She asked if you were gay. A man who thinks women are possessions and who fantasises about raping random strangers? I think one item of sentient clothing is more than enough in most modern BDSM relationships.
I wonder briefly if all her skin is like that — flawless — and what it would look like pink and warmed from the bite of a cane. I want to dispel that unguarded, admiring look from those big blue eyes. A nervous, bashful, bookish type, eh? But what kind of a hussy says openly that she'd like a stack of pancakes and syrup? Share via Email So, I've been away for a month. Who's writing this, John Motson? I shrug, feigning boredom, and I imagine fucking her smart mouth to distract myself from all thoughts of hunger. She gapes at me, and I almost roll my eyes again. Overall, lots of Ana reminding us where her orifices are, just in case we forgot. Just to remind you what kind of great guy he is, and why Ana is going along with all this, he immediately refuses to take back the super expensive Thomas Hardy novels he gave her as a gift, and even threatens her over the very idea of returning them. Imagine you're enthusing to a friend about a new boyfriend: Christian pulls her back inside and directly into the bedroom, Ana pleading for forgiveness the entire time. Christian muses on how thankful he is that Kate was sick and Ana had to interview him instead. It's like reading the legal transcript of a two-year planning application, in real time. Christian responds that the box is supposed to be in a safe, and deduces that Leila must know the safe combination somehow and have moved the pictures when she had broken into the apartment. Which is hilarious when you think about it. He looks… glorious… mine. A frisson of annoyance runs through me. Christian has gone from Draco Malfoy to Austin Powers and back in the space of about two hundred words. And yet, also in chapter nine a man who peers down at Anastasia and says: Which was why I was working so very hard on ignoring it and hoping it would just go the fuck away. That was Claude, by the way. As she grows more and more flustered, it occurs to me that I could refine her motor skills with the aid of a riding crop. We need no longer pretend that those clothes are coming off against our better judgment. That would answer her question. Yes, okay, I admit it. It's so un-erotic, you could read it to sex offenders and call it therapy.
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