Bee in the City

“You feel so good,”
“Oh no, baby, not yet,”
“Oh, please,”
“I want you sore, baby,”
he murmurs, and he continues his sweet,
leisurely torment, backward, forward.
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“Every time you move tomorrow, 
I want you to be reminded that I’ve been here. 
Only me. You are mine.”
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“Please, Christian,”
“What do you want, Anastasia? Tell me.”
“You, please.”
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He increases the rhythm infinitesimally, 
and his breathing becomes more erratic. 
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My insides start quickening, 
and Christian picks up the rhythm.
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“You. Are. So. Sweet,”
he murmurs between each thrust.
“I. Want. You. So. Much.”
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“You. Are. Mine. Come for me, baby,” he growls.
His words are my undoing, tipping me over the precipice.
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Christian is at the piano, completely lost in the music he’s playing.
His expression is sad and forlorn, like the music.
I can’t help feel a residual melancholy either from the music or his demeanor.
Christian Grey has a sad side.
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“Stop biting your lip. It’s very distracting, 
and I happen to know you’re not wearing anything 
under my shirt which makes it even more distracting,”
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How was last night for you?”
“Good,”
“Me too, I’ve never had vanilla sex before.
There’s a lot to be said for it.
But then, maybe it’s because it’s with you.”
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