Fifty Shades Of Sparkling Vampires With Dragon Tattoos That Play Starvation Games (6 page)

The End.

Hey Kinky Billionaire, Stop Spanking My
Butt

When your boyfriend acted like the
deranged leader of a butt spanking cult, swooning was hardly on the
menu for most women. Luckily, I did not involve my brain in
decision making very often. I did however like a highly degrading
back story, which it turned out there was plenty of.

Go figure, being treated like day old
donuts by your family did not lead to a spiritually fulfilling
life. And what better way to take the frustrations you had about
your three sheets to the wind crazy parents on a young,
impressionable dodo brain like me? Wasn't the cycle of abuse
grand?

Speaking of mal adjusted wack jobs, I
had forgotten to use my safe word "you're a deranged psycho, please
stop beating me" during my last rump romance rendezvous, so my poor
buttski was in full whimper mode.

I used the afternoon to pout that Slap
McHappy had the nerve to poop without sadistically forcing me to
wipe his butt for him. But soon Slap and I were triumphantly
reunited, allowing me to hold his delightful dong while he peed
just like the old days.

It wasn't long before the old
douche-a-saurus went full ass clown, pulling out the paddle with
sadistic glee. He demanded to know why I didn't stop him from
beating the tar out of my tush (like I knew why I do anything)
during the last round of pooper paddling. But in that moment of
extreme cardboard villainy, an idea popped into my head (I know,
right? Miracles did happen).

It occurred to me that maybe a
relationship shouldn't be built on butt cheeks being sore for weeks
at a time. That maybe just maybe, relationships should be based on
making improbably bone headed decisions like falling in love with
an emotional cripple. At least he was hot though. I did mention he
was super duper hot, right? And rich too. What more could a woman
with the IQ of orangutan dung ask for?

Amazingly enough, the idea that I
should flee the twisted bastard to find a man that would love,
honor, or at least cherish my boobs did not enter my cavernous
mind.

I did decide to law down the law at
least a tad though. But the conversation to free my tush from
torture was awkward at best:

"Hey, I was thinking you should stop
spanking my butt during sex," I said.

"What am I supposed to spank then, your
cervix? Because that's just twisted," Slap replied.

"I was thinking maybe you shouldn't
spank me at all," I continued.

"What are you, some bra burning
feminist nut job now? I'll bet next you'll think women should have
the right to vote next. Or that they should actually enjoying
having a meat flavored scrotum rubbing up against them."

"You kidding? I don't think anyone
should vote. Have you seen the parade of morons running for office
lately? I was just hoping my ass wouldn't whimper so much after
making love."

"Wait a minute. You think a numb nut,
nincompooped, domestic abusing, manipulative twat like me is
capable of love? That might be the most romantic thing to ever make
me pop a woody. From now on, the only time I will beat you is in a
battle of wits. Now, let's have a marathon over the top sex. I'll
even rent rabid raccoons to watch us."

"Woodland creatures in the bedroom.
Yippee. Wait until my friends hear about the extremely normal sex
we're about to have."

***

"Wow, that was like muff magic," I
said. "Penile paradise. A carnal cornucopia."

"It must have been good. I've got you
alliterating," Slap bragged.

"What can I say? You're my dick
destiny. My horny hero. My lusty legend."

"I am pretty awesome, aren't
I?"

"Let's have sex until it hurts when you
pee," I suggested.

"Wow, if this is romance, I might just
get the hang of it," Slap replied. "Hooray for emotional growth.
Now, let me drip ice cream all over your body and lick it out of
your belly button."

***

It turned out every once in a while sex
had to take a backseat to haphazard plotting though, so I found
myself at a charity event with Slap McHappy on edge with the
sighting of a jilted ex girlfriend (a relationship with Slap just
had too many perks to count). It seemed Crazy McEx was having a
tough time screwing her head on right after years of Slap working
his masochistic magic. Lucky for me, I planned on spending the rest
of my life with the belligerent bastard, so I didn't have to worry
about a break up clogging my noggin.

If it were up to McEx though, Slap's
tortured soul would be bleeding out on the newly steamed carpet,
hunky hemoglobin and all. It was like having front row seats to my
favorite soap opera, only I got to be the dumb chick chewing
scenery in the corner. Still, all the intense drama was threatening
to ruin my chances at scoring the half off therapy sessions in the
charity auction.

The drama wasn't all psychological
though. Gunplay erupted between Crazy and Slap's burly bodyguards,
putting on a fireworks show that left me dumbstruck (although
making me look dumb wasn't hard). It was more amazing than watching
a guy light a firecracker in his heiny. Speaking of exploding
things in butt's, nothing brought on a gratuitous sexual interlude
like almost catching a stray bullet in the booby.

"Hey, do you want to break the head
board with our vigorous sexual acrobatics?" I asked, back at Slap's
dong dojo.

"Why stop there? Why don't I whack your
butt cheeks with the broken head board to really get my schlong
soaring?"

"Oh, Slap. I thought we agreed to hide
your sexual skeletons back in the closet with the waffle maker and
butt plug you never use."

"Fine. But you can't blame a douche for
wanting to beat the snot out of the woman he loves, can you?
Besides, how else can you show a woman you love her if not through
erotic physical flagellation?"

"I dunno. Flowers. Dinner and a movie.
Buying me a pony and dressing it like a unicorn."

"Why don't I just pork you in the most
romantic way my pea brain can dream up?"

"You're right. Tawdry sex solves
everything, even gaping plot holes."

"Now put on the meter maid outfit. My
winky's feeling kinky."

***

It was hard to believe civilization
wasted time with dumb things like work when dental dams were laying
around tragically unused. But there I found myself, amazingly
enough gainfully employed at a publishing house. Our latest piece
of literary dung was a scholarly critique of the decaying of modern
literature. Could you believe there wasn't any salacious sex in it?
Who'd read such well researched nonsense? People wanted a muff
diving deep dicking good time with a smattering of incomprehensible
plot, not something that gave your brain cause for pause (thinking
made my head hurt).

But an unnecessary diversion from
carnival style coitus wouldn't be complete without a romantic rival
of therapy inducing proportions. Sure Mr. Schizo had eye candy to
spare, but then again who didn't have underwear model looks in
Seattle? Being a bastion of beautiful buffness didn't mean much
when fat and ugly people conveniently disappeared from
existence.

Still, Mr. Schizo did make me question
whether a relationship of mutual love and respect might be worth
flirting with. Until the guy went seriously Schizo and started
talking about the erotic pleasures of monkeys flinging
poo.

Slap meanwhile didn't like the fact
that anyone with a penis that wasn't him would have the nerve to
even talk to me. So being the emotional dill weed he was, Slap
stormed into my office and threw an epic temper tantrum. It was so
romantic. Who knew a grown man coming emotionally unhinged could be
such a turn on? Yet seeing Slap unnecessarily going off the rails
made me tingle all over.

And if you were out there thinking that
was yet another example of how I should have cast Slap to the side
like the used tampon of torment he was, you really haven't caught
on to how dimwitted I am. Besides, was I supposed to have
inappropriate sex on the office copier with myself?
Puh-lease.

After heading home for a second round
of coital calisthenics, another interlude into insanity occurred
(no, not running off to the County Fair to ride ostriches
professionally). Instead it was Slap's family bringing the pain of
yore into the fore. And me oh my were Slap's folks nutso. It was
more twisted than stumbling into a cave of cross dressing
cannibals. But you had to hand it to Slap, even after a childhood
fraught with pain and tortured tomfoolery, he managed to accrue a
billion dollars while seemingly never doing any actual
work.

Seeing Slaps parents though, I had
clichés to comfort me. It was true. Money really couldn't buy
happiness. It could buy a strippers pole and sex swing in the
bedroom though. Not to mention an indoor tennis court and an
amusement park in the backyard, but what good was obscene wealth if
you only used it to wipe your tears with?

Not buying the sob story? How about
some more pelvic gyrations? After all, sex was a great way to fill
holes, plot or otherwise. So Slap brought his erection in my
direction and I took his boner for a spin. I would tell you all the
illicit details, but a woman deserved her privacy.

Ah, who was I kidding? I was the
baroness of blow jobs. A wide-legged wanton wonder. And my clitoris
cooed at very sight of Slap's bulging best friend.

The sex was epic. To say it was mind
blowing was an insult to carnal cranium cracking. It was a white
cream dream. A horny heaven holiday. Can't miss dick bliss. A labia
puffing muffin stuffing. A long schlong swan song.

You'd think you would need to take a
nap after such arousing alliteration (not to mention all the wild
sex), but more unrealistic drama awaited. I mean seriously, it was
like Slap's life was being choreographed by a failed soap opera
writer. I went home to rest my naughty bits and drop the deuce in
private (Slap insisted that watching me poop brought us closer)
when crazy went and found me. See, it turned out I wasn't alone in
my apartment (then again, with my hemorrhoids I was never really
alone).

Psycho Von Ex wasn't just any garden
variety nut job. Her buttski had once belonged to Slap. And though
most people would be happy to be free from the punishment of the
paddle, her tush craved the torture. She was a psychotic wreck and
insanely jealous that her bottom wasn't being beaten
anymore.

That was just the typhoon of turd I
wasn't looking forward to. Maybe wanton sex with a mal adjusted
madman had consequences after all. I just never expect those
consequences to be waiting to kill me in my living room.

But being the psychotically obsessive
hunk he was, Slap had tailed me home to make sure I hadn't hopped
on any stray boners I might have come across. Slap's insane streak
came in handy though as he swooped in and defused the explosive ex
with a little soothing S&M.

Wait...my boyfriend had the nerve to
dom some other dame in front of me? Never mind that I should have
been happy to still be alive. Never mind that Slap was just trying
to talk Psycho out of her frenzy. I was going to get irrationally
jealous and worry that Slap would leave me for the fruit cake in a
mini skirt in front of me.

Finally Slap was able to whisk me to
his car where I could stew about the woe begotten spectacle that
was the life of a submissive nitwit.

***

Later, back at the billionaire's
mansion, my brain farted like I'd just eaten a six pack of
burritos.

"What's wrong with you?" I asked,
ridonkulously upset.

"I get off on spanking chicks butts
until they bleed. What isn't wrong with me?" Slap
replied.

"Yeah. My butt. Not your crazy ex
girlfriends tuckus. And for kinky's sake, who talks someone down
from a ledge by offering to give their heiny a good hammering? What
did you, grow up in an S&M parlor?"

"Look. I'm damaged goods. I come with
more baggage than a trophy wife after a shoe sale. My childhood was
something out of a horror movie. Not to mention all the women I
date remind me of my crack whore Mother. So the way I see it, I
have a blank check to act like a goon buffoon."

"Wow. It's almost like bad boys really
can't be reformed. How's it possible that books and movies have
lied to me all these years? What's next, you're going to tell me
that Santa Clause isn't real?"

"Uh, hello...we're talking about my
suffering here. Now I know I promised not to spank you silly, but
it would be so romantic if you could hand over your butt cheeks
just one more time."

It was then a light went on in my head.
Which was strange, because I didn't realize my noggin had a light
switch all this time. In the ultimate act of super slo motion self
realization, it became clear that Slap was one sick
puppy.

I mean, I knew his name was Slap
McHappy, but everyone gave their whip a nickname right? And whose
exes didn't want to murder them in cold blood at a charity blow job
auction? Plus, you had to give some leeway to a guy who had a
lobotomy worthy childhood then acted out all his aggressions on
unsuspecting naive coeds...