fifty-shades-of-grey

“You feel so good,” he groans, and my insides start to quiver. He pulls back and waits.“Oh no, baby, not yet,” he murmurs, and as the quivering ceases, he starts the whole deliciousprocess again.“Oh, please,” I beg. I’m not sure I can take much more. My body is wound so tight,craving release.“I want you sore, baby,” he murmurs, and he continues his sweet, leisurely torment,backward, forward.“Every time you move tomorrow, I want you to be reminded that I’ve been here. Onlyme. You are mine.”I groan.“Please, Christian,” I whisper.“What do you want, Anastasia? Tell me.”I groan again. He pulls out and moves slowly back into me, circling his hips oncemore.“Tell me,” he murmurs.“You, please.”He increases the rhythm infinitesimally, and his breathing becomes more erratic. Myinsides start quickening, and Christian picks up the rhythm.“You. Are. So. Sweet,” he murmurs between each thrust. “I. Want. You. So. Much.”I moan.“You. Are. Mine. Come for me, baby,” he growls.His words are my undoing, tipping me over the precipice. My body convulses aroundhim, and I come, loudly calling out a garbled version of his name into the mattress, andChristian follows with two sharp thrusts, and he freezes, pouring himself into me as hefinds his release. He collapses on top of me, his face in my hair.“Fuck. Ana,” he breathes. He pulls out of me immediately and rolls onto his side ofthe bed. I pull my knees up to my chest, utterly spent, and immediately drift off or pass outinto an exhausted sleep.When I wake, it’s still dark. I have no idea how long I’ve slept. I stretch out beneath theduvet, and I feel sore, deliciously sore. Christian is nowhere to be seen. I sit up, staringout at the cityscape in front of me. There are fewer lights on amongst the skyscrapers, andthere’s a whisper of dawn in the east. I hear the music. The lilting notes of the piano, a sad,sweet lament. Bach, I think, but I’m not sure.I wrap the duvet round me and quietly pad down the corridor toward the big room.Christian is at the piano, completely lost in the music he’s playing. His expression is sadand forlorn, like the music. His playing is stunning. Leaning against the wall at the entrance,I listen enraptured. He’s such an accomplished musician. He sits naked, his bodybathed in the warm light cast by a solitary freestanding lamp beside the piano. With the restof the large room in darkness, it’s like he’s in his own isolated little pool of light, untouchable…lonely, in a bubble.I pad quietly toward him, enticed by the sublime, melancholy music. I’m mesmerizedwatching his long skilled fingers as they find and gently press the keys, thinking how