Grey Continued: Season 5, Episode 5

This is a work of creativity. As such, you may see words, concepts, scenes, actions, behaviors, pictures, implements, and people that may or may not be socially acceptable and/or offensive. If you are sensitive to adverse and alternative subject matter of any kind, please do not proceed, because I guarantee you’ll find it here. You have been warned. Read at your own risk.

I do not own Fifty Shades Trilogy, or the characters. They belong to E. L. James. I am only exercising my right to exploit, abuse, and mangle the characters to MY discretion in MY story in MY interpretation as a fan. If something that I say displeases you, please, just leave. If you don’t like this story or me, please don’t spoil this experience for everyone. Just go away. For the rest of you, the saga continues…

Season 5, Episode 5

ANASTASIA

To say that I was surprised to find out that Ros’ marriage was over is the understatement of the century. To find out that her wife left her because Ros wants to be with someone else completely floored me.

When I think about her situation as I would a patient, I have to be objective with my opinions. When I’m talking to someone that I know, it’s a little harder to find that objectivity.

On the one hand, she’s a person in an unhappy marriage. True, she shouldn’t have married Gwen if she was in love with someone else to begin with. However, be that as it may, we’re dealing with the present and where she is today, what her next move should be in terms of her own happiness. If she were a patient, my advice to her would be that I can’t encourage anyone to leave their marriage, but that life is short, and happiness can be fleeting—you have to grab it where you can, or you may lose it. What decision will make her happiest in the long run?

There would be questions about the lesser of two evils and which choice would have the least severe consequences, because both choices will have consequences. Once she has weighed all of her options, then she can decide as to which choice would be best for her.

On the other hand, I know this woman. She works closely with my husband, and I want to grab her and shake her and ask her why the fuck she would do this to another person. She married Gwen hoping that Gwen would make her happiness complete when her heart was with someone else. Love is such a precious thing that I have no idea why you would do that to someone.

She’s crying and broken, and she says it’s because she hurt Gwen and she really didn’t want to do that, but I don’t know if that’s true.

It could be that she’s scared shitless to leave the familiar and branch out into the uncertain, but she can’t stay with the familiar because Gwen doesn’t want her anymore.

It could be that after she has weighed her options, she really does love Gwen and want to stay with her over this Monique girl, but that ship has sailed because Gwen doesn’t trust her anymore.

Or it could be exactly what she said—she’s hurting because she hurt Gwen and Gwen doesn’t deserve that.

Her position is not an enviable one. She’s going to suffer a loss no matter what she does. However, I sincerely have a hard time finding sympathy for cheaters. As long as she pulls her weight at GEH, that’s fine by me.

Apparently, my husband had some kind of “Come to Jesus” talk with her and Finney, much like the one that I had, but obviously more effective as Finney went scurrying from the room on a mission to be more proactive, and Ros was reduced to a slobbering, blubbering mess confessing her infidelities and the breakdown of her marriage, something that we later discover that Finney didn’t even know. None of us can really empathize with her on this as we’re all on our first marriages and have no intention of leaving.

In other news, I’m about to pull the final rug from under one ex-GEH research assistant, Ms. Deanna Corman. She is ruing the day that she crossed me and came on to my husband—in my presence, no less—she just doesn’t know how much she’s ruing it, yet. I’ve decided to let her in on the punchline today.

The last few weeks have been a bit inconvenient for Ms. Corman. Her neighborhood has been papered with her pictures and details of her little petty citations—nothing major, just embarrassing.

I procured every available billboard in the Seattle area and filled them with little factoids about her without posting a picture or mentioning her name… initials maybe, but not her name, unflattering things like:

DC will offer you a good time, then sue you if you refuse.

There’s no way that she wouldn’t know the boards were about her—information about her being a homewrecker and unemployable, things that the average person may not even figure out. However, if you see it and you know that it’s you, you assume everybody knows that it’s you.

GEH got a call about one of the billboards from some attorney. Of course, they had no idea what the guy was talking about since I paid for the billboard under an alias. Don’t worry, DC, it’s only for a couple of weeks.

Probably some of the most satisfying results were the fact that her surveillance officer informs me that she was excused from two restaurants because the fliers that I circulated somehow made it to the restaurants. I honestly don’t know how that happened, but… bonus!

She’s been refused three interviews from companies that are close to GEH and can barely get an interview anywhere since Christian damn near owns everything except the Space Needle.

There have been other tiny little inconveniences, and I’m not sure if she knows that I’m at the base of her misery. However, she’s the only one who hasn’t dropped the lawsuit against GEH. All the other plaintiffs knew a losing battle when they saw one and got out while the getting was good. Little Ms. Corman apparently wants some visibility since word got back to us that she was fired because the boss wanted her, and she was ready to reciprocate until I threatened her. Granted, this is only rumor mill—nothing in print—but if she wants attention, I’m the bitch to accommodate her.

She received long-stemmed roses at her home today stating that a certain billionaire wanted to meet with her to clear the air, inviting her to dinner in a private room at Christian’s club downtown. What she doesn’t know is that the billionaire that’s coming to clear the air is me.

I’m sure to arrive well before her so that I can enjoy my meal before she gets there—duck a l’orange with sautéed cabbage, roasted vegetables and mashed potatoes. Certain that she plans to be fashionably late, I instruct the server to wait until my guest arrives to bring her meal to the table and in the meantime, I order two chilled bottles of Cristal—one for now, and one for when she gets here. The meal is superb, and I enjoy every bite of it while waiting for my prey to arrive. Just as I’m finishing my tiramisu, the server announces that she has arrived. I nod for him to show her in. The look on her face is priceless when she clears the large velvet curtains and finds that it’s me sitting there at the table instead of Christian.

“I see that you dressed the part,” I taunt of her cocktail dress that’s not even a sneeze off her snatch. “Unfortunately, I don’t bat for that team.” She narrows her eyes.

“I don’t need this,” she says. “I’m not dealing with this.” She turns to leave.

“Oh, no, you’re going to sit your ass down or three wives will receive very unflattering pictures of you with each of their husbands, including the one who put a gun to your head last year.”

She whirls around and stares at me in disbelief. I raise a brow at her, daring her to call my bluff. Her stare changes to a glare, and she slides into the seat across from me. I gently dab the corners of my mouth and take a sip of my champagne.

“You’ve had quite the spell of bad luck over the last month,” I say, smiling. “You lost a really great job with a really reputable company, billboards announcing your extra-curricular activities, being thrown out of classy establishments, interviews refused… you’re just the happy whore of Seattle, aren’t you?”

“Says the woman who has to threaten people to keep them from fucking her man,” she says, rolling her neck. I chuckle lightly.

“But you didn’t get to fuck him, now, did you?” I say with a smile.

“I ain’t dead yet,” she shoots back.

“That can be arranged,” I retort flatly and glare at her, my eyes piercing. Her resolve shakes a bit, but she’s determined not to give me the satisfaction of seeing her sweat, but she doesn’t understand that I already have.

“You’re feeling awfully brave,” she taunts. “I could be wearing a wire.”

“For what?” I ask. “If you’re wearing one, fine. You won’t get anything you can use in court… for what? What are you going to use—the fact that you’re a hoe that comes on to other women’s husband’s and we all know it? Yes, Your Honor, I’m guilty of calling this skank ass, sleazy, tramp-ass bitch a whore! Lock me up! Throw away the key! Nasty bitch.”

“I’ve already got something,” she says. “You said my death could be arranged.”

“I didn’t say by whom,” I retort calmly. “You’re currently fucking three other women’s husbands. You’re not fucking mine. But that’s okay, because I know you’re not wearing a wire. You’re not that smart.” Her face hardens as I sip my champagne.

“I appreciate your chutzpah,” I tell her. “You’ve got to be really brave or really stupid to pretend you still have the upper hand in this matter. While I would love nothing more than to drop kick your ass off the edge of the earth, I think watching you squirm worked out a whole lot better. Keep fucking with me, little girl. You ain’t seen nothing yet.” Realization finally dawns as she realizes what I’m saying.

“All this shit was you?” she asks incredibly. “The billboards, the restaurants… all this shit was you?” I shrug playfully.

“Guilty,” I say. “It’s only slander if it’s not true.” I smile and take a bite of my tiramisu. She leaps out of her seat and gets in my face.

“I oughta kick your fucking ass right here and now!” she threatens. Chuck emerges from the shadows behind her, but she doesn’t see him.

“You go right ahead and try,” I taunt, leaning forward into her face. “By the time I’m done with you, they’ll be finding parts of you on five different continents.”

She jerks back a bit, but still doesn’t sit.

“I’m your worse fucking nightmare, bitch,” I tell her. “I’m a wife who’s madly in love with her hot husband and her happy home and you’re threatening that. But what’s more, at the very least, I’m a comfortable billionairess with a really great setup and you’re trying to muscle in on my fucking territory, and you thought I was just going to roll over and take that have you lost your fucking mind?”

I say the last part all in one breath and she still hovers over me.

“Sit. The fuck. Down.” I say threateningly, but she doesn’t, so Chuck so graciously comes from his post and not so gently helps her back to her seat. Her eyes widen when she sees him—or feels him, I should say—and she turns an incredulous glare to me.

“You ain’t shit without your security,” she says. I swallow another bite of delicious tiramisu.

“That sounds like something I heard in a movie once,” I taunt. “’You ain’t shit without that gun, are you?’ I think that’s what she said. And yet, she still didn’t fuck with the bitch with the gun.” I sip my champagne.

“Christian came on to me,” she declares, changing tact. “He’s only putting on a show for you. I’m who he really wants.”

“Oh, I believe that,” I say laughing sarcastically. “And during your pillow talk, did he tell you about the time I made him come so many times that he had to beg me to stop?”

Her eyes widen and she can’t believe I just said that.

“You bounce your little ass on their dicks, and you suck their cocks and they shoot to the moon for you and you think you’ve done something? Has even one of those fuckers left their wives for you? You’re just some hot little hole to shoot a load in—a readily available piece of ass. They leave a couple of C-notes on the nightstand for you and ‘Thanks until next time, babe.’ And if that’s what you want, then fine, you got it. But bitch, I’m a wife. I got the kids, the mansion, the cars, and the name. What’s more,” I lean in closer to her, “I’m a young, flexible, horny freak and there’s nothing I don’t do. So, while you’re spouting about the dicks you can suck and fuck, believe me, Christian Grey ain’t one of ‘em!

“Do you really think random community pussy is that powerful?” I ask her with a frown. “The man married me; I’ve had two children for him—twins, the apples of his eyes—and notwithstanding the ridiculously generous prenup that you knew nothing about, I own half his company! You’re just some little tramp trick hoebag handing it out to anybody with a couple of pennies to rub together hoping for the big windfall. What could you have possibly hoped to achieve by crossing me?

“I only did this because you pissed me off,” I say, sipping my Cristal. “You tested me, and you tried me, and you dared me to call you on your shit. Or maybe you knew I would, and you were hoping I would give you something that you could use in court.

“I didn’t even have anything to prove by doing this to you, Deanna,” I say, finishing my champagne, “nothing in the world to prove but the fact that I can. This wasn’t even a coup. This was just some little thing I did in my spare time. I was just having a good time at your personal expense. Hell, it’s only money to me. Imagine what I could do if I really put my mind to it?

“Do yourself a favor. Walk away now. We are an at-will company with a positive drug test from a sampling of your hair from a reputable global testing company. No matter what lawyer you fucked that convinced you that you can win this, you can’t win. If you feel like wasting your time and money, be my guest… sue away. You’ll be stuck in litigation for years and in the meantime, I’ll be clocking your every move, taking note of every hard-up, married thousandaire you take up with, and reminding you that the Grey reach is infinite.”

I slide a hard drive across the table to her with several pictures of her most recent escapades.

“A bit of my research,” I tell her. “You can keep that.” I stand and retrieve my purse. “Enjoy your meal. Try the duck—it’s delicious.”

I turn around and walk out of the room and Chuck falls in step behind me. I stop at the server who’s standing just outside the door.

“Pour the lady some champagne, please,” I say. “She’s extremely thirsty.”


CHRISTIAN

“Do whatever you need to do, just be safe.”

Those were my wife’s words when I left the house this evening. Things have come to a head much faster than I expected and it’s time to move forward with the rest of the plan.

During our Downtime session on Friday, she told me about her meeting with Deanna Corman, the one final holdout on the wrongful termination lawsuit. She informed me about how, without my knowledge, she single-handedly launched a smear campaign on that poor girl that was utterly merciless and completely untraceable. Her final blow was the meeting where she informed Ms. Corman—who arrived thinking that she was coming to see me—that her demise could be more than dinner talk if Ms. Corman thought for one moment that she was going to muscle in on my wife’s cushy lifestyle.

That was a gangster move.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I thought it time to tell her my plans for our not-so-favorite author and her clan of unmerry men and women. After all, it was she who told me that I had better do something about the Pedophile or she would. I couldn’t let that happen.

I let her in on the things that were happening to Holstein—the box of live rats, the cliché cement shoes, and the plans I had for him this weekend. There was no use in drawing out the situation once I got the word that everything needed for Ms. Ellison had been done and secured. She’s really the big fish, because she’s got the pen.

“But what about Elena?” Pussycat had asked. “She has the original story. What’s to stop her from hiring another ghost writer? It’ll obviously be difficult, but from what you say, the warden won’t even be a factor anymore. She can just convince the new warden that she has the story of a lifetime and we’re back where we started from.”

I love my little Pussycat Butterfly, but she obviously underestimated my ability to tie up loose ends. I informed her about the Pedophile’s little accident and the fact that they’ll be culminating in a finale that Mrs. Lincoln won’t soon forget.

Our arrival at GEH on Monday morning was epic. The lobby was filled with the usual morning chatter until Mr. and Mrs. Grey showed up. My wife has been wearing these amazing power outfits and Monday was no different. She came breezing through the lobby in a gray sleeveless pencil dress cut right above the knee with a matching tailored gray blazer, sporting a pair of classic black Louboutin sky-highs and her signature Jackie O’s. She strode through that hallway with all the class, style, and power of the perfect CEO and I’m certain that the silence that ensued was just as much for her presence as it was for mine, if not more.

That morning, the power wife went off to her meetings with Lorenz in tow and I got updates on Project Alcatraz.

The Pedophile has been spending quite a bit of time in the infirmary—broken ribs, sprained ankle, and most recently, a strange bout with what appears to be food poisoning. Funny that she’s the only one who got it. She even suffered from a really bad forced haircut, which resulted in nearly all of her hair being cut off by the barber so that she didn’t look completely ridiculous.

Even the poor little smart-mouthed receptionist has been getting her due. For several consecutive days, gifts have been arriving at her home precisely when her husband is present and she’s not. That wasn’t very easy to pull off since there’s only a small window between the time that he gets home from work and the time that she gets home from work. Apparently, however, it worked… a little too well.

Coupled with the gifts, there’s been a gentleman perched across the street from her house… just watching, nothing else. He was conspicuous, meant for her and her husband to see. Mr. Receptionist could obviously be seen pointing at the guy one day and demanding that she tell him who the guy was, especially in light of all the gifts she had been receiving. She disappeared into the house with her husband while they were still arguing.

Apparently, she emerged Monday morning wearing sunglasses and looking like she had been through Armageddon. Sources at the prison informed us that the fucker has battered her… badly. She wouldn’t make a police report as, with everything going on, she knew the situation with her and with the warden were somehow related. She just didn’t know how.

I felt more than a tad guilty as I was only trying to cause a bit of inconvenience for her. I didn’t expect it to go this far. Hell, I don’t know what I expected. Nonetheless, Operation Receptionist halted immediately, and an anonymous call was placed to the police regarding how she showed up to work on Monday morning and requesting a wellness check at her home. No word yet on how that turned out.

However, the biggest news of the weekend was all about the warden. He fell prey to a harmless drug that knocked him out and landed him in a very compromising position—a position that landed on the front page of nearly every available news outlet on Monday morning. I say nearly every news outlet because some of them are unable to show the pictures due to their graphic nature, although the local morning shows took the liberty of blurring out the good parts while reporting the breaking news.

Supposedly, the good warden bats for the same team and was photographed in very compromising positions with what is revealed to be a gay, male hooker. Of course, the warden didn’t show up for work Monday or today with the press following him around, and with good reason. However, he probably should have been more careful where he parked his car.

This morning, armed with a search warrant based on an anonymous tip supposedly from the gentleman friend that he spent the night with, the police raided Holstein’s car and found four kilos of coke, an undetermined amount of meth, and an illegal firearm. My team takes credit for the gun; the drugs were a bonus. Apparently, the good warden was into a lot more than I thought he was.

So, with the warden completely out of the way and everything in place for this bug that keeps buzzing up my ass in the most lethal ways, I’ve informed my wife that the final steps are in place to assure that the Pedophile’s book never gets published, and that the skank that keeps inserting herself into our lives is not able to do it again. She knows how far I’ll go to protect my family, but this is bigger than just my family. This is decades and decades of young boys who have been victimized by that sick bitch, and now both these unscrupulous cows are trying to find a way to capitalize on her wretched behavior. I can survive the shit she might throw at me. There are several others out there who may not.

Thus, my wife’s warning to be safe.

We’re in one of the Fords tonight when Jason pulls up to yet another warehouse. We’re in all black again, both strapped with our Glocks and ready for any eventuality—very James Bond/Mission Impossible… quite fitting since this bitch has the disguise ability of Ethan Hunt.

She’s going to wish she hadn’t used it tonight.

A private text to her “Dom” phone requested her presence at a secluded location in an adequate disguise so as not to be recognized. She was then abducted in the old-fashioned manner and transported to this warehouse at approximately 10:00pm. Alex called me on our burners to tell me that she was in position, and I let her stew for an hour or so. When Jason and I arrive at the warehouse, she’s naked, duct-taped to a chair and gagged. A look of sheer horror comes over her face when she sees me enter the room.

“Wanted a little eye-candy, did you?” I ask Alex. He shrugs.

“That was a bonus,” he says. “I had to make sure that she wasn’t wired.”

“Where are her clothes?” I ask.

“In her car,” he says.

“And her car?” I press. “Did anybody leave any DNA behind?” Alex scoffs.

“Probably, but good luck finding it,” he says matter-of-factly. “That DNA and her bald man costume have both been thoroughly burned along with her car—down to the frame—which is now being deposited into a very large, but obscure, body of water as we speak.” I nod and turn to a trembling Ms. Ellison.

“And we meet again,” I say as I move to stand in front of her. “I’m dying to know what she told you that made you think I couldn’t get to you.”

“Here’s what I really don’t understand. You know that you’re playing with fire and you know who holds the torch. How can you not expect me to come at you with every incendiary device in my arsenal? My complacency has cost me way too much already and I refuse to allow myself, my family, or any of these other people that she has hurt become collateral damage on your twisted road to recognition. I’m going to put this matter to bed once and for all, and it’s never going to rise again.”

I can see her screwing up her courage for one last stand. Good. That’s what I want. In your final attempt to save your life, you’re going to tell me all your fucking secrets.

“Ms. Ellison, I’m not going to snap your wrist this time. I’m going to snap your fucking neck, and I’m going to enjoy it, if you don’t answer every fucking question I ask you quickly and truthfully.”

“Oh, you need information,” she says. “So, without my cooperation, you don’t get what you need. That’s quite the predicament.” She sounds so confident. I just laugh.

“Impressive,” I say, turning to Alex. “She’s duct-taped to a chair, surrounded by four men—any one of which could put a bullet in her ass right now and not care—and she still thinks she has the upper hand.”

“I may not have the upper hand,” she says, her voice trembling, “but there are other people involved, other people with things at stake, and they’ll see to it that the book is published, even if I don’t do it!” I’m unmoved. I turn back to her.

“Well, then, what good are you to me?” I ask, callously. “I could just get rid of you right now and move on to the others, right?” Fear clouds her eyes and she tries to speak, but nothing comes out.

“Is that what you’re looking for?” I add, with my hands extended in a shrugging manner. “You want a legacy? Because if I fuck you up right now, or I turn you over to any of these powerful, crazy motherfuckers you’ve named in that book, that’s all that’s going to be left—your legacy, which will most likely be worthless, because no one will be around willing to cosign this crud that you’re trying to print.

“Do you think I’m the only one looking for the total decimation of this bullshit? Do you think I’m the only one that knows you’re the fucking ghost writer, BD Simmons? Do you have any idea how easy it was to find your ass? You weren’t even creative! A civilian found you—a vanilla civilian at that! I gave your powers of stealth way too much credit, but I underestimated you at the same time. That’s something I don’t intend to do again.

“Oh, and don’t think she’s going to walk away from this either,” I taunt. “Why do you think you haven’t seen her for weeks?” I smile fiendishly.

“So, we’re going to try this again, and I’m going to hope—for your sake—that you want to keep your miserable fucking life and that you’re going to tell me everything that I want and need to know about everyone involved in this endeavor so that I don’t have to waste precious time looking for answers. Now…” I crouch down in front of her and rest my elbows on my knees.

“The difference between me and you is that I’ve got time. You, on the other hand, are not leaving this room. I don’t care if you eat; I don’t care if you sleep; I don’t care if your shit blocks up in your ass and comes out of your fucking throat. I and my friends are going to ask you questions which you are going to answer and then we’re going to check the validity of your answers. Each time you lie or fail to tell us everything, we’re going to break a finger. If too much time passes and we can’t validate what you’re telling us, we’re going to break a finger. When we run out of fingers, we’ll move to your toes. But my dear, when you run out of toes, you run out of time.

“With or without you, I will look under every rock in every slimy, sleazy slum of the country and I will turn over every diamond in every mansion of every billionaire who ever breathed to discover who all has a hand in this. If you’re writing her story true to tale, you already know that she’s most likely molested dozens of young boys, myself included. Whatever dirt or harm can be done to me by that book, I can recover, but all those other boys… their families, my children… you don’t give a fuck and neither does she. I have nothing at all to lose, Ms. Ellison, so let’s begin, shall we?”

I step away from her and remove my jacket, tossing it to Alex and revealing my Glock and harness. I grab a nearby chair and turn it backwards. I sit down and lean my arms on the back of it, glaring at her the entire time. I don’t think I saw this much fear in the eyes of the hackers when we questioned them.

An hour later, I have more information from this lying cunt than I ever thought I’d get. Alex immediately dispatches teams and special ops to verify her information. The faster we can get this thing laid to rest with the least amount of people knowing, the better. As it turns out, the Pedophile convinced the Cunt that less was more, too. So, no one had intimate details of the book except for the two of them. That was a condition of the publishing because although it could be leaked that a book was being written, had any of the details of the book leaked, the book would be worthless.

We already knew that the warden was in on the process. We just didn’t know how deep in he was. Basically, all he did was arrange special meetings for them and the passage of information. According to her, he’s pretty clueless, too. We’ll see.

I’m sitting in front of her glaring at her with a pair of vice grips in my hand when Jason walks into the room. He’s completely undercover. He looks like a member of the SWAT team. He wasn’t this incognito when we were dealing with Dodd and his crew. He looks down at the vice grips in my hand and back up at me. It’s no surprise why I have them. If this cunt lies to me, I’m going to be the first to break one of her fingers.

“The coast is clear?” I ask.

“Yes, sir,” he seethes, glaring at Ellison sitting naked in the chair.

“You okay?” I ask cautiously. He turns his gaze back to me.

“I’m trying to remember that I don’t hit women, sir,” Jason says, his voice menacingly low.

“Don’t worry,” I say, holding up the vice grips. “Maybe she’ll lose a finger.” He’s still glaring at her.

“I said I don’t hit women, sir,” he says. He marches over to the cunt and backhands her—hard! So hard that I damn near hear her neck snap and she cries out from the pain. When she raises her head, she’s spitting blood.

“Thieving, lying accessories to attempted murder… yeah, I can hit them just fine!” he hisses before turning back to me.

“We weren’t followed,” he informs me. “Her bank account has been cleaned out as has her safe deposit box earlier today. Her apartment is being cleaned as we speak.” She frowns, no doubt wondering what we’re talking about. I’ll tell her… when it’s time.

It’s about 2am as all the information Ellison has given us starts to flood into the warehouse—hard copies of pieces of the manuscript; research and data on all of her electronic resources. However, we did find a link to the cloud and to her storage there where she backed up most of her documentation, notes, outlines and draftsstorage that she failed to disclose.

I suppose she doesn’t need that index finger.

Once she’s finished screaming from the pain and is coherent enough to realize that I would gladly make good on my prior threats, she gives up four more cloud storage locations that contained more pictures, names, and information.

Good God in heaven. This crazy bitch has been fucking little boys from even further back than I thought. Her penchant for the underage was honed in Amsterdam when she was living with her sick aunt—and it never stopped. She was fucking kids even before she married Linc, and it never stopped. The more information that streams into our databases, the more horrified I become. I turn angry, disgusted eyes to this bleeding bitch taped to the chair.

“You knew,” I say, my stomach churning and my frown deep. “How long did you know?”

She’s weeping, unable to answer my question. Her lip and cheek have swollen from when Jason backhanded her. We just heard about the book late last year. She has an unbelievable amount of research on an insane amount of people. The carnage this book could have caused is immeasurable. I can’t see her just finding out only a few months ago that Elena was a pedophile and then accumulating this much information in that period of time. I can’t even see her being able to swallow that realization in just a few months—not even a horrible, conniving bitch like her!

She had some time to process this… to absorb this. I don’t know how long she knew, but this bitch knew! How could you even associate yourself with someone like that? She fucking knew!

Before I even realize what I’m doing, a size 11 ½ black hiking boot is planted squarely between this bitch’s tits, and she and the entire chair go flying into the air, landing several feet behind her with a loud thud. She shrieks in pain and I think she may have hit her head.

“You’ve secured any and all copies of that manuscript?” I ask Alex through gritted teeth.

“All the ones that we could find,” he says. “Manuscripts and notes—the outlines are very detailed… you should know that they have real names in them, including yours.” I shake my head. Retrieving the vice grips, I march over and roll the cunt in the chair over to her side to gain access to her hands again and firmly grip her next finger in the teeth of the tool. She cries out in pain.

“Is there anything else?” I growl. “You lie to me this time and I swear to God, I’m not going to stop when I hear the bone break!”

“No!” she screams. “No! I swear to God! There’s nothing else! I told you everything! Google, Dropbox…” and she just starts naming off all of her cloud storages, all of her data backups, hiding places for manuscripts in case we may have forgotten something, even confessing that there were drives and documents hiding in the car, which Alex assures me is a charred frame at the bottom of the ocean.

“You dumped it in the ocean?” I ask in horror. “That’s not a secluded body of water.”

“Are you aware of every bank, beach, tributary or coast that feeds into the Pacific Ocean?” he asks, flatly. No… no, I’m not.

“Duly noted,” I say. I turn back to Greta fucking Ellison.

“Tape her mouth,” I instruct. “Well! I’ve heard enough.”

She struggles uselessly, crying as two of the guys wrap tape around her mouth several times. I stand in front of her, looking down at her one last time.

“I told you that you would regret fucking with me. You didn’t believe me. I let you go once. I won’t make that mistake twice.” Her eyes widen and she’s trying to say something through her gag. I think it’s “please.” I don’t care to hear it.

“Instructions, sir?” Alex asks.

“Get her out of my sight and make sure that she doesn’t come back,” I reply, watching Ellison’s face pale to nearly white under her duct tape gag.

“You’re certain, sir?” Alex asks again. I turn to him.

“I was almost killed because of this woman,” I say through my teeth. “My personal bodyguard and best friend took a bullet that was meant for me from a gun that she stole and gave to the assailant.” I turn to Ellison. “I confront her thieving, conspiring ass with my evidence and she scoffed at me—through her grimace, that is, since I was trying to break her fucking wrist. In my kindness—or naiveté, take your pick—I warned her and let her leave that place in one piece and what does she do? She conspires with that murderous, pedophile bitch once again to ruin my life and quite possibly the lives of countless other people.

“Even behind bars, that bitch is a pestilence—a disease—and you want to give her a fucking voice, the most powerful voice of all…  a goddamn book. You’re as bad as she is. In fact, you’re worse, because you keep fucking going and you think you can’t be punished. Well, you can rest assured, BD Simmons, that after today, she’s going to be silenced and so will you.”

Tears form in her eyes and she begins to sob behind her gag. Sorry, cunt, I feel no sympathy for bitches who conspire to kill and destroy me. I turn back to Alex.

“If you’re asking if I want her to die, I don’t—but I don’t fucking want to see her again… ever.” Alex nods.

“You and Jason leave now, sir,” he says. “Plausible deniability.” I nod.

“I get it,” I say, grabbing my jacket and taking one final look at a terrified Greta Ellison. I turn back to Alex.

“Ever!” I reinforce before leaving the warehouse.

Jason drives us to another location, yet another of GEH’s obscure acquisitions. I see the Audi parked there along with who I assume is another member of Alex’s black ops team. Apparently, he’s somehow gotten clearance to get these guys without Colostomy’s help, because he said nothing about having to contact him for this mission.

“I need you to come inside, sir,” Jason says, and I follow him into the building with the black ops guy behind us carrying a bag. We enter the building and ride up the elevator to a secured loft.

“I need your clothes,” Jason says. He’s right. That bitch’s blood, tears, and DNA are probably all over me. “You can shower in there.”

I strip right there in front of Jason and the stranger and march to the shower to scrub away any evidence. When I come back, Jason has already showered and changed and is handing me a pair of boxer briefs.

“What about her?” I ask as I step into my underwear. “Won’t my DNA be all over her?”

“I’m assured that it’ll be taken care of, sir,” he says. “Plausible deniability.” I nod and continue to get dressed.

Once I’m clothed, we leave the loft. Off in the distance, I see our other black ops guy with a fire blazing in front of him. Jason signals to him and he nods before we get into the Audi and drive home.

The dawn is breaking when we get to Mercer Island. Everything all around us is proceeding as normal. No one looks at us like we’ve most likely made one woman disappear and will later be responsible for the incapacitation of another. And you know what?

I don’t care one bit.

It’s surprising how one can turn into a totally vicious and lethal animal when it comes down to survival. I totally believed my wife when she said that I had better take care of this or she would, and I wasn’t going to let her get her hands dirty with this shit. If the justice system can’t do their job of keeping this bitch on a leash, then I will. Holstein’s out, Ellison’s gone, and now it’s Lincoln’s turn. Just as I’m thinking about the bitch and how soon we’ll be putting our plan into action, Jason informs me as we’re walking into the mudroom…

“It’s flu season, sir.” I purse my lips and nod.

“That it is,” I say knowingly while removing my boots.

Butterfly is still wide awake when I come into the room. I knew she wouldn’t be able to rest until I returned. She makes eye-contact with me but says nothing until I remove my clothes.

Do we sleep now? Do we talk? Do we eat something, because I’m starving!

“Um…” She’s just as lost as I am. “How did it go?” I guess that’s a safe enough question under the circumstances.

“Nobody’s dead,” I say, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and sitting on the bed next to her, “except the book, and it won’t be back.” She moves behind me and leans her chin on my shoulder, gently rubbing my arms.

“That’s all I need to know,” she says, with a kiss on my shoulder. “I think we’ve earned a day off, don’t you?” I sigh heavily, feeling the weight of the world lifting off my back.

“I think you’re right.”


LINCOLN

I’m back in the hole. Why the hell am I back in the hole? I didn’t even do anything! But these fuckers dragged me straight from the infirmary to the hole. I’m really beginning to worry now. Where the hell is Ron? And why the fuck hasn’t Greta contacted me? I haven’t heard anything.

Things were pretty good for a long time. Sure, I had Christian’s threat about his precious wife and their ridiculous little family. Twins… talk about over-achieving. It’s not enough the bitch gets herself knocked up as soon as they get married. No, she has to spit out two at once! That’s probably how she got him to marry her in the first place. He was having second thoughts—I know he was. That’s why the little cunt ran off to Montana. Had it not been for that damn restraining order, I could have gotten him a suitable submissive and this never would have happened.

But no, almost seven months to the day they got married, she spits out twins. She was pregnant when they got married. She trapped him and he was too stricken to even see it.

Now, I’m in this place and I’m afraid to walk around out there anymore. My skin is saggy, and my body is starting to ache everywhere, and not just from these stupid accidents either… if that’s what they really are. At least in here I’m not getting randomly thrown against walls or tossed down the stairs. Jesus, I don’t know how much more of that my body could take.

Ron was providing my dye jobs—not the flaxen blonde I’m accustomed to, but a strawberry blonde. Anything’s better than this dull brown, which is showing again at the roots, by the way. This is becoming utterly ridiculous! I want some fucking answers.

“I want to see the warden,” I tell the guard when he brings my dinner. “I have a right to see him and I want to see him!” He smiles.

“You want to see the warden?” He smirks. “I’ll send word up right away that you want to see the warden.”

He raises a brow at me and leaves the cell. He’s probably bullshitting me. He’s not going to tell Ron that I want to see him. Nobody else has. I shake my head, sit on my bed, and eat my dinner.

A while after I’ve finished my meal, I hear the guard coming back down the hallway.

“Hands, Lincoln,” she says. Okay, they must be taking me to see Ron. Finally! I can find out what the hell is going on!

I stick my hands out of the small square and the guard shackles me.

“You know the drill,” she says, “other end of the cell.” She watches me through the small square as I walk to the far end of the cell. When she opens the door, she steps in with another female guard and a third woman dressed in a suit.

Who is this, the prisoner liaison? Where the fuck is Ron?

“Elena Lincoln, prisoner number 582625, ma’am,” the guard says. Ma’am? What the fuck?

“Lincoln,” the woman says. “I’m informed that you desperately needed to see me.” You were?

“Who are you?” I ask, bemused. She raises her brow.

“I’m Sylvia Mumford,” she says. “I’m the new warden.”

New warden! Fuck me!

“You asked to see me, Mrs. Lincoln?” she says, her voice impatient. Shit, what the fuck do I say?

“What… what happened to R… Mr. Holstein?” I ask.

“Mr. Holstein is no longer with the Department of Corrections… well, not in an official capacity anyway.” The guards chuckle behind her and she throws a look over her shoulder, not even making eye-contact with them, and the bitches stop laughing. Hell, I need her on my side. How to do that?

“Mr. Holstein was arrested and taken into custody, and thus, relieved of his duties.” I bite the inside of my lip. “Is that what you wanted to know, or did you want something else?”

“Well… yes,” I stutter. “I want to know why I’m in the hole,” I ask. I at least need to know that much. She turns to the guards.

“Why is she in the hole?” she asks.

“Lincoln’s been getting into a lot of fights on the tier lately. We’re not sure why,” one of the guards say. “The first couple of times, the detail just says that she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nobody seems to know why she was pushed down the stairs,  and McCooley used her body as a ping-pong ball the other day. We don’t know what brought that on either.”

Mumford takes a closer look at me and frowns.

“How long have you been incarcerated?” she asks.

“Nearly two years from the first date of my arrest,” I reply. What does that have to do with anything?

“You’ve been here for almost two years, and you’ve got brown roots?” the new warden inquires. Oh, shit. How do I explain this?

“I… got a beauty day for good behavior,” I excuse. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

“Good behavior,” she says, incredulously. “You’re literally bouncing off of walls and you got a beauty day for good behavior? And a beauty day includes a wash and trim, a manicure and pedicure, maybe a clear polish if you’re lucky. A beauty day does not include toxic dyeing chemicals that are prohibited in the prison.”

“I…” I don’t have an explanation for her.

“Well, that stops now,” she says. “Some things are going to change around here. I run a tight ship, and there will be no special favors anymore. I will, however, find out why you’re in the hole. What are you in for?” Oh, shit, here we go.

“Attempted murder,” I say, leaving off the rest. She shrugs.

“Well, that’s big for the justice system, but not so bad for the prison system. Have you made any enemies? I would think not since you got that whole beauty day.” Now, she’s mocking me.

“Um, warden,” one of the guards says, “Lincoln may very well have several enemies. She might be in here for her own protection.”

“Oh?” she says, turning back to me. “How so?”

“She’s not just here for attempted murder. There are probably several women on the tier that wouldn’t mind… a few moments alone with her.”

“Like whom?” Mumford asks.

“Like every mother on the block,” the guard replies. “Aunties, sisters, even cousins…”

“Spit it out, Redford. Why is she here?” Mumford says impatiently. “Did she try to kill a kid?”

“No, but she’s done some other things,” Redford says. “She’s doing 25 years for child pornography, statutory rape, and molestation.” The warden’s eyes widen.

“Twenty-five years!” she says, appalled. “Good God, 25 years? What the fuck did you do?” she says, throwing a glare back at me.

“Apparently a whole lot,” Redford says, when I take too long to answer, “to a whole bunch of boys… for a long time. She pled to the 25 years. Our only guess is that sometimes the block simmers down and leaves her alone and other times, they’ve got it in for her. She’s been on the bad end of quite a few mishaps over the last month or so.” Mumford’s brow furrows in contemplation.

“Lincoln,” she says. “That name is familiar to me…”

“She was all over the news for her trial…”Redford says. Mumford ponders a while longer before a look of realization comes over her face. Oh, shit. I’m screwed.

“And she’s all over the news now!” the warden says. “The word is that you’re writing an exposé about your encounters—about your crimes!” I swallow hard and clear my throat.

“I’m writing a memoir…” I excuse.

“About your encounters!” Mumford accuses. “How is that even possible? The law says that you can’t profit from your crimes!”

“I’m only writing about my life!” I defend. “And I’m using a ghostwriter, whom I haven’t been able to speak to in weeks.”

“You shouldn’t have been able to speak to them at all!” she declares. “This is preposterous! Who would authorize…?”

She trails off and her eyes widen again. I can see the nickels dropping left and right. There goes my book; there goes my privileges; there goes my protection; there goes everything. The warden turns her gaze from me and back to the guards.

“Does the population know about this?” she asks, completely ignoring me.

“About…?” the other guard asks for clarification.

“That she’s writing a book!” the warden barks. “That she’s planning on exploiting her crimes and these children that she raped and their families for personal gain!”

Goddammit!

“Um, I don’t know, ma’am,” Redford says. “Usually if something like that is in the prison population, we would know.”

“Oh, give it time,” Mumford says, angrily. “It’s probably only on the gossip rags and tabloids, but don’t worry. It’ll be on the regular news in no time, especially with Holstein’s recent arrest. It only broke on the dark news over the last couple of months. It’s my job to know these things. You’re prison guards in a maximum-security facility. It’s your job to know it, too.” She turns to me.

“The bad news, Mrs. Lincoln, is that you won’t be leaving solitary confinement for a while. The good news is that this is probably the safest place in the prison for you to be. No matter your crime, it’s my job to ensure your safety, and that’s what I intend to do. In the interest of the greater good, this is where you’ll be staying for a while until I can get to the bottom of just how far this goes. And you don’t have to tell me; I know that Holstein was in on something. You’ve had a ghostwriter coming to visit you and you’ve got blonde hair, for Christ’s sake!”

The bitch does a military turn and walks out of the cell. I’m waiting to hear the cell door close so they can remove these damn cuffs when I hear her talking to someone in the hallway instead.

“What’s that? Who’s it for?” she asks.

“Lincoln,” I hear someone say. “She didn’t get a flu shot before she left the infirmary.”

“It’s January!” Mumford exclaims. “She should have gotten a flu shot months ago.”

“I don’t know, ma’am, but her chart shows that she hasn’t gotten one,” comes the reply. I thought I already had a flu shot. I don’t know anymore. I’ve got bigger problems. What the hell am I going to do now? I’m totally cut off from everything! This is a disaster!

“She may not even need it now,” the warden says sarcastically. “I guess we don’t want any of the staff getting sick. Go on and give it to her,” I hear her say as her voice disappears down the hall. The cell door opens again and two nurses and another guard walk in—a guy I’ve never seen before.

“I’ll take it from here,” he tells the other two guards, and they leave.

“Have a seat, Lincoln,” one of the nurses says as she puts on her rubber gloves. I sigh and sit down. I have to stay in here. Granted, I’d rather be here than on the tier where they want to kick my ass regularly, but I was on my way out of here to an easier block. Minimum security, Ron promised me. All those times I sucked his tiny dick and let him come on my face, promised him the lion’s share of the profits from my book, and it got me nothing! It landed me here and now he’s in jail, too.

“Ah!” I say after the needle goes in and the vaccine is injected. “Shit, is it supposed to burn like that?”

“You might be having an adverse reaction to it,” the nurse says nonchalantly. She removes the needle and puts a cotton ball on my arm with a bandage.

“Shit, that really burns,” I say again. I don’t ever remember a flu shot burning like that.

“Aaaww, poor wittle baby don’t like da needle?” the other nurse teases, and the guard laughs. I roll my eyes at her. Bitch.

I suddenly feel heavy all over, like the weight of Atlas is on my back. This shit really sucks. I was this close—this close—to a cushier setup, to more privileges, to blowing the lid off of what would be the biggest scandal greater Seattle had ever seen, and what happens? Holstein gets arrested and Greta fucking disappears. She probably got word that Holstein got nabbed and ran for the hills. I could have fixed this… even without Holstein.

My head feels like a brick… really feels like a brick. I’m trying to focus and I’m suddenly seeing double.

“Thomtis wong…” Huh? The second nurse turns to look at me.

I can’t see straight, something’s wrong. That’s what I’m trying to say, but it comes out more like “Thatha fee som…”

“What the hell…” The second nurse is trying to lay me down on the bed, but it just looks like the room is spinning. The guard just stands there looking at me, while the first nurse calmly says, “Radio the infirmary. Tell ‘em we need a stretcher in the hole.”

She’s awfully fucking calm while I’m losing the ability to move my limbs.

“Mrs. Lincoln,” the second nurse says. “Mrs. Lincoln, can you hear me?”

Her voice is fading down a long tunnel, as is her face…

*-*

I open my eyes in a well-lighted room. I’m lying on my back and my head is elevated. I can’t move. I must be restrained, but I can’t move anything. My throat feels like sandpaper and I can’t even swallow. I can focus a bit and there’s someone sitting next to my bed… another nurse. I’m back in the infirmary.

I’m thirsty.

I’m thinking the words, but I’m so damn weak, I can’t even form them to come out of my mouth.

I’m thirsty.

Wait a minute…

I’m thirsty.

Wait a fucking minute. I’m fucking talking and nothing’s coming out! And I can’t move! Anything! Not my head, not my hands, nothing! What the hell is going on?

Hey, fucking nurse lady! Look over here! I can’t fucking move.

It takes an eternity, a literal eternity, but she finally looks over at me.

“Ah, Mrs. Lincoln, you’re awake,” she says in a pleasant voice. I look at her with frightened, beseeching eyes.

What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I talk or move?

“Give me just a minute, okay?” she says. She gets up and walks to the door, looks up and down the hallway, then closes the door and walks back over to me.

“Now, listen to me carefully, Sunshine,” she says, her smile wide. “Right now, you can’t talk. You’re going to hallucinate. You may even have a nightmare or two. You can’t walk; you’re going to be very dizzy very often; and unfortunately, there’s some vomiting and incontinence in your future. You’re having all of the symptoms of an acute cerebrovascular accident, or in laymen’s terms, a sudden stroke. However, Mrs. Lincoln, this was no accident.”

I think my eyes widen when I look at her. At least, that’s what they did in my mind. I know one thing for certain—I’m drooling, because she’s wiping my mouth.

“You’ve been diagnosed with a stroke. There’s no reason to believe otherwise, and there’s no reason to look for anything else. Now, I and my team are going to be in charge of your care, and we’ll take really good care of you. This condition could be permanent, or it could be temporary, but no matter what happens, when and if you come out of it enough to form words, you’ll never be the same again. You’ll probably be in a wheelchair and most of your thoughts will just be considered the ramblings of a delusional old woman. Knowing that, I can tell you this.” She leans closer to my face.

“I know you’re completely cognizant. I know that you can understand every word that I’m saying, so listen to me carefully. You’ve pissed off some really powerful people, and they want you to shut the fuck up. That flu shot that you got a few days ago… wasn’t a flu shot. It’s a little substance that mimics a stroke if it’s ingested or absorbed and it’s completely traceable—if you know to look for it.

“There’s only been about a dozen cases of poisoning from this substance and to my knowledge, only one of them resulted in death. That’s because it was ingested purposely and in a large quantity to bring about a suicide. That’s not what’s happening to you, however, Mrs. Lincoln.”

What the fuck is happening to me then? In my mind, I’m yelling, but there’s no sound in the room except the voice of this wretched woman apparently describing my fate.

“The people you pissed off want you to know that you pissed them off. They also know that you know who they are, so I don’t have to name them for you. You’re in this current state of purgatory because you need to think about what you’ve done. You’ve spent most of your life taking advantage of people, and once you were caught, you were determined to make your victims pay for your mistakes. The penal system may mostly be for punishment, but it’s also for rehabilitation. It’s a time to reflect on your mistakes and see if there’s some way that you can give back while repaying your debt to society. You weren’t doing either.

“Now, I don’t want you to take this personally. I’m just doing my job. My job is to care for you and keep you alive, but it takes a cold person to take an oath to care for people and watch them suffer at the same time. I am that person, Mrs. Lincoln. You’re not my first or only case like this, and you won’t be my last. This is what I do, and I and my team are well paid for it. So, here’s the deal.

“I’ve done my research on you. I know exactly why you’re here. I’ve read your story and I’ve seen your trial. I’ve got three children, Mrs. Lincoln—all boys. The youngest is 18. At any given time, my boys could have been one of your victims. I don’t feel any sympathy for you. I’m taking care of you because I’m being paid to do it. This experience is going to depend solely on you. It can last for six months, or it can last until I retire and pass the baton on to someone else. Either way, you’re going to be so screwed up when the fog somewhat clears that nobody will ever believe we had this conversation, and somebody will always have to take care of you.”

Dear God, this is not happening. This is fucking not happening. I can’t say anything; I can’t move; and this bitch is sitting here taunting me about how my life is in her hands! She can drag this out as long as she wants—as long as they want, and she’s already told me that this drug that they’re using on me can kill me. Oh, God, I know I’ve done some terrible things, but I don’t deserve this…

“Now, that look,” she says, pointing to me, “that’s a dangerous look, Mrs. Lincoln. That look, where your pupils constrict that way and your eyes sharpen, that look is telling me that you want to fucking choke me.” She smiles, because she knows that she’s right. “You’re going to want to control that urge, because I can hurt you in ways that don’t leave bruises.”

I’m doomed. I’m fucking doomed.

“That’s more like it,” she says.

The bitch can read my expressions. My eyes are the only things that move right now, and the bitch can read my fucking expressions.

“Now, in the next few days, you’re going to be moved to minimum security, where we can keep a closer eye on you, and assist in your rehabilitation and recovery. You’re trapped in your own mind, Mrs. Lincoln, so I suggest that you do what I said and take this time to reflect on your life and your mistakes, because right now, that’s all you have is your memories.”

The bitch smiles at me again and leaves me alone in my room. Whatever drug they’re giving me, I can’t even form the tears to cry. I wish I could die right now. I really wish I could die and just end all this. My best years are well behind me and everything I could possibly look forward to is gone.

I know Christian is a part of this if he didn’t engineer the whole thing by himself. But she said I pissed off powerful people, so there has to be some others in on this, too. Did Greta sell me out? Did all my clients and prior pets gang up on me? It can’t be a coincidence that Ron gets arrested and I get ambushed. Or is Greta going to write and sell the book without me? She’s got all the information—is that her plan?

Who cares? Who fucking cares now? Greta’s not going to sell that book. The people in that book are the reason that I’m in the situation I’m in now. Greta’s risking everything if she still tries to publish that book. She has probably met the same fate that I have if not worse… if they found out who she is.

A prisoner in my own mind… indeed. I only have my memories to keep me company until I go insane from the solitude, my only companions being the tormentors paid to keep me in this state. I close my eyes and try to remember a happier time. It’s the only thing that’s going to keep me sane…

Of course, I think of Christian… the day Grace brought him to me to hopefully straighten him out. He was a beautiful, beautiful boy with a gorgeous body. I enjoyed breaking him in and teaching him so much. He’s the only one who ever warmed my heart…

Young Christian in Elena's head in S5 E5

Behind my eyelids, I see a flash of light, and suddenly, I’m in the courtroom. It’s the day of my verdict, and that gorgeous boy is standing at the podium. He’s not the impressive, strong, virile man I last saw here in the visitation room. No, he’s that well-built, spry, angry young boy I met all those years ago. He’s glaring at me—sharp, gray eyes pierce me under a mop of unruly dark reddish-brown hair. He opens his mouth and he speaks… the same words he said to me that day that broke my heart. I never forgot those words, and he’s speaking them now… my favorite pet…

“I hope you rot! I hope that your evil festers in you and boils you from the inside out every day of your miserable life. I hope you live a long, long life of pain, suffering, and unhappiness. I hope your days from now on are filled with nothing but hopelessness, misery, and despair.”

I release a mourning, animalistic wail from my soul that I’m sure shakes the foundations of the earth, only… I’m the only one who can hear it. No sound is coming from me, and I can’t even have the cleansing cry that I need to lighten the burden on my heart.

I’m in hell. I’m really, truly in hell, and there’s no escape…

I finally see it. It’s really true what they say. Karma’s a real fucking bitch.


A/N: This was a very refreshing chapter to write. Payback all around… 

Pictures of places, cars, fashion, etc., can be found at https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/grey-continued-misadventuresseason-v/

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~~love and handcuffs

 

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

Fifty Shades Golden: Chapter 12

Golden hasn’t died. She’s just been asleep for a while. The Muse will update as she feels inspired.

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 necessarily CG with Ana together. Proceed at your own discretion, but don’t say that I didn’t warn you.

Fifty Shades Golden

Chapter 12

ericdane

TREY

I’m puffing and panting, trying to get air in and after a few moments of a reprieve, she has latched back onto my dick.

Goddammitmotherfuckinghellshitballsoffire!

I squeeze my eyes closed and hold my breath. Just a few minutes of this sensitivity and I’ll be ready to go again, just a few minutes… a few minutes…

“Well, that doesn’t look like the face of pleasure,” Golden’s voice says breaking through my concentration, “or even of pleasurable pain.”

What do I say? It’s not.

“No, Mistress,” I say in all honesty.

“So, why didn’t you safeword?” she asks, a bit perturbed.

“Because it wasn’t painful,” I admit. “Just uncomfortable.” She examines me for a few moments, then raises her brow at me.

“You’re multi-orgasmic,” she deduces. How the fuck…?

“Yes…” I respond slowly. She nods.

“Most of my clients are multi-orgasmic,” she says, now fondling my dick gently, a much more pleasant feeling, “but you all get to your… second coming… a little differently.” Shit, it almost feels like she’s tickling me.

“We’re still getting to know each other, Chopper,” she coos. “It’s only our second scene. You’ll have to be more forthcoming with what doesn’t please you.” She grabs the cockring and yanks it. I grunt loudly. That shit hurt.

“Yes, Mistress,” I croak, assuming that was some sort of punishment. I feel her hands on my dick again—they’re oily this time—and my cock is somewhat flaccid. She yanks again. Fuck! And again! Fucking hell! And a third time and…

Pop!

My balls are free. The cockring is still at the base of my shaft, but my balls are free. A gentle hand cups my tender testicles and roll them back and forth in the oily palm. God, that feels good—not erotic…yet, but soothing. I almost fucking purr. The blood flow to my dick is restricted and now, it’s involuntarily getting hard again, even though it was bound to happen with her ass still in my face and her soft hand still down there cupping my balls. I bite my lip to suppress a moan.

“There,” she says. “That’s more like it.” What she’s really saying is, “I so own you,” because she knows, right now, she does.

That soothing feeling on my balls is slowly beginning to become arousing, and I’m resenting being strapped down to this table. I want to grind my hips into her hand and feel some friction on the skin of my dick to match the soothing, aching, taunting of my balls. I close my eyes and try to focus on relaxing, but even with my eyes closed, I’m seeing her naked ass behind my eyelids… and I’m thinking about fucking it… something I’ll probably never have. Why am I torturing myself this way? Why am I letting her tortu…

Fuck! What the fuck is that?

I feel something at the head of my dick that feels like fresh pussy. My eyes jolt open, because I’m sure I still feel her hand on my cock. What the fuck?

Her ass is still in my face, so I know it’s not her pussy. Dammit.

It’s not her mouth. I know what her mouth feels like. Only after two scenes, I can pick that mouth out of a crowd. You can line up ten women and tell them to suck my dick, and I would know which one was Golden without even looking. I just ought to; every time she sucked my dick, I was blindfolded.

So, this ain’t her mouth.

What the fuck is it, then?

She holds my now very stiff dick in one hand and pushes the head of it inside of this thing… slowly… tightly… fuck!

It’s a Fleshlight.

Let me explain the dynamics of a Fleshlight. I have a Fleshlight. I’ve used a Fleshlight more than once. It’s not something that I would use on a regular basis, mostly because pussy is plentiful in my life and I don’t really need to, but when I was first discovering just how powerful my sex drive really was, most of my girlfriends couldn’t keep up with me.

Enter Fleshlight.

Fleshlight will spoil you for women. Why? Because fucking Fleshlight is almost like fucking a virgin every time. Granted, you don’t get the thrill of holding a woman, slapping an ass, kissing, and all the other perks that come with fucking a warm body, but if you’re looking for the ultimate nut and that’s it, Fleshlight is definitely the way to go. It can come with the opening to pussy lips, an asshole, a mouth, or ass cheeks and the inner texture can be smooth, ribbed, bumpy, swirly, you name it. If you spend your money on the real thing and not the knock-offs, every time you stick your dick in Fleshlight, that fucker is tight.

Every. Single. Time.

So, if you fuck it all night long, it’s tight while you’re in it. Then if you pull your dick out and stick it back in, you still get that first entry feeling every time—you know, that feeling when you’ve been away from your girl for a while and you’re about to tear the walls down and that pussy is so tight that you have to work your way into it, and she grimaces while you’re doing it? Yeah, Fleshlight is like that every time.

Every. Single. Fucking. Time.

So, imagine having this Temptress of Torture with your dick in one hand and the real thing Fleshlight in the other working your cock over like the master that she is. I nearly lose my fucking mind. She’s got one hand guiding my dick and the other controlling the Fleshlight. Her torment begins by rolling the head around the mouth of this thing, and I think this opening is an asshole. Life-like, fleshy, silicon massaging the head of my dick. I can feel my body trembling.

Next, instead of pushing the Fleshlight down on my dick, she uses her hand to push my dick up into the Fleshlight. First entry… tight as fuck…

“Uuummmph!”

It’s nearly fucking unbearable. She pushes and pulls my dick and I’m fucking this Fleshlight, wanting to climb the hell off this comfortable ass table, but completely immobilized and unable to move. Just a few tormenting strokes and she pulls my cock out of the Fleshlight. Fucking hell! My dick is fucking aching now. She gives it no reprieve from her gentle hands and I’m licking my lips, trying to soothe the dryness in my mouth. This is inhumane!

That damn thing is on my head again, massaging like first entry, and then…

“Uummmpppphh!”

First entry again. It’s so fucking tight, squeezing and caressing the head of my dick again. If I could move, my back would be arching right now. The head of my dick fucks this Fleshlight for several minutes until my cock is hot and hard and very, very excited.

She repeats this torment several times—the Fleshlight edging me, my cock fucking the Fleshlight, a long and slow stroke that leaves me gagging to come. Each agonizingly slow pull threatens to have my cock blow its load any second. I’ll never look at a Fleshlight again the same way as long as I live!

I’m clawing at the leather by the time she releases my dick this time, I won’t make it through another ruined orgasm like that.

Ruined orgasms. Fuck! Is that what she’s doing?

That new entry hits my dick again and the feeling is nearly excruciating. She knows exactly what she’s doing, and the tension has the rest of my body so tight and wracked with pain that I don’t think I’ll survive another entry, but first, I have to survive this fucking edging.

“Fuck!” I whisper. I can’t help it. My body aches and my cock is on fire.

“Did you say something, Chopper?” she taunts, but my mouth won’t work now. I can’t open my eyes right now as they are locked shut along with my gritting teeth and clenching jaw. My dick is on its own now. None of my muscles are listening to me. I’m at their mercy. Just when my balls are about to give up the fight, she pulls that fucker off the head of my dick. The opening caresses the tender frenulum, and I’m certain that she got a little jizz with that move.

“Fuck!” I grunt out again between grinding teeth. I think she’s scolding me… or something… but I can’t hear her. I can only hear the blood rushing through my ears; I can hear the sweat bursting from every pore and rolling down my body to the soft leather table, to my balls, in my face to my eyes; I can hear my muscles flexing and contracting each time that fucking portable asshole tortures my dick; I can hear my balls screaming for release and cursing me every second for subjecting them to this treatment…

But I can’t hear Golden.

First entry comes again, and I groan mournfully, unable to take even the slightest touch, and she knows it. She knows the man’s body too fucking well, because she knows exactly when you’re about to come. She holds the Fleshlight still—tight on my dick. I feel my shaft throbbing inside of it—not coming, just throbbing. I can hear my ragged breathing, feel my pulse accelerate, and I can still hear my blood, sweat, and muscles, too.

She just stays there for a few moments while my cock throbs and my balls tighten. I’m completely out of control of this situation, and she’s going to make me suffer. Maybe this is my punishment for speaking.

I’m ready to tap out.

Just as my muscles begin to relax only a bit, she pulls that fucking Fleshlight, and my body is alight again. Fuck punishment.

“Aaaww, shit,” I groan, somewhat resigned to my fate, but not liking it one bit. I’ve never had to come so bad that my body hurt. I’ve chased an orgasm before until I ached from the workout, but never this. When the Fleshlight starts to move again, I almost want to cry. I’m ready for this to stop, now. I’ve never been denied an orgasm and I’m certain that I don’t like it—the tightening of the muscles in my back, my balls feeling like they’re going to explode, and my dick as hard as a sausage about to burst from its skin, burning and aching so badly that…

“Aahh! Aahh! Aaaaaaahhhh shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!”

She has pulled the Fleshlight off my dick now, but her mouth is stroking up and down over the skin of my frenulum while her tongue massages the tender, sensitive bundle of nerves. I’m exploding fantastically—painful jolts coursing through my cock as that powerful mass of muscle at the base of my balls pushes stream after hot stream of cum from my dick. I can’t see it; I don’t have to. I can feel every painfully pleasurable contraction, each one several seconds long. If nothing is coming out of my dick, it just ought to be, and I can’t open my eyes even if I wanted to.

She gives my dick that fantastic oral massage until the very last contraction, and I’m sure that she has emptied my scrotum for days to come! I’m choking on air, trying to get precious breath into my lungs. I can’t. I can’t concentrate on this one simple thing… breathing.

“Settle down, Chopper,” a soft, seductive voice says to me. “Relax. In through your nose, out through your mouth…”

I follow the instructions of the goddess’s voice, afraid that I’ll suffocate if I don’t. In through my nose, out through my mouth….

I feel the restraints release from my ankles. For some reason, that calms me a bit… and saddens me at the same time.

In through my nose, out through my mouth…

I can feel my muscles relaxing and my thoughts coming together now. Focus, Grey.

In through my nose, out through my mouth…

The restraints release from my wrists and I breathe a deep sigh of relief. I also lament the release a bit, because I know that our scene is over.

“Take all the time you need,” she coos. “I’ll see you upstairs…”

I don’t think I’ve fallen asleep, but I’ve clearly lost a little time. What the hell happened? I know she talked about transcending, but this was ridiculous.

I slowly lift my exhausted body from the table, first turning onto my side, then rolling onto my ass—still painful from playtime. That’s going to sting longer than the last one did.

God, I came so hard that I have to check under the table to see if brain matter is left down there.

Not even my cum. Did she cover the floor with something? Did she clean before she went upstairs? That’s not likely.

“Did she swallow?” I ask no one. That would have been impossible. Her mouth was sideways on my frenulum until my orgasm stopped. I know I came… good God, did I come! So, where’s the evidence?

My shaky legs carry me over to the valet where I retrieve my clothes and haphazardly get dressed. I was wrong—my dick and balls are tender, light, and so empty that she can do this to me anytime! I drag my ass up the stairs and Mr. Belvedere is just beyond the door, as usual. That creeps me the fuck out.

“Do you need anything?” he asks again and waits for instructions.

“Where is she?” I ask. “Why is she never here when I come upstairs?” Belvedere doesn’t react to my question.

“The lady’s visitors usually understand that any aftercare would be administered by me,” he says. “I’m a licensed home health care professional able to tend to any surface or subcutaneous wounds that do not require immediate medical attention. I understand that a level of trust and familiarity is required to allow a stranger—much less, another man—to administer your aftercare, in which case, you can feel free to employ someone else to do so at your discretion.”

That’s his subtle way of saying that I can forget about getting the Golden treatment for my aftercare.

“Did you…?” I don’t even know how to ask this question. “Did you come down there… after…?” His brow furrows, but his mask is soon impassive again.

“No,” he replies. “I don’t enter the dungeon until it’s empty.”

Then what the hell happened to my cum?

“Where is she?” I repeat my question.

“The parlor,” he says, gesturing in that direction. I don’t entertain his company anymore. I head straight for the parlor. I can hear music as usual. She’s listening to her revolutionary. I don’t know the song, but I know his voice. Is he all she listens to, or is this what she listens to after a scene? This song almost sounds like a love song. His voice is mellow and he’s talking about wanting to be with someone, then a woman’s voice comes in talking about having faith. It hardly sounds like the revolutionary she described.

I noticed his lyrics often talk about destiny, but he drags the word out… like “destineeeee.” What’s that all about?

It’s this moment that I realize that she’s wearing that same golden dress that I dry-humped her in. Hmmm…

“Are you coming in or are you just going to lurk there in the doorway?”

Jesus! Her voice startles me. What the fuck is going on with me tonight? It was just an orgasm, for fucks sake.

“I was listening to your revolutionary,” I admit. “That doesn’t sound like what I would expect from him.”

“That’s a sign of true genius,” she says, impassively. “They can change up seamlessly and still make good music. Sit.” She gestures to the sofa and turns to the bar. It’s amazing to me that she assumes that I can sit after one of our scenes. She makes a drink and when she turns around, I’m still standing.

“Rebellious man, aren’t you?” she says, holding a mixed drink of dark liquor. That’s odd for her. She’s a vodka drinker.

“Tell me, Mistress,” I begin, “just how many of your clients can sit after a scene?” She twists her lips.

“Point taken,” she says, “but more than you think. Many of them accept the aftercare.” I nod.

“And of those, how many are Dominants?” I inquire. She raises an eyebrow at me.

“It may surprise you to know that you’re not my only dominant personality, Chopper,” she informs me. “They may not all be Dominants in the playroom sense, but when it comes to being in charge, I have a few that can give you a real run for your money.” She hands me the drink. There’s a switch. The drink is for me. She made me a drink… she wants something.

“Are you going to let my arm fall off?” she chides. I take the drink from her and sip. Jack and Coke. Did she watch me? Did Belvedere tell her? What does she want?

“You’re right,” she says, and I’m wondering what she’s talking about. “I want something from you.”

Fuck, am I that transparent?

“You need to sit, because I want to sit and I’m not accustomed to people standing over me.” She gestures to the sofa again. “The cushions are memory foam—for just such an occasion as this.”

Well… okay.

I sit on the sofa. It hurts, of course, but then the cushion melds to my form and it doesn’t hurt so much. Why didn’t I notice this when I sat on this sofa before?

“I want information,” she says, taking a seat on the sofa across from me. Her revolutionary begins talking about belief in a higher power and she begins her questioning. “I know that you said Elena asked you to help her when her businesses were failing. I need you to give me more details on the matter.”

Okay, where the hell is this going?

“Exactly what details to you need?” I ask. “She wanted help, I refused. I didn’t consider us to be friends anymore and I owed her nothing. I was appalled and offended that she had the audacity to come to me in the first place.”

“Why would she think you had something to do with her demise?” She presses.

“Why are you so curious about this?” I ask. Her brow furrows.

“Why are you so evasive?” She retorts.

“I’m not evasive. There’s nothing to tell.” She examines me carefully, then her face changes.

“Oh, my God,” she says, her hand moving to her cheek. “You did do something to her, or you at least had something to do with her business failing.” How could she possibly know that?

“I never said…”

“You can’t bullshit a bullshitter, Trey!” she snaps, rising from her seat. “I can soft-shoe with the best of them, in and out of the courtroom! Why do you think I’m so fucking good at what I do, in and out of the courtroom?” She walks away from the sofa and begins pacing around her parlor.

“Look, Elena is the reason for her own destruction,” I press, and it’s the truth. “She’s too goddamn cocky and that’s what caused her demise.”

“Tell me what the hell you did, Trey,” Goldie insists.

“Tell me what this is all about,” I retort. I’m not giving her any information until she gives me some first.

“Goddammit, this is not some boardroom positioning game!” she yells, spinning around on me. “This is my fucking life! This woman broke your goddamn arm and now, she’s coming at me with her talons drawn and I don’t even know what the fuck I’m up against. Now, you give me full fucking disclosure right now or I’ll use my resources and find what I need on my own, and you can get the fuck out of my house and never darken my goddamn door again!”

Dammit to hell, I thought I was a Dominant until this moment. Her tone, the firmness in her voice, and the thought of leaving this house and never seeing her again would have me confessing to the Kennedy assassination.

“I. Did not. Destroy. Elena’s. Business.” I say firmly. “I will admit to one rumor. One rumor. Her demise after that was all her own doing.”

Goldie examines me further, then comes back to the sofa and sits across from me.

“Full disclosure,” she says again, crossing her arms and legs while glaring at me expecting.

“I’ll give you full disclosure, but that leaves me wide open. You have to give me something, too. That’s only fair… Mistress.” She played that card on me and she knows she did, so I’m playing it back.

“Fine, but you give me full disclosure first,” she retorts, quickly without flinching. She’s not going to back down from this. I throw my drink back and put the glass on the end table.

“A long time ago, right after I got into the lifestyle, Elena and I used to have a thing,” I begin. “We fucked a few times and that was it.” I raise my eyes to Goldie. Her gaze is impassive.

“Go on,” she says, giving nothing away.

“We stayed friends,” I continue, “fucked once in a while, shared submissives, but the sexual part of the relationship just faded. She tried to get it back every now and then, but it never happened.”

“How long?” I look at her again. “The last time, how long ago was it?” I strain to think, then shrug.

“Four or five years, maybe, I don’t know exactly.” She nods.

“Continue,” she demands.  I clear my throat, more than a little miffed that she’s ordering me around outside the dungeon… not that she orders me around inside the dungeon. Nonetheless…

“She did challenge me to get you,” I say. “She knew that I would never have you the way that I wanted and she taunted me about it. The more she taunted me, the more I wanted you. The more she told me that I would never have you, the more determined I became to get you. You became an obsession, but you already knew that. You drove me out of my mind and you weren’t even there…”

I’m straying from the story.

“Anyway, the day you shot at me, I should have become discouraged, but I wasn’t. I just wanted you more. The whole series of events that followed that is why Madame Petra is so convinced that I solely orchestrated her downfall.” I pause.

“I’m listening,” Goldie says, and I continue.

“I saw her the day after you and I shared our… first orgasm,” I say. “That’s when she told me about the guy who raped you.”

“He didn’t rape me,” she hisses. “Rape indicates a violent act—some poor waif getting held down, beaten, and some asshole tearing into her while she cries and begs him to stop. That’s not what happened to me. I said, ‘no,’ he forcefully persisted.  He was stronger than me, so I stopped resisting. You can’t very well be a Domme with your face beaten all to hell because some asshole wanted some pussy and you refused. When he was done taking what didn’t belong to him, I made sure that he fucking well wasn’t ever going to do it again. So, while I understand the concept of ‘no means no,’ and the rape laws are what kept me out of jail, I wasn’t raped—I was robbed. He took my body without my permission, so I took his fucking legs.”

Ooookay. Well, I won’t get into the logistics of that with the counselor. The details are still the same.

“Um, okay. So, when she told me about the incident with the gun, I became enraged and ended our friendship. Then I spread one rumor to a submissive or three that her salon had a bedbug infestation. It gave women the heebie-jeebies and that was enough to alert the health department to go check her out. They found nothing, but it did no good. Her reputation was already on a downward spiral.” Goldie examines me with narrowed eyes.

“That’s it?” she questions. “There’s nothing else?” I shake my head.

“There’s nothing else,” I confirm. “Rumors happen all the time. Restaurants get bad grades from the health department, close up shop, clean things up and reopen for business. They don’t shut down. She was so busy with the ‘deny’ game that she didn’t bother with any kind of damage control. That’s why her businesses failed—not because of me.”

“You’re telling me that the entire fall of the Salons to the Elite was an imaginary bedbug problem?” she asks in disbelief. Before I can nod, she speaks again. “Things are starting to make sense now, but that doesn’t explain the broken arm. How did she figure out that it was you?”

“She put two and two together,” I admit. “I still denied the whole thing, but she wasn’t deterred. She’s totally convinced that I had something to do with it, but she doesn’t know what. She came to ask me for help and I refused. Somehow, at that moment, she knew. She launched a potted plant at me and I put my arm up to shield my face. The rest is history.” Goldie shakes her head.

“With a good ad campaign and a few strategically placed testimonials, she could’ve avoided all of this. Yet, she’s trying to find scapegoats…” Goldie is up and pacing again. “While she rightly has you penned for whatever role you played in this, she now has her claws pointed at me.” I frown.

“What?” I ask confused.

“Once she discovered that we’re engaging, I became your partner-in-crime in her downfall.”

“How did she find out that we’re… engaging?” I ask. I sure as hell don’t talk to her ass anymore.

“I told her,” Goldie says. “And you know that if you two were still friends, you would have told her, too. So, don’t judge me.”

Well, she got me dead to rights there.

“Her hope was that you would dethrone me, for lack of a better word, so I called to gloat, that I had you and we had reached an agreement, and that I was still sitting on the throne. She flipped out. Started calling me names, declaring that we were in this together all along, threatening me… It probably didn’t help that I stopped going to her salons shortly before the rumor circulated.”

“Well, I certainly wasn’t trying to implicate you in all of this. Hell, I thought we’d never see each other again.” She raises and eyebrow at me.

“That’s why you kept that necklace for six months?” she inquires. “Or found another one just like it.” Dammit to hell!

“I’ve asked myself the same question,” I admit.

“Whatever the case may be, I could give a fuck less what goes on with her. Nobody died, but she’s convinced that I’m in on it and now she and her psycho husband have their sights set on me!”

Wait… what?

“What are you talking about? What do you mean she and her psycho husband?”

“Yeah, I had the displeasure of meeting that freaky frosted fuck at the Civil Community Fundraiser a couple of weeks ago. She thinks I have something to do with whatever it is that you did. I’m sure she’s told him about it, too. No doubt, they’ve had lovely conversations about me. Why do you think Jesse is following me around? Did you think I just suddenly found the need to hire a bodyguard?”

“But why the fuck would Linc care? Yeah, he’s probably pissed about the businesses, but not enough to come after you, I wouldn’t think…”

“Oh, no, I think that may have had something to do with you. At least in the beginning, I’m sure it did. He made a huge display of referring to me as your ‘new piece of ass’—in front of Senator Earnhart, I might add, and probably to several other attendees of the fundraiser until I threatened him with a lawsuit. From there, he cornered me on the smoker’s balcony in the goddamn cold and proceeded to feel me out to be his own concubine. When I was less than receptive to his advances, he assaulted me by blowing smoke directly in my face.”

I feel my blood pressure rising. Linc actually went after her because he thought she was with me. Then, when he found out that she wasn’t, he actually went after her—aggressively! I don’t know which of those pisses me off the most. He’s calling me out. I don’t know why, but he is. He hasn’t had enough of Christian Grey making a fool of him, I see. I guess I’ll have to give that platinum-headed pencil-dick what he’s asking for.

“That fucking asshole,” I say out loud. “Me and Linc, it’s personal, Golden.”

“Personal in that you were fucking his wife?” she asks coolly. My mouth forms a thin line.

“He never knew,” I tell her. “He suspected, but he never found out…”

“But he did know, Trey,” she retorts. “You don’t have to see someone’s dick in your wife’s pussy to know they’re fucking, and he knew. So, what did he do?”

“The only thing he could. He started a rumor. Had the press knocking at my door.”

“Well, like you said, damage control could have taken care of that…”

“I didn’t need damage control,” I reply. “A well-placed ‘What the fuck are you talking about’ here and a ‘What the hell do I look like to you’ there was enough to throw those dogs off the scent, especially since our sexual relationship was headed downhill by that time anyway.”

“That’s damage control, Chopper,” she says, and there’s that fucking name again. “And what did you do after that?”

“I facilitated the closing and/or acquisition of seven of his subsidiaries. Three of them were crucial to his business.” She nods.

“And that’s why it’s personal,” she says, “why he’s after me. I’m an acquisition… or so he thinks.” I raise my brow at her. “He found out the hard way that it doesn’t really do to fool with me, and I didn’t even have to draw my firearm.”

Draw her firearm… that leaves me a bit uncomfortable.


Briana Evigan Ch 12 small

GOLDEN

That dick has had all it can take right about now. I can’t even describe the angry throbbing and pulsing each time I swirl that head around the opening of the Fleshlight and push it in, not to mention the shivering and painful groans Chopper emits with each new entry, each slow and agonizing stroke, and each teasing withdrawal. He’s going to come like a fucking rocket. And as soon as I see that tension just under his balls and at the base of his dick, I pull that Fleshlight off and…

“Aahh! Aahh! Aaaaaaahhhh shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!”

I wrap my mouth sideways around that dick and frenulum and tickle and manipulate ferociously, and there’s my 21-gun salute—no disrespect intended. He’s shooting off long, impressive streams of hot white passion, making me glad that I remembered to put a disposable lining on the floor before the fireworks began. I wouldn’t want to clean it up and I just feel funny leaving it for Blake to do, even though I know that he would. But damn, the release is so hard that he could put somebody’s eye out!

I continue to manipulate and watching the magnificent show out of my peripheral. God, I wouldn’t have missed that for the world. I stroke and suck and lick until the long, purposeful, concentrated streams become short, forced spurts, and then oozing drips squeezing the last iotas of pleasure from his body and balls.

His orgasm was massive, and I have to coach him to breathe properly so that he doesn’t hyperventilate. I know he’ll most likely have a short period of incoherence once he catches his breath since I still have him strapped down, and he’s in the perfect position for sleep. He came so fucking hard that I’m certain that the massive release of prolactin, oxytocin, and melatonin he’ll feel in about 20 seconds will have him loopy and punch-drunk as fuck. So, after I release his binds and see his body relaxing into total submission, I whisper, “Take all the time you need. I’ll see you upstairs.”

I don’t even know if he heard me. His body has sunk into the soft leather of the table and he’s floating somewhere in the cosmos in a state of semi-consciousness that grasps every man after he’s had an orgasm… well, almost every man.

I quietly slide the floor cover from under the table, roll it up, and dispose of it, quickly cleaning the spots where Mr. Impressive shot his load too far and missed the cover. God, that dick is something else and should be registered as dangerous with the ATF!

I dressed a bit for his fantasy. He didn’t fool me one bit with this necklace. He’s a Domme and this has “collar” written all over it. He knows I’ll never be his submissive, but to make him come so hard while I’m wearing it that he thinks he shot pieces of his brain out of his dick, so much so that he has to lie helpless on the table until his muscles regain some of their strength—yeah, that’s about as close to the fantasy as he’s going to get…

Lying there, face down on my submissive table. From where I’m standing, I can see his body rise and fall from the regulated breathing that comes right at the point of subconscious relaxation. It’s that point where a man would normally fall asleep right after sex, but he has the proverbial “one eye open” because he’s in a place where he knows he can’t stay. I can also see the pink and red welts on his back from the one tool I used tonight—my flogger. Masterful, artistic stripes adorn his back and ass, and for him not to be a submissive, he achieved subspace at least three times in the process.

Last, but certainly not least, I can see his dick—flaccid from a severely intense orgasm but hanging impressively through the hole in the table nonetheless. I lick my lips looking at it, thinking about it…

And totally forget where I am.

He talks about me teasing men with my body and my charms—that thing is enough to dicktimize any woman alive. Elena was right in using him to try to get me to heel. If he fucked me with that tool, I’d be completely ruined.

It’s not that it’s the biggest I’ve ever seen. He’s well-endowed, but I’ve seen bigger. I have one client who’s so big that I wouldn’t allow him anywhere near my pussy with that wall of meat even if I was into fucking. But Chopper, that piece of meat is beautiful, and the way he responds, and it responds when he’s aroused… good God. To call it a masterpiece is a massive understatement.

I shake myself out of my inner musings, wrap my body in golden silk, and ascend the stairs. I was wearing something different when he arrived. He’s sure to recognize this dress when he sees it. With a nod to Blake, I go to my parlor and pour myself a drink. I’m in the mood for something mellow, but it has to be Pac. My endorphins and hormones are always on the wild when I’m done with a scene, even if I come. That’s why I need a few moments of silence with a vodka and a lollipop at the clubs. People think it’s all part of this untouchable image that I portray, but it’s not. It’s the equivalent of what Trey is doing down there on my table right now—regrouping; basking in the splendor of the moment and slowly coming down from a high. That’s why I don’t want to be disturbed when I go to my table, but someone invariably does, anyway. It’s the nature of the beast.

Here at home, in my parlor, it’s vodka and Tupac—any Tupac. He speaks to the rebel and the poet in me. He was so misunderstood because of the genre of music he chose to record. Only those of us who peeled back his layers and truly saw what was underneath—the activist, the philosopher, the poet, the revolutionary—could even understand his struggle or what he was trying to accomplish in his short life.

I choose a playlist that I always considered Tupac’s love songs, even though none of his music was… is particularly romantic in any way. As my mind and body descends from its hormone-induced high, a million thoughts swirl through my head and I have to try to narrow my thinking down to one or two. The two most prevalent thoughts right now—Trey’s dick… and Elena and her frosted phantom husband.

Talk about different ends of the spectrum.

I haven’t heard anything from the blonde bitch or her white-haired counterpart since the party, but the truth is that I’ve never truly faced her has a nemesis, so I have no idea what to expect. Her husband is so fucking transparent that he doesn’t scare me. The tidbits that Mrs. Lincoln likes to drop, however, can be more dangerous than anything that he could do to me and I need more information on what I’m up against, because I’m ready to go balls to the walls with this bitch if I must.

And I’m getting the feeling that I must.

She’s too damn quiet, and I don’t trust her.

I feel him before I see him, and I turn around to see him gazing at me. Don’t fall in love, Trey. It’s bad for your health.

“Are you coming in or are you just going to lurk there in the doorway?” I ask, snapping him out of whatever daydream had him standing there staring at me…

*-*

After I threaten to stop seeing him, he tells me everything that happened between him and Blondie. I probably wouldn’t have fucked with him at all knowing that they were once intimate. I don’t like sharing anything with that plastic bitch, but what’s done is done, and ending our situationship at this point would truly be and exercise in futility. I did, however, get some valuable information on why Mrs. Lincoln thinks I’m in on the conspiracy that destroyed her salons. Trey’s right. He really didn’t destroy her business. Her stupidity and lack of action did that. Why didn’t she go about the business of damage control when the rumors broke? Rumors are just rumors—they don’t become truths unless you give them life—or do nothing and just let them fester.

However, I stopped frequenting Esclava very shortly before the rumors started. Then she doesn’t see me for several months, during which time, her and Trey’s friendship is terminated, her salons fail, and she gets into a physical altercation with him where she breaks his arm and ends up getting arrested. Then, I pop back up on the scene, and Trey and I are suddenly a thing.

I would think something was rotten in Denmark, too, if I were her, but that’s one of Blondie’s fatal flaws. She’s transparent and she doesn’t strategize. Anyone in any line of business needs that simple skill. Nonetheless…

Here I sit in my parlor with Trey getting that same angry gleam in his eye that the Senator got when I told him that Linc accosted me. The Silver Specter is making a lot of enemies in a short span of time. I hope he got the hint to stay the fuck away from me as I have a feeling that my wrath will be the least of his worries if he doesn’t take heed.

“What do you mean he found out the hard way?” Trey asks about Linc’s lesson to leave me alone.

“You mean besides the fact that I told him I’d cut his dick off and he reacted as if it would be a pleasurable experience?” I ask. “Jesse had him suspended in pain for a few minutes before he was unceremoniously escorted from a very exclusive party.”

“Jesse?” Trey asks with a frown.

“My bodyguard,” I say as I refresh my drink.

“Suspended in pain? Do elaborate.” I shrug.

“Some type of pressure point hold on his shoulder when he grabbed my wrist,” I say, waving him off. “He’s harmless. The big bad brutes don’t scare me, but the two of them together—that might be a problem.” Trey scoffs. What’s so damn funny?

“Elena and Linc don’t work together on anything,” he says. “They’re like oil and water and I don’t even know why they’re still married.” I raise my brow at him.

“Have they ever had a common nemesis?” I ask sipping my drink. Trey shrugs.

“I don’t think so,” he says. “Not that I know of, anyway.”

“And now they do,” I point out. “Two, in fact, depending on how you look at it. Blondie wants to see you fall, and the Silver Dog wants to see me bow.” I put my drink on the bar. “It looks like we’re going to be co-conspirators whether we want to or not.”

“That doesn’t seem so bad to me,” he says suggestively. I twist my lips at him.

“Down, boy,” I chide.

*-*

Armed with the information that I now know about Blondie’s salons, I decide to go on a bit of a fishing expedition. No use in Trey having all the fun. You want to accuse me of having something to do with closing down your salons? Send that frosted ice king of a husband of yours after me like I’m some cheap acquisition? Okay, bitch. You want to see what dirty looks like? I’ll show you what it looks like. Let the punishment fit the crime.

I start with Bowie, then Chroma. Then I move to Stella and Circa. Once I explain my plight, no one really wants to talk to me. No one wants to get involved… or they know Blondie and don’t want to cross her. Nonetheless, I leave my card with instructions to contact me or pass the word along if they should come across any information.

It’s not until I get to Gene Juarez that I get any luck. After having spent the morning with a big goose-egg of co-conspirators, I decide to take a different tact going into Gene Juarez. Since I’m usually wearing some sort of wig during my jaunts and scenes at the clubs and my daytime hairstyle is the Miss Trunchbull bun, I haven’t bothered with any kind of cut and condition since I stopped going to Esclava. So, needless to say, I’m in desperate need of some TLC, not to mention that my feet are barking from being all over downtown Seattle this morning.

 

Managers and appointment takers may not want to talk, but pedicurists and stylists, yeah… they’re chatty.

“I know I don’t have an appointment, and I’ll take anybody who can squeeze me in, but it’s been a looooooong morning at the courthouse and my feet are in agony. I would kill for a deluxe pedicure right now. I’ll even pay in advance…” I reach into my wallet and pull out my Amex black. I’ve already scoped the basic price list on the other side of the counter. A classic pedicure is $55. By me saying that my feet hurt and I want a deluxe, they can easily work me for $200, not to mention the sparkles in the hostess’s eyes at the sight of my Amex.

“No problem, ma’am,” she says to my Amex—er, I mean, to me. “I’m sure we can fit you in.” I sigh like she’s saving my life.

“Thank you,” I breathe dramatically. I’ll save my hair for the next salon. She looks at her book and makes a quick call.

“Eve will be ready for you in about ten minutes. Do you mind waiting?” she asks.

“Not at all,” I say, pulling out my phone and texting Blake to call me in five and again in fifteen. With me standing at her podium, she has no choice but to talk to me.

“So, what do you do at the courthouse?” she asks. I’m dressed like a court reporter, but unless I’m fucking an extremely generous judge, she knows there’s no way I can be a court reporter, waving an Amex black around.

“I’m an attorney,” I say, slightly over-exaggerated exhaustion lacing my voice. I’m tired, but I’m not that tired.

“Really? What kind of law do you practice?” I laugh and wave her off.

“What don’t I practice?” I jest. “Corporate, defense, family law, civil litigation… all of it.” She raises a brow.

“I thought attorneys usually specialized in one area,” she said. I twist my lips as if in consideration of her statement.

“Generally, yes,” I tell her, “but I’m a wretched overachiever. All you have to do is pass the bar, then you can go in whatever direction you please. My specialization is criminal law. Everything else from there is continuing education, extra classes in college, and basically being self-taught.”

The hostess, whom I discover is called Venus, is visibly impressed.

“Really?” she probes. “You must be in pretty high demand. Sounds pretty lucrative.”

“Yes, and it can be,” I say with a chuckle. “The fees on one of my corporate cases alone paid for my house…” That’s the truth, “… but most of my criminal cases, I take pro-bono, especially if I’m dealing with a family who is underprivileged or living paycheck-to-paycheck and just can’t afford an attorney. I have to believe the defendant, too.”

“Why would you take them pro-bono?” she asks. “Why not just let the public defender handle it?”

“Because at the risk of hurting someone’s feelings, public defenders suck!” I say emphatically and Venus laughs. “I would never want to put an innocent person’s fate in the hands of a public defender. Not only that, I think the real criminal act is in requiring someone to pay for decent representation to defend themselves in court for something that they didn’t do.” And Venus is impressed again.

“That’s extremely noble,” she says, unable to hide her awe. “Doesn’t that cost you a lot though?”

“I can afford it,” I dismiss her. “What’s really bad is some mother having to put her house up to pay for a defense attorney because her son was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time.” My phone rings and I retrieve it.

Blake. Right on time.

“Hello, Darling,” I say into the phone.

“Hello,” Blake says without missing a beat. “Should I call you ‘darling,’ or will the normal greeting suffice?”

“The usual. Thank you,” I say in a playful, coy voice.

“Very well. And what can I do for you, Mistress?”

“You already have,” I reply. “Thank you so much. I found someone to do my pedicure. I thought I’d be completely lost after that last experience.”

“Ah, I see,” he says. “A plan is afoot?” Nice play on words.

“Oh, definitely,” I reply. “I left that establishment so quickly, I didn’t take time to find another one. Now I think I have.”

“Very well. Is there anything else you need me for, Mistress?” I smile.

“I always do, but you’re a sweetheart for calling. Talk to you soon.”

“Goodbye, Mistress…” I can hear him smiling through the phone.

“Bye-bye.” I end the call and smile at the phone.

“Your sweetheart?” Venus says. I giggle coyly.

“I’d be lost without him,” I reply honestly without answering her question. Her brow furrows.

“You had a bad experience at another salon?” she asks. I roll my eyes dramatically and scratch my arm.

“Oh, you have no idea!” I say, my voice heavily lamenting. I lean in to Venus like I’m about to reveal a secret. “I had a client secure my services for being traumatized at a local salon. One of the big ones!” I whisper the last words.

“Really?” she says, completely sucked in to the conversation.

“Yes,” I say, looking conspiratorially over my shoulder as if to be sure no one else heard me. “Imagine my horror when I discover that it was the same salon chain that I had been frequenting for at least a year prior. Unsanitary conditions, rumors of being closed by the health department, possible bedbugs…” I shiver.

“Oh, yes!” Venus says, realization dawning. “Esclava!” A few heads turn in our direction. Jackpot.

“Yes!” I say, gesturing in a motion for her to keep it down. No, Venus, talk louder! Talk louder!

“I heard about her,” Venus says. “I think she ended up closing, didn’t she?” I nod.

“Yes, she did,” I confirm. “Supposedly, the claims were untrue, but that wretched woman never released a statement confirming or denying any of the accusations unless I missed it!” She didn’t, I’ve already checked and confirmed with Trey. She was too busy trying to put the fires out to be concerned with a little thing like damage control.

“I don’t know, I never saw one,” Venus says.

“Neither did I,” I say leaning in again, “and let me tell you. I’m an attorney and I know from experience that the innocent scream their plight from the rooftops! The guilty stay silent and hope not to get caught. That’s why they often ‘plead the fifth amendment.’ It protects them from incriminating themselves.”

I can see the wheels turning in Venus’ head, just now putting two and two together about one Mrs. Elena Lincoln. And with all the heads turning this way, someone is bound to stop and ask her about the conversation we were having when they come to cash out.

“It has wreaked havoc on my nerves ever since I heard about it!” I say, scratching my neck and arms intermittently. “I’ve been to my doctor for a thorough examination… twice! I’ve had my home inspected at least three times. All the professionals say that there’s absolutely nothing to worry about, but the whole thing still gives me the heebie-jeebies. Oh God, just the thought of it…!” And I’m scratching again. Venus also begins to scratch instinctively. Bingo.

“Venus, I’m ready for the next client.” An exuberant woman a little younger than me comes from the back. She smiles widely at me, silently welcoming me to the salon.

“Well, Ms. Olivet, I can guarantee that you won’t have that experience here. Now, you go on with Eve and relax. Let us take care of you.” She smiles a winning smile in my direction as well.

“Thank you so much,” I say, flashing my own array of perfect pearly whites. “And please, call me Ana…”

Moments later, I’ve struck up the same conversation with Eve after faking a second call with Blake, assuring him that I’ve found a “clean” salon with wonderful staff who have really made me feel welcome. By the time the conversation is over, Eve has put the bits and pieces together and questions what bad experience I had, and the staged conversation ensues again. She confides in me that several of their clients were previously clients of Esclava. I feign concern of breaking attorney/client privilege. However, first, there’s no client—yet… but she doesn’t know that. Second, I’m only talking about my own experiences. I can produce a bill for a home inspection in a second if I need to, but if my plan falls into place, I won’t have to.

“You’re right, though,” she says as I sit there letting my toes dry, “if none of that stuff was true, she would have denied it… hard. This was her business, after all. Have you ever seen any bugs in her salon? My understanding is that everything was white, so you couldn’t miss them.”

“Well… no,” I admit, truthfully, “but I got a really bad feeling about the place and I stopped going. Then, I heard about the infestation and…” I start scratching my arms again.

“Oh, God, please stop,” she says grabbing my hands. “It’s psychological, honey. You’re fine. You dodged a bullet. Look, why don’t I see which of my friends are available and we’ll give you an afternoon of beauty? Unless you have to get back to the courthouse…” I wave her off.

“The good thing about being a highly sought-after attorney is that you basically make your own hours… unless there’s a case scheduled…” and I’m working on one right now.

“Well, then it’s settled. What’s your budget?” I laugh good-naturedly.

“Sweetie, there is no budget. Do your worst.” Eve beams at me and I can see the dollar signs in her eyes. What the hell, might as well. It’ll all be money well-spent if I can bring Blondie to her knees.

She should have left well enough alone. She already made Trey into an enemy. Then she turns around and attacks the man. As if siccing him on me like some rabid dog in heat wasn’t bad enough, then she throws threats at me because her plan actually worked, and Trey and I struck an intimate agreement. Then she goes to the fundraiser, smears my name all over the room, and sets yet another beast loose on me in that eerie, classless, creepy arctic wolf that she calls her husband!

This bitch has gone too far, and even though I have several minions and clients who want a piece of her and Linc, I want her to know that I’m after her ass. I want her to wonder what the fuck is going on now then look up and see me. You want the blade, bitch, you got it, and I’m about to slice you in two.

“Okay,” Eve says after ending a phone call that I didn’t even know she was on. “We’re going to start with a lemon verbena skin treatment, because you’re going to scratch the skin off your arms. This mixture and massage will make you forget all about that other place, and the aroma therapy will be good for you in helping to ease your heebie-jeebies. We’re going to free that hair of yours and give it a revitalizing conditioning treatment and once that’s done, you’ll get our skin-refreshing facial and I’ll give you a modest manicure to compliment your hands. You’ll feel like a new woman…”

Three hours of being plucked and pampered and I spill my guts to anyone who’ll listen about how horrified I was by the rumors of “that woman’s” shop after I had been frequenting her establishment for so long. When I go back out to settle my bill, I have to admit that Eve was right. I do feel like a new woman. I have a flawless makeover showcased by a full halo of lush brunette curls with soft honey highlights… nothing too dramatic. I step into the reception area to see Jesse sitting impatiently on one of the posh sofas. Shit, I had forgotten all about him

“That gentleman claims to be waiting for you,” Venus says as she tallies my bill. “Stalker?”

“Something like that,” I say. “Bodyguard.” Venus raises a brow at me and I hand her my Black card again. “Please include a tip for my operators—$50 each. They were incredible.”

“Each?” Venus clarifies. “How many were there?” I start counting on my fingers.

“Shelly, Lena, Raye, Livy, Dawson, and…” I’m trying to think of the other member of the team that helped rejuvenate this body. “Oh! Sage! That’s her name. And don’t forget yourself—I appreciate you fitting me in. And Eve, for heaven’s sake, Eve! Make it $75 for Eve! It’s like she made one call and an entire troop of people showed up and made my life worth living.” I giggle.

“Ms. Olivet!” she gushes. “Ana… you’re too generous!”

“Think nothing of if,” I say, throwing my shiny, beautiful mane over my shoulder. “I was an itchy, scratchy mess when I came in here. Your staff put me at ease and made me feel like a million bucks…” which they really did. “Can I set a future appointment right now?”

So, in looking to pluck the hen who caused me so much grief, I actually found a new salon. I hadn’t been going to one since I left Blondie… I didn’t see the need. My own grooming practices are pretty meticulous, and my nails never stay the same past the weekend. I can’t very well show up in a courtroom or boardroom with golden nails. As I’m leaving, she gives me my biggest payoff yet.

“Did you happen to bring any extra business cards with you?” she asks. “It appears that some of our clients… well, they may have overheard our conversation and they’d like to… talk to you about any recourse they may have against that woman. Apparently, we’ve gained quite a bit of her clientele.”

And now I realize just how fortuitous the situation is. The other salons most likely had nothing to lose or gain by talking to me about Elena because they didn’t gain any of her clientele—one or two, maybe, but not enough to rock the boat. Most of her clientele most likely came here.

“I’m certain that I do,” I say, digging through my purse. “If I don’t, I’ll bring more.” I dig into my inside pocket and retrieve the wad of business cards that I had there for just such an emergency. I hand her the cards and thank her again for the wonderful service.

Jesse’s pupils dilate when he sees me.

“I was going to ask if you fell in, but… damn…” He examines me as I tie the belt to my coat around my waist. I walk out of the salon and the winter sun catches the glints of highlight in my hair. I look good and I know it. I open my phone and call Chanelle.

“Offices of Olivet, Attorney at Law. How can I help you?”

“Shut it down, Chanelle,” I tell her. “I won’t be back to the office today.”

“So, I guess you didn’t get my message that Richard Steele is here again,” she laments. I sigh.

“No, I didn’t, and tell him that I won’t be back into the office and you have to shut down. If he gives you too much trouble about it, call the cops.”

“Will do. Have a great afternoon.” I end the call and look at Jesse.

“Take me to Community. After all that grooming and shaving, no one fed me. I want something quick and fresh.”

Community Grocery and Deli is a little place that’s tucked away inside of the opening to a parking garage. It’s a gem in Seattle and if you didn’t know it was there, you’d never know it was there. They have the best teriyaki anything in the whole damn city. Although you can’t pay me to eat soy, their teriyaki tofu even looks delicious.

While Jesse waits for our orders, I walk around the establishment and grab a few things. Not the hugest selection in this little store, but great for a quick grab. As I walk around to the other side of the coolers, who do I find standing there looking at the organic sodas? Organic sodas? I digress.

Jake.

Hmm, he works downtown, so I guess I had to run into him somewhere down here. It would be at one of my best-kept secret holes in the wall hiding in plain sight.

“Ana! Wow,” he says, his voice breathy. “You look… great.” Yes, I know this. I try not to roll my eyes.

“Hello, Jake,” I say impassively, reaching past him in the cooler to get my not-organic soda.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. I fold my arms.

“I could ask the same thing of you,” I retort.

“Well, I work here,” he says. I raise my brow.

“At the deli?” I ask. He chuckles.

“No. Downtown.”

“Well, so do I.” That’s when I realize that when he asked what I was doing here, he wasn’t talking about the deli. He was talking about the city. The nerve of him! Like I need his fucking permission to be in my own hometown.

“Is there something I can do for you?” I ask, with my arms folded.

“I didn’t know you were still in town,” he says. “I thought you left.”

“I did,” I say. “I came back. I’ve been in town for quite some time, now.”

“Why?”

“Because this is my home,” I reply. “My parents are buried here. My roots are here.”

“Home is where the heart is…”

“Exactly,” I say, unaware that I’m making his point for him.

“You never thought about us?” he asks. I frown.

“What about us?” I ask, shaking my head. He sighs.

“I liked you a lot,” he says, perturbed. “It was really shitty how things went down.” I drop my head and sigh.

“It… was a long time ago,” I say with a shrug. “It was a dumb thing that happened.”

“What dumb thing happened?” he asks, closing the space between us. “All I knew was my bike got fucked up and my parents said that I couldn’t talk to you anymore.”

I try not to react. He could have asked me. Somehow, he could have asked me what happened, but he didn’t. I’m not all bruised about it. I never really was. Yeah, I liked him, but I had bigger fish to fry—like staying alive.

“It’s been almost twenty years, Jake. Is it even important anymore?” I ask.

“Twenty years,” he says, coming even closer to me, “and here you are—different name, but same city. Something brought you back here and we just keep bumping into each other.”

“You want to know what brought me back here?” I ask. “I love Seattle. I love everything about this city, and my mom and dad are buried here.” He frowns.

“I thought the Steeles were your mom and dad,” he says, “That you were adopted…”

“I was adopted,” I tell him. “My dad adopted me, and then he and my mother were killed in a car accident. The living Steeles are my adopted aunt and uncle.” And why am I telling you this? “Anyway, it’s moot. If you’ll excuse me…” I try to walk away, and he puts his arm around my waist, pulling me back to him.

“Ana, please…” he says, his voice soft and coaxing. What? You’re kidding, right? “Don’t leave yet, please?”

I’m angry when I spin around to face him and give him a piece of my mind. Back when I liked you, when I really needed someone, you didn’t want to be bothered with me. You didn’t ask me what happened—not even in secret. You just dismissed me because your parents said that you had to. That’s what everyone did—my uncle, my aunt, my cousins, you—nobody asked me what happened. Nobody gave me the benefit of the doubt. Now, I’m grown, and everybody wants to get in my face. Good God, just go away!

I haven’t said anything aloud. I don’t get the chance. Jake’s lips are on mine right there in the grocery area—next to the organic sodas. My back is against the cooler door and he’s holding me gently around my waist, his other hand cupping my cheek. His lips mold gently into mine, soft and coaxing, and his tongue glides across my bottom lip. When he pulls back from my mouth, there’s pure desire in his eyes, and I’m a bit stunned.

What. The fuck. Is this?

“I’m sorry,” he says, breaths away from my face. “I had to do it… just once.”

“And now you have,” I say, my voice low and controlled. “Now, back up off me.” He’s crestfallen.

“Ana…” he begins, his voice laced with disbelief.

“Back. Up. Off. Me.” I enunciate each word, trying to relay to him that my next request will be physical. He gets the hint and releases me, putting some space between us. “Jake, what the fuck was that? Do you just randomly walk around kissing girls in grocery stores?”

“I… couldn’t resist. I’m sorry…”

“Try harder next time,” I warn. “We seem to keep bumping into each other and I can’t explain that, but if you think that gives you license to ‘reach out and touch’ me without my permission…” My voice is rising, and I’ve now attracted the attention of the two other shoppers in the grocery area of the deli. Now, Jesse has come around the coolers and is staring at me in awe.

“Three other people in the store… I can’t leave you alone for a minute!” I think the words are out of his mouth before he considers what he’s saying. Jake examines him critically.

“Gee, Kevin, you’ve changed,” he says sarcastically before turning his attention back to me. “He’s not what you usually go for.”

“What the fuck do you know about what I usually go for?” I hiss, openly offended by his insinuation. “Meet Jesse, my bodyguard. And you may want to be careful about touching me without my permission. He doesn’t take too kindly to that.” Jake looks back at Jesse.

“How ya doin’, Jess?” Jake says.

“Get yo’ smart ass outta here, man,” Jesse says, and nothing else. His tone indicates that he’s not in the mood for any bullshit and Jake takes the hint.

“Hopefully, I see ya ‘round, Beautiful,” Jake says haughtily before leaving the grocery area. Conceited, egotistical asshole.

“What is it about you that brings out the worst in men?” Jesse asks. I don’t say it aloud, but I know what it is. Pure animal magnetism. They don’t know what to do with themselves; they just know they gotta have it.

They’re literally like dogs. They see it a mile away, then they smell it, then they attack. After getting all dolled-up at Gene Juarez this afternoon, no doubt I’m emitting the Golden vibe, and he had a moment of weakness—just like Linc—since he has no fucking idea who Golden is.

“Get used to it,” I retort as I sashay around him into the deli area to retrieve my late lunch.


A/N: Golden’s after-scene Tupac Shakur playlist:

Who Do U Believe In?
Whatcha Gonna Do?
Still Love U
Gave U My Heart
When Thugs Cry

The Pinterest board for this story can be found at https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/fifty-shades-golden/.

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.

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~~love and handcuffs

 

Raising Grey: Chapter 12—“Sleeping” With The Enemy

Once again, I sincerely want to thank those of you who encouraged me and supported me through that unfortunate Facebook incident last weekend. My filter may be off for the next couple of weeks or so. Wild dreams and bullshit and now, a crazy ass plot bunny has sprung up that may be the birth of a brand new fanfic. I’ll let you know how that goes. In the meantime…

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 12—“Sleeping” With The Enemy

CHRISTIAN

“You are going to cause a goddamn riot,” I say to my wife as she checks her make-up in the back of the SUV.

“No,” she says, matter-of-factly, “just a stir.”

“Well, you’re causing a stir right now in one very precarious place,” I say, running my hand up her thigh. She stops my ascent, to my shock and awe.

Vamp lips“Ah, ah, ah,” she says, tightly grasping my wrist. “I need that extra testosterone and pinned-up aggression for that poser bitch,” she adds. She places my hand back on my own knee before turning her attention back to her compact and vamp lips so dark that they look almost black.

All I can think about are those lips wrapped around my dick.

“Focus, Grey,” she says as if reading my mind. Fuck, I love it when she’s dominant!

PuckerJason pulls in front of a fetish club named C.C.’s where I have arranged to meet one skank, Greta Ellison. I want to kiss my hot wife, but she’s having none of it. I have a feeling she’s trying to get into character, too. When I lean in to kiss her, she squeezes my cheeks together hard so that my lips are caught in an unintentional and uncomfortable pucker.

“Save the charm for the whore,” she says, her voice menacing. My brow furrows.

“You want me to kiss her?” I say, my voice distorted through the pucker.

“Don’t test me, Grey,” she warns. “I’m already trying not to go Rambo.” She releases my face and turns to the window. “Don’t go easy on her,” she says, and nothing else.

She’s not pleased.

I don a Venetian phantom mask and a beaver fur felted Stetson fedora to hide my identity until I get inside the club. We’re purposely early as I want Jason and Chuck in position and I don’t want any surprises. I’m very unhappy that Butterfly must even be exposed to this part of my life, but there was no other way. This cunt wronged my wife, too. I don’t think she would ever forgive me if I didn’t include her in this.

In a black shirt with black jeans and a black suit jacket, I sit in a round booth facing the door and the dance floor waiting for my “guest.” I see my lady enter a few moments after I sit, walking like she owns the place. Her ensemble this evening would have any man in this joint—and probably, many woman—falling at her goddamn feet. Her ample hips sway back and forth in a “tight-as-skin” black leather skirt as she strides to a nearby table. Her hair is pulled up in the front in a smooth, high, flowing ponytail and is loose in the back, cascading over her shoulders and milky white skin. I hardly notice Jason and Chuck—both in black T-shirts and jeans—taking position near each of their charges.

She crosses her legs when she takes her seat, gladiator stilettos wrapping around her calves and inviting hopeful suitors to approach her. She’s looking extremely fuckable and untouchable at the same time and I literally pity the fool that attempts to approach her tonight. Even behind her extra-large, blacked-out Ray Bans, I can tell she’s not looking at me. She’s looking in my direction, but not at me. She’s plotting in a way that makes me worry about her current state of mind—not worried for her, but worried for me… or for anyone else who dares to cross her.

A waitress comes over to her with a fruity drink of some kind and Butterfly gestures for her to sit the drink down. She hands the woman a few bills and says something to her. The waitress walks away and Butterfly never touches her drink. Just when I was thinking that was the fastest service I had ever seen, some guy comes sauntering up to my wife’s table and invites himself to sit next to her. My hairs are up and I’m trying not to charge over to the table. He’s really close to her, caging her in with his arms. She sits still and never flinches, talking to him calmly. Her only movement is to raise her hand, and I notice Chuck halting his approach to her. She’s got it under control, but I still want this leather-clad fucker away from my wife.

The waitress comes back to the table with a black drink in a large martini glass. Apparently, Leather Man sent over the fruity drink which remains untouched on the table, and my wife has ordered a Black Martini instead.

This should be interesting.

Leather Man continues his conversation while closing the space between them and caressing the exposed skin of my wife’s chest, but she doesn’t react in the shocked and appalled manner that I would prefer. Instead, she continues conversing with the asshole and he continues the trek of his fingertips over her skin… and I’m grinding my teeth to keep from leaping from this fucking table.

The conversation appears to continue when suddenly, Leather Man looks a little sick. My wife’s expression hasn’t changed and her mouth is moving, but nothing else is happening. Leather Man moves his hand from her chest and places it on the table, and they stay in that position for maybe another minute or so. My wife then lifts her glass and takes another sip of her martini as Leather Man stands from the table. He says something to her and he appears to be angry. She says something back to him and throws a menacing look over her Ray Bays before he leaves the table.

What did she say to him?

I look over at Chuck who glances at me and shrugs. I get the same response from Jason. I look back at my wife who I can now tell is looking right at me from behind her Ray Bans, still quietly sipping her drink and giving me no clue of her current mood… except that she’s not the happiest camper. I need to loosen up and be ready when the treacherous, thieving cunt gets here, so I gesture to Jason to get a waitress so I can get a Scotch. In his usual efficiency, he returns instead with two fingers of Scotch, single malt, neat.

About ten minutes later, she walks in wearing a slinky, plunging black dress and a collar. She’s ready for action and she wants me to know it. I fight to keep my eyes on her approaching form and not glance over at my wife. She sashays up to the table and stands in front of me like she’s displaying the goods… which she is. If she sneezes, I’ll be able to see if her carpeting matches the drapes, or if there’s any carpeting at all.

“Ms. Ellison,” I say, my voice low and inviting.

“Mr. Grey,” she replies. “I was a bit surprised that you contacted me. Do you normally have your security team set up your dates?”

“As a matter of fact, no—never. This isn’t a date.” She smiles as I sip my drink.

“Of course, it’s not,” she says, coyly. “You haven’t invited me to sit.” I gesture at the bench seat next to me and she sits, sidling in as close to me as she can get.

“So,” she begins, crossing her legs and turning toward me in the bench, “to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“You’re referring to my intense need to see you?” I respond. She smiles a knowing smile.

“Took you long enough,” she remarks. “Your cute little girl next door not cutting it anymore? You lookin’ for something a little more… tantalizing?”

“You can definitely say that I’m looking for something,” I say, sipping my Scotch.

“Well… Mr. Grey, you’ve definitely come to the right place.” She reaches up to fondle the buttons on my shirt and I catch her hand at the wrist.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” I say. “No one touches me there except the cute little girl next door,” I chide. Her expression is bemused and she snatches her hand away from me.

“What is this?” she hisses. “You asked to meet me! I didn’t come looking for you. So, what the hell do you want?”

“Quiet!” I hiss back, turning on my Dom voice. Her pupils constrict at first, then her eyes widen. I lean back in the booth and put my arms around the back of the seat. “Sit up straight, feet on the floor, hands flat on the table.”

Her brows furrow and she makes no attempt to change position.

“Excuse me?” she says with distaste.

“I said. Sit up. Straight. Feet. On the floor. Hands. Flat. On the table. Don’t make me say it again.”

She blinks a few times and after a pause of about ten seconds, she turns her body and straightens her back, puts her feet on the floor and lays her hands on the table in front of her. I lean closer to her.

“Palms down,” I say in her ear, “and close your eyes.” Her breath quickens and she closes her eyes. I begin to stroke the skin on the back of her hand and I can feel her temperature rise.

“Relax,” I say softly in her ear. “Concentrate on the sound of my voice.”

There’s music blaring around us, but I can tell when her lips part that she can hear only me.

“That’s it,” I say clearly. “I need you to hear me. I need you to concentrate… very carefully.” The dumb bird is panting. I move my fingers down to her wrist. “Do you remember the night we met? How you told me that you liked male Doms better than female Dommes?”

She’s damn near salivating.

“I didn’t choose you that night,” I say. “Maybe if I had, things would have turned out differently.” I close my hand gently around her wrist. The corner of her lips turns up slightly in what looks like triumph.

“Now, I want you to relax and let your mind go back to when you saw me in the marketplace with that good little girl… You were so sure I just needed a push in the right direction, weren’t you?”

“Yes, Sir,” she breathes, nearly unable to hide her arousal.

“Good, good. Now think back to that day last February. Think really hard… let your mind go back…” I slightly tighten my grip on her wrist and gently stroke up her back to the nape of her neck just above her collar. “Go back to the day when you let yourself into my fiancée’s condo and stole her Beretta out of her night stand.” Her eyes fly open and she starts to shift, but my grip tightens on her wrist while my other hand grasps a handful of her hair, holding her head steady.

“Move and I’ll break it!” I hiss. “Make a sound other than to tell me what I want to hear and I’ll snap it in pieces! I’ll gladly do the time for this one because that bitch almost killed me with the gun you gave her!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she squeals. I tighten my hand in her hair.

“Well, maybe I can help you remember! And lower your fucking voice!” I growl. She closes her eyes tightly. “That’s right. Play the little victim,” I taunt. “You’ve dressed the part, so anybody here is just going to think I’m disciplining my unruly submissive!” She swallows hard before speaking.

“You don’t know it was me!” she says through clenched teeth after a pause, confirming my suspicions.

“I’ve got you on film!” I hiss in her ear, jerking her head with the phrase. She lets out a small yelp. “You’re a goddamn submissive… a good one, I suspect. You know how to shut the fuck up, so cut that shit out!”

I’m usually not this brutal with women. I think the act of manhandling a woman for any reason other than consensual mutual pleasure is barbaric and something that doesn’t appeal to me at all. However, this creature that was an accessory to the act that could’ve cost my life, that nearly cost me my best friend… yeah, this bitch, I could hang her over a cliff by her hair and watch her squirm.

“You see that guy?” I jerk her head in the direction of a menacing looking Jason cloaked in shadow and leaning against a beam just in front of us and to the left. “A bullet from that gun did hit him; nearly put him out of commission, and he knows exactly who you are and where to find you. So, stop with that whimpering puppy shit before I turn you over to him!” I squeeze her wrist a little tighter. “Now, fucking tell me everything or we’ll both be wearing some not-so-pretty new wrist adornments tonight!”

When she opens her mouth, I tighten my hand in her hair to remind her not to scream.

“She didn’t tell me that she was going to fucking shoot anybody!” she chokes out angrily.

“It was a goddamn gun! What the fuck did you think she was going to do with it—bake cookies?”

“She said she just wanted to scare her; to let Anastasia know that she could get to her.”

“How did you get the key?” I demand.

“You already know how I got the key…”

“Humor me!” I hiss, tightening that hand in her hair again. She groans at the pain and winces.

“She told me to meet up with this guy!” she spits. “Redhead, crazy eyes! She said that he had an inside track and was giving her all the information that she needed to bring you two down.”

“And you were only too happy to help.”

“I had to!” she defends. “She had given me a bonus for securing the contract and wanted it back because I didn’t seal the deal with you. I had already spent some of the money and couldn’t recover it…”

“Cry me a river,” I huff. “What else?”

“What else do you want?” she hisses.

“I want it all!” I retort, snatching her hair again, eliciting an “Ow! Aw fuck!” from her. She’s going to have a splitting headache when this is all said and done.

“I don’t know what else to tell you!”

“How long had she been talking to the redhead?” I growl.

“Fuck!” she complains again. “I don’t know! Since the holidays of the year before, I think!” Fucking hell, this man had been tracking me for a year before he made his move. It would explain how Elena got her information long after Francesca was gone. “You’ve got nothing on me. If you did, you would have turned me over to the police by now. Now, either break my wrist or fucking let me go, because I’m about to scream!”

I release her hair, but not her wrist.

“I’ve got something on you,” I say. “I’ve got you leaving the building with no disguise just as content as you please.”

“So?” she proclaims. “That building has hundreds of units. I could have been visiting anybody.”

“But you weren’t,” I say. “You were visiting Anastasia. I’ll admit that it took a while to figure it out from the camera shots, but keep fucking with me and we’ll find out how circumstantial the police find this evidence if I turn it over,” I say coolly, releasing her wrist with a jolt. “Now get the fuck out of my face. Your presence makes me ill.”

She squirms quickly out of the booth and turns to face me.

“You think you’re so much,” she scowls, attempting to smirk, but close to tears. “You’re not untouchable, Mr. Grey, and I’m just the one to prove it!”

“You give it your best shot,” I taunt. “You seem to know a lot about me. That doesn’t scare me, but it should scare you. Consider what you know of me. Think about it very, very carefully. Of all the people who have ever fucked me over that you know of—since you have so much information—exactly how many of them have gotten away with it?” I say the words coolly, with meticulous calculation, knowing that she can still hear me clearly over the blasting techno music. When her face blanches, I add, “Don’t worry, I’ll wait.” I sit back and put my arms around the back of the seat. “Watch your back, Miss Ellison. You’re now on that list.”

Her eyes narrow, then widen before she turns around and proceeds to march away from the table. She doesn’t get three steps before she runs right into my wife, looking exponentially hotter than Greta in that sexy ass vintage bondage top and leather skirt with vamp make-up. Butterfly squares her shoulders and lands a slap so hard across Greta’s face that it actually rings over the dance music, causing some of the patrons to turn around to see what happened. Greta shrieks a bit and wants to retaliate, but stands down when she sees Jason and Chuck appear behind Butterfly.

“That’s for stealing my gun, you scrawny little cunt!” Butterfly shoots while Greta holds her obviously stinging face. “Don’t let the big bad men stop you. Whenever you want to go toe to toe with this, you name the place. I’ll meet you anytime, anywhere. Just you and me… I’m sure you know how find me.”

My wife’s menacing voice captures the complete attention of her nemesis. A mix of anger and fear flashes through Greta’s eyes as she attempts to stare Butterfly down, but my wife stands her ground—fists clenched through leather and gold slave bracelets and cut biceps bulging from brass upper arm cuffs—waiting for this trick to make a move. She doesn’t and instead, wisely decides to make a hasty getaway.  I stroll over to my wife and look down at her, feasting on her appearance while talking to Jason just behind her.

“Put a watch on her—immediately, the works. She’s got more, and I want to know what it is.”

“Yes, sir,” Jason says, and starts talking into his sleeve. I run my hands down my wife’s luscious body and stop at her hips, giving them a squeeze.

“Let’s dance,” I growl in her ear.

“I thought you’d never ask,” she replies, leading me to an open spot on the dance floor. She turns around to face me and slides her hands up my chest to my collar. The first button is already open, so she undoes the second button, then the third. Bodies are writhing around us, but she concentrates on the buttons before stroking the light dusting of hair on my chest with her fingertips. I stand stock still as she teases me, looking down at her face even though she doesn’t raise her eyes to meet my gaze. She’s concentrating on my chest. She caresses the skin causing a chill to run through me. She caresses a little longer before sliding her hands back up the shirt and around my collar until her arms are around my neck and resting on my shoulders. She still doesn’t make eye contact with me. She watches my lips as her hips begin to sway. Fuck! I’m so hard so fast that my dick is aching… straining against these damn jeans. She’s moving so sexy against me, so hot—then the music changes and I hear a familiar tune playing.

Shit… it can’t be…

My wife turns around in my arms and moves away from me, only infinitesimally… just enough so that she’s not touching me, but she’s a breath away from me. Her head tilts from one side to the other, and then her arms raise over her head.

Fuck, not this again… please, not this…

Her hips start to move again, back and forth before she bends her knees and grinds toward the floor.

Fuck… this happened before… to this song… and I couldn’t touch her. Hell if I’m not going to touch her now.

I move my body against hers, my front to her back just as she’s rising from the floor, her body writhing against mine as she ascends, her juicy, leather-clad ass grinding right against my dick. I gasp and clench my teeth, allowing my hands to brush against her skin as her body torments mine.

Cum angelis et pueris, fideles inveniamur
Attollite portas, principles, vestras…

She leans back against me and it’s everything I can do not to grab her and fuck her right here on the floor. She slides her arms around my neck behind her and continues her sensual dance against me. I stand stock still as the slightest movement may result in a dry fuck on the dance floor.

Sade, dis-moi…
Sade, donnes-moi…

I’m transported back to the first time I watched her dance to this song—that night at the McElvoy. I couldn’t touch her and had she known I was there with her, she might have screamed.

Sade, dis-moi, qu’est-ce que tu cas chercher?
Le bien par le mal? La virtue par le vice?
Sade, dis-moi, pourquoi l’evangile du mal?
Quelle est ta religion? Ousnt tes fideles?

She’s transcending in the music now, just like she did that night, except this time, she’s doing it against my body… and I can touch her. I breathe deeply to control this fucking heat that she’s causing inside me right now. I want her so badly and the way that she’s grinding her ass against my hips is cruel and unusual punishment.

The principles of lust are easy to understand.
Do what you feel, feel until the end.
The principles of lust are burned in your mind.
Do what you want, do it until you find love.

I rub my hands up her body like I wanted to do that night. From her hips, up the sides of her torso and her breasts, without touching them. She clamps her arms around my neck and pulls my head down to her until my nose is buried in her neck. I inhale deeply and her smell and essence fill me, breaking down whatever defenses I may have left.

The principles of lust are easy to understand.
Do what you feel, feel until the end.
The principles of lust are burned in your mind.
Do what you want, do it until you find love.
I am to come…

I curl my body into hers, wrapping myself around her like a vine, mimicking her movements and joining her sensual dance. Our bodies move as one as her head lays back on my shoulder and mine lays forward on hers. Her chest jets forward causing her luscious breasts to push out further. It’s everything I can do not to grab one right here in front of all these people. Instead, I put one hand on her hip and one hand around her body just under her breast.

Not a good idea. With my hand on her hip, it feels like we’re fucking.

Sade, dis-moi… Hosanna
Sade, donnes-moi… Hosanna
Sade, dis-moi… Hosanna

I groan mournfully into her neck as I hear the song about to end. I’m fucking aching, ready to blow. No woman has ever been able to just grind against me and make me come—nobody, that is, until Anastasia. I’m panting and hungry and tormented. She turns around in my arms. My lips are parted trying to get air in. I’m watching her mouth and she’s watching mine, and when she licks her lips, I nearly expire. Fuck, she’s killing me.

She grabs a handful of my hair, brings my head down to hers and assaults my mouth with the wettest, most sensual kiss. I snatch her into my arms and return her fervor, feasting on her lips and taking as much as I’m giving with this kiss. I don’t know how long we maul each other on the dance floor, but she pulls her lips away from mine and we’re both out of breath.

“Put me down,” she breathes, and it’s only now that I realize that I’ve lifted her off the ground during our public necking session. I place her gently on her feet and, to my surprise, nobody is paying us any attention. Everyone around us has their own grind session going on. I’m a little dazed as she takes my hand and starts to lead me through the crowd. We’re off the dance floor in a few minutes and headed towards the restrooms. She’s leading the way and stops short as she sees another short hallway with a door at the end on the way to the restrooms. She examines the hallway for a moment. It’s dark at the end and you can barely see the door.

She leads me down the hallway and I’m sure I know what’s on her mind. I just don’t know how she thinks were going to pull it off. When we get to the end of the hallway, she pushes me against the wall… hard! It’s dark down here and I can barely see, but can sure as hell feel her rub her hand against my erection. I grit my teeth as the friction of her hand and the denim is almost unbearable. I can’t fucking stand it. I squeeze her hip as I’m breathing through my teeth. By some stroke of genius, she thinks to try the door with her free hand and it creaks open. She moves her hand from my throbbing dick and goes to investigate.

Thank fuck! I was about to blow in my jeans in a few moments, and there was no way in hell that I was stopping her, but that would have made for a bit of an uncomfortable trip home. I stand there for a moment with my hands on my knees, trying to collect myself. She’s been in there for more than a minute and just as I turn my head to investigate what’s on the other side of that door, she appears and pulls me inside by my jacket. To say that she surprises me is an understatement.

She slams the door behind us and pushes me against it. Then her lips are on mine again. We’re hungrily devouring each other and Greystone is right back up to where he was before she released me on the other side of the door. She kisses me hungry and deep as I feel her reach around me and lock the door. When she releases my lips, I focus on the dimly lit room and discover that we’re in a large storage room or cleaning closet. She takes my hand and leads me to the back around some shelves where I see a two-stair stepstool, a mop bucket with a mop and a utility sink along with some other cleaning supplies. Some lone light flickers in the corner and before I can protest, Butterfly is undoing my pants.

Oh, shit, this is going to be quick.

She releases my dick from my pants and boxers without pulling them down.

“Sit,” she instructs me, “on the step-ladder.” I do as I’m told and in no time flat, those black-red lips are wrapped around my dick.

“Fuuuuuuuck!” I grind out, unprepared for the assault. I lean back, white-knuckle gripping the back of the step-ladder behind me and using my feet on the floor to keep my balance.

“Fuu-uuuuck!” I was already there, but this is insane. She’s doing a hard, slow suck and Greystone is already purple, veiny, and throbbing. She’s sucking so hard that I’m almost lifting off this damn stair every time she pulls back on my dick. And I swear to God that lipstick must be tattooed on because through all the wild kissing, biting, nipping and now sucking, that shit hasn’t smeared once! She looks up at me, sucking hard and slow and I’m watching my dick disappear and reappear in and out of those hot, crimson lips. Oh, God, I’m going to die.

“Uuuuuggghhh!” I groan hard deep within my chest, knowing that these strokes are going to draw out this pleasure but never bring me to orgasm. That’s when she releases my dick with a pop. I’m watching it bob around feverishly, but only for a moment before she slowly raises that leather skirt just to where I can see the triangle of her black thong and the tops of the thigh high stockings along with the garters holding them up. She straddles my lap and I feel the thin silk of her panties rub against my dick.

“You’re wet,” I groan. “You’re fucking soaking.”

“Damn straight,” she growls as she continues to rub against me.

“I can smell you,” I growl back, rocking my hips so that we get more friction. She hisses.

“Do you like it?” she taunts. “You like smelling my wet pussy?” Oh, fuck, she’s going to fucking kill me.

“Yes,” I hiss. “I love the way your pussy smells, when I’m eating you, licking that clit and when you’re about to come…”

“Yeah?” she pants. “How about when that big, fat, hard dick is inside of it?” Lightning fast, she raises up, pulls her thong over and slides down onto me. The breath is fucking snatched out of my lungs as she is so wet that she’s able to slide all the way down to the hilt in one go.

“Shit, baby… shit!” I gasp, still holding on to the back of the step-ladder.

“Don’t move,” she says. “Stay right there.” My head is back and I’m trying to control my dick while she rides it mercilessly. Fuck… Fuck… My eyes are screwed shut and I’m trying to concentrate.

100… 99… 98… 97…

“Open your eyes!” she commands me and my eyes fly open. “That’s it, baby. Let me see you.” Her voice is breathy and full of lust. She puts her feet up on something behind me and intensifies her stroke. She had better hurry up, or else…

“I’m close… I’m real fucking close…” I warn, hardly able to breathe. She quickens the intense stroke. Oh, hell…

“Wait! Wait!” she pants as she rides me hard and fast. Shit! Shit! I fucking can’t….

“Anastasia! Fuck!!” and I’m gone. I can’t hold it. It’s too fucking hot, too fucking good and I’m shooting my load faster than I ever had before.

“So big… so hard… throb… bing… Fuck!” she groans as she tightens her legs around me and throws her head back. She’s grinding hard into me as her neck cranes toward the ceiling, a plastered sex grimace marring her face as she subdues her screams. My teeth are grinding as her tightening pussy grips my dick hard and squeezes out every last bit of semen. Goddamn, that was hot!

When she collapses from her orgasm, I catch her in my arms, both of us sweating and breathless from blinding release.

“Fuck! Oh, fuck!” I pant in her hair. “That shit was so hard, my junk hurts.”

“Oh, God,” she’s panting, too. “Don’t move… please, don’t move.”

“It’s all you, baby,” I promise. “Just… warn me before you get up.”


ANASTASIA

This fucking asshole can’t be serious!

First, you send me a screaming orgasm, one of the most suggestive drinks in the world in a goddamn fetish club. You couldn’t be more creative than that? They’ve got an interesting sounding drink called “tie me up, tie me down;” another one called “shackles and chains;” and even a not-so-original “leather and lace;” and you send this froufrou fruity shit. I’m so not in the mood for this shit tonight. I reach into the pocket of one of my slave bracelets and pull out some cash.

“For your trouble,” I say, handing her the bills and gesturing to the table for her to set the drink down… away from me. “May I have the Domme’s Delight? That looks delicious.” She smiles.

“Yes, ma’am,” she smiles and goes off towards the bar. About a minute later, the fucking asshole wanders over to my table and invites himself to take a seat. I never even look at his face.

“You’re hot,” he says, confidently, “but you clearly don’t belong here.”

“Is that so?” I respond with as much disinterest as I can muster. “Is that why you sent that Shirley-Temple-ass drink to my table?” He chuckles.

“Feisty, too, I see,” he says, closing the space between us. I continue to stare off into the club, no eye-contact with anyone. I’m looking for this bitch to arrive.

“It’s rude not to at least take a sip when someone buys you a drink,” he says, his voice softening.

“It’s presumptuous to think that woman would accept a drink from a stranger,” I retort.

“Lighten up, hotness,” he says. “Men buy drinks for women all the time. It’s not a crime…” As he’s making his point, the waitress returns with my drink—a large black creation in a martini glass with black sugar or salt crusting the rim and long strings of some kind of black fruit rind curling out of the drink like menacing, long claw-like fingernails.

Now this is more like it.

“Damn, baby. I didn’t know you were into the serious shit!” I don’t respond as I take a sip of my Domme’s Delight. It’s strong… and delicious. I take another sip before setting on the table in front of me. “I see you’re not the typical girl.” I roll my eyes. I’m in a fetish club, you asshole.

“Apparently not,” I respond, still looking for the bitch who stole my gun. I feel his hand brush the skin of my shoulder as he pushes my incredibly long black tassel earring off my chest. I fight not to shiver at his touch, but my blood is boiling.

Motherfucker, who gave me permission to touch me.

“I could teach you a few things,” he says, touching my skin between the splits in my vintage Versace gold hardware-embellished leather bondage top. This time, I can’t avoid the shiver, though I manage to maintain my composure.

“I don’t want to make a scene, so I’m only going to warn you one time to get your fucking hand off me.” He chuckles lightly.

“Don’t be so mean, baby,” he says. “I only want to get to know you. You can’t come into a place like this dressed like that and not expect an admirer or two to come and say ‘hi,’” and he’s still touching me, his fingers now coming dangerously close to my décolletage.

I warned you, fucker.

He reminds me a lot of Edward, speechless in the Marketplace with his mouth hanging open while I have a painful death grip on his family jewels.

“I said. Get. Your fucking. Hand. Off me.” Trying not to gasp for air and look like a crushed puppy, he moves his hand from my chest and places it on the table. I can see Chuck gesture to move toward me, but I raise my hand in an inconspicuous gesture for him to stand down.

“I’m not here alone. My bodyguards are here. I’m not looking for company, and you should’ve taken the hint when I didn’t accept your drink. Just because a female is wearing a sexy dress doesn’t mean that she’s inviting you to accost her. As you will obviously not be partaking in my company this evening, please remember this with the next young lady that you approach tonight. You’re right, this usually isn’t my scene, but the fact that I’m here doesn’t mean that I have a ‘free pussy’ sign stapled to my forehead. Now take what you’ve learned from our encounter and try to approach the next young lady with a little more interest and a little less asshole.” I release his balls and take another sip of my drink. “You can go now.”

My would-be suitor slides carefully out of the booth and adjusts his leather pants, most likely to get a little relief.

“You… crazy fucking… bitch!” he hisses, barely able to speak as he squares off in front of my table.

“Say it while you’re hobbling away,” I hiss back, glaring at him over my glasses. 

The few moments that I watched my husband seduce this woman, using his Dom skills to lure her into a false sense of security, were nearly un-fucking-bearable. Not only did I want to scratch her fucking eyes out right there in the goddamn club, but I also had to keep myself from biting through this martini glass or from throwing the whole goddamn drink back in one gulp. I first-hand watched what he does to me—the power that he exercises over women without even trying—being exercised on another woman. It was the most strenuous exercise in control I had ever experienced.

When she scurried away from the table, angry and dejected, it was everything I could do not to snatch her by the hair and beat her to a useless, bloody pulp right there in the middle of the club. Instead, I halted her escape and slapped her so hard that I felt the foundation of the building shake before inviting her to challenge me any fucking time she was ready. Bitch, I will beat you into another decade!

Then, I fucked my husband.

I fucked him well. I fucked him until I felt his dick pounding in my chest and hoped his cum would shoot out of my ears.

Goddamn fucking Greta Ellison!

Taylor and Chuck got the show of their lives—again, because I almost fucked him in the car on the way back to the Crossing. Then he carries me up the stairs by my ass, throws me in the bed and fucks me to damn near unconsciousness once again. I’m wild and tearing at his skin while we fuck and for some reason, I can’t be sated. I come and come and come, but I still need more. I feel like a fucking animal and I don’t know what’s wrong with me! We get to a point where he binds me to the bed and I still feel feral and untamed. He keeps teasing me and bringing me close to orgasm, then letting it wane… and it’s pissing me off!

“If you’re not going to fuck me, don’t fucking touch me!” I growl. He raises his eyes to me, a challenge sparking in his gray irises.

“That didn’t sound like a safeword,” he taunts.

“It’s not!” I reply, my voice menacing. He laughs.

“Poor little Anastasia,” he teases. “You still seem to think you’re in control. I can fuck you all night and keep you right on the edge of orgasm and there wouldn’t be a thing you could do about it.”

“Try it and see,” I respond, cockily. I’m up for a challenge. He smiles wickedly and begins playing his little game of orgasm denial again. I’ve come so many times tonight—hard and hot—that I’ve lost count, and I still want more! I need more! I must have more, and this teasing shit is not fucking working.

Some way still unknown to me, I escape from one of my binds. I use my free hand to release my other wrist and the next time he decides that I’m not going to come, I thrust my own hand into my core and finish the job myself, panting and thrashing wildly as I come from an orgasm denied at least eight to ten times. He grabs both my wrists and pins me down to the bed. His face is breaths away from mine and he. Is. Pissed. He’s breathing like he’s out of breath and glaring at me like I’ve just broken the Cardinal Rule…

Which I have.

I stare back up at him. I’m not afraid. I’m not challenging him, but I’m not afraid. I wait for the backlash. What will it be—the usual spanking? Punishment fuck? That won’t work right now. More denied orgasms? I have a feeling that I’d just Houdini again and work that out on my own. So… what?

“What’s wrong?” he asks. I frown at his words.

“I was ready to come.”

“I know that,” he says, his voice sharp. “But what’s wrong?”

“I was ready to come,” I repeat. “I told you I was ready…”

“No, you didn’t,” he cuts me off. “You demanded that I fuck you. You challenged me to deny your orgasms, but you never said that you were ready to come. So, what the fuck is wrong?”

He’s right. I didn’t tell him that I was ready to come. He knew that I was with that orgasm denial shit, but I didn’t tell him that I was ready. I just slipped out of my binds and jacked myself off, right in the middle of his game. He raises slightly away from me and briefly examines my face.

“Seeing me with her,” he says, “It released something in you, didn’t it?”

I don’t answer. I don’t want to entertain the thoughts going through my head right now. I watched Edward charm woman after woman after woman. Sometimes, they didn’t care if I saw them. Other times, they didn’t think I knew. I was powerless to stop them, or at least it felt that way. I was the butt of the joke, the topic of conversation when our friends got together. It was horrible and cruel and I hated the feeling. The way they touched him; the way they looked at him; the way they treated me. It was emotionally one of the worst times of my life second only to living in Nevada with my mother and the walking moonshine still.

I didn’t really know it until now… feel it until now, but watching him charm that bitch gave me the same powerless feeling. I knew it was different, but it took me back to that time—to that mindset if only for a moment, only I’m not powerless this time. I control what happens to me this time and I’ll never be in that situation again.

“I’m not David,” he says, reading my thoughts like he always does. “I never will be. I’ll never put you in that situation.”

I don’t answer again. I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t want to invite Edward or even Greta Ellison into our bed. I want to shake this shit off and fuck!

“You have to know there’s only you,” he says. “You have to know that by now.”

I still don’t reply. I don’t know how. I don’t know how to reassure him because right now, I’m feeling way too vulnerable. It’s a strange feeling to maneuver when you’re trying to exercise control. He rolls us over so that I’m on top of him, straddling him.

“You must know that you’re the only woman I want,” he says emphatically. “You must!

It’s not that I don’t believe him. It’s just that I don’t have the strength to debate the topic at all, for lack of a better word. Seeing him charm Greta was just a bit too much on my psyche, no matter how much I tried to prepare myself, no matter how much I knew it was make-believe and that he actually detests the woman. No matter how hot the sex has been tonight, sometimes you can just travel too far down Memory Lane and into the abyss that you just have to find your way back whenever you find your way back.

He holds me close to him, professing his love to me over and over and I just lay on his chest and allow him to caress me and talk to me. It’s soothing and I feel myself begin to relax. He reaches for the olive oil that I keep next to our bed for when my nipples get a little dry. He pours it down my back and starts to gently rub it into my skin. I moan at the massage and he intensifies his caress, from the top of my butt to the bottom of my butt cheeks… and I like it. He cups my ass as he moves back up, his oily fingers sliding between the cheeks and caressing my rosette with each pass. Knowing my body the way he does, he hardens at my response and starts a slide between my legs—against my core and a little between my butt cheeks.

I grunt quietly, trying not to give away how good it feels each time his fingers glide over my anus. God, if he only knew how much I’ve missed this. I know it hasn’t been that long since we’ve had ass play or anal sex, but it sure seems like it for some reason. His breathing quickens and his knees part, causing my legs to open and that incredible dick to reach farther between my ass cheeks. He holds my cheeks open slightly and I feel his head rubbing back and forth, back and forth, back and forth against my rosette. I involuntarily press my hips against him and he groans loudly, then stops, holding his head back and breathing deeply. I hear an expletive or two before he brings fiery gray eyes back to mine.

“Yes?” he asks, his voice thick with arousal. I know what he’s asking and I nod.

“Yes,” I breathe. He slides underneath me, further down on the bed so that we’re now face to face, me looking down into his hungry eyes. He spreads both our legs wider and uses oily hands to grip my thighs right at the base of my ass cheeks.

“Help me,” he nearly growls, and I can see, feel, and hear his anticipation. It fires inside of me and I nearly burst into orgasm before he’s even inside of me. I reach behind me and locate his pulsing and now oily shaft. Feeling my way and tilting my ass, I begin to guide him to my rosette. He releases one cheek and guides the base of his penis while I guide the head. Slowly, we both guide and push—gently—until the very tip of his head is inside the sensitive bundle of nerves. I gasp and swallow.

“That’s it,” he coaxes, his eyes tiny slits of arousal. “That’s it, baby. Take it slow… easy.”

I move my hand and he uses his fingertips to guide himself in as he slowly pushes past the resistance of my anus.

“You can… you can push harder,” I breathe.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he protests at the very edge of his wits. He wants this as badly as I do, so bad that he’s actually shaking.

“You won’t,” I say, trying to work my way onto his cock, to push him deeper into to me. He grabs my ass with both hands and buries his mouth in my neck at my shoulder.

“Still, baby,” he growls. “Let me.” Fuck! That was so hot and so tender at the same time that I grind my teeth to keep my body from exploding. There’s a new phenomenon that has come over me since the babies were born that adds an amazing dimension to our sex life. The right stimulation of my senses—touch, emotion, words, mood—can ignite an orgasm in me. Although clitoral and vaginal stimulation facilitate it immensely, neither has to be present for me to have an orgasm… except with that whole orgasm denial thing. Then he has to wiggle or kiss the bean or fuck me.

But listening to his tortured voice as he pushes into my ass, feeling his strong hands holding my skin and knowing that his dick is pulsing and red and thick behind me, feeling his breath against my neck and shoulder and feeling this wall of man against me, controlling me… sacre bleu! My breath quickens and I tighten my grip on his arms as my teeth find my bottom lip and I try to stay still.

“Settle, baby,” he croons. Well, that’s not helping. Taking my cue, he thrusts harder so that more of him is inside of me—maybe three inches or so, I would think. I gasp again as he stretches me, somehow squeezing my ass without his grip slipping from the oil. He pulls out a bit and thrusts again, even further this time. I whimper at the invasion.

“Gah! Jesus!” he hisses, sucking the skin of my shoulder into his mouth as his dick pulses in my ass. I try to calm my senses, try to calm my thoughts about how hot this is, how this must feel for him. Pleasure causes my body to collapse into his and he groans in his chest, thrusting deeper into me and finally stilling. I gasp and whimper loudly and he starts to move, in and out, in and out, in and out, and I’m already transcending.

“When is the last time I’ve loved you like this?” he breathes. “Have I ever? Held you close to me and looked into your eyes, claiming your ass and loving you this way? I’ve fucked you… but have I ever loved you this way?”

He’s still moving inside of me, slowly thrusting in and out of me, holding my ass solidly in his hand as he pushes up into me again and again and again…

“No,” I gasp, unable to break his penetrating gaze as he deeply loves my ass and gazes into my eye.

“You feel so good, Butterfly,” he confesses. “I feel you everywhere… everywhere! Kiss me… please…”

I bring my lips to his and he immediately takes over. His tongue wraps around mine and he dominates my mouth just like he’s dominating my body, my soul, my ass. His deep, sensual kisses become loud, smacking kisses as he probes into my ass. It seems like it’s been forever and I want this so badly. I relax into him and allow him to do whatever the fuck he wants to my body. I feel his dick get even harder and he releases my butt, moving his large hands so that they control my waist and the top of my hips. His dick is hard enough now so that it can probe on its own without him holding my ass open… and probe it does. His hands guide my hips and waist in a damnable rhythm that gives my ass and my core an unbearable sensation. I feel heat all over my fucking body and the mind trip is insane.

“Christian,” I breathe against his lips, “I going to come…”

“I don’t want you to come yet,” he breathes. “I just want to love you… please…”

I’m panting. It’s been so long since he’s taken me anally and that orgasm is right there waiting to present itself. I focus on him and what he’s doing instead of how this is feeling or this is going to be over really soon.

“Can you do it, baby?” he beseeches. “Can you hold out and let me love you?” He slows his stroke to allow me to get my bearings. “I promise I’ll hold out as long as you do.” I take deep breaths to compose myself.

“Yes,” I say, fighting the pleasure with every fiber of my being. “Yes… I can…”

And I do. I hold out and concentrate on him holding me, kissing me, touching me, saying sweet things to me. He loves me and loves me and loves me, anally, in several positions and when the sun finally breaches the horizon, I surrender to a body-crushing orgasm that has me weeping and weary, exhaustion taking me over before the aftershocks have even finished.


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 2—Beginnings and Conclusions

Okay, so, before all the medical practitioners and professionals that ever read my story decide to jump down my throat, PLEASE HEAR THIS! I’ve never been part of a medical investigation. However, in order to try to get this as close to real as possible, I researched the protocol and procedures of several states as well as talked to a few medical professionals—one of which actually took part in these kinds of investigations and admitted to me that the task was very stressful.

Having said that, please recognize that this is not only NOT going to be a by-the-book rendition of what may happen during one of these investigations, but also, I took a lot of creative license to develop this story line for reasons of my own. The last time I showed a doctor—ONE DOCTOR, not every doctor in my story, JUST ONE—in a bad light, I had a reader jumping down my throat, pretty much telling me that I was persecuting the medical profession by simply pointing out A PAINFUL REALITY that is unfortunately true with some doctors… SOME doctors!

I ask that you please put the torches and pitchforks away as you read this part of the story, because quite frankly, I don’t want to hear “That’s not how it happens!” I hate to tell you this, but research and discussion shows that part of this is EXACTLY how it happens while the other part is that great thing that we call FICTION! Speaking of fiction, Ana is now a 28-year-old psychiatrist. Explain it however it suits you. 😉

One more thing… Be sure that I have the email address that you want me to use on my mailing list. Also, be sure that you are checking that email regularly and that it doesn’t get too full. I sent my email out to the entire list last week and fifty-five emails BOUNCED! 

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 2—Beginnings and Conclusions

CHRISTIAN

“Talk to me,” I say to my father as Butterfly joins my side.

“He’s on oxygen, of course—he can barely breathe,” Dad says. “He’s becoming confused more often and he has awful muscle spasms. His skin is powdery…” Dad trails off. He holds his head down to try to rein in his emotions. “It… won’t be too much longer now.” I frown.

Pops’ condition deteriorated significantly not long after Valerie and Elliot’s wedding. Valerie finished radiation a couple of weeks later and Butterfly and I were planning our trip to Italy. Just when Valerie began to show significant signs of improvement, Pops’ health started to decline very quickly and he had to be rushed to the hospital. There wasn’t much that could be done for him. Without a kidney transplant, he doesn’t have much of a chance. To be painfully honest, it’s too late for a kidney even now. The hospital kept him for two weeks or so, but he has asked to come home. He has no unrealistic expectations. He’s certain that God still has miracles stored up there, but unfortunately, none of them are for him this time around.

“How long?” I ask. “Any idea?” Dad shakes his head.

“Weeks, maybe,” Dad says sadly, “but… I’d… put my money on days.” He squeezes the last words out. “That’s why we called everyone here. We’re most likely going to bring him home and let him live out the rest of his days in peace and comfort instead of alone in the hospital… and we just want everyone’s input.” I nod and squeeze his shoulder.

“Whatever you think is best, Dad,” I say softly. He nods and purses his lips. He looks over at Butterfly like he’s only just noticing that she’s there. She hands me the other baby carrier and hugs my dad. I’m glad she has so much faith in me carrying two of these things… not that I can’t do it.

“I’m so sorry, Carrick,” she says sweetly. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.” Dad nods while Butterfly cups his face. His strong façade almost cracks at her touch.

“Being here is enough right now. Thank you, dear girl,” he says. My wife kisses my father on the cheek before she relieves me of one of my children and we all walk inside.

Elliot and Valerie are already here talking to Mom in the great room, along with Mia and Ethan. I look up the stairs just in time to see Luma disappear around a corner. She has become quite at home here since Pops and Uncle Herman arrived. It’s one of those situations where you understand that everything happens for a reason—even the really bad stuff. She lost her family and we welcomed her into ours. Now, she’s helping us through a difficult time. Mom rises when I enter and I kiss her on the cheek.

“How are you?” I ask. She smiles tightly.

“As well as can be expected,” she says. “Cary is so tired; the whole thing is really taking its toll on him. Herman puts up a brave front, but…” Mom shrugs. “You know we just have to be pillars for our men.” I raise an eyebrow.

Our men?” I ask suspiciously. “So, have Luma and Uncle Herman finally made it official?” My mom smiles a knowing smile.

“I knew it,” she declares. “I told them the only ones that they were fooling were themselves. Who all knows? Everybody?” I nod.

“Yeah, I think that’s a safe assumption,” I say. “I mean there hasn’t been any family powwows or anything like that, but the way they look at each other and the way they sneak away for stolen moments…” I gesture around the room. “… Like now.” Mom nods.

“He’s going to need someone… when Burt is gone,” she says sadly. “The last several years of his life have been centered around taking care of his father and that’s going to change soon. He’ll need a diversion—someone to care for him, and maybe someone else to care for.”

I look over at my wife who has settled in next to Valerie and Elliot, talking in hushed tones about who knows what while she situates the baby carrier at her feet. I still have one of my children in the carrier in my hand, I don’t know which one yet.

“She’s been so good for you, Christian,” my mother says. “I never thought I would ever see you shed your anger. I hoped, but I never thought…” She chokes up before she can finish her sentence and I rub her arm. “But look at you now,” she says, sniffling and fighting her tears. “A family man with a wife and two beautiful children.” I reach in my pocket and hand her my handkerchief when she loses the fight. “I’m sorry. It’s just that… times like these make you realize how important family really is.”

I hug my mother with my free arm, which only makes her cry harder. This is something else she didn’t think she would ever see, but being with Butterfly has changed me in ways that no one ever thought possible… not even me. The little bundle in my carrier begins to fuss and Butterfly’s attention immediately turns to me.

“Oh, please, please, let me,” my mother beseeches quickly drying her eyes and reaching for the baby seat. I look to Butterfly who nods once with a kind smile. I remove the blanket off the carrier to reveal which child I have been carrying. It’s Minnie.

“There’s grandma’s precious little Minnie Mouse,” my mother says, taking a fussing Minnie out of her carrier. Mikey must have heard the cue and starts to fuss as well.

“That means that this must be my godson,” Valerie says, removing the receiving blanket from the carrier before my wife has a chance to protest. “Hello, Sir Michael. Come and give Tee Tee Val kisses!” My little boy is quite the ladies’ man, because the moment Valerie retrieves him from the carrier, he gives her the biggest toothless grin. Speaking of teeth, Minnie has already started teething and has been quite irritable over the last couple of weeks. Butterfly is nearly at her wits end with Minnie’s relentless unwillingness to settle. The baby’s constant crying upsets her because she doesn’t like hearing Minnie cry. Noting her obvious distress, my mother comforts her.

“Don’t worry, dear. It’s just one of the growing pains they’ll have. Let me take care of her for you,” Mom says. Butterfly nods, and soon Minnie’s cries are off in the distance somewhere after Mom takes her from the great room. It’s obvious that my mother needs a distraction and quite frankly, Butterfly needs a break. Even with the two nannies at home, Butterfly is extremely active in caring for our children. Mikey has gotten to where he can sleep through the night if he’s not disturbed, but once Minnie started teething, her unrest would disturb him and now, he’s awake at night again when she stirs. Knowing that her daughter is in pain, my wife can’t sleep through the night either, so her latest sleeping habits have somewhat matched Minnie’s and, although I won’t tell her so, she looks exhausted.

She keeps telling me that something is holding up the accreditation at Helping Hands, but no one can seem to tell her or my mother what it is. So, of course, that’s very frustrating. Then there’s the hearing before the medical board looming over us and now, the family is gathering to discuss Pops’ deteriorating condition. We were planning a vacation on our anniversary at the end of the month. I intended to take Butterfly to the Italian villa that I bought for her, but with everything going on with work and licenses and Pops and the twins, it doesn’t look like we’ll be making that trip this year.

I sit on the sofa opposite Elliot and Valerie. Butterfly comes to join me and snuggles under my arm. I watch as my brother and his wife coo over my son who is hungrily taking a bottle offered by Valerie. I lean down and kiss my wife on the forehead.

“You okay?” I ask. She nods.

“I can’t stand to hear her cry that way,” she says, her voice sounding defeated. “It’s so shrill and I know that she’s hurting and I can’t do anything about it. It pierces me right in the heart—like a rusty knife!” I rub her arm and kiss her again, sinking into the silence.

“Listen,” I say and pause. She listens, realization dawning only moments later.

“She’s not crying anymore,” Butterfly says. “I wonder what Grace did.” I shrug. I don’t know what my Mom did, but I’m very happy that Minnie is settled, even if only for a moment.

“Are you guys planning to have kids of your own someday?” I ask Valerie and Elliot. “You’re a natural with babies.” Valerie smiles.

“Someday, but it won’t be for a while,” she says. “The radiation needs to work its way out of my system and then we need to know for sure that I have healthy ovaries.” Obviously, they’ve talked about this. “Once I have the ‘all clear’ from all pertinent doctors, we’ll most likely start trying sometime after that.” Elliot smiles and I nod.

“That’s a good idea. I’m feeling the need to keep our family line going,” I say. “We’re losing one of the foundations of the family and I’m just feeling that need to keep the legacy alive.”

“Tell me about it,” Elliot says before tenderly kissing his wife. Soon thereafter, Mom comes back into the great room with a cooing Minnie.

“Is she asleep?” Butterfly asks. Mom shakes her head.

“Just content,” Mom says. “I put something on her gums to soothe the ache.” Mom reaches into her pocket and pulls out a vial. “It’s a lavender oil dilution with just a touch of clove oil—not too much as clove oil can cause irritation in some infants.” She gives a vial to Butterfly. “A little bit on your finger—just enough to coat it—and rub it on her gums. She should get relief fairly quickly. When you run out, let me know and I’ll make more. I know the right concentration and you can’t be too careful with infants and clove oil. In a pinch, you can also use German Chamomile hydrosol. You’ll probably have to get it online, but you can put it right on her gums.” Butterfly nods and rises to put the vial in the diaper bag… but she doesn’t quite make it off the sofa.

“Butterfly!” I exclaim, catching her just as she falls back down on the sofa. She puts her hand on her forehead.

“I’m okay,” she says softly. “Just a little light-headed.” My brown furrows.

“Exhausted, you mean,” I accuse, taking the vial from her hands and putting it in the side pocket of the diaper bag. I turn around to the questioning faces of my family and the convicted downcast gaze of my wife. I sit next to her again and cuddle her close to me, nearly pulling her into my lap.

“Why are you exhausted, Anakins?” Mia asks. When Butterfly doesn’t respond, I speak instead.

“There’s a lot going on and it’s happening all at once,” I say without being specific. “Some things that can’t be helped and some things that certainly can, and I swear, Butterfly—if you don’t get a handle on those things that can be handled, I’m going to do it for you.”

“You can’t rescue me, Christian,” she protests.

“No, I can’t,” I agree, “but I can assure that all this stuff you’re taking on doesn’t kill you. It’s going to be your choice or mine, baby, but I won’t lose you.” She drops her eyes again.

“I’m afraid he’s right, Steele,” Valerie says and Butterfly raises her head. Valerie starts to count on her fingers.

“You were there for me, and I needed 24-hour care. You’re there for two babies and you never faltered. You’re there for the help center. You do the radio spots. You went from the six-week check-up to that crazy woman’s trial to caring for me and planning my spur-of-the-moment wedding. And this is just the stuff I know about. That doesn’t include if something else is going on…”

“There’s a whole lotta ‘something else’ going on,” I interject and Valerie nods.

“You’re not looking well, Ana, and the moisturizer that you’re wearing does not cover the bags under your eyes. You’re spread about as thin as you can be. Do you need to pass out before you take a break?”

“Fuck, no,” I answer emphatically, until I hear my mother hiss softly. “Sorry, Mom, but fuck no.” This time I mouth the word fuck. Butterfly’s shoulders sag her defeat. I cuddle her close to me. I don’t want her to feel like we’re ganging up on her, but I’m glad Valerie chimed in and told her that her overworking herself is not invisible to those around her. She would have taken it as me being overprotective.

“We’ll work this out,” I tell her, “together, but baby, the twins and I need you healthy, fit, and happy, so something’s got to give. At your current pace…” I trail off. She raises sad blue eyes to me in surrender and nods, curling into my chest and allowing me to hold her. I think there might be a bit of shrinking involved, but I allow it this time.

I gently stroke her hair as conversation carries on around us about babies and life and Mia’s upcoming wedding—anything but the elephant in the room and the reason that we’re all here… Pops’ condition. A few minutes later, Dad, Uncle Herman, and Luma all come from different parts of the house and join us in the great room. Dad and Uncle Herman look as run down as my wife if not more. Valerie and Mom have gotten the twins settled and back in their carriers and my father and uncle find a seat. Luma has already taken a seat with Mia and Ethan.

“Well,” Dad begins, “Dad’s not doing well at all. He’s very weak and very frail. The number of symptoms piling up is more than we can even describe. He’s irritable, upset… quickly deteriorating and currently alone in a hospital bed. Dialysis really can’t do much more to help him at this stage. The disease is so advanced and with his advanced age and no new kidney on the horizon…” Dad trails off. After several moments of silence, Uncle Herman continues.

“We called my brothers back in Detroit for input. You can just about imagine how well that went,” he says, rubbing his forehead. “Anyway, we don’t have time for the bickering. We have to make a decision. Dad doesn’t have long left and he’s refusing dialysis because he knows this. He wants his last days to be as comfortable as possible. We’re considering bringing him home on hospice instead of leaving him at the hospital, but it’s certain that if we do that, he’s going to die here and not too far down the road. We want his family to be around him when that happens, maybe even to hear and see his great-grandchildren on his last day… Is she alright?”

Uncle Herman had turned his attention to me to weigh in on the great-grandchildren suggestion, but is now referring to my wife. I was so engrossed in what he was saying that I wasn’t paying attention to Butterfly. She’s in the most awkward position on my chest with her mouth hanging open—fast asleep. She wasn’t shrinking, she was cuddling and trying to get comfortable. I adjust her so that she’s laying on my lap and she doesn’t even stir. If it weren’t for the rise and fall in her chest, I’d be concerned about her.

“She’s overworked,” I answer Uncle Herman. Dad looks at Mom with a furrowed brow. “It’s more than that, Dad,” I counter, anticipating his thoughts. “There’s a lot going on.”

“I’m sorry, son. I didn’t mean to dump this on you while you two while you’re going through something…”

“Trust me, Dad, it’s okay. This is family. It’s just that everything is happening at once and I have to help my wife delegate some things. She’s not going to be happy about that, but she can’t continue the pace that she’s keeping.” I stroke her hair again while she’s lying on my lap. “Please, Uncle Herman, continue.”

“I… feel a little guilty asking what I want to ask now,” he says, looking over at Dad, who sighs heavily. “We’ve decided… to bring him home and let him go in peace. We’ve talked about it and… we’d like for anyone who can to move into the Manor for a while. Dad’s become accustomed to having the family around and if everyone stays away while he’s dying… well…” Herman trails off this time. This is very hard for my father and his brother. I’m certain that Butterfly won’t mind moving in with my parents for a little while. It’ll give me a chance to pull her away from the situation she’s in for a while, too. Not so much a vacation, unfortunately, but at least a breather from some of the things she has to handle. I’ll cut down on my work, too, so that I can keep an eye on her and help out with the babies while this is all going on.

“Um… we have nannies that help with our children. I’m sure security can probably set up in the pool house or the pool house, but the nannies…”

“Give them a vacation,” Mom says. “We’ll help you care for the children.”

“Yes,” Luma says. “I am certain that my boss will allow me a revised schedule for a family emergency,” she says with a wink, causing me to chuckle. “I will be happy to help out with the children.”

“Me, too, when I’m not forced to work,” Mia chimes in. “You know how I love babies.”

“More time with my godchildren? Count me in,” Valerie also says. “Besides, Steele needs a break in the worst way. We’re going to have to pry her away from those babies, because that’s where most of her energy is going and life in general is zapping the rest. Even with the nannies, she’s right there every time one of the children cries. She’s going to have to let go just a bit. That’s why she has nannies—to allow her the time to do the other things she wants to do, not to try to be a stay-at-home mom and carry a full-time schedule. They’re both full-time jobs. Geez, she even takes the babies to work with her.”

“You’re preaching to the choir here,” I tell her. “I’ll appreciate your back-up when it’s time to convince her.”

“You got it,” Valerie confirms.

“Does that mean that you all are willing to move in for a while?” Uncle Herman says. “We don’t know how long it will be… we just know that it won’t be long.”

Various affirmations around the room confirm that Grey Manor will soon become Grey Compound for however long it takes for Pops to make his transition. More conversation reveals that one brother in Detroit is on the fence about what to do while the other is adamant about leaving Pops in the hospital. His suggestion is to have Pops deemed incompetent and unable to make his own decision and forcing him to take the dialysis to extend his life. Yeah, that’s the kind of fucker I want to make my end-of-life decisions… not!

Luckily, for lack of a better word, even if Pops’ capacity may be slightly diminished, he’s not completely gone and still able to make his own decisions. Not only that, he has advanced directives that were put in place before his health deteriorated and the person able to legally make decisions about his care is already here—Uncle Herman has power of attorney and is already trustee for Pops’ estate.

Once we sort out what’s going to be happening over the next several days or weeks—however long this process takes—I take my wife to my childhood bedroom and put her to bed. She still hasn’t stirred. One good thing about being here instead of home… no two-way communications, so she can’t be disturbed by the babies crying.

I get to work immediately on what needs to be done for our stay, as does Elliot and Ethan. The women are left to coo over the babies and make sure all the refrigerators are stocked. Jason will set up Security Central in the pool house and have a of staff rotation working shifts while we’re here. Gail and Keri will be on-call and brought to the Manor only if needed as the place will already be overrun with people. I arrange for cribs and baby furniture to be delivered to the Manor to set up nurseries in two parts of the house as Mom and Dad don’t have the staff or accommodations that we have. Gail and Keri are packing the things that we’ll need for a possible month-long stay with my parents—including clothes for me and Butterfly.

Work schedules will be severely cut as well as appearance schedules for my wife. Marilyn will also be on call to handle most of Butterfly’s tasks so that she can finally get a little rest. We can’t avoid the hearing coming up next week and I’m hoping that my deposition in all of this will put this shit to rest. Sexual misconduct… what a fucking crock. Although, something that Valerie said earlier stuck with me…

“You went from the six-week check-up to that crazy woman’s trial to caring for me and planning my spur-of-the-moment wedding.”

In two years—two years—of being with my lover, my fiancée, and my wife, there were only three people with intimate knowledge who really questioned our relationship…

Ronald Carlisle, the director of the community center where I attended the group sessions. I’m sure he did so for professional reasons and we never heard from him again after the sessions were complete.

Brian Cholometes, Ray’s best friend and a serious suitor for Butterfly. Could his jealousy and need for revenge have caused him to want to harm Butterfly after ultimately losing her to me?

And of course, the crazy woman to whom Valerie is referring—one Elena Lincoln. She knew the circumstances under which I met Butterfly. She could very well be the one who’s trying to ruin Butterfly’s reputation.

There could be any other number of people who could have made this false report, including someone that was in the initial group sessions, but I’d like to focus on these three first—eliminate them and then move on to possible other suspects. It’s time to shake the tree and see if anything falls out.

“Welch.”

“I appreciate more than anyone that I can pick up this phone at just about any hour of any day and reach you, but damn, man, you need a life,” I proclaim into the phone.

“This coming from my boss,” he retorts. “Should I hang up and go find one right now?”

“Don’t be a smart-ass,” I warn.

“Don’t tell me to get a life. I’ve got a life—the life I want. Now what do you need?” I stop egging him on and get to the point.

“I know that we can’t really pinpoint who contacted the licensing board about me and my wife since the complaint was anonymous, but if you know who to look at, could you find out if they contacted the licensing board at all?” The line is quiet.

“It’s a place to start,” he says. “If someone was trying to cover their tracks, you may never find out. But if they were using their cell or office phones or home phones, it should be easy enough. If it was in writing, that’s trickier.” I shake my head as if he can see me.

“It was a phone call,” I tell him. “Allen got that much from the review board, but they wouldn’t give any further information.”

“What do you have?” I give him the names. “Has Ana tried talking to Carlisle to see if he had suspicions? Or you? Didn’t you see him separately for a while?”

“He had suspicions,” I say. “He openly asked us if something was going on. Separately, but he asked us.”

“Then why wait two years?” he asks, the same question I was considering.

“Whoever made the complaint waited two years,” I point out. “I’m just going through a process of elimination. Besides our family and close friends, there’s only a handful of people who even knew that Butterfly and I met in those sessions. I’d like to start with the obvious.”

“Brian… you like to give me impossible tasks, don’t you?” he says.

“Only because I know you can do them,” I retort.

“Lincoln will be the easiest one. I’ll start with her.”

“Good man. Let me know what you come up with.”

“Will do.” I end the call and go in search of my mother.


ANASTASIA

I slept like the dead. When I open my eyes, it’s still daylight, but I can tell that it’s somewhat late in the day. I can’t remember the last time I had that content of a sleep. I’m in Christian’s bedroom with no idea how I got here. I throw my legs over the edge of the bed, stand up, and go to the bathroom. After relieving myself, I wash my face and try to tame my bed-head hair. Once I’m satisfied, I go in search of my family.

There’s no one in the great room and I didn’t want to just start opening bedroom doors and maybe walk in on something I really don’t want to see. I head for the dining room and discover my husband talking to his mother. I hear my name and decide to hang back at the door for a while. I’m sure that quite a bit has been discussed while I was sleeping.

“You just wouldn’t believe the headache we’re having,” I hear Grace say. “I don’t want to dump it all on Ana, and I swear that I haven’t, but she takes it on anyway. She has all the plans for the school and the day care center—it was her baby from day one. She feels like it’s her responsibility to see it through to the end. That’s partially my fault for freaking out when she announced her maternity leave.”

“That’s water under the bridge now, Mom,” I hear Christian say. “What’s important now is that she doesn’t work herself to death. You saw her this afternoon. She’s running on fumes! She even has the communications system in the house wired so that if one of the babies makes the slightest sound and she’s not in the room with them, she’s notified even if she’s on the toilet!”

“Good God,” Grace says. “That’s a bit extreme.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. We have two nannies and two children. At first, it was Gail and Ana. But when Sophie came to live with us, we didn’t want Gail spread too thin, so we hired Keri. There are three women in that house that can care for those children, but Ana cares for them the most. I think that may partially be my fault for telling her that I didn’t want my children raised by nannies.”

That’s not his fault. We agreed that the babies wouldn’t be raised by nannies. I want my children to know who I am. They can know who the nanny’s are, but this is called being “Mom.”

“That’s Mom for you, son,” Grace says, verbalizing my thoughts. “Mom is going to be the one to kiss boo-boos. Mom is going to be there for birthdays and holidays and to tuck them in at night. Mom is going to parent-teacher conference and to hug Minnie through her first heartbreak and give Mikey advice on girls that you may not be able to give him. Moms care; nannies help.”

“I know,” he says, and I can see him in my mind’s eye running his hands through his hair, “but she’s killing herself, Mom. She’s exhausted. She’s going to make herself sick. She can’t do both full-time and everything else that she’s trying to squeeze in. Something’s got to give. She’s going to have to cut down to part-time on both or let one go or something… There’s no way in hell she can keep up this pace. I just need to know that you’re on the same page with me.”

I lean against the wall as I listen to Grace agree with my husband. His voice sounds… distressed, and this is one of those times when even though I may feel like Wonder Woman, my husband needs to care for me. It’s not the control freak in him—well, maybe it is,  just a little bit, but not really. No, this is genuine concern for my welfare and the fact that the slightest thing is causing me to snap or fall apart lately. Although I wouldn’t call discovering that someone is accusing me of sexual misconduct a slight thing, it took the staff three days to get my office back to par after that revelation.

“Our biggest problem is getting the accreditation approved.” Grace’s conversation brings me back from my wanderings. “Now, I’ve discovered what’s holding it up.”

She did? Why didn’t she tell me?

“I only found out late yesterday. With what I knew was coming with Burt and the hearing on Monday, I was going to wait until after to say anything to her about it,” she says, once again reading my mind.

“Well, what is it?” Christian asks.

“The director of the licensing board,” Grace says. “She’s been putting us through the paces for months, continuously holding up our license for one thing or another and we couldn’t figure out why. I researched the process to have an appeal or an investigation conducted to see why we’re being subjected to such scrutiny and if this is the usual process for organizations seeking accreditation. Every time we pass one test or another review and we’re led to believe that we’re going to get our accreditation, something else has to be submitted or reviewed. I think the steps are unnecessary, so my research led me to the head of the board. You won’t believe what I found.”

“What did you find?”

“Gloria Felton,” Grace says. The name sounds slightly familiar, but there are no alarm bells going off.

“Should I know this person?” Christian asks.

“No, you wouldn’t,” the response came, “but Ana and I would. I passed Gloria Felton up as Assistant Director for the Center and gave the job to Ana. Ana was overwhelmingly more qualified for the job, but Gloria was convinced that I only did it because she was dating you at the time. She was spewing threats on her way out the door and now, it appears she’s making good on them.” I burst into the dining room.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask in a shrill voice. “Gloria fucking Felton? Really?”

Grace and Christian are both beyond shocked at my entrance.

“Ana! Were you eavesdropping at the door?” she asks.

“Yes, I was,” I admit openly. “I heard my name when I approached and I didn’t want the conversation to drop the moment I walked into the room. Gloria Felton? Is this a joke?”

“I’m afraid not,” she says.

“Was she the director back when she was trying to socially climb through the charity?” I ask. “How could she expect to do them both?” Christian raises an eyebrow at me.

“I don’t know,” Grace replies. “I don’t think so.” My scar starts to throb. Gloria fucking Felton. I only knew her as Gloria, which is why she didn’t ring any bells. All that work we’ve done can be just shot to hell because of somebody’s personal vendetta. Give me a fucking break. I notice the room has fallen silent and raise my eyes to see Christian and Grace both staring at me.

“I heard you,” I say, looking over at my husband. “You’re right. I’m exhausted. I can’t keep up this pace. I’ll talk to Marilyn about my schedule and work some things out, and I’ll utilize my nannies more…” I turn to Grace. “… But Grace, if something must suffer in this, it’s going to have to be the Center, because it’s not going to be my babies.” Grace’s face breaks into a sincere smile.

“I would expect nothing less, dear,” she says. Before I know it, Christian has gathered me in his arms and is holding me so close to him that I can’t move. He buries his nose in my hair and inhales.

“Thank you,” he whispers softly. “Thank you thank you thank you…”

I can only imagine that this is hard for him, what’s going on with Pops and watching Herman and Carrick fall apart before his very eyes, and now me—barely able to stay awake for a very important conversation. When he releases me, I open my eyes to see that Grace has left us alone in the dining room.

“It’s getting late,” I say. “Are we staying for dinner or shouldn’t we be getting home soon?” His lips form a thin line.

“Yeah, about that.” He returns to his seat, pulling me with him. I sit down in the chair next to him. “I’ve somewhat made an executive decision and I hope you don’t mind… you were asleep.”

“What’s going on?” I ask. Christian tells me about the conversation the family had while I was fast asleep on his lap; how all the siblings, their significant others, and Luma with her girls have all agreed to move into Grey Manor as a unified support system until Pops passes on; how Mia, Luma, Grace, and even Val have all agreed to become part-time nannies for the girls and for the twins while we’re here; how everyone wants to be present to support Carrick and Herman through this and help ease Pops’ mind knowing that family is around him during his final days.

“And I slept through this?” I ask horrified. “Christian, you let me sleep through this?”

“I couldn’t stop you, baby,” he states matter-of-factly. “I didn’t even know you were asleep until Uncle Herman asked if you were okay.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?” I protest. This was an important meeting and I slept through it like a toddler at naptime. He twists his lips.

“Baby, I moved you several times and you didn’t even stir.” He’s right. He got me off the sofa, upstairs and into the bed and I didn’t even know I was there. “Everyone understood, Butterfly. You tried, but you couldn’t hide it… you looked you were going to pass out.” I roll my eyes, admitting defeat.

“So… where are the babies going to sleep?” I ask.

“Well, we now have two nurseries—one in the guest room next to Mom and Dad’s room and Mom’s library has been converted to a nursery, too.” My eyes widen.

“How long was I asleep?” I ask.

“Several hours, baby.” I shake my head and stop arguing.

“Is there a space somewhere that I can commandeer as a makeshift office while I’m here?” I ask. “I’m going to have to meet with Marilyn—cancel some appearances, rework my schedule… I think Grace and I will have to alternate at Helping Hands for a while, and some days, they’ll just have to do without us both.” Christian smiles.

“I’ll see what Mom says about commandeering a room. I haven’t lived here in a long time, remember?”

*-*

Marilyn and I comb through my schedule on Sunday morning and cancel all my immediately upcoming appearances until further notice due to a family emergency. I know that this will lead to speculation, but right now, I can’t be concerned with that. As Christian and I prepare to give our depositions at the hearing tomorrow, he gets a call and decides to take it in another room. That makes me feel a little uneasy since it’s late Sunday evening, but I don’t squawk about it.

Mia and Grace take the rounds on baby watch so that Christian and I wouldn’t be late to the preliminary hearing for my license review in the morning. It’s an informal hearing, so I don’t necessarily need Al, yet, but the moment I enter the building, I begin to feel like I should have brought him with me.

I can’t even begin to express how ridiculous I think this exercise is. Just like in a real courtroom, Christian isn’t allowed hear my testimony and I’m not allowed to hear his. However, I’m quite surprised to see some of the participants of that same group that Christian was in as well as Ronald Carlisle in the waiting room, waiting to give their testimony. When I check in, I have to turn in my purse, my phone, and my watch before I’m led to a separate room where I sit all by myself… with an escort who’s not allowed to leave the room.

Why the hell did they take my watch?

I sit in that room with nothing but a table and no windows, and I slowly begin to lose hope. There’s no clock, there’s nothing to let me know how much time has passed. I sit and sit and sit in silence, and I feel like it’s been hours. I already know that I’ve been escorted to this room to make sure that I speak to none of the witnesses and I’m also certain that with the way that I’ve been treated—like a nobody, and I’m a licensed medical professional—that unlike a criminal trial where I’m innocent until proven guilty, I’ve pretty much been convicted, and it’s up to me to prove my innocence. I’m feeling more and more helpless the longer I sit here and I finally settle on a plan of attack, if you can call it that.

“Excuse me, why did they take my watch?” I ask the escort/attendant/guard or whatever the fuck she is.

“It’s protocol, ma’am,” she says in a clipped voice.

“But why my watch? What can I possibly do with my watch?” They didn’t take my wedding rings or my earrings or any of my other jewelry. What could I do with my watch?

“It’s protocol, ma’am,” she says again, and it’s obvious that she has no other words for me. I shake my head and sigh.

Just like I said, a nobody.

I close my eyes and meditate while I wait. I focus on my children, on my wedding day, my honeymoon, all of my best friend’s weddings; on Food & Libations and on holding my little brother for the first time; on dancing with my father and Christian’s proposal; on realizing that he loved me and I loved him even when I didn’t know who he was after coming out of the coma; on building a High School Musical bear with Sophie at Thanksgiving and on Keri’s return from Anguilla; on…

“Dr. Steele-Grey, the board is ready for you now.”

I look up at the escort who has been sitting silently in the cell with me all this time. That’s what this room is. It’s a cell, and after being stripped of my dignity this way, I’m resigned to accept whatever they say.

“It has come to the attention of the board that there has been an accusation of sexual misconduct against you, Dr. Steele-Grey.”

There’s some kind of introduction about this not being a formal disciplinary proceeding blah blah blah. I’ve already tuned them out. I was forced to walk about 100 feet from the door to a single chair sitting in front of a long Oxford wood table with four people on the other side facing me. They give me their names, but I don’t commit any of them to memory—two men, both over the age of fifty, a younger man and a woman… I can’t place her age. Christian’s got their names. I know he does. No matter, I already know what I’m going to say.

“You mean a conviction, don’t you?” I say, my voice controlled. All four of the people who sit in judgment of me raise their eyes to me.

“Excuse me?” one of them says.

“You said an ‘accusation.’ You meant a conviction, didn’t you?” I repeat. “I sit before this board accused by a ghost! Someone who can’t be bothered to come before this panel, show their face and proudly proclaim they openly accuse me of wrongdoing. No, I’m called before a disciplinary board and treated like a common criminal from the moment I entered this building based on opinion and conjecture. I’ve been sitting in a cell for four hours with no contact with anybody. I couldn’t even check on my children!”

“It’s not a cell, Mrs. Grey…”

“It’s Dr. Steele-Grey you haven’t stripped me of my license yet and have you been in that room?” I say all in one breath. They all fall silent. “If that’s not a cell, why did they take my watch? My watch! What can I possibly do with a watch?” I exclaim. “I remember a psychological experiment when I was in college where they put people in a cell with no window for days and deprived them of the ability to tell time. The subjects lost their minds. Is that what this was? Some kind of mind-freak experiment to break down my resistance? Stick me in a cell for four hours and hope I’ll confess to anything?”

“Mrs. Grey, that is not a cell,” he repeats, his voice sounding impatient.

“Excuse me, but is something wrong with your hearing?” I ask.

“I beg your pardon?” he scoffs.

“I repeat, is there something wrong with your hearing?” I ask, folding my arms. “Is your hearing okay?” I am pointing to my ears this time.

“There’s nothing wrong with my hearing!” he shoots.

“Eyesight good, too?” I ask. “I wear glasses, too, and I know things can tend to get a little fuzzy.” He’s really getting heating now.

“My eyesight is fine,” he replies as if he can barely maintain control.

“Well, I’m only asking because you keep addressing my sister-in-law. You see, she’s Mrs. Grey. I’m Dr. Steele-Grey, and when you called me in here and addressed me for the first time, that’s what you said. And when you look at that documentation in front of your face, that’s who you’re trying. And since you’re so sure that the description of that room is a matter of my own perception, I’ll tell you what, sir. You have one of these fine employees take you to that room, take your watch, and sit there with you for four hours without saying a word and then come back and tell me that it’s not a cell.”

He clears his throat and looks at his notes.

“We’re getting off the mark, here,” he says, bringing the conversation back to the cause of the hearing. “You know that you’re here because accusations of sexual misconduct have been levied against you.”

“By whom?” I ask.

“Christian Grey,” he says. I now notice that he must be the mouthpiece while the others just observe and take notes as he’s the only one who speaks.

“Would you like to rephrase that now or would you like to wait until I turn this over to my attorney for slander?” I say, impassively. He glares at me when the other older gentleman leans over and whispers something in his ear. He clears his throat again.

“What I mean to say is that the victim is Christian Grey,” he corrects himself.

“And again, I ask, accusations have been levied against me by whom? Christian Grey will tell or has already told you that there has been no sexual misconduct on my part while he was in my group session. So, what are we basing further hearings on? Who is my accuser and what is their evidence?”

“Mrs. Grey, you’re hardly in a position to make demands right now with the delicate nature of these proceedings.”

“It’s Dr. Steele-Grey, for the third time. And sir, if you’re not required to answer my questions, I’m not required to answer yours, nor will I defend someone’s opinion to this board.” They look at each other as I cross my arms and legs. That’s when the totally inappropriate questions begin.

“Did you wear provocative clothing to the group sessions you facilitated?”

“Did you ever act inappropriately around your patients or participants?”

“Did you and Mr. Grey have a lover’s quarrel during which time you outed him in front of the other members of the group for ‘mommy issues?’”

More and more questions exactly like this one are fired off at me. I shake my head at the line of questioning and laugh. I don’t answer a single question. When he’s done with his barrage, he asks one last question.

“You don’t have anything to say for yourself, Mrs. Grey?” I laugh again. Mrs. Grey. Okay.

“Yes, I do,” I say, rising and standing behind my chair. “Not one of those questions that you asked had anything to do with possible sexual misconduct except possibly when you incorrectly described a disagreement that I had with Mr. Grey as a ‘lover’s quarrel.’ So, since you have a problem wording your questions, I’m going to guide you in the right direction.”

“Mrs. Grey…” he begins.

“Mr. Grey’s first group session with me as a facilitator was June 11, 2012,” I begin without regard for this ass’s interruption. “Three days later, I learned that I would not be the right person to facilitate his anger management sessions because he—like you—did not respect me as a doctor at the time.”

I pause to allow that last statement to sink in for a moment. Old Boy #1 narrows his eyes at me and I continue.

“The following Monday, June 18, 2012, I had every intention of informing the court of Mr. Grey’s complete and total lack of respect for me as a doctor since he—like you—insisted on calling me Ms. Steele instead of Dr. Steele. At the time, he was trying to make me feel inferior, much like you’re trying right now by not correctly addressing me. However, I was going to use his unwillingness to participate in the group sessions as a reason for possible reassignment for him.”

“We really don’t…”

“Later that week,” I continue over his interruption, “I find out that he performed a background check on me, which caused me to fear for my safety. So, I had one performed on him as well, strictly on a personal level. This is where I learned about the unfortunate incidents of his childhood, including something to do with his mother. The argument that ensued the following Monday on June 25, 2012 had absolutely nothing to do with a lover’s quarrel, sir!” I hiss. “It had everything to do with the fact that I was tired of being antagonized by Mr. Grey for the prior two weeks when I was only trying to do my job, and I had had enough of attempting to help people who did not want my help. ‘Mommy issues’ was an unfortunate outburst that was subsequently followed by my resignation on the same day. If Mr. Carlisle told you correctly, I turned in a blank report for Mr. Grey so that someone else could evaluate his situation.

“I had no impact on Mr. Grey’s report or treatment for the anger management sessions. In fact, our romantic relationship didn’t begin until four days later when he interrupted a disastrous date that I was having that Friday night. That’s all I have to say. Draw what conclusions you need from that narration. Unless you have questions for me based on factual evidence, I’ve told you all that I’m going to tell you. And allow me to add that I’ve never been treated more unprofessionally by a supposed group of professionals in my life. If this is the governing body over my profession, I’m thinking that maybe I made the wrong career choice.” I turn away from them and begin the 100-foot walk towards the door.

“Mrs. Grey, this hearing is not over yet.” I stop and turn around.

“Yes, it is,” I say. “First of all, you keep calling me Mrs. Grey, so you’ve already made your decision. Second, and more importantly, this entire proceeding has been based on nothing but opinion. You haven’t presented one single fact—not one, and that’s not something that I think! That’s something that I know. The reason that I know is because none exist. There’s not one fact in existence that indicates that I have been sexually inappropriate with any of my patients. That is a fact! Your deliberations and decisions will be based on nothing but opinions, so what does mine matter? I’m the condemned…” I put my hand on my chest mocking contrition. “Oh, I’m sorry. I meant I’m the accused,” I correct myself sarcastically. “So, when you’re all done mixing all of your opinions in your cauldron and you come up with a decision about the fate of my impeccable record, I’m sure you’ll notify me if I’m deemed worthy to continue to practice psychiatry in these great United States!” I turn around march out of the room.

Christian is waiting for me outside of the hearing room when I come whooshing out the door. He stands immediately, his concerned gaze fixed on me.

“Butterfly?” he says, cautiously.

“Take. Me. To. My. Children.” I say. He nods once, puts his hand in the small of my back and leads me out of the building.


CHRISTIAN

I’m stepping off the GEH jet making the same trip my wife made a few months ago for pretty much the same reason. I’m about to ruin someone’s life more than it’s already been ruined.

Sunday, while we were planning our attack and testimony for her hearing, I received a call from Welch. Butterfly looked at me questioningly when I took it in the other room, but luckily, she didn’t ask anything.

Sunday…

“What do you have for me?”

“Lincoln,” he says. “She made a call to the licensing board a couple of months ago. As it stands, she saved up whatever credits she earned over the last year and used them to make that call. It’s hard as hell to save up those credits in prison because it’s basically a barter system. So, I can guarantee you that she’s been planning this for a long time.”

“Is there any way that we can legally get a recording of that call?” I ask.

“We can, but it would take more time than Ana has. You want to pull some strings on this one if you can, especially if you plan on using it to get her off the hook.” I run my hands through my hair.

“See what you can do to get it anyway,” I say. “And start working on getting me into that damn prison as early on Tuesday as possible. Get Holstein directly. I’ll need to meet with him personally.”

“On it,” Welch says before ending the call.

Today…

You would have thought the President was coming to Walla Walla with the cavalcade that met us on the tarmac. A caravan of police cars and motorcycles escort us to the prison as I remember the look on my wife’s face when she came out of that room.

“Take. Me. To. My. Children.”

She didn’t say a word about her testimony and she didn’t ask me about mine. She spent the rest of the evening basking in the love of our children and the support of our family and we didn’t mention anything about it, but once my testimony in front of those buffoons was complete hours earlier, I knew there would be a shakedown. Although I didn’t think it wise to tell Butterfly about Lincoln’s involvement in the whole thing just yet, I was bound and determined to bring everyone down that had anything to do with this farce, including that kangaroo-court panel of high-nosed assholes, and I made sure that they knew it.

Monday at the hearing…

“Why didn’t you tell me that Ana was inappropriate with you during her sessions?” 

I was surprised when Carlisle caught me at the fucking urinal and confronted me about the accusation. I already knew that it wasn’t him, but if I hadn’t, this would have driven it home. 

“It wasn’t me,” I assured him, “and we shouldn’t be talking about this here. It could hurt her case…”

I had answered all their ridiculous questions about my relationship with my wife when she was facilitating the group sessions, which was nothing but angry and tumultuous. I even answered questions about her demeanor and her style of dress—things that had absolutely nothing to do with the matter at hand. There was no romantic relationship until after she quit the sessions. The more they talked, the more I smelled a witch hunt, and that’s when I threw all decorum out the window because they weren’t looking for the truth.

“If an anonymous tip—and a fabricated one at that—is able to cause this much upheaval in the life of a respected doctor without first speaking to the supposed victim as well as considering the source before continuing with any formal or informal proceedings, then I feel sorry for all of the licensed professionals in the state of Washington and across the country for that matter who can be subjected to this kind of scrutiny based on something not even as reliable as a high school lavatory whisper. Even accused murderers are allowed to confront witnesses and accusers and yet my wife sits here fighting an apparition. She didn’t pursue me. I pursued her and I did so after she quit the center. That’s what you need to know. Those are the facts. We never even had a kind word for one another while she was my facilitator, much less a sexual relationship. She didn’t even know who I was and when she found out, she didn’t like me. After I kissed her for the first time, she fled my office. I literally had to crash her date and convince her that I wanted to be with her before she would have anything to do with me. There never was any sexual misconduct on Dr. Steele-Grey’s part towards me. Me towards her, that might be a different story.”

“What do you mean by that?” Carter asked. He appears to be the head man in charge of the board, because he’s the only one who speaks.

“I used every tactic I could think of besides whipping it out right in front of her to break down her defenses. At first, I thought it was because I wanted her to do what I wanted her to do. After a while, I realize that I just wanted her… and I’m an asshole.”

“Mr. Grey, profanity is not necessary,” Carter protests.

“What are you going to do—hold me in contempt of the board?” I say sarcastically.

“No, but we can have your testimony withheld from the proceedings.” No, he can’t. He’s being a jerk, but I’ll roll with it.

“You do that,” I say. “I’ll just give my testimony to the media. I’m sure they would love to hear how you ignored the statement of the supposed victim in a case of sexual misconduct.” His eyes grow large.

“I’m sure Mrs. Grey wouldn’t like that kind of publicity,” he retorts. I lean back in my seat.

“Let’s examine the facts,” I say, counting off on my fingers. “You’re disrupting her life right now and holding her license over her head not six months after she’s given birth to twins while our family is going through a major crisis. Your inquisition is based on accusations from a faceless, nameless person that she’s not allowed to confront. The victim is not some random patient that she treated with a possible ax to grind—it’s me! Her husband and the father of her children and I’m standing here telling that your claims are bullshit and you won’t even listen to me—the supposed wrong party! You’re dragging her away from running her charity and helping people for this nonsense and you think she would be averse to shining public light on this travesty? This three-ring circus? This unjust witch hunt? And with my resources, you don’t think I’ll find out where that anonymous tip came from and make that public as well?

“Have you not heard the radio spots that she’s been doing to drum up donations for the Help Center? If you seriously think that she wouldn’t jump on the opportunity to expose the injustice of attempting to defame her character and put her license and reputation at risk with absolutely no concrete evidence, then you have no idea who you’re dealing with. She’ll be on a radio spot or a television show before the ink is dry on the paper you sign.”

I’m sure there’s some kind of agency that polices the board, even if I don’t know who or what it is. If they pull Butterfly’s license or impose any disciplinary action on her without true just cause and evidence, somebody’s going to be investigated. To bring a public light to that situation is the last thing Carter wants, and I see it in his eyes.

“I can already tell that you’re not interested in the truth; only in tearing a young doctor apart and ruining her career for whatever reason. I can’t stop you, but I can tell you this. I won’t stop until I’ve turned over every rock and searched every crevice and I’ve gotten to the bottom of this. Whoever is under those rocks better beware. I don’t care how high I have to go and you know I have the resources to do it.”

So now, I’m being searched and allowed into the prison where Edward David drew his last breath… well, technically, it was at the hospital, but this is where it all started. I’m led straight into the restricted area and up into the superintendent’s office.

“Mr. Grey,” he greets. “Welcome. What can I do for you?” Ronald Holstein ensured Butterfly’s safety when she came to visit David that last time.

“I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice. I’ve imposed upon your kindness before and I was hoping that I might be able to impose upon it again,” I tell him.

“If it’s within my power, I’ll be glad to help you,” he assures me.

Twenty minutes later, I not only have the recording of the bitch’s phone call sent to Welch and to my phone, but also on a small recording device lent to me by Holstein so that I can play it for the Pedophile in case she tries to deny her involvement.

When I enter the small room, she’s sitting at a table with her head down. I swear I barely recognize her until she raises her head to look at me. Those cold, empty eyes begin to sparkle at the sight of me. I almost feel sorry for her for the hope evident in her irises.

“You just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?”

I’m sure that she was certain that she would never see me again except for the Faces of Abuse PSA, but here I am, live and in living color. I’m sure she wants to count this as a victory on her part. She’ll feel differently once this visit it over.

“Christian,” she breathes, relief and longing evident on her face. Mine remains impassive.

“I won’t bother with formalities or even the usual insults that I normally throw your way, because you won’t hear it. I will tell you this, though. I know what you tried to do to my wife.”

Her facial expression changes just for a moment before she dons her Domme mask, entwining her fingers like she did when she spoke to me as her pet.

And that just pisses me off more.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says impassively.

“That’s fine. Just know that I know. I’ll make this quick because I don’t want to be in your presence any longer than I have to, but you need to hear this from me. You failed. I’m going to use my connections to have Ana’s record cleaned of these accusations. Not only that, but before my testimony was even complete, one of the board members declared that the entire hearing a waste of taxpayer’s time and money.

“I’m not sure what you thought accusing my wife of sexual misconduct against me was going to accomplish. Yes, an accusation normally could stay on her record for months, maybe even years… if I didn’t have friends in high places. I have the governor’s private cell phone number on speed dial, for God’s sake!

“To top it all off, you used prison resources to file a fraudulent claim against my wife that caused emotional distress and possible loss of income had these allegations become public. So, to start, we now have a restraining and gag order against you—again! You can’t even breathe my or my wife’s name without consequences.” She cackles loudly.

Consequences?” she asks in a disbelieving tone. She gestures around her. “Take a good look, Christian,” she says sarcastically. “Consequences? Seriously?” I match her cackling laughter with a sinister, deep, throaty laughter of my own—a sound that silences her immediately.

“Wait a minute,” I say through my laughter. “Are you seriously under the impression that… it can’t get worse?”

Her face falls again and fear materializes in her eyes, although she won’t cower. I lean over the table, towering over her.

“Listen carefully, Mistress!” I hiss. “You. Have. Nobody. Even your rich aunt has opted for self-preservation and abandoned you. If you were free, we would sue you for what you did to my wife. Since you’re not, we can sue the prison for allowing these actions occur since all your calls are supposed to be monitored. Guess how the warden felt about hearing that possibility?”

She sits solemnly listening to what I’m saying. She knows what I’m getting at.

“So, who exactly do you think would give a flying fuck if some unfortunate thing were to happen to you every day at 3:00? Death is too good for your ass, so I… we… would definitely want you to live through it.”

She begins to tremble a bit as her pupils constrict, her resolve breaking into nothing.

“Take your fucking sentence and don’t bother us anymore,” I hiss. “If you do, there will be no rest for you. There will be a steady flow of padded pockets to insure your unending pain and suffering—a lifetime of misery and unhappiness just like I wished for you in court. And to give you just a little taste of what’s in store, this is what you get for trying to ruin my wife’s reputation. When you leave this room, you’ll be taken straight to solitary confinement where you’ll stay for fourteen days. Let’s see how you like that tiny room with no light and no running water. Once your stint in solitary it complete, you’ll spend fourteen more days with a new cell mate. My understanding is that her name is Roberta Coleman.”

“Ber…” she breathes. “Bert!” She’s horrified. I smile.

“Ah, you’re already acquainted. Good. I suggest that you use the next twenty-eight days to ponder your situation… to think about if you want to face these or other consequences again if you cross me or my wife. And a piece of information, you sick, sadistic bitch, there are 206 bones in the human body. That’s 206 separate opportunities to break something on your worthless ass. Fuck with me again. The jury may not have believed you, but I do. You are a narcissistic, pathological, screwed-up cunt, and if you fuck with my family again, I will treat you with no regard. And by the way, since you so readily see the afterlife as an escape, you’re on suicide watch. The last time a Grey visited this hellhole, someone ended up dead. You won’t be so lucky. Enjoy your 28 days.”

I turn around and walk out of the room, half wishing that she—like David—would do the world a favor and off herself, but knowing that she’s too self-centered to try it.


A/N: So, the sigh heard ‘round the world—“It was Elena… that’s so predictable!” Well, maybe it was, but for me, that story was still left open-ended and I didn’t like it. Here’s why…

Elena went to jail still delusional, still thinking that Christian loved her, but was under a spell that Ana put on him. Make no mistake—every time Elena said that Ana had Christian under a spell, she really believed it. There was no possible way that Christian could want Ana over her after all these years and all the beautiful subs that were perfect for him that he turned away when they wanted more except that he had to be under the influence of something. She was completely convinced that if she could get him away from Ana, she could get him back. That’s why she wanted to kill him—to have him in the afterlife.

Now, why—after everything—did she do what she did? Well, she’s behind bars for life! What worse can happen to her? In her little mind, prison gives her some amount of protection from Christian’s reach. The prisoners already make her life hell, so if she can watch Ana be dragged through the mud and publicly humiliated, then that’s one bright spot… one thing to look forward to in her dismal little life. If there was no “Yes, I can reach you even in here,” she could always come back nibbling at them like a mouse. And what do mice do? They leave shit droppings, they gnaw into your bags of food and leave signs that they’ve been there. Then they get away before you catch them, and you have to set traps and bait for them or call the exterminator and hope that you get them all.

Nasty bastards!

So, Christian called the exterminator.

So, now here’s something that I don’t normally do. I’m giving three spoilers… listen carefully.

1—The person in the epilogue was NOT Elena.

2—A storyline will develop where Elena might have the potential to reach out and strike again. “Might” being the operative word.

3—I needed this to happen to Ana to lay the groundwork for a different storyline.

That is all.

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~~love and handcuffs