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Many of you have expressed your desire to read The demons inside us from CPOV. Sooooo... this is it!

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"Why is it that when one man builds a wall, the next man immediately needs to know what's on the other side?"
― George R.R. Martin

CPOV

Monday, May 9, 2011

I open my eyes and my dream fades in the early-morning light. What the hell was that about? I grasp at the fragments as they recede, but fail to catch any of them. Dismissing it, like I do most mornings, I climb out of bed and find some newly laundered sweats in my walk-in closet.

Outside, a leaden sky promises rain, and I'm not in the mood to be rained on during my run today. I head upstairs to my gym, switch on the TV for the morning business news, and step onto the treadmill. My thoughts stray to the day. I've nothing but meetings, though I'm seeing my personal trainer later for a workout at my office—Bastille is always a welcome challenge.

Maybe I should call Elena?

Yeah. Maybe. We can do dinner later this week.

I stop the treadmill, breathless, and head down to the shower to start another monotonous day.

.

"Tomorrow," I mutter, dismissing Claude Bastille as he stands on the threshold of my office.

"Golf, this week, Grey." Bastille grins with easy arrogance, knowing that his victory on the golf course is assured.

I scowl after him as he turns and leaves. His parting words rub salt into my wounds because despite my heroic attempts in the gym this morning, my personal trainer has kicked my ass. Bastille is the only one who can beat me, and now he wants another pound of flesh on the golf course. I detest golf, but so much business is done on the fairways I have to endure his lessons there too... and though I hate to admit it, Bastille does go some way to improving my game.

As I stare out at the Seattle skyline, the familiar ennui seeps into my consciousness. My mood is as flat and gray as the weather. My days are blending together with no distinction, and I need some kind of diversion. I've worked all weekend and now, in the continued confines of my office, I'm restless. I shouldn't feel this way, not after several bouts with Bastille. But I do.

I frown. The sobering truth is that the only thing to capture my interest recently has been my decision to send two freighters of cargo to Sudan. This reminds me—Ros is supposed to come back to me with numbers and logistics. What the hell is keeping her? Intent on finding out what she's playing at, I glance at my schedule and reach for the phone.

Oh, Christ! I have to endure an interview with the persistent Miss Kavanagh for the WSU student magazine. Why the fuck did I agree to this? I loathe interviews— inane questions from inane, ill-informed, vacuous idiots.

The phone buzzes.

"Yes," I snap at Andrea as if she's to blame. At least I can keep this interview short.

"Miss Anastasia Steele is here to see you, Mr. Grey."

"Steele? I was expecting Katherine Kavanagh."

"It's Miss Anastasia Steele who's here, sir."

I scowl. I hate the unexpected. "Show her in," I mutter, aware that I sound like a sulky teen but not giving a fuck.

Well, well... Miss Kavanagh is unavailable. I know her father, the owner of Kavanagh Media. We've done business together, and he seems like a shrewd operator and a rational human being. This interview is a favor to him—one that I mean to cash in later when it suits me. And I have to admit I was vaguely curious about his daughter, interested to see if the apple had fallen far from the tree. But, instead of meeting with Katherine Agnes Kavanagh, I will meet some other girl I know nothing about. I have to admit, I'm not very entertained by the thought.

As I rise from my leather chair and button my suit, my eyes catch the door opening. In just a few strides, I close the distance and wait for the girl to come through the door. As soon as our eyes meet, I'm frozen to my spot.

Clear, bright-blue eyes meet mine. They are the most extraordinary color—guileless, powder-blue—and for one awful moment, I think she can see right through me. I feel... exposed. The thought is unnerving. She has a small smile on her face but I can see her muscles tensing. What is that about?

"Miss Kavanagh? I'm Christian Grey. Would you like to sit?" I say as I extend a hand towards her. She still has that weary look in her eyes but she extends her hand nonetheless. The moment our skin touches, a weird exhilarating current sweeps through me, heading straight to my dick. What the fuck?

I blink a few times and regain control over my body. In command once more, I study her. A beautiful face, small nose, perfectly arched eyebrows, full lips that are begging to be kissed, all framed by straight bangs that cover her forehead and a intricate braid swept to the side. Oh, baby, how I'd like to grip that braid as I watch myself slide into you. And those leather cuffs attached to her wrists aren't doing my imagination any favors.

What the fuck, Grey? Get yourself under control, for fuck's sake!

A brunette. Yeah, she's attractive.

Drop it, Grey!

"Actually, Ms. Kavanagh is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don't mind, Mr. Grey." The girl says with a cool and collected voice.

"And you are?" I ask, mildly amused by the turn of events. The perfect submissive has just walked into my office just as I was thinking about blowing off some steam. Could this turn out even better?

"Anastasia Steele. I'm studying English Literature with Miss Kavanagh at Washington State." The girl replies as her back straightens almost instantly and I take a second to analyze that. While others would lean slightly forward, a sign of submission, this girl straightens herself, as though she's taking command. What is this about, Miss Steele?

She doesn't look like the nervous and bookish type even though I can detect something in her stance. She's not as collected as she'd like to appear. She's also dressed as though she's attending brunch. On other occasions, I would have raised an eyebrow and point that out but her outfit gives me a peek at her athletic built so I keep my mouth shut as I try to keep away images of those long, lean legs wrapping themselves around me. Fuck!

Miss Steele looks around my office and a small frown appears on her beautiful face.

Muttering some platitude, I ask her to sit, then notice her discerning gaze appraising my office paintings. Before I can stop myself, I find I'm explaining them. "A local artist. Trouton."

"They're lovely. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary," she says, lost in the exquisite, fine artistry of my paintings. Her profile is delicate—an upturned nose, soft, full lips—and in her words she has mirrored my sentiments exactly. "The ordinary raised to extraordinary." It's a keen observation. Miss Steele is bright. I can't help but wonder what else she has in store.

She fishes a crumpled sheet of paper and a state of the art mobile phone. I take my time observing her as she sets up her phone to record our interview. She's focused, collected and moves with delicacy. I find it oddly refreshing. It's obvious she hasn't done this before and double checks everything. Normally, I'd be bored and pissed by now but the thought only brings a smile on my lips. I hide my smile behind my index finger.

"Did Kate—I mean Miss Kavanagh—explain what the interview was for?"

Her crystal-like voice snaps me out of my daydream.

"Yes, to appear in the graduation issue of the student newspaper as I shall be conferring the degrees at this year's graduation ceremony." Why the fuck I've agreed to do that, I don't know. Sam in PR tells me it's an honor, and the environmental science department in Vancouver needs the publicity in order to attract additional funding to match the grant I've given them.

Miss Steele blinks, all big blue eyes once more, as if my words are a surprise and fuck—she looks disapproving! Hasn't she done any background work for this interview? She should know this. The thought cools my blood. It's... displeasing, not what I expect from her or anyone I give my time to.

She reigns herself in and a controlled look sets upon her face. Showtime!

Then the questions start.

I reply politely to all of them and shut down whatever I deem inappropriate. I tell her about my work, my power, the control I have over so many people. As I talk, I think back to all the success I've managed to have under my belt. My decisions have brought me here, on top of my world, controlling and commanding whoever steps foot in here with ease.

Just when I think I have her swooning and wrapped around my finger, the most unexpected words fall from her full, plump lips.

"Well, that sounds utterly boring."

What the fuck did she just say?

.

Thursday, May 12, 2011

"What brings you by on such short notice, Christian?" My therapist, John Flynn, asks as he regards me shrewdly.

You would think that with all the money I pay this fucker, he would be salivating at the mere thought of another session with me but he's not. The reason is simple: I'm not his usual type of patient. I pay him so I can boss him around and punish myself with his presence. I pay him so I can look him in the eye as I tell him about the girls I fuck on weekends and how their pink ass – courtesy of my cane – turns me on. I don't pay him to play the therapist role with me.

But John remained stoic throughout every story and each sordid detail. He's an unwilling companion who gets paid handsomely and nothing more. John's developed thicker skin since our sessions have started and I suspect he's also pissed off by the many times I've blown him off and brushed aside his help. Can't say I blame him but like the fucker I am, I don't care.

Until now. Until I've met her and let her words get the better of me. What happened to cool and controlled Christian Trevelyan-Grey? He went under the fucking buss, that's what happened! I've become too interested in this girl only because she dared to give voice to many people's thoughts. But her curiosity and guts has me thinking about her non-stop as her voice keeps echoing through my mind, driving me fucking crazy.

Are you happy, Mr. Grey?

"I want to talk." I say, my tone flat and lacking any kind of inflection even though I'm burning on the inside with a myriad of questions. However, I need to keep my shit cool around John. He'll smell a good subject a mile away.

"What would you like to talk about?" He asks, pen and pad poised to take notes that he probably burns afterwards. It's not like I ever gave him anything interesting during all our years of… collaboration. I am a conceited asshole and I own up to that title daily.

"Us." I say and fix him with my gaze.

John looks up from his notepad and cocks his head to the side, inspecting my appearance for a brief second before abandoning the notepad and leaning back in his chair.

"What about us, Christian? I'm afraid you need to be a bit more specific than that." He asks as he settles comfortably into his chair, probably ready for another game of power.

"Our doctor-patient relationship and how it has evolved during the years." I explain even though I have a feeling he knows more than he lets on.

"It hasn't." He replies with a flat tone.

His answer surprises me. Not that I didn't know it – deep down – but because I wasn't expecting him to own up to this failure. Or mine. Sure, he's helped me make some progress, compared to others before him who were all words and no action. John Flynn has been my doctor for almost four years now and I have to admit that he could have done much more, if only I'd let him.

I tilt my head to the side and examine his expression. There's the tiniest hint of annoyance in his eyes and the slight clench of jaw that follows gives him away. Then again, maybe he's tired of this farce and just wants to get this over with. Maybe he wants to give me a referral and be done with this. Again, can't say I blame him. I hate myself even in my best days. And this is definitely not a good day for me.

"And why is that?" I ask even though I know exactly why. It's because I'm not willing to let him inside my head to pick apart thought by thought, memory by memory.

"You already know the answer to that particular question." John replies and makes no move to continue his trail of thought. His gaze is unnerving. I look away and study his office.

His office is close to Grey House and it's a plus, considering how many times I blow up in a day and sometimes need to see him with little to no short notice. It's located in a nice brownstone, also the home of his wife, Rhian, and his two children. They're the picture perfect family. Something you'll never have, Grey!

I've met John through my mother, at one of the events supporting Coping Together, my mother's project. One of the most esteemed psychiatrists that volunteered their time and knowledge to help children and broken families to piece themselves together. He surprised me with his knowledge and tactics but I never allowed it to get too far. If he gets inside my head, he'll see exactly just how screwed up I am. I'm scared of that.

Then why are you here, Grey?

"I never thought I'd say this but I don't think this direction of therapy is working out for me." I say and scrub my hands over my face. I've slept like shit these past few days but, instead of being tormented by nightmares and night terrors, I'm tormented by Miss Steele's face and voice as she asks me that fucking question that I can't get out of my mind. Am I happy? Of course I'm not! But I'm rich as fuck and that makes up for it.

Does it?

"Therapy only works when we have a genuine desire to know ourselves as we are. Not as we would like to be." John replies while looking at straight into my eyes.

What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

"What do you mean to know ourselves as we are?"

"Again, you already have your answer."

His patience is driving me up the damn walls. I wanted a reaction, a gesture, an emotion… something. Instead, I'm facing a mirror. I should give something if I want to get something in return. Instead I continue to press, hoping it wouldn't reach that point. I don't want the fucker inside my head. That's out of the question.

"Christian, I hope you won't mind me asking but what brought this on?"

Miss Steele has brought this on. Her theory that I'm setting myself up for failure, that I'm doing things I know won't bring me any pleasure, that I'm not really winning anything, that I'm lying to myself. Those eyes that seemed to look deep within my soul. You don't have a soul. Then why did it feel that way? Why did I feel naked and analyzed with only one look, with only one smile and a touch that set me on fire?

"I had an interview a few days ago." I mutter like a petulant child, scolded by his mother. The last thing I wanted was to discuss Anastasia Steele.

"What happened?" John asks, his interest piqued.

"The girl said some things... it got me thinking, I guess." I murmur as I stare out the window and think back to Anastasia Steele. I still haven't got her background check from Welch and I'm this close to calling the fucker and fire him. It shouldn't take this fucking long to find out everything there is to know about Miss Steele. What's keeping him?

"Got you thinking about what?" John prompts with an intense look on his face.

"What a fucked-up motherfucker I am." I mutter and resist the urge to grab my hair and pull at it.

He laughs openly at my reply. My fists clench in reply. What the fuck? I pay this fucker $2,000 per session so I can be ridiculed?

No, you pay him so you can play the boss with him when he's supposed to help you. Payback's a bitch, isn't it, Grey?

"Why are you still my therapist, John? I bet I'm not the only motherfucker with mommy issues in this world who can pay $1,000 per hour." I say with a smile but I know it doesn't reach my eyes.

I'm tense as fuck. And it's all because of her, because of her assessing gaze, because of the truth backing up her words, because of her… question. I breathe out a gush of air and scrub my hands over my face, trying to get a fucking grip. This doesn't happen to me! I'm Christian fucking Gray! Shit like this doesn't fly with me! Shit like this is shut down before I even get a fraction of a second to think it through! What the fuck is going on with me?!

"Why are you still my patient, Christian?" John asks calmly, as though I've never mentioned leaving him and finding another shrink.

The million dollar question.

"I feel comfortable with you." I reply with a shrug and try the nonchalance card even though I'm far from it. Way too far from it!

"You feel comfortable around anyone who is willing to sign a NDA." He points out. Fucker's right and he knows it. "Try again."

I shut my mouth and glare at him. He's unfazed. Go figure!

"But I don't usually pay them $2,000 per session." I say through clenched teeth. My temper is seconds away from snapping.

"You pay them more in clothes, jewelry and all kinds of gifts. All to entertain the idea of you being in control. The same thing happens during each of our sessions. I get paid and you play the boss. I cannot answer a question you can't dare to ask, Christian. These sessions are about you. You pay for my time and I listen. That's how this works." John replies, cool as a fucking cucumber while I'm seething here. His collected demeanor makes me want to hit something. I bet the fucker knows it.

"They're not prostitutes." I hiss, my teeth clenched and my fists balled.

"I didn't say that. I merely pointed out how you relate to those around you. You give them something, you receive something back. Fair trade, isn't it?"

I stare at him. I've never thought of my contracts that way before. The thought is unnerving. What would that make Elena? The Madam?

John's voice snaps me out of my thoughts and I focus on him once again, pushing away the feeling of uneasiness that has settled in my bones.

"You've been replacing your missing pieces with obsessions and power plays. In a way, it's normal. A magic door is always attractive, Christian. But in your case, like most cases, that magic door doesn't open to reality. It opens to a fantasy. You cannot live in a fantasy and you have to come to terms with that. Reality doesn't go away because you stop believing in it. It's stubborn like that. As stubborn as your dreams. It's always there and it will continue to be there until you acknowledge it and face it head on."

"Isn't that what I'm doing here?" I ask, a little surprised that he talking about facing my fears.

"You and I both know the answer to that."

Silence settles over us as I mull over John's words and he keeps a close eye on me. The fucker has a point but I'm not going to admit that. It could open a loophole and John would never miss such an opportunity. Such a precedent would be a victory.

Isn't he supposed to help you? His victory would also be yours.

"Tell me about this girl that has you up at night." He prompts and leans back in his chair once again, ready to take notes about Miss Steele.

I grip my hair and rest my elbows on my thighs. Just thinking about her has me going up the damn walls. No one has ever managed to get to me the way Miss Steele has. Her speech, the look in her eyes, her sassy way of pointing out the obvious and calling me on my bullshit... it all points out to a very intelligent woman who has been through something. That something could prove to be dark, much like my past. Is that why her background check is taking this long?

"She's a mystery. One moment I can almost swear that she'd make the perfect sub, the next – she opens her mouth and blows me off." I say and try to keep my tone as even as possible.

John seems intrigued.

"I see. Does she have a name?"

"Anastasia Steele."

His pen freezes over the notepad and a frightened look covers John's face.

"What?" I ask, ready to jump from my seat and strangle him if he decides to avoid my question. 'Cause that would only be fair, Grey.

"How did she end up in your office?" John asks after carefully studying my reaction and body language. Damn him!

On a different occasion, I would have pointed out that it's rude to answer a question with another question but there's a part of me that wants to discuss Anastasia Steele with him so I do just that. I tell him all about the interview, the mixed signals and brutal honesty that she threw my way without a moment's notice, her captivating eyes and delectable tight body.

Just thinking about her has my cock standing up for attention. Those eyes, that mouth, that rosy complexion, those long, shiny tresses coiffed to perfection in that intricate braid. Every fiber in my being wanted to grab it and twist it around my hand so I could tilt her head back and watch as I ease myself into her, inch by inch. Fuck! Get a grip, Grey! She's not yours!

"Did you run a background check on her?"

John snaps me out of my daydream and I scowl at him for a second before I answer his question.

"Yes." I mutter, still pissed that I haven't gotten what I asked for three days ago.

"Did she express her agreement to look into her past?"

"No."

"Then why go ahead and do that?"

"Because I needed to know."

"Know what?"

"There was something in her eyes. Plus, she got me curious. It's very rare that anything gets me curious."

"Christian, this goes beyond curiosity. I must warn you that going behind someone's back and rummaging through their private life will, sooner or later, turn into something serious."

"You know her." I say with a calm voice even though I'm curious as hell.

"I know of her." He replies ambiguously as he stares out the large, floor to ceiling window, a distant look in his eyes. I've never seen John like this, pensive and far away. I've never seen him in other position than being my shrink, to be fair, but this unexpected turn of events has me almost as intrigued as Anastasia Steele.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" I hiss and narrow my eyes at him.

Sensing that I'm really close to my daily limit of bullshit, John sighs and looks out the window for a few more seconds almost as if he's at odds with himself on how much to tell me.

"Once upon a time, I had been given the chance to look over her file. I couldn't take her case because I already had you, my full-time patient."

"She needed a shrink?" I ask and all air leaves my lungs.

What the fuck?!

I'm floored. I think back to my interaction with her. There were moments when I thought she was uncomfortable, even fearful, but I thought that was due to my attitude. I would have never guessed she went thought something that needed the attention of a shrink.

But you did think that her eyes were hiding something. Don't lie to yourself, Grey!

Suddenly, knowing her past is not longer a simple curiosity. It's a necessity.

"What did you find? Was your curiosity satisfied?" John asks me a beat later.

"Nothing. Welch hasn't given it to me yet." I reply and watch as a deep breath is released from John's chest. What the fuck is this all about?

"What can you tell me about her file? What happened to her?" I ask, even though I'm almost 100% sure he'll shut me out. A man has to try.

"I cannot speak to you about that, Christian. This is a matter which concerns Anastasia Steele and only her. This session is about you and your tendency to do things that are not advisable. The reasons are both objective and subjective. But let's look beyond social norms and focus on the good it's supposed to do to you. You actions, which you justify as independent from your emotions, are nothing short of emotional. The background check you ordered on Anastasia Steele is a leading example."

"So what if I ordered a background check on Anastasia Steele?" I ask, frowning at his little speech. It doesn't seem like a big deal to me. I do it all the time with the people I come in contact with. What's so wrong to knowing everything there is to know about a person you've met? What's so wrong with knowing their weakness before they can even think of looking for yours?

"This isn't about Anastasia Steele even though she is a subject that we will approach again, when you shall have all facts in front of you. This is about you not trusting those around you, this is about your pushing boundaries that shouldn't be pushed in the first place. How would you feel if you were in their place?"

"I'd be OK with it. If they have nothing to hide..."

"When you say something to hide, you're talking about hiding something from you, the one person who has the right to know everything?"

I glare at John.

"What makes you entitled to know everything?" He pushes, waiting for me to push back. Tough luck, John.

I shrug.

"I can, therefore I do."

Even in my head, that doesn't sound right but I shut up that small voice inside my head telling me to think about it. I didn't get to this level by trusting whatever shit people threw my way and hoped for the best. Business is this way.

"But Anastasia Steele isn't business, is she? Your former subs weren't business either. There is nothing related to business when it comes down to the women in your life."

Did I say that out loud?

"Yes, you did. You're blurring the lines, Christian. It's been going on for a while now and I think it's time we talked about it. I think it's time you owned up to your need to control anything that could come in contact with you."

"Why is that such a bad thing?"

"Because there is no such thing as complete control. You couldn't control your subs to not fall for you and it's happened too many times for you to keep ignoring it. It's time you face it, Christian."

John sighs and leans forward in his seat.

"Christian, this has got to stop."

"Are you telling me what to do, John?" I hiss and narrow my eyes. Does he think he can start bossing me around and tell me what to do? If that's the case, he's in for a very rude awakening.

"Christian, I'm not here to start drawing lines. In our four years together, have I ever tried to make you do something you didn't approve of?"

"No."

"Did I try to impose my will over yours?"

"No". Not that you could even if you wanted to. I add silently and bite back a smirk.

"Did I ever try to manipulate you?"

"No."

Silence falls in the office as John studies me and I stare blankly back.

"I have been tempted, though. A therapist's life is equal parts counsel and curiosity. One can fall prey to curiosity too easily."

"So, what? You wanted to experiment on me? Manipulate me? Is that it?" I ask, stupefied.

"You can easily manipulate someone when you have all the facts. You know exactly what topic to approach, how to act and react, the list goes on and on. Manipulation comes so easily when you know and the other person doesn't know about your knowledge. It gives you the upper hand. You of all people would know this."

I stare at John, confused.

"Stop speaking in riddles and tell me where you want to get." I hiss.

"Tell me you're not trying to manipulate Anastasia Steele into becoming your submissive."

I'm stunned. I've never thought of it that way. Sure, I'm attracted to her and there's something inside her that's calling out to me but I don't know how far I would go to have her. Sure you do. You want to make her yours, Grey!

John must have seen my thoughts on my face because he starts talking without any reply from my side.

"I need to remind you: this isn't purely about Anastasia. This is about everyone before her and everyone that will follow her. You are in a circle and until you break this circle, nothing is going to change. And I have a feeling you're getting bored. Am I right?"

"Maybe."

John smiles.

"Miss Steele fascinates you more than anyone before her, doesn't she?"

Involuntarily, a smile appears on my lips as I think back to that smart mouth.

Yes, Miss Steele fascinates me.

"Maybe it's time for a change, Christian."

So? When should I publish chapter 2? Should I publish chapter 2? Your reviews will decide ;)