Chapter 1: Bought

I step into the shower and let the hot water cascade over my face and down my body. A soft moan escapes my lips. I can already feel the heat working out some of the tension from my back. It's been a long night, and it feels amazing to be getting clean.

"You showering in there or sleeping?" asks a sarcastic voice from behind the shower curtain.

I jump, then smile, recognizing the voice. Cynthia was one of the first girls to befriend me when I started work. "Why? You wanna join?"

She smacks the curtain with her hand, startling me with the loud plastic sound. She laughs. "Just hurry up. We have thirty minutes before the meeting, and there's a line behind you."

God, the meeting. I cast a furtive glance at the single bottle of shampoo in the shower. The scent fills my nose without me even opening the bottle; it's stored in my olfactory memory. All twelve of us girls use the same lavender fragrance, and it follows us everywhere, like a shared genetics.

"Ana," Cynthia urges.

No time for a hairwash tonight. I scrub my hands over my face once more, then rinse under my arms, and call it good enough.

"See if my dress is dry, would you?" Cynthia asks. She steps past me into the still-running shower as I hurry out wrapped in my towel. "I'll be quick," she adds. Sarah is already waiting by the sink, next in line.

"We have three dorms," Sarah grumbles. "Why do we only have two showers?"

"Preaching to the choir," Cynthia calls from the shower.

I slip out the door and down the hall, to the dorm I now share with three other girls, Cynthia, Monique, and Sarah. I quickly blow-dry my hair and then grab Cynthia's mostly-dry blue dress from the makeshift drying rack in the corner.

Cynthia and Monique enter the room as I'm pulling my own dress on. It's bright red with splashes of green in flower-like patterns, knee-length. Not super flattering, but on the upper end of our semi-regulation wardrobe. Each of us owns two dresses, which we rotate as best we can.

"What is this meeting about?" I ask. I have been at the E.J.'s for two weeks now, not nearly as long as the other girls, and still find myself befuddled by strange arrangements like this. Elena, mistress of the establishment, made it seem like some sort of business meeting when she announced it earlier this morning. I learned very early on, however, that nothing very regular happens at E.J.'s, especially when we are required to be "properly groomed and dressed well" at the end of a long shift.

Cynthia sighs heavily, raising my suspicions even more. She yanks her dress over her head, then bends over double to blow-dry her hair. "You'll find out soon enough," she yells over the roar of the blow-drier. "It's just this guy who comes by every once in a while."

The vagueness of her reply make me feel apprehensive for the first time. "What guy?" I ask. Most of the girls are really open about clients, and often share tips or things to avoid.

She sighs again. "This middle-aged guy. He stops by E.J.'s irregularly, sometimes a couple times a month, sometimes we don't see him for six months to a year, right?"

Monique assents silently, shrugging as she applies her lipstick.

"What does he want?" I ask. I cast my eyes around the room. The other three aren't making eye contact with each other. "Is he a client?" This seems the most obvious answer; after all, what else would a middle-aged, likely upper-class be doing at the house of call-girls?

"Like I said, you'll find out soon," Cynthia says. "Time?"

"We should head down," Monique replies.

I follow the other girls downstairs to the main living room. I've only been to this room once before. It was where I had my initial interview with Elena when I arrived. The room is set up to be comfortable, with tapestry-covered walls and several plush armchairs near a fireplace. But it is also very obviously set up to be comfortable to a select few, namely clients. The last time I was here, Elena had me stand in the central floor area while she sat, asking me questions about my experience.

Being back in the space makes my hands sweat and shake, and I have to clamp them around folds of my dress to control the tremors. Flashbacks to when I first arrived threaten to take over. I was so nervous, so unsure.

Normally, we are meant to feel relatively in control of our work, despite acting docile and acquiescent to our clients' wishes. But in this room, we are meant to feel our inferiority to Elena. In the end, it is her who sends us clients, who provides us with a livable wage, and it is she who can throw us back out to the streets at a moment's notice.

We form a single line in the center of the room, facing the two armchairs - only one vacant, the other already occupied by Elena herself. She has a severe face, with prominent cheekbones and piercing eyes. She surveys each of us in turn with her knowing gaze, taking in our appearances, tutting softly.

My throat dries and heart thuds as her gaze sweeps over me. In more ways than one, my life and livelihood are in her hands. She gives me an almost knowing nod as she meets my gaze, however, which only makes my heart hammer more. What does she know? What is this strange meeting with this strange man?

As if in answer to my questions, I hear the door open behind us, and a set of footsteps on the wood floorboards.

"Don't look at him," Cynthia whispers beside me.

I glance sideways at her, asking 'what?' with my eyes, then flick my eyes to the floor as the feet and legs of the stranger come into view.

"Evening, sir. So good to see you again," Elena says, in her silky voice reserved for clients.

"Good group this time, Elena," the stranger says. It was almost, but not quite, a question. He is surveying us, too, no doubt.

"Of course," she replies. "Only my best for you. Do see if one catches your fancy."

So this is a client, I think. But why the private viewing? Usually Elena meets with them one-on-one, asks questions about their preferences and matches us up as she sees fit. We're not usually involved in the 'picking-process.'

I long to look at him, to catch just one glimpse of this strange man's face. His voice was deep and calculating; it made the hair on my arms stand on end.

Slowly, the man starts to make his way down our line. Some girls he seems to pass up immediately, with his footsteps barely pausing, while others he stands viewing for quite a while, touching their faces or asking them brief questions. When he passs by Cynthia without a pause, I am surprised to see her shoulders relax and hear a soft sigh of relief.

Doesn't she want a new client? I furrow my brow in confusion. This man must be fairly wealthy, to afford a private viewing, so what's so bad about him that even a large paycheck can't forgive?

He stops before me. I have to fight every will in my body not to look at him. It doesn't matter what he looks like, or who he is, really; if Elena wants us to pleasure him, if he wants us to, then we must.

A dark hand reaches toward my face, and I start slightly. His fingers roughly grasp my chin and swivel my face from side to side.

"Turn," he says coldly.

My legs take some convincing to move. I turn to the left, the way he indicated with one finger, then turn back to face him. He's dressed in a simple black suit. I got a strange shock from his touch, like my very skin was trying to escape him.

"No," he corrects, "all the way. Let me look at all of you."

My stomach turns. I glance at Elena, my eyes wide with a 'what the fuck?' expression, but she merely nods for me to do it. I feel his eyes on me, on my ass and my boobs, as I complete a turn for him.

"May I?" he asks.

The question stuns me, and my eyes move involuntarily to meet his. He seems like an average man, early thirties, with slicked-back black hair and a slight beard. Not quite the domineering presence that I expected. His eyes are like fire when I look at him, though, burning not with anger but with something close to lust. I get the feeling that he has wanted me, has wanted all of us, to look at him.

"May you what?" I blurt. I realize instantly that I've messed up. Elena looks livid behind him, and Cynthia draws a breath in through her teeth.

"I wasn't talking to you," he says. He casts a glance at Elena, who again assents.

He grasps my breasts with his hands, making me start again, and he squeezes both of them, as if feeling for impurities. Then, slowly, to my horror, his hand drifts down my body, down between my legs. One finger slowly strokes me at my apex, through my thin dress. I take an unsteady step backwards, but his hand on my shoulder holds me in place. I stifle a startled sound in my throat.

"He'll take her," the man says to Elena.

She smiles. "Excellent. Girls, you may leave now." Her gaze falls on me, seeming to dare me to try and leave with them. If only she knew that I can't move, can't feel my legs, couldn't run if I wanted because of his hold on my shoulder.

His finger continues to circle, finding my clit from my shiver, and pressing. "Perfect," he whispers, only to me.

I relax gratefully when he withdraws and turns to Elena. I breathe out, my mind reeling. What did he mean by 'He'll take her'? Who is 'he' if not this man before me?

I watch their exchange of money with building fear. It is a lot of money, more than I've ever made from all my clients combined. And then it dawns on me: this man is not buying a service for himself. He is a middle man. A servant you send out to do the shopping. And he is not buying a lap dance or night of sex; he is buying me.

"No," I say, horrified. They both glance at me as if remembering that I'm there. My knees are so weak, they're shaking. "No, Elena, you can't."

She steps toward me menacingly. "It's Mistress," she snaps. "And yes, I can. You put yourself in my care when you signed the contract. It's my job to make the best decisions for you; you'll do well." She touches my cheek tenderly, like a mother. Then she slaps me.

I fall to my hands and knees, holding my face where it stings like fire.

"Get up," she says. "Now, you'll go with this man nicely, or you'll go tied."

I shudder, standing. I glance at the man again. His eyes have that strange hunger in them again. "I have to get my things. I have to say goodbye." I want to talk with Cynthia, want to ask her all the questions racing through my head. Who is this buyer? Where are they taking me? What happens to the other girls he takes?

"You won't be needing any of your things, however little you have," she says. "You'll be well taken care of, won't she?"

The man smiles and nods. "Mr. Grey takes very good take of his girls."

I edge toward the door. "Still, I'd like to say goodbye."

"They won't be expecting that," Elena says, "It's easier this way, trust me, Ana. Now, come along."

I grasp the doorknob behind me, and yank it open. I take off running down the hall. All I have in mind is Cynthia, and wanting to see once more.

Two sets of hands catch me at the stairs, grasping my arms, and I fall face-down. My chin bangs on the step, then my forehead. The world spins and goes dark.

I come to in a dark space, which I soon realize is a car. We're driving fast, but I can't see anything through the darkly-tinted windows. My hands are bound behind my back with handcuffs, and something has been tied over my mouth.

"She's awake," says a new voice. A man in a matching suit sits on my left, and on my right is the man from the meeting room. I realize they must be some sort of bodyguard.

"Don't fight with them," he adds, as I pull at the handcuffs. "It'll only hurt."

I fight with the fabric in my mouth. It's been folded and used like a bit to keep me from talking. I never meant to resist their taking me. I want to tell them that I won't run, that I won't fight. I just want to know where we're going.

Luckily, I don't have to wait long because the car soon slows and pulls along a swath of gravel. The man on my right steps out of the car, and pulls me after him.

The sky's darker than I thought it would be - we must have been driving for at least an hour or so - but we're still in the city, or, a city. A huge tower stands erect before us, nearly thirty floors high.

They pull me in through a side door and into an elevator. The new man keeps his hand on my arm, guiding and steadying me, while the other keeps a surprising distance and doesn't look at me.

"Whe-" I try to speak around the gag. Then I decide to try something else. "Pleesssse," I say. The p sound is easier than the w. The man touching my arm glances at me. "Pleeeeessse," I say again.

"Please what?" he asks the other man, who shrugs.

I incline my chin at him, trying to indicate that he should remove the gag. I won't make a scene, I try to tell him. I just feel so helpless like this.

The elevator comes to a stop on the top floor, and they lead me down a series of hallways. They're relatively nondescript, likely back servant hallways, I realize.

"I think she wants us to remove the gag, Lawrence" the man says.

The first man rolls his eyes at him. "Of course she does, Flint. Now come on, he'll be expecting us in the room."

They lead me to the end of a long hallway and Lawrence stops to unlock a side door. When I step through, the mood immediately shifts and I gasp through the gag.

We've stepped into a room that seems like it's from a different world than the nondescript hallway we left. The lighting is low and muted, and the walls are covered with dark fabric, making it feel like a sort of womb. Comforting and inviting, if it weren't for the racks of what appear to be whips, floggers, and canes. A large bed dominates one end of the huge room, covered in silk red sheets. Several strangely shaped tables stand along the walls, as well as a couple large wardrobes and shelving units. Cuffs, rope, and other bondage items hang from hooks along the far wall.

My face flushes involuntarily as the two men lead me to the center of the room. They've brought me to a sex dungeon. My heart starts to pound. What sort of man has such a place in an apartment building, let alone lets his bodyguards know about it and enter it.

Flint pushes on my shoulder as we come to a stop, indicating that I should kneel on the floor. I still have on my flimsy sandals from E.J.'s. My dress pools around me as I kneel unsteadily. I pull slightly on the handcuffs. Surely they can remove these now that I'm here.

I am facing several elongated stairs leading to a higher level where there's a door to what must be the main entrance and main house. Directly above me is a strange gold metal web-like structure that appears to tilt toward the floor; hooks for cuffs dangle from it. I swallow heavily and drop my chin.

Finally, after seems like 30 minutes, I hear a key in the door and it opens, pooling light over me and my two bodyguards. A figure steps through, closing the door and throwing us all into strange ambient light again. When my eyes re-adjust to the light, the figure - a man - is striding toward us, his steps heavy and authoritative. He wears an expensive-looking black suit with a long silver tie.

He watches me as he approaches, staring into my face and not at my body. He's younger than I expected, probably in his late 20s, with a clean-shaven face and piercing brown eyes.

I glance down.

"You cuffed her?" he asks. His voice is liquid and soft, but stern. He is not pleased.

Lawrence answers. "She made a run for it in the brothel, sir. We didn't want to take any chances."

"And the gag?" I see him bend and then his cool finger under my chin, bringing my gaze up to meet his. He surveys me, his eyes unreadable. Gently, he unties the fabric from the back of my head, and removes the now wet gag from my mouth. He watches me stretch my jaw. "Did she yell or scream for help?" He smiles, like he knows the truth already: that I didn't even think of it.

I hear Lawrence shift his weight beside me. "Well, no," he says. "But we didn't want to take that chance."

"Are you going to make a run for it if I uncuff you?" he asks me.

"No," I say, and I know it's true. However terrified I am to be here, I know I have nowhere else to go. "And I didn't run away earlier; I wanted to see my friend."

"Shush," he says, standing. "Lawrence?" He inclines his head at my wrists, and the man moves immediately to remove the cuffs.

I rub my wrists, already feeling bruises forming. I shouldn't have pulled, like he said. I shift and glance briefly up at the man, this Mr. Grey, before dropping my gaze back to the floor. I've been in a situation like this before, before I came to E.J.'s, and I think I know what's expected of me. Submission.

"Stand up," Mr. Grey says. As I expected, his tone has shifted. The slight hint of tenderness has left, and in its place is an authoritative sternness. Something that suggests that it would be wise not to question him.

I stand uncomfortably, my knees sore from the floor. I keep my gaze down, though I long to see his face, to read his emotions.

"Remove your dress," he orders.

I grasp my dress, but hesitate. I am very aware of the two men standing behind me, no doubt watching. Will they stay? Does he intend to do whatever he wishes with these men as witnesses? My skin prickles with embarrassment.

He seems to sense my dilemma. "Flint, Lawrence," he says, gesturing toward the back door. "Please."

I watch them leave, my body relaxing slightly. At least there won't be an audience, and that makes this whole situation slightly less horrid. I glance up at the man before me, unable to control myself. He's much handsomer than I could have hoped for. Why does that make this better?

"Now," he says, regarding me, "remove your dress."

I lift it over my head in one motion, yanking my hands free of the sleeves and letting it fall to the floor to my left. I stand, naked except for my panties and sandals.

"And your shoes," he says, not breaking eye contact.

I do as he says, dropping first one then the other next to my dress.

"What's your name?" he asks. He begins to circle me, his steps methodic and slow, and my skin prickles.

"Ana," I say.

"Ana what?" he asks from behind me.

"Anastasia Steele, sir, with an e on the end."

I hear a smile in his voice. "Well, Ms. Steele, with an e on the end, I am Christian Grey. And you," he says, coming back around the face me, "are mine now."