Why the hell doesn’t he just get on with it? He 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 back-

side, 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 desper-

ately 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. Fight-

ing 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 like? Me, like this?” I use the sleeve of the bathrobe to wipe

my nose.

He gazes at me warily.

“Well, you are one fucked-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 run? Do I stay? I 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 stupid? Of course it hurts.

Tentatively, I rub my backside. Aah! It’s sore. Where to go? Not his room. My room,

or the room that will be mine, no, ismine… wasmine. 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.

What was I thinking?Why did I let him do that to me? I wanted the dark, to explore

how bad it could be – but it’s too dark for me. I cannot do this. Yet, this is what he does,

this is how he gets his kicks.

What a monumental wake-up call. And to be fair to him, he warned me and warned

me, time and again. He’s not normal. He has needs that I cannot fulfill. I realize that now.

I don’t want him to hit me like that again, ever. I think of the couple of times he has hit

me, and how easy he was on me by comparison. Is that enough for him? I sob harder into

the pillow. I am going to lose him. He won’t want to be with me if I can’t give him this.

Why, why, why have I fallen in love with Fifty Shades? Why? Why can’t I love José, or

Paul Clayton, or someone like me?

Oh, his distraught look as I left. I was so cruel, so shocked by the savagery… will he

forgive me… will I forgive him? My thoughts are all haywire and jumbled, echoing and

bouncing off the inside of my skull. My subconscious is shaking her head sadly, and my

inner goddess is nowhere to be seen. Oh, this is a dark morning of the soul for me. I’m so

alone. I want my Mom. I remember her parting words at the airport,

Follow your heart, darling, and please, please – try not to over-think things. Relax and

enjoy. You are so young, sweetheart, you have so much to experience, just let it happen.

You deserve the best of everything.

I did follow my heart, and I have a sore ass and an anguished, broken spirit to show

for it. I have to go. That’s it… I have to leave. He’s no good for me, and I am no good

for him. How can we possibly make this work? And the thought of not seeing him again

practically chokes me… my Fifty Shades.

I hear the door click open. Oh no – he’s here.He puts something down on the bedside

table, and the bed shifts under his weight as he climbs in behind me.

“Hush,” he breathes, and I want to pull away from him, move to the other side of the

bed, but I’m paralyzed. I cannot move and lie stiffly, not yielding at all. “Don’t fight me,

Ana, please,” he whispers. Gently, he pulls me into his arms, burying his nose in my hair,

kissing my neck.

“Don’t hate me,” he breathes softly against my skin, his voice achingly sad. My heart

clenches anew and releases a fresh wave of silent sobbing. He continues to kiss me softly,

tenderly, but I remain aloof and wary.

We lie together like this, neither saying anything for ages. He just holds me, and very

gradually, I relax and stop crying. Dawn comes and goes, and the soft light gets brighter as

morning moves on, and still we lie quietly.

“I bought you some Advil and some arnica cream,” he says after a long while.

I turn very slowly in his arms so I can face him. I am resting my head on his arm. His

eyes are flinty gray and guarded.

I gaze at his beautiful face. He’s giving nothing away, but he keeps his eyes on mine,

hardly blinking. Oh, he is so breathtakingly good-looking. In such a short time, he’s

become so, so dear to me. Reaching up, I caress his cheek and run the tips of my fingers

through his stubble. He closes his eyes and exhales slightly.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

He opens his eyes and looks at me puzzled.

“What for?”

“What I said.”

“You didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know.” And his eyes soften with relief. “I am

sorry I hurt you.”

I shrug.

“I asked for it.” And now I know. I swallow. Here goes. I need to say my piece. “I

don’t think I can be everything you want me to be,” I whisper. His eyes widen slightly, and

he blinks, his fearful expression returning.

“You are everything I want you to be.”

What?