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"Show you?"
"Show me how much it can hurt."
"What?"
"Punish me. I want to know how bad it can get."
Christian steps back away from me, completely confused.
"You would try?"
"Yes. I said I would." But I have an ulterior motive. If I do this for him, maybe he will let me touch him.
He blinks at me.
"Ana, you're so confusing."
"I'm confused too. I'm trying to work this out. And you and I will know, once and for all, if I can do this. If I can handle this, then maybe you - " My words fail me, and his eyes widen again. He knows I am referring to the touch thing. For a moment, he looks torn, but then a steely resolve settles on his features, and he narrows his eyes, gazing at me speculatively as if weighing up alternatives.
Abruptly, he clasps my arm in a firm grip and turns, leading me out of the great room, up the stairs, and to the playroom. Pleasure and pain, reward and punishment - his words from so long ago echo through my mind.
"I'll show you how bad it can be, and you can make your own mind up." He pauses by the door. "Are you ready for this?"
I nod, my mind made up, and I'm vaguely lightheaded, faint as all the blood leaves my face.He opens the door, and still grasping my arm, grabs what looks like a belt from the rack beside the door, then leads me over to the red leather bench in the far corner of the room.
"Bend over the bench," he murmurs softly.
Okay. I can do this. I bend over the smooth soft leather. He's left my bathrobe on.
In a quiet part of my brain, I'm vaguely surprised that he hasn't made me take it off. Holy f**k this is going to hurt... I know. My subconscious has passed out, and my inner goddess is endeavoring to look brave.
"We're here because you said yes, Anastasia. And you ran from me. I am going to hit you six times, and you will count with me."
Why the hell doesn't he just get on with itHe always makes such a meal of punishing me. I roll my eyes, knowing full well he can't see me.
He lifts the hem of my bathrobe, and for some reason, this feels more intimate than being naked. He gently caresses my behind, running his warm hand all over both cheeks and down to the tops of my thighs.
"I am doing this so that you remember not to run from me, and as exciting as it is, I never want you to run from me," he whispers.
And the irony is not lost on me. I was running to avoid this. If he'd opened his arms, I'd run to him, not away from him.
"And you rolled your eyes at me. You know how I feel about that." Suddenly, it's gone
- that nervous edgy fear in his voice. He's back from wherever he's been. I hear it in his tone, in the way he places his fingers on my back, holding me - and the atmosphere in the room changes.
I close my eyes, bracing myself for the blow. It comes hard, snapping across my backside, and the bite of the belt is everything I feared. I cry out involuntarily, and take a huge gulp of air.
"Count, Anastasia!" he commands.
"One!" I shout at him, and it sounds like an expletive.
He hits me again, and the pain pulses and echoes along the line of the belt. Holy shit...
that smarts.
"Two!" I scream. It feels so good to scream.
His breathing is ragged and harsh. Whereas mine is almost non-existent as I desperately scrabble around my psyche looking for some internal strength. The belt cuts into my flesh again.
"Three!" Tears spring unwelcome into my eyes. Jeez - this is harder than I thought -
so much harder than the spanking. He's not holding anything back.
"Four!" I yell as the belt bites me again, and now the tears are streaming down my face.
I don't want to cry. It angers me that I am crying. He hits me again.
"Five." My voice is more a choked, strangled sob, and in this moment, I think I hate him. One more, I can do one more. My backside feels as if it's on fire.
"Six," I whisper as the blistering pain cuts across me again, and I hear him drop the belt behind me, and he's pulling me into his arms, all breathless and compassionate... and I want none of him.
"Let go... no... " And I find myself struggling out his grasp, pushing him away. Fighting him.
"Don't touch me!" I hiss. I straighten and stare at him, and he's watching me as if I might bolt, gray eyes wide, bemused. I dash the tears angrily out of my eyes with the backs of my hands, glaring at him.
"This is what you really likeMe, like this?" I use the sleeve of the bathrobe to wipe my nose.
He gazes at me warily.
"Well, you are one f**ked-up son of a bitch."
"Ana," he pleads, shocked.
"Don't you dare, Ana me! You need to sort your shit out, Grey!" And with that, I turn stiffly, and I walk out of the playroom, closing the door quietly behind me.
I clasp the door handle behind me and briefly lean back against the door. Where to go?
Do I runDo I stayI am so mad, angry scalding tears spill down my cheeks, and I brush them furiously aside. I just want to curl up. Curl up and recuperate in some way. Heal my shattered faith. How could I have been so stupidOf course it hurts.
Tentatively, I rub my backside. Aah! It's sore. Where to goNot his room. My room, or the room that will be mine, no, is mine... was mine. This is why he wanted me to keep it. He knew I would need distance from him.
I launch myself stiffly in that direction, conscious that Christian may follow me. It is still dark in the bedroom, dawn only a whisper in the skyline. I climb awkwardly into bed, careful not to sit on my aching and tender backside. I keep the bathrobe on, wrapping it around me, and curl up and really let go - sobbing hard into my pillow.