Friday, January 25, 2013

Book III - Chapter XII - Christian and Anastasia Fan Fiction



“Monte Carlo is amazing!” Anastasia gushes. I look up from the book I’m reading smiling at her. She’s trying to get my attention.

“What are you reading?” she asks.

“Watching the Clock: Economic Predictions,” I say. “It’s a book predicting the collapse of the Western banking System.”

“Sounds like a page turner,” she says as her eyes greedily skim over my shirtless torso, and my cutoff jeans lying in the sun lounger next to hers. The Fair Lady is anchored in the harbor, and we’re basking under the sun at the Beach Plaza Monte Carlo in Monaco. I grin at her response.

“Well, I’m going to tan a little Mr. Grey since you seem to like my sun kissed skin,” she says plugging her ear-buds of her iPod into her ears. I turn back to my book for another hour, and Anastasia dozes off in the sun lounger listening to what she calls “Christian Grey mix-tape”; the mix I created for her after she broke up with me I painfully remember. Suddenly I feel a yearning towards my wife. I put my book down, lean in and whisper into her ear.

“You’ll burn,” and she’s startled from her nap.

“Only for you, Mr. Grey,” she murmurs smiling sweetly. The sun is lower now and we are no longer in the shade. I pull her sun lounger swiftly and get her under the protection of the parasol.

“Out of the Mediterranean sun, Mrs. Grey,” I say.

“Thank you for your altruism, Mr. Grey,” she replies.

“My pleasure, Mrs. Grey, and I’m not being altruistic at all. If you burn, I won’t be able to touch you,” I say raising my eyebrows. Not being able to touch my wife on our honeymoon would be a torture for me. “But I suspect you know that and you’re laughing at me.”

“Would I?” she asks innocently.

“Yes you would and you do. Often. It’s one of the many things I love about you, Mrs. Grey,” I say leaning down and kissing my wife, and playfully bite her lower lip.

“I was hoping you’d rub me down with more sunscreen,” she says against my lips.

“Mrs. Grey, it’s a dirty job... but that’s an offer I can’t refuse. Sit up,” I order in a husky voice. She sits up, and I slowly apply the sunscreen on her back and front. I can’t take my eyes or my hands off my wife.

“You really are very lovely, Anastasia. I’m a lucky man,” I murmur my appreciation of her body as I coat her breasts with my fingers with sun tan lotion, feeling the perkiness of her twin peaks.

“Yes, you are, Mr. Grey,” she whispers coyly, gazing at me through her long lashes.

“Modesty becomes you, Mrs. Grey, Turn over. I want to do your back,” I order. She rolls over smiling, and I undo the strap of her bikini to rub lotion to her beautiful backside.

“How would you feel if I went topless, like the other women on the beach?” she asks, and momentarily my fingers stop rubbing.

“Displeased,” I  reply, though ‘displeased’ would be the least of what I feel. I don’t want anyone getting a glimpse of my wife naked. “I’m not very happy about you wearing so little right now,” I add, and lean down to her ear and whisper, “So, don’t push your luck, baby.”

“Is that a challenge, Mr. Grey?” she asks. Leave it to Anastasia to take it as such.

“No. It’s a statement of fact, Mrs. Grey,” I reply. She sighs and shakes her head. Yes, I know I’m a possessive control freak, an insanely jealous husband but also madly in love with my wife! Who could blame me? It would drive me crazy if I saw other men ogling my wife in a naked state. I can barely handle it as it is. I finish rubbing the lotion all over her body, and slap her firm buttocks.

“You’ll do, wench,” I say. My Blackberry buzzes making me frown. She eyes me, and her gaze makes me grin.

“My eyes only, Mrs. Grey,” I say slapping her behind once more, and sit back and answer the call. Anastasia drifts back to her nap.

Once I finish my phone call, I motion a waitress to order drinks for us, ““Mademoiselle? Un Perrier pour moi, un Coca-Cola light pour ma femme, s’il vous plait. Et quelque chose a manger... laissez-moi voir la carte.”

Anastasia wakes up hearing me talking to the waitress. I gaze at my beautiful wife as she flutters her eyes open watching the waitress walk away with her tray.

“Thirsty?” I ask.

“Yes,” she replies sleepily.

“I could watch you all day. Tired?” I ask. The warm sun makes her even sleepier. She blushes. “I didn’t get much sleep last night,” she replies.

“Me neither,” I grin, looking at my wife. Last night’s exertions were extremely pleasant. I put my Blackberry aside, and divest myself of my cutout jeans. As I take my flip-flops off, I invite my wife for a swim with me. I’m in a playful mood.

“Come for a swim with me, baby,” I say holding my hand out to her. She looks at me semi incoherent, still tired. “Swim?” I ask cocking my head to one side, completely amused. She’s too sleepy to comprehend a simple question. I shake my head slowly, and as the gears are turning in my head, I know what I will do to wake her up.

“I think you need a wake-up call,” I say and pounce on my wife, lifting her in my arms while she shrieks, completely surprised.

“Christian! Put me down!” she says squealing, making me chuckle.

“Only in the sea, baby,” I reply, walking toward the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean under the bemused, disinterested gazes of the beach-goers. I make the short distance in the sand, and wade into the warm waters of the Mediterranean. Anastasia clasps her arms around my neck. Realizing what I’m going to do, she says, “You wouldn't!” breathlessly, but with a hint of amusement.

I grin at her in response. “Oh, Ana, baby, have you learned nothing in the short time we've known each other?” I answer kissing her. She reciprocates forcefully; her fingers running through my hair, grasping handfuls of it, kissing me back fervently as if she isn't getting enough of me, and I push my tongue into her mouth. She’s trying to get a rise out of me so I won’t drop her into the water. Once I manage to pull back from her lips, completely breathless, turned on, and hungry for her, I gaze at Ana with dark, salacious eyes.

“I know your game,” I whisper and slowly sink into the water with her in my arms as I lock my lips with hers once again. She wraps herself around me with her arms.

“I thought you wanted to swim,” she murmurs against my lips. I did, but I can improvise.

“You are very distracting,” I reply, my teeth grazing her delectable lower lip. I want to take her here, in the sea, but we now have a growing audience. “But I’m not sure I want the good people of Monte Carlo to see my wife in the throes of passion.”

This time she runs her teeth along my jaw, trying to seduce me. She’s already turned me on, and I can barely stand not fucking her in the warm waters of the Mediterranean. But I restrain myself considering the ever growing audience at the beach.

“Ana,” I groan. I wrap her ponytail around my wrist tugging it gently, tilting her head back. As I expose her throat, I trial kisses from her ear down to her neck.

“Shall I take you in the sea?” I ask breathless.

“Yes,” she whispers, demanding. I pull away to look at her, with nothing but desire and wanting in my eyes.
“Mrs. Grey, you’re insatiable, and so brazen. What sort of monster have I created?”

“A monster fit for you. Would you have me any other way?” she asks. Oh baby, you know the answer to that. “I’ll take you any way I can get you, you know that. But not right now. Not with an audience,” I respond jerking my head towards the beach. There are several people who are now interested in our interaction in the sea, some of whom wielding binoculars.  I suddenly grab Anastasia by the waist, and launch her into the air letting her fall into the water and sink beneath the waves and the soft sand on the sea floor. What I did to her is so unexpected, all I see is her flailing arms, and for a second I get concerned that I will have to rescue my wife from five feet of sea water, but soon enough she surfaces, coughing, spluttering and giggling.

“Christian!” she scolds me with her forbidding glare. It’s her, I’m-disappointed-I-didn't-get-sex look, and I have to bite my lower lip to stifle my amusement. She splashes me knowing, and I splash her right back.

“We have all night,” I remind her, and grin as wide as possible. “Laters, baby,” I say and dive under the surface away from Anastasia, swimming away from the shore. She doesn’t attempt to catch up to me. She’s not a fast swimmer as I am. When I’m nearly fifty yards away, she gives up and swims towards the shore. She can have her Coke and lounge as I swim and burn some energy. Otherwise we’ll both be up all night again. I swim further in the sea and I can feel the temperature change in the water. It’s noticeably cooler than the shore. I’ve been in water over half an hour. Deciding to get back to the beach, I start my strokes towards shore. As I get closer to the shore, I eye our sun lounger to see if Anastasia’s is sitting and waiting in it. Fuck! She's waiting for me alright! She’s fucking topless, face up, sleeping! And half the fucking beach is eyeing her, including my security detail! Shit! Fuck! I double my efforts to get to the beach, swimming faster than I ever did, and practically sprint to the sun lounger she's lying on.

I stand breathless at the foot of the lounger and the fucking French security twins are grinning with the floor show she's provided, and Taylor is scowling at them. I’m beyond boiling mad!

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I shout at her waking her up. The anger brewing in me could dry up my drenching body. She opens her eyes, confused at first, and then realizes her topless state.

“I was on my front. I must have turned over in my sleep,” she whispers defensively. I am burning with fury. I reach down and scoop the bikini top which she carelessly tossed onto my sun lounger, and toss it back at her. I am not entirely sure if she just turned over to her front in her sleep. She is doing this to challenge my authority. She loves to do opposite of everything I ask her to do. Fuck! Why the simple requests I make of her is a game to her? Does she not care or value what I think? 

“Put this on!” I hiss through my gritted teeth.

“Christian, no one is looking,” is her flimsy excuse. No one is looking? Even the security details I'm paying are ogling her. Is she babbling to get me madder?

“Trust me. They’re looking. I’m sure Taylor and the security crew are enjoying the show!” I snarl. More than enjoying. She finally has the decency to cover her breasts with her arms in panic after eyeing the security, and seeing their gazes locked on her very perky boobs.

“Yes!” I snarl back at her. “And some sleazy fucking paparazzi could get a shot of you, too. Do you want to be all over the cover of Star magazine? Naked this time?” I bellow. I don’t fucking believe it! Why does she do things always opposite of what I tell her? Has she no consideration? Why does she have to challenge everything I ask her not to do?

As soon as I see one of the waitresses walking by, I shout, “L’addition!” for the bill as I hand her a credit card. “We’re going,” I say to her with finality.

“Now?” she asks. Now, damn it!

“Yes. Now!” I say, turning to the other sun lounger, I grab cut out shorts and pull them on my dripping swimming trunks, and pull over my gray t-shirt. When the waitress comes back with my card charged, and the bill to sign, I render my signature without looking at the bottom line.

After seeing my determined demeanor, Anastasia puts her turquoise sundress on, and steps into her flip-flops. I hide my anger, tension and fury behind my aviator sunglasses, and angrily snatch my Blackberry and finance book. Does she think that her prank was funny? Just because we’re at a beach in Monaco doesn’t mean that I would stop hating others eye-fucking my wife! What’s more it’s a hard limit for me! It’s right up there with being touched by anyone other than Anastasia! Seeing her topless in public made all my synapses flash, Red! Red! Red! Red! Red! Nonstop!! She makes me feel helpless. She takes my orderly world and turns it upside down, breaks all my limits! How is a man supposed to deal with this? I have to show her what her behavior makes me feel like. I have to show her how desperate, helpless, incompetent I feel when it comes to her.

I can’t utter another word to her. The anger I feel is palpable. “Please don’t be mad at me,” she whispers as she takes my book and the Blackberry placing them into her backpack.

“Too late for that,” I say in a very low, quiet, determined to punish voice.

“Come,” I say taking her hand into mine. I signal to Taylor and the French twins Philippe and Gaston. How could Anastasia forget that three huge security guys detailing us 24/7 round the clock? Taylor seems to be mad at Anastasia as well knowing I will grill him momentarily for not waking Anastasia up and allowing others to ogle and eye fuck my wife. Just the thought of it is torturing me! I don’t share! She’s my wife, damn it! She was saying earlier that every other woman on the beach is topless. I’m a hot blooded American for fuck's sake! I’m Christian Grey! I’m not every other woman’s boyfriend or husband; what they do or don't do is none of my fucking business. I’m Anastasia’s husband! I take care of what is mine, and I am proprietary. Fuck this! I"m boiling mad. I walk towards the hotel pulling Anastasia behind me. We walk through the hotel and into the street. The anger is still boiling and brewing inside me.

How can I punish her? Orgasm denial? It’s standard in BDSM. That’s not enough. I want her to feel as helpless, as desperate, as defenseless, as powerless, as paralyzed, as exposed as I feel when she pulls one of her disobedient pranks on me. I want her to walk in my shoes, feel what I feel! She cuts me open, and lets me bleed slowly.  I vaguely notice that Taylor and his Francophone sidekicks are quietly shadowing us with just enough distance that my wrath doesn’t wash over them.

“Where are we going?” Anastasia asks gazing up at me.

“Back to the boat,” I respond without looking at her. I don’t want her chagrin, or her remorse to soften me. When we reach to the marina, it’s about quarter to six in the afternoon. I lead her to the part of the marina where the motorboat and the Jet Ski belonging to the Fair Lady are moored. I untie the Jet Ski while Anastasia hands her backpack to Taylor to be carried on the motorboat. Anastasia glances at me and Taylor nervously. He places the backpack into the boat, and hands Anastasia a life vest.

“Here you go, Mrs. Grey,” he says, and Anastasia puts it on silently. I look at Taylor finally spewing some of my rage into him. He knows that I’m extremely unhappy he let Ana get topless with these French twins ogling her. He could have gone and put a towel on her for fuck’s sake! His look, gaze and demeanor tell me that he didn't want to cross my boundaries. Has he just met me? He knows I get jealous of my wife! Was it better that the entire Monaco ogling my woman’s breasts?

I turn back to Anastasia who strapped her life jacket, but I have double check her handiwork, and tighten the middle one, and mutter sullenly, “You’ll do.” I still can’t get myself look at her. Still so fucking angry for defying me! What message was she trying to get across? Was it, ‘Look at me, I’m a hot babe, and available’, or ‘I can give me husband a coronary before he hits 30!’?

I take a deep breath and climb onto the Jet Ski, and hold my hand out for her to join me on it. The second she touches my hand, our connections jolts me alive again, and stirs a yearning inside me for her. She grasps my hand tightly, and throws her leg over the Jet Ski behind me. Taylor and the Francophone twins clamber into the motorboat. I kick the Jet Ski away from the doc, and let it float into the marina.

“Hold on!” I order Anastasia, and she better obey. She puts her arms around me, and holds on tightly, hugging me close to her. Her nose nuzzles on my back and our connection makes me feel alive. A tinge of relief floods which I hold at bay. I can feel her inhaling my scent making me stiffen. I don’t want to let go of the anger. She needs to be punished. She cannot keep crossing all of my boundaries.

“Steady,” I remind her, but anger melts away slightly with her proximity despite my resolve. She kisses my back, and rests her cheek against me. I turn the ignition of the Jet Ski and when the motor roars to life, I twist the accelerator and we buck forward through the dark water of the marina and toward the Fair Lady docked at the center of the harbor. Anastasia holds onto me tightly, but I can feel her vibrating excitement. She loves this mode of travel. Anything that can get her exited is exciting for me.

Taylor pulls the motorboat alongside the Jet Ski, and I glance at him to let him know we’ll have a little fun before we board. I accelerate and we shoot forward, whip over the top of the water. Taylor, unable to keep up with me, heads the motorboat back to the yacht. I twist the accelerator again and the Jet Ski pushes forward towards the open water. The sea spray splashes us, and Ana’s excitement is completely palpable, contagious. She is completely thrilled, and I am excited to show her a good time. No matter how angry I get with her, my life’s mission is still making her extremely happy.

I steer the Jet Ski in a giant semicircle and we turn away from the open seas and face the marina, and look at the Mont Agel, the mountain creating a natural border between France and Monaco. We can even see the Chemin des Révoires which is also called the Roof of Monaco. The disarray of blocks of apartments, various hues of white, yellow, pink, and sandy color apartments are visible and somehow make the city distinct, and enticing. Anastasia squeals in delight. I glance over my shoulder looking at her, and try to suppress my smile.

“Again?” I shout over the noise of the Jet Ski. She nods vigorously, and her enthusiasm makes me grin ear to ear. I twist the throttle and we speed around the Fair Lady and onto the open sea once again. We make the loop twice more, and each time Anastasia screams in delight. I finally slow the Jet Ski down and pull alongside The Fair Lady. Once we make up on the yacht, I pull her towards, me and unbuckle her life jacket.
 You've caught the sun,” I say noticing her tan. It’s a delightful shade and makes her skin glow, a healthy shade making her even more beautiful. She looks at me questioning, searching, assessing. One of the stewards is standing nearby quietly waiting for the life jacket which I hand to him.

“Will that be all, sir?” he asks.

“One second,” I reply. He nods and waits. I take off my Aviator sunglasses, and tuck them into the collar of my gray t-shirt.

“Would you like a drink?” I ask Anastasia.

“Do I need one?” she asks surprising me. I cock my head to one side and question her in a soft voice. “Why would you say that?”

“You know why,” she replies. My wife is too smart and she knows me well. I don’t want to hurt her, but I want her to know how she makes me feel.

“Two gin and tonics, please. And some nuts and olives,” I order the steward who nods and disappears.

Now that we are alone, what do I do with my wife? My mind is racing with different punishment possibilities all of which involving Anastasia in my bed.

“You think I’m going to punish you?” I ask her in a seductive voice.

“Do you want to?” she asks.

“Yes,” I reply truthfully.

“How?” she probes.

“I’ll think of something. Maybe when you've had your drink,” I say finally making up my mind. I know exactly what I want to do. She visibly swallows, but it’s hard to read her demeanor. She looks anticipatory, but I don’t want to misread it. If she doesn’t want to be punished, I can’t. I frown with the thought.

“You want to be?” I ask.

She flushes, “Depends,” she mutters in response. She sounds hopeful.

“On what?” I ask, trying to hide my smile.

“If you want to hurt me or not.”

Fuck! I don’t want to hurt her! She’s my wife for God’s sake. I just want her to understand my limits; my hard limits. I don’t want her to associate me, her husband with hurt and distress. I lean forward and kiss her forehead.

“Anastasia, you’re my wife, not my sub. I don’t ever want to hurt you. You should know that by now. Just... just don’t take your clothes off in public. I don’t want you naked all over the tabloids. You don’t want that, and I’m sure your mom and Ray don’t want that either,” I remind her.

She looks completely chagrined and just realizes the few minutes of indiscretion can cause a lot of embarrassment for a lot of us.

The steward finally comes back with our drinks and snacks and puts them on the teak table on deck.

“Sit,” I order her. She sits into a director’s chair while I take a seat next to her. I pass one of the gin and tonics to her.

“Cheers, Mrs. Grey,” I hold my glass.

“Cheers, Mr. Grey,” she replies taking a sip. She closes her eyes and takes another sip savoring, quenching her thirst. She looks so fucking hot! When she opens her eyes, and looks up, she finds me gazing at her. My face is impassive and I’m fighting inside how to deal with her. I am still mad, and I still want her to know that it’s not acceptable for her to take her clothes off in public, and that she’s my wife, but I don’t want to hurt her. How do I go about this? Even pleasure can be effectively used as a punishment. Oh, yes! Mrs. Grey, you’re in for a Christian Grey punishment fuck! Anastasia is trying to decipher my expression, but I give nothing away. Giving up, she asks:

“Who owns this boat?”

“A British knight. Sir Somebody-or-Other. His great-grandfather started a grocery store. His daughter’s married to one of the Crown Princes of Europe,” I reply trying to piece together the information the Shore Manager gave me that day. I was too angry to remember everything when the First Mate started making a pass at my wife in my presence.

“Super-rich?” she asks. Where is she going with this? I don’t want her to think about money now, like she did on our first night in Paris.

“Yes,” I respond warily.

“Like you,” she murmurs. Fuck! Don’t think like that, baby!

“Yes,” I murmur. Her face falls.

“And like you,” I whisper her and pop an olive into my mouth as my gaze lingers on her. She blinks rapidly. I want her to remember that what is mine is also hers. There is no “me” anymore. It’s us. It’s ours. She’s mine, and I’m hers. She exhales slowly.

“It’s odd. Going from nothing to,” she says waving her hand around to indicate the expensive yacht, “to everything.”

“You’ll get used to it,” I reply. I don’t ever want her to make this an issue. My wealth is hers. Without her, I have nothing. She gave meaning to all I have.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it,” she replies.

Taylor appears on deck. “Sir, you have a call,” he says and extends the Blackberry.

“Grey,” I snap, rising from my seat.

“Hi Mr. Grey. Ros here. I apologize for interrupting your honeymoon, but I’ll get right to the point right away,” she says.

“Well, hurry up then. You’re taking my time! What’s up?”

“It’s the Taiwan shipyard...”

“I’m listening,” I respond.

“Walter and I need to Taiwan to meet with the heads of the company...”

**** *****

As soon as I hang up with Ros, I’m anxious to get back to my wife on deck. I quickly walk to her sitting at the same spot I left her. She’s deep in thought just as I left her, still stewing about our money, her face is still fallen.

“You will get used to it,” I interrupt her thoughts.

“Used to it?” she ask.

“The money,” I reply rolling my eyes. She doesn’t respond but pushes the small bowl of almonds and cashews toward me.

“Your nuts, sir,” she says, biting her lips to not to smile. Her response makes me smirk.

“I’m nuts about you,” I reply taking an almond, enjoying her wicked humor. My nuts, my dick, and my entire body miss my wife. I lick my lips. “Drink up. We’re going to bed,” I say with dark eyes.

She looks up at me questioning. “Drink,” I mouth her, salacity, desire, carnal thoughts lacing my gaze. She picks up her glass, and drains her gin without taking her eyes off me. Her look says she too wants me badly, making my mouth drop open and the tip of my tongue caught between my teeth. Oh what I’m going to do to you Mrs. Grey. I stand up gracefully, knowing she’s watching my every move, and bend over my wife, my hands resting on the arms of her chair.

“I’m going to make an example of you. Come. Don’t pee,” I whisper in her ear. She looks at me with alarm. No, I’m not into golden shower.

“It’s not what you think,” I say smirking and hold my hand out to her. “Trust me,” I whisper, wanton.

“Okay,” she replies placing her hand into mine. Her trust is written all over her face. Her chest is heaving up and down in excitement and anticipation. I lead my wife across the deck and through the main salon, and through the narrow corridor, the dining room, and down the stairs to the main master cabin; our bedroom. Our cabin has been cleaned, our bed made. The cabin is cream colored accented with rich red, gold and mahogany colors and walnut furniture. The two portholes on both the starboard and port sides are framed and decorated with small red and gold colored curtains.

I release Anastasia’s hand when we enter into the cabin. I pull my t-shirt over my head and toss it onto a chair. I remove my flip-flops and my shorts and swimming trunks stand before my wife completely naked. She is eating me up with her gaze biting her lip. Her gaze is carnal. I reach up to her chin and release her lip then run my thumb along her lower lip.

“That’s better,” I murmur and stride over to the walnut armoire housing my clothes. I open the bottom drawers and pull out two pairs of metal handcuffs, and an airline eye mask from. She eyes get wide and she glances around nervously at the bed trying to see where I can attach the cuffs. Baby you have no idea what I can do with a pair of these. My gaze is on her steadily, my eyes dark, carnal, anticipatory.

“These can be quite painful. They can bite into the skin if you pull too hard,” I say holding a pair of the handcuffs up. “But I really want to use them on you now,” I say. I need to! When she disobeys me deliberately, I feel worse than being handcuffed. I feel helpless, voiceless, without control, without a rudder, adrift without a direction. She makes me feel debilitated, up the creek without a fucking paddle and in a pair of handcuffs! Her face is panicky.

“Here,” I say trying to put her at ease handing her a set. “Do you want to try them first?” She holds the solid, cold metal cuffs in her hands weighing. Her fingers run around the open cuffs, still anxious. I watch her every move, ever touch, every expression intently.

“Where are the keys?” she asks in a wavering voice.

I hold them out in my palm, showing her the small metallic key. “This does both the sets. In fact, all sets,” I reply. They’re universal. Her eyes are questioning. I don’t want her to be afraid, but I really have to do this. I lean down; stroke her cheek with my index finger, trailing it down to her mouth. I lean in close enough to kiss her.

“Do you want to play?” I challenge her in a low, licentious tone with carnal intent. I want to fuck. I want to punish. I want to show her what she does to me. I love her damn it, and it drives me insane when she disobeys! I hated it when her beautiful breasts were the focal point of half the beach goers. She needs to know how I feel.

“Yes,” she breathes in response. I smile, “Good,” I reply and plant air light kisses on her forehead.

“We’re going to need a safe word,” I say. She looks at me with her ‘what?’ face, questioning.

“Stop won’t be enough, because you will probably say that, but you won’t mean it,” I reply running my nose down on her without touching her anywhere else. She is so turned on. I can feel her heart fluttering; her chest is rising up and down in rapid succession.

“This is not going to hurt. It will however be intense. Very intense, because I am not going to let you move. Okay?” I ask. I want her to absorb all the pleasure, all the pounding I’m going to give to her, all the intense, overwhelming, mind blowing sensation. She flushes, and my cock is already in full salute mode. She looks down at my erection still growing with the sight of her.

“Okay,” she replies with a barely audible voice, anticipating.

“Choose a word, Ana,” I remind her.

The thinks for a few seconds, “Popsicle,” she say, panting.

“Popsicle?” I ask after she’s been eyeing my cock. She wants to suck me off!

“Yes,” she replies in a breathy voice.

I grin as I lean back to gaze down at her. “Interesting choice. Lift your arms up,” I command and she obeys. I lift the hem of her sundress, pull it over her head and toss it on the floor. I hold my hand out to her and she places the handcuffs in the middle of my palm. I put both the sets of handcuffs on the table along with the blindfold and pull the gold and red colored duvet off the bed letting it fall to the floor.

“Turn around,” I order. She does, and I undo her bikini top, letting it fall onto the floor.

“Tomorrow, I will staple this to you,” I mutter. I tug her hair tie and free her hair. I collect her hair in one hand. I yank it gently and she steps back against my chest, against my full grown erection. She gasps. I pull her head to one side and kiss her neck.

“You were very disobedient,” I murmur into her ear, making her catch her breath.

“Yes,” she acknowledges.

“Hmm. What are we going to do about that?” I ask rhetorically.

“Learn to live with it,” she breathes her answer making me grin. Optimistic Mrs. Grey. I land soft languid kisses on her neck driving her wild.

“Ah, Mrs. Grey. You are ever the optimist,” I murmur against her neck.

I straighten, and part her three into three strands, and braid it slowly, and finally tie it with her hair tie at the end. I tug her braid gently and lean down into her ear. “I am going to teach you a lesson,” I state her punishment...

I move suddenly, grab her by the waist, sit her on the bed, and yank her across my knee, making her lay on my erection firmly pressed against her belly. I smack her beautiful derriere once, very hard. She yelps. I put her on the bed on her backside. I gaze down at this beautiful creature, with molten desire in my eyes. She is turned on, hot and bothered, ready to fuck, to be fucked.

“Do you know how beautiful you are?” I ask as I trail my fingertips up her thigh. A shiver runs through her body. Without taking my eyes off my gorgeous woman, I get both the sets of handcuffs. I grasp her left ankle and snap one of the cuffs around her ankle.

I lift her right leg, and repeat the process with right leg. She is now lying on the bed with a pair of handcuffs tied to each ankle.

“Sit up,” I command her. She obeys immediately.

“Now hug your knees,” I order.

She blinks at me as she draws her legs up so they’re bent in front of her and she wraps her arms around her legs. I reach down, lift her chin up, and plant a soft wet kiss on her lips before covering her eyes with the blindfold. She’s excited, her senses are alert. Her lips part in heady anticipation.

“What’s the safe word, Anastasia?” I ask.

“Popsicle,” she replies in a breathy tone.

“Good,” I say and taking her left hand, I snap the cuff around her wrist and repeat the process on both wrists. Once the task is completed, “Now,” I breathe, “I’m going to fuck you till you scream.”

Her mouth falls open. She’s practically panting.

I grasp both of Anastasia’s heels and tip her, making her fall backward onto the bed. The cuffs force her to keep her legs bent. She tests them by pulling against them. She’s completely trussed up and helpless. That’s how she makes me feel more than half the time. A taste of her own medicine. Her legs are pulled back but placed together. I pull her ankles apart, and she groans for what’s to come. I lean in and kiss her inner thigh. Normally she would be squirming, but she won’t be able to do that in this position without the cuffs digging into her flesh. She has no choice but to absorb all the pleasure with all its intended intensity. She tries to move her hips, but the restrains prevents her from doing so.

“You’re going to have to absorb all the pleasure, Anastasia. No moving,” I murmur, and slowly inch my way up my wife’s body, kissing her along the edge of her bikini bottoms. I finally pull the string of the tiny triangles on each side, and the sexy but small fabric fall away. I inhale sharply seeing my wife completely naked, all trussed up, unable to move under me, to make love, fuck and pleasure punish her as I wish is a total turn on.  I move and kiss her belly and nip her navel with my teeth.

“Ah...” she sighs. I trace soft kisses and little bites up to her breast. I suck, and kiss and nip with just enough pressure to pleasure her, but enough suction to mark her as mine. Repeat. She won’t be able to take her clothes off for a little while at the beach with what I have in mind for her. She sighs again with pleasure.

“Shhh...” I soothe her. The way she looks right now makes me fall in love with her all over again. “You are so beautiful, Ana,” I declare. She groans her frustration, her desire. She wants to match my rhythm with hers. Touch me, but she can’t. She moans again and pulls on her restraints, frustrated, unable to do what she wants, fulfill her desires, take control, she cries out, “Argh!” pulling forcefully against her cuffs.

“You drive me crazy,” I whisper. “So I’m going to drive you crazy,” I murmur resting on her, putting my weight on my elbows finally turning my attention to her breast. The nipples of her gorgeous twin peaks she displayed to half of Monaco including the security detail, however unintentional are tout and begging for attention. My lips and my fingers busy on her nipples. I take one of her nipples between my teeth sucking it while I pay the same attention with my thumb and fingers on the other. With expert efficiency I start nipping, biting, sucking, leaving small trails all over her breast, driving her wild with indulgence. Taking the other nipple between my teeth, I render the same pleasurable punishment with my teeth, lips and tongue. Suck, nip, kiss, bite, lick, roll, pull and touch, never stopping, driving her wild. She wants to writhe under me, but she can’t without pulling onto her restraints which forces her to absorb everything I have to give her.

“Christian,” she starts begging for a release, for a friction. I smile against her skin, triumphant knowing that she’s finally getting a taste of the torture she’s giving me.

“Shall I make you come this way?” I murmur as my lips are wrapped around her nipple which hardens with her arousal. “You know I can,” I say sucking her harder making her cry out. I can feel the sensation, the electricity the pleasure traveling from her nipple, tightening her core, her groin, her sex because she pulls helplessly on her cuffs, trying to ride the pleasure, spread it around her body instead of the concentration I'm delivering on one point with all its intensity.

“Yes,” she whimpers.

“Oh, baby, that would be too easy,” I murmur.

“Oh... Please, Christian,” she begs me.

“Shhh...” I soothe her as I scrape my teeth over her chin then I slowly, lazily make my way over to her mouth, consuming it. She gasps as I kiss her. My tongue invades and takes over her mouth. Exploring, moving, tasting, caressing, feeling, commanding, dancing with her tongue. She meets my thrusts move by move with her tongue, writhing, clashing, stroking, sucking, and matching my fervor, and intensity of my desire. I grasp her chin, holding her head in place.

“Still, baby. I want you still,” I whisper against her mouth.

“But, I want to see you,” she complains.

“Oh no, Ana. You’ll feel more this way,” I whisper. Not knowing what I will do next, not knowing what to expect, not seeing forces her to use and rely on her sense of hearing, smell and touch. I want her to feel. Sometimes seeing renders other senses dull, useless even. I want her to completely feel what I'm doing and absorb it all. Slowly and expertly I flex my hips and push my cock only partway into her. She strains to push her pelvis to grasp and pull my cock into her sex, but she can’t move. She wants me, but she’s unable to get me the way she wants me. She’s frustrated, just like I have been. I pull my cock back knowing she’s going to be frustrated.

“Ah! Christian, please!” she begs for friction.

“Again?” I ask playfully, teasing her in a hoarse voice.

“Christian! I want you!” she begs again.

I push in agonizingly slow, only a small fraction of my length and withdraw while kissing her, tugging her nipples with my fingers. She’s overloaded with please, but not localized enough to make her come, and she’s desperate for it.

“No!” she says, but doesn’t safe word. She’s cracking under the intensity of my ministrations.

“Do you want me, Anastasia?” I ask her through gritted teeth.

“Yes,” she begs in a whinny voice.

“Tell me,” I order hoarsely. I need to know. I want to know. I have to know that she wants me! That she’s desperate for me! For me alone! Not some other random guy who might take a peek at her breasts.

“I want you,” she whimpers. “Please, I want you!” Her declaration gives me relief, and I sigh softly by her ear.

“And have me you will, Anastasia,” I say, and finally rear up and slam into her sex, balls deep, hard! She screams, tilts her head back, pulls on her restraints. As I hit on her secret sweet spot, buried deep inside her sex, on the front wall of her vagina, I can feel the shudders moving through her entire body; focused, agonizingly intense, pleasurable, over the limit kind of fuck. She tries to move, and match my thrust, but she can’t. I still inside her, savoring my wife, enjoying our connection. Then I circle my hips, giving the friction she’s been begging, rubbing her sweet spot, letting the feeling radiate all the way to her fingertips from deep within her. This is what she does to me. She mind fucks me, rubs me over and over and over again, defying, leaving me helpless.

“Why do you defy me, Ana?” I ask unable to help myself.

“Christian, stop...” she admonishes. She admonishes me even though she’s the one who is defying me, leaving me bereft, vulnerable. She doesn’t answer me. I circle my hips again, my cock teasing, and rubbing her. I slowly ease out of her sex, and slam into her again.

“Tell me. Why?” I hiss through gritted teeth. I need to know. Does she hate me? Does she like to get a rise out of me? Does she want someone else? Something else? I am desperate to know!

She cries out an incoherent wail...

“Tell me!” I slam into her again.

“Christian...” she admonishes.

“Ana, I. need. To. Know.” I say slamming into her with each word, trusting deep inside her sex, farther with intensity. She pulls against her restraints, ready to climax, ready to come, her sex clenches deep inside, wrapping tightly around my cock, and pulsing, ready to milk me.

“I don’t know!” she cries out. “Because I can! Because I love you! Please, Christian,” she begs, and her declaration is my undoing. She manages to take over me mentally even though she’s the one restrained. I groan loudly, and thrust deep in her inviting sex over and over and over again. She’s lost to the sensation, lost to our fucking, lost to the overwhelming intensity I’m giving her. She opens her mouth, and moans, her voice is incoherent.

“That’s it,” I growl. “Feel it, baby!” As she reaches the peak of her ecstasy, she screams loudly; her orgasm detonating in large waves, sweeping through her body, and rolling into my body through our connection, her body pulsing and shaking with the aftershocks of her pleasure. I kneel before her, my cock still inside her. I pull my wife upright onto my lap. I clutch her head with one hand, and hold her back with the other and thrust into her two more times emptying all I have, coming inside her with such a violent orgasm, my head involuntarily jerks back in an arch. My cock pulses, throbbing, lost in the orgasm. The long strokes I thrust into her slowly milk me. While taking everything I have, it not only provides a physical relief, but also an emotional one.

I tear off the blindfold and kiss Ana. I capture her lips and stoke her mouth with my tongue, then I kiss her eyes, her nose, and her cheeks. There are tears in her eyes. I kiss them away clutching her face between my hands.

“I love you, Mrs. Grey,” I breathe into her mouth. “Even though you make me so mad – I feel so alive with you,” I confess. She is my lifeline. She is what makes me feel intensely alive. She is so exhausted; she can’t sound a single word. Gently, I lay my wife on the bed, and pull out of her.

She tries to protest wordlessly, but she’s lost. I quickly climb off the bed, and undo her handcuffs. Once I get her out of her hand cuffs, I rub her hands, wrists, ankles when she pulls against her restraints. Lying next to my wife, I pull her into my arms, and she stretches her legs, tangling them with mind, and soon weary with our exertions, she falls asleep in my arms, naked. I watch my wife in her quiet slumber. She looks even younger, and more innocent. She has endured her punishment fuck, and yet I feel I’m the one who is punished, I’m the one who reclaimed life again.

When Anastasia is in deep sleep, I slip out of the bed, and go to the en-suite bathroom to take a shower. Once I come out, I quickly dry myself, and put on my while linen shirt and my chino pants. I climb on the bed with my laptop and start working. The sky outside get dark right around nine p.m. The yacht is moving towards Cannes. Anastasia moves beside me in bed. I still, and stop typing to not to wake her up, but it has the opposite effect. She opens her eyes, first confused, trying to assess where she is.

“Hi,” I murmur at her, gazing down with nothing but love towards her.

“Hi,” she smiles back, and blushes. Why the shyness? “How long have I been asleep?” she asks.

“Just an hour or so,” I reply.

“Are we moving?”

“Yes. I figured since we ate out last night and went to the ballet and the Casino that we’d dine on board tonight. A quiet night à deux.” She grins in response.

“We are we going?”

“Cannes,” I reply.

“Okay,” she says trying to stretch. She sits, and lowers her legs to the floor. I glance at her and notice the hickies I left on her. Ana grabs the silk robe; she puts it on quickly, still very shy. My eyes continue to follow her movement. I feel uneasy, unhappy with the marks. My brows furrow. I turn my gaze back to my work on my laptop, but I find myself unable to focus. Why the hell do I feel this way? She defied me, laid on the beach with bare breasts and a two pieces of triangles for a bikini bottom. And I’m the one who is feeling shitty! Anastasia walks into the bathroom. I look and gaze at the bathroom door, waiting for her to come out. Waiting anxiously for her reaction when she notices her hickies. But she doesn’t come out. What is she doing in there? I don’t hear the water running. No sound. Is she mad? Oh hell! What is wrong? She comes out of the bathroom, and completely avoiding my gaze or even sparing a look in my direction, she stalks into the closet. She’s so fucking mad at me! Oh shit!

“Anastasia,” I call out to her, anxious to hear her response. “Are you okay?”

She doesn’t reply. Few minutes later she steps into the bedroom emanating fury, in her camisole and sweatpants, and without a word she hurls something at me. I barely have time to react and automatically raise my arms to protect my head. Anastasia storms out of the cabin and I vaguely realize that she hurled her hairbrush at me like a pro-baseball player. I am both impressed and worried about her anger. This is the reason my woman can math me in everything.

I follow her out of the cabin. I take the steps two at a time to get to upstairs. When I hit the deck, the balmy air hits me. The briny smell of Mediterranean, the sweet scent of jasmine and the bougainvillea that smells something between putrefying plants and last night’s broccoli creating an interesting concoction blowing from the shore. The Mediterranean Sea looks cobalt blue in the dark of the night, and the Fair Lady glides over the sea smoothly. Anastasia is gazing into the distant shore as her elbows are resting on the wooden railing, absently watching the distancing lights. I stand behind her without making a movement or an effort to touch her. She’s vibrating tension, and anger.

“You’re mad at me,” I whisper.

“No shit, Sherlock!” she hisses.

“How mad?” I ask softly.

“Scale of one to ten, I think I’m at fifty. Apt, huh?” she responds. That’s impressively furious; a woman whose wrath could match and exceed mine. A woman fit for me.

“That mad,” I reply with a voice that sounds surprised and impressed at the same time.

“Yes. Pushed to violence mad,” she replies through gritted teeth. Yep, just like me! I know how to handle me, but I have not seen her, this mad! How do I handle this? I remain silent, and watch her with wide and wary eyes. I’m lost. I don’t know how to handle this. What do I do? My silence makes her turn to me. She eyes me warily, assessing my mood, expression.

“Christian, you have to stop unilaterally trying to bring me to heel. You made your point on the beach. Very effectively, as I recall,” she says. She knows why I had done it. I shrug. “Well, you won’t take your top off again,” I murmur, and I sound like a petulant child.

Her eyes are full of fire when she glares at me. “I don’t like you leaving marks on me. Well, not this many, anyway. It’s a hard limit!” she hisses. Really? Fuck that! What about my hard limits? Why do I have to be the one who is accommodating, and feeling helpless? Why should my hard limits be crossed all over?

“I don’t like you taking your clothes off in public. That’s a hard limit for me,” I growl at her in response.

“I think we've established that,” she hisses again through her gritted teeth. “Look at me!” she shouts pulling her camisole down. The tops of her breasts are dotted with hickies. My gaze slips back to her face, unblinking. I’m wary, uncertain. She’s mad, and I feel like shit! I know she’s mad, but why would she take her top off when I explicitly said she couldn't  Did I not establish my hard limit? I think, I’ve clearly done that. But, I don’t want to hurt  or mark her.

“Okay,” I finally say in an assuaging tone. “I get it.”

“Good!” she shouts, but I think the fight is out of her. I’m exasperated with her, with me, with our fight. I run my hands through my hair. “I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad at me,” I apologize. I know when she says that to me, she melts my heart, taking the fight out of me. But I do feel remorseful.

“You are such an adolescent sometimes,” she admonishes me. She’s right of course. I take a step towards her. I don’t want us to fight. I hate the distance between us, emotional and otherwise. I can’t take it. I slowly, tentatively raise my hand and tuck her hair behind her ear.

“I know,” I acknowledge in a soft tone. “I have a lot to learn.” I don’t know any other way.

“We both do,” she replies and sighs. She then raises her hand, and softly, cautiously places it over my heart. The gesture though small is significant for me. She is the only one who can touch me like that. I don’t flinch, but still stiffen. But I want her touch, I crave it, I can’t live without it. I place my hand over hers as relief washes over me, and smile at her.

“I’ve just learned that you've got a good arm and a good aim, Mrs. Grey. I would never have figured that, but then I constantly underestimate you. You always surprise me,” I say softly.

She raises her eyebrows at me, “target practice with Ray. I can throw and shoot straight, Mr. Grey, and you’d do well to remember that,” she warns me playfully.

“I will endeavor to do that, Mrs. Grey, or ensure that all potential projectile objects are nailed down and that you don’t have access to a gun,” I smirk at her. She smirks right back at me.

“I’m resourceful,” she wiggles her eyebrows, making me smile.

“Oh, that you are, Mrs. Grey,” I whisper, and wrap my arms around her, pulling her into a tight embrace. This is the only place I want to be, wrapped around my wife, holding her, inhaling her scent, connected. I lean down and nuzzle her.

“Am I forgiven?” I ask softly. I want to know that everything is well between us.

“Am I?” she asks. At that moment I know she forgave me. “Yes,” I reply.

“Ditto,” she says. Relief washes over me. I love her immensely. We hold each other like this for several minutes. Realizing we haven’t had dinner, I ask, “Hungry?”

She has her resting against my chest. “Yes. Famished. All the...uhm...activity has given me an appetite. But I’m not dressed for dinner,” she says. Who says we have to go out?

“You look good to me, Anastasia. Besides, it’s our boat for the week. We can dress how we like. Think of it as dress down Tuesday on the Cote D’Azur. Anyway, I thought we’d eat on deck.”

“Yes, I’d like that,” she replies smiling. Her smile melts my heart, washes away my worries and I lean down to kiss her. Kiss her with all I’ve got, ask her forgiveness with my kiss. Declare my love with the each molding of our lips, and caresses of our tongues. I love her. When we’re finally both breathless from out kiss, I take her hand, and walk her to the bow of the yacht where the dinner table is set for us.

We start our dinner with gazpacho soup. Although there is so much to eat, I can’t pay attention to what I’m eating. My focus is on my wife. When finally the desert is served, and the steward is gone, Anastasia asks me a question very curiously.

“Why do you always braid my hair?” she asks as we’re sitting next to each other at the table. She slowly curls her leg around mine. It’s such a simple, yet a very sensual act. I break the burnt sugar on top of the crème brulée and think of her question. There are two answers to that, but I don’t want to tell her the first one and raise her curiosity. I’m not ready to talk about the crack whore to her and break this magical moment. The crack whore used to let me comb her hair. But the answer I give her is the simpler of the two.

“I don’t want your hair catching in anything,” I say quietly. “Habit, I think,” I shrug. But hiding the main reason from my wife bothers me. I frown, my eyes widen, and my pupils dilate with alarm. I don’t want to think about a mother who didn't love me. For a moment, I’m lost in memories. Lost in the few precious moments I’ve had with her. There were only very few of them. Combing her hair was one of them. Seeing the alarm on my face makes Anastasia anxious. She leans over and puts her index finger over my lips.

“No, it doesn’t matter. I don’t need to know. I was just curious,” she says softly, warmly, with a reassuring smile. She anchors me to here and now with her sweet tone. I focus on my wife; focus on the love she’s showing me. She’s my anchor, stationing me, placing me to sanity. I finally manage to feel relief with Ana’s reassurance. She leans over, and kisses the corner of my mouth.

“I love you,” she whispers, and her declaration is more precious to me than anything. I need her love more than I need my next breath.   “I will always love you, Christian,” she adds without breaking her gaze from me.

“And I you,” I manage to respond softly.

“In spite of my disobedience?” she asks raising her eyebrows.

“Because of your disobedience, Anastasia,” I reply finally, grinning. Her reply is a heartbreaking smile. Once the dinner is over, I reach for the bottle of rosé and refill her glass. Anastasia first glances around like she normally does when she wants to ask me something discreetly.

“What’s with the no going to the bathroom thing?” she asks.

“You really want to know?” I ask with a half-smile, my eyes are alight with a salacious grin.

“Do I?” she questions me as she takes a sip of her wine.

“The fuller your bladder, the more intense your orgasm, Ana,” I reply. The pressure of slightly full bladder exerts a slight pressure on the sexual organs, stimulating them, and making them more sensitive. And besides, the more tease, the bigger the please. That’s why I started, stopped, restarted over and over again. Lovemaking is a marathon, not a sprint for me. She blushes at my response.

“Oh, I see,” she replies making me grin.

“Yes. Well...” she looks around for a way to change the subject.

I take pity on her and change the topic. “What do you want to do for the rest of the evening?” I ask with a smile. She shrugs.

“I know what I want to do,” I murmur. I grab my glass of wine, and rise extending my hand to her. “Come,” I order. I lead Anastasia to the main salon. My iPod is already docked. I turn it on, and scroll down my list to choose a song for us. I choose a song by the velvet voiced Michael Buble and Laura Pausini, “You’ll Never Find Another Love Like Mine”.  I press the button and the seductive, velvety voices echoes around.

“Dance with me,” I say darkly, pulling her into my arms.

“If you insist.”

“Oh, I insist, Mrs. Grey,” I say huskily. I sweep her off her feet and twirl her around the dance floor. She yelps and giggles as I dip her low. Then I scoop her up and spin her under my arm.

“You dance so well. It’s like I can dance,” she says. I smile. Her face slightly falls. She knows that Elena introduced me to dancing, but I learned with my own efforts. I’ve taken lessons to get a right and a left foot in the same body. I dip her once again, and kiss her on the lips. She sings along with the singers.

“You’re gonna miss my love,” she murmurs, echoing the lyrics.

“I’d more than miss your love,” I say spinning her once again, singing the words into her ear.

You'll never find, as long as you live
Someone who loves you tender like I do
You'll never find, no matter where you search
Someone who cares about you the way I do

Whoa, I'm not braggin' on myself, baby
But I'm the one who loves you
And there's no one else, no-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh one else

You'll never find, it'll take the end of all time
Someone to understand you like I do
You'll never find the rhythm, the rhyme
All the magic we shared, just us two

Whoa, I'm not tryin' to make you stay, baby
But I know somehow, some day, some way
You are (you're gonna miss my lovin')
You're gonna miss my lovin' (you're gonna miss my lovin')
You're gonna miss my lovin' (you're gonna miss my lovin')
You're gonna miss, you're gonna miss my love

Whoa, oh, oh, oh, oh (you're gonna miss my lovin')
Late in the midnight hour, baby (you're gonna miss my lovin')
When it's cold outside (you're gonna miss my lovin')
You're gonna miss, you're gonna miss my lo-o-ove

You'll never find another love like mine
Someone who needs you like I do
You'll never see what you've found in me
You'll keep searching and searching your whole life through
Whoa, I don't wish you no bad luck, baby
But there's no ifs and buts or maybes

You're gonna, You're gonna miss (miss my lovin')
You're gonna miss my lovin' (you're gonna miss my lovin')
I know you're gonna my lovin' (you're gonna miss my lovin')
You're gonna miss, you're gonna miss my lo-o-ove

Whoa, oh, oh, oh, oh (you're gonna miss my lovin')
Late in the midnight hour, baby (you're gonna miss my lovin')
When it gets real cold outside (you're gonna miss my lovin')
I know, I know that you are gonna miss my lo-o-ove

Let me tell you that you're gonna miss my lovin'
Yes you will, baby (you're gonna miss my lovin')
When I'm long gone
I know, I know, I know that you are gonna miss
When the track ends, I gaze down at my wife with dark, licentious eyes. Her gaze is locked with mine. She is breathless, desirous, loving.

“Come to bed with me?” I whisper with a plea. Please baby! Let me properly make you forgive me. The only way I know how. She only nods, and taking her in my arms, I take her to our bed.
**** ♡ *****
Thank you for patiently waiting for this chapter everyone! FYI: A reporter friend of mine informed me that Kivanc Tatlitug (actor/model whose image I've been using to represent CG) is coming to Los Angeles for the LATFF between the dates of Feb 28-March 3rd.