Fifty Shades of Silver Hair and Socks

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 Eightteen
  
• Chapter Nineteen
  
• Chapter Twenty
  
• About the Author
  
• Accolades for Fifty Shades of Silver Hair and Socks
  

Fifty Shades of Silver Hair and Socks

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

Author photo by Micaela Malmi of
EpicPhotoJournalism.com

Copyright ©2012 Phil Torcivia

All rights reserved

ISBN: 1475299850

ISBN-13: 978-1475299854

Chapter One

It’s not my fault I love you; it’s yours. – Moliere

My name is Mormon Silver, and women leave their marks on me. They distract me and drive me crazy; that causes chin frosting as well as my tendency to improperly separate colors from whites. I need to understand the effect they have, so I send a Tweet with Twitter to a local billionairess, Beatrice Plastique.

@BPlastique, you enchant me and I’d love to interview you for my blog. #whynot

I never expected a reply. Then...

@MormonSilver, I’m tied up at the moment, but I’ll fit you in soon. #whysure

I bite my bottom lip and feel a twitch in my board shorts. She’s only thirty-three, whereas I’m in the late autumn of my life at fifty. Would I have a chance at the legend?

Her assistant calls and sets up a late morning appointment. He asks me to arrive early since I need to review and sign an NDA before meeting with the blond goddess. I hardly sleep as I dream of sunset strolls on a Tahitian beach with Ms. Plastique on my arm.
It could happen. Stay positive, Mormon.

The morning of that fateful day, I scrub and trim a little extra, just in case. I run through three spritzes of my secret weapon, Acqua Di Gio, and then carefully select black boxer briefs (
one never knows
), indigo jeans, a Hugo Boss black T-shirt, and my signature silver argyle socks. I trim my nails and apply Crest Whitestrips.
Will she be kissing me?

When I arrive at her office in Rancho Santa Fe, her assistant greets me. He’s chiseled with a full head of high hair and olive skin. He scans me head to shoe and sniffs.
What a pretentious pufta.

“I love your jeans. Are they Nudie?”

“Oh, thank you. Yes, in fact they are.”

“Spin for me, darling.”

“Um ... OK.”

“Wonderful. My name is Eric. I’m one of Ms. Plastique’s personal assistants.”

Fine, I misjudged him.

“Nice meeting you, Eric.”

Eric hands me a sheet of paper entitled “Interview Non-Disclosure Agreement,” and guides me to the waiting area.

“Please review this, initial each line, and sign at the bottom. Can I fetch you a chai latte?”

Wow, somebody did his homework; that’s my third-favorite beverage right behind bourbon and a woman’s love nectar.

“That would be awesome. Thank you.”

The NDA is brief but it contains curious clauses.

1. Interviewer will not look at interviewee’s eyes, breasts, or feet unless directed by interviewee.
   
2. Interviewer will allow interviewee to touch him as she pleases without disclosing it in his blog.
   Yes!
   
3. Interviewer will answer questions honestly concerning his sexual stamina and history.
   Wait a minute, who’s interviewing whom?
   
4. Interviewee reserves the right to bathe interviewer and demand he wear the cologne and robe of her choice.
   Well, I am a dirty boy.
   
5. Interviewee enjoys gentle hair pulling, neck nibbling, light spanking, nipple clamps, indirect clitoral pressure, and hockey playoffs.
   He shoots; he scores! Go Flyers!
   

I sign and nod to Eric. He picks up the phone, presumably checking with my princess, hangs up, and then smiles at me while pointing at her office door.

“Ms. Plastique will see you now. Please go right in.”

I hand Eric the signed NDA.

“Actually, I need you to give that to Ms. Plastique.”

“All right.”

I tap once on the door and walk in, trying to avoid staring at the places she specified. I catch the scent of Chanel, and see her sitting behind a glass desk staring at her Mac. God, her hair is golden, her skin is glowing, and her square-rimmed glasses are so sexy. I must have her.

“Have a seat, Mr. Silver. I’ll be right with you.”

“Please call me Mormon,” I insist as I extend the NDA and a hand to shake. She ignores my gesture and smirks.

“Sit down, Mormon ...”

I obey.

“... and take off your shoes.”

I obey.

She peeks under her desk.

“Silver socks. Interesting.”

“Thank you.”

Chapter Two

Never allow someone to be your priority while allowing yourself to be their option. – Mark Twain

The interview begins.

“May I call you Beatrice?”

“No. You may call me Bea.”

“All right. Bea, as you can see, this NDA has been signed by me.”

“Would you like more tea?”

“Thank you, no, and touché, my sweetpea. I do have a question about the ground rules before we begin.”

“Yes?”

“It’s odd not being able to look you in the eyes. Where shall I look?”

“How about at my lips.”

Bea sensually licks her glistening red lips. I melt.

“Holy shit.”

“What did you say?” Bea asks as she leans forward.

“Um, sorry.”
I can’t believe I just swore in front of the most influential woman in the county.

“I have this thing about swear words.”

“I apologize. I won’t let it happen again.”

“Why? I didn’t say it’s a
bad
thing, did I?”

“Huh?”
Sexy and strange.

“Look, Silver, although I don’t use swear words, I’m not your typical lady. When a lover uses coarse language it makes me damp down there.”

“That’s fucking hot!”
I try my luck.

“You’re not a lover, Silver... not yet.”

Yet?

“OK, I know you’re a busy woman, so let’s begin.”

I wriggle uncomfortably in my chair, pull my reading glasses from my shirt collar, slide them to the base of my nose, and flip open my legal pad.

“Don’t do that.”

“Bea, I can’t see the questions I’ve prepared without my glasses.”

“Don’t touch your nose.”

“What?” I do it again.

“Stop. I’m warning you, Silver.”

“Does it gross you out? Sorry.”

“No, it turns me on.”

“My nose?”
Well, that’s a first.

“No, the act of touching it.”

“Do you want to touch my nose?”
What a goddamned freak!

“What? No.”

“I’m sorry. Have I missed something obvious?”

“You don’t understand my world. It’s nothing you’ve ever been exposed to. I have certain needs and fetishes, and I can’t expect you to comprehend them.”

“Nose fetishes?”

“That’s one. I’ll try to explain it to you, but you’re not writing about this. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” I slowly scratch the tip of my nose.

“Oh, my god! Please stop.”

“Either tell me or I’ll do it again.”

“Your nose reminds me of my big beefy clitoris and when you touch it, it’s like you’re touching me.”

“There’s no fucking way your clit is as big as my Italian schnoz.” I exclaim as I pinch the tip.

Bea slaps her hands on the top of her desk, stands, and glares at me.

“You just used the F-word again.”

“Bet your kinky fucking ass I did.”

She flies over the table, knocking the chair and me over. She’s on top of me in full mount (as they say in MMA). I’m instantly erect as she balls my shirt in each fist.

“You’re going to hockey bang me right here, right now, Silver, or I’m going to yell rape and have my assistant beat you to a bloody puddle.”

“Hockey bang?”

Chapter Three

The idea of using Viagra at my age is like erecting a brand-new flagpole in front of a condemned building. – Harvey Korman

“Did I s-s-stutter?”

“No, but I don’t recall what a hockey bang is ... and you scratched me. I think my nipple is bleeding.”

“Don’t be a baby. You call yourself a fan, Silver? Get up.”

Bea climbs off me. I stand; my jeans are uncomfortably tight with the recent addition of blood to the area. My nipple smarts, but I don’t want to rub it, as that would be extra creepy. Bea turns away from me and reaches over her desk toward her speakerphone. This exposes her underwear, which feature the Montreal Canadiens logo.
Hmm, this crazy chick really is a fan. I prefer orange and black panties, but this will do.
Bea removes the receiver and presses a button.

*Beep*

“What’s with the phone, Sugarbone?”

“You have two minutes,” she informs me as she shoves me backward.

“Hey, play nice!”

“Pansy.”

“Fucking psycho.”

“What did you call me?” she grabs the sleeves of my T-shirt and yanks.

“So, that’s the way you want to play. Fine.”

I grab her around the waist and pull her close. She slaps me, and grabs my shirt again. Great, now my ear is ringing.

“Ouch! We’ll have no more of that, young lady.”

I pull her dress over her head, but it snags on her hair and earrings. Well, at least her arms are tied up. Still, she struggles to slap me, flailing her arms like a gator. I chuckle.

“Yes, baby. That’s it. Wait, are you laughing at me, Silver?”

“Maybe.”

“Take off my panties and get inside me ... now!”

She writhes as I pull off her suck-y hockey team panties.
Fuck Guy Lafleur.
She’s soaked. I quickly undo my jeans and dive into her lusciousness. I can feel her insides quiver as I bury myself. Suddenly, I hear a voice from her speakerphone.

“One minute remaining; one minute left in the first period.”

I arch up. “What the fuck is that?”

“It’s Eric. You’d better hurry, Silver.”

“God damn it, woman! You can’t give a man time limits like that. It’s too much pressure.”

I look down at her and smirk again about her dress tying up her arms. She reaches up regardless and pinches my sore nipple.