1. When Grandmama caught us at it in the bath
2. When I split my head open while we did it on the path
3. When I broke both my wrists wriggling out of my handcuffs
4. When he got in a strop because I'd had enough
5. When Christian whipped me and I cried like a bitch
6. When it turned out it wasn’t just any old itch
7. When he got a new butler who tried to join in
8. When the reverend caught us and yelled “It’s a sin!”
9. When I thought I was pregnant and Christian dumped me
10. When I found out I wasn’t and in triumph, he thumped me
11. When he told me the safe word and I couldn’t pronounce it
12. When he found out I was Jewish and made me renounce it
13. When I washed all his ‘toys’ and some ended up rusty
14. When he used them regardless, merely saying “Just trust me”
15. When I found a girl’s phone number in his desk drawer
16. When I realised it was for a phone I didn’t use anymore
17. When he spanked me with a paddle and then with an oar
18. When I lied to my doctor about why I was sore
19. When I went to the shops still wearing my leash
20. When he rode me like a dolphin that time at the beach
21. When I was so tired from sex that I slept during class
22. When I got his hand print tattooed onto my ass
23. When we went to a party and he started to sing
24. When we went past a jewelers and I looked at a ring
25. When my carpet burn turned into a big pus-filled scab
26. When he called me a fatty and pinched at my flab
27. When I fell from the harness and broke both my legs
28. When he held me down hard and forced me to beg
29. When I got badly sunburned and he slapped my red bits
30. When he made me get implants because he hates my tits
31. When I told him it hurt, and he simply laughed
32. When he whipped me so hard I needed a skin graft
33. When we went for a walk and got lost in the dark
34. When we got caught that time we did it in the park
35. When my hair caught on fire and I ended up bald
36. When the wig Christian bought me made me look old
37. When my college work suffered and he didn’t care
38. When he said he preferred me when I had my own hair
39. When he suddenly got lice and blamed it on me
40. When I said I was bald, so how could that be?
41. When his friend called me names and he didn’t defend me
42. When I got a backache because I’m just not that bendy
43. When I went for a run and he thought I’d escaped
44. When I found out that all of our ‘sessions’ were taped
45. When he tied me too tight and I started to cry
46. When my eyes filled with tears and he didn’t ask why
47. When he cringed at my touch when I reached for his hand
48. When he wiped out the heart that I drew in the sand
49. When I told him I loved him and got no reply
50. When I left in the night without saying goodbye.
Showing posts with label fifty shades of gray. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fifty shades of gray. Show all posts
Sunday, 1 July 2012
Thrifty Shades of Grey: Three More Shades More Grey - This Time it’s Greyer-er
I arrive at the big corporate building and step into the reception. The blonde behind the desk looks me over as if I’m something she has wiped off her shoe, which looks like a Jimmy Choo stiletto - pricey, but then you would expect to pay more for the kind of high quality product that Jimmy Choo makes.
“May I help you?” she says, in a clipped voice that suggests she is judging me for wearing jeans, sneakers and a t-shirt, the kind you’d buy from the GAP - great quality clothes at reasonable prices. What can I say? I’m just a girl with simple tastes and simple pleasures, like curling up in front of the fire with a good book, usually bought from Amazon because it’s so easy to shop on that website, literally just *click* And You’re Done.
“I’m here to speak to Mr Grey.” The receptionist smiles from behind the shiny black reception desk. I notice that they use Apple Mac computers, and I go to ask her about it but then Think Different.
“Oh, you want the building across the road,” she says, her lips covered in what looks like Rimmel lipstick, presumably she wanted to Get The London Look. “Mr Grey has had to downsize since the whole…you know, scandal about his personal life.” Of course I remember it, I wrote the article.
“Okay, thanks,” I say, turning to leave but then stopping to ask her something, “listen, I was just wondering, where did you get your top from? It’s gorgeous.”
“Oh thank you!” She lightens up, and smiles again. “I bought it from Marks & Spencer. This is not just a cashmere cardigan; it’s a hand woven cashmere cardigan with pearlesque buttons sewn on in Nepal. The quality is unbeatable and the price was very reasonable. There are many branches located all across in the UK.” But obviously, this story is set in America but that’s okay because fortunately Marks & Spencer offer a competitive rate on international delivery.
“Well, I love Your M&S top.” I exit the building and cross the road to the shabby, run-down building with the sign “Grey Enterprises” over a door with peeling paint and a rusted handle. I think to myself that he could probably get a good deal on some door handles from B&Q.
I don’t bother with the doorbell and just go straight in. Christian’s office is slightly off to the left and has no door, and the reception desk is straight ahead. I notice that his receptionist is eating a box of Kripsy Kreme doughnuts, and she offers me one without saying a word. I skipped lunch, so I accept the doughnut and take a bite. The fluffy, light texture and sweet delicious taste make it an exciting eating event, available at restaurants across the country. With the powdered sugar still on my lips, I head into Christian’s office, where he is sat with his head down on the desk.
“Hey babe,” I say, “What’s up?” He looks up from his desk, his cheeks still damp from the tears and his eyes red from…well, the tears.
“What’s up? Is that all you have to say for yourself? You cost me my livelihood, Ana. You cost me $15 million. How am I going to make it back?”
“Oh come on,” I say, starting to take my top off, “let me cheer you up.” I climb onto his desk and reach for his tie - the grey one - but the desk collapses beneath me.
“Goddamn it, Anastasia, your body disgusts me!” He breathes heavily, and puts his head in his hands again. “You… you haven’t stopped eating since I went bankrupt… you’ve doubled in size and it…it sickens me.”
“Whoa, bit harsh, Christian.” I brush my hair away from my face as I stand up, having washed my hair earlier in the morning with L’Oréal shampoo, Because [I’m] Worth It.
“Sorry, but it’s true. You ruined me, and now you’re ruining yourself. I may beat the shit out of you on occasion but that doesn’t mean I want you to hurt yourself.” Oh wow. He’s so deep and thoughtful. I brush away the dust and debris of the table and floor from my jeans, and notice that yes, my body has become somewhat bloated through my increased eating habits. I spend a lot of time eating in various restaurants around the city. I’ve recently indulged in a lot of McDonalds meals, and I must say, I’m Lovin’ It, but not as much as KFC - Sooo Good! Burger King is another favourite, because they let you Have It Your Way, but sometimes it's nice to Eat Fresh, so I occasionally go for a Subway sandwich.
“Well Christian, I know you’re feeling down, but I’ve thought of a way we can make your money back.”
“Anastasia, you’re stupid enough to hang around with me even though I beat you senseless as a means of sexual gratification. What makes you think I’m going to listen to your business proposal?” He’s so rude to me sometimes, but only because he loves me.
“Just hear me out, Christian. One word: Sponsorship.”
He looks at me like I’m an idiot but also like I’m a genius - the kind of genius formed by daily use of brain exercises such as those on the Nintendo DS game, Dr Kawashima’s Brain Training, available at all good game retailers nationwide.
“That’s brilliant Anastasia,” he says, “but sponsorship for what?”
“Oh, Christian,” I smile, taking the lid off of my Parker pen (maker of fine writing instruments), “you just leave that to me.”
“May I help you?” she says, in a clipped voice that suggests she is judging me for wearing jeans, sneakers and a t-shirt, the kind you’d buy from the GAP - great quality clothes at reasonable prices. What can I say? I’m just a girl with simple tastes and simple pleasures, like curling up in front of the fire with a good book, usually bought from Amazon because it’s so easy to shop on that website, literally just *click* And You’re Done.
“I’m here to speak to Mr Grey.” The receptionist smiles from behind the shiny black reception desk. I notice that they use Apple Mac computers, and I go to ask her about it but then Think Different.
“Oh, you want the building across the road,” she says, her lips covered in what looks like Rimmel lipstick, presumably she wanted to Get The London Look. “Mr Grey has had to downsize since the whole…you know, scandal about his personal life.” Of course I remember it, I wrote the article.
“Okay, thanks,” I say, turning to leave but then stopping to ask her something, “listen, I was just wondering, where did you get your top from? It’s gorgeous.”
“Oh thank you!” She lightens up, and smiles again. “I bought it from Marks & Spencer. This is not just a cashmere cardigan; it’s a hand woven cashmere cardigan with pearlesque buttons sewn on in Nepal. The quality is unbeatable and the price was very reasonable. There are many branches located all across in the UK.” But obviously, this story is set in America but that’s okay because fortunately Marks & Spencer offer a competitive rate on international delivery.
“Well, I love Your M&S top.” I exit the building and cross the road to the shabby, run-down building with the sign “Grey Enterprises” over a door with peeling paint and a rusted handle. I think to myself that he could probably get a good deal on some door handles from B&Q.
I don’t bother with the doorbell and just go straight in. Christian’s office is slightly off to the left and has no door, and the reception desk is straight ahead. I notice that his receptionist is eating a box of Kripsy Kreme doughnuts, and she offers me one without saying a word. I skipped lunch, so I accept the doughnut and take a bite. The fluffy, light texture and sweet delicious taste make it an exciting eating event, available at restaurants across the country. With the powdered sugar still on my lips, I head into Christian’s office, where he is sat with his head down on the desk.
“Hey babe,” I say, “What’s up?” He looks up from his desk, his cheeks still damp from the tears and his eyes red from…well, the tears.
“What’s up? Is that all you have to say for yourself? You cost me my livelihood, Ana. You cost me $15 million. How am I going to make it back?”
“Oh come on,” I say, starting to take my top off, “let me cheer you up.” I climb onto his desk and reach for his tie - the grey one - but the desk collapses beneath me.
“Goddamn it, Anastasia, your body disgusts me!” He breathes heavily, and puts his head in his hands again. “You… you haven’t stopped eating since I went bankrupt… you’ve doubled in size and it…it sickens me.”
“Whoa, bit harsh, Christian.” I brush my hair away from my face as I stand up, having washed my hair earlier in the morning with L’Oréal shampoo, Because [I’m] Worth It.
“Sorry, but it’s true. You ruined me, and now you’re ruining yourself. I may beat the shit out of you on occasion but that doesn’t mean I want you to hurt yourself.” Oh wow. He’s so deep and thoughtful. I brush away the dust and debris of the table and floor from my jeans, and notice that yes, my body has become somewhat bloated through my increased eating habits. I spend a lot of time eating in various restaurants around the city. I’ve recently indulged in a lot of McDonalds meals, and I must say, I’m Lovin’ It, but not as much as KFC - Sooo Good! Burger King is another favourite, because they let you Have It Your Way, but sometimes it's nice to Eat Fresh, so I occasionally go for a Subway sandwich.
“Well Christian, I know you’re feeling down, but I’ve thought of a way we can make your money back.”
“Anastasia, you’re stupid enough to hang around with me even though I beat you senseless as a means of sexual gratification. What makes you think I’m going to listen to your business proposal?” He’s so rude to me sometimes, but only because he loves me.
“Just hear me out, Christian. One word: Sponsorship.”
He looks at me like I’m an idiot but also like I’m a genius - the kind of genius formed by daily use of brain exercises such as those on the Nintendo DS game, Dr Kawashima’s Brain Training, available at all good game retailers nationwide.
“That’s brilliant Anastasia,” he says, “but sponsorship for what?”
“Oh, Christian,” I smile, taking the lid off of my Parker pen (maker of fine writing instruments), “you just leave that to me.”
Fifty Blades of Grey: Three More Shades More Grey - This Time it’s Greyer-er
“Anastasia, come here for a moment.”
I stand up from my chair and walk over to him as he sits behind his cool, granite desk. Even his office at home is so sophisticated, all granite and black and grey (because he’s rich). Wow.
“Yes, Christian?” I’m a little peeved that he’s making me miss some of my television time. It’s halfway through that episode of South Park with Britney Spears, and she’s just blown half her head off but she’s still alive and it’s kind of disgusting but hilarious at the same time. I don’t know how those boys make that show so funny and disgusting and popular. I suppose it’s a little bit like myself, in a way. I wish I could just sit there and ignore his calls, but there’s something about Christian that makes me come crawling back. Maybe it’s the shackles on my knees and feet that make it hard to walk so that I literally have to crawl; maybe it’s his unrealistic good looks that draw me back like a magnet; or maybe it’s the fact that he’s fucking loaded and I’ve become accustomed to the numerous expensive gifts he gives me to keep me sweet, and I don’t want to let a sugar daddy like that get away.
“I have a question to ask you.” He runs his hand through his hair and cocks his head to the side, smiling. Sitting behind his desk he looks like a young FDR, albeit less jowly and with the added bonus of being able to stand up. But he doesn’t stand up, he just sits there eyeing me up. He makes me feel like the only woman in the world, especially when he’s beating the shit out of me to get his rocks off; I wish all women could get this special treatment, though not from my Mr Grey.
“Ask away, my love.” The room must be cold, because he shudders when I say that. It must be all the granite. He opens the drawer next to him and takes something out, but I can’t see what it is so I step on my tiptoes to look and bang my head on the sex-rack chandelier hanging in the middle of the room.
“Come closer. Kneel down here beside my chair and close your eyes.” He puts his hands behind his back, hiding whatever glittery trinket he has just taken out of the drawer. He’s going to make me work for it, I suppose, like the whore that I am. I do as I’m told because that’s part of the contract, and reach out towards him to start on his belt. My hands fumble about in his lap until he says “No, not that. Just hold out your hand.”
Well this is different. Wow. Oh my god. I suddenly realised what day it is - it’s our six and a half month anniversary. I can’t believe he remembered! This must be it, he’s going to propose. Oh my god. He’s going to propose, and then I’ll be his wife and that’ll be the end of all this contract business. Well, apart from the marriage contract. And I assume he’ll want a prenuptial agreement too. But apart from those two very significant contracts, I’ll be done with all that. Yay!
I hold out my left hand, palm down and wait for a few seconds, expecting to feel him slip an engagement ring on there. I laugh to myself as I imagine my wrist buckling under the weight of the huge diamond, but then that laugh turns into a scream as I feel my ring finger, middle and index come clean off. I open my eyes and see Christian standing over me with a switchblade in his hand, and then look over to the cream carpet and see my poor fingers lying there in a small pool of blood. Poor things. They’re probably as scared as I am.
“What are you doing, Christian? I thought you were going to propose!” I clutch my now half-empty hand to my chest, but I won’t get up because he hasn’t told me I can yet.
“SHUT UP! I’m sick of your nonsense, you stupid little girl.” I reach for my fingers, wondering if they’ll screw right back on but Christian gets up and walks over to his cabinet, stepping on my severed little digits in the process.
“Can I get up now, please? I’m losing a lot of blood and I’d quite like to get a bandage or something. And I could really do with a cup of Twinings English tea, Christian.”
“Come here, Anastasia. Now.”
I get up, because his request for me to go over to him sort of means that I’m allowed to get up. Even after he’s cut off my fingers, I find I’m still devoted to him, and despite the searing, agonising pain in my hand I follow him to the cabinet. He has his back to me, doesn’t look round as I approach him and place my right hand - now my ‘good hand’ - on his shoulder. He swings round immediately and slices my arm clean off at the elbow with a huge samurai sword.
“Baby, please!” He ignores my pleas, and waves the katana above his head.
“Check this shit out.” He swings the other door of the cabinet open and all I can say is that I’ve never seen that many swords in one place, apart from that time when Christian took me to the sword museum. And also the time when I already looked in this cabinet. There must have been at least fifty blades in there. At this point I’ve lost quite a lot of blood, but I have the strength still to stumble over to his desk.
“Take me, Christian, take me now!” I squeal, leaning over the desk, trying to lower my trousers but failing due to my new lack of dexterity.
“Get away from there, you clumsy whore, you’re bleeding all over some very important paperwork.” He strides towards me now with a different knife, this time a sort of crooked dagger, a bit like the one Jafar has when he’s going to stab Aladdin after he’s got the lamp from the big sand thing and he goes “Your eternal reward” or something. Oh wow. I’ve lost a lot of blood. He plunges the knife into my back and the pain shoots through my entire body this time, an unbearable pulsating heat that is impossible to ignore.
I wonder what I might have done wrong. “What did I do wrong, Christian?”
“Nothing, Anastasia. I’m just a psychopath.”
“Oh, fair enough.” I love his honesty.
“Now keep still, that I may slit your throat.”
“No, I can’t let you do that, Christian, anything but that.” I mean, I have to draw the line somewhere. He cocks his head to the side and smiles, his face freckled with my blood.
“Fine,” he smiles, “let me flip you over though.” Oh good, sexy sex time! Maybe it will take my mind off of my extreme blood loss and fatal injuries. He grabs my shoulder and roughly pushes me, so that I’m now lying on my back on his desk.
“Oh shit, my paperwork.” He remembers his important files and he sweeps them away from under me. God, I love how spontaneous this all is. Wow. Damn! He has this sort of psychotic look in his piercing blue eyes, and he turns and walks back to the cabinet, presumably to get some kind of kinky, fetish toy thi- no wait, it’s another knife. This one is curved at the end, like a sickle. I reckon this is probably the end for me.
“Hey, Christian,” I say, as he walks toward me with the sickle in his hand, “look.” I raise my left hand to my face, my thumb by my ear and my pinky at my chin, like a phone. “Call me. HAHA! Get it? CALL ME!”
He raises the sickle. Here it comes. Oh wow.
I stand up from my chair and walk over to him as he sits behind his cool, granite desk. Even his office at home is so sophisticated, all granite and black and grey (because he’s rich). Wow.
“Yes, Christian?” I’m a little peeved that he’s making me miss some of my television time. It’s halfway through that episode of South Park with Britney Spears, and she’s just blown half her head off but she’s still alive and it’s kind of disgusting but hilarious at the same time. I don’t know how those boys make that show so funny and disgusting and popular. I suppose it’s a little bit like myself, in a way. I wish I could just sit there and ignore his calls, but there’s something about Christian that makes me come crawling back. Maybe it’s the shackles on my knees and feet that make it hard to walk so that I literally have to crawl; maybe it’s his unrealistic good looks that draw me back like a magnet; or maybe it’s the fact that he’s fucking loaded and I’ve become accustomed to the numerous expensive gifts he gives me to keep me sweet, and I don’t want to let a sugar daddy like that get away.
“I have a question to ask you.” He runs his hand through his hair and cocks his head to the side, smiling. Sitting behind his desk he looks like a young FDR, albeit less jowly and with the added bonus of being able to stand up. But he doesn’t stand up, he just sits there eyeing me up. He makes me feel like the only woman in the world, especially when he’s beating the shit out of me to get his rocks off; I wish all women could get this special treatment, though not from my Mr Grey.
“Ask away, my love.” The room must be cold, because he shudders when I say that. It must be all the granite. He opens the drawer next to him and takes something out, but I can’t see what it is so I step on my tiptoes to look and bang my head on the sex-rack chandelier hanging in the middle of the room.
“Come closer. Kneel down here beside my chair and close your eyes.” He puts his hands behind his back, hiding whatever glittery trinket he has just taken out of the drawer. He’s going to make me work for it, I suppose, like the whore that I am. I do as I’m told because that’s part of the contract, and reach out towards him to start on his belt. My hands fumble about in his lap until he says “No, not that. Just hold out your hand.”
Well this is different. Wow. Oh my god. I suddenly realised what day it is - it’s our six and a half month anniversary. I can’t believe he remembered! This must be it, he’s going to propose. Oh my god. He’s going to propose, and then I’ll be his wife and that’ll be the end of all this contract business. Well, apart from the marriage contract. And I assume he’ll want a prenuptial agreement too. But apart from those two very significant contracts, I’ll be done with all that. Yay!
I hold out my left hand, palm down and wait for a few seconds, expecting to feel him slip an engagement ring on there. I laugh to myself as I imagine my wrist buckling under the weight of the huge diamond, but then that laugh turns into a scream as I feel my ring finger, middle and index come clean off. I open my eyes and see Christian standing over me with a switchblade in his hand, and then look over to the cream carpet and see my poor fingers lying there in a small pool of blood. Poor things. They’re probably as scared as I am.
“What are you doing, Christian? I thought you were going to propose!” I clutch my now half-empty hand to my chest, but I won’t get up because he hasn’t told me I can yet.
“SHUT UP! I’m sick of your nonsense, you stupid little girl.” I reach for my fingers, wondering if they’ll screw right back on but Christian gets up and walks over to his cabinet, stepping on my severed little digits in the process.
“Can I get up now, please? I’m losing a lot of blood and I’d quite like to get a bandage or something. And I could really do with a cup of Twinings English tea, Christian.”
“Come here, Anastasia. Now.”
I get up, because his request for me to go over to him sort of means that I’m allowed to get up. Even after he’s cut off my fingers, I find I’m still devoted to him, and despite the searing, agonising pain in my hand I follow him to the cabinet. He has his back to me, doesn’t look round as I approach him and place my right hand - now my ‘good hand’ - on his shoulder. He swings round immediately and slices my arm clean off at the elbow with a huge samurai sword.
“Baby, please!” He ignores my pleas, and waves the katana above his head.
“Check this shit out.” He swings the other door of the cabinet open and all I can say is that I’ve never seen that many swords in one place, apart from that time when Christian took me to the sword museum. And also the time when I already looked in this cabinet. There must have been at least fifty blades in there. At this point I’ve lost quite a lot of blood, but I have the strength still to stumble over to his desk.
“Take me, Christian, take me now!” I squeal, leaning over the desk, trying to lower my trousers but failing due to my new lack of dexterity.
“Get away from there, you clumsy whore, you’re bleeding all over some very important paperwork.” He strides towards me now with a different knife, this time a sort of crooked dagger, a bit like the one Jafar has when he’s going to stab Aladdin after he’s got the lamp from the big sand thing and he goes “Your eternal reward” or something. Oh wow. I’ve lost a lot of blood. He plunges the knife into my back and the pain shoots through my entire body this time, an unbearable pulsating heat that is impossible to ignore.
I wonder what I might have done wrong. “What did I do wrong, Christian?”
“Nothing, Anastasia. I’m just a psychopath.”
“Oh, fair enough.” I love his honesty.
“Now keep still, that I may slit your throat.”
“No, I can’t let you do that, Christian, anything but that.” I mean, I have to draw the line somewhere. He cocks his head to the side and smiles, his face freckled with my blood.
“Fine,” he smiles, “let me flip you over though.” Oh good, sexy sex time! Maybe it will take my mind off of my extreme blood loss and fatal injuries. He grabs my shoulder and roughly pushes me, so that I’m now lying on my back on his desk.
“Oh shit, my paperwork.” He remembers his important files and he sweeps them away from under me. God, I love how spontaneous this all is. Wow. Damn! He has this sort of psychotic look in his piercing blue eyes, and he turns and walks back to the cabinet, presumably to get some kind of kinky, fetish toy thi- no wait, it’s another knife. This one is curved at the end, like a sickle. I reckon this is probably the end for me.
“Hey, Christian,” I say, as he walks toward me with the sickle in his hand, “look.” I raise my left hand to my face, my thumb by my ear and my pinky at my chin, like a phone. “Call me. HAHA! Get it? CALL ME!”
He raises the sickle. Here it comes. Oh wow.
Monday, 28 May 2012
Fifty Shades of Gay: Three More Shades of Grey: Further Encounters in The Red Room of Pain #3
“We’re going to play a game, Anastasia.”
Christian has that sultry, sexy look on his face, and he’s using that low tone of voice that gets me all fired up… down there.
“Yes, sir. What game are we going to play?” I imagine the fun we will have, the punishment he might give me with the paddle, the whip, or just his bare hands on my flesh.
He looks up at me, his hair ruffled and his eyes dark.
“Scrabble” he whispers. I try to remember what the scrabble is - is it the name of one of his whips, or was it what he wants me to do, scrabble around the floor on all fours on a leash or something? He walks over to the cupboard and leans in, bringing out a wooden box. He sets it down on the bed, and opens it. He takes out a square, chequered board and a bag of - hang on, he means actual Scrabble?
He reaches into the bag, and I wonder if there’s some kind of sexual gadget in there that he wants me to put inside myself, or something sordid like that.
“Close your eyes. Hold out your hand.”
“Yes, sir.” This is exciting! Wow. Damn.
Cold, hard, smooth squares hit my palm. “You can open them.” The squares are an off-white colour, with - wait, it fucking is Scrabble. Unless he wants me to stick them up my -
“Okay you know the rules, right?” He doesn’t look like the Christian I know. He looks like an excited little boy, not the sexy, strict master I’m used to.
“Well, yes. ‘The Submissive must obey-’”
“No, not those rules!” he roars. “For this game!” He nods at the board. I just nod back at him.
“I’ll go first.” He lines his letters up in the little grey holder, ponders for a minute and then puts one solitary letter down in the middle of the board. ‘I’.
For someone as verbose as he normally is, that is kind of a let down. As he reaches into the bag to replace the tile, I study my letters, which I have arranged alphabetically. ‘AEENNST’.
I ponder for a moment, and then smile. I create the word ‘INTENSE’ horizontally off of his ‘I’.
He cocks his head to the side and smiles at me. I get this game, now! It’s Scrabble, but sexy! Sexcrabble! Okay I need to work on that.
He maintains eye contact with me as he lays the next set of letters down. Leading vertically down onto the first ‘E’, he spells out the word ‘LOVE’. Wow. Oh my god. He’s never this romantic normally. I decide to be more forthcoming. I had somehow managed to pick out the letters ‘X’ and ‘E’ in my last handful of letters, which I lay under the ‘S’.
‘Sex’ I whisper to him, even though I know he can read what it says. I feel my body heat up with anticipation, both for the hardcore session we’re bound to have after this board game and for the statement of his love for me when he inevitably lays down the word ‘YOU’. It could only fit in one place, using the ‘O’ in 'LOVE'.
Sure enough, he leans over and starts to lay his tiles on the board, although I can’t see the word just yet. My heart starts to pound in my chest. Holy crap! Oh Christian, you’re finally becoming the romantic I always -
‘KNOBS’
I look up at him.
“Yeah, knobs!” he says, punching the air. He gleefully counts up the points. “Triple letter score on the 'B', that’s 9, then 8 from the others, I make that 17 points. Now get out of my house.”
I am stunned. Damn. Oh my god. Holy crap.
“Didn’t you get the message? I was hardly subtle, Anastasia. I love me some knobs.” Oh my god.
“You’re… you’re kidding, aren’t you?”
“Nope.” He’s smiling, that handsome, crooked smile. I want him to take me in his arms and tell me this is all a joke. “Remember when you interviewed me, and you hadn’t done your research? You asked me if I was gay, and I was so outraged that you hadn’t done your research that, well… I decided you needed to be punished.”
“I don’t understand…” Oh my god. Damn!
“Yeah, you were all ‘Meh meh meh, are you gay?’ so I thought, fuck it, I’ll make her suffer.”
I sit for a moment, entirely naked and suddenly very aware of it.
“But wait, what about your Mrs Robinson? Elena? Was that all a lie?
“Oh no, that was all true. Except his name was Simon Garfunkel - honestly, you couldn’t make it up.”
I pick up my clothes from the floor and pull them on as I run through his house to the front door, which I fling open and wait for a moment, listening to his cackling laughter as it echoes through the house. I run down the drive and fumble in my handbag for my car keys. Christian appears on the balcony, still completely naked.
“Tell your friends,” he bellows, “tell them how much I love the peen!”
With tears in my eyes, I start the engine, and notice there is something stuck in my windscreen wipers. The grey tie. I reach round onto the windscreen and unhook it, bringing it to my face for one last moment of Christian’s scent. It smells like ink. I look down and notice there is writing on the tie. I unravel it and spread it onto the dashboard.
“FUCK YOU ANASTASIA HA HA HA”
I lean my head back against the headrest, and weep.
Christian has that sultry, sexy look on his face, and he’s using that low tone of voice that gets me all fired up… down there.
“Yes, sir. What game are we going to play?” I imagine the fun we will have, the punishment he might give me with the paddle, the whip, or just his bare hands on my flesh.
He looks up at me, his hair ruffled and his eyes dark.
“Scrabble” he whispers. I try to remember what the scrabble is - is it the name of one of his whips, or was it what he wants me to do, scrabble around the floor on all fours on a leash or something? He walks over to the cupboard and leans in, bringing out a wooden box. He sets it down on the bed, and opens it. He takes out a square, chequered board and a bag of - hang on, he means actual Scrabble?
He reaches into the bag, and I wonder if there’s some kind of sexual gadget in there that he wants me to put inside myself, or something sordid like that.
“Close your eyes. Hold out your hand.”
“Yes, sir.” This is exciting! Wow. Damn.
Cold, hard, smooth squares hit my palm. “You can open them.” The squares are an off-white colour, with - wait, it fucking is Scrabble. Unless he wants me to stick them up my -
“Okay you know the rules, right?” He doesn’t look like the Christian I know. He looks like an excited little boy, not the sexy, strict master I’m used to.
“Well, yes. ‘The Submissive must obey-’”
“No, not those rules!” he roars. “For this game!” He nods at the board. I just nod back at him.
“I’ll go first.” He lines his letters up in the little grey holder, ponders for a minute and then puts one solitary letter down in the middle of the board. ‘I’.
For someone as verbose as he normally is, that is kind of a let down. As he reaches into the bag to replace the tile, I study my letters, which I have arranged alphabetically. ‘AEENNST’.
I ponder for a moment, and then smile. I create the word ‘INTENSE’ horizontally off of his ‘I’.
He cocks his head to the side and smiles at me. I get this game, now! It’s Scrabble, but sexy! Sexcrabble! Okay I need to work on that.
He maintains eye contact with me as he lays the next set of letters down. Leading vertically down onto the first ‘E’, he spells out the word ‘LOVE’. Wow. Oh my god. He’s never this romantic normally. I decide to be more forthcoming. I had somehow managed to pick out the letters ‘X’ and ‘E’ in my last handful of letters, which I lay under the ‘S’.
‘Sex’ I whisper to him, even though I know he can read what it says. I feel my body heat up with anticipation, both for the hardcore session we’re bound to have after this board game and for the statement of his love for me when he inevitably lays down the word ‘YOU’. It could only fit in one place, using the ‘O’ in 'LOVE'.
Sure enough, he leans over and starts to lay his tiles on the board, although I can’t see the word just yet. My heart starts to pound in my chest. Holy crap! Oh Christian, you’re finally becoming the romantic I always -
‘KNOBS’
I look up at him.
“Yeah, knobs!” he says, punching the air. He gleefully counts up the points. “Triple letter score on the 'B', that’s 9, then 8 from the others, I make that 17 points. Now get out of my house.”
I am stunned. Damn. Oh my god. Holy crap.
“Didn’t you get the message? I was hardly subtle, Anastasia. I love me some knobs.” Oh my god.
“You’re… you’re kidding, aren’t you?”
“Nope.” He’s smiling, that handsome, crooked smile. I want him to take me in his arms and tell me this is all a joke. “Remember when you interviewed me, and you hadn’t done your research? You asked me if I was gay, and I was so outraged that you hadn’t done your research that, well… I decided you needed to be punished.”
“I don’t understand…” Oh my god. Damn!
“Yeah, you were all ‘Meh meh meh, are you gay?’ so I thought, fuck it, I’ll make her suffer.”
I sit for a moment, entirely naked and suddenly very aware of it.
“But wait, what about your Mrs Robinson? Elena? Was that all a lie?
“Oh no, that was all true. Except his name was Simon Garfunkel - honestly, you couldn’t make it up.”
I pick up my clothes from the floor and pull them on as I run through his house to the front door, which I fling open and wait for a moment, listening to his cackling laughter as it echoes through the house. I run down the drive and fumble in my handbag for my car keys. Christian appears on the balcony, still completely naked.
“Tell your friends,” he bellows, “tell them how much I love the peen!”
With tears in my eyes, I start the engine, and notice there is something stuck in my windscreen wipers. The grey tie. I reach round onto the windscreen and unhook it, bringing it to my face for one last moment of Christian’s scent. It smells like ink. I look down and notice there is writing on the tie. I unravel it and spread it onto the dashboard.
“FUCK YOU ANASTASIA HA HA HA”
I lean my head back against the headrest, and weep.
Fifty Shades of José: Three More Shades of Grey: Further Encounters in The Red Room of Pain #2
As I drive home from Christian’s house, fresh spank marks on my behind and my body still quivering and in shock because heaven forbid after several weeks of regular intense sexual intercourse I should be accustomed to what an orgasm feels like, I pull into the drive to see José sitting on the steps of my house. I put the handbrake on and then put the car into park, and then turn off the engine. I also turn off the radio, and then undo my seatbelt and open the car door. I step out of the car and then close the door and lock it.
“What are you doing here, José?”
“I want to apologise for trying to bone you the other night.” Ooooh. How dare he? He was so aggressive and scary last night, if Christian hadn’t been there he may very well have raped me at that bar but it’s okay I suppose, because he’s like a brother to me and so we’re cool.
“That’s okay, José.”
“So you’re not mad?” He is so sweet! And so sexy and handsome! But I’ll never do the sex with him because even though there’s like 5 blokes all after me, I’m sure that no man will ever be interested in me.
“No way, José!” I say, and we laugh together for a solid three minutes. Then there’s an awkward moment of silence where neither of us say anything, so we both start laughing again.
Then José has this serious look, and I can’t help but think that right now I’d rather be curled up in front of the fire with a good classic English novel.
“Ana, I must tell you something that is very serious, so serious that it hurts my Latino heart. It makes me sad in a way that makes me want to walk barefoot along the beach alone really early in the morning, in a tight white t-shirt and stone-washed jeans, thinking about things and feeling feelings that you’ll never fully understand.” Oohhhh. Holy crap. He’s so brooding and serious, even though moments ago we were cracking up over some shitty pun that I made.
“Tell me.” I say.
“I can’t, I mustn’t.”
“Please… oh please!” It seemed to work on Christian, maybe it will work on José.
“Ok, I’ll tell you.” Wow. Holy crap. It worked. “I’ve been seeing someone. Someone….dangerous.” Wow. Oh my god. Ohhhhh crap.
“José, you must tell me!” I am wearing jeans and a t-shirt, by the way.
“Yeah I’m going to tell you, you just sort of interrupted me there.”
“Please, José, just tell me.”
He sighed, and looked at the floor. “I have been seeing someone. Someone who says they love me, but I don’t know if…”
“Don’t know if what?” Wow. Holy crap. This was almost as exciting as one of the classic English novels that I like to curl up in front of the fire with.
“Seriously, you have to stop interrupting me like that.” Why was he so moody and distant all of a sudden? “She’s older than me, you see. She’s more…experienced. Anastasia,” he says, taking my hands in his, “she makes me do things that I have never done before.” I bet those things she makes him do aren’t as sexy and weird as the things Christian and I get up to, spanking and shagging in the bath and all that. He is silent for a moment, and I wonder if he hates me now, because if a man isn’t telling you that he loves you every single minute of the day, it means he doesn’t like you anymore and that you probably need to try harder to win their affection, seeing as I’m the expert on men and relationships after a few weeks in a highly dysfunctional one.
“Like what? Do it in the shower or something?” I say, with a lot of sarcasm but I can get away with it because sometimes José doesn’t understand things like sarcasm and irony because he’s kind of foreign. He is quiet, and I want to tell him how much I love him right there and then, even though I don’t actually love him, it’s just that fact that he’s being all moody and silent. Wowee.
He takes a deep breath, and lifts his shirt up on one side to reveal a bruised and scratched rib cage.
“Oh my god, José!” I scream, “has she got like a really angry cat?”
He rolls his eyes and rubs his temple. “No, Ana. She did this to me. And I enjoyed it.” For a minute we both sit in silence; he probably thinks I’m having trouble processing the fact that someone could enjoy a bit of rough, but really what I’m thinking is how mad I am at him for stealing my thing. But I don’t say anything cos I’m such an awesome friend, and I won’t be able to flirt with him and lead him on anymore if he thinks I hate him, because he’s like a brother to me.
“It’s just that… I don’t know what to do. I want to tell her how much I love her, and hold her close to me after we…. you know,” he blushes, “but she never lets me. Elena is such a wonderful woman, and I -” I stand up. Damn. Holy crap. This is just like a twist in one of those classic novels that I love to read when I’m curled up in front of the fire.
“Oh my gosh, did you just say Elena?” I can’t believe it. He’s the me to Elena’s Christian, or something like that, it’s kind of a complicated sentence to construct and process.
“Yeah, Elena. She’s so sexy, and mature. When she tells me to do something….I want to do it, Ana.” My face fills with blood as I become almost uncontrollably jealous, but because I’m only almost uncontrollably jealous, I manage to control my jealousy. I can't believe that Christian's ex-lover is now my friend's current lover.
“Oh yeah, well check this out!” I say, yanking down my trousers to reveal the massive bruise on my left butt cheek. José stares at it for a second, and then lowers his own jeans to reveal a similar bruise on his right butt cheek. He stands next to me and puts his bruise next to mine, and we waddle over to my car together to use the wing mirrors for a reflection to see better.
Together, our bruises form an oval shape, and on closer inspection…Damn. Ooooh. Holy crap. Wow.
“Oh my god,” I whisper.
“What?” says José. He’s never been that smart, to be honest, so no wonder he didn’t get it.
“That’s a perfect image of a map of the world, José.”
“No way!”
“Yes way, José.” We laugh again, but this time only for about ten seconds before realising what we had just been talking about. We turn our butt cheeks, still tightly pressed together, back toward the wing mirror, and take another look. I let out a gentle fart which I’m sure José wouldn’t have noticed but the wing mirror clouds up for a few seconds, which I reckon gives it away. I’m about to come up with some kind of excuse when my phone rings. I answer the phone.
“Hello?” There is a crackly noise on the other end, and then a deep voice speaks.
“It has begun.”
“What are you doing here, José?”
“I want to apologise for trying to bone you the other night.” Ooooh. How dare he? He was so aggressive and scary last night, if Christian hadn’t been there he may very well have raped me at that bar but it’s okay I suppose, because he’s like a brother to me and so we’re cool.
“That’s okay, José.”
“So you’re not mad?” He is so sweet! And so sexy and handsome! But I’ll never do the sex with him because even though there’s like 5 blokes all after me, I’m sure that no man will ever be interested in me.
“No way, José!” I say, and we laugh together for a solid three minutes. Then there’s an awkward moment of silence where neither of us say anything, so we both start laughing again.
Then José has this serious look, and I can’t help but think that right now I’d rather be curled up in front of the fire with a good classic English novel.
“Ana, I must tell you something that is very serious, so serious that it hurts my Latino heart. It makes me sad in a way that makes me want to walk barefoot along the beach alone really early in the morning, in a tight white t-shirt and stone-washed jeans, thinking about things and feeling feelings that you’ll never fully understand.” Oohhhh. Holy crap. He’s so brooding and serious, even though moments ago we were cracking up over some shitty pun that I made.
“Tell me.” I say.
“I can’t, I mustn’t.”
“Please… oh please!” It seemed to work on Christian, maybe it will work on José.
“Ok, I’ll tell you.” Wow. Holy crap. It worked. “I’ve been seeing someone. Someone….dangerous.” Wow. Oh my god. Ohhhhh crap.
“José, you must tell me!” I am wearing jeans and a t-shirt, by the way.
“Yeah I’m going to tell you, you just sort of interrupted me there.”
“Please, José, just tell me.”
He sighed, and looked at the floor. “I have been seeing someone. Someone who says they love me, but I don’t know if…”
“Don’t know if what?” Wow. Holy crap. This was almost as exciting as one of the classic English novels that I like to curl up in front of the fire with.
“Seriously, you have to stop interrupting me like that.” Why was he so moody and distant all of a sudden? “She’s older than me, you see. She’s more…experienced. Anastasia,” he says, taking my hands in his, “she makes me do things that I have never done before.” I bet those things she makes him do aren’t as sexy and weird as the things Christian and I get up to, spanking and shagging in the bath and all that. He is silent for a moment, and I wonder if he hates me now, because if a man isn’t telling you that he loves you every single minute of the day, it means he doesn’t like you anymore and that you probably need to try harder to win their affection, seeing as I’m the expert on men and relationships after a few weeks in a highly dysfunctional one.
“Like what? Do it in the shower or something?” I say, with a lot of sarcasm but I can get away with it because sometimes José doesn’t understand things like sarcasm and irony because he’s kind of foreign. He is quiet, and I want to tell him how much I love him right there and then, even though I don’t actually love him, it’s just that fact that he’s being all moody and silent. Wowee.
He takes a deep breath, and lifts his shirt up on one side to reveal a bruised and scratched rib cage.
“Oh my god, José!” I scream, “has she got like a really angry cat?”
He rolls his eyes and rubs his temple. “No, Ana. She did this to me. And I enjoyed it.” For a minute we both sit in silence; he probably thinks I’m having trouble processing the fact that someone could enjoy a bit of rough, but really what I’m thinking is how mad I am at him for stealing my thing. But I don’t say anything cos I’m such an awesome friend, and I won’t be able to flirt with him and lead him on anymore if he thinks I hate him, because he’s like a brother to me.
“It’s just that… I don’t know what to do. I want to tell her how much I love her, and hold her close to me after we…. you know,” he blushes, “but she never lets me. Elena is such a wonderful woman, and I -” I stand up. Damn. Holy crap. This is just like a twist in one of those classic novels that I love to read when I’m curled up in front of the fire.
“Oh my gosh, did you just say Elena?” I can’t believe it. He’s the me to Elena’s Christian, or something like that, it’s kind of a complicated sentence to construct and process.
“Yeah, Elena. She’s so sexy, and mature. When she tells me to do something….I want to do it, Ana.” My face fills with blood as I become almost uncontrollably jealous, but because I’m only almost uncontrollably jealous, I manage to control my jealousy. I can't believe that Christian's ex-lover is now my friend's current lover.
“Oh yeah, well check this out!” I say, yanking down my trousers to reveal the massive bruise on my left butt cheek. José stares at it for a second, and then lowers his own jeans to reveal a similar bruise on his right butt cheek. He stands next to me and puts his bruise next to mine, and we waddle over to my car together to use the wing mirrors for a reflection to see better.
Together, our bruises form an oval shape, and on closer inspection…Damn. Ooooh. Holy crap. Wow.
“Oh my god,” I whisper.
“What?” says José. He’s never been that smart, to be honest, so no wonder he didn’t get it.
“That’s a perfect image of a map of the world, José.”
“No way!”
“Yes way, José.” We laugh again, but this time only for about ten seconds before realising what we had just been talking about. We turn our butt cheeks, still tightly pressed together, back toward the wing mirror, and take another look. I let out a gentle fart which I’m sure José wouldn’t have noticed but the wing mirror clouds up for a few seconds, which I reckon gives it away. I’m about to come up with some kind of excuse when my phone rings. I answer the phone.
“Hello?” There is a crackly noise on the other end, and then a deep voice speaks.
“It has begun.”
A Whiter Shade of Grey: Three More Shades of Grey: Further Encounters in The Red Room of Pain #1
I look down at the scrap of paper that I stole from my cousin Anastasia and confirm that I am at the correct address. It is a huge estate, bigger than I have ever seen and I am excited to be at such a big house. I am nervous, and I cannot stop thinking about the wonderful adventures that might take place inside this Red Room that Anastasia wrote about. I reckon it’s got a bouncy castle in there. The last time I saw her she was walking with a cane, and occasionally her nose would start bleeding and she’d burst into tears, but I’m sure that had nothing to do with this mysterious “Mr Grey” she often spoke of. Hey, that rhymes!
I ring the doorbell and knock on the large brass knocker, which is shaped like a woman’s breast - I assume that all women’s breasts look alike, for I have only seen my own, and even then they were in the mirror so I don’t know what they look like not-reversed. A broad shouldered man with slicked-down blonde hair answers the door, and I can tell that he isn’t Mr Grey because I’ve seen a picture of Mr Grey and this man does not look like the picture of Mr Grey I have seen.
“Can I help you?” He has a deep, smooth voice, a bit like Steve Wright from BBC Radio 2, even though this is set in America. He looks confused and disgusted, like the store manager that time when I forget to wear trousers to the supermarket.
“Yes, I think you can. I’m here for a meeting with Mr Grey, please.” Oh no, why did I say ‘please’? I bet I sound like a right silly tart.
“Is he…is he expecting you?”
“No he is not expecting me but I thought that I would come by to his house where I am now and pay him a visit please.” There’s that ‘please’ again, what the hell? Damn! “So yeah, let me in and that.” He looks confused still, and I’m not sure what else I can say to convince him to let me, a complete stranger with a runny eye, into this big beautiful house, when suddenly a man appears behind him. It was him! Mr Grey!
“HIIIIIYYYYYAAAAA!” I shout, looking over the burly man’s shoulder and waving at the man in the smart grey suit. He gives me a cold, distant look. That must be what Anastasia was talking about when she wrote in her diary that sometimes he has a cold and distant look. I barge past the burly man, who grabs me by the elbow and yanks me back. Wow. Damn. He’s strong. I suppose that’s probably to be expected though, seeing as he’s like a bodyguard or something.
“Do you watch The Vampire Diaries?” I ask him. He looks at me with that confused look again, and while I’m staring back into his lovely big blue eyes, Mr Grey clears his throat.
“You can let her go, Taylor.” I stick my tongue out at Taylor, and he snarls his face up at me in disgust. I jump up, throw my arms around his neck and whisper in his ear “I love you, Harry”, to which he responds by turning his face toward me, saying “My name isn’t Harry” and pushes me away from him in disgust.
“Come on, Mr Grey, let’s go.” I do that sauntering kind of walk that women do in films when they’ve just been complimented or when they’ve just told someone where they can shove their job because they don’t need no man, honey. Mr Grey gestures to me to go into his sitting room, which has a really big sofa and loads of expensive shit in it. Oh my god I’m not allowed to say that word, I mean stuff, I meant stuff don’t tell my mum. Yeah so there’s loads of expensive stuff and I notice that Mr Grey is still staring at me.
“Tell me... who are you, how did you find my house, and what are you doing here?” Wow. Holy crap. He’s talking to me!
“I thaw ib in Ababajha’s biawy” The words don’t come out exactly as my brain wanted them to, because while Mr Grey was asking me those questions I saw a box of chocolates on the coffee table, which I had opened and started on immediately. I swallow the food and try again.
“I saw it in Anastasia’s diary.” His face takes on a very angry look, like that time I tried to get free honey by taking a hive down from a tree and all those bees chased after me and one got really close to my eye and told me something but I didn’t understand because it was in Latin.
“Really? She writes about me in a diary? That sort of breaches our agreement.” He looks at his grey tie and smoothes it down onto his chest. “Shall I make you a cup of tea? Anastasia is particularly fond of Twinings, I believe.”
“No thank you,” I reply, twirling my hair around my finger like I read in Bliss magazine, “I’d much rather have a carton of juice, please.”
“I don’t think we have juice cartons, I think -”
“Yes you do!” I shout, on the verge of tears, “Anastasia wrote about them in her diary and she said you have lots of karabiners and your house smells of citrus, so you must have juice cartons somewhere.” Mr Grey has an expression on his face just like mine in any picture ever taken of me, like his brain has left his body. He mouths the word ‘karabiner’ and looks out of the window for a second, and then looks back at me.
“What are you doing here, Miss…?” It takes me about eight minutes to realise that he wants me to tell him my name.
“Oh, sorry. Nevershag. May Nevershag.” He kind of snorts a little bit, like he’s trying to not laugh which says to me that we’re friends now.
“Miss Never... Miss Nevershag, what is your purpose for being here?”
“Anastasia seems to like you loads and I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. You seem alright, bit quiet though. I’m not allowed to use candles.”
“….Right. Well, I’m sorry, but I must insist that you leave. I don’t normally allow strangers in my house but…well, you intrigue me, Miss Nevershag - may I call you May?”
“You just did, didn’t you?” Why would you say someone’s name before asking if you can call them by their name? I reckon he’s a bit slow.
“What?” See?
“When I was little we visited a stately home that was open to the public and I fell off a wall and hit my head, I don’t remember it hurting much but then I had to go to a different school for a little while.”
“That’s….uh….that’s fascinating.”
Oh wow, holy cow! He thinks I’m fascinating. Such a gentle, passionate man with a room full of actual weapons thinks I’m fascinating. Swoon! I start to unbutton my shirt, but he looks shocked and waves his hands in front of my chest.
“Stop! What are you doing?” But I know he wants me, I mean, come on!
“Go on, have a feel!” I say, grabbing one of my own boobs. “Phwwwoooar! Have a go!”
He looks utterly horrified as I lean towards him.
“What’s wrong? Oh…that?” I say, pointing at the green patch of felt on my left boob. “I don’t know how that got there. It oozes sometimes but just ignore it, I always do.”
His eyes start to tear up.
“Yeah, baby! Touch me like an iPhone!” Oooooh holy crap. Damn. Wow. He’s so sexy.
“I want to bake you into a cake, big boy.”
Suddenly, Harry’s grabbing me by the shoulders and wrenching me away from my boyfriend. How dare he? I hear Mr Grey shouting as I’m being carried away toward the front door, “She’s mental, call the police!”
Harry puts me down on the steps. “Thanks Harry, things were getting a bit too hot for mama in there.”
“My name isn’t Harry, you weirdo.” Swoon. Holy crap.
I give him that look that I once saw Samantha give to a man in Sex & The City before my mum found me watching it and locked me in the basement to read the Bible. My top is still undone and I lean forward, saying “Go on, you know you want to” rubbing gunk out of my runny eye. He waits for about five seconds, and then grabs a boob with each hand and gives them a right good squeeze.
“Phwwwwoooarrrr” he says.
“I know, right?”
Works. Every. Time.
I ring the doorbell and knock on the large brass knocker, which is shaped like a woman’s breast - I assume that all women’s breasts look alike, for I have only seen my own, and even then they were in the mirror so I don’t know what they look like not-reversed. A broad shouldered man with slicked-down blonde hair answers the door, and I can tell that he isn’t Mr Grey because I’ve seen a picture of Mr Grey and this man does not look like the picture of Mr Grey I have seen.
“Can I help you?” He has a deep, smooth voice, a bit like Steve Wright from BBC Radio 2, even though this is set in America. He looks confused and disgusted, like the store manager that time when I forget to wear trousers to the supermarket.
“Yes, I think you can. I’m here for a meeting with Mr Grey, please.” Oh no, why did I say ‘please’? I bet I sound like a right silly tart.
“Is he…is he expecting you?”
“No he is not expecting me but I thought that I would come by to his house where I am now and pay him a visit please.” There’s that ‘please’ again, what the hell? Damn! “So yeah, let me in and that.” He looks confused still, and I’m not sure what else I can say to convince him to let me, a complete stranger with a runny eye, into this big beautiful house, when suddenly a man appears behind him. It was him! Mr Grey!
“HIIIIIYYYYYAAAAA!” I shout, looking over the burly man’s shoulder and waving at the man in the smart grey suit. He gives me a cold, distant look. That must be what Anastasia was talking about when she wrote in her diary that sometimes he has a cold and distant look. I barge past the burly man, who grabs me by the elbow and yanks me back. Wow. Damn. He’s strong. I suppose that’s probably to be expected though, seeing as he’s like a bodyguard or something.
“Do you watch The Vampire Diaries?” I ask him. He looks at me with that confused look again, and while I’m staring back into his lovely big blue eyes, Mr Grey clears his throat.
“You can let her go, Taylor.” I stick my tongue out at Taylor, and he snarls his face up at me in disgust. I jump up, throw my arms around his neck and whisper in his ear “I love you, Harry”, to which he responds by turning his face toward me, saying “My name isn’t Harry” and pushes me away from him in disgust.
“Come on, Mr Grey, let’s go.” I do that sauntering kind of walk that women do in films when they’ve just been complimented or when they’ve just told someone where they can shove their job because they don’t need no man, honey. Mr Grey gestures to me to go into his sitting room, which has a really big sofa and loads of expensive shit in it. Oh my god I’m not allowed to say that word, I mean stuff, I meant stuff don’t tell my mum. Yeah so there’s loads of expensive stuff and I notice that Mr Grey is still staring at me.
“Tell me... who are you, how did you find my house, and what are you doing here?” Wow. Holy crap. He’s talking to me!
“I thaw ib in Ababajha’s biawy” The words don’t come out exactly as my brain wanted them to, because while Mr Grey was asking me those questions I saw a box of chocolates on the coffee table, which I had opened and started on immediately. I swallow the food and try again.
“I saw it in Anastasia’s diary.” His face takes on a very angry look, like that time I tried to get free honey by taking a hive down from a tree and all those bees chased after me and one got really close to my eye and told me something but I didn’t understand because it was in Latin.
“Really? She writes about me in a diary? That sort of breaches our agreement.” He looks at his grey tie and smoothes it down onto his chest. “Shall I make you a cup of tea? Anastasia is particularly fond of Twinings, I believe.”
“No thank you,” I reply, twirling my hair around my finger like I read in Bliss magazine, “I’d much rather have a carton of juice, please.”
“I don’t think we have juice cartons, I think -”
“Yes you do!” I shout, on the verge of tears, “Anastasia wrote about them in her diary and she said you have lots of karabiners and your house smells of citrus, so you must have juice cartons somewhere.” Mr Grey has an expression on his face just like mine in any picture ever taken of me, like his brain has left his body. He mouths the word ‘karabiner’ and looks out of the window for a second, and then looks back at me.
“What are you doing here, Miss…?” It takes me about eight minutes to realise that he wants me to tell him my name.
“Oh, sorry. Nevershag. May Nevershag.” He kind of snorts a little bit, like he’s trying to not laugh which says to me that we’re friends now.
“Miss Never... Miss Nevershag, what is your purpose for being here?”
“Anastasia seems to like you loads and I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. You seem alright, bit quiet though. I’m not allowed to use candles.”
“….Right. Well, I’m sorry, but I must insist that you leave. I don’t normally allow strangers in my house but…well, you intrigue me, Miss Nevershag - may I call you May?”
“You just did, didn’t you?” Why would you say someone’s name before asking if you can call them by their name? I reckon he’s a bit slow.
“What?” See?
“When I was little we visited a stately home that was open to the public and I fell off a wall and hit my head, I don’t remember it hurting much but then I had to go to a different school for a little while.”
“That’s….uh….that’s fascinating.”
Oh wow, holy cow! He thinks I’m fascinating. Such a gentle, passionate man with a room full of actual weapons thinks I’m fascinating. Swoon! I start to unbutton my shirt, but he looks shocked and waves his hands in front of my chest.
“Stop! What are you doing?” But I know he wants me, I mean, come on!
“Go on, have a feel!” I say, grabbing one of my own boobs. “Phwwwoooar! Have a go!”
He looks utterly horrified as I lean towards him.
“What’s wrong? Oh…that?” I say, pointing at the green patch of felt on my left boob. “I don’t know how that got there. It oozes sometimes but just ignore it, I always do.”
His eyes start to tear up.
“Yeah, baby! Touch me like an iPhone!” Oooooh holy crap. Damn. Wow. He’s so sexy.
“I want to bake you into a cake, big boy.”
Suddenly, Harry’s grabbing me by the shoulders and wrenching me away from my boyfriend. How dare he? I hear Mr Grey shouting as I’m being carried away toward the front door, “She’s mental, call the police!”
Harry puts me down on the steps. “Thanks Harry, things were getting a bit too hot for mama in there.”
“My name isn’t Harry, you weirdo.” Swoon. Holy crap.
I give him that look that I once saw Samantha give to a man in Sex & The City before my mum found me watching it and locked me in the basement to read the Bible. My top is still undone and I lean forward, saying “Go on, you know you want to” rubbing gunk out of my runny eye. He waits for about five seconds, and then grabs a boob with each hand and gives them a right good squeeze.
“Phwwwwoooarrrr” he says.
“I know, right?”
Works. Every. Time.
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