Thursday May 26, 2011, Evening
I am ecstatic.
She's done it—and though I know it's only the beginning, I have faith that she will do well with this. This is going to be amazing, and it's only the beginning. As I drift down slowly from one of the most intense orgasms I've ever had, I inhale deeply. Her scent floods my senses. I am covered in Ana, and I'm basking in it.
"Well done, baby," I congratulate her.
She doesn't answer, lying prostrate across my chest. I reach down and tug on the thinning strap of her camisole. "Is this what you sleep in?"
"Yes," she whispers, and she sounds exhausted. Another firecracker of joy explodes in me when I realize that's all because of me. I did that to her. I've exhausted her.
"You should be in silks and satins, you beautiful girl. I'll take you shopping."
"I like my sweats," she tries to argue, but she doesn't sound very convincing. In fact, she sounds like she's on the verge of falling asleep.
I kiss her head, choosing to save the argument for later. I'm just too happy right now. "We'll see."
We fall into companionable silence, and I don't know how much time passes. I am relaxed, absolutely sated. When I feel myself start to drift off, I know I need to leave. We can't continue on like this, not with our new arrangement. Ignoring how badly I'd like to stay—surprised by the intensity of it—I force myself to speak. "I have to go." I give her another kiss on the forehead. She doesn't move to shift off of me. "Are you okay?"
"I'm okay," she answers.
I slip off the mattress, rising to my feet. "Where's your bathroom?" I ask her.
"Down the hall, to the left," she murmurs.
I gather both of the condoms and head down the hall. The apartment is quiet, empty aside from us two. I suppose Miss Kavanagh is still out, and I'm glad for that. In the bathroom, with the door shut behind me, I toss the knotted condoms in the wastebasket, and take a leak. As I wash my hands, I study my face in the mirror. My hair is insane—I barely look at that. My face is slightly flushed, my lips a little swollen and chapped from all the kissing. My eyes are bright, brighter than I've ever seen them. I'm happier than I've been in a long time, overwhelmed with joy. Ana's agreed to try. She's agreed to be my submissive.
A small, stabbing voice inside my head reminds me, You've agreed to try for more.
More. I roll the word around in my head, trying desperately to stitch it to a definition. I can't.I don't know what more means.How the hell am I supposed to give her more if I don't know how to do it?I rinse the back of my neck with cool water, suddenly overheated, and dry myself with the hand towel, which hangs nearby.Hearts and flowers. She wants hearts and flowers. I conjure every cheesy rom-com I've ever seen, in my head, grappling for something. Am I supposed to stand under her window with a boom box over my head?
Is that what she wants? I'm not this guy. I'm Christian Grey, Dom. But for Ana, I'm going to try. Even if I have no fucking idea what I'm doing. I shake my head, and open the medicine cabinet. Pepto, Tampax, lotion, ah ha—baby oil. I snatch up the bottle and return to her bedroom.
She's slipped her sweatpants back on. I imagine it smarts. She's not looking at me, staring down at her hands. What's that about?
"I found some baby oil," I tell her, "Let me rub some into your behind."
"No, I'll be fine."
"Anastasia," I warn. She'll need it. Her ass is going to be inflamed, and the baby oil will help. She relents, standing at the bed, facing me. I pull her pants down, careful not to chafe her backside too much. I squirt some of the oil into my hand, and rub it into her rosy pink cheeks. Hmm... "I like my hands on you," I say lowly.
She doesn't answer me. I'm beginning to feel irritated. Why won't she speak to me? Is she embarrassed? Ashamed? Regretful? I can't tell. Her expression is impassive.
"There." I'm finished. I pull her sweatpants up again, the elastic snapping around her waist. "I'm leaving now."
"I'll see you out."
I take her hand in mine, and we walk to the front door together, in silence.
"Don't you have to call Taylor?" she inquires, still not looking at me.
"Taylor's been here since nine. Look at me." Her gaze meets mine, and abruptly I'm filled with wonder at her, once more. "You didn't cry," I say, and despite my conversation with myself in the bathroom mirror, I'm overwhelmed with joy again. I pull her to me, kissing her passionately. "Sunday," I state, brimming over with eagerness, and I turn and leave.
When I get back to the hotel, the happiness is still bouncing around inside me, doing strange things to my stomach and my heart. I can't stop thinking about her, so I type out a quick email.
...
From: Christian Grey
Subject: You
Date: May 26 2011 23:14
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Miss Steele,
You are quite simply exquisite. The most beautiful, intelligent, witty and brave woman I have ever met. Take some Advil-this is not a request. And don't drive your Beetle again. I will know.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
...
I've had Taylor install a tracking device in it. I can't have her driving that death trap anymore.
It's over five minutes later when she responds.
...
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Flattery
Date: May 26 2011 23:20
To: Christian Grey
Dear Mr. Grey,
Flattery will get you nowhere, but since you've been everywhere the point is moot.
I will need to drive my Beetle to a garage so I can sell it—so I will not graciously accept any of your nonsense over that.
Red wine is always preferable to Advil.
Ana
P.S. Caning is a HARD limit for me.
...
Her response is tart and defiant, and I feel irritation crack a fissure in my happiness. Well, well, Miss Steele.
...
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Frustrating Woman Who Can't Take Compliments
Date: May 26 2011 23:26
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Miss Steele,
I am not flattering you. You should go to bed.
I accept your addition to the hard limits.
Don't drink too much.
Taylor will dispose of your car and get a good price for it, too.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
...
I run my hand through my hair. What a piece of work this woman can be. Alcohol does make her brave. My inbox pings, notifying me of another email.
...
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Taylor—Is he the Right Man for the Job?
Date: May 26 2011 23:40
To: Christian Grey
Dear Sir,
I am intrigued that you are happy to risk letting your right-hand man drive my car but not some woman you fuck occasionally. How can I be sure that Taylor is the man to get the best deal for said car? I have, in the past, probably before I met you, been known to drive a hard bargain.
Ana
...
'Some woman I fuck occasionally.' Is that what she thinks of herself? The irritation piques to rage.
...
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Careful!
Date: May 26 2011 23:44
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Miss Steele,
I am assuming it is the RED WINE talking, and that you've had a very long day.
Though I am tempted to drive back over there to ensure that you don't sit down for a week, rather than an evening.
Taylor is ex-army and capable of driving anything from a motorcycle to a Sherman tank. Your car does not present a hazard to him.
Now please do not refer to yourself as "some woman I fuck occasionally" because, quite frankly, it makes me MAD, and you really wouldn't like me when I'm angry.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
...
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Careful Yourself
Date: May 26 2011 23:57
To: Christian Grey
Dear Mr. Grey,
I'm not sure I like you anyway, especially at the moment.
Miss Steele
...
What?!
...
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Careful Yourself
Date: May 27 2011 00:03
To: Anastasia Steele
Why don't you like me?
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
...
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Careful Yourself
Date: May 27 2011 00:09
To: Christian Grey
Because you never stay with me
...
My decision is made before I even shut my laptop down.
.
I knock briskly on the front door, and when Miss Kavanagh pulls it open, I realize she's come home.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing here?!" She shouts at me.
Whoa! For a second, I'm taken off guard. She's mad. Really mad. Pissed, even. Something must have happened, and abruptly I'm concerned about Ana. "I've come to see Anastasia. I'd like to come in."
"Well, you can't!" she shouts. "What the fuck have you done to her now?!"
She must be really upset, but my concern for Ana is more important than the wrath of angry Miss Kavanagh.
"Since she's met you, she cries all the time!"
She's been crying? I push past Kate, and she stalks after me, through the living room. "You can't come in here!" She screams.
I ignore her, striding down the hall, to Anastasia's closed bedroom door. I push it open and switch on the light. Ana is curled up on her side in bed, and she's sobbing uncontrollably. What the fuck?! "Jesus, Ana," I mutter, and immediately turn off the light. There's a strange tearing feeling in my chest, seeing her like this, and my heart is pounding way too fast. I've really fucked up. But how? Fuck, this is so frustrating! I'm only doing what I know, what I've always done!
"What are you doing here?" she demands between sobs as I sink down onto the mattress next to her. I turn on the lamp by her bed.
Katherine is standing in the bedroom doorway. "Do you want me to throw this asshole out?" she asks Ana.
Throw me out?! Please. Nonetheless, I'm shocked by the antagonism in her voice, all directed towards me. No one has ever stood up to me this way. I'm fucking impressed.
Ana shakes her head at Kate, and Kate rolls her eyes, exasperated. "Just holler if you need me," she tells her softly, and then turns her burning eyes on me. "Grey—you're on my shit list and I'm watching you."
I blink at her, astonished, and then she's gone, pulling the door shut behind her, giving us our privacy. I turn my gaze to Ana, and in the light, I can see how hard she's been crying. Her eyes are bloodshot and swollen, her nose running. She looks like she's in agony, and I feel the blood drain from my face.
I am such a fuck-up.
I pull my handkerchief from my inside jacket pocket and hand it to her. "What's going on?" I beseech her. What have I done?
"Why are you here?" she asks me in return. Every once in a while, a dry heave wracks her ribs, though the tears have stopped falling.
"Part of my role is to look after your needs. You said you wanted me to stay, so here I am. And yet, I find you like this." Part of my answer is wholehearted. What I leave out, what I choose not to tell her, is that I want this just as much as she does. I'm just a whole hell of a lot more conflicted about it than she is. "I'm sure I'm responsible, but I have no idea why. Is it because I hit you?"
She sits up and turns to face me. I see her wince as she does.
"Did you take some Advil?" I ask her. She shakes her head. I can't help but narrow my eyes at her. When will she do what I ask of her? I stand and stalk out of the room in search of some.
Kate is sitting on the couch, on her laptop, and she glares up at me when I enter. "Are you leaving now?" she snaps at me, and if the venom were more potent, it would burn a hole through me.
"No," I tell her, forcing composure, "Ana has a headache. Do you have some Advil?" She gets it for me, and a teacup of water. "Thank you, Katherine."
"Sort your shit out, Grey. I won't have you hurting her. She's my best friend." Sincerity brims in her eyes, and by the end of her phrase she's no longer snapping, but quiet and genuine. I realize that she really cares about Ana, and the thought comforts me.
"I'd never hurt her intentionally, Katherine," I say, and turn back for Ana's room. "Take these," I tell her, sitting down beside her again. She takes the water and the pills from me, and swallows them both down. "Talk to me," I implore. "You told me you were okay. I'd never have left you if I thought you were like this."
She stares fixedly at her hands, and desperately I wish she'd look at me. I need to see those eyes. "I take it that when you said you were okay, you weren't."
Color stains her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. "I thought I was fine," she says. Her voice is scratchy, a little hoarse from the crying.
"Anastasia, you can't tell me what you think I want to hear. That's not very honest," I scold her. "How can I trust anything you've said to me?" If she can't be honest with me, communicate with me, this won't work. It just won't. Finally, she lifts her eyes to mine, and something settles concretely in my stomach. There you are.
I run both hands through my hair, the anxiety of her lack of honesty overbearing the comfort of seeing her face. "How did you feel while I was hitting you and after?"
"I didn't like it. I'd rather you didn't do it again."
"You weren't meant to like it."
"Why do you like it?" she challenges me.
I'm startled by her question. "You really want to know?" I ask her.
"Oh, trust me, I'm fascinated," she tells me, and I sense the sarcasm in her tone. I bite back my irritation. If she weren't like this, I'd make sure she couldn't sit down for a week and a half.
"Careful." I'll do it if I have to.
She visibly pales at my tone. "Are you going to hit me again?" she asks, and the fear in her tone stops me cold.
"No, not tonight," I promise her, and myself. I realize I can't. Not when she's in this state. She's not strong enough to withstand it again, just yet. I'll have to find other ways to channel my anger for now.
"So," she pushes.
I take in a breath and surge forward into explanation, hoping she doesn't see me for the fucked up son of a bitch I am. "I like the control it gives me, Anastasia. I want you to behave in a particular way, and if you don't, I shall punish you, and you will learn to behave the way I desire. I enjoy punishing you. I've wanted to spank you since you asked me if I was gay."
Her cheeks turn pink at the reverie. "So you don't like the way I am," she assumes aloud.
I stare at her. No. No. Hell no! "I think you're lovely the way you are."
"So why are you trying to change me?" she beseeches me, the intensity of her question ringing in those clear blue eyes.
"I don't want to change you. I'd like you to be courteous and to follow the set of rules I've given you and not defy me. Simple." Hopefully that gets across to her.
"But you want to punish me?" she asks.
"Yes, I do."
"That's what I don't understand," she whispers.
I sigh and run my hands through my hair again. I don't know how else to explain it. "It's the way I'm made, Anastasia. I need to control you. I need you to behave in a certain way, and if you don't—I love to watch your beautiful alabaster skin pink and warm up under my hands. It turns me on."
"So it's not the pain you're putting me through?" she asks.
I swallow nervously. "A bit," I admit, "to see if you can take it, but that's not the whole reason. It's the fact that you are mine to do with as I see fit—ultimate control over someone else. And it turns me on. Big time, Anastasia." I pause. "Look, I'm not explaining myself very well… I've never had to before. I've not really thought about this in any great depth. I've always been with like-minded people." I shrug, contrite. "And you still haven't answered my question—how did you feel afterward?"
Mostly, it's just to change the subject. I'm growing uncomfortable explaining myself. Somewhere deep, deep down, I think I'm questioning it myself. I push that thought back. No. This is what I know—who I am.
"Confused," she relents.
By her reaction? "You were sexually aroused by it, Anastasia," I tell her, and close my eyes briefly, against the floodgate of lust. Oh, she was so wet.
When I open my eyes to gaze at her again, her eyes have darkened, her pupils dilating. They're blazing, echoing the lust she must see reflected in my own. "Don't look at me like that," I scold her lowly.
She frowns. "I don't have any condoms, Anastasia, and you know, you're upset. Contrary to what your roommate believes, I'm not a priapic monster. So, you felt confused?" She squirms, but doesn't say a word. "You have no problem being honest with me in print. Your emails always tell me exactly how you feel. Why can't you do that in conversation? Do I intimidate you that much?"
She picks at something on her quilt. "You beguile me, Christian," she murmurs lowly, "Completely overwhelm me. I feel like Icarus flying too close to the sun."
I gasp. That's it. That's what I've been trying to put into words for so long, and have been failing to do so. But here, now, she's read the struggling of my mind, and put words to my thoughts. She's too good for me. I'll never be enough for her, and I've known from the beginning of all of this, that no good will come from this. I'm going to get burned. "Well, I think you've got that the wrong way around," I breathe.
"What?" she asks.
"Oh, Anastasia," I groan, "You've bewitched me. Isn't it obvious?" I give myself over to the honesty. These things have been living deep within me, clawing to free themselves, and now they're out. She knows. She overtakes me, overwhelms me. I feel so out of control around her—and I know that she's the one really in control. She has me under her spell.
She only stares at me, and I'm beginning to feel an uncomfortable itch beneath her lack of response. "You've still not answered my question. Write me an email, please. But right now, I'd really like to sleep. Can I stay?" Suddenly, I realize that I'm exhausted.
"Do you want to stay?" she asks me.
For some reason, I can't answer that. "You wanted me here."
"You haven't answered my question." She's throwing my words back in my face. Her pushiness is irritating me.
"I'll write you an email." I rise to empty my pockets. I set my Blackberry, keys, wallet, and money on her chest of drawers. Beside it I set my watch, and then take off my shoes and socks. I pull my jeans off and throw my jacket over the nearby chair. I walk around to the other side of the bed, and climb in. She's still sitting there, and the fact that I'm lower than her makes me feel insignificant. "Lie down," I tell her.
She lies down slowly, carefully, wincing as her sweatpants chafe against her backside. She doesn't take her eyes off me, and she looks… cautious. Once she's flat on her back, I prop my head on an elbow and gaze down at her. "If you are going to cry, cry in front of me. I need to know," I beg her.
"Do you want me to cry?" she whispers.
"Not particularly," I tell her, "I just want to know how you're feeling. I don't want you slipping through my fingers. Switch the light off," I hurry on before she can read too much into my words. The truth is, I don't want to lose her. I want to be here to reassure her through those dark times, those times where she may change her mind. "It's late, and we both have to work tomorrow." And I have a breakfast meeting.
She obeys my request. "Lie on your side, facing away from me," I tell her lowly, in the dark. I don't want her touching me. I couldn't bear it, now. She rolls over, her back to me, and I pull her flush to my chest. "Sleep, baby." I breathe the order, and then bury my nose in her hair, inhaling her gorgeous scent. I shut my eyes, relaxing against her. Sleep finds me quickly.
.
Friday May 27 2011
When I wake after a soundless, dreamless night, Anastasia Steele is very close.
"Good morning," I mumble, and frown when I realize that it's not her who is close, but me. I'm wrapped around her like a vine. "Jesus, even in my sleep I'm drawn to you." Carefully, I extract myself from her, stretching out, taking inventory. I've slept very well; I'm extremely well rested.
As I shift, my morning wood bumps her hip and I know she notices, because her eyes go wide. I grin at her lazily. "Hmm… this has possibilities, but I think we should wait until Sunday." I'm very into delayed gratification. Especially when there are no condoms around. I nuzzle her ear with my nose, gently. I feel, rather than see, her face heat.
"You're very hot," she murmurs.
"You're not so bad yourself," I joke, knowing that's not what she means, and I grind myself softly against her. Hmm…
She turns even redder. I prop myself up on my elbow and study her face for a moment, amused at her innocence. Oh, Anastasia… I plant a soft kiss on her lips.
"Sleep well?" I ask her. She nods, eyes glued to my face. "So did I." I frown. In fact, the last time I slept that well, was the night I spent with her in the Heathman. "Yes, really well." I feel my expression twist into one of surprise. "What's the time?" Suddenly, I'm panicked. It's too light in the room. I never wake to sunlight.
"It's seven thirty."
"Seven thirty… shit." I jump out of bed, scrambling to dress. I'm late! I've never been late a day in my life! "You are such a bad influence on me. I have a meeting. I have to go—I have to be in Portland at eight." That's never going to happen. Shit! Wait. She's smirking at me, oh so amused by my frenzied rush. "Are you smirking at me?"
"Yes," she replies.
I grin, amused by her amusement. "I'm late. I don't do late. Another first, Miss Steele." I yank on my jacket and swoop in to hold either side of her head in my hands. "Sunday." My insides quiver at the prospect. Oh, could it come any slower?
I plant a kiss on her lips, not lingering, because I know I can't. I'm fucking late! "Taylor will come and sort your Beetle. I was serious. Don't drive it. I'll see you at my place on Sunday. I'll email you a time."
I exit her bedroom. The front room is quiet and empty, though the scent of coffee lingers in the air. Miss Kavanagh must be up already. I don't pause to think about it. I head out through the front door, and to the Audi at the curb. Starting the engine, I speed off down the street.
Hi everyone! Just wanted to leave you all with a quick note. We move into our first house in 2 weeks, so updates are going to be sparse for awhile. I just thought I would let everyone know, so that you all know I haven't gone anywhere!