twispitefic

Title: You May/You May Not

Word Count: 2,900

Summary: Consent is paramount in the world of BDSM.

Rating: PG-13 for frank discussion of assault and boundaries; light sexytimes.

Notes: Let’s pretend that Christian is actually the experienced dom he claims to be. This was inspired by the scene in “Fifty Shades of Grey” where José calls Ana and Christian gets upset. This is also my attempt to rectify the portrayal of BDSM and inject this erotic novel with a little bit of actual erotica.

You May/You May Not

“So the photographer called?” he asks me. His voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it that makes me unsettled.

“You mean José? Yes.” Christian’s jaw tightens and I feel my backbone stiffen in response.

“What did he want?” I chew on my lip, uncertain at the turn this conversation is taking. Why is Christian so interested in José, anyway? I can’t figure out why he’s acting like this. “I believe I asked you a question.”

“He wanted to check on me,” I say. I leave out the apology. I don’t feel like reminding Christian of that…whatever that was. “To make sure…because I didn’t call him back, so he worried.” Christian runs his fingers through his hair, looking distracted. Meanwhile, I’m not sure how our intense lovemaking can go from blissfully hot to so…awkward afterwards. I fidget, wondering if I should just cut my losses and make a humiliating exit. Christian finally leaves his hair alone and shoves his hands in his pockets instead.

“May I see your phone?” he asks, and I frown. An odd request. But he merely stands there, neither reaching for me nor demanding it. Even from five feet away, the force of his character makes it clear that I really ought to comply. Reluctantly, I hand it over. He opens it and I try to remember the last thing I’d been looking at. What screen will it open to? My missed calls list, probably, where he can see exactly how many times José called. Will he look through my texts, too? See all the brief messages – please call me. pick up ur phone. are u there? talk to me. we need to talk. r u wit grey? call me, ok? come home. have you called kate? what did u tell her? ana. ana. ana.

Christian’s face darkens, and I have a feeling that my hunch is right on the money. He hands the phone back to me before shoving his hands in his pockets again.

“I don’t want you to talk to him,” says Christian, and my chin goes up in defiance.

“Why?” I ask angrily. “I don’t know what was in that non-disclosure agreement, Christian Grey, but you can’t legally stop me. I haven’t signed your stupid contract, so you can’t…I don’t know, dominate me into doing it, either. I’ll have you know that José is my friend—”

“Your friend assaulted you!” Christian yells, and I’m shocked into silence. “Ana, I was there. I saw what happened. If I hadn’t stopped him…” I shift my weight from foot to foot, uncomfortable. Most of last night is a painful, nauseating blur, but my run-in with José remains unfortunately clear—the way his hands grabbed at me, how suffocatingly close he was, how he refused to let go and how I felt so confused, so wrong-footed and disoriented…and Christian witnessed it. Crap.

“Look, that was…a misunderstanding,” I say, crossing my arms across my chest and hugging myself. Though it’s perfectly temperate here, I feel weirdly hot. “I mean, I knew José liked me as more than a friend. It’s probably hard for him, that’s all, he just…” I trail off. I’m not sure where I’m going with this. “We were both drunk,” I finish softly.

“Ana, you were drunk,” Christian says, and his voice takes on a soothing tone that I’ve never heard him use before. It’s weird when I think back to how authoritative he was in the bedroom—or everywhere else, really. “Your friend the photographer seemed tipsy at best. He took advantage of you.”

“He’s my friend,” I repeat, tears springing into my eyes. Christian opens his arms and I run into them on basic instinct, allowing myself to be folded into his embrace. There in his arms, I feel…secure. Safe. When I think back to the way José held me…I shudder, and Christian’s arms tighten around me in response. José’s embrace had been like a parody of this. A cruel, cruel mockery. I begin crying in a way that I haven’t since I was very small, and I don’t have it in me to feel embarrassed anymore. Christian…he understands, I feel. I trust him. He’d pulled my hair and bossed me around in bed and I never once felt the wrongness that José engendered.

“He ignored you. I saw you pushing him away. Is that right? Did I interpret the situation correctly?”

“I told him I didn’t want to,” I sob. “I should have…been clearer from the start, or pushed him harder, or…”

“No, no, Ms. Steele,” says Christian, and I feel his lips tickling against my scalp. “You did everything right.”

“You must think I’m—”

“You know what I think of you. That hasn’t changed. He violated your consent, and no friend would do that.” He holds me until I get my crying under control. I probably look horrible, with puffy eyes and honking my nose every time I try to breathe in. I’m an awful crier. It shows everywhere. Kate could sniffle prettily, but I’m not so lucky. “Come with me, please.” I nod, reluctant to let go, and we hobble in a weird three-legged-race kind of way over to his desk. “Sit down.” I do. He pulls a chair up on the other side and I flash back to our first meeting and that horribly awkward interview. He hands me a handkerchief—of course he carries a handkerchief—and gives me a moment to get myself settled.

“Please let me explain,” he says. “When I said I didn’t want you to call him, I may have been harsher than I intended. Let me rephrase: I don’t think you should call him. It is, of course, entirely your decision. But you do not owe that…” He breathes out hard through his nose. “You do not owe him a moment of your time. Do you understand, Ms. Steele? Not the slightest moment.”

“He said he was sorry…on the phone…”

“And do you accept his apology?” And that, I’m not so sure about. I shrug and run my finger along the grain of the desk, unwilling to meet his gaze. “I assure you, you would have my full support if you chose not to.” The phrasing of it niggles at me.

“If I chose not to?” I look up, and Christian nods. “What do you mean? He apologized. It would be rude not to.”

“Ms. Steele, rudeness would be if the boy cut in front of you at the supermarket and you held an irrational grudge against a perfectly sincere apology. It would be rude if you, say, texted him eighty times over the course of a morning when it is clear that a response is not forthcoming.” He cocks an eyebrow at me and a smile escapes me. “However, sexual assault is a different ball game entirely, as they say.” I squeeze my eyes shut, the smile nothing but a fading memory. The words sexual assault batter at me like a flock of shrieking harpies.

“It…it wasn’t…I don’t get assaulted, Christian!” I yell suddenly. “Don’t you get it? What he did…it wasn’t assault, okay? I’m not a victim! It was just a…I mean, real assault is when…” Images pour into my head of a masked stranger jumping out of the bushes, or an evil stepfather, or someone with a knife and a gun. Corset ties being slashed or petticoats torn away. Whispered threats and a cold brick wall. Those are assaults, not…not your best friend. Not shared memories and the acidic smell of cheap margarita mix.

“It is your experience,” says Christian, infuriatingly calm. “I wouldn’t presume to define it for you. Do you remember our little agreement?” He shifts a stack of papers in front of him and draws out the slave contract, placing it in front of me. I nod. “Find my hard limits, if you would.” The task is easy enough, and it stops me from thinking about anything else for a second. I flip through until I get to them, running my finger down the page. I shudder. People actually do stuff like this?

“Found it,” I say.

“Good. Re-read them again.” I do. They haven’t changed. “There are things that I have neglected to truly explain to you, Ms. Steele, about the lifestyle I lead. That was my mistake, and I apologize. I have lived like this for so long, it is sometimes easy to forget that things which are so obvious to me may not be to you. Now then, I want you to answer a question for me: in your opinion, what is the most important part of this contract?” I furrow my brow in concentration. For some reason, analyzing Pynchon is less puzzling than this simple document. Well, Christian pointed me towards hard limits for a reason, I decide, so…

“These right here?” I ask. “The hard limits?” He smiles that sweet little half-smile and I feel so triumphant that I want to freeze the frame.

“Close,” he says, and my triumph deflates a little bit. “It’s the concept of hard limits. It is the acknowledgement that there are things even a deviant like me absolutely will not consent to. It is consent that drives our community. I keep harping on that word, I know, but it is vitally important that you know this. This is what I want you to understand, if you agree to these terms and hold me as your master. If at any point I make you uncomfortable or it becomes too much for you—you can stop me.” That seems…backward, to me, and he apparently reads the confusion on my face. “It’s true. The only power I have over you is what you give to me. Some people enjoy surrendering their control to another in a safe environment. Is that something you think you might like? The only way it works is if you trust, unshakably in the core of your being, that I will never harm you. The very instant you say stop—or a safe word—I must stop. We can end our scene or try something different.”

I feel as though someone hit me hard between the eyes. There are aspects I never imagined about this whole S&M thing. I thought it was all whips and chains, like all the paraphernalia in his playroom, and that I would just have to get used to it. But the way he speaks about power and safe words and trust…is it not really about pain at all, then? Not entirely, I suppose. Some of those contraptions look capable of causing pain. I sit back in the chair, thinking about what I just learned. Surrendering my control to Christian. Trusting him to take care of me and never harm me. Knowing that he enjoyed it. Knowing that all I have to do is say a word and he is compelled to obey me, the submissive. Is that something you think you might like?

A sudden, vivid scene pops into my head: Christian, standing in the middle of his playroom, pose strong, wearing nothing but those old jeans that expose his gloriously chiseled hip bones. Me, kneeling in front of him, looking up into the face of my dominant. His hand reaching tenderly under my chin, supporting me, while his gentle gaze meets mine. I hear in my head his smooth voice saying, “That’s my good girl. You’ve made me very happy.”

Something I might like? Something I want to try this very instant.

“I didn’t realize,” I say, still stunned. It’s like looking at a map and realizing that the globe I thought I knew so well suddenly gained a whole new continent. It’s like seeing daylight break through stained glass windows, or the sense of revelation that I got when I received my first A+ on an English essay—that incontrovertible feeling that this is right for me, and the world becomes a fundamentally different place.

“Now you do. It is very important to me that you come into this as informed as possible. If you want some time to do some research on your own, I’d certainly understand. In fact, I can give you several recommendations for informational reading.” I think about Kate catching me with BDSM for Dummies, or something. She’d probably think I’ve lost my mind.

“Do you see why I am so unspeakably angry at that photographer, now?” The mention of José brings me crashing down to earth. “He ignored your lack of consent, Ms. Steele, and that is unconscionable to me. Had he attempted that with a submissive in the lifestyle, he would be shunned. Submission must be mutual. Domination, likewise, must be mutual. Otherwise it is abuse. And let me tell you something that you may be sure is cold, hard, fact: I do not tolerate abuse.

“Were you to agree to become my slave, I would forbid you to call him. He does not deserve your forgiveness, your grace, or your friendship.” He really believes that. Christian thinks, earnestly and without a trace of sarcasm, that my affections are precious. Something to be earned. He wants to earn them. This beautiful man who could charm his way into anyone’s heart sees something in me that he wants to cherish—to possess, if I give him permission. Cold, calculating Christian Grey wants to woo me. Seduce me. Make me happy by making me his.

Perhaps that’s a bit egotistical of him, but I have to admit that it’s fully within his power to do so.

And he will never, ever force me.

“I’m not going to call him back,” I say decisively. “I don’t think that his apology was very genuine to begin with. I don’t think he realizes that what he did was wrong.” Christian doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t smile or beam or punch the air in triumph over a conquered rival. Instead, he reaches across the table and takes my hand, pressing my knuckles delicately to his lips.

“I will support your decision,” he says, mouthing at the pad of my index finger. His lips are soft, giving, and silken. The feeling brings me back to our first kiss in the elevator. I hold very still, though the urge to trace the outline of his mouth is overwhelming. “And if you agree to be mine, I will never prevent you from contacting him. That was hasty of me. If, in time, you feel that he is truly remorseful and understands the gravity of his actions, I will not argue if you choose to accept his apology. I reserve the right not to like it, though.” He bites down very gently on my knuckle, running his tongue on the underside of my finger and suddenly it’s like I’m making up for 21 years of disinterest because I could jump across the desk here and now and beg him to…a flush runs up my face. I can feel it. He sees it, too, and bares his teeth in a grin, with my finger still in his mouth. He wasn’t kidding: he likes getting this reaction out of me. He loves driving me crazy.

There are some new vocabulary words I’ll need to get used to. I run through them in my mind: take me. Let me please you. Yes, sir. I want you. I want your…even in my mind I shy away from it. But that’s ridiculous. I want your fingers. I want your mouth. I want your tongue. I want your cock. That seems like a good word. Not vulgar, like dick, or clinical, like penis. I want you to fuck me.

“May I…” my voice sounds breathy and ridiculous. I swallow and try again. “May I have my hand back, please?”

“What do you need it for, Ms. Steele? I quite like it where it is now.” I’m not even sure how he manages to speak around my fingers like that. Practice?

“Well, I’m left-handed,” I say patiently, “and I can’t sign the contract with my right.” I have his attention, now. His eyebrows rise and he lowers my hand, still gripping my fingers.

“I meant it when I said you do not have to agree right away.” I carefully extricate my hand, and he doesn’t stop me.

“I know, but I trust you, Christian. I’ll still want that background reading, though.” I find a pen and affix my signature at the bottom of the last page. It’s a little shakier than usual. When I finish, he’s looking at me like he’s…awestruck. Like a beam of sunlight has broken through the clouds and illuminated his face. I slowly get up and walk around the desk while his eyes follow my progress. I’ve never been so thoroughly scrutinized before in my life. Maybe I put a little extra swing in my hips; I feel devastatingly sexy. I climb into his lap, bracing myself on the arms of the chair and hovering over him. He doesn’t try to take control. He wants to see where I’m going with this. He looks interested.

“I might be going about this backwards,” I whisper, suddenly hoping that my breath doesn’t reek, “so I need you to teach me. But…can I kiss you, Mr. Grey?” His eyes are dark, pupils huge. His hands are folded in his lap and I desperately want him to touch me.

“You may,” he says.

I do.