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achillieus · 3 years

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let you down. (sebastian stan x reader)

summary: it's a universal truth but it's worth repeating; feelings eat us raw. or just an actor and a girl falling in and out of love over the course of three months.

(this was inspired by sebastian's visit to greece for his movie, monday, and is based on that, so that means in the story we’re in 2018. also i have this posted on ao3 too but while i’m writing the last parts i thought of posting it here too)

pairing: sebastian stan x reader

warnings: alcohol, sexual references, implied depression, sebastian desperately needs to hug the reader, it's kinda slowburn because i love the yearning

(pinterest inspired board)

part: 1/6

(other parts) (masterlist)

The day it happened, it wasn't a significant meeting at all, you barely even talked. In fact, when he opened the door of your neighbor’s flat that day with a beer in his right hand and his hair messy, he didn't have any effect on you. You always knew that living next to a director meant that sooner or later you’d bump into the pretty faces of well-known people. Sure, you didn’t expect them to be Hollywood actors like him, but to say you were starstruck by the man, would be the overstatement of the year.

The building you’ve lived in for the last three years has five floors; you live in the 4th, he lives in the 5th. He’s a quiet person, usually spending his evenings out of his apartment. You’ve talked sometimes, about the weather and the weird lady that lives in the 1st floor. You’ve never told him you find his directing style a little pretentious.

You’ve never been to his place until that annoyingly warm August evening, when you find a white button up shirt on your balcony. You can clearly see more clothing when you look up and you’re certain the item you’re holding belongs to him.

He’s not there though. Instead you find a different face behind the door. Lighter eyes and darker hair. The man in front of you is definitely younger than the director. You don’t bother to notice what he’s wearing.

“Can I help you?” His voice is deeper than you expected. Stronger, with a touch of European accent. The sound of English surprises you at first but soon you realize he must be another foreign coworker that came to visit your neighbor

“No, I just think Argyris dropped this and it ended up on my floor.”

He looks at you and then at the shirt, in your hands.

Then he says “Sure, I’ll take it.”

“Okay.”

Then it ends. He doesn’t even ask your name. You don’t have to ask his. You figure out, as soon as you walk down the stairs, that it’s Sebastian Stan that you just talked to.

And while being a big fan of marvel movies, you think nothing special of him at first. You just wonder how a mostly unknown director from Greece got an actor like Sebastian to come here so they can work together. It makes no sense to you, but you forget it when your phone starts ringing.

It would’ve been easier if you never saw him again, yet you do. You see him trying to understand what the old lady from the first floor is trying to tell him. You already know. The elevator is not working. The next day you see him walking up the stairs.

You exchange a quick hello, how are you and then off you both go.

The same night Argyris invites you to have a drink with them in the terrace. Part of you wants to just stay in bed and binge watch some Sherlock episodes. Part of you already thinks of what to wear.

There are around ten people there when you show up. They’re all sitting down in huge pillows drinking and talking loudly. You don’t know most of them.

You sit next to a blonde girl, across from Sebastian. This time you notice he’s wearing a plain black shirt and holds a glass of whiskey.

You don’t share any direct conversations but you learn that he’s afraid of growing old and that he thinks Taxi Driver is one fucking masterpiece, as he says.

When you mention that you’re probably the least artistic person in the room right now, you hear him laugh.

A curly haired woman starts dancing with him at some point. You decide he’s not a good dancer.

He leaves the same time you do, following you down the stairs.

“I thought you live here.” You say when he doesn’t stop at the floor you expect him to.

“Ah no, I stay at a hotel near the centre.”

He keeps talking about his suite until you reach your door.

You part in a blur, with a short goodbye.

He still doesn’t ask for your name.

It makes you feel genuinely offended.

Two days after, he is the farthest thing from your mind, until you find him sitting in front of your door, his eyes roaming the place with despair. And then he sees you.

“Ah finally you are here.” He starts casually. “Thank god.”

You just nod.

“Argyris told me to wait for him with you. We had a meeting but he got stuck in traffic.”

You give him a look.

“He said you’re always at home so you won’t mind.”

Ouch. Yeah sure, your social life wasn’t something to brag about but for some reason the way Sebastian said it, it sounded like an insult.

“Okay, come in.” You shrug, clearly not feeling comfortable and turn around to unlock the door.

You hear him call your name. You thought he didn’t know.

“Yes?”

He offers you an easy smile. “Thank you.”

Sitting in your couch he’s eyeing the entire room, while you put some groceries in the fridge.

“Argyris says you’re a great girl.” He clears his throat. “But he thinks you’re too quiet for your own good.”

You look at him, your eyes flicking up and down his face.

“And from what I can tell, he’s right.” You hear him laugh.

It felt weird to see him laugh while he was leaning back at your cozy pillow. He had entered your life so suddenly you didn’t even have time to react to it.

“I’m sorry but I barely know you.” Your words are sharp. He sits up.

“Okay then let’s get to know each other, what’s your favorite Disney princess?”

Defeated, you laugh. “Are you kidding me?”

“No, this is an important question.”

You wait for him to crack up but then you remember he’s an actor.

“I don’t know.” You think for a second. “Mulan?”

“Oh my god. Mulan is amazing.” You smile at him. “My favorite is Jasmine, she’s just so badass.”

You share your favorites that day, having almost nothing in common rather than your everlast love for animated movies and buttered popcorn.

When it’s time for him to leave, he stops and looks at you in the eye.

“You should talk more often.”

You stare at him with confusion. “I talk,” you raise your eyebrows. “When I have something to say.”

“Good.” he says, still looking.

Later in the evening, you’re eating some yoghurt when he comes knocking on your door.

He’s different. The white tank top he was wearing this morning is replaced with a dark shirt and his face looks tired. You assume they’ve been working since he went upstairs.

“Hiii”, he says dragging the i, “Am I interrupting anything?”

You desperately want to nod. You want to tell him that you were doing the most exciting thing in the world, before he came but you were never a good liar.

So you just tilt your head and take a step back.

That’s when he enters and is met with some loud rock music blaring from your laptop.

“You like AC/DC?” he asks, almost wide-eyed.

“Well, I can tell it’s them when I hear their stuff.” For the first time that day, he seems to be in loss of words. “Why are you so surprised?”

He sits in the same spot in the couch as earlier and laughs.

“I just didn’t take you for the kind of girl who likes this music.” It’s your turn to laugh.

“Why?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Quiet girl who loves animated films and eats kids’ yoghurt” he looks at the carton in your kitchen table, “and also likes metal music? Doesn’t add up.”

“We’ve basically just met; you shouldn’t make assumptions about me.”

“Fair enough.” He sits back, fidgeting with his fingers.

You take some time just looking at him

There was a certain vibe about that man that made you wonder how it’d feel to cruise down a dessert highway in a convertible mustang with him. In the summer. With him wearing that white tank top.

The color of strawberries emerges at your cheeks just at the thought of it.

You wish he doesn’t notice.

You’re glad to find him looking the other way, before he speaks up.

“We’re going out tonight.” His voice is warm now. “Argyris says you should come along, even though I’m quite sure there’s no hardcore music where we’re going.” He laughs again.

I can’t. You almost say. But then anxiety slips away from you and out of sudden you want him to stop being so freaking arrogant, going around and acting like he knows exactly what kind of person you are.

He thinks you’ll say no. You can see it in his eyes.

“Sure, when should I be ready?” you say, surprising both of you.

He looks at you for some time and then trying to hide whatever he was thinking he says the first thing on his mind.

“How old are you?” He sounds pitiful. He knows. He wishes he could hit a wall; with his head.

“Twenty-one.” His eyes scan yours, unsure of what they’re looking for. “Why?”

“No reason.”

He inhales deep.

You try to blink. You’re at a party in a little bar you’ve never been before and a lot of people are wearing black. Alcohol. You can still taste it on the back of your tongue. You don’t remember how you end up pressed against a dark skinned man, but you can tell he smells of cigarettes and despair.

You sway your body to the beat, close your eyes. Breath in. And out. You think the music deafens you for a second but you open your lids and see Sebastian and he’s watching you, unashamed.

He’s not that far, though it feels like it with countless bodies in the way. The music melts. His gaze is almost angelic. Or devious. You can’t really tell.

He’s dancing with that curly haired woman again. You wonder how intimate their relationship is.

The red neon lights make his skin glisten. His muscles move divinely. It makes you think there’s an entire world inside him, his flesh barely keeping it hidden. Out of sudden you get the urge to walk towards him. You want to see him up close under this dim lighting. But you don’t move.

The man that’s groping your waist asks for your name. You tell him you need to flee. He doesn’t understand.

You sit outside with the sweet summer breeze touching your bare arms. The bass of the music in the background syncs with the beating of your heart. You can feel your ribs grow with every breath you take. Until you stop breathing because the door opens and his eyes suffocate you.

You can’t fathom the effect he has on you. He was a pretty face on screen some days ago. But right now he steals distance and stays near you.

You don’t look his way. He doesn’t say a word. Nicotine and smoke surround you as he exhales. His fingers hold the cigarette butt with care.

“Do you want some?”

You turn to look at him.

“I don’t smoke.” He laughs.

“That doesn’t mean you don’t want some.”

You want to know if his breath has the taste of sulfur. You want to pretend it’s the alcohol or the loud music that makes your head hurt.

“What’s the best part of being an actor?” The blue in his eyes glows.

There’s silence but he seems to be thinking about it.

“Do you ever feel things too much?” He says, his voice hoarse. “I mean, when you feel something so intensely it becomes a part of who you are.”

You nod. You understand.

“Acting allows you to let go of these feelings,” he starts. “You share the burden with the audience until it becomes light and you can hold it again.”

You look at him, shaking your head.

“I don’t think I could that,” you close your eyes. “I don’t think I could share what I feel so easily.”

He stands up. The wind hits you again.

“A lot people can’t. That’s why everyone is heartbroken,” he takes a breath, “Feelings eat us raw.”

You both go to bed alone that night. Tomorrow there is a hole next to you.

the morning after, search history

(02:45 PM) hangover recovery

(03:00 PM) best food after a hangover

(03:10 PM) sebastian stan

(03:30 PM) sebastian stan girlfriend

(06:00 PM) xanax side effects

You follow him on Instagram. He doesn’t follow you back. You remember he probably gets tons of followers every day and decide not to let it bother you. Instead you study for the exams of the following month.

The subject of your studies doesn’t interest you. Another poor decision you made under pressure. Sometimes you feel as if your life is borrowed from someone else. Sometimes you feel as if you haven’t found your home yet.

Feelings eat us raw.

His girlfriend looks beautiful in the pictures you find online. The media isn’t certain if they’re still together but you like to think so. It makes it easier to avoid him.

But the universe seems to be oblivious to your thoughts and you see him that same day. You’re taking the garbage out and he’s coming down from the top floor. You meet in the elevator.

“I’m glad to see you’re still alive,” his eyes are smiling as he talks “you looked kinda drunk last night.”

You fidget with the hem of the bag you’re holding.

“I wasn’t drunk.” You notice he’s growing some stubble. You’re not sure you like it.

“Whatever you say, doll.” You bite your cheek trying to devour any sign that might give away how his words make you flinch.

He turns his body a little so now you’re facing each other. He’s so pretty. He’s so pretty in a way that doesn’t hurt. You try not to stare at him, but you fail sometimes. You’ve never noticed how slow the elevator moves until you want to get out. You can’t stand being so close to him for much longer.

He’s an arrogant rich actor who loves Disney and smokes a lot, you think. I have no reason to be affected by him.

“Ah! Argyris said we’re leaving for the weekend.” You eye him curiously. “He wants to show us some small villages in the south. He thinks we should get to know the country a little more before we start.”

You’re stunned by your neighbor’s dedication to his work. Sometimes you wish you had something you could be passionate about too. Sometimes you think you’re never going to find it.

“That’s great. I’m sure you’ll like it.” You give him a smile.

He leans his back at the wall. The elevator stops. Finally.

“I like your eyes.” You grab tight onto the bag. “But they don’t smile when you do.”

He opens the door and he’s gone.

They tell you that it’s fun to meet a famous person. They tell you, you can ask for a photo and a hug. They tell you celebrities don’t talk a lot but that doesn’t mean they’re rude.

But he’s not like that.

He’s fire. He’s burning heat and scorching flames. His words are his thoughts; raw. You don’t like it.

late night search history

(00:38 AM) blue valentine movie soundtrack

(01:15 AM) is sebastian stan a bad person

(01:30 AM) acting classes for amateurs

(01:50 AM) cheap leather boots

(02:10 AM) sebastian stan eyes

You find it annoying; how he’s present even when you’re alone.

Thankfully he’s leaving for the weekend, you think.

The weekend, however, is two days away.

You think you can get away without seeing him. And you do. Until it’s late at night again. And they’re all upstairs with music so loud you’re certain the lady on the first floor is going to be rude about it in the morning.

The music tempo has you unaffected. All you think about is if he’s dancing with that woman again.

He’s such a bad dancer, he should not be dancing.

There’s a subtle knock on your door. You know it’s him. You hope you’re wrong.

“Do you feel like dancing?” His face is all flustered. It’s a good look on him.

“You can’t come knocking on my door at 2 AM and ask me to dance.” His gaze is filled with confusion.

“So you don’t feel like dancing?” You roll your eyes. He notices.

“That’s not the point Sebastian.” It’s the first time you call him by his name. You let it slip away slowly, testing the way it sounds coming out of your mouth.

He takes a step closer. You are suddenly aware of your pyjama shorts and your exposed skin.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to irritate you.” His eyes are the cliché blue of the sky. “I just thought you might want to dance, that’s all.”

Suddenly you feel guilty and embarrassed. He’s oblivious to it.

For a moment you feel his eyes linger on you. It feels surreal.

You nod at him.

He’s ready to say something when Argyris comes down the stairs, his shirt slightly unbuttoned.

“Ah man, I thought you got lost or something.” You lower your eyes. “Stop messing with the poor girl. People are looking for you.”

He throws a smile at you and Sebastian takes a quick breath.

“People are always looking for me.”

He gives away that he’s carrying a burden. Your expression softens. But then you look at Argyris and you see he doesn’t really pay attention to these words.

You share a quick look before you’re there standing alone at your doorstep, trying to grasp the idea of him.

When you wake up you feel like running. You can’t fathom where the feeling comes from but it starts like a liquid running down your veins and soon you can’t stay in bed even for a second.

Feelings eat us raw. Only if you let them.

i really appreciate feedback, it motivates me tons and also tell me if you’d like to be tagged in this six part story :)

#sebastian stan #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan imagine #monday the movie #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #letyoudown

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storiesforallfandoms · 4 years

Text

a great team ~ yungblud

word count: 1730

request?: yes!

“could u maybe write a dom/yungblud fic?? maybe he meets a writer working for his record label (she could be writing someones biography or smth) and they hit it off and then maaaybe flashfoward to them being together??”

(i made her a songwriter i hope that’s okay!)

description: in which a famous songwriter is paired up with a famous alt. rock musician and they find out that they’re a great team, in more ways than one

pairing: yungblud x female!reader

warnings: swearing mainly

masterlist

You checked the time again as you tapped your fingers against the steering wheel. You were late for the meeting you had with the new artist you were supposed to be working with because you left your house later than you meant and got stuck in traffic. You didn’t even know who you were supposed to be working with because your agency hadn’t told you who it was yet, so you couldn’t even contact the person to tell them you’d be late!

You sighed heavily as your car moved about another inch. You looked at the time once again, willing the traffic to let up so you could make it before the artist just left.

The one upside to being stuck in traffic was that you were having some good ideas for songs. The downside was that because you didn’t know who the person you were supposed to be working with was, you had no idea if the song would be the right genre for the artist. Regardless, every time your car came to a stop you wrote some more lyrics down. By the time you finally got through the traffic you had a whole song written.

You were humming a possible beat to yourself as you raced through the hall till you got to the studio you were book in for the day.

“I am so sorry, traffic was absolutely awful and I got stuck,” you explained the moment you pushed the door open.

The person waiting for you was a younger looking guy with a messy mop of black hair, wearing an oversized hoodie and a pair of skinny jeans. He looked up at you and smiled.

“It’s cool! I figured that’s what it was. I’m not long here myself,” he responded. He stood and held his hand out to you. “I’m Dom, professionally known as Yungblud.”

“Oh! Yeah, I know you. I love your latest EP, it’s like the most played thing on my phone right now.” You realized his hand was still extended to you. “Oh! Right! I’m (Y/N).”

“Nice to meet you, (Y/N),” Dom said.

“So,” you said as you both sat down together, “why do you need a songwriter? I thought you wrote your own stuff.”

“I do,” Dom responded. “But my label is pushing for my next album like now, so they called in some help. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for the help, but I hate being rushed. Making music is a process that can’t be rushed.”

“Trust me, I understand. I’ve had my fair share of singers essentially being forced to work with me because they’re under some sort of time limit to get an album done. Record labels just don’t get it because all they do is slap their name on the thing and release it to the world.” You shrugged. “On the positive side of all of this, while I was stuck in traffic I managed to write a song if you wanna check it out.”

“Like a completed song?” You nodded your head and laughed at Dom’s bewildered expression. “Yes! Let me see it!”

You passed Dom your phone. You watched him read through the lyrics in silence, waiting anxiously for his reaction.

He started nodding his head and humming to himself before singing a couple of the lyrics. The melody he came up with was definitely much better than what you were humming.

“It’s amazing!” he finally said. “That’s perfect! I have to make a note of this melody in my head before we continue. We’ll work on the instrumentals later. I only need like four more songs and then the album is ready to go.”

“Let’s get to work then!”

You two were sat there for hours on end. It was easy bouncing ideas off of one another and banging out three more songs together. It was as if you both had the same mind when it came to songs and lyrics, and even melodies as you were eventually coming up with the instrumental ideas for the songs and both your ideas were the exact same.

Before you knew it, you had the album written. All that was left to do was figure out the instrumentals and the vocals.

“Well, that was a breeze,” Dom commented. “We make a pretty great team, huh?”

“Honestly, you’re the best musician I’ve worked with,” you told him. “Most people I work with, especially on such a strict deadline, are so hard to write with. They want the album to be perfect since it’s so close to being released that they refuse some of the stuff I write because it’s ‘not their style’ and ‘too simple’. I wonder why they kept me around for so long. Realistically, you could’ve told me to leave at any time if you weren’t enjoying my company.”

“That’s awful,” Dom said. “I don’t understand how people can turn down help when they obviously need it. It’s hard enough to write one song by yourself, let alone having to do multiple in one session. Even if the lyric didn’t sound like something they’d sing, that’s why they’re there, to make it sound like their style.”

You shrugged. “Some people are afraid of being called out for having a ghostwriter, too. I’ve worked with a couple artists who said they’d consider my ideas and then didn’t use them at all so they didn’t have to put my name in the writing credits. It’s all about appearance, you know. If you’re found out to have a song writer help you they accuse you of ghostwriting. It’s hard in the industry to be a songwriter alone and not a singer-songwriter.”

Dom shook his head. “That’s not right. Most people need a professional songwriter to help them out.”

You chuckled. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

There was a prolonged silence between the two of you. You weren’t sure what else to say or do. You both technically had the studio booked for another hour, but there wasn’t much that could be done right now without a producer or any musicians present. A couple of the songs written were meant to be collabs with other singers, so those couldn’t be done until Dom reached out to those artists.

“So,” Dom started after a moment, “you said I can tell you to leave at anytime. I know we technically have another hour before our session is up, but would you be opposed to being kept a bit over our time?”

You raised an eyebrow, confused by his question. “What do you mean?”

“Like...I dunno, would you wanna grab something to eat or something?”

You couldn’t help but smile at the question. “Yeah, I would love that.”

~~~~~~

A few months later, you were sat at home watching a late night talk show in which Dom was performing and being interviewed. His performance, which was of the song you had written that day in traffic, had just ended and you were waiting for the show to start back up after the commercials.

When it finally did, there was Dom, sat next to the interviewer and smiling widely.

“Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen we are sat down now with Yungblud!” the host announced. The crowd cheered in excitement and Dom was beaming at them all. “So, this new album, it comes out in about a week. What can fans expect from the album?”

“It’s a sort of different album as far as what fans usually get from me. It’s still my usual style but it’s sort of different subject matters on each song than what I usually sing about.”

“And I heard that you actually had a songwriter brought in to help you write some of the songs.”

Dom nodded proudly, unashamed to admit it. “I did, yeah! Her name is (Y/N). She’s honestly the best songwriter in the game if you ask me. We got together and I’d say in 2 hours flat we had songs written, melodies figured out and we had sent out samples to artists we wanted featured on the album. That’s the fastest I’ve ever gotten anything done.”

The audience applauded and you couldn’t help but smile at, even though no one could see you.

“On the topic of this songwriter,” the interviewer continued, “there have been some reports that the two of you may or may not be dating. There’s been pictures of the two of you together getting very cozy.”

The smile on Dom’s face only got wider. He looked up at the interviewer and shrugged before responding, “I guess the cat’s out of the bag. Yeah, we are dating. We have been since that day in the studio, actually. We thought we made a great team songwriting wise, let’s see if we make a great team dating wise. And so here we are.”

The crowed cheered excitedly. You felt as if a massive weight had been lifted off your shoulders. Keeping this relationship a secret, even if for a couple of months, had been the toughest thing for you. You just wanted to tell everyone that you two were together. To post all the cute pictures you had saved on your phone, to not be afraid of being caught by fans or paparazzi. To just be a happy couple in public no matter what.

Now, it was out there for the world to know, and you couldn’t feel happier about it.

The interview continued until the host thanked Dom for coming onto the show and plugging his album one last time before going to commercial. Nearly seconds later, you phone was ringing. You looked down to see that it was Dom trying to facetime you. His face was still beaming with pride when you answered his call.

“Did you see it, babe?” he asked. He sounded so excited, like a kid in a candy store.

“I saw it,” you confirmed. “How do you feel, baby?”

“I feel so free!” he declared. “I’m so glad to publicly call you mine.”

You couldn’t help but giggle. “I’m glad to publicly call you mine, too. Finish up your press tour for your album soon and come back to me, I miss you.”

“I miss you, too, love,” he told you. “I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

He kissed his camera and you giggled again, kissing yours back. Yeah, you both definitely made a great team.

I’m sorry if this sucked :/

#yungblud #yungblud imagine #yungblud x reader #dominic harrison #dominic Harrison imagine #dominic Harrison x reader #imagine #request #one shot #imagine request #leave a request

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thestumblesandfalls · 4 years

Text

187.

There is nothing you can’t know about me.

He presents this as though it has already been established, as though he has said it before and I should already be acquainted with the quiet, humming warmth of this sentence. As though its undertow of open and unashamed sentiment were something I would ever guess at without him putting it into words. As though this weren’t a simple, yet profound, decision it was early to make and early for me to believe. As though he didn’t know it would register, miles away, as gently and personally as tapping his forehead to mine.

It is a mystery to me how some people’s words can reach out over distance and close it.

Likewise and, I respond, letting myself add, I reserve the right to say I won’t text about something.

I want that disclaimer, the option of saving some things for when we’re in the same space, our environments matching up. There’s something different in that setting, something more communal than my being hours away from our shared sidewalks, surrounded by a growing number of strangers at a house party whose music already feels a touch too loud — and him, well, I don’t know what he’s doing, and that feels peacefully fine. It’s not that I want or feel the need to hide from him. It just feels important to point out that I have pieces of myself that I set aside, parts I am not willing to transmit by typing alone.

As do I, he counters.

Sometimes it takes away a little. I leave out that I realize it’s relatively little, for us, considering we write to each other more than we speak. Considering I’ve talked with him about things I couldn’t think of anyone else I’d tell.

It wasn’t always like this. A year ago — a few months ago, even — I could have gone a full day without it crossing my mind that we hadn’t exchanged thoughts. Two years ago, I could have picked a path through the universe that didn’t intersect with his at all, let alone run parallel or overlap. I would never have known that he even existed.

He sends back, simply, I agree.

It isn’t until I’m reading his words that it occurs to me that I was expecting him to concur. Rarely, it is a misguided assumption that he will understand whatever vague idea I verbalize without further explanation. It is also a safe bet beautifully often.

He doesn’t just agree today, though. He expands on what I’ve sent him, his words once again quieting the noise around me as I read and it feels like I’m listening.

It definitely isn’t the same. As evidenced by me staring and trying to figure out tone lol

I wrinkle my nose over a smile, knowing the face he likely made a few minutes ago in the situation to which he’s referring. His eyebrows would have rearranged to the asymmetrical spots on his face they occupied when he was holding an expectant pause rather than outright asking if something I’d said was serious. In person, he’d verbally scoot around that soft spot in our trust, lifting his voice and sending it out of the right side of his mouth more than the left. He had a way of masking uncertainty with a particular brand of bewildered humor that made it impossible for tension to linger.

Even if shit hit the fan, I tell him, probably unnecessarily, I’d want to talk until we were cool again.

If I get to choose, I will choose not to lose him.

That’s usually how I deal with that scenario, he says, agreeing again. Also I can’t see that happening.

I almost can’t picture it, either, some sort of misunderstanding powerful enough for us to flip our phones screen-down and walk away livid and disappointed, both probably more hurt than anything else. A piece of me wants to reject it out loud, call it inconceivable, but I have too many examples of humans pulled from my life to rest mental weight on a theoretical refusal to bail. He doesn’t need to know that I turn off whatever is in my headphones when he texts upset, that I remember his details without trying to at all, that it’s not just that I can’t see that happening — I also don’t want to see it happen.

I send him a gibe instead of addressing any of this. Us talking? Yeah it’s so rare already.

There is a palpable eye-roll in his next message. Ya that’s totally what I was talking about. It’s not like we send over 100 messages to each other a day or anything.

I can’t decide if I believe this estimate or not. It seems steep. It’s not that high.

Waaant me to count? It’s both challenge and invitation, and as usual I can’t help but read the words in his speaking voice in my head.

I’m curious enough to say yes. Is it really that high, I send back, my disbelief punctuated by the omitted question mark.

It can’t be that high.

So today, he informs me, not counting messages but like how many times we’ve had a back and forth, including this one—

Sixty, I predict to myself, shrugging and deciding that seems reasonable. I squint at the screen almost suspiciously, waiting for his three blinking typing dots to resolve into words.

—is 187.

Oh.

I place one hand over my mouth as though anyone around me would even notice that I’ve regressed, for a moment, to my high-school self, smiling at some sort of messaging platform well after nightfall. My head is shaking in muted amazement already as I type out a reply and then slip my phone into my back pocket.

187. I tuck the number away into a corner of my mind, on an imaginary bookshelf next to the history that should have made it unsurprising. One hundred and eighty-seven pieces of evidence that our minds like one another’s company, like tick marks supporting the two-person moments I circle back to for restful solidarity. The number has a little weight to it. It fits comfortably next to the flashbulb memories of sharing jokes and dessert, giggling over the modern equivalent of passing notes in class, and so many other examples of us making private instants in public places with a split second of eye contact. It adds to them, too; it takes on the significance of past-midnight check-ins and on-call mutual support too sacred for me to discuss with anyone else. In words and pictures and time, we have built a place that doesn’t exist and we hang out in it; we visit — over a hundred times a day.

187, my brain reminds me.

Of course.

My phone buzzes again, and I add another to the tally in my head.

188.

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fiftyshadesofdimmadome · 6 years

Text

Book 1; Chapter 18

Dr. Greene is tall, blond, and immaculate, dressed in a royal blue suit. I’m reminded of the women who work in Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome’s office. She’s like an identikit model another Stepford blonde. Her long hair is swept up in an elegant chignon. She must be in her early forties.

“Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome.” She shakes Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome’s outstretched hand.

“Thank you for coming at such short notice,” Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome says.

“Thank you for making it worth my while, Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome. Miss Steele.” She smiles, her eyes cool and assessing.

We shake hands, and I know she’s one of those women who doesn’t tolerate fools gladly. Like Kate. I like her immediately. She gives Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome a pointed stare, and after an awkward beat, he takes his cue.

“I’ll be downstairs,” he mutters, and he leaves what will be my bedroom.

“Well Miss Steele. Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome is paying me a small fortune to attend to you. What can I do for you?”

After a thorough examination and lengthy discussion, Dr. Greene and I decide on the mini pill. She writes me a pre-paid prescription and instructs me to pick them up tomorrow. I love her no-nonsense attitude she has lectured me until she’s as blue as her dress about taking it at the same time every day. And I can tell she’s burning with curiosity about my so-called relationship with Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome. I don’t give her any details. Somehow I don’t think

she’d look so calm and collected if she’d seen his Red Room of Pain. I flush as we pass its closed door and head back downstairs to the art gallery that is Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome’s living room.

Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome is reading, seated on his couch. A breathtaking aria is playing on the music system, swirling round him, cocooning him, filling the room with a sweet, soulful song.

For a moment, he looks serene. He turns and glances at us when we enter and smiles warmly at me.

“Are you done?” he asks as if he’s genuinely interested. He points the remote at a sleek white box beneath the fireplace that houses his iPod, and the exquisite melody fades but continues in the background. Standing, he strolls towards us.

“Yes, Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome. Look after her; she’s a beautiful, bright young woman.”

Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome is taken aback as am I. What an inappropriate thing for a doctor to say. Is she giving him some kind of not so subtle warning? Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome recovers himself.

“I fully intend to,” he mutters, bemused.

Gazing at him, I shrug, embarrassed.

“I’ll send you my bill,” she says crisply as she shakes his hand.

“Good day, and good luck to you, Ana.” She smiles, her eyes crinkling as she does when we shake hands.

Taylor appears from nowhere to escort her through the double doors and out to the elevator. How does he do that? Where does he lurk?

“How was that?” Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome asks.

“Fine, thank you. She said that I had to abstain from all sexual activity for the next four weeks.”

Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome’s mouth drops open in shock, and I cannot keep a straight face any longer and grin at him like an idiot.

“Gotcha!”

He narrows his eyes, and I immediately stop laughing. In fact, he looks rather forbid ding. Oh shit. My subconscious quails in the corner as all the blood drains from my face, and I imagine him putting me across his knee again.

“Gotcha!” he says and smirks. He grabs me around my waist and pulls me up against him. “You are incorrigible, Miss Steele,” he murmurs, staring down into my eyes as he weaves his fingers into my hair, holding me firmly in place. He kisses me, hard, and I cling on to his muscular arms for support.

“As much as I’d like to take you here, now, you need to eat and so do I. I don’t want you passing out on me later,” he murmurs against my lips.

“Is that all you want me for my body?” I whisper.

“That and your smart mouth,” he breathes.

He kisses me again passionately, and then abruptly releases me, taking my hand and leading me to the kitchen. I am reeling. One minute we’re joking and the next... I fan my heated face. He’s just sex on legs, and now I have to recover my equilibrium and eat something. The aria is still playing in the background.

“What’s the music?”

“Villa Lobos, an aria from Bachianas Brasileiras. Good, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I murmur in total agreement.

The breakfast bar is laid for two; Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome takes a salad bowl from the fridge.

“Chicken caesar salad okay with you?”

Oh thank heavens, nothing too heavy.

“Yes, fine, thank you.”

I watch as he moves gracefully through his kitchen. He’s so at ease with his body on one level, but then he doesn’t like to be touched... so maybe deep down he isn’t. No man is an island, I muse except perhaps Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, pulling me from my reverie. I flush.

“I was just watching the way you move.”

He raises an eyebrow, amused.

“And?” he says dryly.

I flush some more.

“You’re very graceful.”

“Why thank you, Miss Steele,” he murmurs. He sits down beside me, holding a bottle of wine. “Chablis?”

“Please.”

“Help yourself to salad,” he says, his voice soft.

“Tell me what method did you opt for?”

I am momentarily thrown by his question, when I realize he’s talking about Dr. Greene

visit.

“Mini pill.”

He frowns.

“And will you remember to take it regularly, at the right time, every day?”

Jeez... of course I will. How does he know? I blush at the thought, probably from one or more of the fifteen.

“I’m sure you’ll remind me,�� I murmur dryly.

He glances at me with amused condescension.

“I’ll put an alarm on my calendar.” He smirks. “Eat.”

The chicken caesar is delicious. To my surprise, I’m famished, and for the first time since I’ve been with him, I finish my meal before he does. The wine is crisp, clean, and fruity.

“Eager as ever, Miss Steele?” he smiles down at my empty plate.

I look at him from beneath my lashes.

“Yes,” I whisper.

His breath hitches. And as he stares down at me, I feel the atmosphere between us slowly shift, evolve. . . charge. His look goes from dark to smoldering, taking me with him. He stands, closing the distance between us, and tugs me off my bar stool into his arms. “Do you want to do this?” he breathes, looking down at me intently.

“I haven’t signed anything.”

“I know but I’m breaking all the rules these days.”

“Are you going to hit me?”

“Yes, but it won’t be to hurt you. I don’t want to punish you right now. If you’d caught me yesterday evening, well, that would have been a different story.”

Holy cow. He wants to hurt me... how do I deal with this? I can’t hide the horror on my face.

“Don’t let anyone try and convince you otherwise, Anastasia. One of the reasons people like me do this is because we either like to give or receive pain. It’s very simple.

You don’t, so I spent a great deal of time yesterday thinking about that.”

He pulls me against him, and his erection presses into my belly. I should run, but I can’t. I’m drawn to him on some deep, elemental level, that I can’t begin to understand.

“Did you reach any conclusions?” I whisper.

“No, and right now, I just want to tie you up and fuck you senseless. Are you ready for that?”

“Yes,” I breathe as everything in my body tightens at once... wow.

“Good. Come.” He takes my hand and, leaving all the dirty dishes on the breakfast bar, and we head upstairs.

My heart starts pounding. This is it. I’m really going to do this. My inner goddess is spinning like a world-class ballerina, pirouette after pirouette. He opens the door to his playroom, standing back for me to walkthrough, and I am once more in the Red Room of Pain.

It’s the same, the smell of leather, citrus, polish and dark wood, all very sensual. My blood is running heated and scared through my system adrenaline mixed with lust and longing. It’s a heady, potent cocktail. Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome’s stance has changed completely, subtly al tered, harder and meaner. He gazes down at me and his eyes are heated, lustful... hypnotic.

“When you’re in here, you are completely mine,” he breathes, each word slow and measured. “To do with as I see fit. Do you understand?”

His gaze is so intense. I nod, my mouth dry, my heart thumping for a way out of my

chest.

“Take your shoes off,” he orders softly.

I swallow, and rather clumsily, I take them off. He bends and picks them up and de posits them beside the door.

“Good. Don’t hesitate when I ask you to do something. Now I’m going to peel you out of this dress. Something I’ve wanted to do for a few days if I recall. I want you to be comfortable with your body, Anastasia. You have a beautiful body, and I like to look at it.

It is a joy to behold. In fact, I could gaze at you all day, and I want you unembarrassed and unashamed of your nakedness. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?” He leans over me, glaring.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Do you mean that?” he snaps.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Lift your arms up over your head.”

I do as instructed, and he reaches down and grabs the hem. Slowly, he pulls my dress up over my thighs, my hips, my belly, my breasts, my shoulders, and over my head. He stands back to examine me and absentmindedly folds my dress, not taking his eyes off me. He places it on the large chest beside the door. Reaching up, he pulls at my chin, his touch searing me.

“You’re biting your lip,” he breathes. “You know what that does to me,” he adds darkly. “Turn around.”

I turn immediately, no hesitation. He unclasps my bra and then taking both straps, he slowly pulls them down my arms, brushing my skin with his fingers and the tip of his thumbnails as he slides my bra off. His touch sends shivers down my spine, waking every nerve ending in my body. He’s standing behind me, so close that I feel the heat radiating from him, warming me, warming me all over. He pulls my hair so it’s all hanging down my back, grasps a handful at my nape, and angles my head to one side. He runs his nose down my exposed neck, inhaling all the way, then back up to my ear. The muscles in my belly clench, carnal and wanting. Jeez, he’s hardly touched me, and I want him.

“You smell as divine as ever, Anastasia,” he whispers as he places a soft kiss beneath my ear.

I moan.

“Quiet,” he breathes. “Don’t make a sound.”

Pulling my hair behind me, to my surprise, he starts braiding it in one large braid, his fingers fast and deft. He ties it with an unseen hair tie when he’s finished and gives it a quick tug so I’m forced back against him.

“I like your hair braided in here,” he whispers.

Hmm... why?

He releases my hair.

“Turn around,” he orders.

I do as I’m bid, my breathing shallow, fear and longing mixed together. It’s an intoxi cating mix.

“When I tell you to come in here, this is how you will dress. Just in your panties. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?” He glowers at me.

“Yes, Sir.”

A trace of a smile lifts the corner of his mouth.

“Good girl.” His eyes burn into mine. “When I tell you to come in here, I expect you to kneel over there.” He points to a spot beside the door. “Do it now.”

I blink processing his words, turn, and rather clumsily kneel as directed.

“You can sit back on your heels.”

I sit back.

“Place your hands and forearms flat on your thighs. Good. Now part your knees.

Wider. Wider. Perfect. Look down at the floor.”

He walks over to me, and I can see his feet and shins in my field of vision. Naked feet.

I should be taking notes if he wants me to remember. He reaches down and grasps my braid again, then pulls my head back so I am looking up at him. It’s only just not painful.

“Will you remember this position, Anastasia?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Stay here, don’t move.” He leaves the room.

I’m on my knees, waiting. Where’s he gone? What is he going to do to me? Time shifts. I have no idea how long he leaves me like this... a few minutes, five, ten? My breathing becomes shallower, the anticipation is devouring me from the inside out.

And suddenly he’s back and all at once I’m calmer and more excited in the same breath. Could I be more excited? I can see his feet. He’s changed his jeans. These are older, ripped, soft, and over-washed. Holy cow. These jeans are hot. He shuts the door and hangs something on the back.

“Good girl, Anastasia. You look lovely like that. Well done. Stand up.”

I stand, but I keep my face down.

“You may look at me.”

I peek up at him, and he’s staring at me intently, assessing, but his eyes soften. He’s taken off his shirt. Oh my. . . I want to touch him. The top button of his jeans is undone.

“I’m going to chain you now, Anastasia. Give me your right hand.”

I give him my hand. He turns it palm up, and before I know it, he swats the center with a riding crop I hadn’t noticed is in his right hand. It happens so quickly that the surprise hardly registers. Even more astonishing it doesn’t hurt. Well, not much, just a slight ringing sting.

“How does that feel?” he asks.

I blink at him, confused.

“Answer me.”

“Okay.” I frown.

“Don’t frown.”

I blink and try for impassive. I succeed.

“Did that hurt?”

“No.”

“This is not going to hurt. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” My voice is uncertain. Is it really not going to hurt?

“I mean it,” he says.

Jeez, my breathing is so shallow. Does he know what I’m thinking? He shows me the crop. It’s brown plaited leather. My eyes jerk up to meet his, and they’re alight with fire and a trace of amusement.

“We aim to please, Miss Steele,” he murmurs. “Come.” He takes my elbow and moves me to beneath the grid. He reaches up and takes down some shackles with black leather cuffs.

“This grid is designed so the shackles move across the grid.”

I glance up. Holy shit it’s like a subway map.

“We’re going to start here, but I want to fuck you standing up. So we’ll end up by the wall over there.” He points with the riding crop to where the large wooden X is on the wall.

“Put your hands above your head.”

I oblige immediately, feeling like I’m exiting my body a casual observer of events as they unfold around me. This is beyond fascinating, beyond erotic. It’s singularly the most exciting and scary thing I’ve ever done. I’m entrusting myself to a beautiful man who, by his own admission, is fifty shades of fucked-up. I suppress the brief thrill of fear. Kate and Elliot, they know I’m here.

He stands very close as he fastens the cuffs. I’m staring at his chest. His proximity is heavenly. He smells of body wash and Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome, an inebriating mix, and that drags me

back into the now. I want to run my nose and tongue through that smattering of chest hair.

I could just lean forward...

He steps back and gazes at me, his expression hooded, salacious, carnal, and I am help less, my hands tied, but just looking at his lovely face, reading his need and longing for me,

I can feel the dampness between my legs. He walks slowly round me.

“You look mighty fine trussed up like this, Miss Steele. And your smart mouth, quiet for now. I like that.”

Standing in front of me again, he hooks his fingers into my panties, and at a most un hurried pace, peels them down my legs, stripping me agonizingly slowly, so that he ends up kneeling in front of me. Not taking his eyes off mine, he scrunches my panties in his hand, holds them up to his nose, and inhales deeply. Holy fuck. Did he just do that? He grins wickedly at me and tucks them into the pocket of his jeans.

Uncoiling from the floor, rising lazily, like a jungle cat, he points the end of the riding crop at my navel, leisurely circling it tantalizing me. At the touch of the leather, I quiver and gasp. He walks round me again, trailing the crop around the middle of my body. On his second circuit, he suddenly flicks the crop, and it hits me underneath my behind... against my sex. I cry out in surprise as all my nerve endings stand to attention. I pull against the restraints. The shock runs through me, and it’s the sweetest strangest, hedonistic feeling.

“Quiet,” he whispers as he walks around me again, the crop slightly higher around the middle of my body. This time when he flicks it against me in the same place, I’m anticipat ing it... oh my. My body convulses at the sweet, stinging bite.

As he makes his way around me, he flicks again, this time hitting my nipple, and I throw my head back as my nerve endings sing. He hits the other... a brief, swift, sweet chastisement. My nipples harden and elongate from the assault, and I moan loudly, pulling on my leather cuffs.

“Does that feel good?” he breathes.

“Yes.”

He hits me again across the buttocks. The crop stings this time.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Sir,” I whimper.

He comes to a stop. . . but I can no longer see him. My eyes are closed as I try to absorb the myriad of sensations coursing through my body. Very slowly, he rains small, biting licks of the crop down my belly, heading south. I know where this is leading, and I try and psyche myself up for it but when he hits my clitoris, I cry out loudly.

“Oh... please!” I groan.

“Quiet,” he orders, and he hits me again on my behind.

I did not expect this to be like this... I am lost. Lost in a sea of sensation. And sud denly, he’s dragging the crop against my sex, through my pubic hair, down to the entrance of my vagina.

“See how wet you are for this, Anastasia. Open your eyes and your mouth.”

I do as I’m told, completely seduced. He pushes the tip of the crop into my mouth, like my dream. Holy shit.

“See how you taste. Suck. Suck hard, baby.”

My mouth closes around the crop as my eyes lock on his. I can taste the rich leather and the saltiness of my arousal. His eyes are blazing. He’s in his element.

He pulls the tip from my mouth, and he stands forward and grabs me and kisses me hard, his tongue invading my mouth. Wrapping his arms around me, he pulls me against him. His chest crushes mine, and I itch to touch, but I can’t, my hands, useless above me.

“Oh, Anastasia, you taste mighty fine,” he breathes. “Shall I make you come?”

“Please,” I beg.

The crop bites my buttock. Ow!

“Please, what?”

“Please, Sir,” I whimper.

He smiles at me, triumphant.

“With this?” He holds the crop up so I can see it.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Are you sure?” He looks sternly at me.

“Yes, please, Sir.”

“Close your eyes.”

I shut the room out, him out... the crop out. He starts small, biting licks of the crop against my belly once more. Moving down, soft small licks against my clitoris, once, twice, three times, again and again, until finally, that’s it I can take no more and I come, gloriously, loudly, sagging weakly. His arms curl around me as my legs turn to jelly. I dis solve in his embrace, my head against his chest, and I’m mewling and whimpering as the aftershocks of my orgasm consume me. He lifts me, and suddenly we’re moving, my arms still tethered above my head, and I can feel the cool wood of the polished cross at my back, and he’s popping the buttons on his jeans. He puts me down against the cross briefly while he slides on a condom, and then his hands wrap around my thighs as he lifts me again.

“Lift your legs, baby, wrap them round me.”

I feel so weak, but I do as he asks as he wraps my legs around his hips and positions himself beneath me. With one thrust, he’s inside me, and I cry out again, listening to his muffled moan at my ear. My arms are resting on his shoulders as he thrusts into me. Jeez, it’s deep this way. He thrusts again and again, his face at my neck, his harsh breathing at my throat. I feel the build up again. Jeez no... not again... I don’t think my body will with stand another earth-shattering moment. But I have no choice... and with an inevitability that’s becoming familiar, I let go and come again, and it’s sweet and agonizing and intense. I lose all sense of self. Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome follows, shouting his release through clenched teeth and holding me hard and close as he does.

He pulls out of me swiftly and sets me down against the cross, his body supporting mine. Unbuckling the cuffs, he frees my hands, and we both sink to the floor. He pulls me into his lap, cradling me, and I lean my head against his chest. If I had the strength, I’d touch him, but I don’t. Belatedly, I realize he’s still wearing his jeans.

“Well done, baby,” he murmurs. “Did that hurt?”

“No,” I breathe. I can barely keep my eyes open. Why am I so tired?

“Did you expect it to?” he whispers as he holds me close, his fingers pushing some escaped tendrils of hair off my face.

“Yes.”

“You see most of your fear is in your head, Anastasia,” he pauses. “Would you do it again?”

I think for a moment as fatigue clouds my brain... Again?

“Yes.” My voice is so soft.

He hugs me tightly.

“Good. So would I,” he murmurs, then leans down and softly kisses the top of my head.

“And I haven’t finished with you yet.”

Not finished with me yet. Holy Moses. There’s no way I can do any more. I am ut terly spent and fighting an overwhelming desire to sleep. I’m leaning against his chest, my eyes are closed, and he’s wrapped around me arms and legs and I feel... safe, and oh comfortable. Will he let me sleep, perchance to dream? My mouth quirks up at the silly thought, and turning my face into Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome’s chest, I inhale his unique scent and nuzzle him, but immediately he tenses... oh crap. I open my eyes and glance up at him. He’s staring down at me.

“Don’t,” he breathes in warning.

I flush and look back at his chest in longing. I want to run my tongue through the hair, kiss him, and for the first time, I notice he has a few random and faint small, round scars dotted around his chest. Chicken pox? Measles? I think absently.

“Kneel by the door,” he orders as he sits back, putting his hands on his knees, effec tively releasing me. No longer warm, the temperature of his voice has dropped several degrees.

I stumble clumsily up into a standing position and scoot over to the door and kneel as instructed. I’m shaky and very, very tired, monumentally confused. Who would have thought I could have found such gratification in this room. Who could have thought it would be so exhausting? My limbs are deliciously heavy, sated. My inner goddess has a ‘do not disturb’ sign on the outside of her room.

Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome is moving about in the periphery of my vision. My eyes start to droop.

“Boring you, am I, Miss Steele?”

I jump awake, and Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome is standing in front of me, his arms crossed glaring down at me. Oh shit, caught napping this is not going to be good. His eyes soften as I gaze up at him.

“Stand up,” he orders.

I climb warily to my feet. He stares at me, and his mouths quirks up.

“You’re shattered, aren’t you?”

I nod shyly, flushing.

“Stamina, Miss Steele.” He narrows his eyes at me. “I haven’t had my fill of you yet. Hold out your hands in front as if you’re praying.”

I blink at him. Praying! Praying for you to go easy on me. I do as I’m told. He takes a cable tie and fastens it around my wrists, tightening the plastic. Holy hell. My eyes fly to his.

“Look familiar,” he asks, unable to conceal his smile.

Jeez... the plastic cable ties. Restocking at Clayton’s! It all becomes clear. I gape up at him as adrenaline spikes though my body anew. Okay that’s got my attention I’m awake now.

“I have scissors here.” He holds them up for me to see. “I can cut you out of this in a moment.”

I try to pull my wrists apart, testing my bonds, and as I do, the plastic bites into my flesh it’s sore, but if I relax my wrists they’re fine the tie is not cutting into my skin.

“Come.” He takes my hands and leads me over to the four-poster bed. I notice now that it has dark red sheets on it and a shackle at each corner.

“I want more much, much more,” he leans down and whispers in my ear.

And my heartbeat starts pounding again. Oh boy.

“But I’ll make this quick. You’re tired. Hold on to the post,” he says.

I frown. Not on the bed then? I find I can part my hands as I grasp the ornately carved wooden post.

“Lower,” he orders. “Good. Don’t let go. If you do, I’ll spank you. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good.”

He stands behind me and grasps my hips, and then quickly lifts me backward so I’m bending forward, holding the post.

“Don’t let go, Anastasia,” he warns. “I’m going to fuck you hard from behind. Hold the post to support your weight. Understand?”

“Yes.”

He smacks me across my behind with his hand. Ow... It stings.

“Yes, Sir,” I mutter quickly.

“Part your legs.” He puts his leg between mine, and holding my hips, he pushes my right leg to the side.

“That’s better. After this, I’ll let you sleep.”

Sleep? I’m panting. I’m not thinking of sleep now. He reaches up and gently strokes my back.

“You have such beautiful skin, Anastasia,” he breathes as he bends down and kisses me along my spine, gentle feather-light kisses. At the same time, his hands move round to my front palming my breasts, and as he does this, he traps my nipples between his fingers and tugs them gently.

I stifle my moan as I feel my whole body respond, coming alive once more for him.

He gently bites and sucks me at my waist, tugging my nipples, and my hands tighten on the exquisitely carved post. His hands drop away, and I hear the now familiar tear of foil, and he kicks off his jeans.

“You have such a captivating, sexy ass, Anastasia Steele. What I’d like to do to it.”

His hands smooth and shape each of my buttocks, then his fingers glide down, and he slips two fingers inside me.

“So wet. You never disappoint, Miss Steele,” he whispers, and I hear the wonder in his voice. “Hold tight... this is going to be quick, baby.”

He grabs my hips and positions himself, and I brace myself for his assault. But he reaches over me and grabs my braid near the end and winds it round his wrist to my nape

holding my head in place. Very slowly he eases into me, pulling my hair at the same time... oh the fullness. He eases out of me slowly, and his other hand grabs my hip, hold ing tight, and then he slams into me, jolting me forward.

“Hold on, Anastasia!” he shouts through clenched teeth.

I grip harder round the post and push back against him as he continues his merciless onslaught, again and again, his fingers digging into my hip. My arms are aching, my legs feel uncertain, my scalp is getting sore from his tugging my hair... and I can feel a gathering deep inside me. Oh no. . . and for the first time, I fear my orgasm. . . if I come. . .

I’ll collapse. Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome continues to move roughly against me, in me, his breathing harsh, moaning, groaning. My body is responding... how? I feel a quickening. But suddenly, Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome stills, slamming really deep.

“Come on, Ana, give it to me,” he groans, and my name on his lips sends me over the edge as I become all body and spiraling sensation and sweet, sweet release, and then com pletely and utterly mindless.

When sense returns, I’m lying on him. He’s on the floor, and I’m lying on top of him, my back to his front, and I’m staring at the ceiling, all post-coital, glowing, shattered. Oh... the karabiners, I think absently I’d forgotten about those. Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome nuzzles my ear.

“Hold up your hands,” he says softly.

My arms feel like they’re made of lead, but I hold them up. He wields the scissors and passes one blade under the plastic.

“I declare this Ana open,” he breathes, and cuts the plastic.

I giggle and rub my wrists as they’re freed. I feel his grin.

“That is such a lovely sound,” he says wistfully. He sits suddenly, taking me with him so that I’m once more sitting in his lap.

“That’s my fault,” he says and shifts me so that he can rub my shoulders and arms. Gently he massages some life back into my limbs

What?

I glance up at him behind me, trying to understand what he means.

“That you don’t giggle more often.”

“I’m not a great giggler,” I mumble sleepily.

“Oh, but when it happens, Miss Steele, ‘tis a wonder and joy to behold.”

“Very flowery, Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome,” I mutter, trying to keep my eyes open.

His eyes soften, and he smiles.

“I’d say you’re thoroughly fucked and in need of sleep.”

“That wasn’t flowery at all,” I grumble playfully.

He grins and gently lifts me off him and stands, gloriously naked. I wish momentarily that I were more awake to really appreciate him. Picking up his jeans, he slides them back on, commando.

“Don’t want to frighten Taylor, or Mrs. Jones for that matter,” he mutters.

Hmm... they must know what a kinky bastard he is. The thought preoccupies me.

He stoops to help me to my feet and leads me to the door, on the back of which hangs grey waffle robe. He patiently dresses me as if I’m a small child. I don’t have the strength to lift my arms. When I’m covered and respectable, he leans down and kisses me gently, his mouth quirks up in a smile.

“Bed,” he says.

Oh... no...

“For sleep,” he adds reassuringly when he sees my expression.

Suddenly, he scoops me up and carries me curled against his chest to the room along the corridor where earlier today Dr. Greene examined me. My head drops against his chest. I am exhausted. I don’t remember ever being this tired. Pulling back the duvet, he lays me down, and even more surprisingly, climbs in beside me and holds me close.

“Sleep now, gorgeous girl,” he whispers, and he kisses my hair.

And before I can make a facetious comment, I’m asleep.

#fsodd #fifty shades of dimmadome

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