Chapter 4
"Can I send a potential sub over for you to interview, Christian? I think it would be a good match."
I pinch the bridge of my nose and consider the proposition—I have a headache and it's been a long day. "No, thank you, Irina. I'm tired… I'll go for a run and then happily end this day. Maybe I'll come to you tomorrow and check her out."
"All right, my dear," she says reluctantly. "But consider this: you've been without an outlet for your tension for too long. Get a whip in your hand and you'll feel better, you know you will."
"Right. I'm swamped at work, going in ten directions at once and trying to keep track of all the moving pieces."
"Oh, but that's what you do best, love. See you tomorrow. I'll have Tamani here waiting for you if you give me a time window."
"Let's say nine… tentatively. If nothing else comes up…"
"Make this a priority, Christian, and be here at nine." She disconnects.
...
All throughout the day, I try to drum up anticipation for tonight and meeting a new sub. I try and fail. All I get in the few minutes of reflection I can squeeze into the busy day is that last look I saw on Anastasia's face after I brushed her off. Something is eating at me over it and I'm hard-pressed to identify the emotion. By the end of the day nothing's been resolved in my mind and I pull up the calendar in my phone. Reading through, I rear my head: I haven't been to see John Flynn in two and a half weeks. No wonder I'm on an emotional tightrope. I text his assistant to pencil me in, ASAP. Then I pop into the shower to get ready for the evening. If I had to come up with an adjective to describe how I'm feeling I'd have to say halfhearted.
All is quiet at Arrowleaf, the name of Irina's estate. There's no large party occurring but I'm sure there is some kind of BDSM thing going on. I steer my car into the small lot closest to the circular drive and get out, wondering not for the first time why I came. I know the answer and knew it before I asked the question.
I'm trying to divest myself of Anastasia Steele who has taken up residence in my psyche and is proving to be downright ornery about eviction.
Walking briskly to the side entrance of the house, I am greeted by Dirk, Irina's bodyguard. Ever since her ex-husband beat her to within an inch of her life, Irina has had muscle backup. Dirk's the latest and I suspect by his looks that Irina has other uses for him. No way does he appear submissive in the least but appearances can often be seriously deceptive. I've learned that lesson time and again.
"Hello, sir," he greets me cordially.
I nod perfunctorily, never conversing with any of Irina's staff. Friendly interaction is not my MO, never has been, and never will be. "Irina?" I ask.
"Already inside with your new friend, sir."
I walk past him, irked with Irina that she shares so much. Already I don't want Tamani, just on principle alone.
Tamani. What kind of name is that? Is she exotic like her name implies? I'm about to find out. I rap my knuckles against the oak door twice, wait a beat and then a third time. Then I open the door.
The room is in full swing already. There are three ongoing scenes against the side wall, and in the back I can hear a woman keening. The energy inside the room fires up my blood and I go in search of Irina.
"Darling," comes the syrupy voice of both my wet dreams and my nightmares. "Here we are."
I turn and there's Irina sitting with a young woman. As soon as my eyes fall on the submissive, she rises to her feet, casts her eyes down, and goes to her knees. Her motion can only be described as poetic, like a ribbon of melted chocolate being gently folded into a bowl. I'm impressed.
"Your eyes on me," I command. She looks up and I see her beauty. Wearing nothing but a skimpy yellow bikini top coupled with a black elastic skirt so brief it resembles a large rubber band, she's about 24 years old, 5'8" and about 125 lbs. She's likely biracial, with dark skin, but her almond eyes announce some Asian blood as well. I raise my hand, an order for her to stand, and she does, again with poetry in every movement.
Long dark hair is plaited into a single braid that hangs to the top of her ass. Nice. Her limbs are endless and lean yet she manages to have abundant tits. She's everything I always look for in a submissive, yet, though my dick is twitching behind my zipper, it remains largely unimpressed. Fuck me, this is getting infuriating.
"Why don't you take Tamani to a private room for a little test drive, Master G? She's indicated that she's open to anything you might want to do."
Yes, that's what I should do. I rotate on the balls of my feet and head toward the warren of private rooms, knowing the girl will follow, likely on her hands and knees. It's clearly obvious that she's well trained.
When we get to the room I wheel around to face her and she's kneeling before me. "Tamani, I am in the very early stages of seeking out a new submissive. What transpires in this room, satisfying or not to one or both parties, might very likely amount to nothing more. Are you still interested in exploring this option?"
"Yes, sir."
"Why?"
In a melodic, intelligent voice, she lays her cards on the table. "I'm looking for a competent Dominant and I've heard you're among the finest. I'm willing to take the risk; besides, I'm pretty certain I will enjoy tonight regardless."
"What else have you heard about me?"
"I've heard you're strict but fair, that you expect your rules to be scrupulously followed. If any are broken, punishment can range from moderate to severe. Also, that you are uninterested in any emotional component in the relationship and will only entertain strict power exchanges that allow sexual congress, and domination slash submission. Nothing more."
I bob my head to acknowledge her words. Why would any woman agree to my strictures, I wonder? Yet they do and fight for the privilege. "Many would find that kind of arrangement overly restrictive. What keeps you interested?"
"Your reputation as an excellent master, your skill with the implements and sexual prowess, your generosity…"
"My submissives enjoy a measure of material comfort, yes, however, it comes with many strings attached, you do understand."
"Yes, sir. If I may be so bold as to say, it's also your physical attractiveness that appeals to me."
"All right. I think we might proceed. If we go any further than tonight, we will exchange a list of hard and soft limits prior to signing our six-month contract. If all is compatible, the medical tests follow and then the contract itself. As I stated, we're a long way off from that point. For tonight I'll only ask your tolerance for pain, from one to ten?"
While I wait for her to answer I feel myself engaging. It's not even sexual so much as the need to inflict pain. I am a monster, I do realize and accept that, but I revel in it while I'm in these rooms, if only to pay double for it outside in the world of normal. Right now I'm inclined to indulge without thought.
"My tolerance is about a seven or eight, sir. The cane is the only real restriction I have. I can take a couple of swats with it but that's it."
"Good. Then we'll start with those limits. We will not engage in intercourse tonight but I will ensure you enjoy the experience. Strip now."
I stand back while she obeys, rising gracefully to her feet and removing the two articles of clothing. She wears a silver ankle bracelet that resembles a cuff and I find it alluring. Something like that would look really hot on Anastasia's long slender leg with a long silver chain attached, a sexy slave girl. I heave out a sigh in disgust with myself. What an ass I'm becoming.
...
An hour later I leave a satisfied submissive in my wake and I know I won't be back for a while. I feel good—great even—for having utilized my whip hand energetically. I strung Tamani up from the rafter, whipped her with a flogger first and then a single tail, striped that long gorgeous body up and down, and finished with the crop against her shaved pussy until she came—and came hard. Tamani does have a high tolerance for pain—I never got near her limit despite letting loose a few times, and she looked inordinately pleased when I left her, so much so that I afforded her a quick peck on the lips while saying goodbye. I fled the house before I could be corralled by Irina.
On my way home, I let my emotional wall crumble a tad, allowing myself to consider what the hell is going on with me. Somehow, in some mysterious way, my attentions toward the fairer sex seem to have all narrowed to one woman whom I'd never before met and now know very superficially.
Why?
Her beauty? Without doubt, Anastasia is exquisite… yet there are many beautiful women in the world. Those incredible eyes? Again, true, but how much can a person detect through a cursory glance into another's eyes? Yes, the eyes hold deep but not enough to derail someone's emotional calendar at a glance. So then what?
For the entire drive back to my place I ponder, and by the time I pull into the underground garage at Escala, I am no closer to solving the riddle that is Anastasia and my unabiding fascination with her.
...
Every day last week except for Tuesday I've had to attend an event of some kind. Tonight it's the Seattle Art Museum's turn, a fundraiser and silent auction to kick off the museum's campaign to add six significant new pieces to its sculpture park by end of 2016.
I've decided to take Mia. I just cannot bear the notion of tolerating another date with another insipid female. Nastassja is the only woman whose company I actually enjoy but she's away in Thailand on a modeling assignment and I haven't the heart to ask anyone else. At least my sister is an agreeable companion and her bubbly enthusiasm keeps me from dying of boredom right there on the glossy hardwoods of the dance floor.
I'm not here ten minutes before it happens.
She's here.
… and with a client from Irina's, that gay fashion designer, Kent Gable. I watch her closely, uncertain how to handle this flagrant disobedience.
Tunnel vision. All along the edges of my sight turns black with only her in the center, as if the ballroom narrows myopically to one person: Anastasia. She's wearing a black satin strapless gown that's so fucking sexy it should be declared illegal.
Lewd.
Indecent.
For the images it's creating in my head. Mainly all that poufy material ruched up around her waist while my face is buried deep between her legs, licking her cunt to bring her to the heights of ecstasy while she moans and tries unsuccessfully to dislodge me.
God, what the fuck is wrong with me?
Right next to me stands Mia, attuned to everything going on with and around us. I love my little sister but she can be trying and she's even nosier about my life than Elliot, if that's even possible. Also vexing is the tuxedo—it's a beautifully cut suit, and has unusual detail but I'm in a suit all damn day so at night I prefer to dress casually. To my misfortune, however, almost every evening this past week I've had to be dressed up and out in public.
Mia's wearing a low-cut and attention-attracting emerald green gown. I ponder the probability that if Anastasia sees me with her, she'll misinterpret the situation. Good, that's good. Let her think that she was a mere blip on my radar and I'm continuing my usual social life. Which I am. I have to have companions for all the events I attend. It would look very odd if I showed up by myself all the time. People talk about me enough as it is, without giving them more fuel for their gossip fire.
Fuck it. I'm going over to her. I will not allow her to trample all over our agreement. Besides, for whatever reason I don't care to examine, I want her to know that Mia is my sister. Fuuuck. This girl has me tied up seven ways from Sunday. Before I know it, I'm in front of the couple, Mia in lockstep.
"Mr. Gable? Hello, I'm Christian Grey. My sister simply wouldn't forgive me if I didn't introduce her to you." I avoid looking at Anastasia, focusing on her date exclusively, and angle my body to showcase my sister. "This is Mia Grey, my sister and a devotee of your work."
Gable is friendly and smiles, shaking Mia's hand. Now I steal a quick gander at Anastasia. Is that relief I see on her face? Had she seen me before I came over and thought me with another woman? I wish I could climb inside her head for five minutes and have a look around. While I'm there…
Kent turns to Anastasia. "This is Ana Steele, my companion for the evening. Ana, please meet Christian and Mia Grey."
I extend my hand to her and when she is forced to take it, I squeeze gently but insistently, letting her know she will have to answer for this breach. I keep my eyes trained on hers and she's caught, seemingly unable to tear them away—until I smile and it breaks the spell. Pity.
"A pleasure, Ms. Steele. You look quite familiar. Have we met?"
Shock flashes across her face and is gone just as quickly. "Yes, I do believe we met at a party, Mr. Grey. However, it's very nice to see you again."
"Likewise. Do you recall the party wherein we met? I cannot seem to remember precisely."
Her irises flare with an incendiary spark. She has the temerity to be angry after what she's done? Her voice does not betray her feelings, however, as she says smoothly, "I'm uncertain but I do remember your face and name."
At that point Mia unwittingly steps in to rescue Anastasia. She's going on and on about Gable's designs and the man mentions he designed his date's gown. Always inappropriate, Mia runs her hand down the side of Anastasia's leg, giggling all the while.
"Oops, I didn't mean to be fresh. It's just that the fabric is irresistibly tantalizing."
Ana laughs at my sister's exuberance. "Yes, I couldn't stop touching it when I first received it. The dress is exceptionally pretty, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is, Ana, and it looks fantastic on you," Mia gushes, ratcheting up my impatience level into Red Alert, where I might be energized to attack someone or something. I want the woman alone. Now.
An announcement is made for guests to move to their seats. Mia and I are not seated anywhere near Gable and Anastasia so I have to wait until the dance floor opens. The second it does I decide to make my move. I turn to Mia.
"Would you mind if I asked Ana to dance? I'm sure you'll soon find your own dance partner."
Mia's eyes lighten with unadulterated joy. She'll be sure to tell my whole family by breakfast that I was actually dancing, something I rarely do, thanks to Irina. "Not at all, Christian. Have at it. I can sit here and drink myself into oblivion with these delicious Bellinis. Go, have fun."
When I get there Gable is with his partner having, from the looks of it, a serious conversation. I approach Anastasia from the other side.
"May I have the pleasure of a dance?"
She looks confused and darts her eyes at Kent. He interrupts his conversation long enough to reassure her.
"Please, Ana, feel free to enjoy yourself. I'm afraid I'm not much of a dancing man myself."
"In that case, I'll stay here with you," she says politely and turns to me. "Thank you for the invitation but—"
Gable interrupts her. "Really, Ana, I insist. Dance with the poor man. I have the prettiest woman in the room. It's my obligation to share."
She looks at him, then at me as if she's undecided. I stand there waiting, surprised that I'm more amused than offended by her reluctance. I hold out my hand and she's forced into a decision, making the right one for a change.
"Excuse me," she says to Gable and we walk to the dance floor. When we get there and face each other she smiles but under her breath her words belie her expression. "What do you think you're doing?"
I pretend I'm not expecting her very predictable reaction. "I think I'm dancing. Am I that bad at it?"
"Very funny, Mr. Grey. I'm here on a date with Kent and you're intruding."
Again I feign surprise, even indignation. "Intruding? I merely asked you to dance. But since we're being critical," I drop my voice, declaring my real demeanor for the evening, "allow me to point out the fact that you promised me you would retire from Madame Irina's employ once I assisted you out of your debt obligation. Yet… here you are." Stupidly, I've invited my fury into the ballroom. Now it will be a struggle to take it down again.
"What possible difference can it make to you?" she hisses. "For your information, I was obligated contractually to a minimum of two assignment completions. Besides, Kent is a nice man who expects nothing but my company."
"Be that as it may, you promised."
"I assured, not promised. However, I was unaware of that particular stipulation at the time. I guess contract analysis is not my strong suit."
"Then perhaps you might stop signing them." Grrr. I want to shake her so badly.
She appears taken aback by my… zeal. "Mr. Grey, I signed the contract before I even met you. Besides, I fail to see how any of this concerns you. I was unaware that your kind and generous assistance in my legal matter came with strings attached. However, since it appears that it did, I will be happy to reimburse you for whatever monies were spent on Mr. McEvoy's time and effort."
I muster everything—and I mean everything—to keep my anger tabled for now. She's infuriating me with her absolute defiance. For God's sake, I run a big chunk of corporate America and she's a little slip of a college graduate—UDub at that—and she's giving me a hard time. What's really pissing me off is the mystery of why I care.
Well, for whatever reason I do care and despite my rancor at her poor attitude I am immensely enjoying having her lithe body in my arms, inhaling her sublime scent—a medley of a very light perfume with the fresh clean smell radiating from her shiny hair. She sneaks a glance at me while I'm indulging in Anastasia appreciation and I flash her a genuine smile that feels like it stretches from ear to ear. This girl turns me on my head and I haven't the slightest idea how to right myself again, but then she beams back at me, her eyes gleaming with a mischievous glow and I sail crooked happily.
But all too soon the song ends and she pats my arm. "I think I should probably get back to Kent."
I look over to where Gable is sitting with his SO. "He's otherwise engaged so it's fine for now."
"What's that supposed to mean?" she fires at me.
"You do realize your companion is gay, right, Ana?"
"Yes, of course."
"The man he's conversing with is his partner." I assume that's all the explanation required yet she appears perplexed. "Allow me to be clear," I add. "That is Jared Parks, a publicist and Kent's significant other. Why he thinks no one knows that is beyond comprehension."
"Oh. Yes, especially for a fashion designer, being gay is almost expected."
"Well, maybe he does it for his parents' comfort."
"Perhaps. Still, I should get back to him soon."
"And you will. But first, you and I are going to have a nice chat. Come."