Christian has been carrying me around since I woke up after one o'clock. I was having fits and a half about us getting out of here before they charge him for an extra day, but he tells me we're just waiting for the Presidential Suite to open up. So apparently we are staying here at the Fairmont another night.
Suits me.
I have now had seven orgasms. Christian counted. I was too out of my mind to count. Who counts? Unless there is some scoreboard I don't know about. Damn. More Internet work. By now I should have just bought one of those online memberships so I can ask as many questions as I want. I still may need to.
I am bruised along my inner thighs. But for once, THANK GOD! scream my inner threesome, it is not due to abuse, but use. And I definitely used my thigh muscles to hold onto Christian's hips as he pummeled himself inside of me. During an intimate shower where we gently washed each other with flannel cloths, he discovered the discolorment and I thought he was going to lose it. His face went white, then his neck muscles and jaw went tight, like he'd lost all the oxygen in his body. I've seen him revving up, but this was different. I managed to refocus his attention and with a lot of kissing – my lips are swollen and sensitive - I managed to convince him that this time everything seems just normal.
I have just finished dressing in the simple yellow classic A-line sundress from Kate's closet when Christian receives the call that the Presidential Suite, known as The Premier Cascade Suite in the hotel, is ready for us. At Christian's insistence, leaving whoever to pack up the few items we have, I enjoy his taking my left hand and leading me to the elevators where the Manager waits with a formal and impassive expression to show us to the room.
He uses a numeric keypad outside the first set of double doors and begins his patter. "The Premier Cascade Suite is the signature suite at The Fairmont Olympic Hotel, Seattle. This premium luxury suite offers three connecting suites, each has two bedrooms, each offering a King bed and large picture windows overlooking Seattle's financial center. The master bedroom features a canopied King bed and marble master bathroom with jetted tub. The spacious parlor has special touches such as a decorative fireplace, large picture windows and traditional American antiques. The Premier Cascade Suite can accommodate a reception of up to 100 guests and has 2 separate guest bathrooms in each section. The dining room can comfortably accommodate up to 12 guests ..."
Christian gives a nod to Taylor and Sawyer and the hotel manager, obviously wanting to impress Christian and show us the other attached suites, is politely thrown out. I gaze around, not quite so impressed suddenly. Christian, being Christian, takes in my expression and clutches me to him. I have got to get him to ease up. I offer him a reassuring smile and stroke his cheek, freshly shaven. "You smell delicious," I offer.
He ignores that and glares down at me. "What's wrong?" It's a demand, just on the outer side of a snarl.
He's cute, which is a few steps down for Christian, when he snarls. Those lips twisting are actually kinda funny. But to answer his question … "The carpet." I look down to the floor with its red and grey checked pattern. I have to lean back a little because there's no room between our bodies, so he gets that I'm checking out the floor, not his impressive cock that's hardened up between us. "It's sorta worn. Does that mean it's old?"
He blinks, then looks down. His head tilts just slightly and that long red hair just falls down around his shoulders. It's still a little damp and beside his aftershave I can smell the shampoo he used. I like his personal brand better, or I'm just used to how he smells from what he uses at Escala. The reminder of Christian's home, what is there, what was done to me there, makes me jerk back to reality right quick.
"It's called vintage distressed. You think it looks worn?" His eyes return to me, a frown between those red eyebrows.
Great, now I sound like the backwoods country bumpkin I am. I look down at the carpeting. They can call it what they like, it looks like those 100 people have stomped around at their reception with heavy boots. "Yes. And frankly, it's not very soft. I mean, what if we want to do it on the floor here in front of the fire? Carpet burns aside, I expect something a little soft on my knees."
That's caught his attention. Those kissable lips twitch. His voice comes out in that low, threatening sexual rumble. It's a turn on and I realize, abruptly, that it no longer scares the shit outta me. It's a relief. Really. "Your knees, Anastasia? Are you planning on being on your knees for me, with me behind you?" Large hands curl around my butt and begin to rub, slowly, firmly.
Dear God, I am going to combust! My Inner Goddess is swooning with delight. "Wait," I protest as Christian's hands are pulling the skirt of my dress up. He freezes and I swear he's turned to marble. My eyes hold his and I try to project love – my Conscience uses a rolled up room service menu to beat the shit outta my brains for that action – as I try to reassure Christian that I'm not saying no. "I want to talk about a …" I am blushing now. "A scene," I whisper. No way had he heard me.
But he's been watching my lips carefully. Now those eyes are smelting silver, bubbling. The hands on my rear portion clench and he lifts me up his body. I can feel his cock, thick, hard, unyielding, against my stomach, then slowly over my Venus mons and then against my thighs as he lifts me to eye level. My hands move to his shoulders, then I give up and circle his neck with my arms.
"Miss Steele, my little honeycomb, are you trying to suggest something?" He's thrilled, it's there in his voice.
I've done a doctoral course in what's coming next. Christian needs retrained into something less violent when it comes to bedroom games. Or we don't have a chance. Wearing her doctoral garb of grey slim-line suit with ruffled lavender blouse, smart low-heeled sandals, hair in a chignon near the nape, my Conscience is in her therapist chair behind a desk. Now this is a whole new look for her. Normally she's in her tree looking judgmental. But Dr. Ana is now in session.
"Maybe not what you think," I begin, nuzzling at his neck with my nose, like he does with me. "I want to talk about maybe something different?" I pull back so he can see my face, lower my lashes, and watch him tentatively. Just for fun I bite my bottom lip and lick at the captive.
"Jesus Christ," he swears hoarsely. I hit the mismatched sofa and he's on top of me, mouth attacking mine. I was rather scared at the sudden backwards drop and I've got my arms back tight around his neck. Our teeth gnash together and I am learning now to go limp and pliable under Christian when he attacks like this. I'm also learning not to wrap my legs around his. At least, not immediately, although I guess it's instinctive to do so. Now, I run the toe of my simple strappy sandal up his calf. It's my only available foot as my other leg is trapped under Christian's weight.
His lips are gentling on mine now, his tongue beginning to play instead of dominate. Now we're getting somewhere. My Conscience has my Inner Goddess tied to the classic psychiatry couch with duct tape. I admire her wrapping – she must be taking notes from Christian. I stroke his hair, his shoulders. Christian's muscles, his very skin under his thin white linen shirt, shiver when I touch his back. It's instinctive and should have been addressed, once more, by Grace when he was a child. Or one of the three million psychiatrists and psychologists Christian has told me he had. I lost count after probably twenty. How did Grace bathe him? Teach him to dress? Maybe someday I can ask her in a non-threatening way. You know, between the pleasanter questions of How could you let his temper continue so out of control? and Did you ever once discipline him – other than sending him next door to the local pedophile?
But for now, he's reading my signals that shoving my skirt up, ripping a pair of what I'm sure are Kate's panties off me, and, um, doing my sore kitty, isn't immediately what I want. So the dark and deep lip limbo begins to ease into soft, sweet smooches. I like those. Finally he rests his hot face in my neck and I begin to stroke his back once more. Immediately Christian stiffens, but I keep it up, light and soothing. It may take time, but he has to learn to accept my touch.
"So here's my question," I begin, putting my lips to his hair. I really miss how his hair smells with his own shampoo. And it hits me that I need to tell him these things. Over the past three weeks Christian has made an ongoing effort to compliment me, tell me what he likes about me. And yes, it's terribly embarrassing to hear that my, um, kitty smells delicious to him, but to Christian it's a compliment. So get with the program, my Conscience whispers. "How long are you going to be here? At the hotel," I clarify. Then add, "And that's not my actual question."
Christian moves so his elbows are on the thick couch cushions and looks down at me, amused. His eyes have calmed to a lovely dove grey. Involuntarily, my eyes smile into his. He has such pretty eyes. "We have a limited number of questions today?"
Well now he's just walked into it. I widen my eyes. "It's Sunday. Sundays, you only get six questions. So that's like your fifth one right there." I give him an 'everybody knows this rule' look. His expression, trying to act like of course he knows this, is priceless. Unless he's scamming me and knows there's no such thing. "Just answer the question, Mr. Grey."
"I'm not sure. I want us to have some place together that's not involving Elliot potentially barging in while I'm fucking you."
I ignore that and bat my eyelashes a few times. "It's just that," I shrug, "I like how you smell with your soap and shampoo at your house. Maybe Taylor could bring some back here for you."
He stares at me. His eyes tell me he is indeed complimented. And still amused. "So you dislike the carpeting and the shampoo and soap here. Anything else, Miss Steele?"
I turn my head, crane my neck, obviously taking a second look around. "In my lower class world the chairs and couches match. As in the same upholstery," I mention. There is not one piece of furniture in this room that matches. Maybe they complement each other, but they aren't the same. "And that's your sixth question, so no more for today." I smirk.
Christian leans down and kisses me. I really like these sweet kisses. Mindful of my little lecture, I twine my fingers around several swatches of his hair and announce, "I could be happy with more of those kisses." Then I get to spend time humming with pleasure as he responds.
After a while I am limp and utterly content. This might have been the award winning weekend from hell, but it's turned out at the end to be nice. "So … you mentioned that, before me and now," I emphasize this part and see the dread cross Christian's face, "you would create a scene in your head, then go over all the details. That you enjoyed that."
He sits up, watching my face, very wary. "Yes." He swallows.
Still lying flat on my back, I tip my head slightly, raise my hand and stroke his thigh. It's hard. Funny, I am beginning to know his body, just a little bit, but I still can't relate Ana Steele as having a lover with thighs of iron. It makes me smile and Christian seems to relax. Now, on to my next level of attack.
"So if I, or we, were to plan a scene out, would that appeal to you?"
He quickly shakes his head, frowning down at me. "Absolutely not. Anastasia, the point of a scene for me is to be in charge. Whether you're my Submissive or my wi – girlfriend," he coughs. "Either way, I want to be in charge of you, and that means a scene isn't familiar or … comfortable," he finishes, breaking eye contact and looking at the carpet.
I squiggle around and finally get to the point where I can get off the couch. And immediately fall flat on my face – my poor bruised eye protests – because one of the sandals catches on the vintage carpeting. Christian goes into shouting mode as he pounces on me. This must have been alarming to Taylor, because he and Sawyer burst through a set of doors behind the dining area, guns drawn and looking for trouble. What they get is Christian picking me up off the floor.
Sawyer rolls his eyes (so it's ok for men to do it, my Conscience notes nastily) as he knows my unlimited innate grace, holsters his weapon and heads back through the doors. Taylor does some eye communication with Christian, then follows him. "What's through there," I ask.
Christian has set me on a chair and is taking off the shoes he is cursing. So does this mean we're not going out? Jeez, this weekend getaway thing isn't what they make it seem like on TV. "Staff quarters," he answers shortly.
I nod. "So let's get back to my idea for a scene," I suggest, and get his instant attention. It works for me, him down on his knees in front of me. I look across the room. There's a desk by one of the long windows. It looks sturdy enough. "If I was dressed up. Like in a school uniform." I'm watching Christian closely. His amused game face is firmly on, but I'm not going to let it put me off. One of us has to start getting him out of this mess his pedophile put him in, and if a few dozen psychiatrists couldn't get it done, then maybe one English Lit Major and her primly dressed Conscience could.
I twirl his hair in little finger whorls, grimacing like it's painful to describe one of the classic fantasies. Heck Britney Spears had a video of it. So who am I to be embarrassed. "I'd guess I could get a uniform around here." Hint, you buy it because your, like, a billionaire? "Those clunky shoes, white socks, blue and black checked skirt, white blouse, a tie with the monogram or design for the school." I've got him. I can see it in the way his eyes have gone hot again as I slowly describe what I'd wear dressed up as a high school prep girl. He's trying to keep that amused disdainful smirk on his face, but it's beginning to slip, slip, slip.
I unbutton two of his shirt buttons, touch his chest tentatively. He's concentrating enough on the vision of me I'm weaving that he forgets to do more than shudder. Not even a wince. Hell, this game may help with more than his desire to beat me black and blue and actually decrease his fear of touch, too. "So I was thinking. You know, for a scene? You could be my teacher. Mr. …" I wait expectantly. If he wants Mr. Grey, that's fine. But it kind of gives me the mental image of his dad, who I've only met twice, or Elliot.
He catches on fast, my business genius. "Christian," he finally suggests, still going for amused. "Master Christian."
Oh, very good, my Conscience mutters. He gets the Master part in, doesn't he? I ignore that. "Master Christian," my Inner Goddess helps me breathe out in just the right quality of innocence and teacher's hot pet. "If I was wearing this uniform, how would I have my hair?" I stroke his lips with an index finger. Soft, sensual.
"A ponytail. Braided. High on the back of your head," Christian gets out between holding my finger and kissing it. He's got one hand gripped hard around my ankle, the other holding my hand to his mouth. He's lost focus on my face and is fixated currently on my breasts. Men.
That's all right. My doctor of scene creation continues. "High school girls have been known to overdo and underdo their makeup. Which do you think I would be? Dressed in my pretty school uniform, my hair braided in a ponytail." I think he's beginning to get into it. I hope so. Christian needs to be fully desirous of this so when he finds out it doesn't include beating the shit out of me he'll still want to play.
Eyes still on my breasts covered by a nice white lacy bra that matches the panties I stole from Kate's dry cleaning basket, which is in turn covered by the yellow dress, Christian answers. "Heavy eye shadow. Blue. It brings out your eyes. Too much eye liner. No fake eyelashes. You don't need them. No blush. Lipstick … hmm. A gloss. Pink. Flavored. Watermelon."
Great. Now I have to search all over Seattle for watermelon lip gloss. But perseverance is a sign of … well, me. "You'd have to be surprised at what color panties I'm wearing. Now, let's go over what you'd be wearing. If I was a school girl getting in trouble with her teacher." I bite my lip again, licking it, releasing, then licking my top lip again.
Christian rips the dress off of me by tearing it up the middle. Kate's delicates are trash. I'm pretty sure there's some heavy moaning going on as his hands scrub all over me while his mouth takes mine in punishment for his loss of control. This time my hands wander south and I use both of them around his impressive girth, stroking up and down. Maybe I can find a watermelon flavored lube to suck on. A girl could spend a lot of time going down on Christian. The man is huge.
He tests to see if I'm wet. I'm sorry, but I can see both how beating his Subs could make them wet or dry. But thankfully, we're talking straight sex here, so I'm wet as an ocean. He growls out several prayers of thanks – did Grace raise him Catholic or Protestant? – then rolls away from me to stand and strip at racecar speed. Then – as God is my witness – he bends down, grabs both my ankles, flips me over, kneels, and takes me like I'm a wheelbarrow. I'm on my forearms, lifted right up off the worn old carpet someone's convinced a bunch of rich people is actually stylish, with Christian giving me his all with his hands holding me up by my thighs.
OK, I'm one flexible girl. And so much for straight vanilla. Or is this vanilla? I'm not tied up. Hey, it may be a first. Of course, we're not done yet … Dear Lord, thank you, thank YOU, THANK YOU!
Christian is filling me and from this position I am getting a lot of action from his balls coming up right under my sensitive clit with every thrust. It takes all of like ten thrusts for me to start biting the carpet as I come. Now I see why the carpet's got chewed marks. It's not from heavy shoes. It's from all the women biting it in orgasmic release.
After I get my senses back, I take some time to consider this position. Christian is still pounding away. I wish I could see his face, but I don't want to risk spraining my neck. The sheer strength needed for him to hold my weight, fuck me like a jackhammer, and keep it up is damn impressive. I need to meet his trainer, go watch him at the gym. I've heard other girls talk about that and it seemed the stupidest thing, and a huge waste of time. But now I'm thinking it would be nice to see Christian workout, how he got so strong and well defined.
I gasp as he pulls out and still holding my thighs, Christian stands up. I'm on my hands now and he juggles me around until I understand that I need to try and hook my ankles over the shoulders I can't see but I was just mentally sculpting. Once I've got some kind of minimal hold, more of a touch, there, he thrusts back into me.
Time out is over and he gets a firm hold on my hips and begins to thrust. It's a plunging movement, hard digs with that impressive cock, reaching inside me to find every soft wet slice of my … cunt. There, I said it. To myself. Now I need to say it to Christian. Or else I'll be too sore to walk, let alone sit in my chair at work tomorrow. "Fuck my cunt," I scream delicately.
He roars, I explode again, and we collapse to the out-of-date rug, gulping in air, sweating like horses that just ran a mile flat out. Christian is spooning me, both arms hard around me, his legs tangled with mine. I'm so wet everywhere that the carpet is now sticking to me. "I hate this carpet," I tell him, and realize I'm crying.
"Shh, baby. It's ok," Christian soothes me, his lips running over my temple. "Shh. Just reaction. You did so good," he praises me.
What the hell is he talking about? I swear to Christ this man makes no sense. But I'm tearful and begin to hiccup. Christian scoops me up and after a stop in the bathroom to run a warm wet washcloth between both our legs, and grab the box of tissues since I'm still bawling, he take me to bed.
At least it's large and comfortable. I don't know why I'm crying, other than I've been in a terrible car accident, a terrible house fire, the death of innocent sea life, and now nine orgasms. "What did I do that was good," I sob out. The bed sheets are soft and cool against my still wet skin. The sun's shining outside but the heavy window treatments are half closed. I've had nowhere near enough sleep recently. And way too much drama.
"Wheelbarrow positioning," Christian provides. This is how I knew what it was called. Before that, I thought it was just him being weird. Like normal. "I know it's hard on the woman."
"Oh, Christian. Could we not mention your three hundred thousand other women right now," I cry, going for another handful of tissues.
"Sorry," he mumbles. He gets up to adjust the room temperature at the wall control, then comes back and cuddles me under the covers. "I love you, Anastasia," he whispers. "I know you don't believe me. I wouldn't believe me if I were in your shoes. But I do love you." He pulls my wealth of sweat-damp hair from between us, cuddles me and with the gentleness of a mother to a child, croons some wordless melody to me. Probably from the Classical Era: Bach, Haydn, Clementi.
That helps me to wind down a little. We are both so lost. To emotion. To each other. To Christian's past and my inexperience. There are too many thoughts going through my head. I need to work with him on this scene idea, which is how this last sexual adventure all started. But maybe a nap would serve me better for the moment? And to the sound of his soft crooning in my ear, I fall asleep.