Fifty Shades of BLACK SILK

BLACK SILK: Part 8

You never agreed to Christian's stupid little game. The bet had to have two participants and you aren't one of them. He was playing by himself. God, he loves games doesn't he? He's the type of successful magnate that peaked in his success, gets everything that he wants that he's reduced his experiences to games and drags anyone along with him. You wonder if he loves to hurt women. If he loves to feel their writhing pain underneath him. If he loves to make them bleed. If he knew you could take a little pain he'd never let you go. He'd want you all to himself. He'd trap you in a tight grip and only release when you surrender your protest to be free. But you don't want to let go. And you don't want him to let go of you. And it's not a game to you. It's your life he's playing with; your emotions; your womanhood. He loves it soaking wet, dripping for him. And he wants his all over you. If he knew you were just as delightfully nasty, the Red Room would become your playpen just as much as his.

But that's not the reason you stayed. Writing a cover story on Christian Grey will forever be the purpose of this gathering. At least, if worse comes to worse, that's what you'll say for the record. As he Christian offers to stock the fridge with more wine from his restaurant, you stay and wonder about him. He's everywhere, not because you're in his apartment but because his presence is that stifling. He suffocates you with his absence. It's a clever trick and you admire him for that. You admire him for many things; the ability to bring you to your knees; his steel gaze; his linear approach to get what he wants when he wants it. It's sexy. It's more than sexy; it's dangerous. When was the last time you didn't feel safe? When was the last time spontaneity dictated your every move. Maybe this is good. Maybe this is right. As you sit on his velvet couch and gaze at his grand piano, you picture yourself living here. There you are, cooking for him and dancing in the kitchen. There you are, learning to play the piano with him at your side. There you are, gazing at the view as you wait for him to add the finishing touches to his three piece suit. There you go, up the stairs and down the hallway. He's picking you up because you fell asleep on the couch, on his lap. He places you in the silk ridden bed and brushes the fallen hair from your side. He switches off the light before he closes the door behind him. Except...he's on the other side of the door.

You find yourself in this very room. Where countless women have come and gone. Can you really do this? Can you really be dark-haired woman number insert-number? Can you really deal with being unloved by a man who's mercilessly fucking you? Can you deal with being here only to fulfil his entire pleasure? Of course he'll give you the spiel that the sex will just as pleasurable for you as it will be for him. But what about the pleasures of the soul? Of the heart? Of the mind? And when it ends, will you be tossed out with a simple goodbye to only remember him by? Can you deal with him forgetting you beneath the next course of women that follow you, as you wallow after lost memories and dreamlike experiences? Happiness is relative but, could you really be happy here?

Suddenly, thoughts of your life here begin to dissipate until there's nothing but a hollowed out shell of an apartment. And the existence of you will vanish just as quickly.

I have to get out of here...