Fifty Shades of BLACK SILK

BLACK SILK: Part 38

Angela sat in my living room and told me a story about how a friend of a friend had the worst sexual experience of his life in between sips of $860 2012 Louis Roederer Cristal Rosé Christian bought me on a whim.

Imagine being so rich, buying wine almost worth a grand is the equivalent of buying a bright, red lollipop from the local convenience store.

"...so, he meets this girl—" sip, sip— "who's this drop, dead, gorgeous minx, and she says, 'I'm into some freaky shit.'"

"Who isn't these days?"

"Right!" She nodded, taking another sip. "So, she goes back to his place and they're having sex. It's all good at first."

"Until reality hits him," I editorialised. "Wait, where's my earcuff?"

I bought darling Sasha hoop earcuffs that matched my Sasha hoop earrings from Korean webstore Kira and Misha helmed by Dasha Kim, a youtuber whose life and style I'm obsessed with in a semi-healthy way. She is the only youtuber whose business I buy from, and who seems to know quality.

"It's on the kitchen tabletop," Angela pointed. "Anyway, back to the freaky girl."

"Right," I nodded, bouncing around to find black, strappy heels to go along with my black strapless dress. I was going for classic chic with a modern New Yorker twist. Semi-tame and sexy.

"She fills up a turkey baster with I-don't-know-what and basically gave him an enema."

I stopped in my tracks and turned to Angela, wide-eyed. "She put something up his butt?"

Angela scrunched her nose as she nodded. I winced.

"That's not the worst part."

"There's more?" I asked, dumbfounded.

"He shat."

"He shat?"

"And she smeared it all over his face and body."

"NO!"

"YES!"

We both shrieked before a knock on the door interrupted us. For a split second, the trauma from this story made me forget I was going out with Christian Grey.

I opened the door to a grimace. My face dropped its smile instantaneously. "What's wrong?"

"Are you okay? I heard screams coming from inside."

"Oh, Angela was just telling me a cringy story."

"Oh, hi," Angela said, standing up and waiving her hand before stretching it out for a formal handshake.

Christian seemed to have that affect on people. Whenever he entered a room chairs would turn, tables bumped, and hands shook. He had a magnetising aura. A gravity pull that drew everyone's attention to him. Suddenly, strangers turned to subordinates at the control of Mr. Grey. Okay, maybe control is too strong of a word. But the principle still stands.

"Nice to meet you, Angela," Christian said. Then, he turned to me. "Are you ready?"

I nodded. "Yes." Then, I turned to Angela. "I'll see you later?"

There was no driver waiting for us downstairs. Instead, Christian opened the passenger side door for me and then fitted himself in the driver's seat.

"No Rolls Royce?" I teased.

Christian cracked a smile. "No, I thought I'd go for something a little understated."

"A Jaguar," I noted.

Christian pushed aside my dark brown, faux fur coat revealing my bare thigh. My dress deliberately short. Lately, I've been wanting Christian to see me as pure sex.

He ran a finger up and down my thigh, the trail of which made me shiver under his cold touch.

"You look great," he said.

His jaw ticked. I smiled. For some odd reason, I felt like I had the power of my femininity and sex over him. I leaned over and pushed my lips against his. He slid his tongue in my mouth.

"Thanks," I said.

"For the kiss or the compliment?"

I grinned, reciprocating his cheeky smile. "For the ride."

He chuckled, cool and deep. I was glad he didn't say something tacky. Instead, we left it on an end note that only borderlined porno.

"So, where are we going tonight?" I asked. "You said to dress all fancy."

"It's a surprise."

"It's going to be some crazy shit isn't?"

Christian sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. "Language, please."

I rolled my eyes.

"Did you just roll your eyes at me?"

I peered up through my lashes. "No, sir."

Christian tends to be incapable of doing something normal. As soon as he said it was a surprise, I was fairly convinced he shut down Times Square or ordered a bunch of fine Russian, American, and English jewellery and first edition literature. At times I wonder if he thinks all these things are me, or he's just trying to impress me with his wealth.

I failed to mention I was wearing a Harry Winston wreath gifted by him when he picked me up. And as we rode the elevator, he played with the diamonds with the pad of his fingers; and at moments, he'd slip his cold fingers onto my back or neck and press a warm kiss. That combination made my spine shiver.

Christian drove back to his place to pick up something. What that was I didn't know, but for some odd reason he parked his car and refused to keep me waiting inside. He took the keys out of the ignition, and then me next.

In the elevator, we were super touchy-feely. In a sweet way. Super vanilla. He twirled his fingers in mine, kissed my neck; I stroked his jaw as my head tilted to make way for his lips.

"I love you," I whispered too lowly for him to hear.

Once in his home, I stood in the hallway. I thought he'd shuffle around for a quick minute and then come straight back.

"Madison," he called. "Come here."

I walked forward. "What is it?"

There, in the middle of the living room, was a pair of pyjamas. And in the dining room, a classic American dinner plating of home-cooked meals. Cutlets, chutney, corn, mashed potatoes. It looked like half a thanksgiving feast.

I smiled. "What's this?"

"This is the surprise."

I furrowed my brows. "Surprise?"

"Just us, at home, you and me, in our pyjamas. I made some food."

I lifted my brow at the end note.

"Okay, I had help," Christian said. "But still. I had a hand in it." He leaned forward and took my hand. "So how about it? Too weird? Too romantic?"

"Too vanilla?" I predicted he'd say.

He grinned that cute devilish grin I loved and made my heart flutter.

"This is perfect," I said.

And I wasn't even mad I got all dressed up. Because after dinner, we got all dressed down. And it's safe to say, dessert was the pièce de résistance.