Fifty Shades of Grey (Fifty Shades #1)(72)
Author: E.L. James

He places his hand reverently on my backside and very softly caresses it with his whole hand. With my eyes open, I can see his legs through mine, nothing else. I close my eyes tightly as he gently moves my panties to the side and slowly runs his finger up and down my sex. My body braces itself in a heady mix of wild anticipation and arousal. He slides one finger inside me, and he circles it deliciously slowly. Oh, it feels good. I moan.

His breathing halts, and I hear him gasp as he repeats the motion. He withdraws his finger and very slowly inserts the objects, one slow, delicious ball at a time. Oh my.

They’re body temperature, warmed by our collective mouths. It’s a curious feeling. Once they’re inside me, I can’t really feel them – but then again I know they’re there.

He straightens my panties and leans forward, and his lips softly kiss my behind.

"Stand up," he orders, and shakily I get to my feet.

Oh! Now I can feel them… sort of. He grasps my hips to steady me while I re-establish my equilibrium.

"You okay?" he asks, his voice stern.

"Yes." My answer is feather soft.

"Turn round." I turn and face him.

The balls pull downward and involuntarily I clench around them. The feeling startles me but not in a bad way.

"How does that feel?" he asks.

"Strange."

"Strange good or strange bad?"

"Strange good," I confess, blushing.

"Good." There’s a trace of humor lurking in his eyes.

"I want a glass of water. Go and fetch one for me please."

Oh.

"And when you come back, I shall put you across my knee. Think about that, Anastasia."

WaterHe wants water – now – why?

As I leave the bedroom, it becomes abundantly clear why he wants me to walk around

– as I do, the balls weigh down inside me, massaging me internally. It’s such a weird feeling and not entirely unpleasant. In fact, my breathing accelerates as I stretch up for a glass from the kitchen cabinet, and I gasp. Oh my… I may have to keep these. They make me needy, needy for sex.

He’s watching me carefully when I return.

"Thank you," he says as he takes the glass from me.

Slowly, he takes a sip then places the glass on his bedside table. There’s a foil packet, ready and waiting, like me. And I know he’s doing this to build the anticipation. My heart has picked up a beat. He turns his bright gray gaze to mine.

"Come. Stand beside me. Like last time."

I sidle up to him, my blood thrumming through my body, and this time… I’m excited.

Aroused.

"Ask me," he says softly.

I frown. Ask him what?

"Ask me," his voice is slightly harder.

WhatHow was your waterWhat does he want?

"Ask me, Anastasia. I won’t say it again." And there’s such a threat implicit in his words, and it dawns on me. He wants me to ask him to spank me.

Holy shit. He’s looking at me expectantly, his eyes growing colder. Shit.

"Spank me, please… Sir," I whisper.

He closes his eyes momentarily, savoring my words. Reaching up, he grasps my left hand and he tugs me over his knees. I fall instantly, and he steadies me as I land in his lap.

My heart is in my mouth as his hand gently strokes my behind. I’m angled across his lap again so that my torso rests on the bed beside him. This time he doesn’t throw his leg over mine, but smoothes my hair out of my face and tucks it behind my ear. Once he’s done, he clasps my hair at the nape to hold me in place. He tugs gently and my head shifts back.

"I want to see your face while I spank you, Anastasia," he murmurs, all the while softly rubbing my backside.

His hand moves down between the cheeks of my behind, and he pushes against my sex, and the full feeling is… I moan. Oh, the sensation is exquisite.

"This is for pleasure, Anastasia, mine and yours," he whispers softly.

He lifts his hand and brings it down in a resounding slap against the junction of my thighs, my behind, and my sex. The balls are forced forward inside me, and I’m lost in a quagmire of sensation. The stinging across my behind, the fullness of the balls inside me, and the fact that he’s holding me down. I screw my face up as my faculties attempt to absorb all these foreign feelings. I note somewhere in my brain that he’s not smacked me as hard as last time. He caresses my backside again, trailing his palm across my skin and over my underwear.

Why’s he not removed my panties Then his palm disappears, and he brings it down again. I groan as the sensation spreads. He starts a pattern: left to right and then down.

The down ones are the best. Everything moving forward, inside me… and in between each smack he caresses me, kneads me – so I am massaged inside and out. It’s such a stimulating, erotic feeling, and for some reason, because this is on my terms, I don’t mind the pain.

It’s not painful as such – well it is, but not unbearable. It’s somehow manageable, and yes pleasurable… even. I groan. Yes, I can do this.

He pauses as he slowly peels my panties down my legs. I writhe on his legs, not because I want to escape the blows, but I want… more, release, something. His touch against my sensitized skin is all sensuous tingle. It’s overwhelming, and he starts again. A few soft slaps then building up, left to right and down. Oh, the downs, I groan.

"Good girl, Anastasia," he groans, and his breathing is ragged.

He spanks me twice more, and then he pulls at the small threads attached to the balls and jerks them out of me suddenly. I almost climax – the feeling is out of this world. Moving swiftly, he gently turns me over. I hear rather see the rip of the foil packet, and then he’s lying beside me. He seizes my hands, hoists them over my head, and eases himself onto me, into me, sliding slowly, filling me where the silver globes have been. I groan loudly.

"Oh, baby," he whispers as he moves back, forward, a slow sensual tempo, savoring me, feeling me.

It is the most gentle he has ever been, and it takes no time at all for me to fall over the edge, spiraling into a delicious, violent, exhausting, orgasm. As I clench around him, it ignites his release, and he slides into me, stilling, gasping out my name in desperate wonder.

"Ana!"

He’s silent and panting on top of me, his hands still entwined in mine above my head.

Finally, he leans back and stares down at me.

"I enjoyed that," he whispers, and then kisses me sweetly.

He doesn’t linger for more sweet kisses, but rises, covers me with the duvet, and disappears into the bathroom. On his return he’s carrying a bottle of white lotion. He sits beside me on the bed.

"Roll over," he orders, and begrudgingly I move on to my front.

Honestly, all this fuss. I feel very sleepy.

"Your ass is a glorious color," he says approvingly, and he tenderly massages the cooling lotion into my pink behind.

"Spill the beans, Grey," I yawn.

"Miss Steele, you know how to ruin a moment."

"We had a deal."

"How do you feel?"

"Short changed."

He sighs, slides in beside me, and pulls me into his arms. Careful not to touch my stinging behind, we are spooning again. He kisses me very softly beside my ear.

"The woman who brought me into this world was a crack-whore, Anastasia. Go to sleep."

Holy f**k… what does that mean?

"Was?"

"She’s dead."

"How long?"

He sighs.

"She died when I was four. I don’t really remember her. Carrick has given me some details. I only remember certain things. Please go to sleep."

"Goodnight, Christian."

"Goodnight, Ana."

And I slip into a dazed and exhausted sleep, dreaming of a four-year-old, gray-eyed boy in a dark, scary, miserable place.

Chapter Twenty-One

There is light everywhere. Bright, warm, piercing light, and I endeavor to keep it at bay for a few more precious minutes. I want to hide, just a few more minutes. But the glare is too strong, and I finally succumb to wakefulness. A glorious Seattle morning greets me –

sunshine pouring through the full-height windows and flooding the room with too-bright light. Why didn’t we close the blinds last nightI am in Christian Grey’s vast bed minus one Christian Grey.

I lie back for a moment staring through the windows at the lofty vista of Seattle’s skyline. Life in the clouds sure feels unreal. A fantasy – a castle in the air, adrift from the ground, safe from the realities of life – far away from neglect, hunger, and crack-whore mothers. I shudder to think what he went through as a small child, and I understand why he lives here, isolated, surrounded by beautiful, precious works of art – so far removed from where he started… mission statement indeed. I frown because it still doesn’t explain why I can’t touch him.