Fifty Shades of Christian Chapter 32, a fifty shades trilogy fanfic

I have left Anastasia waiting in the playroom for fifteen minutes.

I have so much in mind for this evening, so much that I want to do. I will spend all night in here with her.

In my bedroom, I dress in my playroom jeans, gather my iPod, and head upstairs.

Anastasia is waiting by the door, in perfect submissive position, just as I've taught her. She looks amazing, appetizing, delectable, but I don't allow myself to dwell on the sight of her just yet.

I move past her, over to the chest, setting my iPod on top of it. I leave it there, and stroll toward the bed, casual, blasé, taking my sweet time. Yes, this is where I will set her up. I go back over to the chest and open various drawers, taking out and placing on top, what I'll need: a blindfold, the transmitter, fur glove, etc, etc.

When I'm finished and prepared, I turn and walk over to her, admiring every inch of that delectable flesh, her body, her downward cast eyes, her long dark hair, falling in waves around her slim shoulders.

"You look lovely," I whisper, unable to speak any louder than that, for fear of my voice cracking. What this woman does to me—she makes me come undone.

She doesn't look up at me, but I do see her cheeks color with blush, and it makes me smirk. I lean over, cupping her chin, and I lift her face so that I can stare into this gorgeous, depthless, piercing blue eyes.

"You are one beautiful woman, Anastasia," I tell her, "And you're all mine. Stand up."

She wobbles a bit as she rises, eyes still cast down, and usually, I wouldn't care, but with Anastasia, I need to see those eyes. It's just something I crave when I'm with her, and I can't explain it. I never wanted this with anyone else, but it's as if there's nothing there, no connection, when I can't look into Anastasia's eyes.

"Look at me." She lifts her eyes to mine, and they're wide and blue and full of fascination, anticipation, and poorly hidden lust. It's sexy as hell, and just the expression in her eyes makes me harden in my pants.

I feel a smile stretch my lips, involuntarily, as I think about what I'm going to do to her.

"We don't have a signed contract, Anastasia. But we've discussed limits. And I want to reiterate we have safewords, okay?"

I'm going to stretch you to your limits, baby. And I can't wait.

Anastasia only stares at me, looking a little clueless.

"What are they?" I demand. This is important. She needs to know these.

Her lips turn down slightly.

"What are the safewords, Anastasia?" I ask her, purposely slowing my words down, trying to communicate that this is the most important piece of information she could know here, in my playroom. If she can't express the safewords, there are so many breeches I could overrun.

"Yellow," she finally tells me.

"And?"

"Red," she whispers.

"Remember those."

Her right eyebrow arches, just so, and I know she's about to say something witty, and it is immediately imperative for me to stop her in her tracks. I am in charge here, I am the Dom and she is the submissive.

"Don't start with your smart mouth in here, Miss Steele," I snap, "Or I will fuck it with you on your knees. Do you understand?"

I watch her swallow and blink a couple times in quick succession, and I know I've put her in her place.

"Well?" I push.

"Yes, Sir."

"Good girl," I praise her, and then I stare at her for a moment. She appears to be a little more apprehensive than before. Her shoulders are tighter, and she stands a little more rigidly. I feel the need to reassure her that I won't be hurting her. "My intention is not that you should use the safeword because you're in pain. What I intend to do to you will be intense. Very intense, and you have to guide me. Do you understand?"

She doesn't respond, only gazes at me, wordless. What I would give to know what she's thinking.

"This is about touch, Anastasia," I continue, "You will not be able to see me or hear me. But you'll be able to feel me."

Her lips turn down into a frown again. I ignore it for now and turn toward the chest. I wave my hand in front of the iPod dock, and the doors split open. I set everything up, calibrating it with the room, and when I turn to face her again, I'm aware that I'm grinning again.

This is going to be fun. And hot.

"I am going to tie you to that bed, Anastasia," I tell her, "But I'm going to blindfold you first and you will not be able to hear me. All you will hear is the music I am going to play for you."

I've wanted to do a scene to this music for a very long time.

"Come." I offer her my hand, and when she takes it, I pull her over to the bed. "Stand here." I order, turning her so that she is facing the bed. I watch her take in the restraints at each post.

"Wait here. Keep your eyes on the bed. Picture yourself lying here bound and totally at my mercy," I whisper in her ear.

I leave her there for a moment, heading over to the rack where I keep my 'whips and chains', selecting a flogger and the fur glove off the top of the chest. When I reach her once more, she's still staring at the bed. I slip the flogger into my back pocket and the glove onto the bench by the bed, and reach for her hair, pulling it back over her shoulders, gathering it together.

I braid it easily and fasten it with a hair tie I always keep handy.

"While I like your pigtails, Anastasia, I am impatient to have you right now. So one will have to do."

Softly, I pull her woven hair so that she's forced to step back, coming flush against my chest. I guide her head to the side, and it gives me admission to her throat. I lick and nip at the skin from behind her ear, all the way down to her shoulder. She is so gorgeous, and her skin tastes amazing.

Softly, she whimpers.

"Hush now," I whisper against her now damp skin. I pull the flogger from my back pocket and hold it out in front of us, so that she can see it.

"Touch it," I urge her when she stares at it. She reaches out cautiously, her fingers skimming the suede strands, fingering the small clear beads at the end, and the sight of it nearly makes me groan. God, I want her.

"I will use this," I tell her, "It will not hurt, but it will bring your blood to the surface of your skin and make you very sensitive… What are the safewords, Anastasia?"

"Um… yellow and red, Sir," she whispers haltingly, nervously, in anticipation?

"Good girl. Remember, most of your fear is in your mind," I assure her.

I release the flogger, which bounces and settles on the mattress, and nearly on their own accord, my hands drift down her body, settling on that tiny waist of hers. She really is perfect.

"You won't be needing these," I say softly, hooking my fingers into the waistband of her panties—which I'm pleased to see are a pair I had purchased for her—and pull them down to her ankles, swiftly. She steps out of them, a little wobbly.

"Stand still," I tell her, unable to resist kissing her behind. Ugh, that gorgeous behind of hers. So perfect and round and tight. I bite it softly, twice, and I feel her muscles clench in response. "Now lie down. Face up," I tell her, smacking her once on the ass.

She jumps, but does as I've asked, quickly. She stares up at me, and the expression in her eyes nearly makes me combust. She is looking at me with so much trust, so much dependence…

"Hands above your head," I tell her, and she lifts them.

Before I shackle her, I head back over to the chest by the door, to gather the iPod and the blindfold. I lower myself to sit on the bed beside her, and I show her the iPod.

She frowns, clearly confused by its modifications—the antenna sticking out of it mostly.

"This transmits what's playing on the iPod to the system in the room," I explain. "I can hear what you're hearing, and I have a remote control unit for it." I show her the remote and then lean over her, to slip the ear buds in her ears. I leave the iPod about a foot above her head.

"Lift your head."

She does, so quickly it springs off the mattress. She's catching on, doing as I bid immediately and efficiently.

I slip the eye mask over her head, and over her eyes. I'm forced to bite back a groan at the sight of her, completely vulnerable to my will.

I stand and restrain first her wrists, and then her ankles, my touch lingering on her skin after each limb is locked in place. Each time it elicits a shiver in her.

When I'm done, I stand back to admire my handiwork, and the masterpiece that is Anastasia Steele.

Fuck me.

I select the song I'm looking for and press 'play'.

I pick up the glove, putting it on, and guide it down her neck, over her chest, across her breasts. Her nipples pucker immediately as the tool passes over them. I take it down underneath her breasts, over the curve of her waist, circling her perfect navel. I trail it from hip to hip, admiring the way they curve. Across the line of pubic hair, down between her legs, along each inner thigh, over the knee, the calf, the foot, and then the opposite way over the other leg.

The music is beautiful, heavenly, and I wish I knew what she thought of it. That investigation will have to come.

I take my hand back up over her waist, across her breasts. She's breathing heavily now, panting, feeling me, and the site is so erotic.

I remove the glove and pick up the flogger, admiring the porcelain pall of her skin. Which will soon not be so porcelain, but rather very pink. My cock stirs just at the thought of it.

I take the flogger over the same pattern, in the same rhythm, following the timing of the music, basking in it. I can feel myself slipping into a familiar configuration, letting the sensations wash over me, letting myself be the person I am in this room. I'm almost not thinking anymore, lost in a trance-like state.

I lift the flogger, and bring it sharply down over her belly.

She cries out, her body straining slightly, against the feel of it. I hit her again, harder this time.

"Aahh!" she cries out again.

She writhes underneath the tingle of the beads, and I watch the warm pink flush begin to creep its way across her flat stomach.

Oh fucking yes.

I bring the flogger down across her breasts, her nipples hardening further at the assault, and she arches her back once more. Her breasts color, and I hit her across the hip, and pick up the pace of the cracks across her pubic hair, the tops of her thighs, her inner thighs, then back up across her hips and belly and breasts.

I'm almost unaware of my actions at this point, lost in the blazing color of her skin and the sweet serenade of the music around us.

The song repeats itself before I realize it, and when it ends, I abandon the flogger. I need to touch her now.

I climb onto the bed, leaning over her, hard and tense and so unbelievably turned on.

I lower my lips to her throat, warm and flushed with blood, leaving kisses in my wake, making my way down, over her clavicles, her chest, to her breasts, taking each nipple into my mouth, sucking and circling the tip of my tongue around each one.

She is so vocal, her groaning and moaning louder than I think she realizes, and I can tell that she lost in me, and the realization makes me glow.

I kiss down her body, pausing at her belly button to circle it, and then I move lower still, my head between her legs. I take in a big noseful of her scent, musky and sexy, and then I flatten my tongue to her, where she is already restrained and completely vulnerable to me.

She is so sweet.

She moans loudly as I circle my tongue around her clit, slippery with her arousal. Her legs already begin to quiver, a clear sign that she's getting close to orgasming, and I stop.

I sit up to kneel between her legs, releasing her left ankle from the cuff at the bedpost. Her leg relaxes in the middle of the bed, against me, soft and silken and warm. I release the other leg, and briefly I massage them, rubbing blood flow and vitality back into them.

Then I'm lifting her so that only her shoulders are resting on the mattress, kneeling up, and I slam myself into her.

Fuuckk… She feels so, so good. I can't get over it. Every time we're together, it's like the first time, and that sounds insanely cheesy, but it's the only way I can describe it.

I begin to thrust in and out of her, watching myself exit and reenter her, slick with her wetness, and already she begins to quiver again.

Fuck. I force myself to stop, backing her slowly away from the brink. This is all part of my plan. To push her to her very limits.

"Please!" she cries.

Fuck, I want to. But this hasn't been part of my plan. I feel my grip on her grow tighter, and very slowly, I begin to move again. In, out, in, out, watching her face, the way her lips are parted, her chin jutted in the air by the way her head is tilted back.

Rhythmically, my pace increases, following the crescendo of the music, faster and faster, exactly in sync with it.

"Please," she implores me again, and I lower her back onto the mattress, resting my hands by her, angling myself just so, so that I can reach that sweet spot inside of her, continuing to move, focused solely on the beat of the music, how it builds with the sensation in my gut, as if every muscle is coming together, weaving slowly, clenching tightly, the pressure building, the fire intensifying…

She comes, screaming out her pleasure, all feeling I know, and it takes only three more thrusts for me to follow her into bliss.

I collapse on top of her, breathing hard, nearly unconscious from the intensity of it all.

Wow, is all I can think, Fucking wow.

When I gather the strength, I pull out of her, stretching out beside her to free her wrists. She groans softly as I do so, and I reach for her face mask, pulling it away so that I can see her eyes. I remove the ear buds, watching her blink in the scant light of the room, watching her come back to me.

"Hi."

"Hi, yourself," she whispers, flushing softly, bashful.

I can't help but smile at her. How she still manages to appear so naïve, so innocent, after all the things I've introduced to her. It's one of the things I adore about her. I lower my lips to hers, kissing her delicately.

"Well done you," I congratulate her in a whisper. "Turn over."

Trepidation floods her eyes.

"I'm just going to rub your shoulders," I assure her, though I could definitely go for another round. Just give me a few minutes.

"Oh," she says, "Okay."

With a great amount of effort, she rolls away from me, onto her stomach. Her back has crease marks from the mattress, and I kneel over her, a knee at each hip. I grind my fingers into the muscles of her shoulders and back, hoping to relieve some of the tension there.

I can't help but lean down to kiss the back of her head. I am so proud of her. She did so well. As always, she's exceeding all of my expectations.

"What was that music?" she mumbles. It takes me a minute to piece together the words she's said, almost illogical.

"It's called Spem in Alium, a forty-part motet by Thomas Tallis," I explain.

"It was… overwhelming," she says, and she sounds awed.

My heart swells in appreciation. I love that she loves the music I love.

"I've always wanted to fuck to it," I tell her.

"Not another first, Mr. Grey?"

"Indeed, Miss Steele."

There's a pause, and she moans as I work the muscles in her shoulders. It feels good to make her feel good.

"Well, it's the first time I've fucked to it, too," she says, and she sounds half asleep.

"Hmm… you and I, we're giving each other many firsts," I muse aloud.

"What did I say to you in my sleep, Chris—er, Sir?" she quickly corrects herself.

I freeze for a moment, gauging what I should say to her. She's not going to drop it until I tell her something. I tell her the things I'm okay with her hearing second-hand, but I want to hear the one part of what she said out loud, to me.

"You said lots of things, Anastasia. You talked about cages and strawberries… that you wanted more… and that you missed me."

"Is that all?" she asks, sounding fifty shades of relieved. All of a sudden, it occurs to me that she may be nervous about what she's said. Did she not mean it? Does she regret it, possibly?

I stop my massage short and clamber off of her, stretching out on my side so that I can see her. I'm aware that I'm frowning now, captivated.

"What did you think you'd said?" I demand.

"That I thought you were ugly, conceited, and that you were hopeless in bed," she says, and I know it's a joke—she's avoiding telling me the truth.

The realization makes me frown further.

"Well, naturally, I am all those things," I try to joke, "And now you've got me really intrigued. What are you hiding from me, Miss Steele?"

Her lashes flutter. "I'm not hiding anything."

It's clearly a lie.

"Anastasia, you are a hopeless liar," I call her out.

"I thought you were going to make me giggle after sex; this isn't doing it for me."

I can't help my smirk. "I can't tell jokes."

"Mr. Grey!" she exclaims, "Something you can't do?" Her grin is infectious, and I can't help but mirror it.

"No, hopeless joke teller."

She giggles, and the sound is magical.

"I'm a hopeless joke teller, too," she admits.

"That is such a lovely sound," I murmur, and I press my lips to hers another time, just because I want to.

"And you are hiding something, Anastasia. I may have to torture it out of you."

She narrows her eyes at me, and I think she's about to say something else, but her huge yawn interrupts her.

I sit up and pull on my jeans. "Come. Let's get you to bed."

I retrieve the gray waffle robe from the back of the door, return to the bed where she still lounges, and wrap it around her.

"Can you walk or do I need to carry you?"

She glares at me. "I can walk," she insists.

I take her hand and we head downstairs together, to my bedroom.

Saturday, June 4th – 4:30am

I wake much too early. It's only four thirty. I'm tangled like a vine around Anastasia, and it's lovely to be near her like this again. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed her.

I rarely dream when I sleep with Anastasia, but eyes have haunted me tonight, and they weren't Anastasia's.

As I make a trip to the washroom, and then step out into the kitchen to fetch a glass of water, I find myself thinking of Leila. Outside it's raining, and I wonder if she's caught outside in it.

I drink my water, shaking my head to myself.

Leila isn't, and shouldn't be, my concern any longer. She stopped being my submissive long ago, and I need to leave it up to Dr. Flynn to take care of matters. But I just want to know that she's okay. That's all I want to know.

I retreat to my piano, leaving the lid shut, hoping I don't disturb Anastasia, and lose myself in the music…

I've just finished a Mozart piece and have begun a Chopin composition, when I notice Anastasia, standing in the fringes of light, swathed in her bathrobe. She's watching me, smiling softly.

I frown at the sight of her, and then drop my gaze to my hands again, continuing to play.

"You should be sleeping," I chasten her, but I can't make my scolding sound severe. I'm not all that upset to see her awake.

"So should you," she snaps back.

I glance up at her, unable to hold back my smile at her sass. That smart mouth.

"Are you scolding me, Miss Steele?"

"Yes, Mr. Grey, I am."

"Well, I can't sleep," I tell her, suddenly angry. Damn Leila and just the thought of her, lost and insane, waking me in the night.

She sits beside me now, leaning her head on my bare shoulder, which I try not to flinch at. I'm only distracted for a moment, but then I continue to play until the piece is finished.

"What was that?" she inquires when I'm done.

"Chopin. Prelude opus twenty-eight, number four. In E minor, if you're interested."

"I'm always interested in what you do," she says. Something in her voice melts me.

I turn to press my lips to her hair. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't," she insists, "Play the other one," she's suddenly imploring.

"Other one?" I ask, baffled.

"The Bach piece that you played the first night I stayed," she urges.

"Oh, the Marcello," I suddenly recall.

I begin to play, and the music surrounds us, wrapping us in her dark, depthless wings.

When it finally ends, she asks, "Why do you only play such sad music?"

The question takes me by surprise, and as she sits up to look at me, I can only shrug. I don't want to say anything. I don't want her to see through me, but I'm afraid it's already too late.

"So you were just six when you started to play?" she asks.

I nod, growing increasingly wary by the second. I don't like where this is going, not at all. After a thoughtful moment, I throw caution to the wind.

"I threw myself into learning the piano to please my new mother."

"To fit into the perfect family?" she prompts.

"Yes, so to speak," I admit, and then change the subject, trying to get her off my trail. I don't want to talk about this anymore. "Why are you awake? Don't you need to recover from yesterday's exertions?"

"It's eight in the morning for me. And I need to take my pill."

Surprise lifts my eyebrows. "Well remembered," I praise her, "Only you would start a course of time-specific birth control pills in a different time zone. Perhaps you should wait half an hour and then another half hour tomorrow morning. So eventually you can take them at a reasonable time." And get some much needed sleep.

"Good plan," she agrees in a whisper, "So what shall we do for half an hour?" I think she means for the question to sound innocent, but I hear the double meaning behind it.

"I can think of a few things," I say, grinning at her wickedly.

"On the other hand, we could talk," she says.

Talk? My brow creases at the sudden shift in direction. But I thought we were going to fuck…?

"I prefer what I have in mind," I insist, pulling her into my lap.

"You'd always rather have sex than talk," she says, laughing as she regains her balance by gripping my biceps.

"True. Especially with you," I admit, and begin leaving a trail of kisses along her skin, behind her ear and down her throat. "Maybe on my piano," I suggest in a whisper.

"I want to get something straight," she whispers shakily.

I pause for just a second before continuing, trailing kisses up the other side of her throat.

"Always so eager for information, Miss Steele," I murmur, "What needs straightening out?" I'm at the base of her neck now.

"Us," she breathes.

"Hmm. What about us?" I push the material of her bathrobe over her shoulder, leaving kisses along the porcelain span of her shoulder.

"The contract."

I give in, lifting my head to gaze at her. Relenting, I sigh. I lift my hand, trailing my fingertips over the blush I've left across her cheek.

"Well, I think the contract is moot, don't you?" I ask.

"Moot?" she asks.

"Moot," I confirm, smiling.

Clearly, she's appalled. "But you were so keen," she insists.

"Well, that was before. Anyway, the Rules aren't moot, they still stand." I want to make sure she knows that, and I feel my expression harden.

"Before?" she pushes, "Before what?"

"Before…" I pause, suddenly bereft, lost. "More," I conclude, shrugging.

"Oh," she says.

"Besides, we've been in the playroom twice now, and you haven't run screaming for the hills," I point out.

"Do you expect me to?" she asks.

"Nothing you do is expected, Anastasia," I tell her, sarcasm evident in my tone.

"So, let me be clear. You just want me to follow the Rules element of the contract all the time but not the rest of the contract?"

"Except in the playroom," I confirm. "I want you to follow the spirit of the contract in the playroom, and yes, I want you to follow the Rules—all the time. Then I know you'll be safe, and I'll be able to have you anytime I wish."

"And if I break one of the Rules?" she asks.

"Then I'll punish you."

"But won't you need my permission?" she urges.

"Yes, I will," I concede, suddenly not sure I want this conversation to continue.

"And if I say no?" she asks.

I stare at her, confused. "If you say no, you'll say no. I'll have to find a way to persuade you."

Suddenly, she's pulling away from me and standing. I'm left sitting on the piano bench, cold. I frown at her, confused by her reaction. Is she upset?

"So the punishment aspect remains," she assumes out loud.

"Yes, but only if you break the Rules." Something is churning in my gut, a great anxiety I'm not sure I can deal with. Is this a great standoff, the last hurrah, our goodbye? Has she finally had enough of all of my fucked-upness?

"I'll need to reread them," Anastasia says now.

"I'll fetch them for you," I offer. I stand and head into my study, pulling the rules up on my computer and printing off another copy. I try to quell the raging emotions swirling inside me. Why has this got me so panicked? Why am I so afraid that she's going to leave?

When the page is printed, I pull a pen out of my drawer and read through quickly, crossing off a few things that have become disputable.

The Submissive will ensure she achieves a minimum of eight seven hours' sleep a night when she is not with the Dominant.

The Submissive will eat regularly to maintain her health and wellbeing from a prescribed list of foods (Appendix 4). The Submissive will not snack between meals, with the exception of fruit.

The Dominant shall provide the Submissive with a personal trainer four three times a week in hour-long sessions at times to be mutually agreed upon by the personal trainer and the Submissive.

When I get back, the kitchen lights are on, and the kettle is simmering on the stove. Anastasia is standing at the breakfast bar, rummaging through her purse. As she swallows the little pink birth control pill, I slide onto one of the barstools in front of her.

"Here you go," I tell her, pushing the Rules toward her.

She reads through them quickly.

"So the obedience thing still stands?" she asks.

"Oh yes," I say, grinning.

She shakes her head, and I think it's in amusement, but then she rolls her eyes.

"Did you just roll your eyes at me, Anastasia?" I whisper, suddenly breathless with lust.

"Possibly, depends on what your reaction is," she replies.

"Same as always," I say, shaking my head.

I watch her swallow, but there's excitement in her eyes too.

"So…"

"Yes?" I urge, running my tongue over my lower lip, which is suddenly dry.

"You want to spank me now."

"Yes. And I will."

"Oh, really, Mr. Grey?" she challenges, suddenly bold, grinning at me.

"Are you going to stop me?"

"You're going to have to catch me first."

Oh?

Suddenly I'm giddy. This could be fun. I rise slowly to my feet, eyes on her the entire time.

"Oh, really, Miss Steele?"

Her teeth close over her lower lip.

"And you're biting your lip," I point out, trying to keep it subtle as I shift incrementally to my left. In response, she moves to her left.

"You wouldn't," she goads, "After all, you roll your eyes."

We continue to move. I'm just trying to get around the breakfast bar to her.

"Yes," I say, "but you've just raised the bar on the excitement stakes with this game." I am crazy with expectation, my insides humming to a simmer.

"I'm quite fast, you know," she warns me.

"So am I," I tell her. "Are you going to come quietly?"

"Do I ever?" she teases, finding double meaning in my words.

"Miss Steele, what do you mean?" I joke, smirking. "It will be worse for you if I have to come and get you," I threaten.

"That's only if you catch me, Christian," she says, "And right now, I have no intention of letting you catch me."

"Anastasia, you may fall and hurt yourself. Which will put you in direct contravention of rule number seven, now six."

"I have been in danger since I met you, Mr. Grey, rules or no rules."

"Yes, you have," I agree, and I pretend that her words have sobered me, creasing my brow.

Hoping to have thrown her off, I grab for her, and she screams, jumping out of my reach and racing across the room, to the dining room table, putting it between us.

My heart is in my throat, adrenaline pounding through my bloodstream, waking every nerve ending in my body. Hey, this is fun.

I stalk purposefully toward her, and with each step I take, she takes another away from me.

"You certainly know how to distract a man, Anastasia," I tell her, hoping to distract her with my words.

"We aim to please, Mr. Grey," she says, "Distract you from what?"

"Life. The universe."

"You did seem very preoccupied as you were playing," she notes.

I was, thinking of Leila. Damned Leila.

Suddenly, I really am sober, and I fold my arms over my chest.

"We can do this all day, baby, but I will get you, and it will just be worse for you when I do."

"No, you won't," she says, bold again.

"Anyone would think you didn't want me to catch you," I say, trying not to let the anxiety show through, but now I'm wary. Does she not want me to spank her?

"I don't," she says, "That's the point. I feel about punishment the way you feel about my touching you."

All of the blood drains from my face at her words.

"That's how you feel?" I can only whisper. I'm a fucking moron. I am so fucked up. How could I ever let myself do that to her?

"No," she finally says, and relief courses through me, "It doesn't affect me quite as much as that, but it gives you an idea," she says, murmurs, she's ashamed now.

"Oh," is all I can say. I think I'm numb with respite. I don't know what I'd do with myself if she felt that way about being punished. That kind of fear, that sort of panic… Fucking hell.

She comes to stand in front of me.

"You hate it that much?" I ask her.

"Well… no," she says. "No. I feel ambivalent about it. I don't like it, but I don't hate it."

"But last night, in the playroom, you…" I scramble for clarity, for proof, for something to hold on to…

"I do it for you, Christian, because you need it. I don't," she says. "You didn't hurt me last night. That was in a different context, and I can rationalize that internally, and I trust you. But when you want to punish me, I worry that you'll hurt me."

Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

"I want to hurt you," I admit, "But not beyond anything that you couldn't take," I try to reassure her when I see the panic in her gaze.

"Why?" she begs.

I run a hand through my hair, and I shrug, because I don't know what to say. How could I even begin to tell her? That deep, deep down, it's because—no. I can't tell her.

"I just need it," I falter. Tell her. NO. I can't. I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head. She would never forgive me if she knew. I would never see her again. "I can't tell you."

"Can't or won't?" she demands.

"Won't," I admit.

"So you know why."

"Yes."

"But you won't tell me," she says.

"If I do, you will run screaming from this room, and you'll never want to return. I can't risk that, Anastasia." I stare at her intently, imploringly. Please, stop. How did it come to this?

"You want me to stay," she says.

"More than you know. I couldn't bear to lose you," I tell her sincerely.

Please don't leave me, everything inside me screams, and suddenly I need to touch her, I need her, I need her, I need her.

I pull her to me, nearly crushing her to my chest, and I'm kissing her. There is a strange disconnect between my body and my mind, almost as if I'm watching myself from a corner of the room, as I smash my mouth to hers, overtaking her quickly, kissing her with every ounce of passion I have in me.

"Don't leave me," I beg her, "You said you wouldn't leave me, and you begged me not to leave you, in your sleep," I admit against her lips. I pray with everything in me that this will help her stay.

"I don't want to go," she says. Her words are like a balm to my wound, soothing and cooling, and relieving in a way that is impossible to describe. "Show me."

"Show you?" I ask.

"Show me how much it can hurt," she says, a temptress, leading me into the fire, deeper than I ever wanted to go.

"What?"

"Punish me. I want to know how bad it can get," she says.

I am baffled by her request, and I step back, out of her arms, trying to process it all.

"You would try?" I ask.

"Yes," she says, "I said I would."

I blink at her. "Ana, you're so confusing."

"I'm confused, too," she admits, "I'm trying to work this out. And you and I will know, once and for all, if I can do this. If I can handle this, then maybe you—" Her words come to an abrupt halt, but I know what she means. I know she thinks that if she lets me do this to her, that I'll let her touch me.

Automatic fear grips every inch, every part of me.

Nonono, I'm thinking, but suddenly, it hits me. Resolve. Decision. I'll give her my worst, and if she can take it, then yes, I'll let her touch me.

Before I can think too much about it, I grip her arm and haul her upstairs to the playroom.

"I'll show you how bad it can be, and you can make your own mind up," I say, pausing for a moment outside the door. "Are you ready for this?"

She nods, and there is a steely sort of determination in her eyes. She's not going to back out. I barely notice the fact that she's so pale, she's gray.

I pull open the door and without letting her go, grab a belt from the rack by the door. I pull her over the whipping bench, in the farthest corner of the room.

Give her your worst, you fucked up son of a bitch.

Show her how bad it can be, you fucked up son of a bitch.

You son of a bitch, you fucking fucked up son of a bitch.