Author's Note: This piece is submitted as part of the Lyric Wheel Challenge II. My song was 'Poison' by Alice Cooper, the lyrics are freely available online. It's a background piece / prequel to the story I'm currently working on which I'll be posting shortly.

For information, 'Rappaccini's Daughter' is a brilliant short story by Nathaniel Hawthorne written in 1844 and included in 'The Celestial Railroad and Other Stories' (Signet, 1963), which I'd urge you to check out, along with the song that was influenced by that, 'Running Through the Garden' by Fleetwood Mac on the 2003 album Say You Will.

Enjoy and I'd love some feedback if you're able to give it.

WALKING AWAY

If I didn't know it before, then this weekend has demonstrated how pointless it is and under the eye mask, unseen by Mr Grey, tears bud in my eyes. He doesn't love me. I have always been and always will be a contract to him. Stick to the plan, Susannah; my head reminds me, but it's hard to do that as I yield to the sensations blossoming in my body, committing what I can of them to memory. This is the last time he will ever make me come. I can't do this anymore. My heart is as tied to him as I am tied by these ropes and that's why I have to cut myself free because I can't bear another 48 hours of emotional hell. But he's not hurting me, I have pleased him this weekend and this is my reward; to have my body brought to a perfect climax until it screams with desire for him, releases at his command and tumbles down into an abyss that's become harder and harder to climb out of.

He is the conductor and under him my body is a perfect symphony of sensation, as his expert hands pluck and play me like the most precious Stradivarius, and his mouth, oh god, his mouth, bites and sucks and licks in a rhythm that I feel in the very centre of me. I adore his mouth but in nine months of being his Submissive he has never once kissed me on the lips, even though his have touched every other inch of my body. I have rarely touched his naked skin, either; prevented from doing so by all manner of restraints or the mere bark of command. On precious occasions I've touched his arms but only to balance myself. It's a reminder that there is a boundary over which he will not step, a contract, which means however much I wish it that it will never be love, not for him and it's taken me all this time to accept that. But when his mouth and hands are at work it's so easy to slip the bonds of reality and make-believe that he is wholly and truly mine.

Oh Christian! Here in the privacy of my head I can use his forbidden name. I can pretend we are lovers even if the reality is a world away from that. I want to touch him so much and in my mind I do that even though my hands are bound above my head. The mere thought of touching him sends me higher, ignoring every good sense that screams at me not to fly too high because the fall when it comes will be all the more painful. 'Kiss me Christian! Let me in, let me love you!' The words scream in my head but find no audible expression on my lips, which part as the exquisite pain of passion builds within me. How do you do this and not feel anything for me? I silently ask him.

I have pleased him time and again these last few weekends; working hard to elicit a diversion from the script and have his carefully orchestrated scene unravel in a tangle of arms, legs, mouths and desperation. But try as I might I can't do it and even my deepest submission to him can't punch through the force field he keeps around himself. The higher he takes me, the higher I want to go and the longer I stay, the more I will be infused with the drug that binds me here and I will become the living embodiment of Rappaccini's daughter, living out my life trapped among the poisonous flowers of Escala. Each touch of his mouth is a hypodermic shot of the ultimate drug and strung out on it I don't care about anything but my next fix. But good sense fights hard to be heard, it knows the truth even if I deny it at every turn – he is dangerous to me. Oh Christian, I want to kiss you but your lips are venomous poison!

I'm an addict trying to get the ultimate hit of my drug - lips on lips - but I will never get it and as he brings me to my final climax for him, more unseen tears soak my eye mask as I strain to hear the precious words I long to hear.

'I love you, Susannah.'

He will never say them but his unspoken words find an answer in my head.

'I love you too Christian!'

I am so close now and in contrast to what I want, I know that the words I don't want to hear are just seconds away as I reach my tipping point.

"Come for me." He says and at his command I do, over and over again, touching the very sun and catching a moment of pure bliss in a teardrop, before gravity claims me and I start to spiral downwards. I am thrown down through the brightest sunlight into twilight and then further, into the darkest night of the very deepest abyss. I can go no higher. I can fall no further. It is over. I love him, but he does not love me and I am done.

Numbness claims me and for a minute I am deaf and blind to anything, before confident, firm hands bring me back to reality, massaging life back into my wrists and knees where they have been bound. He slips off the now damp eye mask, making no comment and ever the gentleman extends a hand to help me off the bed. He holds open the robe as I slip my arms into the sleeves and I make no further move, knowing that it is his place to tie it around me. My eyes find their customary anchor point, the rip in the knee of his soft, blue jeans. He has dressed and I feel a little sad that there is no final chance to see his naked glory.

"Thank you Miss Moss." He says smoothly. "I will see you in my office in forty five minutes."

"Yes sir." I reply. He turns and leaves, completely untouched by the most incredible orgasm he's ever given me and I wait, as trained, until he has closed the door behind him before I look up and see what needs clearing away. There is very little today. I strip the bed and pile the crimson sheets and pillow cases by the door. I return the shackles to each bedpost, running the chain down the side of the mattress so that they can be easily pulled out next time, for another woman, I expect. I coil the lengths of rope, secure them and return them to the fourth drawer. The eye mask will need washing now so I toss that in the laundry pile too. I straighten the racks of whips and floggers and in the far corner rearrange the canes so that they are in the correct thickness order. It's his test to see that I pay attention to detail. Nothing else is out of place and casting a final glance around the crimson room that has almost been my weekend home for the last nine months, I bend to scoop up the laundry, turn out the light and close the door.

In my room for the final time I pause for a moment to look out at the Seattle skyline on this dark, February evening. I have seen this view in summer sun, in fall rain and in winter snow but I cannot stay to see it during my favourite time of year, the spring. I ignore the selection of clothes he has bought me, having brought from home my 'going away' outfit; a grey skirt, a plum coloured cashmere sweater and black velvet high-heel pumps. I lay out my underwear and have everything ready whilst I take a quick shower.

Now that I have made my decision to end the contract and finished my final session, I am numb and even the fierce stream from the hot shower fails to make an impact on me. I've made no impact on him, either, and really, what do I know of him? He has given away little more than his semen over the time we've shared and most things I know about him probably came from Google or the Seattle Times. When we're out of the playroom our time together is not spent cuddling in front of the TV, he disappears to work or into another part of the apartment where I am not invited to be. I am here to be his Submissive, not his girlfriend and he made that perfectly clear from the start.

But he is gloriously and poisonously addictive and I could go into his office and sign up for another three months if he's in agreement, but what state would I be in by then? I can barely walk away on a Sunday evening as it is and in another three months I would most likely be doing it on my knees. Not that he doesn't make me spend enough time on them already, but crawling away on them isn't want I want to do. I want to leave on my terms, with me being the one to end it. I don't think I could cope if he was the one who didn't renew and I cling to the thought that he would have quit long ago if I wasn't giving him what he needed.

What he needs is strange sometimes, an odd mix of violent and gentle. My previous Doms were both easy to read, but Mr Grey never gives me the chance to do that. He provides few clues to himself and few opportunities to look into his eyes. My first Dom, Michael, taught me and I submitted because I wanted to learn. Being so much older than I was, and unattractive, it was easy to keep it within the agreement. With Thomas, my second, I terminated it because I came to realise that for him it was about hating women, and I'm not in this to be somebody's punch bag. I am in this because I desire to be specifically controlled. There's a very great difference between abuse and being allowed to explore your own sexuality and submission within carefully defined boundaries. Outsiders looking in may think of this as a perversion, and perhaps to them it is. But they don't see the whole picture, they don't see my desires, his desires, the agreements, the boundaries and the care with which this is undertaken. They imagine perhaps that I'm beaten and raped for the weekend. I am never raped. The sex is rough but that's how I like it and I don't do anything that I don't want to do. True, I have taken some beatings, but even in those I have the power to say stop, what victim of domestic violence or sexual abuse has that capacity? It's not all about violence and the extreme. Here, unlike Thomas, Mr Grey is capable of incredible gentleness and I have never once thought that he operates from a hate of women, just the desire to control one.

And have control he does. He is the Master; of my body, my mind and my soul. He directly or indirectly controls every moment I have whether I am with him or not. When I'm with him I cede total control, but away from him he's there in my actions too. My submission to him extends far beyond each 48 hour period and into the working week. It's there in the way I dress, the way I eat, the way I speak, the way I deal with clients, the way I drive, even down to how many hours of sleep I get each night, although that's part of the agreement. His rules have become the way I live my life and this is not simply a case of getting out of a man's bed, getting dressed and walking out the door. Being a Submissive is a way of life for me, not something that I can easily switch off. And, like a vine he has twined around me and it's time to prune things back.

I have only myself to blame for letting myself cross the line and fall in love, Leila warned me repeatedly. She told me how it would be and like a fool I thought I was different; if not immune to him, then I would be the one to win his heart.

When I was first approached about becoming Mr Grey's Submissive by my first Dom Michael Xavier, owner of the private club, the Devil's Kitchen, he warned me that it would be a greater test, a step up, but that he would not put me forward if he wasn't sure that I could cope. And cope I have done, if it wasn't for the not falling in love bit – at which I've failed miserably. I was in love with Mr Grey before my first three months were up and almost wept with joy when he renewed the contract for another three months. I floated home that evening.

And it wasn't just Mr Grey I fell in love with, I fell in love with the lifestyle. Two days after I signed my contract, a brand new red Audi A3 was delivered and when I arrived at Escala for the first time there was a closet of clothes and shoes waiting for me. I've always loved clothes, but on my salary - I'm only a couple of years out of College - pieces like the ones I have are out of my league. But the real prize was Mr Grey himself. Everything about him from his eyes and body to the taste of him in my mouth captivated me. It's made being his Sub a very rewarding experience. Oddly, I have felt deeply cared for by a man who can't seem to love. That's the real kicker.

As a Dom he's off the scale. He's exacting and experienced; there's no unpractised fumble about what he does, no instruction or crib sheets lying around, no pauses while he works out where he's going next and no uncertainty about what he wants me to do. I've been around the Devil's Kitchen long enough to know that I am leaving the best Dom in the city, perhaps even the State.

I'm aware that the price I pay in leaving is very great. Not that there are things I won't miss - his canes had a vicious bite that I had never previously experienced - but I was deep under his spell and the good vastly outweighed the bad. Most every command he gave me was a pleasure to execute. I even taught myself to cook, spending a large part of my free time during the week deciding and practicing what I would cook for him on Saturday evenings. I was not allowed to make the same thing twice in any one three month block and I worked hard not to fail him. But I inevitably did and submitted to the stated punishment -if you can call another dose of Mr Grey punishment.

Washed, dried, dressed and with a light application of make-up to hide my reddened eyes, I quickly pack my bag and, taking a last look around the room. I shut the door and walk away, past the playroom and down the stairs to wait outside Mr Grey's office. I check my watch and I have made it within the time. I place my bag on the floor and knock lightly.

"Come in." His smooth voice commands and I push open the door. He is sat behind his desk working at his laptop. Behind him a document is printing out. He's in a cream linen shirt and his hair, that I have never touched, is damp and tousled. Without looking at me he indicates to the chair across from him. I sit as directed, cross my legs at the ankles angling them demurely to the left, place my hands in my lap and drop my eyes to the floor. Even at this distance I can smell the fresh and wonderful scent of him and surreptitiously I inhale deeply, dragging in more of his poison and committing it to memory. I wait silently for him to speak and it is an age before he does.

He gets up and I hear him grab the document from the printer. "You have pleased me Susannah, and I would like to renew our contract for a further three months." He says, with no more passion than if he were extending the lease agreement on a car. "Do you wish to continue?"

Summoning every atom of courage and ignoring the pleading, drugged-up part of me who is clamouring for her fix, I take a breath. "Thank you, sir, but no." There it is, the words are out, it is over and I want to cry.

Mr Grey pauses for a moment. "I see." He says and his voice neither conveys nor betrays any emotion. "I hope you don't feel that I have mistreated you or overstepped the boundaries of our agreement?"

"No sir." I don't really know what to say in reply to him because the truth is inconvenient and he will know full well if I'm lying. I swallow, take another breath and admit the truth anyway. "My feelings for you have changed and it's clear that yours for me remain the same."

There is silence in the room which Mr Grey breaks by shifting slightly in his seat. He does not speak immediately, allowing my head to entertain a wild thought that I had gotten it wrong and his feelings for me have changed too.

"You are correct." He says finally and my heart, raised a little after its orgasmic plunge, sinks quietly back into the depths. "So you wish to terminate our contract?" He says brusquely as if it's Monday morning and I am at work. For a moment I have to remember myself.

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. The car is yours to keep and do with as you see fit. I shall have the contents of the closet in your room delivered to your home. May I remind you of the continuation of the non-disclosure agreement which remains in perpetuity."

He really doesn't need to remind me of the legalities, I'm a qualified lawyer. "Yes sir." I reply without a hint of sarcasm.

"Well then, there is nothing more to say. Thank you Miss Moss. I've enjoyed our time together." He stands up and extends his hand to me across the desk. I stand and shake it although I am on autopilot whilst doing so. Part of me expected this and part of me is incredulous that nine months of letting him fuck me every which way and more could come down to nothing more than a business handshake. He sits down again but in my confusion I am rooted to the spot and my lack of movement causes him to raise his head from the screen. "Is there a problem?"

"No sir. I'm just a little… It doesn't matter." I turn on my heels and stalk from the room, pausing to collect my bag from outside his office. My heels clack on the wooden floor as I make my way into the foyer and hit the button to summon the elevator. What should happen next is that he appears at my side, gently takes the bag from me and beckons me into his living room where we make love on the rug by the fire. But as the elevator doors slide open I remain alone in my growing distress. I manage to hold it until the doors slide shut and the elevator whisks me down into the depths of despair.

Time passes. As it has a habit of doing.

"So I really think there's a chance of a deal in the McCaffrey case." My colleague Jenny comments as we stride down the sidewalk, lattes in hand, on a dull Monday morning in May, fresh from our breakfast meeting about another case. Our offices at Lane, Neill and O'Driscoll are still a block away, but we're approaching Grey House and I'm not looking for him, I'm really not, but somehow my eyes find him. Ahead of us he steps out of the back of his large, black Audi with Taylor ever close at hand. He's dressed in an immaculate grey suit, a white shirt and a black tie. His glorious copper-coloured hair is in its usual tousled disarray and he is as stunning as ever. It's been almost three months since I last saw him, but my breath still catches and my steps falter. He hasn't seen me and he's deep in conversation on his phone.

Jenny gasps. "Oh my god it's Christian Grey." She murmurs beside me. She too has stopped dead on the sidewalk. "What I wouldn't give for a night with him." I don't tell her that she has zero chance with that - she's blonde. I watch, mesmerised as his long legs make short work of crossing the wide sidewalk in front of us. And then, something catches his eye and his head turns in my direction and he stops, partially turns and looks at me. He keeps the phone to his ear but there is a small, brief nod of acknowledgment, before he turns back and heads through the high glass doors of his empire.

Jenny grabs my arm. "Do you know him?" She hisses, indignant that we have worked together for three years and I've failed to tell her that I know Christian Grey.

We carry on walking. Do I know Christian Grey? "No." I reply and it's the truth, I don't know him at all. I had amazing sex with the man for nine months and I couldn't tell you anything much about him at the end of it. "I met him briefly a few months ago." I say, it's closer to the truth. As we pass Grey House Jenny cranes her neck to see if she can see him inside the building, but he's disappeared already.

"But he acknowledged you, perhaps you have a chance there?"

I laugh. "No. I don't think he's in the market for dating women."

Jenny sighs. "Gay. Another great loss to womankind. Still, gay men are great to take shopping, right? Can you get me an introduction?"

I laugh again. "Does he look like the kind of guy you'd take shopping?"

"With his credit card? Hell, yes! Oh, come on Susie, do this for me. Call him up and invite him out to lunch, Saturday and then I can accidentally drop by."

I smile, knowing what he'll likely be doing for lunch on Saturday, giving another brunette-haired woman a mouthful of him. "It's not like that, I met him very briefly and I'm amazed he remembers me."

"Well I'm not, you're gorgeous. Go after him. Gay or not I'd want me some Grey in my life."

"He's not my type."

"What? You don't go for hot, sexy billionaire? Ok, so he's gay, but you can't have everything. Hot and sexy's good to look at don't you think?"

"No, I'm good. I'm happy with Nate."

"Oh yeah, so how's that going?" And with that, Christian Grey vanishes from my life once again.

I miss him terribly. I'm trying the straight sex thing with Nate and it isn't the most exciting thing on the planet. When we make love my head disengages and thinks about more dextrous fingers, a more tutored mouth and a larger, more demanding penis. Nate is lovely and doing his best, but I am woman of singular tastes and I know it won't be long until I'm back at the Devil's Kitchen asking Michael to match me up. But who can ever take Mr Grey's place? And who indeed has taken my place? Perhaps I should do what Leila did and wait outside Escala one Sunday evening and introduce myself? Leila was confident that a well-dressed woman with long brunette hair leaving around 7pm, would likely be coming from the Penthouse. But is that me? No it isn't. I have to let go. But I will always love him, that's a fact. Leila does too. She told me when I called to let her know that it was over. We've been drawing support from each other and perhaps there are others out there that might be in the same position. I toyed with the name 'The Sub Club' the other night. It's a work in progress, but Leila's on the other side of the country now and it would be great to talk to someone a little closer. Perhaps I should ask Michael if he would let me have the details of the others - there must be others. I can't be the only woman in Seattle who dreams in Grey.

We reach Lane, Neill and O'Driscoll, cram ourselves into the elevator with eight other people and Jenny jabs a finger at the button for the tenth floor. I take a sip of coffee and try and get my head in gear to tackle today's case load. But my head doesn't want to think about work it wants to think about Christian. As I stare blankly at my reflection in the highly polished steel of the elevator's interior, I wonder if there's anyone alive who can unpick the mystery that is Christian Grey?

In my mind I picture a woman. She's me… but more. She glows, she growls, she takes no prisoners and for some reason it feels like she's on her way; like a lioness stalking him through the jungle. I check my watch; May 11th, Monday, 8.29am, just a regular day in Seattle. But a shiver goes down my spine. Someone is coming, I know it. I put out my hand and feel cold steel. Steel? A woman of steel is coming for the man of steel? My face quirks up into a smile and I resolve to sit back and watch Christian Grey meet his match.

THE END