Fifty Shades of Silver Hair and Socks (2 page)

“Ouch!”

“Deeper. Please. I need you—all of you.”

I reach down and pull up her legs. Grabbing her behind the kneecaps, I push her knees toward her shoulders and grind to new depths. She moans.

“Thirty seconds; thirty seconds remaining.”

“Wait a second. Can Eric hear us?”

“Shut up, Silver. Shoot. Hurry.”

“He
is
gay, right?”

“Time is running out.” She gently touches my nipple, warning me.

“Fine.”

I slam away at her. She’s so wet and lovely. Time stands still. I shoot ... a siren rings out and the office door flies open. Eric runs in and pulls us apart.

Chapter Four

Gettin’ married is a lot like getting into a tub of hot water. After you get used to it, it ain’t so hot. – Minnie Pearl

I’m home, trying to understand what just happened. I went in for an interview with a billionaire babe and left with salty sex residue, a sore nipple, and no story. Eric said he’d reschedule me—
often, I hope
. Bea’s a strange woman, but she definitely has a mental grip on me. I wonder where her hockey fascination originated. She probably had a fucked up childhood like most of us.

My iPhone rings with an unfamiliar number. I’ve learned not to answer those, not that I have anything against Indians. Less than a minute later, I get a text message from the same number.

How dare you ignore my call, Silver? That’s a major penalty. – B

How did she get my number? I should have known a woman with her resources would be, ahem, resourceful. I tap on my recent calls and plan my approach. She answers after five rings.
Clever girl.

“Who is this and how did you get my number?”

“Very funny, Bea. I was just about to ask you the same question.”

“Oh, Mr. Silver, how nice to hear from you. What are you up to, and are you naked by chance?”

“No, my dear, I’m not naked. I’m just trying to make corners meet.”

“Ends.”

“Excuse me?”

“Ends, Silver. The cliché is ‘making ends meet.’ Aren’t you a writer?”

“Yes and actually I’m a writer who is doing laundry—folding my sheets.”

“Ah. So, your ends are meeting just fine, are they?”

“Fine enough.”

“Your home is a bit underwater, is it not?”

“Whose isn’t?”

“You know, I could help you, Silver, if you’d agreed to play with me ... my way.”

“You could get me a loan modification? Put me in, coach.”

“Oh, I will, repeatedly. Bye for now.”

*click*

What a whacky woman! I need to Google her later.

I finish my laundry and go to the gym to clear my head, which is ear-to-ear full of Plastique.
She fits me like a glove. Am I just a toy to her?
It disturbs me to wonder how many other writers she has “had” in her office.

After a good sweat, I return home. I hear water running.
Is that damn toilet stuck again?

I bound up my staircase. It sounds like a shower—my master bath shower.
Could it be?

I cautiously round the corner of my bathroom to find Bea in my shower. She’s obscured by steam and the foggy glass door. I watch the suds run from her golden mane down the line of her back, across her perfectly round buttocks, into the crevasse I want to make my home.

“Jesus, Bea! How did you get in here? For that matter, how did you know where I live?” My cock is so hard right now it practically tears through my sweats.

She turns to face me and speaks not a word as she raises an index finger to her lips to shush me. Then, she licks the tip of her finger and runs it down her chest, across her navel, to her love tunnel as she sits on my shower bench.

“You’re killing me, Ms. Plastique. I have a mind to come in there and clean up a very dirty girl.”

Bea smirks as she takes my Gillette Fusion razor from the shower shelf. With her other hand, she squirts a dab of my Old Spice liquid soap on her tiny patch of fur. She lathers up and stares longingly at me as she slowly lowers my razor toward her vagina.

“No! That’s my fucking Fusion! Do you have any idea how expensive those cartridges are? I beg you, don’t. Pubic hair is too coarse. It will dull and clog my blades. You evil beast. Noooooo!” I bang on the glass door.
Oh, God, another hockey game! I’m like a rabid rink-side fan at the arena.

Bea teases me by pulling away the razor and inspecting it. She grows a devilish grin, puts the razor back below her navel, and swipes a tiny path. I slap my head and cringe. She looks up with those huge toasted almond eyes and extends the razor toward me.

“Would you like to finish me, Silver?”

Chapter Five

Love doesn’t make the world go ‘round. Love is what makes the ride worthwhile. – Franklin P. Jones

We made love in the shower until our toes pruned and the water ran cold. Bea wouldn’t speak to me.

I’m confused, lost, exhausted, and happily so. Still, I need to dig into her past and understand the root of her fetishes.
Is this love?

I spend hours the following day Googling her name with assorted hockey terms. She was born in Canada. That explains her odd last name. Sure, Canadians love hockey, but this woman is obsessed. There must be something. I climb her family tree looking for clues. All I find is an uncle whose name is on the Stanley Cup.
Hmm.

As I go to learn more about this uncle, a direct message pops up on my Twitter feed.

BPlastique: Check your bedside table. Initial, sign, and bring it to me in room 4301 at the downtown Hyatt tonight at 8pm.

Oh, Jesus. My bedside table is nothing that should be witnessed by anyone—old condoms, lotions, ugly watches, and my secret (no longer) weapon: the
Fukuoku Pink Left Hand Five Finger Vibrating Massage Glove
. I open the drawer slowly and find a document entitled “Rules of Sexual Engagement.” It lists ten clauses and is signed in blood red at the bottom by Beatrice Plastique.
What the...?

As I read her rules, I feel myself becoming slightly aroused. This disturbs me. I’m no submissive. Then I realize she has sprayed her luscious Chanel scent on the paper. I’m tempted to sexually relieve myself, but resist because this woman demands stamina. The rules convince me she truly is from Venus.

Rules of Sexual Engagement

1. Mormon Silver (henceforth referred to as “Uncle M”) agrees to bring Beatrice Plastique (henceforth referred to as “Lovergirl”) to orgasm daily until the 2012 champions hoist the Stanley Cup.
   
2. On each day, if Uncle M brings Lovergirl to orgasm more than three times, he’ll receive a $25 Amazon gift card.
   
3. Uncle M agrees to allow Lovergirl to shave his testicles.
   
4. Uncle M will refrain from masturbating, eating buffalo wings, and watching NBA games.
   
5. Uncle M will provide ejaculate, urine, saliva, and blood samples within 24 hours.
   
6. Uncle M will not make love (yes, that includes blowjobs) to any other woman.
   
7. Uncle M will not discuss with anyone his sexual relationship with Lovergirl.
   
8. Uncle M will answer every text message sent by Lovergirl within five minutes or be tied to a bed facedown and lashed with a leather belt once for each minute late.
   
9. Uncle M will discard his Fukuoku glove, buy a new one (in black, please), and bring it with him—sealed in its original packaging—to the agreement signing meeting.
   
10. Lovergirl will give up the ass to Uncle M.
    

The ASS? Oh my god, her luscious ass!
I can hardly contain myself as my erection tears at my boxers. I resist, but why? I can’t agree to her silly rules. This is crazy. If I want to beat off, I’ll beat off. I’m a grown man. How would she know anyway?

As I grab my waistband and release my throbbing monster, my phone beeps.

Bea Plastique: Don’t you do it.

Shit.

Chapter Six

Girls are like pianos. When they’re not upright, they’re grand. – Benny Hill

Eric. He’s the key to understanding this strange woman. Personal assistants know everything about their bosses. All I need is leverage.
What do gay men like? Think, Silver, think!

I pace from room to room—then it hits me. Of course. A hand-me-down I have been so tempted to toss finally comes to use. I place Eric’s kryptonite into my satchel along with Bea’s Rules, and zip down to Hustler to get the love glove she requested. Bea has no idea what she has gotten into. Not since the great MJ has anyone been so skilled with a glove.

I swing by her office before our rendezvous, hoping to catch Eric by surprise, but her office is dark and the doors are locked. Missed him.

What does Bea have waiting for me on that 43rd floor? My stomach is tight.
I need a drink.

I valet at the Hyatt and go straight to the lobby bar with my not-a-man-purse. Nothing soothes me more than a few ounces of Don Julio. The nurse behind the bar dispenses my sedative with salt and lime. The glass barely meets the bar before I throw it back and request another. I review Bea’s Rules again, and wonder if she can get me weak enough to sign. Another glass of courage appears and the nurse smirks.

“Somebody must have an important meeting.”

“Darling, you have no idea.”

“What’s with the paper? Divorce settlement?”

“Not quite.”

I’m tempted to show it to my new friend, as I’ve found the best advice often comes across a bar. Still, one of Bea’s Rules is no sharing. I need to see where this goes.

“Let’s just say I need to perform a service, best delivered with agave.”

“Go get her, tiger. Oh, and I hope you like candles.”

“Wait ... what?”

She smiles and walks away. I slam the shot and head for the elevator. As I stroll toward 4301, I hear Frank Sinatra crooning. The door is ajar. There’s flickering golden light and the scent of vanilla. I push slowly, and enter the foyer of a massive penthouse. A path of candles leads toward the back. “The Way You Look Tonight” plays from an iPod stereo above the wet bar.
I need another drink.
I find a mini-bottle of Cuervo.
This will do.
Down it goes. Time to follow the yellow candlestick road.

As I round the corner, the candles lead to the double doors of a master suite. I turn both knobs and slide the doors open. In the golden strobe of candlelight is my love, naked and tied spread eagle to the bed, wearing an old school hockey mask, a la
Friday the 13th
.
Fuck! She’s so hot and mysterious.

“Hello, Lovergirl.”

“I seem to have gotten myself into a bind, Uncle M. Can you help me?” she muffles through the mask.

“Perhaps.”

I place my satchel next to the bed, remove the love glove from its package, and place it on my left hand like a surgeon.

“Black. As requested.”

“Mmm. Does that mean you have agreed to the terms of our arrangement?”

“Maybe.”

I flip the switch on the back of the glove and it vibrates gently.
She’s going to pay for teasing me so.
I lie next to her and kiss her ear and neck as I run my gloved hand up her left thigh. She arches her back in anticipation. I whisper in her ear.

“Do you have any idea what I’m going to do to you tonight?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think you do. You’re quite brave, Lovergirl. You don’t know me that well. I could be insane ... and you’re so helpless right now. I could do almost anything to you.”

“I’m frightened.”

“You should be.”

I run my glove lightly across her engorged nipples as I bite her earlobe. She thrusts her hips when I run the glove down her torso, stopping just above her clit.

“Please, Uncle M, I need you.”

“Not yet, Lovergirl.”

I flip the glove switch off and get up from the bed.

“What are you doing? Get back down here, Silver!”

“Candles. I love candles.”

I take a candle from the side table and hold it over her body. She gasps as I drip hot wax onto her nipples. She’s about to explode. I place a gentle kiss on her love button.

Suddenly I hear a thump coming from the closet.
Holy shit! Someone is here. I should have known. She couldn’t have tied herself.

“You, in the closet, show yourself.” As the door slides open, I see a man and a camera. Jesus.

“Eric? What the hell is going on?”

“Crap,” Bea exclaims.

“Come out of that closet right now, Eric.”

Eric smiles and responds, “Again?”

Chapter Seven

Women are like ovens. We need fifteen minutes to heat up. – Sandra Bullock

“You’re a funny man, Eric. We need to have a little talk.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Silver, last I checked you weren’t the one signing my checks.”

“Hello?” Bea interrupts.

“Hush,” I tell her, “we’ll finish our business soon enough, Lovergirl. Eric, I have something that may persuade you to talk.”

Sitting on the side of the bed with my back to Bea, I open my satchel and reveal Eric’s kryptonite.

“Oh my god, is that what I think it is?”

“Yes, Eric.”

“What is it?” asks Bea.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry but I’m going to have to do what Mr. Silver asks. He has a really big ... um, gun.”

“Are you insane, Silver? It was just a little kinky fun.” Bea is definitely agitated.
Good! I can play her games.
I decide to let her stew as fear heightens the senses, making the orgasm parade I’m about to unleash more intense.

“We’ll be right back. Come with me to the kitchen, Eric, and no sudden moves, or else.”

“Yes, sir.”

I flip on the kitchen light, hang my satchel over a chair, remove my weapon, and place it on the counter. Eric’s eyes widen.

“Is that ... oh, it can’t be.”

“Yes?”

“It’s signed?”

“Indeed, as you can clearly see right here.”