I refuse point blank to touch ‘50 Shades of Grey’ with the proverbial 10 foot pole so. “Mister Grey or whoever he is wakes up in the body of a woman, one who is being manipulated by a scumbag like him. – knitnan
[AN: I’m not into that either. TW: Abuse, blood, pain, suicide, coarse language]
Pain.
His entire body hurt. He swore his hair hurt. Every inch of his skin was a sizzling symphony of agony. Christian Grey tried to move and winced as the sheets stuck to his skin. The air was rank with the smell of blood… but why was he hurt?
A male voice. Not his. “I said that it was time for breakfast. That means you have to move that lazy ass, slave.”
It was his blood. Liberally covering his body. Especially his breasts, hips and thighs.
What?
Christian pulled the sheets off him. A battle since they were stiff with his blood. He cupped his breasts. Amazed at their presence.
“Yes. They’re lovely,” said the strange man. “Red is my favourite colour. This is your third chance to do as you’re told.”
“Are you insane?” said Christian. “Look at me. I need medical help.” His voice was high and reedy. Shamefully thick with emotion. “These wounds could get infected. Do you know how many pathogens are in human blood?”
The next thing he knew, his face was hot with agony and the stranger was in his face. Pulling his hair and choking him. “I. Said. MOVE! Or do you want another lesson like last night?”
Considering the pain and the spatter… and the dimming light available to his eyes, Christian shook his head. There had never been a sweeter breath of air as the one Christian took when the stranger let go. But he didn’t entirely let go. He still used Christian’s hair as a leash. Steering him into spacious and spotless kitchen and dining area. Forcing him onto a white leather stool and incidentally mashing his face into the white marble countertop.
His white marble countertop. His white leather furniture. His spacious, spotless, and well-appointed apartment.
And he was, according to the reflection in the marble, a mousy-haired, dough-faced creature with at least a halfway decent body. Exactly the type Christian would pick to be his personal slave and stress relief.
The stranger placed a plastic bowl in front of Christian and cuffed his hands behind his back.
“Since you insist on acting like an animal, Christine, you will eat like one. Bow your pretty little head and eat out of the bowl like an animal.”
It was scorching-hot oatmeal. And if he didn’t eat, he would doubtless have his face thrust into the hot goop. He ate enough to make the stranger ease down from his readiness to strike. “This can’t be legal,” he whispered. “It isn’t legal.”
“Is is, my dear. You signed the contract. You signed the NDA. Everything I do to you is with your prior consent.” A condescending chuckle. “It’s not my fault you were so hungry for my cock that you didn’t read it. Stupid bitch.” He smacked Christian with his open hand. Possibly to remind him that this stranger was the one in power. “You don’t have a legal leg to stand on. And if you dare try to escape again, I’ll sue you for breach of contract so hard that your distant relatives will have to share your debtor’s prison.”
Escape, he had said. Again. This meant that the Christine-he-was-now had some backbone. Which meant that this monster was going to be training her… him… with increasing violence until she was broken.
Not on my watch.
Christian ate. Grudgingly. Kept up the act until the monster was satisfied. Asked, politely, to have a bath, please master.
Of course he loaded the water with a stinging antiseptic. Ducked and scrubbed him roughly. And by all the signs, he was not going to stop until Christian cried. By the end of it, he was twice as sore as when he started. Left chained to a plinth of cruel-looking instruments. Doubtless designed to scare Christine. Christian knew them well.
“Be a good pet,” said the monster, “and I might be kind. Instead of using those on you tonight.”
The cuffs were tight and hard to escape. The apartment rather bare of everything that could cut… scars on Christine’s wrists indicated prior suicide attempts.
But there were still mirrors.
He put himself on the public, pristine master bedroom before he stabbed the broken glass into his inner thigh. Rolled all over the white comforter while he still had the power. Made sure his blood got everywhere.
There was more than one way to escape.
He remembered grinning as the power faded from his limbs. “Red is your favourite colour…” he said in Christine’s voice. Tried to laugh as the light faded from his eyes.
And woke in shock and agony in the same room he started in.
“I said that it was time for breakfast,” said the monster. “That means you have to move that lazy ass, slave.”
There truly was no escape.
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