Fifty Shades Shadier

Table of Contents

• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  
• Chapter Nineteen
  
• Chapter Twenty
  
• About the Author
  
• Accolades for Fifty Shades Shadier
  

Fifty Shades Shadier

by Phil Torcivia

Like Phil on Facebook:
Facebook.com/SuchaNiceGuy

Follow Phil on Twitter:
@PhilTorcivia

Blog:
PhilTorcivia.blogspot.com

Author website:
Torcivia.com

Nothing in this book is true except my desire to cover my ass with this statement.

Cover designed by Anna V. Chastain of
ChastainGraphics.com

Copy editing by Marguerite Walker II and Jessica Dearborn

Author photo by Micaela Malmi of
EpicPhotoJournalism.com

Copyright ©2012 Phil Torcivia

All rights reserved

ISBN: 147758353X

ISBN-13: 978-1477583531

Chapter One

Marriage is not living with the person you love, but living with the person you can’t live without. – Aissa Amor A. Sarmiento

She said yes. Now what? Can this work long term, or is it all a game to Bea? In my fifty-plus years, I’ve never been exposed to such kinkiness. I must admit, it’s not bad. Still, I worry about keeping up with my little minx. Mormon Silver may need help with this one.

After she accepts my proposal (
thank goodness
), we watch the game while kind fans offer congratulations. I prefer tequila to calm my nerves, but am gracious. Bea beams as she stares at the ring. I beam as I stare at her.

“Sweetie, I wish I could afford something more substantial.”

“Don’t be silly. The fact that this was handed down through generations makes it priceless,” Bea assures me, as she squeezes my thigh and kisses my cheek. “We’re going to the Hyatt after the game and I’m going to give you a proper thank you.”

“If you insist.”

The Padres lose, as usual. Bea was cool about staying until the final out. It drives me crazy when fans abandon their team. Anything can happen in baseball, regardless of the score, until that final out. Did you intend to switch from past tense (previous 6 paragraphs) to present tense (next and following)

Outside the stadium, Bea insists we take a rickshaw to the Hyatt.
Great. I get to smell the Eastern European man-stank of the driver for eight blocks.
As we cruise along, Bea keeps grabbing my package, teasing me.

“Quit it. I don’t want to be walking into the Hyatt with wood,” I whisper.

“Really? Ooh, you
are
becoming engorged.”

“Engorged? I’m certainly at half-mast.”

“I love it, Sailor Mormon.”

I tip the rickshaw driver.
Let’s hope he spends it on deodorant.
We walk through the lobby to the elevator, and I see that familiar look in Bea’s face: Something kinky will be going down while we’re going up. We step into the elevator (
thank God, alone
) and head to the 43rd floor. No chance we’re making it all the way.
Fuck. There had better not be cameras in here.

Bea pulls out the stop button around the twentieth floor, and all hell breaks loose. She slams me up against the wall and undoes my jeans in record time. Her mouth is so warm and wet around me as she looks up occasionally to see how close I am to exploding.
So damn close. Think of something non-sexual, Mormon, quick!

I used to be able to think about sports like hockey and baseball to delay my ejaculation, but Bea has ruined those counter-fantasies. All I can think of is recipes. I begin mentally concocting the design of my own natural protein bar.

Bea tugs at my testicles every time she senses I’m close.
She’s quite skilled.
I close my eyes and concentrate.

“You’re not coming yet, mister. You can peek over the edge, but tonight we’re going over together.”

“Two cups of natural peanut butter ...”

“What?”

“Oh, sorry.”

The elevator alarm starts to ring. I panic and push in the button to stop the ringing. Bea laughs and stands up as I quickly yank up my jeans. Naturally, Mormon-luck kicks in and the elevator stops at the next floor. The doors open to an elderly woman. My purple torpedo pokes through the zipper of my jeans and points directly toward the poor woman, who stands with her mouth agape.

“Oh, hey, Grandma. This is my fiancé, Mormon Silver.”

Down boy.

Chapter Two

I only drink to make other people seem interesting. – George Jean Nathan

I turn away, zip up, and extend a hand to greet Grandma.

“Hi. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“I can see that,” she responds with a look of disgust, ignoring my extended hand.

“Oh, yes, sorry about that. I have a condition.”

“Come upstairs for a nightcap, Grandma,” Bea insists.

“You have Christian Brothers?”

“I do.”

“Fine,” Grandma agrees as she enters the elevator and stands in the opposite corner, studying me. “I thought you were done with older men. Where did you find this one?”

“Oh, he’s darling. Wait till you get to know him.”

“I’m not
that
much older.”

“... if you’re counting in dog years,” Grandma sneers.

“So, how about those Padres?” Bea asks, trying to change the subject.

Finally, the elevator dings and the doors open to the 43rd floor.

“After you, my dear,” I charm.

“I know better than to walk in front of an armed man. Scoot!”

This old sack is going to be hard to crack.

I sheepishly lead the way. Once in Bea’s condo, I head straight to the bar.

“I’m going to freshen up. You two get acquainted,” Bea suggests as she abandons me.

“How do you take your brandy, Ma’am?”

“Like my men: neat.”

“I’m glad you didn’t say ‘stiff.’”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, did you have a nice trip?”

“Trip where?”

“Here. I assume you’re visiting from out of town?”

“I own this building.”

“Oh.”
Shitboogers.

I pour her brandy, along with three fingers of Maker’s Mark to sedate me. I hand one glass to her. She continues to scowl.

“What exactly do you do, Mr. Silver?”

“Let’s have some fun. Guess.”

“Plumber?”

Hag.

“Nope.”

“Shopping cart collector?”
 

I so want to drop the C-word.

“Nope.”

“Paperboy?”

Is it legal to kick an old woman in the baby hole?

“Nope, but you’re close. Give up?”

“I do.”

“I’m a blogger.”

“A what?”

“Blogger. A writer who writes things for the web.”

“Does one make a good living as a blobber?”

“
Blogger.
Good enough.”

She gets up into my space. She’s less than five feet tall, yet I’m intimidated.

“For some people, but certainly not good enough for my granddaughter,” she insists as she tweaks my nipple. I squeak like a schoolgirl on the playground.

Chapter Three

If it is true that we have sprung from the ape, there are occasions when my own spring appears not to have been very far. – Cornelia Otis Skinner

Worried that I might belt the woman, and confident she could kick my ass, I excuse myself, and join Bea in the master suite.

“So, how are you two getting along?”

“About as well as Kardashians and skinny jeans. Can I throw spoons at her, or at least give her a noogie? Please?”

“Now, darling, it’s important you win her over.”

“Not possible.”

“Find a way.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. Grandma is my only hope of emerging from these financial difficulties. She holds the key to the safe, so to speak, and she’s here auditing my businesses to get our affairs back in order.”

“Can I at least drug her?”

“No! You go out there and make nice. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

I put on my fake smile and return to the family room. Grandma is futzing with the TV remote.

“Why won’t this work? Things were much easier in my day; you pulled the button and turned the knob. Two through thirteen, UHF, and VHF.”

“Here, let me try,” I insist as she pulls the remote away from my reach.

“I’m not helpless. If you want to make yourself useful, refill my beverage, blobber.”

“
Blogger.
Another arsenic rocks?”

“What did you say?”

“Another up or on the rocks?”

“Neat, you nitwit.”

As I pour the biddy her drink, I see the TV picture coming into focus.

“There. Finally. Oh, dear Lord!”

“Now what? Isn’t
Green Acres
on?”

“Buh ... wha ... is that ...?”

I step back from the wet bar to get a gander. I see a sixty-inch high definition picture of myself bound to the bed, wearing Canadiens panties.
Fuck! It’s the video from that crazy night.
I run to the front of the TV and begin pushing buttons. Finally, the power is off. Bea emerges from the bedroom just in time to see me fifty shades of red.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“I know, right? Ordinarily, I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing blue and red.”

“What’s going on?” Bea asks.

“That man is a big pervert who wears women’s undergarments.”

“I’m not
that
big. I’ve been cutting back on carbs, actually,” I insist while patting my belly.

Grandma storms out in a huff.
Fine by me.
Bea giggles.

“Why is that on your TV, you naughty Lovergirl?”

“I think Eric was watching it ... while masturbating.”

“Christ.”

“Kidding. I was watching it. I know you’re not crazy about the ending, but the part leading up to it was smokin’ hot, if you ask me.”

“Lovely.”

“Listen, you need to promise me you’ll use your charm on Grandma. We need her support.”

“Ugh.”

“If you do this for me, Uncle M, I’ll do
this
for you,” she says as she grabs my package.

“We have unfinished business from the elevator, don’t we? My turn.” I lift and set her on the loveseat. I remove her sweatpants.
She’s pantyless. How convenient and delicious!
“Oh, look: Grandma left her brandy. Can’t let that go to waste.”

I take the crystal tumbler and drizzle brandy into her bellybutton. I lick gently as the brandy river winds its way toward her spot. The coolness of the alcohol teases, as her clit dances around my tongue. I’m drunk on the sweet combination with Lovergirl’s juices. As Bea arches into climax, the front door swings open.