Fifty Shades Shadier (3 page)

I kneel between her legs, reach outside the pool for my apron, and grab the squirt gun I confiscated at the luncheon. It’s time for Uncle M’s version of water boarding.

“What are you doing? Get inside me.”

“Not quite yet. First, I want to know who CG is.”
I have an idea who it might be.

“I told you—nobody.”

“Wrong answer,” I respond as I squirt her in the clit.

“Hey,” she squeaks.

“I’ll repeat the question: Who [squirt] is [squirt] C [squirt] G?”

“Stop! Jesus. OK, fine.”

“I’m waiting.”

“Chris ... my ex.”

That motherfucker!

“Why is his paddle here?”

“Don’t you want me, Uncle M?”

I squirt her again. “Answer the question.”

“He’s an architect. He designed this room.”

“Are you still seeing him?”

“No! I love you, Uncle M,” she reassures me. Now she’ll pay.

“You’ve been a bad Lovergirl. Now, I’m going to take my billy club to your naughty ass.”

“Yes, please.”

I toss the squirt gun, climb onto her, and insert myself slowly. She’s so tight. The sensation gives me the urge to come in the first thrust. I reach around her right hip and stroke her clit while I slowly grind deeper and deeper. I kiss her neck, bite her ear, and lose myself in the moment, while Chris G. weighs on me.

Chapter Nine

The human heart feels things the eyes cannot see and things the mind cannot understand. – Anonymous

I’m tempted to leave her strapped down, but I can’t bring myself to do it. As our heartbeats return to normal, Bea leads me into a side room—an amazing bathroom with black tile, a whirlpool, and a shower that rains from above. Bea turns on the shower and taps buttons on a control panel to change the mood of the music. Sade sings while we scrub the oils from each other.
I’m hard again. I can’t resist her.
If this keeps up, I’ll need an IV. Then again, I do love my Kindle and I’m only two orgasms away from another $25 gift card.

As we make love on the edge of the tub, my jealous thoughts of Chris G. subside. Her second orgasm is explosive as I’m beginning to learn how to push her love buttons.

We dry off, put on soft robes, and return to the play area. I fiddle with the straps on the funky swing, trying to imagine what goes where and how.

“The next time we make love, I want you to tell me exactly what you want and how you want it,” I suggest.

“As long as you talk dirty to me.”

“I do.”

“Not really; you’re more like PG. I prefer triple-X.”

“Really? Like what?”

“You know.”

“I don’t, otherwise I’d comply ... probably. I say ‘fuck’ a lot. That’s good, right?”

“Sure, but there
are
other naughty words.”

“OK, since you’re into hockey stuff, how about punishment for ‘High Dicking,’ ‘Cross-Licking,’ and ‘El-blowing’ penalties?”

“Funny. No, I mean other
swear
words.”

“Like?”

“I can’t say them. I don’t swear, remember?”

“Fine. I’ll say a swear word and you give me a hotness reading on a scale of one to ten, with ten being sizzling. Cool?”

“Cool.”

“Pussy.”

“Three.”

“What? That deserves a six, minimum. All right. Cock.”

“Seven.”

“Hmm, better. How about twat?”

“That one depends.”

“On?”

“The adjective.”

“Ah, I got this. So, something like honey dripping hungry little twat is good and stinky twat is bad.”

“You’re catching on.”

We continue playing the word games, and then Bea offers to demonstrate the swing to me.

“Let me strap you in.”

“Ha! No way.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Not really.”

“I’m hurt, Uncle M. Oh well. Pity. You were so close to getting that Kindle gift card.”

Jesus. She knows my weaknesses. 

“OK, fine. Be gentle.”

“Of course.”

Bea straps my wrists and ankles, and runs a harness under my lower back. The bungee straps give a bit, so I bounce playfully.

“Say, why don’t you climb aboard, Lovergirl,” I dare her.

“Nope.”

Ah, that’s right—dirty talk.

“Get your delicious cunt over here right now and straddle my fuck stick.”

Her eyes widen, she drops the robe, undoes mine, and saddles up. We bounce like crazy as I wonder if the straps might give way. Orgasm number three comes in minutes as Uncle M relishes the thought of another conquest and another eBook.

Bea dismounts, walks away, and begins dressing.
Oh, no.

“Um, Lovergirl?”

She ignores me.

“Sweetie?”

Nothing.

“Honey?”

Shit.

Bea—fully dressed now—changes the channel on the TV I’m facing. A DVD begins playing:
NHL Playoff Series, Game 1. April 24, 2008: Montreal Canadiens 4, Philadelphia Flyers 3.

She reaches into her purse, pulls out a gift card, tosses it my way, winks, and leaves me hanging.

Chapter Ten

What lies behind us, and what lies before us, are tiny matters compared to what lies within us. – Ralph Waldo Emerson

I suffer through the painful end of the overtime win by the Canadiens, wondering how to free myself. Then I hear a buzz and unlatching of the door. It swings open.
Shit. Not again.

The same two housekeepers who caught me in a bind in Bea’s suite walk in, carrying mops while giggling at my expense.

“Hello, sir. We were told there was a spill in aisle Blue.”

“Har-de-fucking-har. Untie me.”

“Wow, somebody’s in a bad mood.”

“I don’t think I like his attitude,” the second maid adds.

“Fine.
Please
untie me.”

“That’s better, but ...”

“Pretty please, with a twenty-dollar tip on top.”

“As you wish.”

They untie me and I try to get the circulation flowing to my hands and feet again. I gather my clothes and wallet. I peel off a twenty for my rescuers and pocket my gift card.
At least I netted five dollars and Bea’s amazing posterior in the transaction.
I consider myself ahead.

I go to the valet and retrieve my Jeep. Once home, I flop onto the couch, in desperate need of a nap. Not fifteen minutes into it, my phone beeps.

Bea Plastique: How’s it hanging, Uncle M?

Mormon Silver: I am going to beat your little butt next time I see you.

Bea Plastique: Promises, promises. Oh, and when might that be?

Mormon Silver: How about dinner at my place tonight?

I sure could use home field advantage for once.

Bea Plastique: Sounds fun. When?

Mormon Silver: 7ish.

Bea Plastique: What can I bring?

Mormon Silver: Toppings: spray whipped cream, Hershey’s syrup, and crème de menthe.

Bea Plastique: Yum!

I scurry through the grocery store gathering toy food. The checkout clerk wears an odd expression as she types the produce codes.

“Someone is planning quite the feast.”

“Indeed.”

“Who’s the lucky girl you’re going to eat this off ... I mean, with?”

I grab a banana. “Behave yourself. I’m licensed to carry, and I have a big banana.”

“Ooh, even luckier.”

Bea shows up fashionably late with the bag of toppings, as requested.
I’m going to devour them and her.
I make sure my
Broad Street Bullies
DVD plays while we eat dinner. Teasingly, I leave the dessert tray on the counter: bananas, strawberries, and pomegranate. I also have a fondue pot simmering with melted white chocolate.

She rushes through dinner, but I intentionally stall.

“Is it time for dessert yet?” she begs.

“Not until Uncle M has cleared his plate,” I tease as I spoon another helping of green bean casserole.

She sticks out her bottom lip and crosses her arms like an infant. I laugh at her expression.

“OK, Lovergirl. Let’s have dessert.”

“Yay!”

She claps and grabs her bag of toppings. I gather the food tray and fondue pot, and lead her into my bedroom.

“What’s this?” she asks as she sees the big blue tarp covering my bed.

“I can’t afford your architect, so this baseball mound cover will have to do for my version of a Blue Room.”

It’s often wise to improvise.

Naturally, as we’re about to dine on each other, the doorbell rings.

“Are you kidding me? If this is people here to talk about Jesus, I’m going to send them to meet him.”

“I’ll do a little grounds maintenance while you’re gone,” Bea offers as she begins undressing.

I answer the door to a deliveryman holding a dozen red roses.
WTF? Did Bea send me roses?
There’s a note attached.

Dearest Bea, I hope you and your future ex-lover enjoy your break up sex. I’ll be waiting. CG

Fucker!

Chapter Eleven

You come to love not by finding the perfect person, but by seeing an imperfect person perfectly. – Sam Keen

“What is it, honey?” Bea asks from the bedroom.

“Nothing. Be right there.”

I stuff the roses into the garbage disposal. It grinds loudly. Bea emerges from the bedroom, already down to her lacy undergarments.
How can I be mad at her when she’s so delicious?

“What are you doing?”

“Oh, that was a delivery for you,” I inform as I hand her the card. “I was trying to water the lovely roses and, oops, they slipped into the drain.”

“He’s such a jerk.”

“Are you absolutely certain this thing between you two is over?”

“Way over. He’s a freak and I want nothing to do with him.”

“Why did you break it off in the first place?”

“He’s twisted. All he wanted to do was dress me, force me to eat, and spank me. I felt like cattle he was fattening for slaughter. He used to leave bruises on me.”

“Sounds like
he
needs a beating.”

“I know, Mormon, but he’s not worth it. He’s way up in Seattle anyway. Just ignore him. Please?”

“So, we’re not breaking up tonight?”

“Quite the opposite, my love,” she assures as she tosses the card into the garbage.

We scurry into the bedroom before the melted white chocolate cools.

“You first, Lovergirl,” I insist as she giddily complies by removing her undergarments.

“Would you like me sunny-side up or over easy?”

“Hm. Let’s start with up.”

I take the cool crème de menthe and run a river from her neck to her navel. I see goose bumps. I drip a bit over my index finger and touch it teasingly to her lips. She takes my finger in and teases the tip with her tongue.
Time for another sensation.
I take a honey ladle, dip it into the thick melted chocolate, and dollop a bit on each nipple, both sides of her neck, and in the crease where her thighs meet her hips.

“Is that too hot, Lovergirl?”

“It’s perfect, Uncle M.”

I spray whipped cream, leaving a white stripe next to the minty green river.
This is beginning to resemble a New York Jets uniform. Not that I’m a huge football fan, but I will definitely fuck this tight end tonight.

It’s time for the fruit. While the chocolate dries on her, I take a strawberry, dip it in the fondue pot, spray a spot of cream on the tip, and feed her. We kiss while she chews. The pink juices run down her neck; I catch them and lick her clean.

We take turns coating each other and enjoying the sensations: the mix of flavors, the cool, the warm, the runny, and the firm. My Lovergirl is the most delectable treat I’ve ever experienced, and there will be no leftovers for CG.

A night of love wears on me as my fifty-year-old body makes me pay for my twenty-year-old thoughts. Bea dresses next to the bed as I wake up.

“Ugh. Could you dim that light please?”

“That’s the sun, silly man,” she giggles as she tickles my foot. “You had better get up. You have an interview in one hour.”

“Huh? Oh, Jesus. Grandma?”

“Yep. She’s meeting you at the E Street Cafe in Encinitas at ten.”

“Shit. I have an owie,” I remark while rubbing my eyes. “My head feels like someone is pinching my brain stem with needle-nose pliers.”

“Here,” she hands me a pill and bottle of water.

“Ibu?”

“Something like that.”

I down the pill and hit the shower. Bea stops by and gives me a kiss on her way out. If I can get past her evil ancestor and abusive ex, I’m confident there’s a wonderful life ahead of us.

Chapter Twelve

Never let a problem to be solved become more important than the person to be loved. – Barbara Johnson

Making sure I’m not late, I zip down the coast and rumble over the train tracks. I feel an odd sensation as Little Mormon begins to rise in my jeans.
Hm, the slightest thought of my Lovergirl does this to me.

As I park and approach the E Street Cafe, I “adjust” myself and hope the lump in my pants isn’t noticeable. A text beeps in.

Bea Plastique: How’s your head?

Mormon Silver: Still throbbing.

Bea Plastique: LOL! Oh, I bet.

Mormon Silver: And that’s funny why?

Bea Plastique: No particular reason. Would you like Nurse Lovergirl to take a look?

Mormon Silver: Huh?

Bea Plastique: ... at the swelling? Tee, hee.

Holy shit, she can see me.

Mormon Silver: Where are you? Thought you said you had to go to the Ranch office today.

Bea Plastique: That’s where I am.

Mormon Silver: Then, how can you see my swelling?

I adjust my package again. A woman sitting inside the window has noticed. She wrinkles her nose. The door opens as I send the last text; it’s Grandma.