

That’s going to have to change soon…

Unfortunately, my primary agenda right now has been to find out where this cyber attack is coming from. Even though my money is on Myrick, we have to treat this threat like an unknown, because that’s exactly what it is. It may be Myrick, it might not. Whoever this guy is, he’s getting more and more aggressive. James’ magical software did manage to sniff him out, but apparently this guy has some magical software of his own. James has had to tweak his program to match what Wonder Asshole is doing. It’s been a very tedious process. I’m glad as well as not-so-glad that Barney was able to find James’ software—glad because he was good enough to find it and not-so-glad because it took less time than James said it would. That means that either Barney is a better tech than even we thought, or that James software is not as stealthy as we had hoped.

Either way, that program is worth its weight in gold.

**We need you in Data Central.**

My phone buzzes with a text from James. Data Central is the location that we’ve named the hub where we meet to discuss issues with Wonder Asshole. The news is either very good or very bad when I’m called to Data Central. The last time I was summoned was when James told me that our intruder was taking larger sums of money and transferring it to various accounts. No doubt, the accounts are all streaming into one big account. I wanted to stop it immediately, but James thought better against it, telling me that it would alert our intruder that we were on to him or her and we would never find out who it is. I’m still convinced that it’s Myrick, but my team insists that I don’t narrow it down as without concrete evidence, we can’t say that it’s one specific person. Everyone, of course, has been trying to combine intel to see who might be behind the attacks.

In the meantime, this asshole has disappeared from the face of the earth.

Cholometes and the lawyers are a bit quiet, but still operating in full view and nothing implicates either of them yet.

Myrick Sr., the Pedophile, and David are all still safely locked away with little to no resources to be able to pull this off. David doesn’t even have access to his company, so he can’t do anything.

Edda Straus has been under close scrutiny, but there’s no way of telling what resources she could be working with.

Any one of the Green Valley suspects could have family that want a piece of me and Butterfly.

Except for offering themselves to me on a platter, the subs have been quiet for the most part. I dare not tell Butterfly about that. Things are bad enough.

The suspect list is endless, and until we can nail down this perpetrator and pin him to a primary IP address, we’re screwed. Unfortunately, James has informed me that it is very easy to mask your IP address or make it appear that your signal is simultaneously originating from several places at once. He is truly a real mastermind at this stuff, though. He and Barney are the ultimate dream team and I wish I could convince him to come to work for me. He dead set against it, but I still get the marketing rights to this breakthrough software that he’s using to sniff this bastard out.

He has tweaked it to mimic the actions of the intruder—something that it appears the Wonder Asshole didn’t think could be done since his program is an original as well, unlike anything I’ve ever seen… and with the attacks on my company in the past ten years, I’ve seen a lot! This thing is a master replicator, a frightening Houdini, a skillful thief, and a hungry vampire all at the same time. The thing worms into the system and it replicates, creating a fraternal twin—so to speak—that has none of the characteristics of the first worm. It has its own signature that has to be tracked separately from the original. The twin goes off and performs another task while the original stays on track and eventually just disappears. If you follow the original, it’s like following a rat in a maze until the rat just hits a wall and dies, while the fraternal twin is still in the system doing damage.

The big problem is that the program replicates itself infinitesimally, so that there are twins, triplets, quadruplets, quintuplets, and however many sets of replications running around my system up to infinity with the purpose to confuse and conceal…

…and steal.

It’s money. It always comes down to money. I’m sure it would be proprietary secrets as well, but they can’t seem to get past that particular firewall. At least that information is safe. I’m feeling dread as I open the door to Data Central, a little conference room in one of the sublevels near the main server room. All of the usual suspects are in attendance—James, Barney, Welch, Jason, accounting and legal heads, other members of the IT team, and now, me.

“What do we have?”

“We found how he got in,” James says. Music to my ears! However, James doesn’t appear to be happy about this.

“Tell me more.”

“It was a very simple hack, which is why we couldn’t find it. With the sophistication of the attack, we figured it had to be a more intricate entry. When Barney suggested a lateral attack as opposed to ninja, that’s when I started looking at commandeering the database server and the web server as opposed to just getting in.”

I have this look that I’ve adopted for James and Barney when they start talking over my head. I have some idea of some of the things they’re talking about, but I’m clueless on other things. Barney notices the look right away.

“I think our perpetrator was counting on the fact that we weren’t going to expect him to ‘walk right in the front door’ so to speak, so that’s what he did,” Barney says. “His program gains access the same way anybody else would gain access to the mainframe. He’s skimming money, as you already know, but he’s masking his IP very well.”

“The good news is that various nuances and signatures and well as some good old process of elimination has narrowed down the location of the perp to North America, most likely right here in the States,” James says proudly.

“I really could have told you that, James,” I say, impatiently.

“Yes, you could have told me that, and you still would have been wrong,” James says, perturbed. “Our intel indicated that this attack could have come from anywhere in the world. We had to narrow it down with concrete evidence and not just a hunch. That’s what I’m paid for. That’s what I do. Now, would you like me to continue that job, or would you rather I pack up and go home and you can continue on your hunches?”

My first reaction would be to fire his ass because nobody takes that tone with me. Then I remember that not only did I take that tone with him first, but I also just besmirched his work. Without saying a word, I turn around and leave the room. Thanks for the update, but I can be of no use here. Call me when we’ve caught the guy. I quickly walk down the hall towards the elevators.

“Boss!” Okay, it’s Boss. I must look pretty bad. I sigh, stopping and turning towards Jason. “You can’t go on like this.” I frown, and he just looks at me. I lean against the wall.

“My fuse is shorter than I ever remember in my life,” I tell him honestly. Even Dr. Baker hasn’t been able to help me loosen up. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t relax because I’ve got of this shit hanging over my head, but if I don’t loosen up soon, I’m going to self-destruct.” Everything is irritating the fuck out of me.

“When’s the last time you got laid?” he asks. I glare at him, but I know his intentions are pure.

“Don’t ask,” I lament.

“That’s part of your problem,” he says. “The Christian Grey that I know is not getting any ass? There should be volcanoes erupting, signs and wonders, earthquakes in diverse places…”

“I get it. I get it. I know, but all of my time is taken up with this shit!” I hiss. “The last time we had sex was disastrous.” He gapes at me.

“You’re shittin’ me,” he says in disbelief. I nod.

“I’ve got to find out who this asshole is in my systems or he’s going to ruin my fucking life, in more ways than one.” I run my hands over my eyes and shake my head. When I raise my head, James is standing there with Jason.

“I was coming to tell you to watch your goddamn tone with me or I’ll leave you to find this asshole on your own. I understand that this is stressful and I’m sorry that it’s taking such a toll on you.” His voice is firm, but empathetic. I just nod.

“I’ve managed to piss off everybody who works for me,” I say, still lamenting my situation. “Why should you be any different?”

“Because I don’t work for you. I’m doing a job for you, but I don’t work for you. I need you to let me do it.” I nod again and don’t say anything else. “How’s Ana?” I roll my eyes.

“She’s fine. How’s Allen?”

“He’s doing better. The bug is finally letting up. His fever broke this morning, so the antibiotics are doing some good. I think he’ll be right as rain in a couple of days.” I nod.

“I’ll let Ana know,” I say softly. She probably already knows.

I sit at my desk when I get back to my office, looking out the window over Seattle. I’ll let Ana know. When will I let her know? We only speak in passing. Even then, it’s a bit tense. It’s seems like lately, we’re just civil—not angry, just civil. We haven’t fucked since sometime last month and like I told Jason—disastrous. She just hasn’t said much about it since then, not that I’ve spent that much time with her. That fiasco was mid or late August somewhere, right before David’s sentencing. I remember being so proud of her and how she handled that day…

No one had come to support David, not even his parents. As much as the trial had been publicized, no one wanted to be associated with this man. The judge had opened the floor for anyone who had something to say before the sentencing. I spoke to the court about how the situation had affected me and our relationship; how my wife had already gone through so much just to have something like this happen to her and to be made out to be the villain by an opportunistic attorney and the very man who had terrorized her. I couldn’t express how happy I was that the man who had caused her nightmares and sleepless nights would now pay for his crimes. Although I didn’t know how long he would be locked away, for however long his sentence was, my wife could rest knowing that a system that had failed her so many times before was now working the way that it should.

Butterfly could have fallen apart. She could have decided to say nothing at all. She could have run away in fear and hid until the whole thing was over. Instead, when it was her turn to speak, she took to the podium and had her say.

“For years I wondered if there would ever be justice for me—if the people who hurt me would ever pay for their sins, not just legally but morally as well. I wondered if I would ever see Karma come back on those who had been so mindlessly and carelessly cruel to me, or would they just wander through life never paying for what they’ve done. I’ve seen Karma twice, and now, I get to see it again. There’s nothing that can suffice for the pain that you put me through, but whatever happens today, I’ll take some small comfort in knowing that you’ll pay for a fraction of what you’ve done.

“I’ll take some small comfort in knowing that I am the voice that did cry out, that did speak up, that did finally see some kind of justice for the not-so-nameless and faceless women who have been hurt and tormented by you… and men like you.” She glared a knowing glare at him and realization came to his eyes. Yes, asshole, we know. We know all about your other victims… about Camilla and Phyllis. “I’ll be able to rest knowing that you won’t be able to hurt another woman for a very long time if ever again. I and the women of Seattle and Cedar Rapids can truly sleep without nightmares now, because our representation of the Boogie Man will be behind bars. And if there is any justice in this justice system, that will be indefinitely.” I remembered thinking that the cat was truly out of the bag, because I was the one who told her that he was from Cedar Rapids. David never told her that and it didn’t come out in the trial.

“I listened and cried while you turned me into the villain, while you made me into the bad guy to justify the horror that you put me through for your own sick, twisted, and selfish desires. I, and two others like me, can finally close the book on this chapter, never having to look over our shoulders, praying that you’re not behind us hiding in the shadows and smiling that deceptive smile that so effectively covers monstrous intent. I will leave this place and never think of you again… except maybe once.” She narrowed her eyes at him and I remembered that she planned to take every dime that he has left, and then no doubt turn her back on him forever.

“I ask the court to consider the severity of Mr. David’s crimes and the nightmares that he has caused me over the last year, not to mention since the day I met him. I am still under doctor’s care trying to put my life together after the trauma he’s caused on top of my previous issues and suffering. He’s a predator. I’ve discovered that he sought me out and used my past against me to prey on me. Although I am not allowed to present his actions against others in these proceedings, I beseech this court to impose the maximum sentence on Mr. David so that no other woman will ever be exposed to his kind of danger and his demented mind. Thank you.”

I was so proud of her and I almost danced in the middle of the floor as the judge read David’s sentences:

Eight years for first degree kidnapping;
Four years for unlawful imprisonment;
One year for assault and battery;
Seven years for robbery;
Eight years for first degree assault with a weapon.

That fucker got twenty-eight years to be served consecutively with one year credit for time served. He lost his mind in that courtroom.

“Consecutive!?” he screamed. “Consecutive!? Are you happy, bitch!? Are you happy now?” I wanted to leap over the table at his ass, but once again, Butterfly proved that she knew how to handle herself.

“I’m thrilled!” she yelled back. She was warned by the judge about decorum as David’s screaming, fighting ass was dragged out of the courtroom. She apologized for her outburst and we left the courthouse, finally feeling vindicated for all that she had been through. We went home, had dinner, went to bed together and the next day was business as usual.

I love Anastasia. I love her dearly, and if I don’t get my shit together soon, I’m going to lose her, and not because of some hacker in my network.

*-*

It’s time for me to meet with another group from another company that has been in negotiations with GEH. I haven’t really had a moment’s peace since the hacking issue and last month, the asshole leaked the ultrasound picture that he hacked from my phone. Now the world is all in our business, trying to get a due date and the sex of the babies. Hell, we don’t even know the sex of the babies yet! Butterfly has been dealing with it better than I have. If one more person shows up at my job or my home trying to offer their services, I swear to God, I’m going to lose it.

My mood doesn’t get any better when I head to the first floor conference room to talk to the businessmen. They’re none to discreet in their conversation.

“Grey is one lucky bastard,” I hear one of them say. “That’s one hot little number he’s got waiting for him.”

“Who, Anastasia Grey?” I hear another one say. “She’s okay, I guess.”

Okay?” I hear another one exclaim. “Have you been living under a rock? Ana is the shit dreams are made of.”

“Oh, come on,” I hear someone else say. “She’s pretty, but it’s not that serious.”

“Speak for yourself. She’s the sexiest therapist I’ve ever seen. I’d lay on her couch anytime!” What the fuck?

“That’s what I’m saying. Have you seen that woman? She makes pregnancy look hot! If my wife looked like that pregnant, I’d never leave the house. I’d be drilling her every night, year round. You’d have to send out a search party for me.” I square my shoulders and straighten my neck. Arrogant, disrespectful fucks!

“I share the sentiment, gentlemen,” I say firmly after I hit the door with force, scaring the shit out of each of the men at the conference table. I unbutton my jacket and take my seat at the head of the table. “That’s exactly why I drill her every night all year round.”

We do? Because I could sure use some drill time right about now!

I pause and look at each man. Some of them are quaking in their boots. Others just smirk at me. I make a mental note of the companies that I will own—or buy and sell—before year’s end.

“Shall we get on with the…” I clear my throat, “negotiations?”

I can say things in a manner that lets grown men know that they’re screwed. Everyone at the table, including the prior smirkers, just got the skin tone that looks that putrid shade of green. I know that it’s not wise and I have really been working on it since Jason’s warning in Greece, but I can’t help it. I won’t publicize that I would sacrifice my kingdom for Butterfly’s happiness and safety anymore, but I won’t tolerate assholes besmirching or disrespecting my wife, especially assholes that are supposed to be in business with me. I have more money than I know what to do with, so unless a deal is detrimental to the future of GEH or one of our budding projects—or unless I see the possibility that too many people will be left unemployed—I will pull out of a deal in a moment without regard to the man hours spent on the venture if I feel that my wife will be used as a bargaining chip, disrespected in any way, held over my head in some way, put in any kind of danger or compromising position—and these assholes just did that. By the time I leave negotiations, I have several more concessions from these uncouth assholes than I could have hoped for, and I’m already buying stock to stage a hostile takeover on three of the companies. Yes, I said that I wouldn’t broach any new ventures while I’m trying to find the intruder in my network, but hell—I’m just buying stock and doing my due diligence.

By Wednesday, James has more good news for me. They’ve found where the money is going and can easily transfer it back to my accounts. However, he doesn’t recommend that we do that. If we close the door that the culprit is using to get in, he lives to fight another day—probably to fight me. It’s the same concept if we transfer the money back. He knows that we’re on to him and he just moves on, or he tweaks his form of attack and hits me again later. No, we have to find this bastard. He has to be taken down or I’ll never be free of him.

By Friday, I’m fed up with this whole thing and I need to spend some quality time with my wife. This fucker—whoever he is—got into our email system and sent a bogus email to one of the companies with which we are planning a merger. The information was corrupted and when they called us, they were actually backing down from the merger. When I went over the figures they were sent, they were almost the opposite of what my accounting team had come up with. When I tried to explain it, they were concerned that the bogus figures were actually correct and that I was trying to lure them into a false sense of security with higher projections.

It took nearly all day to convince these guys that there was a glitch in the system, which really didn’t work. However, Barney was able to convince them with a bunch of technical mumbo jumbo. They were still hesitant because they then wanted to know if our systems were safe. Well, fuck no, but I couldn’t tell them that. This day was one of the biggest one-step-two-step fancy footwork to save this account, and I don’t really think it’s saved. I can’t be concerned about it at this moment. If I don’t get inside my wife soon, I’m going to explode, and not in a good way.

“Jason, find Ana. Wherever she is, I don’t care. I’m going there right now.” I hope she’s not at Helping Hands, because if she is, I’m going to fuck her right on the community room floor.

“She’s at a restaurant, sir.”

“Take me.” We get in the car and Jason is fiddling with his phone. “Is there a problem?”

“No, sir,” he says as he starts the car. He’s moving a little slower than I would like, especially since he knows I need to see Butterfly.

“Um, Jason, today, please!” I hiss at him.

“Oh, sorry sir,” he says and drives at a more respectable speed.

We pull up to the Mistral Kitchen and I’m nearly leaping out of the car to get to my wife. She’s probably having dinner with the Scooby Gang, which means that I have to play nice until I can get her home and have my way with her. I straighten my tie and walk inside.

I don’t quite know how to interpret what I see when I finally locate my wife. I must say that she’s beautiful pregnant–round ass, big tits, the sloping dress where you can’t tell that she’s pregnant.

All I can say is that something inside of me snapped, and I don’t think I’ve been this angry in years.


ANASTASIA

Grace’s tight-fisted donors have agreed to meet with me today, and it has to be dinner instead of lunch. That’s fine. I can turn on the Anastasia charm no matter what time of day it is, and it’s important that I get these guys to come up off of more than they have in the past. The center has many more programs now than it did last year, thanks to the improvements and renovations. We really need to keep these programs running and even though we did come into a landfall this year, it’s going to run out sooner or later. We need solid future pledges and I’m going to get them if it’s the last thing I do.

There’s just one problem. Will the pregnant Anastasia Grey get the same pity pledges that Grace received? How will I be able to pull the bigger checks if I look like a cow grazing on the pasture?

God, I feel so unattractive. I mean, when I called to make the appointments, some of the gentlemen seemed very pleased to learn that I was the one that would be doing the presentation this year and not Grace. They were even more pleased to know that it wouldn’t be at the community center, but at a restaurant in a more relaxed atmosphere. What’s going to happen when I roll my fat ass in there asking for this year’s donations?

Some of my clothes still cover my baby bump, so to speak. The truth is that I don’t need to cover my baby bump. I just need to camouflage it a bit. I can’t even run my dress ideas by Christian because I never see him anymore. He stays horribly late at the office and again, he’s gone before I wake up—taking care of whatever fresh catastophe is happening with the company. Fuck it. I need future pledges and I know that a couple of these guys are titilated by the opportunity to see Anastasia Grey. I’m going to exploit this… shamelessly.

I pick a green bowknot sleeveless sheath dress that looks like it was tailor-made for me. The draping in front is just enough to hide my baby bump and the rest of the dress fits sexy, but not sleezy—not too short, not too long, but quite demure. If I do say so myself, I look pretty damn good! A pair of black peeptoe stilettos with a jeweled ankle strap that comes in a “v” over the top of my foot and some plain diamond studs complete the outfit. I arrange my hair so that it falls over one shoulder in huge cascading curls. It’s so long that there’s not a lot that I can do with it. It’s mid-September in Seattle, so I’ll need a jacket or coat. My white cashmere will do well—just long enough to cover the dress, which is nearly knee-length.

Chuck’s eyes almost pop out of his head when he sees me.

“Um, didn’t you say you’re meeting a bunch of businessmen?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, but it sounds more like a question.

“Ana… are you sure that you want to wear that?” he asks, his brow furrows. I look down at my dress.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” I ask. Everything is covered. I’m not dressed like a whore. What’s the problem? Chuck is clearly at a loss for words.

“We’re cool, right?” he asks. I nod cautiously. “Well, we’re cool and I did a double-take when I saw you.” I don’t know whether to be flattered or pissed.

“Chuck, are you trying to tell me that what I’m wearing is inappropriate?” His face changes immediately.

“Ana, drop the tone, okay?” What the hell? “You know as well as I do how you look right now. All I’m saying is that you’re going to see a bunch of businessmen in that dress. Is this the look that you’re really going for?” Okay, now I’m offended. I don’t look like a hooker and I know it, and I resent what he’s insinuating.

“Yes. This is the look I’m going for. I’m trying to look good and not look like a cow. Have I achieved it?” I put my hand on my hip. He throws his hand up.

“Yep. Where to?” I can tell he’s doing that “washing his hands” thing and quite frankly, I appreciate it. Stay the fuck out of my wardrobe and let me do what I want.

“Thank you,” I say putting on my coat. “We’re going to the Mistral Kitchen. I will ask you to please not interrupt me while I’m talking to these gentlemen as I’m trying to get them to donate more to Helping Hands than they have in the past.”

“No problem,” he says curtly as he opens the door to my Audi for me.

The dinner is going quite well. I have quite the captive audience as these guys are hanging on my every word. I show them our presentation and go into great detail about the new programs at Helping Hands and how the PSA has brought in so many more families that need help. I include that I work for the center mostly on a volunteer basis as they pay me a minimal salary so that I can be on the books as the assistant director.

“So why not just get the donations from your billionaire husband?” one of the potential donors asks.

“I’m sure you already know why, Mr. Sims, but I’ll be happy to answer that for you,” I tell him. “As I’m certain Dr. Grey has already told you, she wants to maintain the integrity of the charity by securing donations from conscientous leaders in the community that understand the need for the services that we provide as opposed to going to her son and having him fund the organization. Of course, Mr. Grey and I do support the charity as well as donate to it. I personally donate the salary that I receive from the organization back to Helping Hands as I clearly don’t need it, what with my successful practice and my…” I clear my throat. “…billionaire husband.” He straightens his tie.

“I wasn’t trying to offend you, Mrs. Grey,” he says.

“No offense taken,” I say quickly. “I understand how people can think my husband can wave his magic wand and make all the problems of the world go away. However, it’s not a very practical solution for those of us who are in a position to help to turn our backs and expect the responsibility to fall on the next man. We really must all do what we can do to assist those families who find themselves in unfortunate positions. None of them asked to be there and if we just show some generosity, they don’t have to stay there.”

My phone buzzes in my coat pocket. I immediately turn to Chuck sitting a few tables over, waving me down and gesturing to his phone trying to get my attention. I ignore him and continue with my presentation. I can tell that some of the men are impressed with me and others are looking at me like a steak dinner. No matter. They won’t get a whiff of this and I’m just trying to get donations. I have to admit, though, that it’s good to know that even though I’m pregnant, I still got it.

My phone keeps buzzing and I keep ignoring it. Maybe he’ll stop when he realizes I’m not paying him any attention. I almost completely lose my cool when the damn thing vibrates a fourth or fifth time, I’m not sure… until I look right up into the face of a very unhappy Christian Grey. I can tell by his expression that he’s been standing there for a while and he is warm. His arms are folded and he is ready for a showdown. Shit! I don’t have time for this!

And then it hits me. I’ve been throwing my hair and smiling—turning on the charm, but eating up the attention. Oh, hell… exactly how long has he been standing there? Did Chuck call him? That fucking traitor.

He’s the picture of cool when walks over to me. “Gentlemen, if you don’t mind, I’d like a word with my wife.”

They look at each other and then back at Christian. “Yes, of course,” one of them says.

Christian leans in to me and whispers, “It’s time to go.” His voice is quite menacing, but it just pisses me off. I don’t see him for days—weeks at a time and he just shows up out of nowhere and tells me that I have to leave.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” I say with a smile before pulling my husband aside. “Christian, you can’t just walk into a restaurant and demand that I leave like this!” I hiss.

“I can, and I am,” he says definitively. “Say your goodbyes, and we’re leaving.”

“No!” I say as quietly as I can. “You’re off running your company from your ivory palace and I’m down here with the rest of the mere mortals just scurrying around as usual. Half the time, you don’t even have time for me. You don’t even have time for me anymore and suddenly, you find time to come down here and drag me away when I’m trying to raise money for the charity. How did you even know that I was here?”

He closes his eyes and flexes his fingers a few times. After taking a few deep breaths, he raises piercing gray eyes to meet mine.

“I swear to God, Anastasia, if you don’t leave with me right now, I will drag you out of here kicking and screaming and I will enjoy every second of it!” he hisses. Fuck me—he’s serious!

“Fine!” I hiss, as I don’t want to make a scene. I walk back over to the table. “I’m sorry, Gentlemen. It appears that I have a family emergency and I have to leave. We will have to continue this meeting at another time.”

“Don’t count on it,” Christian murmurs so that only I can hear him. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“We completely understand, Mrs. Grey,” Mr. Walker says before standing.

“I will call you each next week to reschedule. Thank you so much for coming.” I turn on the smile and sweetness a bit, oblivious to Christian standing behind me.

“Mrs. Grey,” he nearly hisses in my ear. Ignoring his threatening tone, I shake hands with each man as they rise and leave the restaurant. I turn to Christian and he is an inferno of silent rage—but so am I. I don’t see you for three weeks except in passing and you march in here out of nowhere and ruin my fundraising dinner! Bastard!

“Are you spying on me again, Christian?” I bark, trying not to draw attention to us.

“Anastasia Rose Steele-Grey,” he says through his teeth, “I can guarantee that you do not want to start with me right now.” His anger mixed with calm is frightening, but not frightening enough for me to forget that I’m mad. “Let’s go,” he adds, glaring at me and daring me to defy him. This is not the place to make a stand. He will shamelessly carry me out of here. I march to the Audi, rolling my eyes at Chuck along the way. He doesn’t even flinch. He must have been in on it. Fucker. I’ll never trust him again.

I climb into the SUV and slam the door behind me. Christian gets into the front passenger seat and we all ride home in tense silence. He’s got a lot of nerve all of a sudden acting all bruised when 24 hours ago, his precious company meant more to him than me and his children. Hell, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear there was something much more interesting at Grey House than his boring ass pregnant wife!

I am fuming! You don’t just march into a public place and demand that I leave because you don’t like the fact that I’m having dinner with men. This was a professional meeting! It had a professional purpose! He can’t do this! I’ll never be able to raise money for Helping Hands if he marches into my meetings acting like a fucking caveman!

I leap out of the SUV the moment Jason stops the car in Escala’s parking garage. I am so fucking angry that I could bite Christian’s head off and shit down his throat. Where is my fucking car? Shit! It’s still at the damn restaurant. I spend a second too long contemplating my where car is as it is just enough time for him to get out of the car and storm over to me. Jason stays firmly seated in the driver’s seat.

Fuck you, Christian Grey! I turn around and walk towards the elevator. I feel him grab my arm. I snatch it from his grasp and keep walking. He snatches me back so fast and hard that I swear I hit a wall!

Mother fuck– Wham! Before I know it, my hand flies hard across his face—so hard that it’s stinging a bit right now.

Oh my God! I didn’t mean to hit him! I really didn’t…

I don’t have time to contemplate my sin. I am against him in seconds… less than seconds. He is holding my forearms in a vise grip and I am paralyzed. He is glaring at me—furious! His nostrils are flaring and his pupils are constricted to a silver white that I have never seen before. My first instinct is to apologize, but not because I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit him, but I’m not sorry for doing it. I am afraid, though. I’ve never seen him like this and I don’t know what he’s going to do next.

I vainly try to escape his grasp, but I can barely move. Now, I’m starting to panic. I can’t fight Christian like I would an attacker. Even if I’m angry with him—livid—I can’t do it. I love him too much. He has a momentary battle that plays across his face before he smashes his lips to mine, angrily and possessively.

No! No more of this caveman shit!

I’m truly struggling to get away from him now, but he has a firm grip on me. I’m not going anywhere. The more I fight, the firmer he holds me until his lips part mine and I taste him… I taste his anger and his urgency, his tongue feverishly lapping against mine claiming my mouth and sucking all of the air and resistance out of me. I am fucking loopy when he pulls his lips away from mine only to hiss in my face.

“You are mine!”

I don’t know if I’m floating, flying, walking, being dragged or carried, but the next thing I know, I am inside of a doorway against the wall in the corner of the parking structure. I can tell by the unrelenting bulge in his pants and the merciless way he has me pushed against the wall exactly what he has in mind.

“No!” I protest. “Not here!”

“Yes!” he growls. “You are my wife and I will fuck you anywhere I damn well please!” He turns me around, my back to his front. He’s holding both of my hands against me in one of his as he snatches my dress up over my ass and thrusts his fingers around my thong and into me. Oh, shit, that’s hot!

“Christian, no…” I whine, half-hearted, still conscious of where we are and quickly succumbing to the delectable feeling of his fingers between my legs.

“Quiet!” he orders in a low whisper. “I want you right here, right now, and I’m going to have you!” He’s still angry and I’m afraid that he’s going to hurt me. In record time, he has freed himself from his pants, removed his fingers from me, and impaled me with his hard staff. I gasp loudly as he sinks in deep. He grunts into my hair.

“Be quiet. Someone might hear you. Do you want someone to see us?” he growls, still holding me captive while he slams into me.

“No,” I whimper as I reluctantly give in to yet another punishment fuck. Physically, I can’t resist him. He feels so good… so good in fact that I quickly reach my orgasm, spurring him to fuck me faster. Mentally, I feel like a piece of meat, a possession—not a loved and cherished wife, not even a faithful and obedient submissive—just a piece of meat. I can’t stop my body’s reaction to him, though. Somehow, even while trapping me in his anger-fueled grasp, his hands are all over me. My ass, my tits, my clit, nothing is left neglected. He is digging deep into me, feverishly claiming what is his. If he could be bothered to move my hair out of the way, I’d have more love bites on my neck.

He picks up the pace and now I know that he is chasing his orgasm. His pace is so furious and the feeling so unbearably divine that I subconsciously lift my leg and wrap it around the corner wall we are currently occupying.

“Oh, fuck, yes!” he hisses, as this move opens me up a little, allowing him to sink yet further into me. I gasp as his thrusts go deeper and deeper, harder and more determined, pushing me towards yet another orgasm.

Then my mind remembers the bachelorette party—the bathroom where he fucked me to one orgasm, then left me hanging on the second. Then the way he humiliated me in the hallway afterwards, I really felt like shit. I won’t let him do that to me again. I steel myself and wait for his climax. It’s hard—so hard because it feels so good—but I can do it. Sensing my resolve, his strokes become deeper, more earnest, his moves a little more sensual. I am panting trying to control my release. Oh God, I’m not going to make it.

“Don’t hold out on me! Give it to me!” he hisses. He knows my body better than I do, but I can’t relent. I can’t give him the control of leaving me bereft and wanting once again… I can’t… I can’t…

He reaches around and into my underwear, finding my clit. He applies just enough pressure along with his unyielding thrusts to crack through my already fragile resolve. I release a strangled cry—almost to tears—as I realize that he is going to let me come and a second mind-blowing orgasm rips through me.

“Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Oh, fuck, yes!” he exclaims with each thrust as he lifts me off the ground and plunges into me, finally finding his release. He holds me against him, both of us breathing hard. My feet are still dangling from the ground and he is still inside me. After several moments, he sets me gently on the ground.

“You drive me crazy!” he hisses into my ear, and I know that he doesn’t mean it as a compliment. Yes, I guess I do, and then you fuck me like a piece of meat to remind me that you have that power over me. Are we even now?

I hold my head down to fight back the tears. I’m angry, but I don’t know with whom and why.

Christian because he chose to punishment fuck me in the parking garage where anyone could walk by and see us?

Myself for letting him do it or for pushing him to it?

Jason for not at least getting out of the car to make sure that I was okay?

I feel myself closing down and I’m trying to stop it, but my emotions are too strong right now, too heavy for me to carry and try to sort out. He pulls out of me and I quickly pull my dress down and smooth it over my hips.

You wore that dress to get attention. You got what you wanted…
Did I?

His hands are pressed against the wall on either side of my head. Without raising my eyes or checking to see if he has put himself away, I duck under his arm and slowly walk to the elevator. It feels like everything I can do to hold myself together until I get upstairs. When the elevator comes, I press the code to for the penthouse. My hopes for a quiet ride of shame are dashed when Christian slips into the elevator before the doors close. The ride is eternal. I don’t raise my head to him.

Please don’t try to talk to me…
Please don’t try to talk to me…
Please don’t try to talk to me…

At last, the elevator rings elegantly announcing our arrival to the penthouse, but I can’t move my feet. We both stand there, waiting for… what? I hear my name… breathed… not audibly, but somehow…

Ana…

As the doors start to close again, I push the “open” button. The doors slide open and it takes yet a few more moments for me to will my feet to move. I take a deep breath and screw up my courage.

“I’m sleeping in the guest room tonight,” I say softly, pushing all of my breath out of my body with the words. “Please don’t follow me.”

I finally step out of the elevator and to the doors of the penthouse, leaving Christian behind me as the elevator doors close with him still inside.

*-*

I awake in strange surroundings. Where am I? Oh, the guest room. The Seattle sun is blaring through the floor-to-ceiling windows and I have no idea what time it is. I raise my head and I have that “I’ve gotten to much sleep” woozy feeling.

I came right in, stripped, and got in the shower last night—trying to wash away the feeling of being a random cow in an herd of cattle. I didn’t eat last night. I came straight to this room and got into the shower. My dinner meeting was rudely interrupted and I didn’t want to run into Christian on my way to the kitchen, so I went to bed hungry—and naked, since I have no clothes in this room. After relieving myself, I wrap a sheet around my body toga style and go to find some clothes.

I open the door and look down to find my robe on the floor in the hallway. Straight across the hallway is Christian. He’s on the floor, too, leaning against the wall in pale blue jeans and a white T-shirt. His legs are bent and his elbows are resting on his knees, his fingers loosely entwined. His beautiful copper hair is a flopsy, tangled mess and his head is bowed between his arms. He’s fast asleep.

I pick up my robe and quickly replace my toga sheet. Tying the belt, I walk over to Christian and run my fingers gently through his hair. He jumps, startled out of his sleep.

“We need to talk,” I say softly. His sleepy gray eyes examine me for a moment and I am certain that just like I had to recall that I was in the guest room, he had to recall that he was in the hallway. He runs his hand through his hair as if to wash away a random thought, then gracefully pushes himself off the floor.

He follows me to the kitchen. I pour us both a cup of coffee as he takes a seat at the breakfast bar. He looks a little worse for wear, but still hot as hell to have just woken up after sleeping in the hallway for… I don’t know how long.

“How long were you in the hallway?” I ask, handing him his coffee and taking a sip of my own.

“Um… a few hours, I think. I couldn’t sleep so I thought I would wait for you. I was sure that you might come out, at least for something to eat, but you didn’t. I must’ve fallen asleep while I was waiting.” I nod. I don’t know what to say to him about last night. He solves that dilemma for me.

“I wanted to make sure that you were okay, but I’m not going to apologize for what I did.”

My eyes widen. What did he just say?

“You need to sit down and hear me out. Afterwards, whatever you decide to do, I’ll accept.” I glare at him, my anger from last night slowly creeping back into my body as I take my seat. He pushes his coffee to the side and folds his hands in front of him. He straightens his back and squares his shoulders. Fuck me… I’m dealing with the CEO.

“You went into a room full of men, dressed in a sexy dress like a piece of meat. You were taking full advantage of the three fatal ‘F’s’–fluttering your eyelashes, flashing your ass, and flirting. I didn’t spy on you so I could see what you were doing. I specifically asked Jason to find out where you were so that I could join you for dinner and that’s what I walked in on.”

“Christian…” I interrupt.

“I’m not finished!” he says, his voice firm. I’m a bit shocked. I truly haven’t encountered this Christian Grey before. I’ve encountered loving Christian, contrite Christian, angry Christian, playful Christian, Dom Christian, but never CEO Christian. I am way out of my element here.

“You already know that I’m an insanely jealous man and I don’t apologize for that. You made a conscious decision to stand in front of these men as my wife in the sexiest dress that you could find and peddle yourself for money. That may sound harsh, but that’s exactly what you did. This was nothing like the ‘harmless hen night.’ This was something that you did to get a larger paycheck, and you’ll be lucky if anybody takes you seriously after this. So do me a favor and save your righteous indignation for another time!”

Ho-ly fuck. My heart and resolve crack immediately. I want to fight. Something is wrong here. Something is wrong in what he did to me, but I can’t see it right now. I can only see the collossal mess I may have made of everything with my foolish actions.

“Christian, I…” He holds his hand up to silence me, and I realize that my lecture is not finished yet. I drop my head to take my medicine.

“Look at me,” he nearly growls. My head snaps up and my eyes meet his. I can’t even identify the emotion there, or lack thereof. He’s cold and closed off. He’s looking at me straight on–not an angry glare, just looking at me… sort of squaring off, but not.

“You. Were. Wrong,” he says finitely, slowly so that I can understand his meaning. “What you did may have caused irreparable damage to Helping Hands and to your reputation, and if you ever do that again, it will cause severe damage to our marriage.” He pauses and let’s the words sink in. I fight the tears threatening to break through.

“Do you need a moment?” he says, his voice cold and calculated. That’s when I see it. The walls are up. He’s not letting any emotion come through. He feels nothing at this moment if for no other reason than to make sure that I see his point. I sit up straight and quickly dash away the two tears that manage to escape. I shake my head that I don’t need any time and look him in the eyes… to take my medicine.

“I will not apologize for what I did last night, because you took advantage of me. You took advantage of my trust in you, and although I know for certain that you wouldn’t have fucked any of those men at that table, you gave them a hope for something that they could have if they wrote a big enough check. They were salivating over you, and I’m not just saying that because you’re my wife and I don’t want another man looking at you. I’m saying that because from where I was standing at the door, I could see two of them with their legs crossed and three of them with obvious erections. Do you have any idea how that feels—for a man to look at another man’s package in the first place, but then to know that’s going on because of his wife?”

I immediately remember how I felt when Athena’s Spear was pointing at every woman in Greece–not intentionally, but still pointing. It felt pretty shitty.

“Ye…” I speak, but nothing comes out, so I clear my throat. “Yes.”

“Good,” he says without pausing, “now take what you’re feeling and add what you would be feeling if I had been doing that on purpose.” In that uncanny way he has of reading my mind, he has hit the nail right on the head. I feel a shiver traveling through my body. He is so cold right now, and he’s going to make his point. I try to break eye contact with him again.

“Look at me, Anastasia!” he nearly snaps. My eyes shoot to his again and his cold resolve is back in an instant. He wants me to see this. He’s never been this angry with me before, not even on New Year’s Eve. I settle on my perch, my resolve evident, too, but different.

“I am fully aware that I set the Neanderthal loose and I don’t regret it, because that’s what you wanted. You just didn’t want it from your husband. You wanted it from a bunch of men at a dinner table with fat checkbooks. So, it’s okay for them to treat you like a piece of meat, but not me.” It’s a statement rather than a question.

The Bitch inside is curled on the floor, crying and screaming, throwing a massive temper tantrum and begging for him to stop. Outside, I stare blankly at him–tears burning my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. He falls silent only for a moment and examines me, but only to change weapons.

“Poor little punished Anastasia,” he says with no malice, which makes the words hurt even more. “It’s okay for you to berate me when I’ve done something wrong, but when you are clearly out of line, I get to sit here and look at those big blue doe eyes ready to explode like a waterfall–your mind no doubt screaming ‘why is he doing this to me.’ I’m right, aren’t I?”

Yes and no. I really wasn’t thinking “Poor little Anastasia,” but I would like for this to stop, please… Oh, and yes, I do feel like crying a river.

I say nothing. I don’t know what to say. I have no defense against this particular attack, nor should I. I wanted those men to want me, to prove that I could pull in the big checks. He caught me red-handed. Just like I told him about hen night, my actions may have caused damage that I can’t fix–to my charity and my marriage–and there’s nothing I can do at this moment but sit here and take it.

But with Christian, my eyes are a weapon and he’s forcing me to look at him. I would turn my eyes away, drop my head, but he won’t let me. Everytime I try, he just forces me to look at him again. Finally, I lose the battle.

A lone tear slides unwanted down my face.

I feel it burn a track down my cheek and as if it weren’t prominent enough, another one joins it burning the same path, joining its mate rolling down my chin until they both fall on my breast as one loud cosmic splash. The sound resonates in my ears like a massive and destructive tsunami, although it really makes no sound at all. I don’t break his gaze. I don’t blink. I don’t move. I just look. He’s angry and a tad disgusted. I can see it in his steely gaze. He’s still not glaring, but he’s clearly displeased.

He picks up his coffee, now gone cold, and bottoms out the cup before standing from the breakfast bar. Without a word, he turns and walks away—to his study, I think. He doesn’t close the door, but the silence and his demeanor is enough of a barrier for me to know that he doesn’t want to see me right now. I slide off the seat and, leaving the dishes there on the counter, I go to find a quiet corner to be alone with my thoughts.

The Bitch is exhausted from her wailing and mourning and has taken to silence as well, so there’s no one here but me… me and my babies. At the very end of the dining room before you get to Christian’s piano, there’s a chaise facing the skyline. I never knew why it was there, but it’s perfect for right now… not closed away in a room for hiding or running or shrinking, just somewhere quiet and slightly secluded. I get comfortable, cradle my babies, and do the only thing I know to do right now…

Goodnight, my angel
Time to close your eyes
And save these questions for another day
I think I know what you’ve been asking me
I think you know what I’ve been trying to say
I promised I would never leave you
And you should always know
Wherever you may go
No matter where you are
I never will be far away

Goodnight, my angel
Now it’s time to sleep
And still so many things I want to say
Remember all the songs you sang for me
When we went sailing on an emerald bay
And like a boat out on the ocean
I’m rocking you to sleep
The water’s dark
And deep inside this ancient heart
You’ll always be a part of me


A/N: So there it is… perfect little Ana ain’t so damn perfect. Couldn’t let Book II go out like a lion then make Book III come in like a lamb. 😉 

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Love and Handcuffs!
Lynn x