Chapter Fourteen
~Anastasia~
We stand beside the enormous four poster bed. The ceiling height windows show how the Seattle skyline is decorated by the lights of high rises. The toes of my bare feet dig into the soft carpet that is sprawled across the far-fetching bedroom. I've dropped my arm that was gesturing around it. Now, both arms are hanging without purpose by my sides. I feel small and insignificant. I know that I'm at a disadvantage and that Christian holds all of the cards. He says that he's going to tell me something that will explain what I've been experiencing – that he's sure it's about our past. Obviously, the problem with that, is that I have no concrete evidence that's he's being honest. Truthfully, I'm frightened of what he's going to divulge. I'm seconds from declaring that I don't want to know. A breath away from telling him I'm rather live in ignorance. Christian is determined on lifting the lid on a bin of secrets that might break me and my heart. And I know that I can't stop him. I've seen how this man operates, until he's had his say, he refuses to cede control.
So, I'll have to hear him out. However, that doesn't mean that I'm going to believe him.
"Can we discuss this in the living room?" he asks, gazing around the vast room.
I narrow my eyes at him. "Why? Won't security hear us? I have a feeling that I'm not going to want them privy to this conversation."
"I sent them to their apartments. We're the only ones down here." He looks at me with bloodshot eyes. His hair is more of a mess than usual. I don't care at all.
He trails behind me as we make our way into the mausoleum that serves as a living room. While I sit on the couch that could probably seat a hundred, Christian heads to kitchen and pours himself a glass of white wine. He takes a long drink. Need liquid courage, eh?
He pads in the room until he's directly before me. His eyes remain their brilliant hue and he's gazing at me like I'm a deadly animal that's about to strike as he sits down. Not too close. Not too far away. I turn my body so we're fully facing one another. I watch him open his mouth, but I hold up a hand to stop him.
"Start at the beginning. Fill in every gap that my brain is missing. Tell me what you did and what I did. Explain what we did together." Good. I sound calm and reasonable. Let's see how long that lasts.
Christian takes another long sip of wine and then places it on the coffee table. I watch his Adam's apple as he swallows. He looks around the room with a forlorn expression on his beautiful face. His eyes come back to mine. They widen and I can see that he's fearful, although, I do see sincerity in them. He audibly exhales and clenches his jaw. He seems to be internally battling with something before answering me. His voice is ever so soft and low.
"Please, remember what I asked of you. Remember the man I am. The man that I am now."
I nod, and sit under tucked legs. "Yes. How could I ever forget?" I sound irritated and tired. I am so damn tired. What can he mean, though? What sort of man could he possibly have been?
"Ana, you changed me, and the man that I'd been for six years. Hell, you changed the person I'd been since I was fifteen. That's the God's honest truth," he starts. "I haven't been honest with you since you woke up after the attack-"
"What-" I try to interrupt him, but it's his turn to hold up a hand.
"Please, just let me start. I will go back to the beginning, but I have to say this first. It's time for me to man up and tell you the truth about everything." Christian's eyes never leave mine. They are guarded and full of regret, however, I can feel that he's regaining control of himself.
My brow creases. Deep inside me, anxiety slowly unfurls. I don't ask him to elaborate because he does it for me.
"The first morning – the morning in the hospital – when you were well enough to have visitors…and I came in and you were so confused about my behavior. You were confused about my familiarity and how affectionate I was, because you only remembered barely knowing me.,,Shit, how do I tell you this?"
My hair falls out of the pony tail and falls down my back. Christian watches it like as though it mesmerizes him. "Just say it?" Sarcasm is in each word. I'm pinching the shit out of the bridge of my nose. It's odd that since my skull cracked that I deal with stress and anxiety by doing things to myself that cause pain.
"I can't call it an act, because I was so fucking happy to see you, and I meant every word I said. Ana, we'd all been told about your retrograde amnesia and how much time you'd forgotten. You already know that you've lost four months and only have scant memories about the weeks after we'd initially met," he tells me.
"I told you not to drag this out or stall," I tell him, growing so anxious I want to run my back up and down the wall.
"I'm not. I'm just trying to get this right. Have some patience."
"Christian, I've been exercising patience for nine months. Trust me, it hasn't been easy. Please, just tell me."
He closes his eyes and exhales. "I had to make you believe that we were in a relationship that began not long after we'd met, because I was afraid of things, or rather, a period of time, that you'd remember," he murmurs.
I furrow my eyebrows. The alcohol on his breath wafts onto my face and makes me nauseous. He has me so confused that I can't even fathom a guess at what he's talking about. He stops speaking, and I make a continue motion. He's trying that patience that I've already struggled with for months.
"You're right. It makes no sense out of context. So, let's go back to the beginning. But, Ana. remember, I'm-"
"You're not the same man. I understand. Just tell me, Christian," I break in.
"Our relationship did not begin as you believe. Those scant memories that you have of all the times we spent together in those early weeks after we met, aren't as I've led you to believe. Now I'm going to be completely honest. I'll understand if you hate me and want nothing more of me after I tell you, but it's time for complete honesty," he says. He's determined now. I can see that he's still afraid, but I know there's no stopping him.
"The day that I showed up at Clayton's was not an accident. It was premeditated on my part because I knew that you worked there-"
And I interrupt him again. I have a feeling there's going to be a lot of interrupting during this conversation.
"How did you know that I worked at Clayton's?" I ask.
Christian looks around the room once more and I can almost see his mind working. He turns his head and stands. He holds out his hand. I look at his face before taking it. "Let's go to my study," he tell me.
"Why?" I ask him, letting him pull me up and lead me down the hall.
"Because there's something that I need to show you."
Once in the study, I sit in the large leather chair in front of his desk. He goes to a file cabinet and searches through a drawer and pulls a folder out. He sits behind his large desk – his position of power. I feel like I'm in trouble at school and am sitting in the principal's office.
He opens the file, and stares down at it. I also feel compassion for him because he now looks sad. He takes out a single piece of paper and hands it to me.
I look at it and shake my head. I can't believe what I'm reading. What is this and why in the hell does Christian have it? Why would he want it? Then, I look at the date. May ninth. The day we met. My head shoots up and our eyes meet. He looks apologetic, while I'm sure that I look confused, although, I'm beginning to get angry. Yes, anger is good.
"What is this and why do you have it?" I demand. The paper shakes because my hands are trembling.
"It's a background check," he replies. "I have it because I wanted to know more about you after we met. I knew that I wanted to have a relationship with you, and I always do a background check on women that I want a relationship with."
"Usually, people who want to have a relationship with someone just ask them out for dinner and a movie," I snap. I keep running my eyes down the paper. He knows my SAT score?
"I know that, but at the time, I didn't have relationships that consisted of dinner and a movie."
"I'd ask how you got my bank account number but I already know that it had to be Welch."
Christian nods. "Yes. But I didn't abuse that information."
I look at him like he's nuts, and I'm beginning to believe that he is.
"Christian, you abused my very private information by getting it. I'd hate to know how many laws Welch broke getting all of this." I toss the paper back on the desk. "What does this have to do with our relationship and you lying to me about it?"
"I went to Clayton's to find out more about you."
"Obviously." I sigh. "Can we come back to fill in the incidentals? Just break out the big shit."
"Our relationship didn't start conventionally, because I didn't have conventional relationships- "
Oh, fuck. I was one of those women like Leila Williams. A high-priced sex doll. Jesus.
"I was like those women you used to fuck, wasn't I? That's what this is all about?" I ask.
Christian shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He's quiet. I think he's trying to figure out how to answer the question. Well, if he didn't want to give answers, he shouldn't have confessed to being a fucking liar.
"In a fashion, yes. Although, you need to hear more. You need to know more."
My mind's crashed. How in the hell did I agree to be a fuck toy just to get an Audi? I can't wait to hear this fucked up shit.
"Anastasia, up until last June, I only had BDSM relationships with women. When I described the relationships that I had with those women to you and my family, I left that significant part out."
I put a hand over my mouth. I'm watching Christian's mouth move, but I don't hear a word that he's saying. Panic is all over his face but he doesn't move. I'm pretty sure I'll try to kill him if he touches me.
If…if that's the only kind of sex he was interested in, that means he's a sadist. BDSM requires a masochist for the sadist – I'm not a masochist. Sadists get off on beating a masochist, and masochists get off on being beaten. BDSM. Bondage and discipline, dominance and submission, and sadism and masochism, and that Rihanna song that Kate loves.
My, God, Christian likes to hurt women. It's obvious where this conversation is going, and now I'm beginning to understand where those disturbing feelings originated from. Lightning has struck me, but I'm still confused. Why did I go along with that?
"You. . . are a sadist?" I interrupt him, my voice cracking.
Christian blinks several times and licks his lips before replying. "No. I a - I was a Dominant," he says carefully.
"Which means?"
"Dominants want like-minded people to surrender themselves to them. A Dominant exerts control of the person, they want to have them submit to them in all things. Those people are referred to as a submissive." His voice is quiet and hesitant. "It's always consensual," he quickly adds.
I'm hypnotized by his burning gray eyes that are boring into mine. I'm trying to picture him with devil horns, a pitchfork, and wielding a whip. I just can't see it.
Christian pushes his hair off of his forehead and straightens in the chair. I watch him inhale, then exhale deeply. He looks confused. "How do I explain this so you'll understand? Ana, when we met, I took your shy demeanor as being submissive and thought that I could train you into being an actual submissive. My submissive. It wasn't long before my assumption was proved to be incorrect, you were far from being submissive, but I still tried to persuade you to try things my way."
"You thought that you could 'train' me? Like someone trains a dog not to piss in the house?" I nearly slide off his disgustingly expensive brown leather chair.
This man looks as cool as a cucumber. We sound like we're discussing the shitty Seattle weather. It's then that I wonder what I thought when he told me all of this before? The fact that we had to have this discussion before crosses my mind. I wonder if he's thinking about that as well.
"Of course, I didn't think I was training you like a dog. However, since you were inexperienced and knew nothing about BDSM, I thought that I—"
"Could show me the ropes?" I snort at my words. "Please pardon the pun."
The man, the control freak, that I thought I knew so well, gulps.
"Again, not the way I'd put it, but yes, I tried to integrate you into BDSM. I did everything that I could to make you believe you would enjoy it. I pursued you with only one thing in mind, and that was to make you my submissive," he tells me. "Somewhere, at some point during that time, I began to develop feelings for you that I didn't understand; I tried to ignore those feelings because they were unfamiliar, and they terrified me." His voice is low and I'm straining to hear him.
Suddenly, I'm hit by a thunderbolt. I gasp. Oh, my God, please tell me this didn't happen. "Did I let you tie me up the first time I had sex? Was I bound and gagged when you took my virginity?" I shriek.
Christian jolts in his seat, and looks like he wants to reach over and touch me. I wrap my arms around myself. How could I have become involved with a sadist? How is my loving and kind Christian this man? No, he told me to remember that he changed. That he isn't that man anymore. Fuck, how do believe that, though? God, it feels like ants are all over my body. Panic attack approaching.
"No!" he exclaims loudly. "We were in my bedroom, I promise. Yes, I made sure you couldn't touch me, but you weren't bound, I swear. I didn't take your virginity in my playroom during a BDSM scene."
My brows furrow and I squint my eyes at him. Playroom? What's a scene? What's anything, and why the hell did I become involved with it?
"Your playroom? And what the hell is a 'BDSM scene'?"
Christian bows his head, not raising it, and answers. "There's a room in the apartment that I called my playroom. It was where…there were toys and implements and shit. It was where I practiced. . . had scenes with my submissives. A scene is…
The words fade away as I've stopped listening to him. There isn't a room in this apartment like that. I know every inch of this place. Implements? Toys, huh? I'm sure they aren't anything made by Fischer Price.
"Is this room invisible, because I know this apartment like the back of my hand and have never seen a room like you're describing. And thank God for that."
He raises his head and his expression is wary and contrite. He shakes his head slowly. "It isn't there any longer. I tore everything out, and had it painted. It's the upstairs storage room."
"Where our damn mountain bikes are?" I nearly yell.
"Yes."
"Why did you make it a storage room? Why'd you paint it?" I press him.
Christian looks despondent. "Because there was no longer any use for it. You hated it, you never wanted to set foot in it again. I felt the same way. I was ashamed of it – and the things that I'd done to you in it." He has his head in his hands.
"How did you manage to convince me to go along with this? I don't care what other people do in their bedrooms, but I know me, and I wouldn't take part in this. That sex isn't something that I'd do. I'm not a masochist."
"I know you aren't, Anastasia. I never believed you were. I just wanted you so badly that I thought I could make you what I wanted . . . the only kind of woman I was involved with. Please, just let me continue."
"Be my guest," I mutter, unable to coalesce the man I've been sharing a bed with, to a man who gets off on hurting women. How did I agree to let him get off by hurting me?
From nowhere, my mind opens the curtains to an awful truth. Oh, fuck me. I'm pregnant with this man's baby. How did I forget that? I'll forever be chained to this man. God forbid it to be a girl. Jesus, how is this my life?
Christian clears his throat. All I can do is stare at him. This man, loving and gentle, can't be a sadist. He'd never abuse me. He worries and cares too much about me.
"The memory of flying in Charlie Tango here, the night we first had sex really happened. But I only brought you here to show you my playroom and tell you the truth about who I was. I told you that I was a Dominant and wanted you as my submissive." He looks so embarrassed and I'm out of my mind. I want to hit him in the head with the paper weight on his desk.
"Yeah, I assumed so, Christian. What else?"
He pauses, but tells me to look at him. "You did sign an NDA, Ana. I lied to you when you asked me if you had." His mouth freezes mid-sentence. Then he continues. "But later it was shredded."
Heart failure. Stroke. Myocardial Infarction. I'm experiencing each of them all at once. Where is oxygen when you need it? How many lies has he told me?
"So, I wasn't unique, after all," I whisper, feeling like I want to cry.
"Yes, yes, you were. Anastasia. My God, your love saved me. You've made me a better man, a better person, you've done that. You made me realize that I didn't need that shit any longer. You made me not want that life," he replies vehemently.
"I suppose that I should feel honored that I saved you. I think the only thing I've saved before was a stray cat when I was ten."
"Ana, please. I'm serious, deadly serious. My life was shit before you came into it."
I push my hair out of my face and shake my head. Who cares about him? He's making this all about him. "No, please, you shut up. You're making this all about you, Christian, when you owe me a huge explanation. You owe me months of explanations. I don't care if I saved you," I tell him. "And I don't want to hear stupid, irrelevant details about us back then. Tell me how I agreed to that shit. Had I gone completely insane?"
Christian's looks like he's about to break down. He's silent for a long while; I think he's sizing me up. Perhaps he's reading my body language and expression like he's told me he does at work. I'm not a merger or an acquisition. He can't negotiate his way out of this. Oh, I feel nauseous, as I have for a week, and have to swallow the sour feeling that's coming from my stomach. This is just another reminder that this man impregnated me, and my early decision about handling this pregnancy is looking like the correct one.
"You hadn't gone insane. We met, you became attracted to me, and I played upon that. I admit that I pursued you and did my best to make you want me. I wanted you so badly that I basically moved into the Heathman. I wanted you, and you wanted me. You said I was the first man you'd ever wanted." He stops and I hear an audible sigh. "My behavior was never malicious. Initially, I was vague with you. You'd ask if I had girlfriends, and I dodged your questions. I didn't want to tell you, I wanted to show you what I wanted with you. That's the night I flew you to Escala. You were shocked, but surprisingly calm about it. I expected for you run out of the playroom screaming. Then we went came in here and discussed . . . Ana, my relationships came with a contract. They listed rules that I expected to be followed, and what a potential submissive would or would not do sexually."
My jaw hits the floor as I gape at him. What. The. Fuck. "A contract? You had a contract with rules? What kind of rules? Did I sign one? This just gets better by the minute. This can't be real." I all but scream as I jump to my feet.
Christian looks so humiliated that I almost feel sorry for him. Just. My Christian versus the one he's describing to me is a conundrum that I just can't figure out. "Yes, there were contracts. Now, I know the rules I insisted upon were about my need to control, nevertheless, you'll find them shocking." He stops and swallows. "If a submissive broke one of the rules, I would punish them. Punishments were a part of the contract, too. Not only did a submissive let me know what she was willing to do sexually, she also listed punishments that were a hard limit for her. A hard limit means they refuse to do something. And if a submissive…pleased me, I rewarded her."
The room is spinning. I feel like a tornado is swirling around me, sucking reality from the room. What kind of fucked up person likes being punished . . . beaten? Well, that's a stupid question. A masochist into BDSM is and that doesn't mean they're fucked up. But I'm not like that.
"After you read the contract, you told me that you were a virgin, and I was shocked and angry at myself. I knew you were innocent, but I didn't think you were that innocent," he continues.
"I apologize for disturbing that business meeting. I can call it that, can't I? It involved a contract after all. How did I lose my virginity after learning what kind of relationship you wanted from me?"
"I thought if we had sex, I had a better chance of making you my submissive. So, I made the decision to take you in my bed, a place that I'd never had sex in before, and that's how you lost your virginity. It was a first for me, too. I'd never had vanilla sex in my life. It had always been BDSM."
"Vanilla sex?" I ask, perplexed out of my screwed-up mind.
"Sex with no toys. Add on's, shit like that," he says quietly. "Nothing BDSM related."
I think that I need a BDSM dictionary. Do they have those? No, I guess I'll have to use Google or YouTube. I have zero doubts I looked that shit up when all this originally happened. I snap out of my wayward thoughts.
"Sex like we have?"
Christian shakes his head and points at me. "Ana, don't go there. I don't miss BDSM and I love our time together. Don't entertain that thought, please."
He said there's a contract. It really doesn't surprise me. He is a off the charts control freak. Jesus, he even wanted to control these submissive women. Inspiration, and desperation hits me.
"I want to see one of those contracts. Let me see one," I demand, finally sitting back down.
"Anastasia, please don't do this."
I snap my fingers. "Let me see."
Christian's shoulders drop, but he fires up his computer and a few minutes later, I don't even know how many pages of paper are in my hand. I flip through each of them and the more I read I'm not sure if I want to laugh or cry. His need to control another person is flabbergasting. I can't believe he's like this and sees a psychiatrist. The doctor definitely isn't helping Christian. The billionaire needs to search the Yellow Pages for another shrink.
I raise my shocked head up at him. He's looking at me. "How in the hell do you get your fist into someone's ass?" I ask him. Seriously. How does one do that? I don't even want to imagine.
"No. Don't answer that, please. I can't believe you find women willing to sign and do this shit. I'm sure they'd just have the same relationship with you, without rules, Christian. I get knowing what someone will and won't do sexually, but telling someone how many times to eat during the day? How'd you even know? No, don't answer that either."
"I know what it looks like," he replies in a resigned voice. His t-shirt is tight and I can make out every muscle in his chest. Maybe I signed on for this because he's so hot.
"Where's the contract that I signed? What kind of crazy shit did I agree to do?"
"Shredded. Just like the NDA. We were in a relationship, Ana. Why would I need an NDA? I got rid of it, and it's not like you would tell anyone about our initial relationship."
NDA.
He believed I'd never tell anyone.
It didn't occur to him that when a woman has a best friend, who's like her sister, she's going to tell her things? Tell her everything. Especially when she has sex for the first time?
I can't remember, but I know Kate like I know the back of my hand, and the vibe she's been putting off. I wonder if Christian is blind or just doesn't want to see it.
I haven't had the chance to have the talk with her that I've wanted to, but, Christian, Kate knows everything. I'd bet every dime you have that she knew from day one. NDA or not.
"What happened after that night?" I breathe. "The first night here."
He sighs. "You agreed to try to be my submissive. We played out scenes that I wanted to do with you in the playroom. I'm sorry to say that we only had vanilla sex the night I took your virginity. After that, we only had sex in the playroom."
Wow. He's wrong. I did lose my mind. I'm mute and staring mindlessly into space.
Christian breaks through my thoughts. "Being my submissive meant we saw each other from Friday evenings until Sunday afternoons, and you stayed at Escala for a weekend. We never went out on dates, although my family and Kate believed we were a couple." Christian stands up and begins to pace. "You had your own room. It's the guest room at the end of the upstairs hallway."
"Why did I have my own room?" I barely get the words out.
"It's been my experience that my submissives need to be as far away from me as they could after a scene, especially if I had punished them. Having your own room was a standard rule of mine. No one was allowed to sleep with me. You were the first woman that I've ever slept with."
I look at him. He's so beautiful, and I can't see him hitting a woman, whether she consented to it or not. But I know why he wouldn't sleep with anyone. "Because of your fear of being touched."
Christian stops pacing and nods. "Exactly," he says
"You got into BDSM because you couldn't be touched."
"Yes."
"How long was I your submissive?" I whisper. The smell of whatever Gail polishes the wood in his study is making sick to my stomach. Or maybe that's this conversation that's making me want to puke.
He moves the chair closer to me and I don't protest. I'm too exhausted from lack of sleep and the clusterfuck in my mind to care. Of all the scenarios, I thought those shit feelings could have meant, I would have never dreamed it was because I partook in a sexual relationship like this.
"Not quite a month."
"No, I want to know exactly when this started and ended. Do you remember? Did you write it down in my contract?" I say caustically.
Christian pulls at his hair. "You know we met May, ninth…I brought you here not quite 2 weeks later. That was the night…"
"That you told me you wanted me to be a sex slave?"
"Ana." He throws his head back and grimaces. I don't know if it's because he's uncomfortable talking about this or he's afraid that I'll think he's fucked up.
"Go on. How long."
"It ended on the morning of June fourth."
"Why?"
"Can I we work up to that? I thought you wanted to know everything about what happened. Let's do it in order."
I nearly break out in to laughter. "My, God. You're even a control freak over this shit. This is nearly hysterical. Fine. But you'd better not leave anything out, Christian," I start. "What kind of things did I do with you?" I close my eyes awaiting his answer.
"Shit . . . When we went into the playroom, I considered you mine. Mine to do with as I saw fit. You would have to be waiting for me in the playroom while you were on your knees, only wearing your pant—"
I gasp, and the urge to vomit returns. Is it from being pregnant or finding him repugnant? He made me kneel waiting for him? I thought he wasn't training me like a dog. Hearing this is going to kill me. It's going to kill our relationship; I just know it is. It's crystal clear as to why he never told me this shit. I can't wait to hear his excuse.
Christian shuts his mouth and presses them into a thin white line. He looks as if he's about to burst into tears. I wave my hand for him to continue. "Often times, when I came into the room and saw you kneeling there waiting for me, I called you a 'good girl', and I would also say it when you pleased me sexually. That's the reason you've been hearing me call you a 'good girl'."
I shudder and lower my head. I want to flop down on the beige carpet and cry. What a way to lose your innocence. Yet, I didn't have a gun to my head, did I? Tears spring unwelcome into my eyes. Hearing this is harder than I thought, and he's just begun to describe this shit with me. The tears are now streaming down my face. I'm not sure which emotion brought them on: hurt or anger.
"Continue?" Christian whispers. I swat my tears aside furiously. I turn my head away and stare at the wall.
"Yes."
"You had to address me as Sir, and could only look at me if I gave you permission. Those two rules applied inside and outside of the playroom unless I allowed you to speak freely," he groans. "I would spank you with my hand. I would use leather cuffs to suspend…you so we could f-fuck standing up…. Anastasia, it was just a lot of fucked up shit. I can't sit here and describe it all, but you were usually blindfolded, and think that's why you can't see anything when you hear me calling you a 'good girl'."
Fuck all things holy. Who is this man? I'm angry that I'm crying and want to curl up in a ball and hide. I'd rather have not known. Why did he tell me about this? He could have just kept his mouth shut and kept lying. Then I would have gone the rest of my life and not ever known I'd stooped so low - to humiliate myself that way. Choking on the tears I'm swallowing; I look at Christian's beautiful face. His gray eyes are guarded. He's wondering what the wild animal he's been chasing is about to do, and he's pondering which way to run. Which way will I run?
"Did I enjoy it?" I whisper.
He looks down at his hands and back to me. He's shaking his head and looks bemused. "I thought you did. You told me that you did, but later on, you admitted you were pretending that you were enjoying it. You told me the only time you had an orgasm was when I took your virginity," he answers softly.
"The shame I feel," I say so matter-of-factly. "I didn't want to do it."
He nods. "I think so, yes."
"The room was red." It's not a question.
"Yes."
"Do you think that had anything to do with me seeing red last night?" I ask
Christian momentarily looks uncomfortable and runs his hands through his hair. "I don't know. I haven't given it much thought, but now, I assume it does have something to do with what you've been experiencing. Maybe more of your memory is returning."
Now I can picture Christian as the devil carrying a pitchfork and whip. He was red, like his 'playroom'.
"I wasn't your submissive before I was hurt, was I?"
"God, no, Ana. That shit only lasted for a short while. We were in a normal relationship before your attack. You can ask everyone we know. You've seen pictures of us, you—"
"Yes, Christian, I know. Pictures, blah, blah, blah," I mutter. "Are you still involved with that shit?"
He lurches towards me, his eyes wide. "No! Hell fucking no. I'm done with all of that shit. It's just you. I love you, Ana. It's only you."
This is the passionate, caring and loving man that I know. I can't reconcile him with the man he's been telling me about. It's so unreal. He's so understanding and everything good. I'm so confused.
"So, if I told him I didn't enjoy doing that shit with him and I can feel that I was ashamed of it, how did I ever fall in love with him?" I ask. Shit. I didn't think I said that out loud. There I go again. Blurting shit out randomly.
Christian shrugs and looks despondent. He looks like a lost boy. Maybe a lost boy split apart?
"I asked you that a million times. You told me that you saw the real me and that I needed to see how good I really am. I still don't see that. Especially at this moment."
"You are a good man, Christian. You're kind, gentle, and have been nothing but loving to me. I can feel your love for me. That's why I'm so shocked by this. That, and I would never have thought you'd be less than honest with me."
"I know. I'm so sorry, Anastasia. I was just so scared that you'd wake up and only remember that I wanted you as a submissive, and think that I was a monster because you hated being one so much. It was an irrational and impulsive decision. I was afraid you wouldn't remember everything about us, that you wouldn't recall who we really were, who we are. How we love one another." he says, he sounds desperate.
"Leila Williams and the rest of the women you told me about were all submissives?"
"Yes."
I gnaw on my lip and consider this. Consider all of the material shit that he gave them. Was that part of the submissive package? "You said you gave them jewelry and provided for them monetarily."
"I did, yes."
Well, my mind might be monumentally blown away, but to be fair to Christian, he's painfully answered each of my questions. But like he said, I might not believe him. I don't know if he's being honest with me.
"You, know Christian. After reading that contract – the part of rewarding those women - the material and expensive rewards you gave those women, I'm sure some of them were just playing a role to get what they wanted. Well, they also had to have enjoyed the other shit, too. But I can see someone behaving a certain way to get a fucking Audi."
Christian stares at me bemused. I guess that never crossed his mind.
"So, were there really fifteen women or was that a lie, too?"
Christian really looks like he doesn't want to answer this question. He's clenching his jaws. "Fifteen contracted submissives prior to you, but . . . there are others from the time I was in training."
I look at him incredulously. "Training?" I barely get the word out of my ever so dry mouth.
"Yes. I went to BDSM clubs to learn how to be a Dominant. That included sex. I can't give you a number of how many women there were."
I suppose if Mr. Promiscuous Dominant had an STD, I'd have long since had symptoms, and so far, it doesn't burn when I pee. My stomach somersaults with some kind of strange feeling. Or it could the fucking morning sickness I've had all week. Fuck, that's just another reminder that I'm pregnant.
"This explains why your family was so shocked to learn about your 'secret women'?" I say, but can guess I know the answer.
"Yes, they'd disown me if they knew the truth about me." There's a tinge of sadness in his words.
I frown at him. His family adores him, they'd never desert him. "No, they wouldn't. They all love you, Christian."
He looks at me skeptically. "Because they have to."
I surely look like I think he's crazy. "That's ridiculous. Why in the world do you think that nonsense?"
Christian sighs and gets up to pace again. "I told you that I was a troublesome teenager. I've never given my family anything but grief," he answers.
"Cry me a river, Grey. Get over your pity party because I have more questions to ask you," I snap. "Does anyone know about your past?" I watch his shoulders drop.
He turns on his heel to face me. "Those in the BDSM community."
"There's a community? Like a club where you pledge allegiance to ropes and chains?"
Christian cocks his head to side and pushes his laptop to the side of his desk. Now there's nothing in the way between us. "I meant other people who are into BDSM."
"Why did you do it if you were afraid of being found out? It sounds like you were the one who was ashamed. If you didn't think it was wrong then why did you keep it a secret?"
"Because it was all that I knew, Ana."
"Aren't you afraid one of these women will go public with this shit?"
His cheeks redden. "No. I keep pictures of them in less than a flattering light. If they try to go public, I would use the pictures as a way to shut them up," he says quietly.
Holy mother fucker. That's cruel. It's a way to trap them into keeping their mouth shut. A planned out terrible thing to do. "That's one of the worst things I've ever heard in my life. You have this sex life you're desperate to keep hidden, yet you'd so easily blackmail a woman and threaten to publicly expose her. You keep it a secret for some reason, Christian. I think it's more than you being ashamed of it. Am I correct?"
Christian's running through a routine of digging his palms in his eyes, running his hands through his hair, pulling his hair, and getting up and sitting back down in his chair. Yes, Christian Grey has ADHD.
I stand with my arms wrapped around myself and walk over to the windows. I lean my head on the cool glass. I can hear the wind whipping around the building. I close my eyes and try to imagine what I must have been thinking when I agreed to do this. I can't though, and it's not because I can't remember. It's because of what I know about myself. I think it's perfectly fine for people to have whatever kind of sex they want to, as long as they're not abusing someone, but I just know I wouldn't want the sort of life Christian was offering me. Maybe I'm boring in bed or a prude. Or maybe the thought of being tied up and not being able to untie myself is unsettling. I don't want to surrender control to anyone.
I also wonder how he got into this. He told me that he'd only had BDSM sex. As beautiful and hot as Christian is, I can't even imagine how good he looked as a teenager. Girls had to have been throwing themselves at him. I know that he'd have never allowed them to touch him, but are there teenage girls into BDSM? Don't be stupid, Ana. Of course, there are. But is that how Christian became involved with BDSM or was he an adult before he had sex?
"Anastasia? Did you hear me?" Christian asks, making me turn around.
"No, what did you say?"
"I asked if you wanted to continue this discussion or go to bed. It's getting late. We can pick it up tomorrow."
I think about my musings and purse my lips. I study his face. I wonder if the man he said he used to be still lurks behind that face. Lurking, just waiting for a woman to come along who enjoys what he does. The thought is depressing and now I feel lacking. But what I was wondering about Christian's indoctrination into BDSM come to mind.
"You claim BDSM sex was the only kind of sex you'd had before me. So how did you have sex when you were a teenager. I don't believe a guy as hot as you being a virgin."
Now, Christian looks very uncomfortable. His mouth opens and closes several times. I'm scrutinizing him as the moments grow longer. "May I take a pass on answering that question?" he practically stutters. Shit, what the hell? He did find teenage girls who were willing to be tied up and fucked?
I shake my head. "No. Tell me."
His face pales. Oh, this is very not Christian Grey like. More like foreshadowing in a Stephen King novel.
"An older woman seduced me when I was fifteen," he says reluctantly, and quietly. It reminds me of what it must be like for someone to be in a confessional. This confession is a whopper.
"What the fuck?" I yell.
"She was into BDSM, and I was her submissive for six years."
My mouth falls open for the millionth time this evening, and I can't speak until my possibly damaged brain re starts. "You were what?" I say loudly. "Fifteen? And it went on for six years? You? Alpha male personified, as a submissive? You let a woman beat you?"
He's standing before me with his hands on the back of his neck. He looks pained. "You know that I couldn't be touched, and when I hit puberty, I wanted to fuck girls, and fucking means touching. I couldn't bear it. The woman in question was aware of my issue, and well…" he trails off, and he frowns.
It would seem he's struggling over something in his head; however, it doesn't look like he's ashamed of it.
"How old was this woman?" I demand, even though I'm afraid to know.
"Old enough to know better."
"An adult?" I clarify.
"Yes."
"So, then, you should be saying that this woman molested you, not seduced you." I pound his desk with a fist.
He doesn't look like he shares my opinion. His eyes are hard and he looks pissed off and he says nothing.
"And this went on until you were twenty-one?" I press.
"Yes." He says succinctly.
"My, God. You continued it even after you were an adult? And she was the only one? You were never with anyone else?"
"No."
"Not even while you were across the country at Harvard?" I keep on.
"No."
"Why not?"
"At the time, she was the only one that I wanted or needed. And if I'd been with anyone while I was in college, she would have beaten the fuck out of me."
This is yet again, something I can't believe. I take him in. All tall and muscular. So masculine. Why would he submit to anyone? This man never let's go of control, so why would he offer himself up to another person? Was it because he found it hot to be fucking an older woman? I suppose a hormonal teenage boy would think so, but to also like for the woman to beat him? I get he liked fucking her, but, well, that woman's a fucking pedophile.
"I can't see you kneeling on the floor for anyone, or enjoy being beaten. That's…fucked up."
"It was all I knew, Anastasia."
I shake my head. "No, no. That's what you were told. What she did to you was child abuse. Child molesters usually groom long before they touch. And I bet that while you were fucking this older woman, she was telling you that you'd not be able to fuck anyone else because of your touch issue."
"Anastasia, stop!" he yells at me and I jump. "I'm not discussing this. We're talking about us. I have to tell you about us."
Christian really doesn't want to talk about this for some reason, although he's right. We still have a lot to discuss about ourselves. Not some pedophile that we will be having a long conversation about later. I'm sure there's disapproval in my eyes, but I've got to give the man credit; he continues to look me in the eyes. It's most likely his technique for when he's set to intimidate someone in the business world.
"Fine!" I stalk out of his study and head to kitchen. I flip the light switch and the utilitarian kitchen comes into bright view. I dig through the pantry for something to settle my stomach and grab a box of crackers. I nearly run into Christian when I move to open up the refrigerator. He's staring at the box of saltines. I know what he's about to say.
"Is that all you're going to eat?"
I point at my stomach. "I'm nauseous. I want to throw up," I reply.
I grab a Sprite and head into the living room. I sit on the end of the large sofa. I really don't feel like being close to him right now. Outside the wall of windows, lightning flashes and it looks like a deluge of is pouring from the night sky. Christian has followed me like a shadow, but sits farther down the sofa. My body language must be most unwelcoming.
I nibble on a few crackers, they aren't helping the burning in my stomach, so I throw the sleeve on the coffee table. It's while I'm taking a long sip of Sprite that a question pops into my head. I can't believe that I haven't thought about his.
"Christian, how did this submissive shit end? Did I gather the nerve to look you in the face and tell you that I refused to do it any longer?" I ask him. He pales again.
"Remember that I'm not the same man, and that I'd rather cut off my hands than hurt you," he whispers. His eyes are beginning to water. "If you believe that, then we can get past it like we did before. Not only did you forgive me, we got through it, and it made our relationship stronger. It's why we're together, as crazy as it's going seem. In hindsight, you wouldn't think it's why we have such a strong bond."
Panic, over something that I don't know about yet, seizes me. The now familiar feeling of my skin crawling is covering me. I feel myself hurtling towards a full-blown panic attack but know that I can't stop it. I can't take an Ativan. I put my lips to the aluminum can and take as sip because my mouth is so dry. I grip the can tightly.
"What did I forgive you for? What did we work through?" I ask, my mouth still dry. Voice hoarse. I'm afraid. I'm actually afraid.
His eyes widen, and he blinks, that expression of fear has returned. Oh, no. I brace myself for the worst. I stare impassively back, not blinking or backing down -despite my growing anxiety and fear.
"Christ, how to tell you. Maybe I need a mediator like I did to get you back."
"A mediator? To get me back?" I ask. I'm nearly breathless.
This is bad. This is going to be really, really bad.
"Yes, Dr. Flynn. I couldn't get you to talk to me. You only relented when I asked if you were willing to speak to John and he'd help facilitate a conversation."
What the hell? Who needs a facilitator for a break up? And why is he so familiar with his psychiatrist that he calls him by his first name? That's not very professional.
"John Flynn?" I breathe.
"Yes, he helped us."
Narrowing my eyes at him, I re-position myself so I can get a better look at him. He appears anguished and I feel like crying, despite not knowing what happened.
"What happened?" I demand. "And why did I want to talk to your shrink before getting back together?" My heart is hammering and it feels like needles are prickling my thighs. Anxiety has already made its way down my back. I don't have the patience to deal with his stalling.
"Tell me!" I yell
"Promise that you'll forgive me, Ana, promise," he implores.
"Now!" Yelling has never felt so good.
He closes his eyes and when he reopens them, a single tear is running down his cheek. He swallows hard, and I swear I can hear his rapid heartbeat.
"I'd never really punished you before. Every scene was for pleasure. I was trying to work you up to do the hard shit, but one morning – You asked me to show you how much a real punishment could hurt." He's barely speaking above a whisper. "I was torn," he says. "I'd spanked you with my hand once and you'd cried, so I didn't know why you wanted me to punish you then. I gave in, though– to the dark side of myself. Afterward, you left me. I begged you not to leave me, but you said you'd never allow me to touch you like that again. You said you were done with trying to be my submissive and you knew that I wasn't the kind of man that you wanted." Christian's elbows are on his knees and he's looking down.
Standing, I scream at him, "What did you do to me?"
He raises his head and intense, pain filled eyes focus on mine. "I hit you. I hit you with a leather belt," he whispers it so softly that I can barely hear him.
What did he just fucking say? This man…I heard him wrong.
"You did what?"
Christian's shoulders are shaking because he's begun to violently cry again. I don't care. How would I have ever offered myself up to be hit with a belt? Is he so fucked up that he'd hit me with a belt? Of course, he is. He's been hitting women since he was twenty-one years old. After he'd spent six years having the shit beaten out of him. I can't think about that right now, though
"I hit you with a leather belt," he repeats.
My body sways and I drop the can of Sprite onto the floor. I look down and watch as the sticky contents begin to flow around my feet. Christian doesn't seem to notice. His eyes are still stuck on my face.
"I asked you to hit me?" My voice sounds like I borrowed it from another person. It's not mine.
He uses the end of his t-shirt to wipe the tears off his face and nods. "Yes."
"And I told you that I wanted to know how bad it would be?"
The chilled Sprite is all over my toes. I want to dig my fingers into my thighs. I want to press my fingernails into my palms until I draw blood. I don't want to hurt Christian. I want to crucify myself.
"Yes. You said that you wanted to see if you could take it. Later, when we got back together, you told me you did it because you loved me," he replies.
"I told you that I agreed to let you take a belt to me because I loved you?" My throat is raw. This is what utter disbelief feels like. Who was I? No, who am I? I can't even remember.
"Yes. I took it to mean you were trying to prove your love to me."
"You said we broke up. I left because of you taking a belt to me?" I ask, wanting to sound dispassionate.
Christian nods. "Yes. I didn't want you to go. I begged you not to leave. You said that you had to. At the time, I hadn't admitted to myself that I'd fallen in love with you, and that's why it hurt so badly when you left."
"How long were we broken up? Or have you already said?"
"Five days. Five of the darkest and most painful in my life. I don't know what I'd have done if you wouldn't have taken me back," he murmurs. "I've never regretted anything as much as I've regretted those weeks when I was trying to mold you into my submissive. You probably don't believe me after what I've disclosed, but that's the truth."
"Where did you hit me?" I want to know so I never go into that room again. "I mean, what room? Where were we? In the bedroom?"
Christian swallows nervously and runs a hand through his too long hair. "The playroom."
I spin around, and slide on the slippery floor. Christian reaches to catch me so that I don't fall, but I pull my arm away and manage to stay upright. I head towards the stairs and take two at a time. Before I know it, I'm opening the door to the room that was once what Christian calls his 'playroom'. He's right behind me, asking me what I'm doing. He sounds as confused as I feel.
I flip on the light, and take the room in. It looks like any room in a house where people store shit. The walls are beige. The carpet's a darker beige. There's one lighting fixture in the ceiling. In one corner there are several boxes that are full of Christmas decorations. The bikes are up against a wall with helmets hanging off of the handle bars. It's a drab room full of crap. You'd never believe that less than a year ago, it was painted red, and a room where Christian tied up, fucked, and often hit women.
Standing in the middle of the room, I turn around and take it all in. Christian's arms are hanging by his sides like limp dicks and he looks miserable. I give him a level gaze.
"When did you change this room?" I ask.
"Right after you took me back. Immediately."
"You changed your life, a way of life that you'd led for twelve years, in five days?" Uncertainty over how in the hell something as profound as that creeps into my mind. That doesn't sound plausible.
"Yes. During the five days we were apart, I'd made the decision to have a relationship on your terms. We finally talked, you told me how awful you'd felt about trying to be a submissive, and what kind of relationship you wanted. You said all aspects of BDSM were off of the table, and I agreed. I just wanted you, however I could have you." Christian is no longer tearful and sounds like his usual self. He's watching my every move closely.
"Was that hard for you to do?" I ask, but I can't believe that it wasn't.
"I won't lie. In the beginning it was. But we had couples therapy, and well, I had private sessions with Flynn. It didn't take long, Anastasia. I promise, you were all I wanted and I would have taken you in any way, shape, or form."
I narrow my eyes at him. "We had couples therapy? With who?" I ask.
"Flynn," he replies.
Now, that's just wrong. A couple shouldn't have joint therapy with a psychiatrist who treats one half of the damn couple privately. Dr. Powell told me that. So did common sense. I decide not to address it, though. That's the least of this shit storm.
"Do you believe that I'm not the same man?" Christian whispers. He's standing in the doorway, as if he's afraid to enter the room that must have once brought him a lot of satisfaction.
"Do you miss it? The BDSM, that is?"
"No."
"To answer your question, yes, I believe you aren't the man you're describing. You aren't anything like the man I love, the man I'm looking at right now, and that's why this so fucked up." I begin to cry. "Everything around me was already fucked up, and now I find out about all of this shit. I'm hurt that you've been lying to me, and I'm also furious with you." Tears slide down my face and I don't bother to wipe them away.
Christian stands there. Regret and guilt are written all over him. I want to comfort him, I want to punch him, I want to claw at myself and hurt my body. I want to turn into a speck of dust and float out of this room.
"I know. I know you're probably tired of me saying it, but I'm sorry. I've been selfish, and I lied. I will always regret that and I can only hope that you'll forgive me," he says softly.
"You do deserve my hurt and fury, but I'm not going to throw around cruel words to hurt you," I reply. "I can, and I can't, understand the choices you made. But you robbed me of any decision, whether I woke up and saw you as a bad guy or not. You can't play God with someone else's life. This hurts, Christian, and I don't know what to do with it. Where do I put this kind of pain?"
He doesn't answer. I guess because he knows an apology is now just a scrap of garbage. I can't help but feel for him because I love him. You just can't snap your fingers and stop love. Life would be a lot easier if you could, but that's not what makes up life. I think life is meant to hurt at times, and that hurt is what makes human beings grow. However, some take their hurt and grow in crooked ways and purposely hurt others, while the rest of the world, take their hurt and pain, and heal with that love that you can't simply turn off.
Christian looks down at my sticky feet and motions for me to leave the room. I don't fight him as he walks into the ensuite and runs a bath. He pours my favorite Jasmine oil into it.
"I'll give you some privacy," is all he says. He sounds sad. He looks sad. Regret makes people sad.
I soak in the tub far longer than usual. Probably so I don't have to face Christian and risk another conversation that I honestly can't bear to have. I dry off and walk into the bedroom wrapped up in a towel. He isn't the room, but the door to it is closed. He's left a bedside lamp on for me. I turn to his dresser to grab one of his t-shirts to sleep in, when I see something on the bed. My heart drops.
I slowly cross the room and sit on the bed. Reaching, my fingers touch it, and I swear it feels like they've been lit on fire.
This surprises me as much as it hurts. It makes sense that he'd have it and not tell me because he didn't want me to find out what he's disclosed today. I could find him and actually hit him in the head with the paper weight on his desk, but I read the note that he's written.
Please don't hate me.
I let go of the note and it flutters in the air. Then I grab my supposedly lost journal and just stare at it. I'm not sure that I'm breathing. Gripping the leather-bound journal, I make my way to the bedroom door, set to confront Christian for taking and keeping it. I stop at the door, though, as my exhausted body and hurt heart sags to the carpet in front of it. The towel falls off, and with journal in hand, I slide down the door and begin to weep.