“How are you feeling?” I ask as I switch on the bedside light.
“I’m good.”
There’s blood on my sheets. Her blood. Evidence of her now-absent virginity. Her eyes dart from the stains to me and she looks away, embarrassed.
“Well, that’s going to give Mrs. Jones something to think about.”
She looks mortified.
It’s just your body, sweetheart. I grasp her chin and tip her head back so I can see her expression. I’m about to give her a short lecture on how not to be ashamed of her body, when she reaches out to touch my chest.
Fuck.
I step out of her reach as the darkness surfaces.
No. Don’t touch me.
“Get into bed,” I order, rather more sharply than I’d intended, but I hope she doesn’t detect my fear. Her eyes widen with confusion and maybe hurt.
Damn.
“I’ll come and lie down with you,” I add, as a peace offering, and from the chest of drawers I pull out a T-shirt and quickly slip it on, for protection.
She’s still standing, staring at me. “Bed,” I command more forcefully. She scrambles into my bed and lies down and I climb in behind her, folding her in my arms. I bury my face in her hair and inhale her sweet scent: autumn and apple trees. Facing away, she can’t touch me, and while I lie there I resolve to spoon with her until she’s asleep. Then I’ll get up and do some work.
“Sleep, sweet Anastasia.” I kiss her hair and close my eyes. Her scent fills my nostrils, reminding me of a happy time and leaving me replete…content, even…
Mommy is happy today. She is singing.
Singing about what love has to do with it.
And cooking. And singing.
My tummy gurgles. She is cooking bacon and waffles.
They smell good. My tummy likes bacon and waffles.
They smell so good.
Opening my eyes, light is flooding through the windows and there’s a mouthwatering aroma coming from the kitchen. Bacon. Momentarily I’m confused. Is Gail back from her sister’s?
Then I remember.
Ana.
A look at the clock tells me it’s late. I bounce out of bed and follow my nose to the kitchen.
There’s Ana. She’s wearing my shirt, her hair in braids, dancing around to some music. Only I can’t hear it. She’s wearing earbuds. Unobserved, I take a seat at the kitchen counter and watch the show. She’s whisking eggs, making breakfast, her braids bouncing as she jiggles from foot to foot, and I realize she’s not wearing underwear.
Good girl.
She has to be one of the most uncoordinated females I’ve ever seen. It’s amusing, charming, and strangely arousing at the same time; I think of all the ways I can improve her coordination. When she turns and spots me, she freezes.
“Good morning, Miss Steele. You’re very…energetic this morning.” She looks even younger in her braids.
“I-I slept well,” she stammers.
“I can’t imagine why,” I quip, admitting to myself that I did, too. It’s after nine. When did I last sleep past 6:30?
Yesterday.
After I’d slept with her.
“Are you hungry?” she asks.
“Very.” And I’m not sure if it’s for breakfast or for her.
“Pancakes, bacon, and eggs?” she says.
“Sounds great.”
“I don’t know where you keep your placemats,” she says, seeming at a loss, and I think she’s embarrassed, because I caught her dancing. Taking pity on her, I offer to set places for breakfast and add, “Would you like me to put some music on so you can continue your…er…dancing?”
Her cheeks pink and she looks down at the floor.
Damn. I’ve upset her. “Please, don’t stop on my account. It’s very entertaining.”
With a pout she turns her back on me and continues to whisk the eggs with gusto. I wonder if she has any idea how disrespectful this is to someone like me…but of course she doesn’t, and for some unfathomable reason it makes me smile. Sidling up to her, I gently tug one of her braids. “I love these. They won’t protect you.”
Not from me. Not now that I’ve had you.
“How would you like your eggs?” Her tone is unexpectedly haughty. And I want to laugh out loud, but I resist.
“Thoroughly whisked and beaten,” I reply, trying and failing to sound deadpan. She attempts to hide her amusement, too, and continues her task. Her smile is bewitching.
Hastily, I set up the placemats, wondering when I last did this for someone else.
Never.
Normally over the weekend my submissive would take care of all domestic tasks.
Not today, Grey, because she’s not your submissive…yet.
I pour us both orange juice and put the coffee on. She doesn’t drink coffee, only tea. “Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, please. If you have some.”
In the cupboard I find the Twinings teabags I’d asked Gail to buy.
Well, well, who would have thought I’d ever get to use them?
She frowns when she sees them. “Bit of a foregone conclusion, wasn’t I?”
“Are you? I’m not sure we’ve concluded anything yet, Miss Steele,” I answer with a stern look.
And don’t talk about yourself like that.
I add her self-deprecation to the list of behaviors that will need modifying.
She avoids my gaze, busy with serving up breakfast. Two plates are placed on the placemats, then she fetches the maple syrup out of the fridge.
When she looks up at me I’m waiting for her to sit down. “Miss Steele.” I indicate where she should sit.
“Mr. Grey,” she replies, with contrived formality, and winces as she sits.
“Just how sore are you?” I’m surprised by an uneasy sense of guilt. I want to fuck her again, preferably after breakfast, but if she’s too sore that will be out of the question. Perhaps I could use her mouth this time.
The color in her face rises. “Well, to be truthful, I have nothing to compare this to,” she says tartly. “Did you wish to offer your commiserations?” Her sarcastic tone takes me by surprise. If she were mine, it would earn her a spanking at least, maybe over the kitchen counter.
“No. I wondered if we should continue your basic training.”
“Oh.” She startles.
Yes, Ana, we can have sex during the day, too. And I’d like to fill that smart mouth of yours.
“I’m good.”
There’s blood on my sheets. Her blood. Evidence of her now-absent virginity. Her eyes dart from the stains to me and she looks away, embarrassed.
“Well, that’s going to give Mrs. Jones something to think about.”
She looks mortified.
It’s just your body, sweetheart. I grasp her chin and tip her head back so I can see her expression. I’m about to give her a short lecture on how not to be ashamed of her body, when she reaches out to touch my chest.
Fuck.
I step out of her reach as the darkness surfaces.
No. Don’t touch me.
“Get into bed,” I order, rather more sharply than I’d intended, but I hope she doesn’t detect my fear. Her eyes widen with confusion and maybe hurt.
Damn.
“I’ll come and lie down with you,” I add, as a peace offering, and from the chest of drawers I pull out a T-shirt and quickly slip it on, for protection.
She’s still standing, staring at me. “Bed,” I command more forcefully. She scrambles into my bed and lies down and I climb in behind her, folding her in my arms. I bury my face in her hair and inhale her sweet scent: autumn and apple trees. Facing away, she can’t touch me, and while I lie there I resolve to spoon with her until she’s asleep. Then I’ll get up and do some work.
“Sleep, sweet Anastasia.” I kiss her hair and close my eyes. Her scent fills my nostrils, reminding me of a happy time and leaving me replete…content, even…
Mommy is happy today. She is singing.
Singing about what love has to do with it.
And cooking. And singing.
My tummy gurgles. She is cooking bacon and waffles.
They smell good. My tummy likes bacon and waffles.
They smell so good.
Opening my eyes, light is flooding through the windows and there’s a mouthwatering aroma coming from the kitchen. Bacon. Momentarily I’m confused. Is Gail back from her sister’s?
Then I remember.
Ana.
A look at the clock tells me it’s late. I bounce out of bed and follow my nose to the kitchen.
There’s Ana. She’s wearing my shirt, her hair in braids, dancing around to some music. Only I can’t hear it. She’s wearing earbuds. Unobserved, I take a seat at the kitchen counter and watch the show. She’s whisking eggs, making breakfast, her braids bouncing as she jiggles from foot to foot, and I realize she’s not wearing underwear.
Good girl.
She has to be one of the most uncoordinated females I’ve ever seen. It’s amusing, charming, and strangely arousing at the same time; I think of all the ways I can improve her coordination. When she turns and spots me, she freezes.
“Good morning, Miss Steele. You’re very…energetic this morning.” She looks even younger in her braids.
“I-I slept well,” she stammers.
“I can’t imagine why,” I quip, admitting to myself that I did, too. It’s after nine. When did I last sleep past 6:30?
Yesterday.
After I’d slept with her.
“Are you hungry?” she asks.
“Very.” And I’m not sure if it’s for breakfast or for her.
“Pancakes, bacon, and eggs?” she says.
“Sounds great.”
“I don’t know where you keep your placemats,” she says, seeming at a loss, and I think she’s embarrassed, because I caught her dancing. Taking pity on her, I offer to set places for breakfast and add, “Would you like me to put some music on so you can continue your…er…dancing?”
Her cheeks pink and she looks down at the floor.
Damn. I’ve upset her. “Please, don’t stop on my account. It’s very entertaining.”
With a pout she turns her back on me and continues to whisk the eggs with gusto. I wonder if she has any idea how disrespectful this is to someone like me…but of course she doesn’t, and for some unfathomable reason it makes me smile. Sidling up to her, I gently tug one of her braids. “I love these. They won’t protect you.”
Not from me. Not now that I’ve had you.
“How would you like your eggs?” Her tone is unexpectedly haughty. And I want to laugh out loud, but I resist.
“Thoroughly whisked and beaten,” I reply, trying and failing to sound deadpan. She attempts to hide her amusement, too, and continues her task. Her smile is bewitching.
Hastily, I set up the placemats, wondering when I last did this for someone else.
Never.
Normally over the weekend my submissive would take care of all domestic tasks.
Not today, Grey, because she’s not your submissive…yet.
I pour us both orange juice and put the coffee on. She doesn’t drink coffee, only tea. “Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, please. If you have some.”
In the cupboard I find the Twinings teabags I’d asked Gail to buy.
Well, well, who would have thought I’d ever get to use them?
She frowns when she sees them. “Bit of a foregone conclusion, wasn’t I?”
“Are you? I’m not sure we’ve concluded anything yet, Miss Steele,” I answer with a stern look.
And don’t talk about yourself like that.
I add her self-deprecation to the list of behaviors that will need modifying.
She avoids my gaze, busy with serving up breakfast. Two plates are placed on the placemats, then she fetches the maple syrup out of the fridge.
When she looks up at me I’m waiting for her to sit down. “Miss Steele.” I indicate where she should sit.
“Mr. Grey,” she replies, with contrived formality, and winces as she sits.
“Just how sore are you?” I’m surprised by an uneasy sense of guilt. I want to fuck her again, preferably after breakfast, but if she’s too sore that will be out of the question. Perhaps I could use her mouth this time.
The color in her face rises. “Well, to be truthful, I have nothing to compare this to,” she says tartly. “Did you wish to offer your commiserations?” Her sarcastic tone takes me by surprise. If she were mine, it would earn her a spanking at least, maybe over the kitchen counter.
“No. I wondered if we should continue your basic training.”
“Oh.” She startles.
Yes, Ana, we can have sex during the day, too. And I’d like to fill that smart mouth of yours.
