Raising Grey: Chapter 77—Something He Can Feel

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

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

Danger—Aussie accent ahead. Turn away now.

That’s it.

Smoochies!!

All other previous disclaimers still apply.

Chapter 77—Something He Can Feel

CHRISTIAN

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

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

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

Over my dead body.

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

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

Oh… it’s that lipstick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, shit.

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

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

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

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

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

“Swap what?” Butterfly asks, bemused.

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

Swap.
Shit!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I should declare my win by forfeit.”

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


ANASTASIA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are your safewords?” he growls.

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

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

“Ladybug,” I reply softly.

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

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

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

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

SLAP!

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

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

Yep, I did that, too.

SLAP!

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

Inner sigh… yep, that was me.

SLAP!

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

Ouch! Guilty! Fuck, guilty!

“And when it was all said and done, you’ve got motherfuckers wanting to swap partners with us just from watching you play darts…” SLAP!

Wait a minute! That wasn’t just me! She wanted to fuck you, too!

“That fucker would have fucked you right there on the pool table if you had agreed…” SLAP!

“He was salivating all over you like I wasn’t even standing there…”
SLAP!

“He was willing to hand over his hooker wife for one night alone with you. He probably put her up to it!”
SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!

Okay, now I’m confused. Some trick propositions me to switch places with me for my husband and somehow, that’s my fault? I’m so caught off guard by trying to figure out the logic of that last one that the final slap reverberates through me and ignites the pain of all the others before it. Unprepared for the intensity, I involuntarily choke out a sob.

Before I know it, he’s snatched me off his lap and I’m on my knees on the sofa next to him. He’s breathless with uncontrolled arousal and he’s fighting feverishly to unzip his pants. When he reaches inside and produces his cock, it pops out of the little opening standing harder and taller than I think I’ve ever seen it… at least harder and taller than it’s been all weekend.

He snatches the wind out of me by effortlessly flinging me back over his lap—straddled this time—moving my panties to the side with the head of his cock and thrusting so hard into me that I cry out from the initial pain, still sniffling and whimpering. He’s balls deep inside me and breathing like a bear, his hips still as his cock sits fat and wide inside my aching, tight vagina.

He’s sitting there, not moving, panting through his nose and apparently fighting for control. When he opens his eyes, the fire is there again. His arms are wrapped around me, holding me close to him like a vise, and his hot breath is cold against my tear-stained face. He examines me, unable to wipe away my tears with my hands bound behind me or hide my sniffles and stuttering breaths. He does something at that moment that creeps me out and turns me on at the same time.

He licks the tears from one of my cheeks with one gentle lap.

Yeah, it creeps me out for a moment, but hell—he’s tasted my cum, my breast milk… tears can be much stranger.

“It’s because you’re so fucking beautiful,” he hisses. “Don’t you see what you do to men? They lose their goddamn minds over you, present company included! At the passenger terminal before we even got on the damn boat; at the swimming pool; at dinner…”

I hold my head down and try to control my whimpers. He pulls me even closer to him and my head falls on his shoulder.

I will not weep harder.
I will not weep harder.

My ass hurt like hell, but the heat combined with his dick thrust deep into my pussy, him holding me this close with my bound hands clasped in his, him actually licking the tears from one of my cheeks a minute ago, and his primal jealousy right now and the need to be vindicated—it’s all making me hot as hell

“Sit up,” he commands, the Dom back in his voice. I take a deep breath and release it, pulling myself to sit up straight. He drops his arms from around me and lay them on the sofa. I don’t raise my head. I wish my hair was down so that it could hide my face right now.

“Fuck me.”

I’m almost caught off guard by the command… almost. My hands are tied. He’s going to make me use my legs to do it. Fine. I use my knees and thighs to rise and fall over his incredibly hard cock, my pussy producing the needed lubrication almost immediately.

“Faster!” he demands. “Harder!”

I pick up the pace and bounce on his cock testing my strength and stamina with every rise and drop.

“Yes!” he hisses, gazing at me like a serial killer examining his next victim. “That’s it. Just like that!”

I risk a glance at him and he quickly undoes the buttons of his shirt and releases his cuff links, staring at my wildly bouncing tits the entire time. I concentrate on my thighs and on controlling the muscles to maintain my stroke. He groans once as he finally discards his shirt and works on loosening his pants.

“Goddammit,” he hisses as he finally gets his pants open. His cock is still restrained by the pocket of his boxer briefs, but he’s still madly enjoying the ride. One hand grabs one of my bouncing tits while the other firmly clasps my hip. He’s licking and biting his lips deliciously and he looks so fucking good.

“That’s it, baby,” he growls, throwing the typical playtime decorum out the window. “Fuck that dick. Fuck it hard, baby.”

And fuck it hard, I do. I don’t need him to tell me that I can’t come without permission. He made me say my third safeword, so it’s understood. But dammit, he’s going to come like a goddamn rocket if it’s the last thing I do!

I’m fucking him like a master, but he still exhibits that amazing stamina that he does when the Dom is here. He grunts every time I drop my pussy down on him, grabbing, caressing, or tormenting some part of my body or another. He’s licking his lips and biting me and sucking me—he even violently grabs my ponytail and holds on while I ride, but still never moves his hips. The ponytail holder gives up the fight sometime during that exercise, and my hair is free now.

When he’s on the edge, he grabs my ass cheeks with both hands and throws his head back. The shock of pain from my spanking ignites me and almost shakes my concentration. I throw my head back in agony as with the constant stimulation in my pussy and the wild groping, biting, and hair-pulling, losing my concentration means that I’m going to come. Luckily, he beats me to it.

“Oh, yes, Anastasia!” he groans through his orgasm. “Fuck me! Don’t stop!”

I keep the bounce going even though my thighs are burning in torment. I concentrate on the pain to keep myself from coming from this insanely pulsing cock inside of me. Keep… going… keep… going… keep… going…

“Stop! Fuck! For God’s sake, stop…” he begs, and I stop bouncing. My thighs hurt like fuck and I’m gasping for breath, sweat pouring down my face and into my eyes, my hair now free from its ponytail and wild all over my head. He’s panting heavily, still gripping my ass, and I squeeze my eyes shut from the pain, biting my lip to keep from crying out. My thighs are burning and will probably lock in this position in a moment and I’m thoroughly exhausted, just sitting on his lap and his still very erect cock. I’m trying to give myself a pep talk because I know it’s not over.

C’mon, Grey, catch your breath, get it together.
It’s just a little sweat, it won’t kill you.
You planned to work out anyway, so here you go. Don’t be a baby.

“Get up.”

Well, that wasn’t my voice. That was my Dom.

I close my eyes and concentrate one more time on stretching my thighs to rise off his dick. When I’m successful, the damn thing pops out of me and bounces off his belly with a thud, still standing at perfect attention like he didn’t just beg me to stop fucking him. I lift my leg from over his body and throw it over my own, landing on my butt—and my hands—on the sofa.

“Stay there,” he commands. Sure thing. I’m too weak to move.

He stands with little effort and toes out of his shoes, using his feet to step on his socks and remove them as well. He drops his trousers and maneuvers his boxer briefs over his very erect dick before pushing them down as well and stepping out of them both. Now, he’s gloriously naked in front of me and I would be excited except for the fact that I’m exhausted. He takes a seat on the floor with his back against the sofa and his legs bent and spread. He gets very comfortable down there.

“Come,” he demands.

Yeah, I wish I could!

“I actually heard that thought,” he says. “Get over here!”

Whatever. You can’t punish me for what you think you heard. I push myself off the sofa and move to stand in front of him.

“Other way,” he says. “Ass to me.”

Oh, fuck. What is he going to do, make me ride him reverse cowgirl now? I do as I’m told and stand in front of him with my ass in his face. I can’t straddle him because his legs are open.

“Now, that’s a very pretty shade of pink,” he says, kissing one cheek and then the other. I’m a bit shocked by the gesture, but I don’t react. “Sit.”

Now how does he expect me to ride him with his legs open? I’m not doing that shit—my legs are too weak.

“Do I need to repeat myself?” he says, his voice a bit threatening. “Goddammit c’mere!”

Fine, but the moment he commands me to fuck him, I’m safewording.

I bend my legs to sit as commanded, and my right thigh totally gives out on me. Unable to control my stance or support my own weight, I fall in the most ungraceful way onto my Dom with a helpless yelp as I’m going down. I’m terrified that he’ll think I’m being defiant, but even more terrified that I’ve injured his extremely erect penis. I know that he won’t randomly just hit me—that’s not the nature of our relationship. Nonetheless, I’m still tense and preparing myself for whatever backlash there may be for my assumed malfeasance.

The fact that we just sit there silent for several moments heightens my anxiety. I hold my head down, fearing punishment, and it appears that I’ve landed on his abdomen and his erect dick is precariously placed between my legs and against the lips of my vagina.

Thank God for that!

Sure enough, uncharacteristic to the nature of our relationship when we’re in D/s mode, he slides both hands under my arms, places them on my shoulder, and gently pushes me back against his body. I don’t know what to expect from this unusual tenderness, so I just lay back and wait.

His hands roam my body, gently caressing my abdomen and torso before traveling up to cup my breasts. I’m trying not to be lulled into a false sense of security, only to have said security ripped from me by some sadistic command to see me suffer slowly for daring to display my sexiness, but my breasts are swollen with milk and quite sensitive, and his touch is making me hot again. It doesn’t matter that I try to hide this from him, because he knows my body too well—he can smell my slightest arousal.

Just like clockwork, a few moments after I feel that familiar burning twinge in my clit, I feel his body stiffen a bit and his touch is firmer, kneading my body back into his. He pinches one of my nipples while gently teasing the tip of the other with his finger.

Talk about being able to walk and chew gum at the same time!

I bite my lip to stifle the moan that begs to escape my chest. My legs weaken completely and fall open, and my Dom takes his cue. With one movement of his hips, his erect penis is between the lips of my vagina. I take a deep breath as he moves his pelvis back and forth, his dick stroking against my vagina.

Oh. Hell. I. Will. Not. Survive. This.

Still bound by his tie, my hands are pinned between us and I flatten them against his abs. Well, that didn’t help. I can feel his muscles undulating each time his pelvis moves. He cups my breasts firmly and sinks his teeth gently into the meat near my shoulder. He’s trying to make me come.

“No… no…”

Shit, did I say that out loud? I don’t know. I’m delirious with pleasure. My body’s on fire and I want to come… badly!

He puts his hand under my thigh and lifts me just a bit, pulling his hips back at the same time. With very little effort, his cock slides into me and I release a whimpering breath of ecstasy. God, he feels so good…

“God, yes…” he groans, “that’s it.”

He undulates his hips a few times, pushing that magnificent organ up and into its counterpart and I nearly lose my mind. I release my body to him as I can’t fight him anymore and concentrate on holding my orgasm like I did in Anguilla.

Anguilla… no, this isn’t like Anguilla. This is different—much different.

My soft body turns to mush against his firmness and my pussy is getting hotter and hotter, coming closer and closer to climax. One hand moves from my breast and an arm slides around my waist, holding me firmly in place against his stroke, now deeper than before. I whimper in my chest, the friction and penetration so delicious. Can I hold out? Just a little longer?

He torments me this way for several more moments before he puts both hands under my thighs and lifts me up. Spreading my legs wide, he thrusts repeatedly—and uninhibited—into my wide spread pussy. I have no purchase to resist and he has me helplessly spread open, pummeling repeatedly with his masterful stroke.

“Ah!” I cry out involuntarily. Silence is impossible.

“Feel it,” he taunts, “feel the pleasure, Anastasia, but don’t come…”

There’s no pain to concentrate on this time… only pleasure. Only the pleasure of his hard, pulsing cock drilling into me while he’s holding me open. Dear God, I’m going to die.


CHRISTIAN

Fuck, my dick feels so good driving into this hot pussy from base to tip. I hear her whimper and I know she’s close. She’s getting wetter and wetter. I tried to keep the Dom at bay. God knows I tried, but she kept pushing and pushing—even when she had no idea that she was doing it. I’ve been at the very edge for over 24 hours. When she leapt into my arms in front of those crazy fuckers that wanted to swap mates, I couldn’t take it anymore. All of the events of the past 36 hours just overran my primal inner urges. I had to dominate her to keep from jumping overboard. Yes, it’s that serious.

She’s drenched in sweat and whimpering with each stroke into her. It’s torture and I know it is. I’m not going to make it any easier on you, little Anastasia. You’re going to feel the burn tonight.

I move my hands from her thighs to just behind her knees, lift her body off my dick and drop her back down onto it—repeatedly—while I thrust into her. Fuck, I feel my dick getting harder and my balls tightening. I can’t see it, but I imagine that fat pussy wrapped around my dick teasing the head with every thrust and leaving a ring of cream and juices right near my balls.

“Fuuuucck!”

I succumb to the unexpected orgasm, dropping her onto my dick and gripping her around her waist, emptying hard deep inside her. The climax is so hard and we’re both completely out of breath that I’m afraid it might have been the swan song, and I’m not ready for that. But no, Dom Dick indicates that he’s not quite finished yet. My submissive must suffer a little more tonight.

I contemplate taking her to the bed for our finale, but this area rug is soft and plush. It’ll have to do. I reach behind me and retrieve one of the pillows from the sofa, placing it on the floor next to us. I don’t expect her to do anything at this point, just take what I’m giving her. I roll us over so that she’s lying on the pillow and I’m behind and on top of her, straddling her with her legs closed. My dick didn’t even come out of its happy place.

With her hand bound and nestled in the small of her back, I open her ass with both hands and admire her puckering rosette as I stroke between her legs and into her pussy. It’s tight and hot and ready to blow and now, I’ve pushed her legs together. She’s losing her mind. I lean my weight onto her pink cheeks and stroke, stroke, stroke—deep and long. She doesn’t need pressure in this position to drive her mindless. She needs friction and rhythm, and I’m giving it to her just right. She groans mournfully and I watch her rosette again, puckering and opening with each thrust. My mouth waters, and I regret not having a butt plug at the moment.

When she begins to pant, I untie her hands. I need to be close to her, to have her hear me… and feel me.

I pin her hands next to her head with both of mine, entwining my fingers into hers.

“I’m going to mark you,” I whisper harshly in her ear, “so that they know that you’re mine!”

I lean down and first sink my teeth into her neck, causing her to cry out. Then I replace my teeth with my lips and tongue, licking and sucking and bring the blood to the surface of her skin. She moans helplessly as I continue to dig into her sex while giving her a conspicuous love bite. It’s driving me fucking insane. If she doesn’t tap out soon…

When I’m satisfied with the bite on her neck, I move to her back, just below her nape sinking my teeth in first then licking and sucking, just like before. I keep my stroke hard, deep, and steady into that clenched pussy, determined to make her surrender before I do this time.

She’s whimpering so much that she almost sound like she’s crying, and I vaguely remember bringing her to tears with her spanking. My bites now become sensual, open mouthed kisses on her back. Fuck, she feels so goddamn good. I lay onto her body, thrusting hard into her and pulling down on our clasped hands for traction, losing myself in her… over and over and over…

“Lady… l… lady… ladybug…”

“Come!” I command her in a harsh whisper. “Come, baby!”

She squeezes my fingers entwined in hers and buries her face in the pillow, screaming out a violent orgasm and thrashing about underneath me. I thrust repeatedly into that tightening, pulsing pussy until a few moments later, I’m burying my face into her back and repeating her actions, grunting and growling out a fearsome climax until my back, balls, and throat hurt from the pressure and the vibration.

“Fuck,” I breathe as I fight to catch my breath. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…”

*-*

Her milk had begun to express on the rug during our session, so I run a bath for her and have her soak for several minutes, allowing the heat to soothe her aches and to help express the rest of her milk as I wash her hair before carrying her to the bedroom. She stayed on her side and I think I may have gotten carried away a bit, but I’m a Dom and I don’t apologize for being one. Besides, she didn’t safeword… until she was about to come.

I didn’t bring any Arnica cream because I didn’t have any intentions of doing a scene on this trip. I look through her toiletries, hoping to find some baby oil or the olive oil that she uses on her nipples, but I find something better.

Eucalyptus lotion.

Did she know that we might do something like this? Did she do all those things to trigger me on purpose? I’ll have to ask her about it, but not right now.

When I enter with the lotion, she’s lying on her stomach with the covers thrown off her. She’s completely shattered, but her eyes are still open—tiny slits that refuse to submit to sleep. I sit on the bed next to her and warm the lotion in my hands. Starting at her shoulders, I begin to work the tension out of her body. I knead with just enough pressure to ease the tightness in the muscles of her back.

When I get to her ass, I examine it closely. I remember a spanking that made me not want to spank her ever again—where her ass was bruised, and she put coats at every exit of the house. I check for bruising, welting, broken skin. The pinkness has faded a bit and her skin is still flushed from the bath, but there are no vicious bruises like before. I’m relieved to see that.

Coating my hands again, I gently rub the lotion into her ass cheeks. She flinches at first, then settles. I don’t linger there, just enough to get the soothing ointment into her skin before moving to her thighs. She actually whines when I begin to knead them. I know they hurt like hell from the workout she got at the very beginning. I was going to make her ride me again until she fell and I realized that her legs couldn’t hold her up anymore.

Had she decided to do this without me, she would have made a great submissive, because she can endure a lot and she doesn’t readily give in. For the same reasons, I have to learn when to pull back, because by the time she does finally tap out, she’s completely destroyed. She’s convinced herself that I need her to go the distance, so she will, but the distance may be too far for her. She showed me this that night in Anguilla and had she not safeworded in the next few minutes, I would have told her to come.

By the time I finish her feet, she’s fast asleep. I smooth a little more lotion on her bottom, a little deeper into the skin this time since she’s asleep, then go to the bathroom and retrieve a brush. I gently brush the kinks out of her long hair and braid it before it dries, securing it with a ponytail holder.

I examine her face in her sleep. Her resting face tells me much more than her conscious face. She can hide her expressions—except her anger and her intense displeasure—when she’s awake. She can’t hide anything when she’s asleep. Her face tells it all—happy, fear, anguish, distress…

Peace.
Right now, she’s completely at peace.

I turn off all the lights and climb in bed beside her, covering her with the blanket before crawling under it myself. I gently trace her sleeping face and pouty lips as I lay on the pillow facing her.

“Sometimes, I love you more than my soul can handle…”

*-*

I awake before she does in the morning. I’m mindful that we need to get going soon if we’re going to make the excursions with Jaxon and Laura. I look over at my sleeping wife. She’s asleep so hard that I hate to wake her. If she says that she doesn’t want to go on the excursions, I’ll honor that request, but I have to give her that choice.

I reach over and stroke her hair gently, and then her cheek, pushing the stray strands of hair from her face. She protests a bit, but then opens her eyes and looks at me.

“Good morning,” I say softly. She inhales deeply and releases a sigh.

“Good morning,” she says weakly.

“I need to ask you something.” She blinks a few times and tries to focus on me. “Do you remember when we had that conversation about BDSM training? Back in August or September before everything went south?” She blinks a few more times, still trying to focus and wake up.

“Do you remember?” I ask again. Maybe I should have waited until she was more conscious before I asked the question. She gently clears her throat.

“I remember some of it, yes,” she says softly.

“Why don’t you ever safeword?” I ask. Her eyes widen a bit, indicating that she’s more alert than she was a moment ago. “You safeworded last night when you were about to come, but you cried before safewording when I spanked you. Why?”

She looks like she’s about to answer, but she doesn’t, so I continue.

“I think you may have the wrong idea about being a submissive,” I tell her. “Being my submissive doesn’t mean that I break you down until you’re bare. I did that to you in Anguilla and I almost lost you. You may disagree, but I know better. It doesn’t mean being weak either; but it also doesn’t mean having to prove that you’re not weak. The D/s relationship is a give-and-take. We both have to get something out of that experience and spanking you until you cry is not something that gets me off.”

Even though she’s still lying down, her gaze drops.

“I need you to look at me because I need to know that you hear me.”

She raises her guileless blue eyes to me again.

“You set me off in so many ways—whether you were trying to or not. Yes, I wanted to regain control, but not in a way that would cause you anguish. You give yourself to me, and I take that, but I try to give you something in return…”

“You were a full-on Dom before you met me,” she says softly. “Canes and whips and paddles and handcuffs… You gave up a lot to be with me, to adapt to me and allow me into your world. You used to go all out on your submissives before me and I know it. I saw everything in the playroom at Escala—everything!”

“That’s why we don’t have that playroom now,” I say calmly, but firmly. “That’s not who I am anymore. I’m not Christian Grey, single Dom billionaire out whipping little brown-haired submissives on the weekend. I’m Christian Grey, husband to Anastasia Grey, father to Mackenzie and Michael Grey, and part-time Dominant and submissive. There’s nothing about me that’s the same as it was before. Is that why you feel like you have to take everything until your body is wracked with pain? Be spanked until you cry? Fuck until your legs don’t work? Submit until you’re too weak and exhausted to keep your eyes open…?”

“I’m not weak,” she declares softly. “I don’t know how far you need to go until you go, and when you need me to have that strength and stamina to endure, I can!”

“Yes, but to the end of your wits!” I say a bit more firmly. “I don’t want any of the Domination fiascos we’ve have before—where you’re completely shattered and not always in a good way, and I’m feeling guilty for what I’ve put you through. Is that why you take such intense scenes? Because you think I need to be the guy that I was before?”

“Apparently, you do!” she says, sitting up in the bed. “You can go for hours! You can spank or whip or flog until your arm gets tired! You can fuck like a teenager—over and over and over again and never tap out. You’ll go as far as I’ll let you and I’m not weak!”

“As far as you’ll let me!” I repeat. “Did you hear that, Anastasia? As far as you’ll let me! I’ve had meetings with every single one of my submissives to discover what their soft and hard limits are; to see what they could take; to set boundaries. Yes, I’ve tested their limits, but not beyond the point of reason. Yes, I’ve punished them, but they knew when to tell me to stop. Not once did I ever take a submissive past her limits once I figured out what I was doing! I made a few mistakes as an amateur, but not once I found my way.

“I’m a Dom. I’m a full-on Dom. I’ve been a full-on Dom for years, but our relationship is supposed to be different. I didn’t feel anything for those women. I felt care and concern, but not love. I love you. You fulfill a need for me, and I love you for that, too. But when I’m in Dom mode, I can go the distance. I can go all the way and more because I take my cues from the submissive. I never know that you’ve had enough or too much until it’s over—when you’ve been broken over the rack, bottom bruised from a shower spanking, or twitching from not being able to come. That’s not what our relationship is…”

“What am I supposed to do?” she shoots, so near tears that I can see them in her eyes waiting to fall. “Your power seeps through your pores! It’s effortless. Women see you and don’t know what to do with themselves, and if you think it’s just the face, you’re wrong! It’s the way you carry yourself, it’s everything about you. The money and the good looks are just a bonus. You lived a lifestyle for years where when you needed relief, you got it from a submissive.

“I’m under no misconception of who you were, but when you can’t get that relief, you’ll turn into someone else! I love that Dominance about you. I don’t want to see it leave, but I don’t want to lose it because I can’t satisfy it!”

Oh, dear God, is that what this is about? Is that seriously what this is about? All the time she’s pushed herself beyond limits I know she couldn’t take, the times I’ve pushed her thinking that she was reaching her limit and not knowing—until later—that she was already past it? Doesn’t she know I worship the fucking ground she walks on? That even if she never subbed for me again, I would still love her with everything I have? Everything I am? I look at her glassy eyes and remember our conversation from that morning:

“After our talk yesterday, I realized that I didn’t know nearly enough about the dynamics of the D/s relationship to handle what was going on with you. We were on a precipice, and our next move would determine the fate of our relationship. Would we come out of this okay? Would we end up in a totally vanilla relationship? Would you have determined that I was able to give you what you needed as a wife but not as a submissive? Would you resent me and turn to others for your D/s needs? Would this be the beginning of the end for us?”

I never put her mind at ease about those questions because I wanted her to keep talking. They’ve been burning in her mind all this time and probably much longer—through the Westwick thing, the Boogeyman, every fight and disagreement… Jesus, if I felt that way about her, I’d go insane. I gather her into my arms and kiss her eyes before the tears have a chance to fall.

“We’re going to need to do some more training,” I tell her, “and we’re going to start when we get back to Seattle.” I brush my lips against her temple and gently caress her hair. I’m putting the kibosh on playtime until she fully learns what it means to be a submissive—to give of herself without losing herself. All this time, she’s just been some girl taking beatings and fucking for me. I don’t think she’s seen who she really is at all in this process, and if she did, she’s lost it.

Once I’ve brought my wife back from the brink of tears, I fire off a text or two to some old friends of mine back in my training days. We’ll need some very professional training for husbands and wives once we return and I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m out of my element here. She may not be fully aware of her role as a submissive, but likewise, I think I’m off the mark for being a husDom.

Right before I shut down my screen, I see that Holstein has tried to call me three times. Either he has finally decided to return my calls, or he’s got wind that something is on the cooker with Lincoln. Too little, too late, Ron, I’m taking this matter into my own hands.

My girl successfully recovers from the seriousness of our conversation and presents herself in yet another tasty ensemble—this time a pair of white skinny jeans, a yellow and white polka-dot halter… and sneakers! Butterfly never wears sneakers. These are a pair of Nikes—white with a yellow swoosh. She ties a white sweater around her waist that does nothing to cover that glorious ass.

And once again, I feel like a troll.

“I’m never calling Vickie again,” I say when I see her.

“Well, you can hold Vickie responsible for the jeans and the sneakers, but you’d have to blame Grandma Ruby for the shirt.” My eyes bulge out as she does a full turn to show me the shirt… and the love bites on her back and neck.

“Um… baby, you do remember our scene from last night, don’t you?” She looks up at me. God, I never realize how short she is until she loses the heels.

“You mean the hickeys?” she asks, unfazed.

“Yeah,” I reply, and it sounds more like a question.

“Nobody knows me on this trip except Laura and Jaxon and from what I understand, they have a pretty good idea how we get down,” she replies. “No offense, my love, but I have nothing here but a summer wardrobe. Unless you intended for me to spend the rest of the trip with a towel wrapped around my back, somebody was going to see this. Then again, you knew that.” She gives me a sarcastic smile.

Well, yeah, I did know that.

“Turn around,” I sigh. The one on her neck is clearly a love bite, but I want to see what the ones on her back look like. I don’t want anyone to think she’s a battered wife.

Uh, yeah… clearly love bites, too.

“You’ll do,” I lament, knowing that everybody’s going to look at her and then look directly at me.

“Well, thanks,” she says, picking up her backpack. I take it from her.

“I’ll carry that for you,” I say, admittedly still feeling a bit of a sting of guilt from last night. She gives it to me and reads my expression.

“It was grueling,” she admits, “And strenuous, but all’s well that ends well, right?”

I sigh inwardly and nod, just because I really don’t want to talk about it anymore. She let the cat out of the bag that she takes more than she probably would under normal circumstance because of me—because she’s concerned that I’ll be displeased or dissatisfied. Inevitably, she thinks that’ll lead to me leaving her or cheating on her. I’ve tried to impress upon her that that will never happen, but it hasn’t worked, especially considering the fact that I jumped ship when the whole Westwick thing happened—pun intended.

“We better go,” I say, taking her hand. “We don’t want to keep our tour guides waiting.”

I lead her to the door thinking about the texts I sent earlier to mentors that I hope will help us on our path.

Jason and Lawrence follow us to the conference area to meet up with Laura and Jaxon. Other passengers going to port and to excursions are waiting there as well. Laura is dressed similarly to Butterfly in a flowy strappy blouse and jeans while Jaxon looks like me—T-shirt, jeans, and a pair of sneakers. We exchange greetings and Laura gives Butterfly a hug. Just as I suspected, Laura looks at my wife, then turns a wide-eyed gaze and a knowing half-smile to me.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say dismissively.

“The breast is bettah, mate,” Jaxon says with mirth, “an’ less conspicuous.”

“Unreachable at the time,” I say with no further explanation.

“Ah,” he and Laura respond simultaneously, eliciting a giggle from Butterfly. She locks arms with Laura and they effortlessly start chatting away.

We’re out early as our outings to Hobart, Port Arthur, and surrounding areas are going to be squeezed into a day and a half and we don’t want to miss anything. We’ll most likely only be back on board to sleep, and back off tomorrow morning for the rest of our excursion.

We’ve docked in Hobart, but our excursion is yet another boat ride—a ferry from Brooke Street Pier to the Museum of Old and New Art. Twenty minutes or so later, we’re having “brekkie,” as Jaxon calls it, at the restaurant in the museum called The Source since our day started so early. We’re all having “The Big Fry Up,” which is farm fresh eggs, smoky bacon, sausage, grilled tomato and mushrooms, hash browns, and beans. I’m somewhat shocked to see my wife pull out those sexy ass Buddy Holly glasses to eat her breakfast. I try not to react, but Jaxon reacts for me.

“Chris,” he says, dragging my name out in a sing-songy type manner, “no offense, mate, but ‘ow do ya deal with thaht?”

“I need you to be more specific,” I reply.

“She maykes nuhrd glasses look sexy,” he says just above a whisper so that only I can hear him. “Ya must be beytin’ ‘em off with a stick!”

“Oh, you have no idea,” I lament, taking a drink of my black coffee. Like clockwork, Butterfly and Laura’s conversation migrates to last night.

“When you pull lipstick out of your makeup case and the first thing you think when you see it is ‘dick sucking red,’ you should probably put it back. But nooooooo, Anastasia had to wear the dick sucking red lipstick, and now she’s wondering why half the female population of the ship hates her,” Butterfly says.

“It can’t be that bad,” Laura remarks.

“Yes, it is,” we say simultaneously.

“Last night,” Butterfly continues, “two French-speaking cows at our table talked about me through the entire meal.”

“How did you know they were talking about you?” Laura asks nonplussed. Butterfly tilts her head and twists her lips.

“Oh,” Laura says knowingly. “Tu parle français.”

“Yes!” Butterfly retorts forcefully. “Fluently! And you?” Laura laughs.

“Not a word,” she says, “that is, except ‘tu parle français.’” Butterfly snorts a short laugh.

“Well, I’m telling you, I get it everywhere, and probably in more languages, too. I like to wear nice clothes, I like to keep myself fit. I’m attractive, and I know it. I’m tired of constantly getting into verbal sparring matches with women because they hate me because I’m beautiful or for the fact that I’m with a beautiful, wealthy man. I’m going to start finding another way to handle it, just like I did with those cows at dinner. And the glares that I was getting from the women in the front row…” She turns to me. “You didn’t see them—I got the last laugh with them, too, because their men all came rushing to help me off stage. What do they want—they want me to look like a toad standing next to you? Gain 25 pounds because I’ve had twins and that’s what we’re ‘supposed’ to do? Leave you or expect you to leave me because I’m not good enough for you? Fuck ‘em, I’m done.”

“Um, you skipped something,” Laura points out. “Front row? On stage?”

“Oh, my friend, do I have a story for you…”


A/N: 

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

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

The Australia Picture Board can be found here: https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/raising-grey-the-trip-to-australia/ and the pictures from today’s chapter are in the Luxury Cruise Ship” section and the “Hobart” section.

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

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

~~love and handcuffs

 

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Raising Grey: Chapter 73—Heading Down Undah

Once again, February 19th was GODDESS DAY and I have officially turned the big “5-0.” I am extremely overjoyed to have made it thus far. Praying for many more years to come!

Had quite a few things happen this week. Along with the celebrating all last weekend, which was really great, my furbaby Meeko had to be hospitalized the night before my birthday. He hurt himself and had to have a minor surgical procedure, but of course, I ugly-cried the whole night and now my little snookums is wearing the cone of shame until he heals. I’m really broken up about it.

Then, one of my coworkers passed away suddenly the day after my birthday. We’re not sure what happened to her. She was a very young woman and I must admit that I’m still a bit shell-shocked from it. She was a sweet and wonderful person, loving wife and daughter, and I ask that you keep Miracle’s family in your prayers (yes, that was her real name).

So, on to the story. To begin, I would like to thank the following people for their input and suggestions on the trip to Australia:

From Facebook (in no particular order)—Bridget Walker, Jaimini Dave, Catherine Parr, Kath Imlach, Kelly Peisley, Kayhla Rae Toia, Belinda Narbey, Stargazer Ninety-Three, Rebekkah Benjamin, Linda McWilliams, Jac Monaco, Racheal Antoinette, Alexis Rae, Heather Ellesley, Kath Imlach, Jeanette Emerson.

From Twitter (in no particular order)—TV Obsessed‏ and Contrite Shadow

If I didn’t mention your name and you gave me a suggestion in any format, please charge it to my head and not to my heart. I tried to mention everyone.

I will also say that this was a somewhat difficult storyline for me to write. I may still be writing it as you read this. It has taken and is taking me weeks and weeks to get it done. I’m sorry to say that I wasn’t very pleased with this trip for a few reasons. I had an entire dissertation written about my experience and once I read it back, I was like, “Nobody wants to hear that crap!” So, I scrapped it—or should say that I just kept it for myself, like a bitch journal.

I will say that I’ve taken some creative license here. While some of it is very true to fact, some of it is fictional—i.e. the places that they visit are real while the boat that they sail on is made up of three different ships. Anywho, here it begins. I hope you don’t feel that the next few chapters are a colossal waste of your time.

In addition, I know I had about four French translators looking over my translations. However, I haven’t used any extensive French lately, and I forgot who they were. SPOILER: there will be some French in a few of the next chapters, including this one. If I’ve translated incorrectly, please shoot me an email in the “contact me” link or hit me on Facebook DM’s and let me know what the mistakes are. It’ll be much appreciated. I apologize for the long author’s note.

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

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

Chapter 73—Heading Down Undah

ANASTASIA

One half hour after leaving LAX, we arrive at a luxury hotel in Beverly Hills called the Hotel Montage. We follow our cousins through this outrageously posh establishment to the elevators and straight up to the rooftop. There we find an elegant restaurant with a spectacular view appropriately called the Rooftop Grill where Leo is apparently very well-known and was quickly able to have the restaurant rearranged at a moment’s notice to change a reservation for six to a reservation for eight for brunch as he forgot that we were bringing our security staff along.

“I wasn’t trying to leave anybody out, Christian,” Leo says as we’re seated. “I’m just not that cozy with my staff,” he adds matter-of-factly with no malice.

“Oh, I’m not that friendly with my staff either,” Christian says. “And this is no offense to Lawrence—he’s a consummate professional and I’m glad to have him around, but that man…” All eyes follow Christian’s pointing finger to Jason. “He’s been with me for many years. He probably knows some things about me that no one else knows…”

Ouch!

“Sorry, Butterfly. I love you dearly, but Jason has known me longer.”

“Hmph,” I huff as Christian continues his explanation.

“Anyway,” he continues, “he’s saved my life more times than I even know. He’s gone so far as to take a bullet for me when I was sure to be a goner. So, even though he may be my staff, he doubles as my best friend.”

“No shit?” Leo says, looking down the table at Jason, who just looks back at him. “I’ve got some good guys on my team, but I don’t think any of them are that loyal.”

“Jason’s the best,” he reinforces. “I trust him blindly with my life, and he knows that. If it hadn’t been for him, I may not have made it to the altar.” Okay, now you’ve got my fucking attention.

“What?” I say in horror and he just looks at me.

“It was a bad night and you know it. Do you want to rehash it?” he asks flatly. I raise my hands in surrender and pick up my menu. Everything looks delicious and I’m fucking ravenous.

“Maybe we should find something else to talk about,” Lanie says leaning over to me.

“Yes, I think we should,” I agree, still examining my menu.

“Everything on the menu here is divine. So, just close your eyes and point. Wherever your finger lands, you’ll be happy.”

“Leo seems a lot like Christian,” I say, “eats in the best places, people at his beck and call…”

“Yep, that’s Leo,” she says. “Women throwing themselves at him even though he’s married… It takes some getting used to.”

“Tell me about it,” I lament. “They’re so certain that I’m just the bracelet or the flavor of the month—the trophy wife—that they completely disregard me. Well, they used to, anyway”

“I’ll bet they used to,” Lanie scoffs a laugh. “After that interview you guys did—you’re blowing shit up with a gun that’s bigger than you! I expected you to pull the trigger on that shotgun and at any second, go flying backwards like they do in the cartoons.” I can’t suppress my laughter.

“Yeah, that was a general consensus. People always underestimate my size, except for those who know me,” I point out. “My dad was really big on me being able to defend myself once I became an adult. He started teaching me different things when I was younger, but then we were separated for a while. We reconnected when I became an adult, and now, I’m G. I. Jane. He taught Christian how to shoot, too.” Her eyes widen.

“Your father? He did?” she asks. I nod.

“After that incident he’s talking about where Jason took a bullet for him, he didn’t want to be caught off-guard. He used to be extremely anti-gun, but that crazy woman pointed my gun at him…”

“Wait a minute,” Lanie interrupts me. “Your gun?”

I sigh deeply and give Lanie the short version of the incident that ultimately led to Christian learning how to shoot—the entire ugly ordeal of Jason jumping from whatever secret door was in the room and launching himself between Christian and a bullet hurling at him from a Beretta registered to me. Placing myself back there where the Pedophile nearly destroyed my reason for living at the time, I actually get a little choked up and light-headed for a moment.

“Butterfly!” Christian is nearly holding me up in moments. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine,” I try to brush him off.

“You’re not fine,” he demands. “You damn near fell out of the chair. What’s wrong?” I don’t want to tell him that I’m thinking of that wretched blonde bitch when we’re supposed to be on vacation, but Lanie does it for me.

“It’s my fault, Christian,” she says. “She was telling me about… the incident that caused you to go learn how to shoot.” He and Jason share a look, then he turns back to me.

“It’s not your fault, Lanie, it’s mine,” he says. “I’m the one who brought it up.”

“Oh, gosh, please, everybody, I’m fine,” I protest. “I was slightly overwhelmed for a moment. I’ll be fine after a glass of red.”

“Or a bottle,” Lanie corrects and waves over a server. “While we’re making our brunch selections, we’ll have two bottles of the Napa Valley Mascot 2010 Cabernet Sauvignon, one Domaines Ott Château de Selle Côtes de Provence Coeur de Grain Rosé, one Perrier-Jouët, Belle Époque Épernay—2008, if you have it, and… white or red, Christian?” she asks during a pause. My husband is momentarily taken aback.

“Um… white… dry,” he says. Lanie turns back to the server.

“Um… the Napa Accendo Cellars Sauvignon Blanc,” she says.

“Excellent choices, ma’am,” he says as he retrieves the wine menus and leaves the table. Christian and I are stunned into silence while Leo just smiles.

“My sister was a wine connoisseur before she left Detroit,” Burtie says. “We just discovered it.” He smiles a crooked smile and turns his attention back to the menu.

“Babe, have you tried lobster benedict?” Bernie asks Burtie.

“No, I haven’t, but I was just looking at that. Great minds think alike,” Burtie says and Bernie blushes.

“Okay, so I’ll order the lobster and you order something else and we can share, okay?” Bernie replies sweetly and Burnie nods with a smile and examines the menu again. In moments, Burtie is leaning over to Bernie and they’re agreeing on their menu choices.

“My brother used to be a different person,” Lanie says with a bit of melancholy. “He used to be very vibrant and really full of life—before all this happened. When I went to get him in Detroit, it was like his light went out. You could have led him off a bridge and he would have blindly followed. When he’s with Bertie, he’s like his old self again. It’s like none of this happened, and the Golden Child is back.” She wipes a tear from her eye. “I should have gone back,” she says. “I should have fought my own battle instead of leaving Burtie to fight it. I sent him into the lion’s den and look what happened.”

“Then he would have beaten you,” I point out to her.

“It should’ve been me!” she hisses quietly. “I never should’ve sent Burtie back to face that man alone! He wasn’t prepared. There’s no way he could’ve seen that coming. I knew Freeman was a monster. I knew all along! I saw it firsthand. Burtie didn’t. Burtie never saw it. He was ambushed. It should have been me…”

“No, sis,” Burtie says, his voice strong and unwavering. “It shouldn’t have been you, and it shouldn’t have been me either. It shouldn’t have been either one of us and it shouldn’t have been Mom. He’s the monster, yet we’re the ones left to suffer. He stole our lives and our happiness and he’s sitting back there about to inherit Grandpa’s money and his house… I’m done. He’s stolen enough from me. I’m not letting him steal another minute. Where’s my wine?”

“Right here, handsome,” the waiter says, returning to the table with several bottles of wine on a rolling serving tray and another server to assist.

“Uh, no, darlin’,” Bernie speaks up. “That one’s taken.”

“Ah!” the server gasps, covering his heart with both hands. “Quel tragique.” He drops his head in mock mourning before raising his gaze to Bernie. “Pardonnez-moi, monsieur.” Bernie smiles.

“Tu es pardonné. Il est délicieux, n’est-ce pas?” Bernie replies.

“Oui, très délicieux! Vous êtes un gars chanceux. Pardonnez mon impolitesse,” the server replies.

“I have no idea what they’re saying,” Burtie says.

“Trust me, it’s very flattering,” I say with a chuckle. Lanie turns a gaze to me.

“Parlez vous français?” she asks.

“Oui, madame,” I respond.

“Oh, cut it out,” Leo interjects before turning to Christian. “Doesn’t this get on your nerves?” Christian smirks and I immediately know that he’s thinking about sex.

“Um, no, not really,” he says, and Leo raises a brow. “Je parle français aussi.”

“Oh, dear God,” Leo laments. “Can we please speak English for the rest of the morning?”

The occupants of the table laugh, and the servers uncork our wines and champagnes as we make our brunch choices. I quickly learn that you can easily expect too much by going to brunch in a high-end luxury hotel in Beverly Hills. I’m not sure what I expected, but I’m a bit disappointed with the menu.

The breakfast portion of the brunch menu is outstanding—buttermilk pancakes; fresh, homemade pastries; fresh fruits and berries; a large variety of breakfast meats; roasted potatoes; avocado toast; eggs cooked to order, including cast iron huevos rancheros and lobster benedict—but if you want lunch instead of breakfast, it’s a little lean. They pretty much have mussels, crudité, guacamole, and shrimp cocktail.

Seriously? I plan on drinking at least half of one of those bottles of Cabernet that was just uncorked, and if I want lunch instead of breakfast, my choices are celery and chips and dip?

I do see that if you want something from the grill, you could order that separately—which is what Jason and Ben did. Your choices are basically burgers and fries, patty melts, and fish tacos. And if you’re really adventurous, you can opt for the quinoa salad or the no-meat burger options.

I order an impossible breakfast and do my best to hide my discontent. I won’t disparage my lovely cousins, but we didn’t need to rent a limo and drive all the way to Beverly Hills for this. We could have gotten something like this in the VIP lounge at the airport.

When the food arrives, I dig right in like a starving man having ordered extra helpings of breakfast meat to make up for the lunch I would have rather ordered. Luckily, I don’t look like a barbarian tearing into the meat as Christian had pretty much the same idea. Jason’s and Ben’s burgers look delectable, but only because he must be acquainted with the whole “gourmet burger” thing and ordered “extra meat” in his and Ben’s patties. Shit, that’s what I should have ordered.

The buttermilk pancakes and fresh pastries make up for the fact that I ordered breakfast when I really wanted lunch. Even the lobster benedict looks like a child’s serving.

Our waiter makes sure the glasses remain full and the table is clean. He’s very attentive to us and I’m only too sure that it’s because he wants to get a few extra glimpses at Burtie, until…

“Excuse me,” he says to my husband as we’re finishing our meal, “but did she call you ‘Christian?’” Christian frowns.

“Yes,” he says sharply.

“As in ‘Christian Grey?’” he continues, unmoved by Christian’s ire.

“Yes,” he replies just as sharply. The server turns to me.

“That means you’re Anastasia!” he exclaims. “I thought I recognized you, but I didn’t want to believe it!”

Okay, so now, the wind just got snatched out of me and I have to quickly find my words without looking like a total idiot.

“Um… y… yeah,” I say, more than a bit taken aback.

“Oh my God I never ask this but if I don’t I’m gonna die may I please have your autograph.” He says it all in one sentence, and I’m totally blown away. Christian is sitting next to me, his ire now replaced with badly stifled snickering.

“You’re not serious!” I say in disbelief.

“Oh my God yes I am!” he says in that one breath again. “I have a gaggle of catty females who are just going to die when they see this oh God am I bothering you I’ll go away!” He starts to scamper away from our table.

“No!” I catch him before he leaves. “Breathe, for God’s sake.”

“I’m sorry I talk this way when I’m really excited!” he informs me.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Spencer,” he replies.

“Okay, Spencer, will a picture be better for your catty friends?” His eyes widen.

“Dear God yes!” he nearly growls while taking out his phone. I hold my hand out, and he puts the phone in my hand. I hand it to Christian.

“Here, dear, take a picture of me and Spencer,” I say with a wide smile. He raises a brow at me, and I walk over to Spencer without giving him time to protest. Spencer and I strike a pose together and stand there for several seconds while Christian fiddles with the phone.

“Christian, what are you doing?” I protest with a frown breaking the pose.

“I’m trying to take a picture, but I think it’s recording instead,” he says.

“Oh! Oh! Lemme see!” Spencer turns the phone around and looks at it, capturing Christian briefly on the screen. “Oh my God that’s even better!” He scurries back over to me after handing the phone back to my husband.

“Okay, Christian, Spencer says that’s even better,” I tease.

“I heard him, dear,” he replies, turning the camera back to us. Spencer and I talk very briefly to the camera about nothing, just long enough to get enough footage for his catty friends to know that it’s really me, after which I give him a kiss on the cheek, and he declares that he’s never washing his cheek again.

“Now, I only ask one favor,” I tell him.

“Anything!” he says.

“Wait until after noon to post that on your social media,” I tell him. “That way, we’ll be on our jet and out of California, and we won’t have to worry about being swarmed by the Paparazzi, okay?”

“Absolutely,” Spencer replies. “I wouldn’t want them to ruin my golden moment anyway. Thank you so much, Anastasia,” he adds. “I told them all that you seemed so down to earth and they said I was wrong. Now, I have proof!” He happily twists his phone back and forth.

“If you don’t mind me asking, who’s ‘they?’

“It’s just a group of my college mates,” he says, waving me off. “They’re my friends, and they’re cool, but they’re celebrity chasers—you know, they follow celebrities through the news and stuff and sometimes they make assumptions. I think a lot of times they get it wrong. They said John Legend was gay! I’m gay… I think I’d know if John Legend was gay!” he says with a touch of sarcasm. I chuckle.

“Well, thank you for making our brunch fun,” I say giving him a hug.

“You just made my month, Anastasia,” he replies with a sweet smile before leaving. I sigh.

“Okay, let’s get out of here. We’ve been made,” I say.

“We’ve been more than made, dear,” Christian teases. “Don’t you want to stick around and take a selfie or two with the cook?”

“Stop teasing me or this is going to be the longest, loneliest vacation you’ve ever had.”

“Couldn’t be worse than Greece,” he says, finishing his wine and rising from his seat.

*-*

“I could never live here,” I say after we board the plane again to head to Sydney.

“Why do you say that?” Christian asks as he buckles his seat belt.

“Celebrity chasers? Groups of college girls who follow the news and think they know me? We’d never get any peace! At least they leave us alone sometimes in Seattle! Out here, it’s like collecting bonuses in a video game!” Christian smiles.

“I was pleasantly surprised that he only knew of me because of you,” he chuckles. “It was somewhat refreshing.”

“I was pleasantly surprised that he called Burtie ‘handsome,’” I reply. “I could see exactly what Lanie was saying when she said that he’s changed. He clearly feels that the scars affect his appearance, which they do honestly. They’re the first thing that you see when you look at him, but he’s not disfigured. He’s just… scarred.”

“Well, his fiancé certainly seems very fond of him. That has to help a bit,” he says.

“I’m sure it does. I think hearing his sister wish his fate on herself may have helped to snap him out of his melancholy a bit as well. Burtie’s having a terrible time with what his father did to him. I’m certain he wouldn’t have wanted that to happen to Lanie.” Christian shakes his head.

“It’s beyond me how one person can ruin so many people’s lives in one fell swoop,” he says. “That man is like a plague. I’ve watched so many of my family cry over him—my father, my uncle, his own wife and children… I shudder to think how many tears Pops and Grandma Ruby shed over his worthless ass!”

“Some people are narcissistic to the point of no return,” I tell him. “Look at Chuck and his mom and his brother, Joe. At least at some point, Joe was justified in the anger he felt for the pain Chuck had caused, but the basis is the same. They were both unforgiving of the wrongs they felt were imposed on them—whether real or imagined—and they set out to cause immeasurable harm, misery, and pain, which they did. The difference is that Joseph’s anger is centered directly on Chuck and the results of his drinking, whereas it seems that Freeman just doesn’t care about anybody.

“He doesn’t,” Christian hisses, then sighs heavily. “I hate feeling like the world would be a better place without some people, but I swear to God, as bad as it sounds, he’s one of those people.”

“You don’t really mean that,” I scold.

“I don’t know if I mean it or not,” he says, running his hand across his forehead and then through his hair. “I don’t really wish anybody dead, not really—gone, maybe, but not dead.”

“Well, what’s the difference?” I ask.

“Gone is like that fucker Rossiter,” he says. “I kept meaning to tell you, but right before we left, I learned that he’s out of our lives forever. He accepted a settlement…”

“You paid him?” I interrupt, horrified.

“Fuck, no! Do I look crazy?” he says. Well, then, what does he mean by a settlement? “The gag order is so tight that anytime he talks to anybody in the Seattle area about anything, they only want to talk about me and you and, of course, he can’t. So, he can’t get work. He can’t even get gigs—he can’t get anything. We met with him and his attorney and I swore to drag this thing out to Armageddon.

“He can’t offer a settlement because he doesn’t have anything I want. He’s broke. He has no influence in any market anywhere. The only thing I want from him is to go the fuck away. So, those were my terms… go the fuck away—all the way away. Don’t talk about us, don’t approach us, nothing—go the fuck away. I even suggested that he might want to start over in a new area since everybody here already knows who he is.”

“And he accepted that?” I ask, surprised.

“Not immediately,” he admits. “He asked what was in it for him. Of course, he expected me to pay him off to make him leave. I let him know in no uncertain terms that I would drag him and his little ambulance chaser through court for the next 15 years and wouldn’t give him shit—and he would end up paying my court costs.

“Needless to say, his attorney correctly read that I wasn’t coming off of one thin red dime for this fucker, suddenly became irreparably insulted by something in the conversation that I said—God only knows what—and ceremoniously marched out of the talks. I told the Pussy DJ to give his attorney a call and I would guarantee that he wouldn’t answer or return any of his calls. Seriously, who in their right mind would take a case that wouldn’t pay off?”

“So… no more Rossiter?” I inquire.

“No more Rossiter,” he confirms. “It’s my understanding that he’s leaving the state. He’ll be on the normal watch list with a few tweaks to make sure that his ass isn’t doing interviews or writing books or anything. Speaking of writing books…” He runs his hands through his hair and holds his head down.

“Still nothing on the Pedophile huh?” He shakes his head with both hands on the back of his neck.

“Her,” he says, “I wish she’d die.”

Now, we can’t have that negative energy floating around the universe, especially while in a pressurized tube for the next 14 hours. I stand and move over to him, climbing in his lap and forcing him to raise his head.

“We’re not going to talk about her or even think about her for this entire trip,” I say, snaking my arms around his neck. “She, and anything else that’s going to cause us to feel sour, is off limits unless we absolutely must discuss it. We just met with Burtie and the family, so we discussed that. We don’t need to discuss the rest of this crap.”

I cover his lips with mine and plant a deep kiss on his mouth. He moans into mine and I almost forget that we’re not alone in the plane… almost.

“Fourteen hours until we reach the Land Down Under. Any idea what we can do with that kind of time?” he asks waggling his brow.

“Did you bring the cards?” I ask, waggling my own. He bursts out laughing.

“No, Mrs. Grey, I didn’t, but I’m sure we can find some other ways to amuse ourselves.”

“Amusing,” I say, feigning hurt. “You find it amusing, do you?”

“It… has its moments,” he admits. I punch him playfully in the shoulder.

“Asshole.” I stand from his lap and walk back to the bedroom. “Your ass won’t be laughing when I’m done with you,” I add under my voice.


CHRISTIAN

I watch her walk to the back of the plane, gray and black tweed wrapped tight around her ass and caressing her mid thigh. Bernard made a statement about her looking like Jackie O. I don’t remember any fucking pictures of Jackie O looking like that! The only thing that stands out to me about Jackie O are those pillbox hats and those gigantic sunglasses. I think Butterfly has a hundred pairs of those oversized glasses, and while I’m pondering the thought, that ass switches its way through the bedroom door before she closes it behind her.

I swear to God, if she locked me out of that room, I’m going to break that damn door down.

To my delight, the door slides open when I try it. I make sure to lock it behind me, however. I have to walk all the way into the room to see her. She’s at the foot of the bed getting undressed. She has already removed the short tweed jacket and is unzipping her skirt as I make my way into the room. The skirt drops to the floor, showcasing a beautiful pair of black thigh high stockings held up by suspenders either by Agent Provocateur or Victoria’s Secret. I can’t tell which right now because I’m too busy watching the ass framed under the suspenders to care about the brand.

I watch her shimmy out of the black shirt that was under the tweed suit with her back to me and… what’s this? She wasn’t wearing a bra? How did she pull that off? I continue to observe from my perch against the wall near the door, and I can see her release something that almost looks like pasties from where I’m standing. Whatever they are, she pushes some button and pulls a couple of strings and her breasts release.

Jesus, do they release! I’m drooling over here!

“What are you waiting for? Christmas?” she says, her voice low and husky as she undoes the belts holding her stockings and rolls them off her legs.

Good fucking question. What am I waiting for?

I quickly remove my blazer and pull my black T-shirt over my head, dropping them to the floor before she even gets to the second stocking. I toe out of my shoes and undo my jeans as she rolls the second stocking down her leg and places it on the chair near the wall along with the rest of her clothes. I’m leaving a garment trail behind me and she’s stacking her shit neatly on the chair. Well, she got a head start—I’m trying to catch up.

I drop my jeans and my boxer briefs freeing my aching cock while she undoes the hooks holding the suspenders around her waist. Fucking hell, she’s wearing a thong and her ass looks glorious. I’m going to have some of that ass. I need a good, hard… sleep.

When she turns around to face me in nothing but that sexy ass thong, I’m stepping on each sock to pull my feet from them, leaving a mass of unkempt clothes from the door to the bed. Ask me if I care. She does that finger beckoning thing to call me to her and I’m there so fast that I don’t even feel my legs move.

When I get over to her, I reach for her waist to pull her to me and she pushes me backwards onto the bed… hard! Well, goddamn! I fall so hard onto the bed that I bounce a couple of times. She drops to her knees and before I know what’s going on, she’s locked onto my dick.

“Ssssssss!” I hiss as she sucks my cock deep and hard into her mouth. “Goddammit, Ana!”

She nearly swallows the damn thing, bobbing madly as if I need to be fluffed! Trust me, baby, this dick is very ready and if you keep that up, I ain’t gonna last!

She puts that theory to the test, though, for several minutes. She’s grippin’ and suckin’ and squeezin’ and slurpin’ like a pro on a porno, complete with all the grunting and groaning and wet, sloppy noises! My dick is screaming like, “What did I do to deserve this??”

She slurps and sucks on my dick, saliva coating the shaft and oozing from her mouth, adding lubrication to her skillful stroking hands. Each time her hot mouth releases my head, I feel my balls lift and separate, begging her to continue so they can release. I groan loudly and grab the sheets underneath me, my thighs tightening in anticipation of those velvety lips wrapping around my shaft again.

Her tongue and mouth gently lick and caress the head of my dick, so fucking hot and hard from her feverish blowjob moments before. This teasing is torturous, over and around my frenulum, and I’m literally crawling backwards to get away from the torment, but she just follows me up the bed and continues her rhythm, licking and tasting that tender patch of skin with her whole mouth, the entire time gently stroking the taut skin of my hot, aching balls with her freshly manicured nails. Dear God, I’m going to lose my mind.

She crawls up on the bed and turns around so that her ass is facing me, though she doesn’t straddle me. Her head dips between my legs again and I can no longer see my cock or my pelvis—but I can feel the shaft in her throat.

“Fuuuuuuck…” I groan mournfully, throwing my head back and preparing for the onslaught. She slides her mouth up and down mercilessly on my cock, my head, rim, and frenulum rubbing against her throat with each pass. I can’t keep still, and I can’t control myself. I put one hand on her head and wrap the other partially around her body, matching her stroke on my cock with my hips and mumbling incoherent chants of pleasure with each thrust, but with unusual control, she puts her hand flat on my pelvis and halts my motion and push after about five thrusts. I fucking want to cry.

“Ana…” I breathe mournfully, “God, Ana, please…”

She quickly wiggles from my grasp and straddles me facing away from me. My cock is standing straight up, pink and hard and ready, and she slowly lowers herself onto me. Fuck, she’s so hot and tight. I gasp when she takes all of me inside her. She sits there for a moment and I’m panting like a fucking puppy, feeling the inside of her walls wrapped around me. My hands grasp her hips and I want to thrust…

“No!” she demands, her voice soft, but forceful. I swallow hard and try to prepare for what she has planned. She lays down on my body, her back to my chest, and slowly begins to move.

“Slow,” she coaches as her hips roll sensually over mine, pushing and pulling on my shaft and massaging the head and walls in a slow, hot fuck. I open my mouth to let air in as she fucks me, and I can feel her begin to get wetter, her breathing and sounds changing. Fuck, I’m not going to make it.

She’s writhing against my body and tormenting my dick slowly, pushing down onto it and pulling off of it—I’m afraid to move my hips for fear that I’m going to nut any second, until…

She moves one of my hands from her hip and guides it over to her clit. At first, I’m sure I’m a goner, because my hand can feel my dick going inside of her now. Then suddenly, my brain kicks in…

She’s given me a task!

I reach down to my dick and gather a bit of the moisture that I know I’ll find there, then I press my hand firmly over her Mons and plant my middle finger just under her clit—at the most sensitive point. Now, I’ll match her stroke and let her hips push her Mons against my hand and her clit against my finger. Her response is immediate. Her writhing becomes more sensual and her hands stretch above both our heads. Her tits are sticking straight up with her hands stretched above us that way, so I move my other hand over her breast and hold her against me—just a bit. She’s so feral, there’s no holding her still.

I feel her clit getting stiff under my finger and I dare not move it, but fuck if it’s not making me harder. God, this shit is so hot—a handful of tit, a handful of pussy, and my dick sinking deep into that hot core. We’re moving as one, achingly slowly chasing an imminent orgasm, and just when I think it can’t get any hotter, she places her hand flat against the headboard for leverage and pushes down on my dick.

I cry out from the unexpected onslaught of pleasure as she once again dominates my cock. I keep my hands in place, but she’s running this ride—I’m just the lucky passenger.

She starts to heave and convulse, squeaking pants and wheezing coming from her throat as her control pumps and thrusts become wild flails. It takes me a moment to realize that she’s coming and trying not to let her screams be heard over the Pacific. So, I place my hands between her legs and spread both thighs, intent on giving her maximum pleasure through her orgasm… and not prepared for the effect it would have on me.

I must open my legs to keep up with her stroke. Not only does the air hit my testicles and tightens the skin, but also each stroke is hitting her balls deep.

It’s. A fucking. Wrap.

We are madly thumping in this bed and I’m fucking her like a wild dog. She’s still writhing and wheezing, and I don’t know if she’s coming or if she’s just hanging in there for me, but my balls pop so hard that I start squirming on the bed. I’m squeezing the meat of her thighs like I’m squeezing juice from an orange as I pump and empty hard into her. The throbbing and vibrations are so intense that my dick pops out of her pussy. On cue, she sits up and grabs my cock, jerking the rest of the orgasm out of me.

I cry out like a bitch.

When the ride is over and we’re lying there sweaty and spent, I’m silently thankful for breastfeeding and her IUD. Without them, we would be recounting this story as the day our third child was conceived.

*-*

“Are you awake?” I ask, when I think my wife is stirring a bit.

“Mmm, just barely,” she says as she stretches. “What time is it?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “We’re not going to know until we land anyway.” She yawns. “That was hot, baby.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she says. “So, why do I feel your cock against my thigh?”

“Because I want that ass,” I admit. “I wanted it before we fell asleep, but you wore me out.”

“And you didn’t wear me out,” she accuses.

“One good turn deserves another,” I croon, placing open-mouthed kisses on her shoulder.

“Um… if we don’t know what time it is, how do we know how much time we have left?”

“Because I don’t know what time it is, but I know how long we’ve been in the sky,” I tell her. “We’ve got several hours left.”

“Shouldn’t we eat first?” she asks. I think she’s stalling, but she’s right. We’ve been in the air for hours. It’s past dinner time. I throw my legs over the edge of the bed and reach for my pants.

“I’ll go see if dinner has already been served,” I say. I pull my jeans on, but I don’t fasten them. I pull my T-shirt over my head as I walk to the restroom. After I relieve myself, I walk out into the main cabin area and see that Jason and Lawrence are finishing their meal. The flight attendant comes from the galley area and flushes bright red when she sees me. This is her first flight with me, so I assume that she hasn’t been apprised of the fact that I’ll fuck my wife whenever I want, wherever I want that won’t get us arrested.

“Good… evening, Mr. Grey,” she says, barely able to get her words out and looking past me instead of at me—an elementary evasion tactic. “Would you and Mrs. Grey like dinner now?”

“Yes,” I reply. “What’s on the menu?”

“Chicken Cacciatore over roasted potatoes and sautéed spinach,” she replies, still avoiding eye contact. I nod.

“Mrs. Grey is a bit indisposed, so we’ll be taking our dinner in our room. Just knock when it’s ready.”

“Yes, sir,” she says before making a speedy getaway. I look over at Jason, who is quite unsuccessful at hiding his mirth and Lawrence, who keeps his head down and his gazed fixed on the last potato on his plate as if it may run away. I shake my head and head back to the bedroom. Butterfly is in the bathroom and I hear water running. I walk back into the room and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the dresser.

From my head to my toes, I look totally JBF and I have no doubt that I’m sex funky. I shake my head and remove my T-shirt before climbing back into bed and waiting for my wife and my dinner.

About five minutes later, Butterfly emerges from the restroom in a simple sheath dress and smelling like springtime and heaven.

“Why are you dressed?” I ask.

“I thought we were going to eat,” she replies, replacing and overnight bag near the nightstand.

“We are, but we’re going to eat in here. I thought you would be more comfortable…” and I can fuck you faster when we’re finished with our meal.

“Well, you think of everything, don’t you, Mr. Grey?” she asks, putting her hands on her hips and thoroughly reading my ulterior motives.

“That I do,” I reply, “so you can get rid of the cute little cover-up because it’s obstructing my view.” She giggles and pulls the dress over her head, laying it out with the rest of the day’s wardrobe on the chair.

“You can lose those, too,” I say, gesturing to the sexy lace underwear she’s wearing.

“Only because I don’t have another pair on board,” she says. “I learned my lesson with Anguilla, but I still may feel the need to wash my undies so that I’ll have the other pair available in case of emergency.” She slides out of the sexy white scrap of material and they join the clothes on the chair as well.

“So… what do I do now?” she asks

“Don’t fuck with me, Anastasia,” I warn. “We won’t eat until we land in Australia.” She doesn’t flinch standing there naked in front of me, but I think she doesn’t realize that I will make good on my threat. While I’m pondering the situation carefully, there’s a knock at the door. I don’t move at first, examining her and waiting to see who’ll crack first. There’s another knock at the door.

“It’s me, sir,” Jason says through the door. “Should I return later?”

I still don’t move, then my wife folds her arms, hoisting her breasts up a bit.

“Do you want to open the door?” she inquires, “Or should I?”

Now, I’m not sure who’s the winner of this particular game of stare, because although she spoke first, the idea of Jason seeing that juicy body in all its sensual glory has me damn near scrambling to get the door, a little disappointed that I don’t get to unnerve our poor flight attendant with the view of me in nothing but my jeans coupled with the undeniable scent of sex that’s going to rush from this room the moment I open the door. I make quick work of pulling in the food cart and shooing Jason away so that I can drop these jeans as quickly as possible.

I uncover two succulent servings of Chicken Cacciatore with spinach and crescent rolls along with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon breathing next to two wine glasses. Under another cover and packed on ice is two servings of tiramisu and on the bottom of the cart is an ice cooler that contains four large bottles of water.

Jason—or the poor verklempt flight attendant—was thinking ahead not to disturb us again.

“God, I’m famished!” she says, plopping down onto the bed next to me and retrieving a fork. I calculate the time based on my watch that still set to Seattle time, and it’s been nearly eight hours since we had brunch. Couple that with hot, sweat-inducing, mind-blowing sex and, yes, it’s time to eat!

The Chicken Cacciatore is delicious. Even though the meal is chef-prepared for the trip, the servings are small because you don’t want to eat too much on an airplane, particularly a 14-hour flight. Butterfly savors the meal and we have a little fun with the tiramisu eating it off of each other—which invariably leads to getting caught in that gaze and… well you know the rest.

I got that valium-sleep-inducing ass that I was craving, and we’re both out cold until 90 minutes before we’re scheduled to land in Australia. We’ve got just enough time to get showered, dressed, and in our seats just in time for the descent into Sydney.

You can see the lights of the city at night and the traffic traveling on the opposite side of the road. I always wondered who decided which side was the correct side to drive or to place the steering wheel.

The city is stunning. Butterfly is photographing our arrival over the Harbor and the unbelievable view. You can easily make out the form of the Sydney Opera House even from way up here appearing to float majestically on the water in the dark. I’m already glad that we’re in Sydney and we haven’t even landed yet.

Once we’ve proceeded through customs and finished with inspection, our bags are loaded into a waiting limousine. The last thing I felt like doing the moment I step off a 14-hour flight is scrambling to get luggage inside of a taxi or on a train. That stuff might be okay to get around and see the sights, but getting from the airport to our hotel? Somebody get this luggage and get us where we need to be.

The strangest thing to get used to once we land in Sydney—besides the complete opposite seasons—is the loss of time. We left LAX at about noon on Saturday. However, by the time we check into our hotel in Sydney, it’s about 11:30pm on Sunday night. We lost nearly two days flying to Australia, but we’ll get those two days back when we fly back home.

Now, it may seem like all we’ve done is eat, sleep, and fuck on our trip—which is pretty much the truth—but that light dinner throughout the 14-hour flight was just enough to keep us from starving and, once again, we are famished! Even though we’ll have at least one good meal is Sydney tomorrow, it won’t be dinner. So, once we check into the Westin Sydney, we take a stroll down Elizabeth St. to Martin Place to see what food the nightlife has for us. We decide to head through Hyde Park and see the fountain since there doesn’t seem to be many people in the park this late at night.

Mistake! Big mistake!

We’re all cuddled up walking along being romantic—as romantic as you can be with two security guards walking behind you. The night is beautiful, and the weather is warm. I say something witty to my wife that causes her to throw her head back in genuine laughter that warms my heart.

And then she freezes.

That same beautiful voice that just warmed my heart with a melodic laugh chills my soul with a blood-curdling scream.

She shrinks back into my arms as if she would push herself into my body if she could, staring in terror at the sky. Three grown men all duck in alarm, waiting to see what monster is headed in our direction.

Bats. Lots and lots of bats.

Okay, I could see how that could be scary. I’m a bit alarmed at the sight myself at first, especially since my wife is screaming like someone’s eating her alive. Even I have to admit the sight is pretty fucking creepy. I wrap my arms around my wife and look at Jason.

“Get us a taxi now!” I order him before I turn my attention to my screaming wife.

“Okay, baby, I’ve got you. They’re not going to bother you,” I comfort. Truth is, she’s not okay because I’ve got her. She’s okay because the bats in this part of the world are mostly herbivores. Being as well-traveled as I am, I’ve picked up quite a few tidbits of not-so-useless information. Generally, these bats are harmless to people, but that doesn’t mean you want to pet them.

Jason makes quick work of hailing a taxi, and I hurriedly get my wife inside of it. She’s crying now, sitting between me and Lawrence while Jason sits in the front seat.

“Whehre to, mate…?” The cabbie pauses when he sees my distraught wife. “Is she alroight?”

My wife has taken to shivering and whimpering now, clutching my jacket for dear life and obviously—but unsuccessfully—trying to compose herself.

“Not really,” I say, examining her closely. “The local wildlife just scared the shit out of her.”

“Aah,” he says, “the foxes. Don’t worry, Sheila. Thy only eat berries an’ stuff.” Butterfly is beginning to calm a bit but is still quite shaken up.

“Do you want to go back to the hotel?” I ask. She shakes her head.

“I’m hungry,” she whimpers.

“We can get room service,” I offer.

“We’ve only got one day in Sydney,” she complains. “I don’t want room service!” She sounds like a petulant child. I look to the cabbie.

“Any suggestions?” I ask. “We’re taking a cruise tomorrow afternoon, so tonight and tomorrow will be our only chance to see Sydney.”

“It’s lyte, mate, but thehre’s a few places. Looks like she could use a little fun. Gimme a minute.” He pulls out his phone and swipes at the screen a few times. I had better stick close to my wife because she suddenly looks stricken by the authentic Australian accent, and it doesn’t help that the guy is a good-looking fucker who just rescued her from vicious fruit-eating bats.

“Big Poppas,” the Australian female answers through the taxi’s Bluetooth. It sounds like there’s a party going on in the background.

“Can I speak ta Carla, please?” he asks, although Carla sounds more like Cahlah.

“One minute.” A few moments later, “This is Cahlah.” And the party is back.

“Cahly, it’s ya fyv’rite Aussie, babe. Listen, got a fayhr hehr—Americans—a mate and his sheila and theih bodyguahds…”

How did he know all that?

“… Says they’re only here for one noight and they catchin’ a boat out the hahbah tomarrah arvo. The guhl’s got a bit of a froight from the ole foxes, heh heh.  I’m sure they’ll be etuhnally grayteful if you can get ‘em a table an’ a meal tanoight. Whadya think theh, Cahly?”

Aye, it’s Sunday! Send ‘em on in, mah tips been dreadful! I need ev’rythin’ I can get! What’s the nehm?” The cabby looks back at me.

“Jason Taylor,” Jason says before I can say anything.

“Jyson Tylor, pahty of fouh, three blokes and a sheila. Be theh in a minute, we’he not fah.”

“Thaynks, mate,” and he ends the call.

“It sounds… lively,” I say, cautiously. The cabbie laughs.

“Don’t worry, mate. Just good music. The food’s really good an’ yah sheila’ll get a chance to relax.”

We arrive at a non-intimidating structure about five minutes later—clean, and full! It makes me wonder why Carla’s tips aren’t so good tonight. You can hear the music outside—old school hip hop, it sounds like. I have a feeling my wife is going to like this place.

“Is that… Usher?” she asks, identifying the song playing from inside the bar.

“Yeh,” the cabbie says. “The nehm’s Big Poppa’s, nehmed ahftah Biggie Smalls himself. Ahsk foh Cahlah, she’ll tyke good cah’of yah!” I shake his hand.

“Thanks, man, I really appreciate it.” I slip him $100. “I’m sorry, I haven’t had time to exchange yet…”

“That’s quoite alroight, mate!” he says jovially and hands me a card. “I’m Noah. Heh’s my numbah. If ya need a roide to tha hahbah tomarrah, give me a ring. Wheheveh I am, I’m at cha sehvice!”

“I’ll do that,” I say, tucking his card into my pocket. “We’ll need transport to a few places tomorrow.”

“I’ll sty in the areah, then, mate,” he says.

“By the way, my name’s Christian, and the lovely, frightened girl is my beautiful wife Ana.”

“Lovely to meet ya… who’s Jyson?” he asks bemused. I point to Jason. “Oh, okay. Noice to meet you, too, mate.” Jason nods once.

“How late are you working tonight, Noah?” I ask.

“I knock off at three,” he says.

“Well, I’d appreciate it if you could be here at 2:30. I don’t think my wife wants to stroll at night anymore.”

“Shuh thing, mate. Ah’ll see yah then.” I get out first and examine the building. I assume nothing too crazy can be going on inside of a bar with full glass windows in front. When I reach for Butterfly’s hand to help her out of the taxi…

“Uh oh…” She takes my hand and steps out.

“What?” she says, frowning at me as she steps out of the taxi. I remove my blazer.

“I… think the foxes scared you a little more than usual.” I gesture my head to her dress. She looks down to see what I’m referring to… huge wet spots on her dress that have leaked down the front a bit.

“Oh, shit,” she exclaims quietly. I put my jacket over her shoulders, and she slides her arms in, rolling up the sleeves and buttoning all the buttons. The thing damn near covers her entire dress.

“You still want to go inside, or do you want to go back to the hotel?” I ask.

“Hell, no!” she replies. No to which one? “I’m starving, and Carla’s tips have been dreadful. I’ll go to the bathroom and shove some paper towel in my bra. Let’s go.” She walks ahead of me to get to the bar and I have to quickstep to catch up with her. I still don’t know how and will never understand how this little woman can move so quickly and easily in sky-high stilettos!

We step in the lively establishment and ask for Carla. When I say this place is full, I mean it’s really full—at midnight on a Sunday. A tall blonde walks over to us.

“Ah’m Cahlah. Ya the Amehricans?” she asks.

“We are,” I reply. “Noah told us to ask for you.”

“OI don have any tehbles left in the restaurant, but we’ve got some seats in the bah downstehs. Is that okeh?”

“Can I get food down there?” Butterfly asks. “I mean real food like real people eat?” Carla laughs.

“Shuh, sheila, follow me.”

We fall in step behind Carla, who leads us through the restaurant and down a flight of stairs. We walk through the bar—not as crowded as the restaurant, but the source of the music—and right over a picture of the one and only Big Poppa made from mosaic tiles in the floor.

“That’s kinda cool,” Butterfly says as Carla leads us to the table—a large booth with leather seats.

“OI’ll bring you a treh of stahtehs, and what can OI get ya ta drink?” she asks.

“I’ll have a beer. The lady will have a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon…” I look at Butterfly to get her approval, and she nods. “And the gentlemen will have two sodas.”

“Two sodas, a frothy, and a cab sav for the sheila,” she says, writing on her pad. She places menus on the table. “I’ll be back with your stahtehs and drinks.”

“Um, Carla, where’s the ladies’ room?” Butterfly asks. Carla points to the back.

“Dunny’s roight bahk theh through those doohs and to the left,” she says and Butterfly nods. When she leaves, Butterfly bends down to me.

“Why do they keep calling me ‘Sheila?’” she asks. I shrug.

“I’m not sure, baby, but in context, I think it means ‘woman’ or ‘girl,’” I reply.

“It does,” Jason says with a nod.

“Okay,” Butterfly says. “I just want to know what I’m being called. I had a feeling if it was bad, they wouldn’t all call me that, but still…” She heads off towards the restroom and Jason jerks his head for Lawrence to follow. He stands from the chair and scurries behind her.

“He doesn’t know to follow her?” I ask.

“I’m not making excuses for him. I don’t know why he didn’t get up.” I twist my lips.

“No slip-ups on this trip, Jason,” I say sternly. “He’s been a good egg up to now.”

“I’ll debrief him—make sure he doesn’t drop the ball.” Yeah, you do that, because if he fucks up, he’ll have to find another way back to the states and then he’ll have to hide from me when he gets there.

I find myself bopping to Outkast while waiting for my sheila to return from the restroom. She’s in there longer than I’m comfortable with, so I try to occupy myself with taking in the sights. The locals—at least I think they’re locals—don’t look or behave particularly differently than we do in the states. Everybody’s just drinking, chatting, eating and having a good time. I don’t know what I expect to see, but I guess I just expected to see something different. This is just your usual weekend hangout playing old-school hip-hop and serving food at a later hour.

My attention is drawn to the classic art on the walls in beautiful onyx frames, not because of the art itself, but because of the big white block words printed over the pictures that have nothing to do with the pictures themselves…

The blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice…

Bitch don’t kill my vibe…

What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I mean, I’ve heard the berry quote, but the picture has nothing to do with it. Maybe the vibe picture can be explained by the ancient Grecian woman lying on the daybed looking a bit perturbed…

As I’m trying to decipher the meaning of the pictures, Carla comes back to the table with our drinks and some food we hadn’t ordered yet. Maybe these were the “starters” she was talking about.

“Heh’s yah drinks,” she says, handing each of the drinks to me as I place them on the table. “These ah yah stahtahs. Yah guhl seems like she’s stahvin’ so I brought cha the three plattah meat and cheese.”

The three-platter-meat-and cheese is just what it sounds like—three large platters of various wedges of cheese, breads, crackers, meats… it’s basically a very large gourmet antipasto. Although I’m certain that my wife will be satisfied with the layout, I go about the business of ordering one of just about everything on the menu. I’m looking at the other tables and although the food looks fantastic, the servings look kind of small. If my wife gets another airplane-sized meal, she just might go postal.

After a stunned Carla leaves the table to prepare our veritable buffet, I take note of the fact that my wife still hasn’t returned from the bathroom. By now, Beyoncé has played and ended and now Get Low is playing. Did she fall in? I don’t know what gives away my thoughts, but Jason gets my attention by putting his hand on my forearm.

“I’ll go check,” he says, and begins to rise from his seat. His butt has barely left the chair when we see this tiny figure in a giant Tom Ford blazer dancing her way through the crowd. She stops at one group of raucous women and they all bop there for a moment with their hands in the air pointing “to the window, to the wall.” My wife rolls her hips and shows off her moves to the hip hop music, and I’ve never been so thrilled to see a big man following her than I am at this moment to see Lawrence not three feet away from her as she gyrates in this group of women. She revels there for a few more moments to the unedited lyrics of Li’l John’s music before she high fives one of the women and dances her way back over to the table.

She hasn’t even had a drink yet.

“I was worried,” I say when she sits. “What took so long?”

“I was drenched,” she exclaims, a little breathless. “They had a hand dryer in there, thank God. I had to do something. The dress is pretty much ruined. It might as well be dry.” She throws her hands in the air again to take advantage of the “window” chorus once more, then downs her entire glass of Cabernet.

“I want something stronger,” she says. “Ooo, that looks yummy.” She takes a small piece of bread and stacks it with a piece of the gourmet meat and cheese and takes a bite, popping an olive in her mouth as well. “Mmm, that’s delicious.”

“Don’t fill up on it. We’ve got food coming—and don’t forget we’re going on a cruise tomorrow. I don’t think a ‘hangover’ would mix well with a boat ride.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll only have one or two drinks. What did you order?”

“Um… a whole lot,” I say, knowing that I pretty much pointed at what was on the menu and took some suggestions from Carla. “I wanted to make sure that no one left hungry.”

“Good plan, Mr. Grey,” she declares as she loads a cracker with spreadable cheese and more meat. “They have a lot of cheese varieties here, huh?” she says, uncharacteristically talking with her mouth full.

“Looks that way,” I chuckle watching her shovel gourmet antipasto into her mouth. I’m glad to see that she has apparently shaken the experience with the bats and the milky-dress incident hasn’t left her embarrassed and devastated.

And she really does look quite cute in my jacket.


A/N: 

“Quel tragique.”—”What a tragedy.”
“Pardonnez-moi, monsieur.”—”Forgive me, sir.”
“Tu es pardonné. Il est délicieux, n’est-ce pas?”—”You are forgiven. He’s delicious, isn’t he?”
“Oui, très délicieux! Vous êtes un gars chanceux. Pardonnez mon impolitesse”—”Yes, very delicious! You are a lucky guy. Forgive my rudeness ”
“Parlez vous français?”—”Do you speak French?”
“Oui, madame,”—”Yes, ma’am”
“Je parle français aussi.”—”I speak French too.”

Please do not beat me over the head too badly for my bad imitation of an Australian accent. I’m doing the best I can.

I’ve taken some liberties with Big Poppa’s because they weren’t open yet at the time this story was set and Sunday is actually “bring your own wine” day, but they couldn’t expect a couple of Americans running from bats to have a bottle of wine shoved in their inside pocket.

I also know that taxi drivers and restaurant servers don’t expect to be tipped, but it adds to the story and the “Christian Grey always gets what he wants when he wants it” aspect of the story, so I did it anyway.

MUSIC:
Outkast—
Hey Ya
Beyoncé—
Jumpin’, Jumpin’
Li’l John—
Get Low

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

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~~love and handcuffs

Raising Grey: Chapter 63—Out of Alignment

So, you’re getting two chapters because neither of these could really stand alone without an interruption in flow. For those who celebrate it, Happy Thanksgiving.

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

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

Chapter 63—Alignment Shift

ANASTASIA

We’ve both come fantastically, but my husband’s hard dick is bobbing in my face right now, and if I can get a repeat of what I just got, I’m all for it! I gently wrap my lips around the head of his cock and lick. He hisses loudly.

“I haven’t picked a card yet,” he protests.

“Then hurry up and pick one,” I chastise. I can feel him frantically reaching over to get a card.

“Slide down and ride that dick,” he says, his voice raspy. “Reverse cowgirl.”

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He puts the card face-up on the floor near his hip so that I can see it. I slide down his body and take his dick in my hand. I guide his head to my opening, still tender and pulsing a bit from my orgasm, and slide down onto him.

“Ssssssssssss! Aw, shit!” he hisses as his fingers caress my hips. I begin to move back and forth over his dick and his fingers never tighten. They only slide with my hips.

“That’s it, baby,” he says, his voice a harsh whisper. “Just like that… ride that dick… fuck that cock…”

He doesn’t move. He just lets me ride and I can feel him getting harder and fatter inside of me as he exclaims several expletives throughout the five minutes. When the timer goes off, he doesn’t make a move.

“Pick a card,” I taunt, still fucking his growing dick.

“Fuck!” he hisses and reaches for another card.

“Stop… stop for a minute,” he begs, “I need to think.” I stop rolling my hips and he’s damn near breathless on the floor. “I don’t know how we’re going to do this one.” He shows me the card and it’s The Sitting V. You normally need a counter or table to pull this one off. I look over at the loveseat and see the highest point in the room that won’t leave me with a bruised or impaled ass.

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“The arm of the loveseat?” I say.

“We’ll give it a try,” he says, slapping my ass, signaling me to get up.

Yeah… no.

We tried everything to get that position right. What’s supposed to happen is that my but is on the edge of a counter, my legs over his shoulders and my hands behind his neck. He supports my back and he just fucks me that way. We tried. We really tried, but he’s too tall to stand and too short to kneel to get the position right. We even tried crouching, but he couldn’t get an angle where his knees didn’t hit the side of the sofa. By the time we try every unsuccessful variation of this position, we’re caught in fits of uncontrollable giggles and realize that we had never set the timer. We throw in the towel on The Sitting V and pick another card.

The T-Position

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“Now we’re talking,” Christian croons as he pulls me from the loveseat back onto the floor. “Lie back,” he instructs me. When I do, he slides between my legs on his side—perpendicular—and lifts my leg over his hip. While I’m trying to figure out how this is going to work, he pushes my other leg away from him so that they’re spread open wider but he’s not lying on my leg. Then he slides into me.

Holy. Cow. Batman.

“There it is,” he says as he begins that masterful stroke that has me rising in a matter of seconds. “Now, we’re back on track.”

He bends his knee so that my leg drapes over his thigh and now, he’s not only free to move his hips, but his hand is also free to caress me as he’s doing this perfect sideways thrust into my core. He’s caressing my thighs and my stomach, kissing my skin wherever his lips and tongue can reach, and I nearly can’t stand it.

I can’t even think of a French exclamation, and I really need one right now.

I open my mouth to get some fair into my lungs and look down at my husband. He’s gazing at me all victoriously, a half-smirk on his face as his body rolls into mine over and over in a perfect water wave, his dick sliding so deliciously in and out of me causing the perfect amount of friction. I reach up and grab my breasts and close my eyes, lost in the perfection of this position that we’ve never tried before. When I open them again, my husband’s expression has changed. He’s still gazing at me, but he’s licking and biting his lips and grasping my leg hard.

“You look so fucking hot,” he says as he plunges into me, his stroke now deeper and seeking his own pleasure while fueling mine.

“Christian!” I breathe, “please…”

“Please, what?” he hisses, grinding and rolling and thrusting his hips into mine, the task seeming harder and harder for him. Yeah, please, what? I don’t know. I groan and fall back onto the floor, welcoming the delicious burn in my core and allowing him to push me higher and higher as he grunts with each thrust.

DING!

I blindly reach for the scattered cards and pull one. I can’t even see it through my passion-induced haze, so I just shove it in Christian’s face. He reaches over and grabs a handful of cards then, wrapping his arms around me, he rises effortlessly from the floor and carries me to the loveseat—with his dick still inside of me. He sits down with me on top, straddling him and just begins to fuck me. I wrap my arms around his neck and ride along with him. His hands are all over me—my back, my ass, my hair—he’s kissing me passionately and loving me deeply. I try to give him back what he’s giving me, running my fingers through his hair, caressing his cheek and chest, kissing him deeply. When his arms slide around my waist, I know that we’re both in passion and chasing the orgasm again. We both groan when the timer goes off and Christian pulls a card from the small stack next to us.

“We’ll change the timer to ten minutes, okay?” he breathes, his voice thick with arousal. I nod and wait anxiously for him to show me the next card.

“Somebody somewhere likes us,” he says, showing me the card. It’s Standing Sex. And again, he lifts me effortlessly and stands to his feet, continuing his stroke right where he left off. Now, we’re both fighting an orgasm and this round has to last ten minutes. I wrap my arms around him and just enjoy the ride.

“Don’t come. Feel the pleasure,” I coach myself inwardly. My body is bursting with sensation all over and I want to come so badly, but I simply can’t let it end yet. It feels too damn good. I know my husband is having the same thoughts and his stamina is much stronger than mine, but he feels so good inside of me that I release a mournful groan that has his knees wobbling and causes him to nearly lose the fight.

“Damn, baby, you’re too fucking sexy!” he exclaims, his face buried in my neck as he pounds into me.

“So are you,” I breathe. “You’re so big and you feel so good…”

“Fuuuuuuuck!” he groans loudly, and I feel him still and pulsing inside me. I thought he came, but he only stops momentarily and starts to thrust again, harder and deeper. The inner coach is somewhere taking a break and I feel myself rising higher and higher…

DING!

“Fuck, that shit was close,” Christian confesses breathily. He sits back on the loveseat with me on his lap and pulls another card.

“And it’s about to get closer,” he says as he shows me another card.

Doggy style.

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Fuck!

I rise off of him and get into position on my knees over the loveseat.

“Fuck, baby,” he says, looking down at me, “I think this is about to be a wrap.”

“I tend to agree with you,” I say.

He falls into position behind me and slides easily inside me.

“Fucking hell!” he says, grabbing my hips and thrusting hard into me three or four times. Oh, shit! I’m startled when he stops, takes a few deep breaths, then begins to move in a long, slow stroke.

Oh, hell. Mr. Grey is going to draw this out.

I try to get my mind ready for the onslaught of pleasure that’s about to come over me, but nothing could have prepared me. His slow stroke intensifies when his grip tightens on my hip and one hand flattens on my back. I open my mouth again to get air in, but I can feel the dew forming on my skin. It won’t be long now.

“Baby, fuck,” he groans, and his whole body is over mine, his hips thrusting his cock deliciously into me. My labored breathing becomes whimpers with each thrust and my body is aching to come now. I don’t want to fight it anymore, but my stubborn brain won’t let go. He licks the dew off my back and his hand grasps my shoulder while the other is flat on the loveseat next to mine, supporting his weight.

“Oh, God,” I protest when he licks my skin again, finishing with an open-mouthed kiss on my back. I shiver and release a breath, begging my sweating body to let go so that I can come.

“Fuck, I need you,” he growls. “I need you so much.” His hand dives into my hair and he roughly twists my head to the side. I cry out from the surprise more than the pain and he slams a bruising kiss onto my lips, his tongue plunging into my mouth. I almost collapse on my arms as my body shivers and aches. He begins to moan shamelessly into my mouth and my body signals that if he releases, I can let go.

“Oh, fuck, no, no, not yet!” he chastises aloud as his dick pulses inside of me. Again, I think he comes, but much to my dismay, he doesn’t. There’s no insane wetness to indicate his ejaculation and only moments later, he’s thrusting into me again. “Fuck, so close… so fucking close.”

“If you let go, I’ll let go,” I breathe, not willing to tap out yet.

“No… no… not yet… too fucking good…” he pants as he continues to thrust into me. I moan inwardly. I want to come so badly, I could cry, but my stubborn brain won’t let my body release before he does, and his body is fighting the feeling because it’s too good.

“Fuck, baby, my dick is burning,” he confesses as he reaches around and pulls my nipple, still drilling into me.

“Oh, God, Christian!’ I protest as I fight to hold myself up against him. I close my eyes as his teeth sink gently into the meat of my shoulder. I shiver with delight, feeling my breast fall into and fill his large hand. He alternates between cupping it and gently caressing it to pulling my nipple until it’s taut and aroused.

DING!

Goddammit to hell, that was the longest ten minutes ever fucking known to man, and I don’t protest when he doesn’t stop fucking me. I can’t take it anymore. I need to come again… seriously!

“This is the last one,” he groans. “I need to come inside you.”

“Okay,” I pant, breathlessly.

“You pull,” he commands, still fucking me and pulling on my nipple. I nod and reach for the cards on the loveseat. When I pull the card for the next position, I know it’s going to be a problem…

Yab-yum.

7141b283b014b0aff2468d1b0a2dd065

That’s our connection position, and this has the potential to be dynamic… or disastrous. I’m spent and aching for an orgasm and can’t be responsible for what comes of attempting this feat, but nonetheless, we agree to try it.

I thought the position would be awkward sexually, but my husband has a goddamn Olympic-length dick. So, when he sits lotus-style with his back against the loveseat, I sit in his lap facing him with my arms and legs around him. He guides his cock to my core and they have no problem finding their counterpart. It’s not the deepest penetration that we’ve had, but it feels good… really good… in more ways than one.

The intimacy that I feel is amazing! Yes, my core is still on fire and in a secondary kind of way, I can still feel the pleasure of my husband inside of me… loving me, but something else is going on.

His fingertips caress my arm very softly, then my neck. Silver-gray eyes never leave mine. My hands slowly slide from his shoulders to his chest, my fingers spread far apart. I feel like that’s where they need to be. His arms slide around me, and his hands move to my upper back. He holds me close to him… not too close, but close… close enough to look into my eyes, close enough to breathe the same air…

And we begin to rock.

We rock and rock until we become acutely aware of the physical as well as the spiritual friction between us. The room fades away. Everything fades away for a moment except the sound of his voice…

You’re beautiful. You’re my life. I couldn’t survive without you.

You’re in my soul… in my blood… everything in me is you…

I live and breathe for you, only for you, my love…

I will take care of you…

I will love you for the rest of my days…

I don’t know where I am, and I only feel heat. I only see light. Heat and light. Well, more like warmth… warmth all over. I feel like some of my life’s energy is leaving me, and it’s scaring me.

Christian… please… help me…

I’ve got you, baby.

I want to wail, but I can’t, and I don’t know why—why I want to or why I can’t. I’m frozen somewhere outside myself and it’s scaring me to death.

Christian…

Butterfly… I’ve got you…

The explosion is cosmic—in my chest, in my head, all over me. Light blinds me completely, and I can even see it behind my closed eyelids. My body is trembling wildly, painfully, and I can’t stop it. Dear God, please make it stop…

This burst of… I don’t know, energy, maybe… is wracking my body. I feel like I’m in a room of nothing but blinding light, but I’m not alone. There’s a warmth wrapped around me, loving me, consoling me, and I don’t want to leave. I don’t know how long it lasts, but it seems like eternity. Slowly, very slowly, the light starts to fade. I can barely make out where I am. I hear crying.

I don’t open my eyes, but I’m now conscious of where I am. I’m sitting in my husband’s lap with my legs wrapped around him. My arms are pressed against his chest, my head back. We’re both drenched in sweat, hair dripping, sitting in the middle of the sitting room floor. My breathing is wild and gaspy and tears are streaming down my face, but the only sound I’m making are the gasps from taking in large amounts of air. My husband’s arms are clasped tight around me like a vice and his face is lying on my chest. He’s weeping. It’s his cries that I hear. I feel his sex pulsing inside of mine and the feeling is magical. I don’t want to move. I don’t want it to end. But the crying…

It’s obvious that we connected while we were having sex… or making love, I should say. Didn’t we do this once before? I don’t remember, but if we did, it was nothing like this. To say that it was powerful would be an understatement. To say that it was earth-shattering would be too cliché. There are no words for what just happened, no words at all.

*-*

“I heard you talking,” he says. “You were saying such… wonderful things… Everything you said, I feel about you.”

“I heard you talking,” I confess. “You were saying…” I swallow hard as I fight to focus. “I wasn’t talking,” I breathe.

“Neither was I,” he says. I’m afraid, but I can tell that he feels no fear. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s going on with us?” I say, my voice shaking.

“Only the best and most intense love known to man,” he says, brushing my hair from my face. “I never thought anything like this was possible in my life, definitely not for me.”

“I’ve never felt or known anything like this… ever,” I admit. “I’m afraid that…” I trail off.

“That what, baby?” he asks.

“That if one of us dies, the other won’t survive,” I finish.

“I already know that,” he admits, “so don’t die.”

We sleep in very late the next morning, saving our appetites for the housewarming party that was sprung on us somewhat last minute. Unlike many gatherings before, this will not merely be family and close friends. Many of Val’s former co-workers will be there as well as some of Elliot’s staff—along with their significant others. Val says that many people asked about her and just wanted to check on her, so she thought showing off her new home was a good way for them to see just how well she’s doing—friends and haters alike. Elliot proclaimed that he wanted a few of the slackers to see “how it’s really done” and he and only the best of the best did the work on his house.

I don’t know anybody there except the family and I’m certainly not trying to impress anyone, so I just don my Freddy jeans and a black oversized cashmere turtleneck sweater. Me being me, I anchor the simple ensemble with Valentino black leather stiletto boots with bow embellishments up the back. No fancy jewelry needed—just my wedding and engagement rings, and my hair is in a messy loosened side braid. Christian is similarly dressed in a pair of black jeans, a white cashmere sweater and black suede ankle boots. I’m going to be helping Val as much as she’ll let me, so we pack an overnight bag with plans to stay until tomorrow.

When we get to my sister and brother-in-law’s home, I admit that I expected the outside to be grander than it is. It looks like a big yellow box and I’m thinking to myself, “Why didn’t they do something more to this?” Elliot is an architect, so… why the massive understatement?

949942852ac3d3397dc9295fe5d61cf9“It’s yellow,” I say to Christian a bit dismayed as we drive up the driveway.

“Yep, that it is,” he says matter-of-factly.

“And it’s stucco,” I continue, my distaste evident. My husband’s extended silence causes me to look over at him.

“You might want to get it all out now,” he says. I frown.

“Get all what out?” I ask.

“Your criticisms,” he states.

“I’m not criticizing!” I declare.

“You don’t have to convince me,” he says, “but if you go into this woman’s house with that tone, she’s likely to put you out. I would.” My mouth falls open.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask affronted.

“No offense, Butterfly, but did I stutter?” he asks. “You haven’t even gotten out of the car yet; you haven’t rang the doorbell or greeted anybody, and the first two things you say about the house are critical.”

“I wasn’t being critical,” I excuse. “I was just making observations.” He twists his lips and stares at me.

“Okay,” he says and proceeds to open the door.

“Don’t placate me, Christian…” I begin, and he turns around and cuts me off with a finger pointed at me.

“I’m not going to fight with you,” he says flatly with no malice, “least of all, about this. We’re here for a housewarming party at my brother’s house—your sister’s house. We’re going to go inside, eat some food, hang out with our family and friends and enjoy ourselves. And we’re not going to argue about the yellow house. Comprende?”

I narrow my eyes at him and say nothing. He opens the door and exits the car.

“I speak French, not Spanish,” I say when he turns back to me.

“And yet, you understood what I said,” he points out as he extends his hand to help me out of the car. I glare up at him and scramble out of the car without accepting his hand. The pause behind me can be heard across Lake Washington. After hearing nothing but my heels clicking on the concrete for several seconds, I hear the door slam behind me.

He’s mad.

Can you blame him? He called you out for acting like the quintessential snob and you get all pissy about it.

I don’t need this shit from you… or him. I didn’t do anything wrong.

“How’d I know you’d be the first one here?” Val says when she opens the door. “You even beat the Queen.”

“Well, I’m closer than he is,” I say, breezing into the room and undoing my coat while kissing her on the cheek.

“Wow, chilly,” she says.

“It’s not that cold,” I say, handing my outerwear to a gentleman standing there waiting for it. “You’ve got staff,” I smile.

“Besides a temporary cook, just for today,” she replies, “and I wasn’t talking about the weather.” My brow furrows and hers rises expectantly. We have an entire wordless conversation where I ask what the hell she’s talking about, then she asks what’s with the chilly attitude, what’s going on. I end the conversation by waving her off.

“Show me the house,” I say. She raises her brow again.

“Don’t you want to wait for Christian? We can show it to you both at the same time,” she points out. I shrug.

“Doesn’t matter,” I say as I walk into the house.

“You drinking?” she asks, and I nod. She uncorks a bottle of Cabernet from the kitchen wine rack. We talk a bit about the portion of the house that I can see from here. The vestibule opens right into the kitchen and dining room with the living room actually facing the back of the house and Lake Washington, much like ours. The living room and dining room are all glass walls and doors. Three sets of double doors make up the far wall that faces Lake Washington, and two more sets make up the westward facing wall along with large plate glass panes. A large patio wraps around the back and side of the house showcased by the glass walls.

The kitchen is a chef’s kitchen with stained oak cabinets and high-end appliances, including a five-burner stove in the island of the breakfast bar. Of course, the living room has a gorgeous natural gas fireplace and I’m already drawn to sit in one of the comfy oversized chairs and stare out at the lake for hours, forgetting my troubles like snippy husbands who become all sensitive about yellow stucco houses.

“I’m taking gourmet cooking classes,” Val says, interrupting my thoughts and placing a glass of wine in front of me. “Maybe you can help me out with some pointers and recipes.”

“Absolutely!” I beam. “Did you cook anything for the party today?” She shakes her head.

“No, I wanted the food to actually be edible,” she jests. “Besides, I haven’t been feeling well. I’ve been a little dizzy lately, but that’s to be expected after brain surgery.” I frown.

“You don’t think…” I trail off. If there’s any possibility that her cancer is returning, I want her to get a jump on it the moment it rears its ugly head. I will not lose my sister.

“I don’t know,” she laments, “but I don’t think so. There’s been no hint of Meg in any of my cat scans…”

Meg?” I say, bemused.

“My tumor,” she says. My face is the picture of horror.

“You named your tumor?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says. “I gave it an identity—a dark intruder that needed to be kicked out of my body. She’s an unwanted passenger and I’m kicking her off the bus. It’s a way of taking control of an uncontrollable situation. You diminish the power of the tumor by giving it a name. You’re the doctor, here, Steele. You should read up on this. It’s a very common practice.” I shake my head.

“I’ll take your word for it,” I say. “There are too many facets of medicine for me to be able to cover them all. Oncology and the philosophies that surround it are way too much for me, but if there’s anything that I need to know to be supportive to you, please tell me.”

“Just ask me every so often how Meg is doing,” she says. “If I tell you that she’s still on vacation, we’re good. If I ever say that she’s making an appearance, then it’s time to put our war clothes on.” I nod.

“So… what now? What about Elliot?”

“Oh, dear God, he was ready to take me to the ER,” she replies. “It’s just a little dizziness. It comes with the territory, but I totally understand his concern, especially since I unconsciously hid Meg for something like six months or so. To that end, I’ve got a doctor’s appointment on Wednesday.”

“Do you really want to wait that long?” I ask. “What if Meg really has made another appearance?”

“Then a couple of days really won’t matter, Sis,” she replies. “I need to see my neurologist first, tell him what’s going on, and take the proper steps. If it turns out that Meg is rearing her ugly head, then I’ll go back to the oncologist and we’ll come up with a plan of action. It’s that simple. Now, please, let’s not dwell on it. I want you to tell me how lovely my house is—don’t make me fish for compliments, and if you don’t like it, lie.” She concludes that portion of the conversation with a smile. Just as the conversation changes, Elliot comes into the kitchen.

“I heard the doorbell,” he begins. “Where’s Christian?” Before I could formulate a lie as to why I’m present without my loving husband, Christian comes into the house with our overnight bags. Geez, there were just two bags and his laptop. What took so damn long?

“Dude, what were you doing out there? Did you guys come in separate cars?” Elliot asks the question for me.

“Nope,” my husband quips. “Just separate minds.” He drops our bags on the floor

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

“Oookay,” Elliot says. “Well, I’ve got just the thing for you,” he adds, taking Christian’s coat and handing it to one of the staff. “My very own man-cave stocked with food and refreshments—even beer for those who want to partake. Martin, can you take those bags to the big guest room, please?” He says to the same gentleman who took Christian’s coat. “Come, brother, let the woman fawn over the house whilst we go grunt and scratch ourselves.”

“Lead the way, Bro,” Christian responds, putting his arm around Elliot’s shoulder and, without even looking in my direction, disappears to parts unknown with him. I twist my lips. It’s going to be like that for the evening, is it? I turn to Val

“Well, I guess you can show me the house now.”

*-*

Five bedrooms and five bathrooms in two separate living quarters; nearly 4000 square feet and the lakeside of the house on all floor boasts glass walls or large windows.

In addition to the open great-room-living area, there are three bedrooms on the first floor—the third has been converted to a small home office—a laundry room, and a wine closet. The master bedroom has a view of the lake and the other two rooms are on the east side of the house and only slightly more modest. The master bedroom and second bedroom both have en suites and walk-in closets. There’s also a powder room on the main floor.

It’s listed as a two-story home, because the front of the house is two stories. However, there are three floors as the back of the house reveals that the main story is actually a sublevel.

The second floor is a mother-in-law apartment boasting two terraces on the lakeside of the house and one larger terrace on the east side of the house. It has a separate entrance from outside that opens into another great room—living room, dining room, and kitchen—with more modest furnishings than the main floor. You can access one of the terraces from the dining area of this room, which also boasts a glass wall, as well as a powder room with a shower. Both the upstairs and downstairs kitchens have granite countertops.

The two upstairs bedrooms are connected by a Jack-and-Jill bathroom. The larger terrace can be accessed from one bedroom while the smaller can be accessed from the other.

The third floor is the man cave, Elliot’s workout space, and a small area for storage. It also accesses the full party terrace. We didn’t go up there.

From the front of the house, you can see the 800-square-foot garage and six-car parking spaces inside the security gate. A trail to the right leads to a jungle patio much like ours and a cement water fountain. The trail continues through beautiful landscaping and concludes at a 60-foot dock and a whole lot of private waterfront, which will most likely just be for viewing and swimming since Elliot has no desire to own a boat.

The house is really beautiful and quite spacious on the inside—nothing like my house of course. Then again, not everybody can, nor do they want to, live in the obscenely ginormous brick house with the swinging wrought iron gates that is Grey Crossing. It’s hard not to compare other houses to the magnificent edifice that I call home, but I guess I better stop doing that.

Val tells me that the house is condo, so they only purchased the house from the studs in. The Home Owners’ Association is responsible for the outside and the grounds. I didn’t even know that you could buy houses that way—I thought you could only buy condos that way… you know, apartments. I ask why she didn’t just buy a house, and she says that they want to build their own, so until they can do that, this location will do nicely.

Just as I’m singing the praises of Val and Elliot’s home and its amenities, careful to leave out the yellow stucco, her guests begin to arrive. Of course, Allen and James arrive first after Christian and me. Grace and Carrick aren’t too far behind. After them, many of Val’s former coworkers join the party followed by some of Elliot’s employees. When Maxie and Phil show up followed by Mia and Ethan, Val gives me the unpleasant task of going to the man cave to retrieve our husbands, her excuse being that this is the only part of the house that I haven’t seen. I roll my eyes and do as I’m told.

I make my way to the third-floor man cave—indeed! What a space this is. What happens if Val needs him and she’s all the way on the first floor? Does she send a messenger pigeon?

56238bd948e82c525d10a559c1148b31The first thing I see is a sign declaring the rules of the man cave, referring to things like scratching, belching, farting, and bacon—which are all allowed in the man cave. I enter the room and see my husband and his brother yelling at a large-screen television, and I know they’ve found a football game.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” I say, and they both rubberneck to me like they’ve been caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

“Val sent me to retrieve you,” I add. “Most of your guests have arrived.” Elliot stands and frowns.

“Why did she send you all the way up here?” he asks. “She could have used the intercom.”

Interco…? I know why her sneaky ass sent me up here, but I don’t let on.

“She said she wanted me to see the man cave,” I confess, knowing that wasn’t her real motive. “It’s quite impressive, Elliot.”

“Thanks, Montana,” he says, smiling as he walks by me. “Stay put, bro. I’ll see if I can rescue any other unfortunate fellows. If I don’t come back, you’ll know that I was unsuccessful in my mission.” And away he goes. Christian sits on the sofa still watching the game without acknowledging my presence at all.

“So, you’re just going to ignore me?” I bark. He turns to me.

“Oh! Now, you’re speaking to me?” he asks incredulously.

“I was never not speaking to you, Christian,” I snap impatiently.

“You coulda fooled me,” he says, standing from the sofa. “Just like you, I don’t like being ignored, Anastasia, but you’re the one who threw down that gauntlet. I don’t know what’s wrong, but whatever it is, you need to get it in order.”

“There is no ‘right or wrong’ here…” I begin.

“Yes, there is, and you know it,” he says matter-of-factly, and then he glares at me as if he’s waiting for something. When I don’t respond, he turns away from me and starts to leave.

Say something, you twit! You’re acting like a spoiled, entitled, socialite bitch and I don’t like you very much right now.

“Christian I’m sorry!” I call out before he gets to the door. He stops and turns around.

“For what?” he asks. Oh, geez.

“For talking about the house that way and acting like a snob,” I reply. He twists his lips and shakes his head before turning to leave again. What? I said I was sorry!

“Christian!” I call out to him again. He spins around and closes the space between us in a few long strides.

“I don’t give a fuck what you said about this house!” he hisses quietly in my face. “The yellow stucco is ugly, but we don’t have to live here. What pissed me off is the way you treated me. You attacked me for simply telling you not to offend them in their own home. Then you snubbed me when you got out of the car like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum. When your feelings of anger or displeasure are justified against me, I deal with them—that’s all I can do, but when you act like this…” He looks at me and points at various parts of me with disdain. “… This catty little thing that I can’t even find the words to describe, you can do this by yourself, because I’ll have no part of it.”

He doesn’t wait for me to respond. He marches out of the room and quietly closes the door behind him.

What am I supposed to do with that? I didn’t deliberately… but… shit.

And now, the Bitch is quiet. No sassy comments, no gloating, no unwanted advice… I guess she’s having no part of it either.

I go back down to the party, certain that Elliot was unsuccessful in “rescuing other unfortunate fellows.” I won’t be a stick in the mud. I’ll help Val entertain and I’ll have a good time. Hopefully, Christian will too.

Her friends seem nice for the most part. More than one of them have made comments about my husband or even tried to put the moves on him, but I keep the green-eyed monster at bay, determined not to make a fool of myself or to march over into a crowd of mixed strangers and “piss” all over my man—especially since it appears that he doesn’t want me to. I don’t know if, at this point, he’s ignoring me or I’m ignoring him. I know I’m avoiding him… I’m giving him his space.

After a while, I get my answer. I hadn’t noticed, but one or two of the single guys have been eyeing me all night. When one blatantly makes his move, I inform him that I’m married and that my husband is in attendance. When he asks who my husband is, I point to Christian who still isn’t making eye-contact with me.

“That’s your husband?” he asks incredulously. “He hasn’t said one word to you all night!”

“How would you know?” I ask affronted.

“I been watchin’, baby,” he says. “I been waitin’ for somebody to make a move or stake a claim and nobody did, so…” He shrugs. “I don’t mean to offend you, but with an ass like that and those sky-high fuck-me boots, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.” He shrugs again and walks away.

I look over at my husband again who appears to be holding court with about six attentive listeners, male and female, and not even throwing a glance at me. He normally goes Neanderthal when somebody approaches me or tries to put the moves on me. This time, he didn’t even blink. I don’t even think he noticed.

I go to the kitchen and pour myself another glass of wine. I empty the glass just as quickly as I filled it, then pour another and empty that one, too. And suddenly, I’m exhausted. I’ve been smiling and laughing and conversing and being hostess #2 so that my beloved sister doesn’t overdo it, and now, I want to collapse somewhere and rest—alone. All by myself. In peace.

I look around and no one notices that I’ve left the party. Even my beloved sister is occupied with her previous coworkers. She looks very happy. Good. I quietly open the door to the patio and slip outside.

I welcome the cool air, and the silence. With the lights inside, nobody’s likely to see me out here. Solitude. I have to say that I’m glad to have it. I don’t know how long I’ve been smiling at people and making merry, but I’ve had enough. I sit on the chaise which luckily has an afghan thrown over it and snuggle in looking out at the water—the only thing that has never let me down. If I didn’t want to ruin my heels or freeze to death in the water, I’d walk across the grass, take off my boots, and put my feet in it. My blue savior…

A stranger noticed that my husband was ignoring me, but only because he was watching me all night waiting for his chance to make a move. Nonetheless, a stranger noticed that my husband was ignoring me. When I realized that, I suddenly felt like everyone in the room knew that he was ignoring me. I know that’s not true, but that could be why those who felt so brave as to approach him did so. They thought he was unattached.

A chill runs through me. I’m so fucking tired of feeling this way in some way or another—like something in my life always has to fucking be fixed! Give me a goddamn break!

But this does have to be fixed. I’m just too damn tired to fix it now.

Looking at the water now makes me think of Anguilla, the good and the bad. The promises we made to each other; the passionate love we made; me feeling like I wouldn’t be able to handle intense scenes; the first appearance of the nightmares; Christian screaming at me for answering his phone; all that goddamn candy; standing in the water and feeling it cleanse me…

Somehow, my mind drifts all the way back to when we met. God, I hated that guy, he was the most arrogant, spiteful, conceited son-of-a-bitch I’d ever met in my life. God, what an asshole! How someone could be so cold and unfeeling…

“You planning to jump in?”

Val’s voice jolts me out of my inner musings.

“Jesus, Val, you scared the shit outta me!” I scold.

“You didn’t hear me come outside?” she asks. I look behind me into the house, and it’s almost empty. How long have I been out here?

“You’re trying to kill yourself out here, huh?” she says, holding my coat out to me.

“I’m wrapped in an afghan,” I defend, taking my coat. “I’m not completely unprotected.”

“True, but I bet the coat feels better,” she says, and I have to agree with her when I wrap myself in its warmth. I pull my gloves out of the pockets and cover my hands, thankful for that warmth as well.

“Don’t forget your scarf,” she says handing it to me and I wrap it around my neck. We’re interrupted by one of her serving staff coming onto the patio with warm drinks—spiced lattes. They’re delicious, and very welcome.

“Now, tell me what’s going on,” she says. I raise my gaze to her, nearly begging her not to make me reveal the cause of my absconding, but she’s not going to relent.

“Sometimes, I just need a few moments to myself, that’s all,” I tell her, and it’s the truth. “I told you that Jason helped me realize that I’m suffering from PTSD…” She nods. “Well, there are moments when I need to talk it out, and then there are moments when I just need to sit in a quiet place.”

“So, is that what’s going on?” she prods. “You’re having a bout of your PTSD?”

“No,” the word is out of my mouth before I even have the chance to formulate a lie. “Your house is gorgeous. It really is, but that yellow stucco is horrendous. And when we drove up to the house and I saw that yellow stucco, my mouth and brain disconnected. I swear, I didn’t say anything horrible about the house, but my tone was enough to let Christian know that I was not pleased with the yellow stucco.”

“Is that what this is about?” Val says, unable to hide her mirth. “You two are bickering over the ugly yellow stucco?”

“Well, yes and no,” I reply. “He told me not to come in here insulting your house because you might throw me out. Then he said that if it were him, he’d throw me out, too—and I took offense to that. I can’t remember what all happened after that, but the situation just went south and… here I am. I’m just hoping that the situation will blow over and tomorrow, we’ll just be back to normal.

“It seems like I spend so much time exploring my feelings and looking out for everybody else’s. I filled the pages of three journals already—do you have any idea how much writing that is? And when I start to feel the angst of my situation, I’ll talk to anyone who’ll listen…”

Yes, I know,” she interjects, somewhat absent-mindedly. I raise my gaze to her again.

“Does it bother you?” I ask, disheartened. She’s probably heard the lion’s share of my troubles over the last week.

“Are you kidding?” she exclaims. “No! Of course not! Seriously, Steele?” and I think I may have offended her just now. Great… but I can’t focus on it at this moment.

“Day after day after day of rolling over my feelings, trying to be mindful of others so that I don’t say or do the wrong thing, and then nine times out of ten, the wrong thing flies out my mouth anyway. My shrink threw me out of his office yesterday. Did I tell you that?”

“No!” she says in horror. “Why did he do that?”

“Because I probably did the same thing to him that I just did to Christian,” I admit. “If my feelings are all a-scramble, apparently I mindlessly say and do things that alienate people from me.” I sigh and take a sip of the warming coffee, the only inner warmth I’ll probably feel for the rest of the night.

“Well, I only knew something was wrong because I know you,” she says. “You were the picture of decorum at the party tonight. Everybody really liked you.”

“I don’t think they would let on if they didn’t,” I say with a sad smile.

“I would know if they didn’t,” she reassures me. “I know these people.” I sip my coffee again.

“Wait a minute… You called it ‘ugly yellow stucco.’ You think it’s ugly, too?” I ask bemused.

“Well… it wouldn’t have been my first choice,” she replies. I roll my eyes.

“Then why don’t you change it?” I ask in horror. “You live here now!”

“Because like I told you, it’s condo!” she replies, restating the obvious. “I have full reign of the inside of the house, but the outside—nope. I can’t change the stucco, and the HOA requires that the houses all be some kind of uniform related color. The only other options I have are white, tan, or some other dreadful neutral color, so I’ll spare myself the expense and spend my money on the inside. Besides, yellow is the color of sunshine and I’ve psyched myself out to believe that it’s a beautiful blend with the trees when they’re green and with the blue water all year long.”

“Isn’t it exhausting looking on the bright side of the street all the time?” I accuse wearily.

“I have to, Steele. I’m a cancer survivor. I coulda been dead. For me, being alive, living and loving El, having all my family and friends over today to view my beautiful house… that is the bright side of the street.”


CHRISTIAN

The party is over. I’ve surprisingly made a few connections with people at Val’s job. I had no intention of networking, but when they found out who I was, it was inevitable—and surprisingly productive.

I lost track of my wife early in the evening, which is a bit of a good thing. I simply did not have time or energy for her childish behavior. When the party starts to thin, and Elliot suggests going back to the man cave, I jump at the opportunity.

“Well, this was an interesting night,” Elliot says, drinking his soda.

“Besides the obvious, how so?” I ask.

“Well, it depends on what you’re considering ‘obvious,’” he says. “For instance, when you say ‘obvious,’ do you mean the fact that you and Montana didn’t stay in the same area for 30 seconds? Or are you referring to the fact that when the company whore was hitting on you, she didn’t climb over furniture to scratch her eyes out? Or was it more obvious that you didn’t turn into Tarzan when that guy was hitting on her?” My brow furrows. Some guy was hitting on my wife? “And I take it by that expression that the last bit of information wasn’t so obvious.”

“Who was hitting on her?” I ask. Elliot shakes his head.

“What should concern you more is that I was entertaining and watching approximately 50 people today and I knew that you weren’t speaking to your wife. She was so friendly to everybody except you that you would have thought this was her housewarming. What the fuck, man? Is the honeymoon over.” I roll my eyes.

“The honeymoon’s been over for a long time, Elliot, but it doesn’t mean that I love her any less.”

“Then what gives, man?” he confronts again. “You two are generally inseparable at things like this, so much that only an idiot—like Lily—would dare hit on either of you, let alone someone approach both of you. So, what’s up with that?”

I’m still miffed that someone hit on my wife and I didn’t know about it. Why didn’t he tell me when it happened? How many people hit on her tonight that Elliot didn’t see? I know the felines were in rare form clawing at me tonight. I damn near had to beat one off with a stick. That must have been the company whore that Elliot was talking about. How many hounds were sniffing after my wife?

“Look, man,” Elliot says after I pause for a little too long. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. In all honesty, it’s really none of my business anyway. But if your Butterfly means as much to you as my Angel does to me, you better get to the bottom of this instead of letting it fester and hoping that it goes away… just like that fucking tumor.” I rubberneck over to him.

“What?” I ask. “Is the tumor back.”

“No,” he snaps vehemently, “not that we know of, now stop trying to change the subject.”

He clearly doesn’t want to talk about that subject and I hope he was just speaking in retrospect and Valerie’s tumor isn’t coming back. That was a hard time for all of us.

“Tell me, man. Who was hitting on my wife?” I ask.

“I don’t know the guy,” he says. “He either works at Angel’s old job or he was somebody’s plus one. Whatever he said to Montana, he was dismissed pretty quickly, and then I didn’t see her for the rest of the night.” The rest of the night.

“What? Did she go off with the guy?” I ask before my brain can catch up to my mouth.

“What the fuck do you think?” Elliot barks angrily. “Do you think that your wife and the mother of your two children went off somewhere with a strange man at a party that she never met before? Because if you do, then there’s a whole lot more amiss than you’re letting on. And the fact that you had to ask that question means that this conversation is over, and you need to get up, go downstairs and find your fucking wife!”

Geez, and he’s mad. And he’s right. I don’t know what even made me consider the possibility that Butterfly would do something like that. I really feel like shit for thinking that. She’s still beating herself up for letting that Liam fucker get too close.

“What are you waiting for?” Elliot snaps. “Directions?”

“Keep your shirt on,” I retort. “I don’t think my wife went off with somebody else. I’m just pissed that someone approached my wife and it wasn’t brought to my attention sooner.”

“Yeah, save that anger for yourself, because if you had been paying attention, nobody would have had to tell you. You were heading that guy Brian off at her adoption party faster than he could get the words out his mouth. Now this guy makes a move, moves on, and your wife disappears, and you want to blame somebody else for that? Shut up talking to me and go find your wife.”

“I’m not blaming…”

“Shut up talking to me and go find your wife!” he snaps. God! Okay! Damn! I stand up and walk to the door heading downstairs.

When I get to the main floor, Valerie is in the kitchen with one of the remaining staff, and there’s no Butterfly.

“So, where’s my wife?” I ask somewhat impassively.

“Sulking,” Valerie says with a shrug. My brow furrows as I await elaboration, and she points to the glass wall on the other side of the living room. There on a chaise just outside the glass is a mop of mahogany hair. I can’t see anything else. I roll my eyes, shake my head and sigh.

Why does this woman always seem to escape to the coldest part of the world when she needs to be alone? It’s November, in Washington, at two in the morning. Why the fuck is she on the patio? And ten will get you twenty that she’s asleep out there. Elliot appears just at that moment.

“Our lodgings for the night, good sir and madam?” I request.

“Through there and at the end of the hallway,” Elliot says. “It’s the biggest room besides mine and Val’s.” I nod and head for one of the sets of double doors. When I step out onto the patio, I take in the sight of my tiny wife. She’s snuggled in her coat and scarf and wrapped in another blanket so tight and so small that I can barely make out a body under there. Either she’s fighting the cold with a vengeance…

Or she’s shrinking.

“What am I going to do with you?” I lament aloud. I lean down to the chaise and gather her in my arms, blanket and all. She doesn’t even stir—and she’s warm, so it’s not the cold. When I cross the threshold back into the house, Elliot is waiting to close the door behind me.

“Thanks for a great party, you guys,” I tell them. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

“Not too early,” Elliot says with a nod and a smile. I acknowledge his request and carry my shrinking wife to our temporary boudoir. When I lay her in the bed, she shrinks again—so small and so tight that I can’t get her coat off. I can either wake her to get her coat off or just let her sleep. So, I remove her boots and let her stay there before taking my duffel to the en suite for a shower.

Gentle sunrays wake me in the morning and I immediately know that I’m not in my own bed—and that I’m alone. I dress in my workout gear and sneakers and take off for a run. She’s somewhere in the house, I’m sure, and I’ll talk to her when I get back.

I run through all the things I need to be doing today as my feet pound the cold pavement. For me, Sunday is just a day to prepare for the week ahead—meetings to be had tomorrow and mergers to discuss; acquisitions to finalize…

Smalls and his team will be on their way back to Detroit today and everything in the storage units will have a home or a destination by end of business, Friday. Anything that remains will be shipped back here by my shipping department and housed in one of our numerous warehouses. If anyone wants something after it’s been shipped here to be stored, they may have to pay some kind of fee for waiting so long to claim it unless there’s a really good reason for it. There’s nearly two weeks to decide if they want something on the list, and it’s all free!

The bed was empty when I awoke, so that means that Butterfly was already up and about. I didn’t see her anywhere when I left the house, and Elliot and Valerie were still asleep—or at least they hadn’t emerged yet. I don’t know how far I ran, but when my chest starts to burn, I turn around and start the trip back. Good Lord, it feels like my heart is going to explode. It’s most likely from the exertion and the cold air pumping through my chest. When I get back to the house, I take a deep breath and that aforementioned cold air stabs me in the throat. Shit, I need to warm up.

Imagine my dismay when I discover that the house has automatic locking doors.

I walk through the jungle garden to the back of the house to see if one of the patio doors are open and there I find my wife—in the same place I retrieved her from last night. If I couldn’t tell by the change of clothes, I would have thought she slept out here. She looks calm and serene and her eyes are closed. I then realize that she’s meditating. I won’t disturb her.

I go back to the front of the house and knock, hoping that someone besides Butterfly will hear me. Luckily, the woman from the kitchen the night before opens the door and looks at me expecting.

“Yes?” she says.

“I’m… Christian Grey. Elliot’s brother… I locked myself out when I went for a run.”

Her brow furrows, the realization dawns.

“Oh, yes! I’m sorry. Please come in.” She steps aside and lets me in. I have to say, warmth has never felt so good.

“Thank you,” I say. I peek out onto the patio. Butterfly wasn’t disturbed. That’s good. I have time to go take a shower and put on some clean clothes before I talk to her.


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

Pictures of Val and Elliot’s house can be seen at https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/val-and-elliots-house-in-kirkland/

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

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

 ~~love and handcuffs

 

 

 

 

Fifty Shades Golden: Chapter 16

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

Explicit details of sex and BDSM scenes from here on out. Some may be hot while others may not be to your taste… and not necessary CG with Ana together. Proceed at your own discretion, but don’t say that I didn’t warn you.

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

 CHAPTER 16

Briana Evigan 16

GOLDEN

“Detective Bhingman.”

Well, of course they put me on the phone with this big ball of joy and laughter.

“Rita, how the hell are you?” I ask, as jovially as possible.

“Who is this?” she hisses. No doubt, she’s wondering how I know her first name because she didn’t say it and I didn’t ask for her when I called.

“It’s that ‘prissy little wannabe cunt’ that you love to hate,” I say, repeating the words that she didn’t know I heard. She’s silent for several moments.

“You know that many ‘prissy little wannabe cunts,’ do you?” I mock. “I’ll try to help you out a little more… the one with no cojones?”

The conversation was not twelve hours ago. I’m sure you remember it.

“What do you want?” she asks without acknowledging who I am. “I have things to do, cases to solve.”

“Well, detective, that’s why I’m calling. You and I both know who most likely beat the hell out of Elena Lincoln. You just don’t want to pursue it. Since you worked the night shift last night, I won’t keep you long. Has anyone bothered trying to locate Caldwell Lincoln? Has anyone looked at his face to see if he’s been in a brawl? Did anyone process the crime scene or the crime kit from Elena Lincoln to see that Mr. Grey’s statement to the press this morning was true, and he hasn’t been anywhere near that woman?”

“Press…?” Oh, dear God, tell me this Keystone Cop is not just finding out from me that Christian did a press release this morning.

“Yes, press,” I inform her. “He’s a billionaire who was wrongly arrested and detained for assault. You had to know he would go to the media with this.”

“Yeah, they usually do.”

They? Who the fuck is they?

“Detective is it only the rich and beautiful that you despise or do you just dislike people in general?” I ask. She doesn’t respond, because she knows that I hit that nail on the head.

“I’m used to the rich and beautiful trying to use the press to their advantage,” she says finally. “It won’t dispel the fact that your Mr. Grey is a person of interest.”

“A person of interest, hmm,” I say, contemplating the phrase. “So, he’s still a person of interest even though his alibi is airtight. That’s interesting. You must really like wasting your time.”

“Which is exactly what I’m doing on this phone call. So, would you kindly tell me why you’re calling?” she seethes.

“I just told you,” I say. “I gave you a very solid lead that you should follow if you’re truly interested in catching the actual guilty party who brutalized Elena Lincoln.” She scoffs into the phone.

“Why don’t you stick to… whatever it is that you do and leave the police work to the professionals, okay?” Oh, this bitch…

“I can always let your chief know that I called with a very solid lead, and you ignored it. The choice is yours. And another thing… Christian Grey is going to fucking bury you. So, you might as well have something to show for it when the dust clears.”

“Christian Grey can’t do shit to me. I was doing my job,” she says haughtily.

“Yeah… okay. Keep hope alive. In the meantime, follow the lead or I’ll give it to somebody else.”

“Nobody else would be able to take it. It’s my case,” she retorts.

“That’s what you think,” I say. “Do you want me to show you how wrong you are?”

“Do your worst,” she taunts.

“Done!” I snap. “And Rita, I think a really good anal fuck would dislodge that pole that you have stuck up your ass. You should really look into that—assuming you could find somebody with a dick that’s bigger than yours who’s willing to fuck you. Have a good day.”

I say the last part with syrupy sweetness before hanging up in her ear.

“Blake?” I call out to him. It’s amazing to me that no matter where he is in the house, he can always hear me. In a few moments, he appears inside the door.

“Yes, Mistress?”

“I need my laptop and tablet, dear,” I tell him, “and a glass of water, please…”

*-*

“Mis… Ms. Olivet! To what do I owe the honor of this call?”

“Chief McCulley, I always adore hearing your voice, but I wish I could say that this is a social call,” I purr.

“I am, of course, at your service. What can I do for you?”

“I’m asking a favor that shouldn’t have to be asked,” I say somewhat sorrowfully. “I’m only asking that a detective of the Kirkland Police Department put her personal feelings aside and follow a very valid lead from a reliable source before the trail runs dry.”

“That sounds reasonable. Who’s the source?”

“Me,” I inform him.

“Reliable, indeed,” he confirms. “And who’s the detective?”

“Rita Bhingman.”

“She’s one of the best. I can’t imagine she wouldn’t take a lead very seriously.”

“Have you been apprised of the handling of the case involving the assault on Elena Lincoln?” I ask.

“Not fully, no, but I’ve heard some tidbits.”

“Allow me to apprise you…”

I give him the details of the case thus far as well as my involvement, being careful to illuminate Christian’s current search for new legal counsel as the reason for our meeting. I outlined Christian’s arrest, our treatment by the police department—Bhingman in particular, including her not-so-flattering nickname for me, and the lead that I had given her as well as her flippant response.

“Hmm… Grey. It’s a wonder I haven’t already gotten a call on that one. I know that he’s friends with the mayor and his father golfs with the governor. I would have bet my badge that they would have had an airtight case before they even thought to detain him.”

“Well, sometimes even the best can screw up, and that’s okay as long as you recognize your mistake and do what’s necessary to fix it. She doesn’t appear in any hurry to do so, and I don’t know if it’s because she personally doesn’t like me or if she’s trying to nail the big fish here, and it’s blinding her to the facts. Here are the facts, Fred.

“Caldwell Lincoln visited Christian Grey yesterday at his office to confront him about Christian’s growing timber interest. This is not a secret—he just did a press release on this. Lincoln left the office angry around 6-ish and Christian left his office and met me. I will testify to that; my butler will testify to that; and I’ve recently learned that he has tracking devices in his vehicle that can confirm its whereabouts as well.

“Not two hours after he leaves Christian’s office in a huff, Lincoln’s wife is beaten within an inch of her life and he has disappeared. Mrs. Lincoln fingers Christian, but has the hospital taken DNA evidence from this woman? Christian appears on television this morning barefaced and in a short-sleeved T-shirt—not a scratch or defensive scar on him—hands, arms, and face as smooth as a baby’s bottom. Has anybody seen Mr. Lincoln? Can he say the same?”

“If he’s skipped town, though, there’s no way for us to see if he’s bruised,” Fred replies.

“That’s true, but the absence of scars on Christian Grey coupled with the absence of his DNA on Mrs. Lincoln not to mention his impeccable alibi should clear him of any charges, yet Detective Bhingman informs me that he’s still a person of interest. Now, this is a long shot, but unless Mr. Lincoln left on a ferry boat or cruise ship, he most likely caught a flight out of SeaTac last night. A facial recognition scan of the airport would determine if he was there. Review of his bank records will tell you where he travelled and might indicate where he is now if he booked lodging.”

“That’s a lot of work to capture someone for an assault on his wife,” he laments.

“I understand, Fred,” I say, pretending to capitulate. “I guess this case will just go unsolved, then… unless Bhingman wants to go pick up Bill Gates or Howard Schultz next.” I hear him sigh.

“I see your point,” he says. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“That’s all I ask, and Fred? Grey is livid—he’s out for blood and I’m sure he’ll take this matter as far up as it can possibly go. Expect that call from the mayor… fair warning.”

“Thanks for the heads up,” he says. “You’re a true treasure as always,” he adds with admiration.

“Thank you, my dear. It’s always a pleasure.”

*-*

I don’t watch much television, but I’ve been trying to keep up with the local news to see if there have been any leads on the brutalized socialite still confined to Seattle General Hospital two days after her attack. Of course, there have been no arrests. Why? Because that stupid ass detective is still probably chasing behind Christian instead of tracking down Caldwell Lincoln. I know the type of information and clearances that they need to check out the security cameras at SeaTac and to look into his bank accounts can’t be acquired overnight, but that’s all the evidence they’re going to have to nab this guy because in a couple more days, he’s going to be bruise-free.

I have to go to court in the morning and as far as I know, dear old Uncle Richard won’t be on any of the cases that I’m on, so I don’t have to worry about that… I hope. Nonetheless, I need to loosen up and I don’t want to go to any of the clubs. I need a different kind of release tonight.

I find myself at Divine Movement with a pole room to myself for two hours—just what I need. I haven’t done any new routines since Dirty Diana, so I just spin awhile and allow some of the new music to play. I don’t feel the vibe on anything as all the new music is crap to me. I don’t necessarily have to listen to old school all the time. It’s not like it’s my thing or anything, but the new shit is just that… shit.

I hear a beat that I like though I don’t recognize the song and it prompts me to do a few curls and leg extensions.

Wow, this sound is really groovy.

I do a few floor moves and begin to pay attention to the words of the song. They’re familiar, but the beat is completely different. After a minute or so of feeling the groove, I realize that I’m listening to a cover of Maneater. It sounds nothing like the original, but it has a sinful beat and is motivating me to try some moves…

So I do.

I push my limits and do a super-fast spin on the rotating pole in an impossible position. I even impress myself with that move. I guess I should be thanking Kevin for those times that he held me in those pretzel yoga poses so that he could stare at my ass. I ponder for a moment if this should be the next song to which I formulate a new routine. After all, I am a maneater. But no… it’s got a nice beat, but it’s not what I’m looking for.

Next is another cover of another oldie… Love is a Battlefield. I like this one, too, and it causes me to bend and stretch and curl into positions that I didn’t know I could achieve. When I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror wall, I’m hanging upside down with my ass sticking out and my muscular legs pointing back towards the pole, but my feet and legs aren’t touching it. Every curve and every sinew of every muscle—even my ass—is defined and sculpted, suspended in the air like a magnificent statue.

Fuck. That looks hot!

I commit the pose to memory along with the insane spin I created in the impossible position to add to my new routine. The next song that I hear seals it for me. Yet another cover, this one is Tainted Love, and it’s hot and sensual as fuck!

I spend the next hour and twenty minutes doing incredible moves and poses to make onlookers gasp, the entire time Tainted Love is playing in my head…

Morning comes and I’m a little stiff from my pole workout, a sign that I may need to spend more time at the studio. I almost dread putting my hair back in its traditional bun for court, but I do that on purpose. I don’t want anybody—judges, DA’s, clients, nobody—looking at my beauty and taking my skills for granted. Know that I’m very serious when you see me coming. That’s why it’s serious professional no fucking frills when I’m headed to court—except for the stilettos.

As expected, I didn’t face off with Richard Steele—one of his colleagues this time. I came ready to do battle since I didn’t know what to expect. As it turns out, my petrified client, his mother, and I sat for hours waiting to present our motion to dismiss… and the DA beat us to it! It appears that “new evidence” surfaced that pointed to a different suspect and exonerated my client. When I asked for the evidence to be presented, that motion was denied based on the fact that my client had been cleared and that I am no longer representing the accused party in this case. For some reason, I think that’s just a matter of time.

Well, that was a day wasted, but the outcome was pretty much the same. My client is going home cleared of the charges… but who’s about to take the fall?

I stop in the ladies’ room to relieve myself and just as I’m about to leave, who do I see standing outside of one of the courtrooms talking to what looks like another plain-clothed detective?

Bhingman.

I’m not looking for a confrontation, but I’m sure as hell not going to avoid her. It’s not like I could anyway, because just as I’m putting my purse on my shoulder and preparing to proceed towards the door, she shifts her gaze and sees me walking out of the ladies’ room. She begins a heated stride towards me, so I proceed in her direction as well. What, do you think I’m going to run, bitch?

“Olivet!” she snaps once she has closed the distance between us.

Bhingman!” I retort with just as much malice as she delivered, if not more.

“I bet you thought that was cute, didn’t you?” she hisses.

“Nothing I do is cute, detective, but I’m just dying to know what you’re talking about,” I reply.

“I’ve got nearly every elected official in a 100-mile radius crawling up my ass because of you and your pretty boy!” she seethes. I scoff.

“Is that what you see?” I ask incredulously. “A pretty boy? I’ll admit that he’s nice on the eyes, but you’re missing a whole lot here, Cagney,” I say before closing the remaining space between us.

“Christian Grey is power,” I inform her, my voice low, “more power than you’ll ever know or see in your life. You, my little guppy, ran into the shark tank and tried to bite the fucking shark! Now, that shark is preparing to eat you alive. What the hell did you expect—for him to roll over while you try to pin a crime on him that he didn’t commit? What new type of insanity are you suffering from? That man wiggles his little finger and empires fall, and you don’t think he has the power to land you on a desk job in a lighthouse on the outskirts of nowhere?”

She doesn’t know how to answer, so she turns the conversation onto me and my lead.

“You come in with an idea and you want us to drop everything and chase behind some hunch that you have! There’s a process to police work!” she retorts. “You don’t just jump off a cliff onto a lead without proper protocol!”

“And yet, that’s exactly what you did,” I remind her. “You jumped right off the cliff and landed on the wrong suspect and you’re too asinine to admit it. You went on the word of a woman laid up in the hospital with an obvious ax to grind and nothing else! No witnesses, no DNA, no evidence, nothing! If this is what you call police work, I’m on the wrong side, because the bad guys are getting away and the good guys are constantly in court defending their innocence from blind and bigoted cops who find the most ridiculous reasons not to like them!”

“What I don’t like, Olivet, is people with money and friends in high places who can tell the police not to do their job!” she counters.

To this point, I had been quiet, keeping my voice low. Now, I’m getting angry, because she’s completely ignoring everything I’m saying.

“And I don’t like police who don’t do their jobs!” I retort angrily. She’s a bit taken aback by the force of my statement. “Do you have any idea how many pro-bono cases I take because some lazy ass flatfoot or some gung-ho cop grabbed the wrong kid and was too concerned with nabbin’ somebody instead of getting to the truth? ‘He’s here; he’ll do; fuck that the real culprit is still out there and will probably commit another crime before the day is over,’ right, detective?”

I pause and wait for a response, but I get none. I know that I don’t need one, because I already know that I’m right. I’ve seen it too many times.

“You think whatever the fuck you want to think about me,” I snap. “I don’t care! The fact is that Christian Grey is not your guy. He did not attack that woman, and the real offender is probably on a beach in Cancun sipping mai tais while his bruises heal! And you’re here splitting hairs with me while Mr. Grey has already filed his suit for false arrest. You allowed the woman who assaulted him months ago and left him with broken bones, who is currently under an open protection order to finger him as her attacker with no evidence and you detained him even though he told you he had an alibi. When his alibi checks out, you get mad at me because I’m the one who had dinner with him!

“He’s friends with the mayor; did you know that? Chief McCulley let me in on that tiny tidbit of information. If he had been dining with the mayor that night instead of me, would you be treating the mayor this way? Why are you really pissed, Ms. Bhingman? Is it because you can’t move forward with the case? Is it because you think we’re lying? Or is it because he’s an innocent man and you can’t pin the crime on him?”

She wants to answer, but she looks from left to right, noting that a few people are observing to see why my voice has risen. I also take note of that fact and employ Golden’s take-no-prisoners attitude and tone for my next message. I lean in to her so that inquiring ears aren’t privy to the conversation, but she can hear me loud and clear.

“I’m going to give you a bit of advice,” I say. “I called the chief of police. Mr. Grey will most likely contact the mayor—if he hasn’t already—and his father golfs with the governor. That’s how many degrees of separation you are from an administrative reprimand or worse. You’re trying swim waters that are way too deep for you. This major waterway is a whole lot more rapid than the little pond that you’re accustomed to wading in. Don’t go chasing waterfalls, detective. You just might drown.

“And yes, you’re dealing with a rich man who knows people in high places, but that’s not your biggest problem. Your biggest problem is that when this case blows wide open—and it will—I’ll be right there with our recorded conversation telling the press that I gave you the solid lead before the reward-chasing nuts started calling you and you ignored me simply because you didn’t like me.

“Now I suggest you get your head out of your ass, your nose out of the air and stick that stank ass superior attitude in your fucking pocket and do your goddamn job. I’ll play by the book and I’ll respect your position as long as you respect me, and if you can’t do that, then you stay the fuck out of my face unless you have questions—or answers—about the case. I have a lot of strings in my little violin case, detective. I’ve only pulled one of them!”

Her eyes are screaming that she wants to ask me if that was a threat—you know, like they do in the movies—but of course, she won’t because she already knows that it was. You have to wonder where someone’s mind is that they feel confident enough to threaten a cop, even if the threat is veiled.

Don’t push me, Missy. This isn’t about Christian Grey anymore. This is about me and you.

I can only assume that something in my gaze indicates that I’m ready for a full-on duel if that’s what she wants. Apparently, it’s not. She slowly brushes past me and proceeds down the hall.

“Have a good day, detective,” I call after her before heading in the opposite direction.


Eric Dane 16 small

TREY

I have fifteen messages when I get out of the meeting with Brandon, all from CEO’s in the lumber industry—Linc’s colleagues and some of his competitors. I have Andrea organize the messages and arrange a schedule of callbacks during the course of the afternoon.

And one more, from my father.

“I hear you’re looking for new legal counsel,” he says, when I return the call.

“How did you hear that?” I ask.

“Word gets around,” he says. This is the sum-total of my life. My father and brother are both snakes.

“What do you need, Dad?” I ask.

“This whole thing with Elena Lincoln,” he begins, “what’s the real story there?” And here we go.

“There is no story,” I reply. “She’s a delusional bitch who used to be a friend and now she’s not. And if there was a story, I’d be off my fucking rocker to tell you. You’re about as trustworthy as a scorpion.”

“Christian!” he says, mocking injury. “You wound me!”

“Not yet, but I could…” if you don’t keep your nose out of my fucking business.

“You’re not threatening me, are you, son?” he asks coolly.

“You take it how you want to,” I say. “Just take it the fuck out of my personal affairs. That bitch hit me with a potted plant because she thinks I’m responsible for the fall of her business, and now she’s fingering me for some shit I didn’t do as revenge and caused me to spend a night in jail. I’m going to destroy her for that shit. Now, as you can see, I’ve got enough of my own fucking problems without you sniffing around trying to find some where there are none. Stay the fuck out of my life, Dad, and if this is the bullshit you call me with, don’t bother calling me at all!”

I end the call without another word and summon Andrea.

“Yes sir,” she says through the intercom.

“If my father calls, don’t patch him through to my voice mail and don’t take a message.”

“Yes sir,” she says without hesitation.

*-*

The sixth day after that bitch had me arrested, there’s a break in the case.

I knew that my outrageous reward would mean that the police would be inundated with crackpots just looking to cash in, and boy did that work. They got calls from everywhere—people who claimed to be witnesses to the attack and know who did it; people who clearly teamed up for one to report the crime and the other to take the fall with the intention of splitting the reward money once it was collected; and of course, various sightings of Linc.

The fact that on live television, I questioned where he was while his wife was injured and in the hospital shed light on him as a person of interest, but that Bhingman bitch wouldn’t get off my ass. She would show up at places where I was having lunch with clients and sit there and watch me or she’d be standing across the street when I got out of the office. As I’m escorting some key officers of a company I’m planning to merge with to their limousines, I see her sitting in her car not a hundred feet away from the front door of Grey House. I was trying not to call in any favors and do this by the book, but this has to stop.

“I’m willing to take to social media with this harassment,” I say to Bhingman’s superior. “Everywhere I look, there she is. I didn’t commit this crime. While you may not know who did commit it, you have proof that I was nowhere near that woman. Yet, this crazy cow is everywhere I go, like a psychotic groupie! If I did the same thing to her, you’d have me in cuffs, but she gets to do it to me because she has a badge?”

“Mr. Grey, I do apologize,” he says. “She’s just following a lead, and she’s required to be thorough in her investigation…”

“And while she’s thoroughly harassing me after I’ve been cleared, the real culprit is running around out there and she’s not solving the crime! That’s okay. You go on and sit on your butt. I’ll handle this myself.”

I put in the call to the mayor that I was trying to avoid, and to the governor since he’s good friends with my slimy father. I give them the details of the case and let them know that I’m not looking for any favors—I just want her to leave me alone and go catch the real culprit. Within an hour, she was away from my door and I haven’t seen her since.

The best news came in the form of pictures forwarded to me and to various members of the press this morning. A tip came in that was, once again, ignored by the police, so the tipster took to social media and the web. She posted pictures of a badly bruised Caldwell Lincoln checking into a swanky hotel somewhere, as well as a few pictures of him in compromising positions in a nightclub and on the beach with more than one woman… in the Bahamas.

The Bahamas? Seriously? He’s in the Bahamas? Of all the places that loser could abscond to, he went to the Bahamas? For the love of God…

The pictures are very clear, and he looks like utter hell—horrible scratches, a black eye, he’s got a chipped tooth, and bite marks on his hands. She may have taken a beating, but she beat the hell out of him, too.

Once the pictures were released, suddenly the cops announce that they have DNA evidence that eliminates me as a suspect and incriminates her husband. Because she fought back, she had his blood on her and a lot of DNA evidence under her nails. Her house was still a crime scene and with her still recuperating in the hospital, CSI just went back in and took hairs from Linc’s brush.

When they were questioned about why they sat on the evidence or what may have taken so long, a spokesperson indicates that Elena and Linc shared a common space, so they couldn’t immediately assume that he was the culprit just because his DNA was present.

“But you could immediately arrest a man whose DNA wasn’t present based solely on the word of a woman who attacked him several months prior?” I hear one of the reporters ask.

Bullseye!

Needless to say, they are looking to extradite Linc back to the states, assuming they can get it done. And he’s most likely going to stall to give his wounds some time to heal.

Almost simultaneously, I get the notification that Elena is being released from the hospital and has requested police protection—from me! The request was vehemently denied, and she was advised to employ private security if she feels threatened.

Lying ass cow, you should be afraid of me!

My small victory lap is interrupted by Andrea informing me that my 2:00 has arrived. I’ve been interviewing for new legal counsel. Dad probably heard that from just having his ear to the ground as I’m not keeping it a secret. What I am keeping a secret is that I’m looking for an asshole—not a yes man, but someone who understands that I hold the power and doesn’t try to step on my toes like Rockford did. He was once an asshole—still is, actually… he just got too comfortable and lost his edge. Then he decided to play that game with me that lost him his job.

Once they’ve been vetted and cleared, I personally sit down with candidates that will hold key positions in my company, particularly legal. I’ve met with several applicants that were intelligent, industrious, and ambitious—but they sucked up to me too much, or they recited my portfolio like they memorized it right before the meeting, or they just didn’t have the edge.

This guy does.

Daron Wester—very cocky. He’s good and he knows it. He’s currently employed with another corporation downtown, but when he heard about the opening in Grey House, he couldn’t allow the opportunity to pass him by.

“I’m a shark, Mr. Grey,” he says, “I smell blood in the water and I go for it. I’ve been filling up on goldfish for the last few years and I’m tired of it now. So, do you have some meat that I can chew on, or should I take my inquiries elsewhere?”

Oh, I’ve got meat alright. Let’s throw you a few morsels and see how you work out.

I hire the guy for the probationary period, which is usually three months, but he negotiates six instead with the requirement that he gets to work the entire six months at his agreed upon salary without fear of dismissal except in cases of gross misconduct or breach of contract. He’s convinced that he would truly have nothing to sink his teeth into in three months and therefore, wouldn’t be able to show his chops. He’s right.

He’s shrewd. I like him already.

Sink your teeth into suing the municipality that had me wrongfully arrested, destroying the bitch who wrongfully accused me, and gathering the needed information and contacts to uproot Caldwell Lincoln as the timber giant of the United States. By the time I’m done with this piece of shit, he’ll go from being Paul Bunyan to Tom Thumb.

Daron is all for that idea.

I want to get a message to Linc so badly that I know what he did and I’m taking him down but contact with him right now is definitely not a good idea. The best way to get the message to him is to just pull the rug out from under him and keep it moving.

My afternoon is filled with meetings from various representatives of the timber industry. The verdicts are mixed. Many of them don’t know which side to take. Linc has been in the catbird seat in the industry for so long that his name certainly holds clout with the powers that be. However…

“There’s a new face on the timber scene, now, Mr. Granger,” I point out to the President CEO of Wurchiest, one of the largest lumber suppliers in the United States. I don’t let on that having him on my side would most likely be the biggest coup ever and would secure my position in the industry. However, this is personal, and he knows that even if I don’t say so. Wurchiest boasts 12 million acres of timberland in the US alone and produces the lion’s share of wood and paper products from its mills in the northwest and the Midwest.

“You’ve got me in a precarious position, Grey,” Granger says. “I know you’re a corporate giant, but when it comes to timber, you’re an upstart. Lincoln has been in this business for decades and his name is not one that’s spoken softly. A man in my position can’t afford to run behind someone who’s simply trying to satisfy a vendetta only for him to lose interest three or four years down the line and I’ve alienated one of the most powerful men in the business.” I nod.

“I see,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “I can understand you wanting to play it safe, but I have to ask you—and this is not a set-up. Are you a powerhouse on your own, or does your success depend on Lincoln Timber? Ultimately, you just have to decide where you’re going to be standing when the weapons are dropped, and the fight is over and the way I see it, you shouldn’t have to worry about alienating Lincoln. He should be worried about alienating you.

“I don’t need to tell you about GEH’s impressive holdings across several industries. I’m a corporate giant not because I tame the bulls, but because I run with them and sometimes, I capture them. You don’t get to be who I am by playing it safe.

“Lincoln has gotten comfortable. He knows what you know, that his name means something, but that’s all he’s got right now is his name. His contracts are antiquated and the deals that I’m offering are causing his longest-standing colleagues to sweep him by the wayside. Now, it may be today, or it may be tomorrow—hell, it may be next year, but I’ve got my sites set on being the next timber giant. To you, that may just mean that I’m gnawing on a bone. To me, it’s another lucrative endeavor that I can add to GEH’s multi-billion-dollar portfolio. It would be a whole lot easier if you were on board with me, but if I have to be number two for a while, that’s fine by me. Gathering up all the little shards of glass may be a lot of work, but there’s still going to be a whole lot of glass in that pot when it’s all said and done. Putting that big blue marble in there would sure make it a whole lot sweeter. And here’s another thing…

“Lincoln’s time is coming to a close. He may be trying to hold on to what he has with a death grip, but sooner or later, that grip is going to slip because he has a young, vibrant, hungry upstart with unlimited funds under his mattress coming up behind him taking bites out of his ass. You can see it as whatever you want to see it, Mr. Granger, but sooner or later, I will be number one. My success with Mobilecom should serve as an example.”

Granger’s eyes flash at the mention of Mobilecom. It was—as he mentioned—an upstart telecommunications company that I acquired several years ago. Almost immediately upon acquisition, GEH began gobbling smaller telecommunications companies and ISP and cell service providers—small shards of glass to put in the big pot. Within three years, we were competing with large companies, offering the same services at discounted rates because we could afford to. The larger companies were offering “Cadillac” packages at “Cadillac” prices, but people where just beginning to recover from the blows of the housing bubble and the banking crisis and couldn’t afford the Cadillacs. Long story short, Mobilecom is now one of the largest telecommunications providers in the area, all from an even smaller upstart than he’s considering me to be right now.

While these points are marinating in Granger’s head, there’s a knock at my office door. I plan on firing the person on the other side of the door and having them thrown off the premises when Wester sticks his head in. Okay, he’s new, but this doesn’t look good for him.

“Forgive me for interrupting, Mr. Grey, but in light of your meetings this afternoon, I thought this shouldn’t wait.” He walks in and crosses my office. “Utz answered your bid for the clearing rights of their lands in North and South Carolina and Georgia with a contingency on their lands in Oregon.” He hands me a piece of paper with a counter bid from Utz Timber that’s right in the area I was hoping. I aimed very low with my bid, knowing that I was outbidding Linc’s current contract, but still not coming in as high as I could on what the land and the rights were worth. Utz played right into my hands, sealing the bid at within five million of my target offer. I could counter, but I’m sure that Wester timed this little announcement for Granger’s benefit.

“Oo,” I exclaim quietly. “Lock it down. Inform him that I can have contracts on his desk in an hour for his review and we can Skype and have this puppy signed, sealed, and delivered by dinnertime.” Wester nods.

“Done, sir,” he says as he leaves the room without even acknowledging Granger.

“Utz,” Granger says, almost to himself. “Small company…”

“With considerable interests,” I add. “Shards of glass, Mr. Granger.” He twists his lips and stands.

“I’ll be in touch,” he says. I stand with him.

“You do that, sir,” I say proffering my hand to him. He shakes it firmly, buttons his suit jacket and proceeds to the door. When he opens it, at least seven executives from different timber companies are waiting in my lobby area.

“Sirs, I apologize. My meeting ran a little longer than I expected. Since I’m sure that you’ve been chatting among yourselves, would you mind terribly if we all met together in the conference room? I can reschedule anyone who would rather have a one-on-one for a later time.” We’re not talking numbers after all—just yet. We’re just working on an agreement. The gentlemen all agree to a meeting and I have Andrea show them to the conference room while I show Granger to the door.

This couldn’t have worked out better had I planned it this way.

“Mr. Granger?” I say, gesturing towards the elevator.

“Shards of glass,” he points out as I push the call button.

“There’s still room in the pot, sir. Let me know.” We shake again before he boards the elevator.

“Get some refreshments in that room quick,” I tell Andrea. “Coffee, water, soft drinks, pastries. And tell security I need three details, now.  It’s showtime.”

And showtime it is. Linc’s diehard supporters all but accuse me of trying to destroy a national treasure while the others have valid questions concerning my plans and reasons for wanting to enter an industry so far outside the spectrum of my current interests. I give them the whole Manifest Destiny-type speech that this is a lucrative industry and I want in.

“And this would have nothing to do with the personal issues that you’re currently having with Lincoln and his wife, would it?” Stuver taunts.

“Of course, it does,” I say to his surprise and to the surprise of the other men in the room. They’re not surprised that I’m having issues with Linc, just that I admitted that those issues are the foundation of my interest.

“I’m a straight shooter, gentlemen,” I say, standing from my chair and buttoning my jacket as I circle the room. “My intense—and justified—dislike of the Lincolns is exactly what brought my attention to the timber industry. If I wanted to sneak in through the back door, all I had to do was buy stock. Not only would that give me voting rights, but I would also be driving up the price of my own investment. It would also make any one of the companies that I’m approaching ripe for a takeover. That’s not what I want. I want to be a part of the industry, of the growth, the profits. I have the money and the power to do it. I want the profitable companies and operations to stay intact, and I can still enjoy the prosperity of the expansion while contributing to the profits that you deserve that you’re currently not getting through your contracts with Lincoln Timber.”

Various murmurs spread over the conference room.

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable being a part of your cat-and-mouse game with Caldwell Lincoln,” Stuver continues. “He’s been a captain of this industry probably longer than you’ve been alive and I don’t think it’s the best idea to put the future of our companies in your hands.”

This sonofabitch. So, now he’s the spokesperson? Time to strip him of his imagined power.

“Very well, Mr. Stuver. You can leave now.” To say that he’s taken aback would be an understatement.

“What?” he barks with heavy emphasis on the “wh.”

“You’ve made your position quite clear. You are obviously pro-Lincoln, and I am not. So, our business here is done. If you would like to hold a meeting with any one of these gentlemen at a later date, I suggest you contact their office and make an appointment. In the meantime, thank you so much for coming and you can leave now. Taylor, please show this gentleman to the elevator.” Stuver’s eyes widen and he scoffs disbelieving.

“Is this how you do business, Grey?” he accuses. “You invite people to your business and then throw them out when they disagree with you?”

“Feel free to disagree with me all you want,” I defend. “However, you’ve spent the afternoon throwing veiled insults at me, wasting my time, and defending my adversary. You’ve made it very clear that you want nothing to do with this endeavor. So, our business is done and yes, I’m throwing you out. You should be questioning my cojones if I allow you to stay.” I turn to face the other gentlemen in the room. “If anyone shares his opinion, please join him now.” One other person stands and heads for the door.

“And thank you for coming as well, Mr. Warner,” I say to the asshole who stood up. “Taylor?”

“Gentlemen?” Taylor says as he holds the door open. Stuver and Warner both leave, conspiring as they walk to the elevator.

I’ll deal with them later.

“Now, back to business. Should I stop talking now or are any of you gentlemen interested in my hope for expansion?”

The room is silent for a several moments before someone finally speaks up.

“Well, you’re right about one thing,” Spires says. “Lincoln is lowballing the hell out of me and he doesn’t give much if any at all when it’s time for renegotiations.”

“That’s because Lincoln is the Rockefeller of timber, so to speak,” I admit. “A long time ago, he did what I’m doing right now—locked down one lumber interest, then two, then four, then eight, and so on. Pretty soon, he was one of the biggest names in lumber. Those above him saw no need to take him down, or he’d be down by now. His lateral colleagues may keep an eye on him, but as long as he’s a good boy and stays in their good graces, they continue to allow him to play in the sandbox with them. Those below him haven’t had the desire or the ability to go up against him. I fall into none of those categories.

“Where I am now is where Lincoln started when he began Lincoln Timber. The difference between me and him is that I’ve already secured several timber interests as my startup. In addition, Lincoln doesn’t have the buying power that I have—or the drive. The only reason why Lincoln Timber is a giant right now is because he enjoys outrageously massive profits by keeping his costs low—you all!” I point around the room to each of them. “He buys a lot from you, but at a very low price, and you all know this. What if you could maintain the same level of production at a profit margin 10-33% higher than you’re recognizing right now?”

The murmurings begin across the room again.

“I only say that, gentlemen, because once the contracts are signed, the numbers are available to whomever may ask for them under the Freedom of Information Act. Lincoln is definitely lowballing you. Some of you are operating on profit margins that weren’t acceptable a decade ago. Others of you—and you know who you are—are enjoying near or at-market profits because you held out for a better deal, but I can still make it sweeter. I must tell you that I’m determined, gentlemen. I’m not going to let anyone stop me. I’ll keep going until I build my own industry giant if I have to.”

Of course, Wester comes knocking at my door again. Does he plan this shit?

“Again, my apologies, sir. Just thought you should know that I just got another call—Wurchiest is a go.” I suppress a smile.

“Wurchiest,” I hear someone whisper. “I knew I recognized that guy.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wester,” I say. He nods and leaves the room. Yeah, he’s cocky as fuck.

“Gentlemen, those battle lines are being drawn. What say you?” I say, taking my seat again.

“Fuck,” Spires says, “I don’t want to be on the losing side when the dust clears. Count me in.”

Four out of five of the remaining executives agree to come over to my side before the meeting is over. The fifth wants a little time to think about it. Don’t think too hard, junior. The offer may not be on the table for long.

By the time I get home that evening, I get the best news yet. I don’t know who made a call to whom or what happened, but the police in the Bahamas pulled Linc in and took several pictures of his scars and bruises. I have no idea how this works, but I have a feeling that they have all the evidence that they need to pin that motherfucker and I have all the evidence that I need to begin my lawsuit.

I fire off a text to Wester to get the ball rolling and file the needed documents with the required agencies. I wasn’t born yesterday. Most likely, nothing will come from this lawsuit, but it’ll ruffle enough feathers to make sure that this case is going to be examined with a fine-toothed comb.

*-*

She’s on her knees on my bed, facing away from me with that glorious ass on display. The plump lips of her pussy peak from just beyond the junction of her parted thighs and she’s looking coyly over her shoulder, her mahogany hair cascading down her naked back, caressing her creamy skin.

“What are you waiting for?” she taunts, her voice like melted butter.

I have no fucking idea, I think to myself, fisting my unbelievably stiff erection in my right hand. I climb onto the bed and crawl up behind her, my dick pointing due North and seeping in anticipation. I don’t dawdle. I want her too much—have wanted her for months!

Her ass is fucking beautiful—the source of many scenes and vicarious orgasms with other women as well as orgasms at her hand in her dungeon… strapped to her table, chained to her ceiling, bound to her wall. That ass is calling me, but I’ve wanted that pussy for too long to let this opportunity pass me by. I’ll have to get the best of both worlds.

I release my dick and close the space between us, caressing her bare back, her hips, then her stomach, committing the feel of her skin to memory. Mmmm, she feels divine. I move my hands down to the front of her thighs and splay my finger firmly across the soft skin. I press her body against mine as I nip her shoulders, tasting her flavor. Her ass sandwiches my dick and I can’t help it. I push my cock between those soft, sweet cheeks and let the feeling of the meat burn my shaft as I stroke a few times. I groan at the feeling… so fucking good.

 “Stop teasing,” she warns, her voice even. “Handle your business.”

With pleasure, Mistress.

I pull back and grab my cock. Guiding it between her parted legs, the head finds its way to her luscious peach without much coaxing. I push forward and breach that sweet pussy with a loud grunt, shivering at the feel of the inside of her. I’m going to come.

Fuck! No! Not yet.

I pull out slowly and push into her again. So fucking good… slowly… don’t come too soon.

“Faster,” she commands, her voice is controlled the whole time. I move a little faster, exercising every bit of dick control that I can. Her pussy is hot and burning my dick, coaxing and commanding me to come. My fingers sink into her hips as I settle into a sensual roll that gives me continuous stimulation. Fuck, she feels so fucking good and I’ve wanted this for so fucking long.

“Shit!” I hiss, not sure how much longer I can hold out.

“Poor Chopper,” she taunts, wiggling her hips seductively on my dick while still holding on to the headboard. “Can’t hold out much longer? We’ve only just started.”

“Fuck!” I groan as that pussy rolls masterfully over my dick. “Shit, that feels good.”

“I know,” she says, wiggling her hips again, and I still for fear that I’ll blow my load inside her right this second if I thrust into that hot pussy against that delicious, round wiggling ass.

“Ummmgghhh!” I groan, fighting for all I’m worth to hold my nut.

“Sit back, ass on your feet,” she commands. I take a deep breath and do as I’m told. Her ass sticks a little further out, a little further up, on perfect display—and I can clearly see her hungry pussy lips wrapped around my aching cock. Fuck, the site is almost unbearable.

“Now, fuck me,” she commands, her voice a mixture of sensual and demanding. God, I’m not going to last long.

I push my cock into her resisting pussy, groaning deep as I watch and feel it rubbing against her lips and the velvety inside of her core.

“Dammit!” I groan, as she stays stock still and gives me the pleasure of watching my dick sink into that deliciously soft and wet pussy, over and over again. I groan mournfully as I feel my pleasure creeping through my rolling abs and the tightening muscle in my back. Too soon. Too fucking soon…

“Hold it, Chopper,” she coaches in that playroom voice. “Enjoy it… you know you want it.”

She starts to move, raising her ass on my withdrawal and pushing down when I thrust—not too fast, not too hard, not to eager. Just enough to match my stroke.

“That’s it,” she coaxes, “keep it steady.”

My muscles ache from trying not to thrust into her like a horny rabbit. I keep the stroke even like she instructs me, licking my lips at the sheer pleasure of the burn. I use my fingertips to gently lift her ass. I’m not holding anything up, just lifting slightly so that I can feel her skin against my hand. Her ass is softer than I expected and as she grinds down onto me, my hands cause her to open more, giving me an even more tormenting view of her assault on my cock.

“Sweet Jesus!” I hiss as I watch her pussy greedily gobble my shaft. I’m shaking with pleasure as we cruise into and against each other, my dick threatening an offering that she won’t soon forget.

And I feel the crack of a lunge whip across my back.

“Fuck!” I cry out as my dick stiffens immediately inside her unforgiving pussy. Fucking hell! The combination of my most recently discovered guiltiest pleasure—or pain—and the culmination of something I’ve wanted so much that I could barely think of anything else is almost more than I can take.

I run my hand up her back and thrust it into her hair, grabbing a handful of it as I watch her body drop down on my aching dick.

“Fuck… Golden…” I groan as I thrust into her and she pushes back onto my erection, matching me stroke for sensual stroke. “God!” I gasp as my free hand roams up her body to her perfect breast and we continue the hottest, sensual tango I’ve ever felt in my life—a synchronized fuck where each stroke burns deeper than the one before with an unbelievable rhythm that has my dick desperate to come.

The whip bites into my flesh once more, searing across my back and causing my mouth to water.

“Fuck!” I bite out as it feels like she’s getting tighter around me. “Fuck!”

“Don’t lose it,” she purrs. “Keep your rhythm. Keep it deep…”

I groan in my chest, rolling my hips as I lean back and thrust into her, making sure that every millimeter of my dick sinks into that tight, wet pussy.

“Shit!” I curse. “I… can’t! Too… fucking… tight…” Too fucking much…

“Feel it, Chopper,” she coaxes as she rolls her hips in the opposite direction of my gyrations. Her control is maddening, and so fucking hot! My dick stiffens and now it hurts to roll my hips. I can only thrust into her, repeatedly, watching my dick disappear and reappear—wet, red, and angry—in and out of her luscious pussy.

“It’s coming!” I grunt, rolling my abs and getting lost in the wet sounds our sex makes as she pumps my cock with her juicy pussy. “It’s… coming!”

“Mmmm,” she moans. “Well, like I said… what are you waiting for?”

One final crack of the whip across my skin and my balls pop like eggs, my cum spilling helplessly out into her.

“Fuck!” I hiss, one hand fisting in her hair, the other grasping her hip as I try to still my stroke and enjoy the pulsing of my dick, but it’s no use. Both our bodies continue that sensual, even grind as I’m coming relentlessly inside that wet pussy.

That maddening, even stroke has my dick thumping and pounding so hard and my balls saluting magnificently. I squeeze my eyes shut and howl in agonizing satisfaction, the sound echoing in my ears…

The pain and pleasure are so deep that I open my eyes and I’m face down in my bed, sweating like a man on trial and coming so hard that my ass muscles hurt from the tension. I’m fucking my mattress and the orgasm is still going on and on and on. I’m gripping handfuls of my sheets, biting my pillow as I thrust into the mattress and still see her in my head, riding my cock.

“Golden! Golden! Golden!” I bite out into my pillow as my body comes so hard, I almost want to cry.

“Yes! Fuck! Yes!” I groan as I tremble through the intensity. When the orgasm finally wanes, I fall helplessly onto the bed, breathing heavily and trying to recover. I knew it was a dream. I knew it when I was fucking her, but I didn’t care. I had to have her any way that I could, and that was the best fuck that never happened to me in my entire life.

I fall back into an exhausted sleep, pondering what tribute I’ll be sending to my Mistress for this wonderful gift she’ll never know she gave me.


A/N: Chris Cagney was one half of a female police duo from a series from the 80’s called Cagney and Lacey. So, when Ana calls Bhingman “Cagney,” she’s referring to the cop show.

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

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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 15

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

Explicit details of sex and BDSM scenes from here on out. Some may be hot while others may not be to your taste… and not necessary CG with Ana together. Proceed at your own discretion, but don’t say that I didn’t warn you.

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

CHAPTER 15

Pissed Off Trey

TREY

I felt the sting, but that’s it. I couldn’t feel anything else.

She could have stuck me with a hot poker straight off the fire and I don’t think I would have felt it. I couldn’t get the pure rage out of my eyes. I wanted her to hit me harder, longer. As it stands, she beat the fucking hell out of me; I just couldn’t feel it.

As I’m driving home, I’m pondering my scene with Golden… and my dinner with Ana. They really are two different people, but I could easily see Golden’s appeal in the way that Ana carries herself. Even during our after-meetings in the parlor, she’s still mostly-Golden. I don’t think she ever really lets Ana out—in the boardroom, in the courtroom, in the playroom… ever.

I want to know what the fuck that was that she used on my dick. That thing was fucking incredible! I didn’t stand a chance against it. This pulsing, rubbing, throbbing thing… fuck! It was just too much! That damn thing broke me down in three minutes. Fuck, was it even three? I forgot why I was mad; I couldn’t think; my dick was on fire! I’m getting a little pulse right now just thinking about that thing.

But when that flogger hit my back, I remembered where I was. I remembered that I was another poor subject at Golden’s mercy about to spill my hopes and dreams all over her dungeon floor. At least I was coherent enough to see the floor cover. So, I know where my cum went last time. It didn’t just disappear into FairyLand.

To say that I was fucking useless when she was done is an understatement. Every part of my body was completely inoperable. Even my brain was mush. I only called Blake because I remember her telling me to call him if I needed help. That strange Spanish accent was just what I wanted to hear, even lying there on the floor naked. If he was some kind of perv and wanted to fuck me up the ass at that moment, I would have been powerless to stop him.

As it turns out, he’s really very professional. It was strange having him examine my wounds and massage antiseptic cream into my many, many bruises, particularly the ones on my ass, but it was more like being treated by a doctor. He told me everything that he was going to do; informed me everywhere that he would touch me; applied cool towels to ease the sting for several minutes before he started the massage—which would have been agony had he done it before applying the towels. He even put a massage pillow under my head so I didn’t have to lay on the floor. I’m not sure I’ll partake in the aftercare too many more times after tonight, but at least I know that the guy knows what he’s doing should I need it again.

Dinner was… surprising. I had no idea that she could cook. That chicken tasted like pure southern comfort, and those mashed potatoes melted in your mouth like hot butter. I never considered myself the caretaker for my subs. They get aftercare when I feel like it, but as far as their state of mind is concerned, I was never really taught to care about that. I beat them good; I fuck them well; they’re usually happy; I send them home. If I beat them real good, they’ll get aftercare, but I still send them home.

Then again, look who my BDSM mentor was—my lying, cheating father who fucked submissives in the house when my mother was out. The man who still holds things over his children’s head to protect himself from whatever guillotine is poised at his neck—like I really fucking care what he could have on me, but I’m dying to know what he has on Mia. There’s the utter picture of care and concern for you, there.

I don’t know how a Dom is really supposed to care for a submissive. I’ve never been full-on into the hardcore shit, anyway—just some pain with your pleasure, come real hard, buy ‘em some toys or pay their college tuition for a year or so and move on. The only one who really left displeased was Caramel. That’s an experience I really don’t care to repeat.

I know the rules. I know the do’s and don’ts, but all the little nuances? I’m not a Dom like that. I fuck ‘em and flog ‘em—even more fuck than flog lately—and that’s it.

Golden taught me something tonight, though. She taught me about the full package—about how a submissive is supposed to feel when they leave your presence… no matter how you get them there. Granted, I’m not one for that touchy-feely shit, but she did get to the root of the problem. I had been fucked—so to speak—flogged, and then she talked to me. She fed me, too, which sure as hell didn’t hurt.

I get to the parking garage and punch my key code in. I notice, with little interest, that another car—a brown sedan—says something to the guard and is allowed in right behind me. I’m a little unnerved, because I know that no one was behind me. I always check my mirror before I punch in the code. All of a sudden, there’s a brown sedan behind me. I shrug it off and park my car. I don’t see where the sedan went, but I get out and walk to the elevator anyway, still pondering the events of the night.

“Christian Grey?”

“Shit!” A female voice is directly behind me. She literally scares the shit outta me. She’s wearing one of those unflattering suits that women wear when they want to look like a man.

“A bit jumpy, aren’t you, Mr. Grey?” she accuses.

“Well, let’s review,” I say, turning around to face her and folding my arms while staring at her and the guy standing with her. “You follow me into a restricted parking lot when I know there was nobody behind me. Your car disappears like fucking Houdini, and now you’re stalking me in the parking lot, sneaking up on me on cat’s paws and standing all in my personal fucking space! Hell, yeah, I’m jumpy!” She puts her hands on her hips. “What the fuck do you want?”

“You’ve got one hell of a temper there, Grey,” she notes.

“And it’s only going to get worse if you don’t state your business,” I declare, matter-of-factly. Her companion reaches into his coat and pulls out his badge.

“Mr. Grey,” he says calmly. “I’m Detective Nick Hughes. This is my partner Detective Rita Bhingman. We’re investigating an open case and we’d like to ask you some questions, sir.”

“Thank you for stating who you were, sir, without all the unnecessary commentary about attitude adjustments,I say to him before turning to She-Cop. “The proper greeting would have been, ‘Excuse me, Mr. Grey?’ and upon noticing that you startled me, apologize for the intrusion, identify yourself and they state your purpose, or didn’t they teach you about protocol in the academy?”

“I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job, civilian,” she sneers.

“Well, somebody should because you missed a class, detective,” I sneer right back. She’s reloading to come at me again when Hughes intercepts her.

“Mr. Grey, as I mentioned, we’re investigating an open case and we need to ask you some questions. May I please ask where you were this evening between 8 and 9pm?” Well, that’s easy. Whatever they’re investigating doesn’t involve me.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I was visiting a lady friend.” The She-Cop laughs.

“Is that what they call it now?” she taunts through her laughter. “Visiting a lady friend?” What the fuck does she know?

“What is this all about?” I ask.

“That lady friend that you visited? She’s been beat all to hell! Is that what you do to your lady friends?”

I’m horrified! I just left her—she was fine! Did that asshole sub freak out and put his hands on her?

“Ana?!” I ask incredulously. They both look at me bemused. “What happened to her? I just left her! She was fine!” They look at each other, then back at me.

“Her name is not Ana. Her name is Elena, and she’s definitely not fine!” She-Cop hisses.

“Elena?” I say incredulously. “I haven’t seen that bitch in months.”

“Ah, that bitch,” She-Cop says. “Now, we’re getting somewhere.” I frown.

“Is that the only thing you heard?” I ask. “I said I haven’t seen her!”

“Well, she says differently and you’re going to have to come down to the station.”

What in the blue fuck is this all about?

After about an hour of “I didn’t do it,” they book me based on her accusation and the fact that I definitely wasn’t home during the time that the bitch was attacked. Motherfucking hell! This just destroyed a perfect fucking evening.

I finally get my one phone call before they take me to a holding cell. Do I call Taylor, or do I call Golden? Taylor’s sure to answer, but Golden’s my fucking alibi. Taylor will check all the usual places if I’m not home by morning. I take a chance and call Golden.

“It’s late, Trey,” she answers on the second ring.

“I’m in jail,” I reply. I hear shuffling on the other end.

“Wait, I have to adjust the phone. I thought I heard you say you were in jail…”

“You did,” I say flatly. There’s a pause.

“What?” she says, incredulously. “Why? Did you hit a cop on the way home?!”

“No, they think I attacked Elena Lincoln!” I bark into the line. Another pause.

“Did you?” she asks. What the…?

“Where have I been all night?!” I shout.

“This happened tonight?” she asks incredulously.

“Yes, this happened tonight, a few hours ago or so if I’m understanding correctly.”

“Shit!” she breathes. “Blake!” she yells. “Where are you?” she asks into the phone.

“One of the Kirkland precincts. I don’t know…”

“How do I reach Taylor?” she asks.

“He’s at my penthouse,” I inform her.

“I know where you are. Sit tight,” she says.

“Well, it’s not like I’m fucking going anywhere!” This is your Mistress, asshole. “I mean… okay.”

“Your ire is understandable, but…” and she trails off.

“Yes, yes, I know,” I say through my teeth. God, will this day never end?

“Let me take care of it.”

*-*

My phone, my Montblanc, my shoestrings, my money, my tie, my fucking cufflinks, my goddamn belt…

An officer quietly leads me to a holding cell with several other men. I sit in a corner facing the rest of the room with my arms folded and my eyes fixed in front of me. I want to kill somebody! I literally want to kill someone. The someone is Elena Lincoln, but anybody who crosses my path will do tonight. The cell has the strong odor of piss and I can feel it seeping into my clothes.

The longer I sit here, the angrier I get. The many ways that I can make every person responsible for this pay for their actions keep playing over in my head. The bitch broke my arm and when somebody beats her to shit, she points a finger at me. She is going to fry for this shit.

I’m going to offer a five-million-dollar reward for anyone who has any information that leads to the arrest of the person who beat her ass. I have a feeling I know who it was. In fact, I’m sure that I know who it was… and why. Your company is mine, Linc, and everything you hold dear. I promise you.

I’ve got at least two years of legal bullshit ahead of me and I have this piece of shit, pussy-ass lawyer over my legal department who used to be worth his weight in gold. Now, he’s shit. Do I wait for a new department head or pass the job down to one of the subordinates in the department? These balls need to get rolling quickly! I don’t want to wait.

Idea after idea after plot after plan rolls through my brain as my nostrils are permeated with the smell of piss, foul body odor, and cheap liquor seeping through someone’s pores. The aura of stay the fuck out of my personal space that I’m giving off is enough to keep these fuckers away from me, but not their aromas. I’m not acting like I own the place, just this corner that I’m inhabiting until I get the fuck outta here.

Whenever the hell that’s going to happen.

“Grey!”

My eyes land on an open cell door and a burly cop standing in front of it.

“You’re free to go.”

Hmm. I guess somebody posted bail. Now, I’ll have to fight this shit. Lincoln, when I’m done with you…

I stand and quietly walk out of the cell. I follow another officer back to Central Processing where I retrieve all my belongings and every cent of my money from a contrite looking officer behind the window. I look at my Montblanc. It’s after 2am. I’ve been here for more than two hours. I couldn’t even tell. Continuously plotting someone’s demise every waking second will do that to you.

I feel like a pissy, dusty piece of shit and I can’t get the smell of urine out of my nose. I’m fighting to get my fucking watch on my arm when I look up and see An… Golden

Shit, she came down here dressed like that? She looks unbelievably fuckable—even more fuckable than she looks in her golden negligees and catsuits. I just stare for a moment, thinking of those muscular thick thighs wrapped around my waist as I slam into that tight, hot pussy…

Dream on, Grey.

“Did you bail me out?” I ask as I’m still trying to fasten this fucking watch. I need to fuck. My back is still stinging from the flogging and beating I got earlier. I just need to fuck. She tells me that she was my alibi as I exit the precinct.

No Taylor. Where the fuck is Taylor? Maybe she didn’t call him. I’m looking for a taxi to get me home, but she scolds me and orders me into her Range Rover. Okay, don’t blame me if your seat smells like piss when I get out.

We talk a little on the ride—all the way the fuck back to Seattle. We speculate that it was probably Linc that beat her, which it most likely was. I’m buying out his businesses; I told him I fucked his wife; and in the end, he couldn’t beat my ass, so he went home and beat hers!

Damn!

She’s a fucking bitch, and she had that shit coming—an ass-beating, that is. It served her right, but that was still a real pussy-ass thing for him to do. Go home and beat your wife because you couldn’t beat a motherfucker in the street. Real macho, asshole.

Ana says something about a cease-fire or some kind of truce or something like that, and I have to remind her that she has a class-action suit against this woman for an imaginary bedbug infestation. She concurs and adds something about Elena ending up dead.

“I won’t lose any sleep if she does,” I conclude, and I shut the conversation down. Quite frankly, I’m tiring of it. I want to fuck. We can analyze this shit tomorrow.

Golden pulls up to Escala and puts the car in park. I should say something. She is my Mistress after all, and she did get me out of jail.

“Thank you… Mistress,” I mumble, “… for… getting me out of jail and… getting me home…” I can’t even make eye-contact with her. I’m not feeling submissive in any way right now. I’m feeling Dominant—to the point of aggression—and I need to fuck!

“We’ll talk later,” she says after a pause. “Go.”

Thank God! I can’t stand sitting next to her one more second and that big ass isn’t bouncing on my dick. I open the door quickly and scramble out of the truck. It’s all I can do not to run to the door of my apartment building and take every flight of stairs up to the penthouse. I close the door and walk swiftly to the double-doors of Escala without even looking back.

“Sir!” Taylor comes running from his office, no doubt alerted to my presence when the elevator opened. “I was waiting for a call! I would have picked you up…” I didn’t fucking feel like waiting.

“Where in the fuck is Rockford?” I seethe. Taylor frowns.

“He… he wasn’t there?” he asks surprised. “How were you released?”

“Golden got me out,” I growl. “She substantiated my alibi. That pussy attorney of mine never fucking showed up!”

“That’s crazy,” Taylor says, dropping protocol. “I called him hours ago when you were first arrested. I’ve been sitting here waiting to hear something.”

“What was he doing when you called?” I ask.

“I don’t know, he sounded like he was asleep.” I just bet he was. He might have been in bed, but he wasn’t asleep. “Take a screenshot of your call log and send it to my phone. I want transcripts of that call on my desk in the morning. Call security now and tell them to freeze all of his accesses, including passwords and clearances. Get all network access wiped as soon as IT can get it done.”

“Done, sir.” Taylor goes back to his office without another word. I pull out my phone and immediately type an email to the head of HR that my ex-head of legal has been terminated effective immediately due to breach of contract. I send another email to Andrea that I expect a list of new candidates in the morning, so tell Borne and Associates to get off their asses.

I walk immediately to the fuck room. I don’t fuck in my bed; I fuck in this room. Reaching into the nightstand, I pull out the burner phone that’s always charging there and text my BDSM escort service.

**I need two in thirty minutes. Clean. Freaks. Bareback. Penthouse. Ask for Trey. **

I don’t wait for a response. They know if they can’t find someone, I won’t use them again. I pay handsomely to make sure they’re at my beck and call, so they very well better be. I strip out of my clothes with intention to burn them and walk straight into the shower.

**Expect Vida and Blaze. **

This is the message that greets me when I step out of the shower. That was twenty minutes ago. I take a few items from the drawers and place them on the end table near the sofa, in case I decide to use them. I don’t bother getting dressed. This isn’t a seduction session. Hell, I don’t even want to beat them now. I just want to fuck and go to sleep… forget this whole goddamn night.

I text the names to Taylor just in time for my two fuckbuddies to arrive. I instruct him to send them to the fuck room, get comfortable on the sofa, and wait. To my delight, two luscious specimens walk in the open door, both in cliché trench coats and stilettos.

“I’m Vida,” the taller one says. “This is Blaze.”

I nod.

“What would you like, Sir?” Vida asks.

“I want to be sucked and fucked until I’m comatose and then I want you to leave,” I say frankly. Vida raises an eyebrow, then turns to Blaze. A wordless conversation passes between them before she turns her gaze back to me.

“Yes, Sir,” she says. They simultaneously undo the belts of their trench coats and they’re both naked underneath—and fucking gorgeous!

Yes! Jackpot! Let’s get this shit started.

“Get over here and suck my dick,” I command. They move as one as they approach me. I slide down so that my ass is nestled comfortably on the edge of the sofa, allowing my legs to fall open wide.

Two women on the head of my dick—licking and sucking like a coveted, delicious lollipop. I don’t say a word and I don’t move. I just watch those luscious lips and hot tongues compete to make me come. Shit this is good. Vida’s lips suckle my head while Blaze’s incredibly long tongue wraps around my cock and tickles and licks my frenulum. Fuck, this is hot… and I get to watch.

Licking and sucking and lapping until my cock is hot and hard and pink and wet with their saliva. I grip the edge of the sofa in hot pleasure, and try though I might, I can’t resist their combined talents. I lick my lips, then bite, anticipating the hot, hard orgasm building in my balls. Vida takes the queue and begins to stroke her side of my cock hard and tight with those lips. Not to be outdone, Blaze alternates her stroke so that one of them has their mouth on my head at all times.

They’re both very good at what they do, but with different techniques. Vida’s tongue is small and quick, giving me a torturous flutter when she’s at the head. Blaze’s tongue is long, firm, and thick, covering an amazing amount of sensitive skin when she takes me into her mouth.

Fucking two different mouths at the same damn time, each with masterful techniques to make me blow is enough on its own to send me sailing over the edge, but when one of them ghosts a finger over my asshole, across my anus, and then tickles and caresses the tight skin of my balls, I close my eyes and see my Mistress tormenting my balls and ass with her fingers and pleasuring my sensitive cock with her mouth. It’s more than I can take.

“Fuck!” I bite out, opening my eyes and digging my fingers into the sofa so as not to grab Vida by the hair and ruin her rhythm. She’s the one who ends up on the head when my orgasm starts, and she latches on and sucks hard, drinking nearly every bit of my semen and only allowing a drop or two to escape from the corner of her mouth where I can see them. They slide hot and thick down my pulsing, throbbing, massively ejaculating dick where Blaze’s long thick tongue is waiting to snake around my throbbing cock and lap them up like tasty drops of sweet nectar.

The visual causes me to groan deep in my chest and the pleasure starts a whole new series of tremors. I come and come and come until it nearly feels that my balls are empty… but I know better. I tell them to stop and watch them make out a bit for me while my cock rejuvenates. It doesn’t take long.

“Get over here,” I command them. “On your knees on either side of me.” They both crouch beside me on the sofa and I put a finger into each of them.

“Kiss,” I tell them, and they begin the raunchiest girl-on-girl make-out session I think I’ve ever seen. The first one to start riding my finger wins. Vida beats her counterpart to the punch.

“Stop,” I tell them, and they rip their lips apart, looking lustfully at one another.

Fuck, I love bisexual submissives.

“You,” I command Blaze as I take my fingers from her pussy, “go get those cuffs.” She goes to the end table and gets the leather cuffs while Vida continues riding my hand. That’s right baby, keep it nice and wet for me.

“Cuff her at the elbows,” I tell Blaze. Vida obediently puts her arms behind her back and Blaze cuffs her at the elbows, causing her breasts to protrude nicely. Yes!

“Get up here and ride my cock!” I tell her. With the help of her friend, she straddles me and slides her wet pussy onto my now-eager dick.

“Fuck, yes!” I hiss, grabbing her hips and pushing and pulling that pussy on and off my dick.

“Fuck, that’s good. Gimme those tits.” She juts her chest out to me and I take hungry mouthfuls of those tender tits and taut nipples into my mouth as I drill into her. She moans in pleasure and drops her head back as I drill into her and Blaze fondles her wherever her hands can reach.

When I tire of this position, I make her straddle me in reverse so that I can watch that ass bounce on my cock. She spreads her legs wide and pulls my dick up into that warm, dark orifice. She’s so tight this way that I nearly whimper as her pussy sucks me in balls deep. With her elbows still cuffed together, she puts her hands flat on my abs and rolls mercilessly on my dick.

Oh, God, this is so good I may not get to fuck Blaze.

“Make her feel good,” I tell Blaze. She’s focusing too hard on me and I won’t last long. Blaze starts by kissing her, deep and sensual, while she pinches Vida’s nipples between her fingers. This may not have been the best idea, because not only do I have two sexy and hot girls making out right in front of me, but one of them is riding my dick—well! And getting better the hotter she gets.

At some point, I realize that my dick is nothing more than a warm, hard dildo and that’s fine with me, because once Blaze slides down between our legs and starts licking Vida’s pussy, the ride becomes a sensual fucking rodeo and a race to the finish.

I’m not racing. I still want to fuck Blaze, but I’m going to enjoy Vida working my dick before she comes.

Blaze’s head is bobbing, and Vida throws her head back in ecstasy, her strokes on my dick now becoming long and controlled… and wetter… and tighter…

Shit, I’m not going to make it.

Vida whimpers with every stroke. She’s so hot and ready to come. She spreads her legs wider as Blaze‘s head continues to bob between her thighs. If she’s eating that pussy as well as she sucks dick, I feel sorry for that little cunt getting licked and drilled at the same time.

Vida raises her head so that she can see the action between her legs. She’s sweating all over and now fucking Blaze’s mouth more than my cock. I grab both of her arms and stroke up into that pulsing pussy as Blaze brings her closer and closer to the edge.

That’s it. Suck that clit. Make her come.

Vida trembles and whimpers again and I hold her down by the arms, massaging those trembling walls with my stiff, eager dick and pleasuring my aching cock with that sweet, tightening pussy. It’s making that wonderful, sloppy, wet sound like creamy macaroni and cheese and that shit is so fucking hot that I have to concentrate not to blow inside of her.

Vida trembles violently and finally shrieks out a massive orgasm before falling limp on my dick. That was so fucking hot, but now, I have a limp submissive on my lap. That will never do.

“Switch,” I command them. “Make it fast.”

Blaze undoes the cuffs from Vida’s elbow, giving her a moment to catch her breath. She’s still on my lap and I rock slowly into her as Blaze turns around and allows Vida to cuff her elbows. She rises off my dick, which is now wet, red, and standing at complete attention. Blaze raises her eyebrows but isn’t daunted by the task. She slides down on my stiff cock and I’m immediately relieved that she didn’t ride me first—Vida wouldn’t have gotten up here.

“Damn, baby,” I say almost involuntarily. “What the fuck?”

“Kegels,” she says as she squeezes them around me and begins to ride.

“Fuuuuck,” I groan as an inhumanly tight pussy squeezes my cock. Fuck… Fleshlight. Mistress. This shit is going to be really quick.

Vida doesn’t waste time pleasuring Blaze. She must be grateful for that massive orgasm. Blaze is a little more flexible and has a better ride and a better rhythm, if I’m honest. Fuck, she’s going to drain me fucking dry. I close my eyes and see my Mistress… sucking my cock, squeezing my cock, stroking me with the Fleshlight…

My balls tighten, and I have to shake the thought of Golden using my body like no one else can. I may be just a dildo to these cunts, but they’re nothing more than substitutes for the woman that I really want… and the things that she does to me.

“Fuck!” I hiss as I see her tight body in my mind’s eye, even with my eyes open.

Vida has her hand firmly on Blaze’s nape, holding her head in place as she devours her with lavish and luscious kisses, so deep that their hair hides their faces and I can only see Vida’s head bob as she gobbles hungrily at Blaze. Vida really likes what she’s doing because I hear her moan and her hand wanders down to Blaze’s ass and squeezes while the other hand disappears between her legs, no doubt stroking her clit. I watch Blaze fall into ecstasy as Vida’s mouth moves from Blaze’s mouth to her neck and Vida devours the skin sensually.

“Mmmmm,” I groan at the sexy scene playing out before me—two girls loving each other thoroughly while one of them rides my dick so well that she forgets there’s actually a person attached to it. Other guys would be jealous that they aren’t the center of attention, but the only part of my body that needs to be the center is getting all the fucking attention it needs. Love away, ladies.

Blaze’s Kegels tighten hard around me and I realize that it’s because when I wasn’t paying attention, Vida dropped down to that pussy and now, her head is bobbing away between our legs.

Fuck, this is so hot!

Blaze is fighting to get out of her bounds now, bouncing hard and tight on my dick and truly making me think of my Mistress and her magnificent hand jobs.

Mercy.

I can’t look anymore. I can only see Golden, my Mistress, pulling and massaging, tighter and tighter and tighter. I groan, knowing the release is going to be massive and hoping this sub doesn’t blow before I do when…

Blaze screams loudly and cries a sorrowful ballad as she bursts wildly into orgasm. Her pussy clamps onto my dick in a most ungodly fashion and I cry out, wrapping one arm around her body so that my hand is gasping the opposite tit and the other arm around her waist immobilizing her on her deadly balls-deep downstroke, allowing me to thrust up into her vise pussy so that I can finish the job. While she’s tightening hungrily around my cock, Vida sucks my balls into her mouth and rolls them around.

Mistress…

Two more deep thrusts and I cry out, coming so hard inside that hot little pussy that I think I leave my head in there. Vida keeps licking until my balls are completely empty and Blaze is still twitching on my lap. I sink helplessly into the sofa trying to catch my breath as Vida peppers kisses on Blaze’s face.

A dildo to two hot, bisexual lovers—I highly recommend it.

*-*

I awake to my phone buzzing on the nightstand. Shit. I missed the alarm. I guess I won’t be going into the office this morning. I’m so fucking tired and still fucking sore. I painstakingly reach for the irritatingly buzzing phone.

“Hello,” I nearly growl.

“What? Still in bed, brother? You must have had an interesting evening.” Oh, shit. I don’t feel like dealing with this right now.

“Make it fast, Elliot,” I say. He only calls when he wants something from me, and I’m not biting today.

“I hear you spent some time in the hoosegow last night!” Elliot sounds like somebody just personally introduced him to Santa Claus.

“Yes, I did,” I say flatly. “How did you find out?”

“I have my ways,” he replies, his voice full of mirth. “What do you think Mom and Dad are going to say?” he taunts. Don’t have time or strength for this.

“Tell them, Elliot,” I say, unconcerned. “Let me know how it turns out.”

“Oh, no,” he says. “No, I’m going to save this for when I really need it.” I have such a loving family.

“You do that, Elliot. Goodbye.” I end the call and dial my mother.

“Hello, Christian,” my mother says in that voice that makes me know she’s glad to hear from me.

“Hi, Mom. How are you?”

“I’m fine, but you sound tired,” she observes.

“I am, Mom,” I say… for more reasons than one. “I want to tell you something before you hear it anywhere else.” There’s silence for a moment.

“Should I sit?” she asks.

“Yeah, you should.”

“Christian, are you sick?” she asks, her voice shaking.

“No. Mom, no,” I say quickly to calm her nerves. “It’s nothing like that. I’m fine. It’s just—stories get all twisted and things when you hear them second-hand and I’d rather you hear this from me.” Mom takes a deep breath and releases it.

“I’m ready, son,” she says.

“Do you remember Elena Lincoln, the salon owner?” I ask.

“Yes, I vaguely remember hearing something about her salons a while back,” she admits.

“Yeah, well, she and I used to be friends—before her salons failed. We fell out right around that time. She was sure that I had something to do with the fall of her salons and she attacked me at Grey House…”

“What do you mean she attacked you? Attacked you how?” Mom asks. How could she not have seen this?

“You remember my broken arm?” I ask. “I lied. I wasn’t mugged. She broke my arm. She threw a concrete plant at me in my first-floor conference room.”

“What?” Mom shrieks. “Obviously, you’re pressing charges.”

“Obviously. How could you not have seen this, Mom? It was all over the news.”

“Apparently, not the news that counts,” she says. “I don’t pay attention to gossip rags or online blog-type sites or anything like that. I look for the meat and potatoes. The rest—I don’t pay any attention to it.”

I wish everybody could be like that.

“Well, she’s looking for revenge,” I say. “Somebody beat her all to hell last night and she told the police that it was me. I was arrested.”

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” my mother says disgusted. “Well, that’ll be all over the news.”

“It’s possible,” I say. “I’m home today because I’m just too damn tired, but I’ll be putting together a press release with my PR team and I’m filing some lawsuits as well. You know the sensational is going to get out before the truth does, but my name was cleared. I had an alibi.” Mom sighs.

“Well, that’s good to hear. As long as I know the truth, they can say what garbage they want. What can I do, son?”

“You’re already doing it, Mom. Just shut the garbage down whenever it falls on your ears. I don’t care what the rest of the world hears, I can handle that—but I do care what you hear, Mom.”

“Thank you for telling me, Christian. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Mom.” I end the call. Take that, Elliot. I dial Welch.

“Yes, sir?” he answers.

“Elena Lincoln,” I tell him. “I want pictures of her—right now, beat all to hell with her face destroyed. I don’t care who gets them or how.”

“Done, sir,” he replies, and I end the call, then dial my PR guy.

“Brandon Pack here,” he answers.

“I was arrested last night,” I say immediately. “The charges were dropped because my alibi checked out, but Elena Lincoln was assaulted, and she fingered me.”

“Fuck, are you serious?” he asks.

“Dead serious. This is what I want you to do…”

*-*

“Christian! What the fuck is this about? By the time I went to the station, they said that you had already been released! I get to Grey House this morning and my shit’s all packed and I can’t get in the building because my clearances have all been disabled. If I’m out of a job, at least I should know the fuck why! You don’t get to just dismiss me, Grey! I know more than you think I know! I won’t go down without a fight! At least answer your goddamn phone!”

Oh, is that so, Mr. Rockford? Are you threatening me? Do you really want to see how dirty I can play? You got it!

As it turns out, Rockford thought I was arrested for the fight that I got into with Linc at Grey House yesterday. During one of his several rants into my voicemail that day, he let that cat out of the bag. That’s why he didn’t rush to get to the precinct. It was, “Oh, now you need me. I’ll let you stew for a bit.” He grew the wrong set of balls with the wrong person at the wrong time.

I call my IT genius and have him save all of the lovely voicemails that are filling up my phone to our networks in case I need them later. Then, I call Welch again.

“Did you get the pictures?” I ask.

“This morning, right after we spoke.”

“Good. Get them to Brandon. And send Rockford the Omega Care Package. I’m on my way.”

“The message on the Omega?” he asks.

“’What do you think you know?’” I reply.

“Done, sir.” I end the call. It’s about 11am and I had planned on staying home and recuperating from last night’s confinement, flogging and fucking—not necessarily in that order—but I really should have known better. Luckily, my stripes and bruises from playtime with Golden are all on my back, shoulders, ass, and thighs, so a black T-shirt and blue jeans will make just the statement I need.

I get to the office and the press is clamoring outside of Grey House. I don’t know if news of the arrest was leaked or if Brandon’s instructions garnered this much attention in such a short amount of time. Either way, it’s exactly what I need.

“The package has been delivered, sir,” Welch notifies me when I get into my office, “and Brandon has what he needs as well.”

The Omega Care Package is something that I have on standby for executives, CEO’s, lawyers, what have you, that find themselves in a position where they think they have me over a barrel. For Rockford, the OCP is pictures of his children leaving school, his wife at one of her social events, and him in several compromising positions in more than one locale with three ladies that are clearly not his wife. The package also includes a partial background check with not-so-secret assets and other juicy little tidbits that could destroy the man in several ways. He won’t have to guess who sent it with the one-line message he received.

Sure enough, his annoying and threatening calls and messages stop.

I’ll still have to punish him somehow for threatening me in the first place, but right now, I have bigger fish to fry.


Briana Evigan 15

GOLDEN

The interruption to my sleep last night prevented me from falling asleep when I got home, so I slept in and called Chanelle to take the day off. I’m just rolling over and stretching when Blake’s gentle knock reaches my ears.

“Come in,” I invite softly, not wanting to move from my cocoon, but knowing that I can’t lay here all day. Blake comes into the room with a prepared tray.

“May I serve you, Mistress?” he asks as I sit up in bed.

“You may,” I reply. Blake sits on the bed and places the bed tray over my lap. He removes the dome to reveal a beautiful large cheese croissant and a bowl of fresh fruit. A beautiful fruit juice cocktail with a garnish is on the side of the tray.

“I know you don’t like to sleep too late,” he says, unfolding the napkin and placing it over the exposed part of my lap, “so I thought I’d make it a little easier for you to wake.” He hands me the fruit juice cocktail. It’s his specialty—organic pears, fresh ginger, tangerine and lemon. “I would also like to discuss something with you.”

“Why you stayed last night?” I guess. He nods.

“But first…” He leans over to my nightstand and retrieves the remote from inside the top drawer. The television in my room is pretty much for decoration. I very rarely watch it. So, when he turns it on, I gather that there’s something he thinks I need to see. I pick up the fork and dig in to the bowl of tropical fruit salad.

“There was an announcement on the local morning show today that Christian Grey was going to be doing a press release soon. Considering your late-night trip last evening, I thought you might want to see it firsthand.”

“You’re right,” I say after swallowing some kiwi and passionfruit. “Thank you for alerting me.” He nods and leans his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands between them and staring at his clasped hands.

“What’s on your mind?” I say, placing the bowl on the tray. He sighs.

“Please, eat, before the croissant gets cold. I will tell you,” he urges. I tear a piece of the croissant and I swear it’s the most delectable thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.

Well, except… focus, Ana!

“I’ve made a decision.”

Shit. I don’t like the sound of this. I quickly chew and swallow the croissant and refuse to take another bite until I know what’s going on.

“And that is?” I say, wiping my hand on the napkin to show that breakfast is over until I know what’s going on. He watches me, then looks at his hands again.

“I’m leaving my wife,” he says softly. He sounds a bit remorseful about the decision.

“Oh,” I say. That’s not what I expected to hear. “What brought this on?” He sighs.

“I’ve taken responsibility for what I’ve done. I killed my Danielle. I live in purgatory because of it every day of my life. But Canciana…” He trails off. I don’t think he ever told me her name. If he did, I don’t remember.

“Canciana has become more and more selfish, her behavior more erratic than ever. I have been in limbo for years, in a state of penance, and she just gets worse and worse. While I understand her suffering, I punish myself enough every day—the memories, the pain, the guilt… I won’t allow her to punish me, too, not anymore.”

“What made you come to this decision?” I ask, comfortable enough now to eat my breakfast.

“I allowed her to do what she wanted—go where she wanted, be with whom she wanted, spend what she wanted, but it wasn’t enough. She had to hurt me more and more and she continued to become more and more inconsiderate in her actions. Last night, I come home, I put my key in the door and I hear noise upstairs. I go up the stairs thinking that someone is intruding and when I open the door to her room, she’s in bed with another man—in my house.”

I’m confused now. He said she could be with whom she wanted, and now he’s upset that he caught her fucking someone else?

“I knew that she was seeing other men; I don’t care about that, as long as she didn’t—how you say—shit where you sleep?”

Oooohh. She could fuck who she wanted, just not in his house. I continue to eat my delicious breakfast, listening to the soap opera playing out before me.

“When I asked what the hell she was doing, do you know what she said? Close the damn door.

Ouch, that smarts.

“So, I did, and I went to my room and I packed my things, and I put them in my car, and I drove away. I came back here, and I assumed that you heard me come back last night, which is why you summoned me when Mr. Grey called…”

“No,” I confess, “it was just out of habit.” I finish the rest of my fruit salad. Blake looks at his hands again.

“She’s at the point where she doesn’t care at all about my feelings. I killed our daughter and that’s all she knows. I don’t matter. It’s not fair for me to let her continue to abuse me and she’s just getting worse and worse. I still punish myself, but I’ve healed a bit. I understand and accept what I’ve done wrong, and I’ve found peace in what I do for you and others, even though it’s not perfect peace. She’s not healing at all. She’s becoming more and more bitter. My presence is only making it worse, and even my money isn’t helping the sting.

“I spent the night completing the forms and was the first person in line this morning at the court to file for divorce. I immediately employed a process server with instructions to serve the papers at 11am. That gave me enough time to clean out the bank accounts in both our names and open one in mine only. It doesn’t matter if she contests the divorce. We have a prenuptial agreement. She would do best to take the $4 million I promised her and leave. She could still live very comfortably on four million. She just won’t have unlimited funds like she has right now.”

“But if you had an agreement that she could live how she wanted and see who she wanted, what’s your basis for divorce?” I ask, chomping into what’s left of the croissant.

“Irreconcilable differences,” he replies. I raise a brow at him. “I come to find out that she’s using my money to take care of her worthless men. Then, I walk into our home that I purchased for my family where I was still laying my head, and she’s fucking some hijo de puta in my home! ¡probablemente el mismo bastardo que ella ha estado apoyando todos estos años!”

I don’t even think he realizes that he’s slipped into his native tongue. I swallow the croissant and finish my cocktail as he turns his attention to me.

“My apologies, Mistress,” he says humbly.

“Apologies are not necessary in this situation.” I look at my clock on the nightstand. “So, she’s already gotten the papers.” He nods.

“She’s hell-bent on contesting the divorce because she signed a prenup and she wants to keep spending my money to take care of her man. I will need an attorney to handle the divorce if it goes on too long and I trust no one with my personal information. You know me better than anyone. If this favor is too much to ask…”

“No, no, it’s not, Blake,” I stop him. “I’ll absolutely represent you.” He nods.

“She cannot use my money to take care of her men anymore. She can use her four million, after she signs the papers. She can have the house, because I sure as hell don’t want it, but that’s it.”

“She’ll try to get spousal support,” I warn.

“She didn’t agree to it in the prenup,” he informs me.

“She’ll still try,” I tell him, “to keep living in the manner in which she’s become accustomed.”

“Then we shall fight it nail and tooth, correct? No matter the cost, I can cover it.” He’s kidding right?

“We shall,” I say, laughing inwardly at his attempt at American vernacular. He nods and stands. He takes my tray and leaves without a word. I go to my en suite to relieve myself and once I wash my hands, Blake has returned.

“Mistress, one more thing. May I stay here until I can find a place?” I frown.

“I thought that was understood,” I reply. “And you don’t have to find a place. You have a room here. I have a guest quarters if you need more privacy…” He shakes his head.

“I don’t think I will need the guest quarters. I will think about staying, but…” He trails off.

“But what?” I ask.

“Mr. Grey, he’s becoming fond of you, and you of him…” I know where he’s going with this.

“We’ve had this conversation, Blake,” I say firmly. “Please don’t make me say it again.” He twists his mouth in disbelief and shakes his head.

“Yes, Mistress,” he says. I know him. He’s resolved that I’m going to fall in love with someone—most likely Trey since he’s the only one who comes to the house regularly—and Blake won’t be needed or welcomed anymore. That’s not going to happen, but I guess he’ll need to see that for himself.

“Mr. Grey,” Blake says.

“Blake,” I begin in a warning tone.

“No, Mistress, he’s on,” he says, pointing to the television and turning up the volume.

They’re in a conference room at Grey Enterprises Holding, and some guy is standing at a podium. Trey is standing behind him in that stance that he’s always in—legs parted shoulder length with his hands clasped in front of him—that is, when his hands aren’t in his pockets. I see Taylor standing in the same stance on the other side of the guy who’s about to start talking and several other men whom I assume are security standing around them as they’re all dressed like Taylor.

He looks positively scrumptious. He’s wearing a black T-shirt that’s clinging to his muscular body, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s rubbing against the welts on his back or if someone lovingly put some antiseptic cream on his bruises this morning. He looks quite refreshed and rested—and thoroughly well-fucked. I know that look. He’s been tripping the light fantastic all damn night and he’s as bright and shiny as a new penny this morning.

But why do I care?

Some off-screen reporter introduces the speaker as Brandon Pack, GEH’s head of Public Relations and the guy starts speaking.

“In the very late night and early morning hours last evening and today, Mr. Grey was dragged from his home and arrested after being wrongfully accused of attacking and viciously assaulting Elena Lincoln, socialite and wife of lumber giant, Caldwell Lincoln. Several months ago, after Mrs. Lincoln’s Esclava salon chain fell to ruin, she confronted Mr. Grey at his office, accosting him with a cement vase and breaking his arm. A restraining order is still in effect against Mrs. Lincoln and the assault case is still open. Mr. Grey has not seen or spoken to Elena Lincoln since that date.

“Mr. Grey recently seized the opportunity to capitalize on antiquated open and expired contracts with various lumber yards and suppliers, potentially placing a serious strain on Lincoln Timber and their future business dealings. To that end, Caldwell Lincoln visited Grey Enterprises Holdings yesterday to confront Mr. Grey, hurling curses and harsh words at him before he was escorted from the premises. The police were called upon his arrival and the situation thoroughly explained. A recording of the call to dispatch has been secured by our office.

“Mr. Lincoln left enraged and although he was in downtown Seattle as late as yesterday evening, his whereabouts are currently unknown.”

A picture of that frosted asshole flashes over the screen.

“If anyone has seen or sees Caldwell Lincoln, please inform him that his wife is in the hospital and has been brutally beaten, and he might want to find his way to her side.”

Brandon steps aside and Trey steps to the microphone.

“Let the record show that I was nowhere near that woman and I have no idea why she pointed her finger at me except for the fact that she attacked me several months ago and she has criminal charges pending because of it. This is nothing more than a vengeance campaign aimed at the wrong person. She has been terrorizing me ever since her salons folded, and I’m not going to take this anymore.

“I find it pretty coincidental that I had a heated conversation last evening with Caldwell Lincoln in my office when he came to my business and confronted me about my growing lumber interests. He wasn’t pleased with the outcome. Subsequently, his wife ends up beaten beyond recognition not two hours after our meeting and instead of being the doting husband by her side, he’s nowhere in sight.”

Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

“A colleague of mine was able to secure these pictures of Elena Lincoln last night and this morning at Seattle General Hospital…”

Pictures of Elena flash across the screen. Her head is wrapped, and part of her face is bandaged. The part that’s not bandaged is a technicolor display of hideous bruising. There are also horrible bruises all over her body. One picture looks to have been taken before the doctors attended to her. Her face is bloody, and you can’t even tell it’s her.

“I would say that I’m looking quite unbruised and unscratched to have done that not 16 hours ago. No doubt, the person who actually attacked her more than likely looks like hell at this moment. This is the same woman who picked up a 50-pound cement pot and hurled it at me. I can guarantee you that she didn’t go down without a fight.  Nonetheless, that same woman proclaimed to the police that I was her attacker.

“I can only hope that the fine work of the two detectives who dragged me from my home as well as the impeccable evidence that was undoubtedly collected from Mrs. Lincoln’s person and from under her fingernails all coupled with my airtight alibi will all link to the person who actually committed this crime. In the meantime, I will be pursuing whatever legal recourse is available to me for the false accusations levied against me by Mrs. Lincoln as well as my false arrest and imprisonment last night by two gung-ho detectives who weren’t at all interested in truth and justice and only in the arrest.”

Oh, boy. Good luck getting all that done with that pussy ass lawyer who didn’t even show up at the police station last night.

“In addition, I’m offering a five-million-dollar reward for any information that leads to the arrest and conviction of the actual culprit who attacked Mrs. Lincoln last night. Since Mrs. Lincoln has conveniently mistaken who put their hands on her, she and her husband are excluded from collecting this reward. However, believe me when I tell you that I’m quite anxious to have the person who committed this crime and cost me a night in jail apprehended, convicted, and incarcerated as soon as possible. Thank you.”

The reward probably wasn’t a good idea, because the police are going to be chasing down every nutcase that has a lead they think will lead to that arrest and they’ll never find who really did it.

I look over at Blake who’s watching the closing statements of the interview. He doesn’t appear to be feeling any melancholy or emotional loss about his broken marriage. Then again, you can’t really feel too badly about something that’s been broken for years. He just wants it over. He was okay with her living her life and doing her thing until she fucked someone in their home.

He has told me that Canciana knows that he’s wealthy, but she doesn’t know the full extent of his wealth. As long as they’re married, she has access to that wealth—investments, bank accounts, life insurance, full-survivorship if he dies. Once they’re divorced, all her rights are gone except for whatever she gets in the settlement.

Once the interview is over, Blake turns the television off and stands.

“Would you like a bath, Mistress?” he asks.

“Yes, in fact, I would love a bath,” I reply. He heads towards the en suite. “Blake?” He stops and turns to me.

“Yes, Mistress?”

“If you don’t mind me asking, just how much are you worth?” He smiles that half smile he always does.

“To be honest, Mistress, I’m probably worth about as much as your Christian, if not more. And my numbers are growing because of my offshore interest accounts, rental properties, and investments. This is why my wife doesn’t want the divorce. She still isn’t sure of my actual net worth.” He turns and walks into the en suite.

When I hear the water running, I’m certain that I won’t let that bitch get her hands on Blake’s money. I’m also certain of one other thing. I grab my cell phone and dial.

“Kirkland Police Department.”

“I think I know who assaulted Elena Lincoln and how you can find them.”


A/N: 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

 

 

 

 

Fifty Shades Golden: Chapter 13

Wine is a deep and beautiful thing.

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 13

Eric Dane--Chapter 13 Small

TREY

I’ve negotiated the harvesting rights with three of the main eastern hardwood timberland families that supply Lincoln Timber and I’m working on the western softwoods. Lincoln has had harvesting agreements with these families for over a decade and never saw the need to renegotiate or to lock in exclusivity, mainly because these families didn’t fight for a better price per hectare of commercially harvested wood. As a result, Lincoln took advantage of their naïveté and opted not rock the boat as he was basically clearing their land for a song.

This won’t break Lincoln, but it will place quite the strain on his main lines of business as well as dip heavily into the insane profits he has been enjoying over at least the past several years. Raw, treated, or processed, he now has to buy the timber—or the right to harvest it—from me. As I have negotiated handsome compensation with the families—far more than Lincoln was offering but still enough to turn a profit—he would have to do some major reorganizing to make an offer that would meet mine, much less beat it.

With the coup that I’ve pulled in securing the eastern timberland—and the western softwood is pretty much just a formality now—I’m set not only to make handsome amounts of money from Lincoln Timber now having to purchase its main supply from me, but I could also go into the lumber business myself as one of this asshole’s competitors. As it stands right now, this development may not put him out of business, but it’ll make his company pretty fucking uncomfortable and wreak havoc on his profits for the next couple of years no matter what his contingency plan.

Maybe I should look into acquiring some of his expiring contracts…

“Can you tell me why the hell we’re suddenly clawing at Lincoln Timber’s main babies?” Rockford asks when he brings me the finalized contracts for the eastern timberland families.

“Isn’t it obvious?” I respond to my head of legal. “I’m picking a fight.”

“I can see that,” he says. “I’d just like to know why.”

I used to like this guy. I used to like his cockiness, his arrogance, and his balls the size of Texas, especially in negotiations. Now, he’s just irritating as fuck.

“As long as you’ve been my attorney, you honestly don’t recognize a cockfight when you see it?” I ask with a frown.

“Don’t insult my intelligence, Christian,” he retorts, somewhat affronted. “Of course, I recognize a damn cockfight. I just want to know why him and why now?”

Rockford may be my attorney, but the hell if I’m telling him that putting this frosted fucker in his place is another way of paying tribute to my Mistress while getting back at a nemesis at the same time.

“I’m not ashamed to say that it’s somewhat personal,” I say, flatly. “He calls me all cocky and demanding answers after his wife tried to kill me with a fucking concrete flowerpot, and now it’s wafting back to me in social circles that he’s talking about me at parties, balls, and social events.” His brow furrows.

“I haven’t heard anything,” he says, accusing.

“That would be because we don’t travel in the same social circles,” I reply, my voice condescending. It doesn’t get by him. I follow up with another jab. “If you think for one moment that you have your ear to the ground on every little thing that goes on in my life, you’re wrong. You know a lot, Phil, but you don’t know it all.” Hell, you don’t know the half of it. He raises a brow at me.

“Fine, it’s your funeral,” he says, stacking the papers in front of him. What the fuck…?

“And just what do you mean by that, Mr. Rockford?” I ask crisply, trying not to refer to him as the asshole that he’s being right now.

“Why would you want to push the hand of the most powerful timber producer and processor in the country?” he retorts. Who the hell is this pussy standing before me? Careful, Rockford, your slip is showing!

“Are you serious?” I ask incredulously while sitting back in my seat. “Do you realize that with 30 days of intensive negotiation, aggressive acquisitions, and concentrated redistribution of resources that I could be the most powerful timber producer and processor in the country? While Lincoln must constantly stay on his toes to hold his position, I do this shit for fun! I could stop production on the thousands of lines of business and acquisitions that I have my hand in right this very moment and there would still be enough passive income, liquid assets, and capital for my entire living family and three generations to come to live like kings and queens, and you’re standing here insinuating that I should feel some kind of reverence or fear for that glorified Paul Bunyan?”

Rockford sits in the chair across from me, examining me like I’ve just given him a bit of information that he was never fully aware of. Have you been asleep all these years? Exactly how many supposed industry giants and wannabe moguls have you watched fall at my feet?

“For the sake of argument, let’s assume that platinum-haired lumberjack released his worst, most fearsome wrath upon me. What could that be?” I question. “What could he do to me that I couldn’t flick off my shoulder like a worrisome fly? Go ahead, tell me. I’ll wait.”

Rockford clears his throat and loosens his tie. Apparently, he’s forgotten just how cutthroat I can be.

And, so has Linc, but he’s soon to revisit that lesson in spades. Closing those sawmills put a huge cramp in his production for nearly a year. This undertaking will make our last encounter look like a grammar school dance. Once I’m done with his largest east and west coast suppliers, I plan to target his oversees productions next. Sure, he’d be able to make up for the lost American timber with his European sawmills and providers, but not if he doesn’t see the attack coming, and no matter what the strategy, the solution won’t be cheap… or easy.

Having no comeback for my question, Rockford sits mutely facing my desk.

“Have we met…” you sniveling little weasel? “If you strain your little brain and think really hard, you can probably count on one hand the negotiations that were not favorable for me in all the years you’ve worked for me, and not once was any of those failures by any fault of my own. Now, unless there’s something that you know that I’m not aware of about that silver haired, washed-up phantom trying to wield power that he clearly doesn’t have, I suggest that you keep your angst-ridden opinions to yourself, be sure that my transactions are legal and airtight, and continue to make a fortune off me by doing exactly what you love.”

And now, I’m weary of this conversation.

“What’s happening to you?” I ask. “You sat in negotiations with Cross and let a woman show you that her balls were bigger than yours… and I’m not even talking about the attorney. She lopped your dick off and fed it to you! Now, you reach into that imaginary bag of courage on your hip and you have the inkling to confront me about my business tactics while cowering in fear to that washed-up old woodchuck? Who the fuck are you and what have you done with my cutthroat legal counsel?” He looks at me in sincere distaste.

“That’s… um… harsh and unnecessary, sir,” he grovels.

“Yeah, and you’re pathetic and pitiful. Get out of my sight, Phil,” I say, disgustedly breaking my gaze with him, “before I discover that you’ve totally lost your killer instinct, at which time, you’ll be completely useless to me.”

He knows not to say anything else. He knows that I’ve heard enough. He silently rises from his chair and leaves the room.

I’m going to have to secure new legal counsel, sooner rather than later. I toy with the thought of hiring Golden, but I already know that’s a lost cause. I wouldn’t even approach her like that. She wouldn’t want to work for me in that capacity, nor would I want her to. It’s just… not good to mix that kind of business and personal relationship.

*-*

So, I’ve committed myself to giving a speech at the Seattle Businessmen’s Conference this evening and I almost dread the idea of even showing up. With the coup I have in the works, anybody with half a brain and their eye on the boards can see that I’m acquiring the gathering rights to several of the national timber suppliers. It’s been a week since I secured the eastern timberlands and today, I locked down one of the western softwoods. I’m confident enough in my holdings so far that I’ve tiptoed into the Canadian lumber market. This quiet activity has caused small shifts in lumber stocks across the NASDAQ and NYSE with stockholders wondering what’s in the buzz and will it remain a buzz or turn into chopper blades.

Between that and quietly keeping my ear to the ground for new legal talent, the social-business scene is the second-to-last thing on my mind, and the last thing being targeted by some colleague’s young granddaughter looking to snag a guy just like dear old dad… or granddad.

“Hello, Christian.” Her smooth Brazilian voice answers. “I was wondering if you would wait until the last minute to call me. You know I don’t like to be rushed.”

“Hello, Gisela. My apologies. I forgot about it until the last minute.”

“As always,” she says.Uma história provável…”

“English, Gisela,” I scold. “I’m bilingual and Portuguese is not one of those languages.”

“No matter, why do you call, Christian?”

“You know why I call, Gisela,” I retort, using her choppy English. “Are you available?”

“Last minute again. Will you be sending me a gown… and jewelry?” I roll my eyes. It’s a good thing I have these things already in the guest room for just such an emergency.

“Of course, it’s not a crime to call and check with me, you know,” I scold. “You know I may forget, but you always seem to remember.”

“And miss the opportunity to give you a hard time? Why would I do that?” she asks matter-of-factly. “Besides, in my country, the woman does not approach the man; the man approaches the woman. You will send a car for me, no?”

“No,” I say, “I and my driver will pick you up at eight. And Gisela, don’t make me wait. I have to give a speech tonight.”

“Nem!” she exclaims. “How you say, keep your shirt on. You have gown here and I’ll be ready. Tchau.” She ends the call. I call Mrs. Jones with instructions to choose the white gown and emerald jewelry set and have it couriered to Gisela immediately.

Gisela Serra (Adriana Lima), Christian's go-to date for red carpet affairs--Chapter 13Gisela Serra is much like me in many ways. She graduated with a master’s in finance, but instead of going to work for one of the big firms, she invested her own money and became a self-made millionaire. Like me, she knows her shit, has no interest in a long-term relationship, and is always up for a good fuck once in a while. Unlike me, she’s never worked a day in her life and enjoys these red-carpet outings and hanging on the arm of whatever mogul chooses her as a bracelet that evening.

I’m her mogul of choice, however. She’ll wait for me, even break a commitment for me. Once, for the Carpenter’s Guild dinner, Ron Baristol of Baristol, Freedman, and Young requested her company and she accepted. Then I called, and she cancelled with Ron. It was nearly a brawl when we got to the dinner because apparently, she didn’t tell Baristol that she was cancelling with him to attend the dinner with me. When he approached me, I had no idea what he was talking about. When he told me, I couldn’t help but laugh.

That didn’t go over well with Ron.

I stated that I merely asked Gisela to accompany me. I didn’t know that she had prior arrangements or that she had cancelled them. He called me a cocky asshole and took a swing at me. I stepped aside, and he went sailing into the table with the ice sculpture. We were both asked to leave.

Needless to say, the Carpenter’s Guild didn’t get a donation from me that year and I declined their invitation the next year. The president and chairman both showed up at Grey House to ascertain what the problem was and when I reminded them of the mishap that had me removed from the festivities two years prior when I didn’t confront the guy and never raised a hand to him, they apologized profusely and had Baristol, Freedman, and Young removed from the guestlist completely. I can imagine that a similar conversation occurred at the Carpenter’s Guild headquarters when Mr. Freedman and Mr. Young discovered they were no longer welcome at the annual dinner.

I have nonetheless asked Gisela not to cancel any further engagements for me. If I haven’t contacted her by noon the day of an event, which is cutting it very close, I won’t contact her at all, leaving her free to accept any invitations that she may have on ice. Gisela is the only woman who has ever been seen with me on the red carpet—well, except Juliet when we were dating. So, of course, there’s a lot of speculation, but neither she nor I will entertain any of it. She’s beautiful, she’s smart, she’s rich—so I don’t have to worry about her latching onto me for my money—she doesn’t want a commitment, and she’s a great occasional fuck. Who could ask for more?

Me and my Brioni tux show up promptly at 8pm to retrieve Gisela. She’s prompt for once, as I was fully prepared to leave without her this time. I hate being late. It’s tacky.

“You said you had speech to give,” she says. “I only like being center of attention when is good for me. Fashionably late is no good when you are on the program.”

I told you that she was smart.

Dinner was uneventful. They always serve something pretentious at these dinners like lobster tail or filet mignon in tiny little servings, instead of choosing something classically delicious like veal or lamb chops, or even chicken. Hell, I’d even go for shrimp linguini if I knew I didn’t have to stop at a burger joint or something when it was all over to keep from gnawing my arm off! I always signal Taylor a half-hour before I’m ready to leave so that he can stop and get food before I and my date even get in the car.

I’ve made my speech, the usual mumbo-jumbo about responsible business and helping the community and growth through change… blah blah blah. I believe in all those things. It’s just that the conference never wants to hear anything else—like avoiding the common tricks of the market, interpreting trends so that you don’t end up losing your life savings or your business slosh fund, determining a good acquisition prospect from a lemon. I could use the same fifteen minutes that they have me speaking this gobbledygook and hit all three of those topics and probably save at least 50% of the businesses in attendance from making at least one of those three mistakes.

But, they’d rather hear that I’m building up small businesses in underprivileged neighborhoods. Anybody with a dime can do that. I want to tell you how to keep or multiply your dimes so that you can build up more businesses… but okay.

After the food and the speeches comes the networking. Time to hob nob and mingle with other CEO’s, each of us trying to finagle information out of the other about the next big cash windfall. Gisela and I are in a group talking shop with Stan Warren, Arnold Fishburn, and Felix Martindale—all CEO’s of their own companies, and at the moment, my date has the floor.

“Well, while all of the traders were trying to play the bull market, I made a mint on LAM and FDC… buying low and selling high,” Gisela says, sipping her champagne through the mingling and networking time after dinner.

“Now, how do you know?” Warren asks. He’s hanging on her every word. Not only does she look hot as fuck with this elegant gown wrapped around that beautiful ass, but when she opens her mouth, advice from the finance gods spews forth.

“You have to watch the trends,” she says. “You have to be willing to read the charts and look for the candlesticks in the buy-sell cycle…”

“Now, that’s where you’ve lost me,” Martindale says. “This is why I let my broker handle all of that.”

“If that’s so, I hope you don’t plan to get rich off the market. He’s doing that for you and fifty to a hundred other people or more and your returns are mediocre at best. Am I right?” He nods.

“I do alright,” he says, not wanting to admit his mediocre returns. She nods.

“If alright is okay with you, then you’re doing fine.”

She’s further captivating her audience with terms that I would also much rather leave to my broker when I see an ashen-faced beauty heading in my direction on the arm of another of my colleagues. He’s an attractive man, but an older attractive man… and she’s much too young for him. I know this, because I’ve known this woman Biblically.

“Gentlemen,” Reginald Hornsby says as he approaches. “Are we having the same boring conversations that we have every year?” His date clings to his arm and does everything she can not to make eye-contact with me.

“Right now, Ms. Serra is telling us how lousy we’re doing at the stock market,” Fishburn says, and we all laugh.

“I’m doing no such thing, sir,” Gisela says, mocking disdain. “I was just explaining to the gentlemen…” and she goes into the short version of Investing 101 with Hornsby, whose date is carefully avoiding mine and Gisela’s gaze now.

“So, when do you plan on sharing your talents with the rest of us?” Warren says. I know I’m not the only one who caught the double-entendre, but I don’t let on. Gisela doesn’t belong to me—she’s just my date for the evening, and the last thing I want is yet another scene.

“I only watch my own picks, Mr. Warren,” Gisela says sweetly. “I’m successful because I stick with the best and sell the temporary risers. It takes stamina and fortitude, but it’s a small sacrifice for the payoff in the end. I didn’t succeed by putting a little bit in every pot. I concentrated my efforts and shot the big guns, so I landed the big game.” Gisela coyly sips her champagne, having totally understood what Martindale was getting at and simultaneously shooting him down in front of his colleagues.

“I think what Stan was aiming at…” Oh, she knows what Stan was aiming at, “… is do you have any plans on trading professionally so that others can make the kind of profits that you are,” Martindale says.

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Martindale…”

“Call me Felix,” he corrects her.

“Felix,” she corrects. “Focusing on a few lucrative investments is what put me in the position that I am. So, now I don’t have to work for my money. My money works for me. Watching a trend and getting out before it tanks, I can do that for myself. I can’t do that for a group of people. For me, it’s a recipe for disaster. I’d be spreading myself and my own assets too thin and I wouldn’t be able to do other investors any justice.”

“Is that how you got so rich, Grey?” Warren asks. “Taking tips from this little beauty here?” He’s such an ass.

“I dabble in investing, Warren, but as you know, I made my fortune in mergers and acquisitions.”

“Yes,” Hornsby says. “There’s a little murmur on the wire about you and lumber.” And it begins.

“There’s always a murmur on the wire,” I say, dismissing the topic.

“Come on, Grey,” Warren coaxes. “Let us in on it. How about a little insider trading?” Fishburn frowns deeply.

“You’re kidding, right?” he says, distastefully. “You trying to get us all arrested?” And now, it’s time for me to text Taylor about those burgers.

“Come on, we’re just talking shop,” Warren excuses. “People do it all the time. No harm done.”

“Stock tips are one thing, Stan. Inside information is something else entirely. Geez, did Raj Rajaratnam, Martha Stewart, and Angelo Mozilo teach you nothing, man?” Fishburn scolds.

“Oh, for the love of God! Lighten up, guys,” Warren chides. “It’s not like Grey here is working for the SEC. Right, Grey?” He rips the air with a garish laugh and I just glare at him, sipping my champagne. “C’mon, Grey, we’re waitin’… You’re not spying for the SEC, are you?”

He’s still smiling, but his voice is accusing like he’s speaking for the entire group.

“You never know who’s listening… Stan!” I hiss his name before taking a swallow of my champagne. The group falls silent as eyes shoot from me to Warren.

“You know, I don’t know much for a silly little master’s degree holding female,” Gisela says, “but I do know that companies that are pegged as SEC whistle-blowers don’t do well on the corporate scene. That kind of slander can be very damaging to an established corporation.” She takes a sip of her champagne.

“I don’t think that matters to Mr. Warren, Gisela,” I say, still glaring at his now paling face. “He’s already shown everyone present that he has the tact of a goat and the class of a toad. I wouldn’t be surprised one bit to find that he doesn’t have the common sense of a toothpick.”

Warren looks very uncomfortable now and starts to do a little shuffle on his feet.

“Well, look what I’ve started,” Hornsby says. “Excuse me while I go curb my nicotine habit. You’ll be okay?” he says to Caramel. I had forgotten she was among us. She nods and gives him a sweet smile. He kisses her cheek and leaves the group. If he’s her Dom, he’s not acting like it. She would have had to follow him for the smoke break. She watches attentively as he leaves the room as if she’s urging him not to stay away long.

“You all are a bunch of pussies,” Warren says. “One mention of the SEC and insider trading and a bunch of powerful businessmen turn into a bunch of bed-wetting pansies! I’m going to smoke.” And he’s off behind Hornsby. I wonder what that conversation is going to be like.

“Excuse me,” Caramel says, and she leaves the group as well. Maybe she’s decided that she needs a cigarette after all.

“For the record, Grey,” Martindale begins, “none of us think you’re an SEC snitch. He’s full of shit.” I sip my champagne again, bottoming out my glass.

“It wouldn’t do me any good,” I reply. “I have investments in other companies, but GEH is not publicly traded. That fuckface has completely forgotten that in whatever plight he’s on. What would it serve me? I mean really… what?

“Nothing at all,” Gisela says, “Now go on over and get us a refill of champagne.” I look over my shoulder to flag a waiter, but none are close by. I locate the bar and see Caramel standing there, most likely waiting for her own refill. I turn my gaze back to Gisela who gives me a knowing look, raises her brow, and hands me her empty flute.

“Must I?” I say, lowly, while taking her empty glass.

“Yes,” she says with a smile. “Go on.” I roll my eyes and walk over to the bar. I sigh softly and speak.

“Hello,” I say, trying not to startle her.

“Hello,” she replies, finally making eye-contact with me.

“Two champagnes, please,” I tell the bartender. He nods and takes my empty glasses, setting them to one side. “I didn’t know Hornsby…” I trail off. She glares at me.

“He doesn’t!” she snaps. “And he doesn’t know that I ever did, either.” I flatten my lips and nod.

“You know, you not saying anything and avoiding my gaze is more conspicuous than you just acting natural,” I warn.

“That’s easier said than done,” she says and turns away from me. This close to her, I can see a gash near her eye. It’s healed, but the scar looks pretty fresh, and I’m certain that it wasn’t there before.

“What happened to your eye?” I ask, wondering if her new not-quite-Dom likes it rough.

“It was…” She looks around conspiratorially to make sure no one is listening. “It was from Mistress,” she hisses, quietly. “She punished me… repeatedly… when I tried to return.” I frown deeply.

“She hit you in the face?” I sneer. She nods.

“One night while I was on my knees, she slapped me… with her big ring.” She closes her eyes as she remembers. “Blood got in my eye, but she was just disgusted and told me to go to the hospital. I did. They stitched me up, only two stitches.” She points at her eye. “It was so much blood, I would have thought it would have been more. I didn’t go back to her after that.”

“I’m sorry, Car…” I stop myself as she raises her eyes to me. “Tammy. I never meant for any of that to happen.” She drops her head.

“My friends made it seem so glamorous, but it never was,” she admits without raising her head. “Mistress had me crawling on the floor and doing unthinkable things. It’s like she wanted me because I was beautiful, and she hated me for the same reason.” She shakes her head again. “Even with you,” she begins, “you were never physically cruel, but you treated me like just what I was… a whore. Reggie does, too,” she says, looking for her date. “He buys me nice things, he gives me money and takes me places. He just doesn’t know what I used to be. I always dread him finding out…”

“He won’t find out from me,” I assure her. She twists her lips but says nothing. She looks at Gisela.

“She’s not a submissive,” she says with finality.

“No, she’s not,” I confirm.

“Figures,” she says. “I have to go before Reggie comes back. Goodbye… Trey.” She takes her champagne from the bar and walks away. Wow. Elena got pissed at Caramel and tried to disfigure her. That sounds like something that twisted cow would do. I take my two champagne flutes and go back to Gisela. She seems to have loosened up since Warren left with his insider trading and double-entendrés.

“How are you?” I say, handing her a champagne flute. She takes a large sip.

“Can we go now?” I look at my watch. It’s been twenty minutes since I texted Taylor. I look at my phone. Sometime during my talk with Caramel, Taylor texted that he’s outside.

“Yes, we can go now,” I say. She throws back her champagne and hands me the empty glass. I bottom out my glass as well and extend my elbow to her.

“Well, well, well, looks like somebody’s got a hot date!” and Warren returns just as Gisela takes my arm. She squeezes just a bit as a sign of her ire. I roll my eyes.

“Goodnight, gentlemen,” I say. Warren is sharing a private joke with Martindale who seems none too amused. Warren continues to laugh garishly as he stinks up the area with the lingering odor of cheap cigar smoke. He couldn’t even buy the good kind.

“Oh, and Stan?” I say, garnering his attention as well as that of the others in the group.

“You’re an asshole.” His boorish smile turns into a sneer as I lead my date away from his presence.

“Go, Mr. Grey,” she says, quietly, as I drop our flutes off at the bar on our way out.

*-*

Gisela and I are comfortable on the white rug in front of the fire in my apartment. I’ve shed my tuxedo jacket and vest and undone my bowtie and she’s shed her shoes. We feed our raging hunger while discussing the evening’s events and other minutia.

“You have met someone,” she says, before taking another bite of her burger. I raise my brow at her.

“No one that I want to marry,” I admit, “but… she can grow on you.”

“Was it the mulatto woman?” she asks. What mulatto woman?

“Oh, God, no,” I tell her. “She was just an ex-bedfellow.”

“And a bit bitter,” Gisela observes.

“Bitter? I didn’t notice.”

“You wouldn’t,” she says. “She would wait until you are talking and stare with disdain. She would much rather not see you again, much less to see you with a woman on your arm.” She takes another bite of her burger.

“How did you know there was someone?” I ask. “There’s always someone…” A sub, a fuck-buddy…

“Not like this one,” she says after she swallows her food. “The others, they take the edge off. This one, she has found your… key. She is your ground.” I frown.

“My ground?” I ask, bemused. She ponders her words.

“I say it wrong,” she says, and thinks for a moment. “She… grounds you.”

“She grounds me?” I ask incredulously. “She’s a hot little number and I love her company, but I hardly say she grounds me!”

“Um-hm,” she says, taking another bite of her burger. “You have sex with this woman?” she asks while shielding her mouth. Hmm…

“Not in a matter of speaking, no,” I reply. She won’t let me fuck her.

“Let me rephrase,” she says after a moment. “You come with this woman?” Dammit, just how much does she know?

“Yes,” I say, after hesitation. She nods.

“She have your key,” she says. I shake my head.

“What are you trying to say?” I ask frustrated. What the hell does she have your key mean?

“She… know you. She know your combination… she know your buttons…” Goddammit, Gisela!

“You’re trying to say she knows what makes me tick,” I say for her. She waves her hand.

“You Americans and your expressions. You know what I mean.” She takes another bite of her burger. “Our arrangement will soon end,” she adds, her mouth full. I glare at her.

“I’m not in love, Gisela,” I protest. “I enjoy myself, as always, but she’s not different than the others.”

“She is different,” she retorts, “and she makes you different.”

And now I see. Having Golden as my Domme has changed my demeanor in some way. Gisela sees it… and she doesn’t want it. Fair enough.

“Should I call for Taylor to take you home?” I say, gathering my trash to dispose of it.

“What?” she confronts. “Has your new dominant lover now robbed me of my tryst?” She’s frank. “Surely, you don’t think I just turn down dates for your company.”

I raise my brow and extend my hand to her to assist her off the floor.

“You know the way,” I say to her as I gesture towards my fuck room. She saunters to the room like she owns the place, reaching back and undoing her zipper as she walks. Oh, Ms. Sierra, you have no idea what you’ve unleashed. Then again, maybe you do.

I eat that pussy until her brain seeped from her vagina, then fuck it back up into her head again. She’s totally useless when I send her home. Make you think twice about kicking me to the curb, minha querida, but if you choose to do so, then it’s your loss.

*-*

A few weeks later, I’m knee deep in negotiations with the Canadians for softwood when I get a call about a “terrible ruckus” in the lobby.

“Caldwell Lincoln, sir,” Taylor informs me. “It’s to the degree that we may have to call the police.”

Where’s the safest place to meet this asshole? I thought the first-floor conference room would be safe, but his psychotic wife hurled a potted plant at me in there and broke my fucking arm.

“Make sure there are no projectile objects in the first-floor conference room and take his ass in there,” I say. “If he moves in the wrong way, shoot him, and tell him I told you so.”

“Yes, sir.” I have no doubt that Taylor will shoot that fucker before I even get downstairs. Fuck, are there any other precautions that I should take before I go down there? I call Welch.

“Sir,” he answers.

“I need high alert. Linc is downstairs causing a commotion, and I swear I won’t hesitate to drop this fucker…”

‘The police have already been alerted, sir,” he says. “I’m on my way to the first floor.” I end the call. There’s no use in playing with this man. I remove my suitcoat, vest, and tie and leave my office, headed for the executive elevator.  

Jason isn’t the only one surprised to see me enter the first-floor conference in rolled-up shirt sleeves.

“Casual day at the office, Grey?” Linc seethes. He’s certainly locked and loaded, but so am I.

“I don’t need to ask why you’re here, so cut the shit,” I say. “You wanted my attention, you got it, so handle your fucking business.”

“You think you’re fucking big shit,” he hisses. “You don’t think I know who you are? What you do? You don’t think I know that on top of trying to take my business, you fucked my wife?” Old news.

“Linc, I don’t know what you think you know, but more importantly, I don’t care. I don’t care if you think I fucked your wife in your bed,” which I have. “All I care about is that you continually think you have power over me and don’t seem to realize that you have none,” I growl as I shamelessly close the space between us.

“What the fuck are you trying to prove, you stupid piece of shit?” I continue. Are you that fucking dense? You’re a small dog trying to play in a yard that’s way too fucking big for you. You’re too thick to realize you’re out of your league and you need to stay in your goddamn place! I’m a rottweiler and you’re a beagle. You’re in the wrong cage, you Napoleonic fuck!

“Three weeks,” I say, holding up three fingers. “Three weeks, and I’ve secured 60% of your western lumber interests. Do you think you have the capital to match the Canadian government’s softwood lumber regulations? In a month—or less—you’ll be buying your domestic lumber from me. There’s your business savvy, Linc. What’s next?”

“You’re such the big man,” Linc taunts. “You can talk major shit with a whole battalion of security backing your ass up.”

“Everybody step the fuck back—now!” I demand, and the security staff in the room all slowly spread toward the door and windows. “Even if he’s beating my ass, nobody touch this asshole unless he pulls a weapon—any weapon. You all know how his wife likes potted plants.” I turn back to Linc and move to the middle of the conference room with my arms open, waiting.

“You want to take a swing, you old fuck? Take your best shot. You wanna go mano-e-mano, me and you? You go for it. I can guarantee you, none of these men will fuckin’ touch you. I’ll lay your ass out like the geezer you are. C’mon, you old fuckin’ goat. Stop talking that shit, because I’ve already shown that I’m better than you in the business world, so c’mon. Stop talking that shit and bring it.”

He’s standing there staring at me like I’ve already hit him. He didn’t expect this. I don’t think he knew what to expect. He got that corporate posturing that he was expecting, but it was more than he could bite, so this was his back-up plan? And he won’t take advantage of it? You gotta be kidding.

“You need some encouragement, Linc?” I taunt mercilessly. “You need some help on that road? That journey you started and can’t finish? Look me in the eye, Linc. Have I really fucked your wife?”

I glare at him with the carnal knowledge of that once-blonde-bombshell that he once coveted as his beautiful wife and he lunges at me. His move was so predictable that I only have to step out of his way to leave him sprawling past me and into the opposite wall. I shake my head. It’s Baristol all over again. True to my command, the security detail parts and allows him to splat into the wall without touching him. He turns around, enraged, glaring at me and regrouping for another attack.

He lunges at me again, more controlled this time and with a lot of force, but his right cross is wide and wild. I duck and come up with a left to the gut and a right to the side, finishing with a flat kick to the solar plexus with a size-12 Berluti sending him squarely back to the wall he just vacated with a hard “thud.”

“C’mon, Silver Fox,” I say, clenching my fist and preparing for his next move. “You can do better than that.” His eyes narrow and he comes at me full force, his shoulder and all his weight hitting me square in the abdomen and nearly knocking all the wind out of me as he slams me hard against the opposite wall. He gets some good gut and kidney punches in on me—enough to hurt a bit, but not enough to disable me. I clench my fist and clasp my hand over it, bringing it down hard on his spine, which I know hurt like hell, the second hit bringing him to his knees, allowing that same size-12 Berluti to connect with his jaw, producing a satisfying “crack” and flipping him over and onto his back.

He coughs and spits blood onto my conference-room carpet—that pisses me off—but fights to catch his breath and no doubt, gather his wits.

“That’s all you got, old man?” I ask, a little winded with my fist clenched and ready. “You talk all that shit and all you got is a bum-rush and a couple of gut punches? No wonder your wife was fucking me. Is your game as weak as your fight?”

He glares at me from the floor. He wants to retaliate, but his attempts to get off the floor fail.

What? That’s it? I’m just getting started.

“Yeah, that pussy was good once upon a time,” I jeer, “while you were jet-setting the world, fucking young models and getting young Jamaican girls pregnant.” As if it could, his face turns whiter than it already was.

“What? You didn’t think I knew? You don’t think I know everything you do, everywhere you are the minute you leave the states? Your shit is fucking easier to find than ‘Where’s Waldo’ because you’re too goddamn cocky to cover your fucking tracks. Go ahead, Linc, do your worst. Once I’m done kicking your ass, I can guarantee that you, your business and your name will be shit no matter where you turn!”

I can see the defeat when it settles in his eyes. The fight is over—the physical fight and the cock strut, and I barely broke a sweat. I roll my sleeves down and brush the wrinkles out. Stepping right over him, I head to the door of the conference room and open it to leave.

“Say something!” I warn turning back to Linc. “Say something to the cops. Say something to the press. Say something to anybody. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Breathe my name in any direction ever again and I will fucking bury you!” I turn to Taylor.

“Get him the fuck off my floor and out of my goddamn building and get somebody in here to clean up his bodily emissions.” I pull my cufflinks out of my pocket and walk to the elevator. I don’t push the call button since I see that it’s already on its way down. As the elevator rings, I see Linc walking out of the conference room with security walking behind him. I see the elevator begin to open, but I turn my attention to the frosted fuck about to leave my building.

One more thing.

“Lincoln!” I bark, gaining the attention of everyone in the lobby, including Linc.

“Stay the fuck away from Olivet!” I hiss. “You don’t know who you’re fucking with and I can guarantee you that at least nine people of power in this state will bury you… twice. I may or may not be one of them!”

He shows no fear, but that cockiness that he’s famous for is buried behind a swollen, bloody face and somebody’s handkerchief. He walks to the revolving glass door as I insert and snap my second cuff-link. Once he’s out of the doors, I turn around to see Phil Rockford standing in front of the closed elevators.

“Balls,” I bark to him and he jumps at my voice. “Remember those? That’s what they look like. Grow them back… or quit!”

He stares at me for a moment and I realize that he’ll never grow his balls back. I brush past him and get on the elevator.

“Andrea!” I shout, almost before the elevator doors open.

“Yes, Mr. Grey?” she says calmly, no reaction whatsoever to my ire. I hate and admire that at the same time.

“Get in touch with Bonde and Associates. I’m going to need feelers for a new head of legal. Cutthroat—tell them to keep the pussies to themselves.” I breeze past her to my office.

“Yes, sir,” she says, unfazed, momentarily typing on her keyboard. When I look back, she’s already on the phone.

Never shaken.
Never stirred.
Why can’t my head of legal be that way?

I go straight to the en suite and wash my hands. I feel dirty. That fucker bled, but he didn’t bleed on me. I still feel dirty.

I grab my suitcoat, vest, and tie and walk back out of my office.

“As soon as possible,” I hear Andrea say. “We will begin vetting as soon as we get the candidates information.” I call the elevator and realize that someone has called it before me and it’s not waiting for me. I’m irritated again, not that I wasn’t before.

“Confidential, as always. I am your sole contact… Special instructions? Yes, sir. Cutthroat. Keep the pussies to yourself.”

I have the best PA in creation.

The elevator opens, and Taylor moves to step off. Seeing me standing at the door, he maintains his position in the back of the elevator. I get in the elevator and push the button for the parking garage since Taylor’s express key is already in the keyhole.

“Did you make sure that asshole got his ass out of my building, into his asshole car and on his asshole way?” I hiss.

“Yes, sir,” Taylor responds. The remainder of the ride is silent, as is the ride back to my apartment. The moment he pulls into the parking garage at Escala, I leap out of the Audi SUV and into my Spyder. Without a word, I start the car, throw it into gear, and take off.

I pull up in front of the club, my hands a fearsome grip on the Audi’s steering wheel. I can barely contain my anger, visions of Linc’s snarling, smirking face taunting and pissing me off. None of my normal calming techniques are working and I’m certain that working over a submissive won’t work tonight either. I will fucking kill a sub right now. I call Golden instead, almost praying that she’s available.


Briana Evigan Chapter 13small

GOLDEN

“You’re awful limber today,” Kevin says as we hold another of our impossible poses.

“Not as tense as I usually am,” I say, trying to concentrate on my count.

“You get laid?” he asks.

“None of your business,” I retort. It’s time to release and, as usual, he holds me there. “Let me down, Kevin.”

He drops me with a grunt, like he always does—dick still hard, but he’s not groping me. He hasn’t since we had dinner. When I asked him why, he told me that we’d agreed to be friends and he wasn’t going to jeopardize that by being a gropy asshole. He can’t do anything about the erection, though. Holding me in those unreal poses that showcase my flexibility with nothing but dancer’s ass staring back at him is more than he can take. He won’t apologize for the physical reaction, but he can try to behave himself otherwise.

“You hungry?” I ask as I get up from his pounding erection.

“Famished,” he says, and I catch his double meaning.

“Lunch, you caveman,” I scold.

“I know what you’re talking about,” he says, sitting up and drying the sweat from his face with his shirt. “I’ll meet you back here after showers.” I raise my brow at him.

“Why aren’t you getting up?” I ask.

“Because I’m going to sit here and watch you walk away. Isn’t it obvious?” Geez, he has no shame since I sucked his dick. I shake my head and give him the show he’s waiting for as I turn and leave the studio and head to the showers.

We enjoy a late lunch at Dueminuti Pasta, an Italian restaurant on Capitol Hill that specializes in homemade pasta and fresh sauces with ingredients from local growers.

“He did that in the middle of a grocery store?” Kevin asks as he loads his fork with pasta. I nod.

“He grabbed me like they do in those corny romance movies and he kissed me, right there in the store, like I was supposed to swoon when he was done.” I shake my head. “Does that happen in real life?” I ask. “Guys kiss girls and they just swoon and fall into their arms and their beds?”

“It’s never happened to me,” he says, filling his mouth with pasta.

“Well, it wasn’t going to happen to him either,” I reply before taking a mouthful of
Ragu’ alla Bolognese. I love this place. Mom used to bring me here all the time.

“Do you want me to tell him that I’m hittin’ it?” Kevin asks. I frown and swallow my pasta.

“Hitting what?” I ask bemused.

“Hittin’ it,” he repeats over a mouthful of pasta. “He saw us at dinner once. If I tell him I’m hittin’ it, he’ll back off.”

“Oooh! You mean hittin’ this!” I say, pointing to myself. “No, don’t tell him that.”

“Might solve your problem,” he says, before drinking his soda. Silly little man.

“He saw us sitting at a table eating dinner. He walked up and spoke to me like you weren’t even sitting there. He left when he was damn good and ready. When he saw me in the grocery a few days ago, the thought that I might be fucking you never even crossed his mind. If it did, the only thing he was thinking was, ‘How can I snatch?’ He wasn’t concerned that you may have been there first or even that you may be still hittin’ it. All he was concerned about was ‘Can I get in?’ And that may be all he wanted—to hit it once, but he was trying, and you didn’t make one bit of fucking difference. There’s no honor among men. If you saw me and you wanted me, you wouldn’t have any honor for him if you thought he was fucking me, and you expect him to have honor for you?”

“Who the fuck said anything about honor?” Kevin retorts. “He’s a hoe. And if I tell him that I’m hittin’ it and he pursues you, that gives me a reason to beat his monkey ass.”

“Oh, yeah, that’ll help,” I say sarcastically. “You see the really big white guy over there with his arms folded that just scarfed down enough Pomodoro for four people?” Kevin looks over at Jesse. “If Don Juan Jake decides that he wants to fuck with me again, that’s what he’ll be hittin’, or I should say that’s what’s going to be hittin’ him. The only reason he didn’t get pulverized the first time is because I stopped Jesse from killing him.” I smile and eat my pasta.

“You don’t let a guy have any fun,” he pouts.

“I do,” I correct him, “but that’s not the nature of our relationship.”

*-*

“Step back, ma’am,” Jesse says. “I don’t want to have to restrain you.”

“You won’t do a damn thing to me, you gorilla, or I’ll have your ass arrested for assault!”

“You’re trespassing right now, you stupid bitch!” I retort behind Jesse. “He could break you in half right now and be within his rights.”

“You shut up!” she screams. “You shut the fuck up! I don’t want to hear anything out of your goddamn mouth right now!”

“Then why the fuck are you in my office?”

A few days after my lunch with Kevin, I get a text from him just as I’m entering my office to a very unwelcome visitor.

**Elena was here looking for you. She’s pissed. **

“You’re a little late, there, Kev,” I mumble.

“I’m going to wring your little neck, you fucking cunt!” she hisses and attempts to lunge at me. Jesse’s long arm of the law stops her before she can move two centimeters, his large hand pinning her firmly against the wall.

“I said. Step. Back. Ma’am,” he reinforces, his voice low and calculated. At first, she’s appalled and shocked, but she finds her composure and smiles at him.

“Are you one of her submissives, pet?” she says in a sweet, condescending voice. Jesse doesn’t flinch. I’m sure he’s heard worse. She turns her gaze to me. “You need your dog to protect you, you little pussy?” she taunts. God, you have no fucking idea what you’re dealing with.

“Stand down, Jesse.” I say coolly. Jesse looks back at me without moving his hand from her chest.

“Ana…”

“Stand. Down,” I growl. Reluctantly, he moves his hand from Blondie’s chest and takes a few steps to the side. I close the space between us.

“Now,” I say steely, “there’s no Jesse between us, but be careful, Elena,” I spit her name with disdain. “Because if you touch me, what I do to my clients will be a walk in the park compared to what I’ll do to you.”

Her eyes narrow but she doesn’t fucking touch me.

“I’m not one of your fucking toys, Goldie.”

“And I’m not one of your little slaves, Blondie,” I retort with just as much contempt. She reaches into her way-too-large bag and Jesse reaches into his holster. Without looking at him, she snatches a folded piece of paper and thrusts it in my face. I don’t move to take it, so Chanelle snatches it from her hand. She turns on Chanelle.

“What the fu..?”

“Bitch you don’t know me I will slap the white offa’ you,” Chanelle snaps all in one breath while still glaring at Elena. I don’t think anyone has ever said that to her and she doesn’t quite know how to take it, so she stands there in stunned silence while Chanelle examines the document.

“It’s a summons,” Chanelle says, throwing the paper back in Elena’s face. “Your ass is being sued. You must have pissed somebody off.” The paper falls uselessly to the floor as Elena continues to glare at Chanelle.

“Thank you!” she hisses hatefully. “I already knew that.”

“Then why the fuck did you ask what it was?” Chanelle snaps before going back to her seat. Elena watches her walk to the reception desk and sit down, but she doesn’t say anything else to her. I guess she thinks better of going toe-to-toe with a sistah from the hood who just warned her that she would slap her into another nationality.

“What I want to know is what the fuck this is all about,” she spits at me.

“Oh, that part’s easy. This is from your previous clients—women who were rendered damn near dysfunctional from getting services at your infested establishment.”

“My salons were not infested!” she screeches. “I was cleared by the board of health!”

“Well, according to these women, they’ve had nervous itches, some of them for weeks at a time,” I say calmly. “They have medical bills to prove that they couldn’t rest for fear that their homes were infested with bed bugs. They’ve had to pay for costly inspections and exterminations and one woman actually did find bed bugs in her home. There was no other connection except for you and she’s included in the class action suit.”

With such a large demographic, the bed bugs could have come from anywhere, but civil cases just need a preponderance of evidence, not proof beyond a reasonable doubt. Her biggest admission of guilt was her lack of proactive counter measures. The innocent scream it from the rooftops. She kept quiet in an attempt to keep publicity away from her. It worked, but eventually, it backfired.

“You’re such a spiteful little tramp,” she seethes. “I know you were in on this entire thing from the very beginning. I just know it.” Well, you know wrong, Blondie, and I’ve had enough.

“Now, what I want you to do is dig deep into your brain and pull out some of those logic cells that haven’t been bleached beyond use, assuming that you still have some left. Once you find them, I want you to summon them forward to your ears and allow them to comprehend the words that are coming out of my mouth. Are they there? Are you listening? Let’s hope so.

“I. Had nothing to do. With the fall. Of your funky-ass salons!” I say slowly and forcefully. “At the time of your demise, I hadn’t spoken to Christian for several months. I didn’t know anything had happened to your dime-store face-painting and hair-cutting nickelodeons until well after you lost your shit and broke his arm. By the time I saw him again and knew that anything had happened, it was healed!

“Bedbugs? Seriously? Bedbugs? Five-star restaurants have been closed for rodents, roaches, flies, unsanitary conditions. They clean it up and they’re open in a month. And you got shut down for bedbugs—all your salons in the greater Seattle area for fucking bedbugs! And you think I had something to do with that. That’s one of the most amateur attacks I’ve ever seen in my life—and it worked! I’m astonished that it worked, because you’re an idiot.

“If I wanted to do you in, Blondie, you wouldn’t have to guess. You would have no doubt that it was me because I would have left my mark all over it. We wouldn’t even be standing here talking, missy, because you. Would be. Completely. Destroyed. Your name, your license, your reputation, your money, everything! I would have completely decimated you. Bedbugs? Have we fucking met? That’s laughable. If I wanted your ass that badly, when they came to investigate you, they fucking would’ve found something, and it would’ve been more than any goddamn rodents! They would have found shit on you that would have left you unable to talk your way out of a paper bag.

“Damage control, you stupid blonde bitch. This entire thing could have been avoided by damage control, not by throwing a fucking cement pot at Seattle’s most influential citizen! You’re such a fucking fool! You were so busy plotting my downfall that you never saw that I could have helped you! You could have combated this entire thing with just a few strategically placed press releases. Instead, you had your head so far up my ass trying to find some shit that you could use that you couldn’t even see the forest for the trees. You left that door wide open, and your prior clients are taking full advantage of it. Who am I as a capitalist in America to pass up this opportunity?”

I bend down, pick up the summons, and shove it in her face.

This is what I do, Elena!” I say, shaking the summons in her face. “I don’t know or fucking care who all was involved in spreading a goddamn rumor, but this is what I do. I take on cases when people come to me with valid legal issues. You wanna be pissed at me, be pissed about the right thing. Be pissed about this!”

I fling the summons in her face and she catches it this time.

“Now, get the fuck out of my office and never speak to me or come near me again. If you do, I’ll have him shoot you and her beat you Moroccan, assuming I don’t get to you first. I’ll see you in court.”

She stands there for a moment, the three of us waiting for another word to come out of her mouth so that we could draw straws on which of us would get to shoot or beat her. She must’ve seen the killer instinct in one—or all—of our faces, because she scurries out of my office without another word.


A/N: Raj Rajaratnam, Martha Stewart, and Angelo Mozilo all had big cases in insider trading.
“Minha querida”—loosely translated, “My dear.”

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~~love and handcuffs