I open my eyes to a sleeping Christian Grey beside me. He looks so cute in his jammies. Transformers. I could lay here and gaze at him forever, but I've got to see a man about a horse, if you get my drift.
I walk into his bathroom. Wow, what a view. It looks like you could perform surgery in there, all white and chrome. There's an interesting touch on the floor's white tiles. Red splatters painted by hand. It looks like a Jason Pollock painting.
After making room for breakfast, I leave the fan running and shut the door behind me. I look around his apartment because I'm nosy. Speaking of my nose, it leads me to the kitchen where I discover an old friend, the refrigerator. A smile comes to my lips. I know exactly what I'm going to do.
I'm going to make Christian breakfast.
When he wakes up hours later, he walks in on me dancing playfully in the kitchen.
"I didn't know you could Charleston?" he says.
OMG! I'm so embarrassed.
"I... I... made you breakfast," I stammer, and point with my hand toward the table. "Captain Crunch for two?"
He smiles appreciatively.
"And she can cook," he says, playfully.
"Would you like some tea?" I ask, blushing in embarrassment.
"What are you, British? This is America, gimmie coffee."
We sit and have a delightful breakfast. There's playful banter, bantering playfulness, and continued usage of the word "playfully."
"Didn't you say you never sleep with anyone?" I tease him.
"My life," he says, "like this story, is full of contradictions."
"Yeah... you're full of it, all right."
My subconscious walks into the kitchen. Hungover, as usual.
Ignoring my subconscious, I check the messages on my phone. There's about fifty texts. ALL from Kate.
What does the word "ruok" even mean?
Bring home some milk. We're out.
And toilet paper.
"Fan mail from some flounder?" Christian asks, subtly pointing out my rudeness and his fondness for Rocky & Bullwinkle in one dusty pop culture reference.
"It's Kate," I tell him. "I should call her. She's worried."
"By all means," he says, waving his hand toward my phone magnanimously. He's like the snake giving Eve the okay to eat the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge. He's like Caesar giving a thumbs up to a fallen Roman gladiator. He's like Siskel & Ebert. The skinny one, not the fat guy.
I call, and Kate answers.
"Hi, Kate. It's Ana."
"With one 'n' or two?"
"Well, she's still in bed, but I can take a message."
"No, Kate. I'm not calling for Ana. I am Ana. I called because I knew you'd be worried."
"About me. Ana. Ana Steele."
"How do you spell that?"
"Steele. With an 'e' at the end."
"Now I know you're lying. 'Steel' isn't spelled with an 'e' at the end."
And she promptly hangs up on me.
I stand there, holding a dead phone in my hand.
"Did you allay her fears, my dear?" Mr. Grey asks me, cocking an eyebrow. What hasn't this guy cocked?
I nod and put my phone down.
"Hey," he says, playfully, "whoever doesn't need a shower, take a step forward."
As I'm about to take a step forward, Christian puts up a hand.
"Not so fast you," he says.
The shower is wonderful. The water's warm, the bubbles are plenty, and the water from the water-hose he's spraying me with has just the right amount of force.
When we're done he wraps me in a towel. It's a cute one with pictures of little doggies on it.
"This is so plush," I tell him.
"I don't remember saying you could talk," he says, cutting me short. And then, "There's something I want you to do, Ana. Are you willing?"
I nod my head.
He takes off his tie. What he's doing wearing a tie with his pajamas, I don't know, but the rich are different than you or I, my friends. He walks behind me, and ties the tie around my eyes like a blindfold.
"It is a blindfold, you idiot," he says.
OMG! I think to myself. WTF's gonna happen next?
He leads me down the hall. I bump into three walls and a door-jam, and then we're where he wants us to be.
"Get on your knees," he orders.
And I do.
"Stick out your hand, palm up. I'm going to place something in it."
And he does.
It's longer than it is wide. It's so big I need to hold it with both my hands, and it feels cool against my skin. I close my fingers around it. It is both soft, yet hard to the touch. Smooth, yet ridged. Armed, yet dangerous.
"Push it forward," he demands.
And I do.
And I do.
And I do.
And I do.
As it comes back toward me I open my mouth like it's the most natural thing in the world for me to do.
"Don't," he says. "You'll hurt your teeth."
Hurt? My? Teeth?
His hand slips just under mine. I can both hear and feel a switch being flipped. There's a low rumbling, and whatever's in my hand comes to life with an arousing vibration.
OMG! Could it be what I think it is?
I open one eye and peek.
It is! It is!
"I didn't say you could peek," he chastises me.
There's an undertow of anger in his voice. A sewer of madness, if you will. Not 'madness' as in crazy, but 'madness' as in anger. But since I've already used the word anger, I didn't want to use it again. How about if I say 'madinousity'? Of course it's a word. I just used it, didn't I?
"I'll punish you later," he says.
"Oh... Christian..." I pant. "Is it... can it really be a... a Nimbus 5000 vacuum cleaner? I've only heard of them. I never thought they really existed."
"Only seven were made," he tells me. "I own three."
"Oh... my... goobers, I can feel the suction through the handle and into the very core of my being."
Christian puts his lips close to my ear.
"It sucks good, yes?" he whispers huskily.
"It sucks good, yesss..." I answer.
"You like the way it sucks?" he whispers into my other ear.
"I looove the way it sucks."
"How does all that sucking make you feel?" he begins in one ear, and finishes in the other.
My inner goddess is doing the hokey-pokey, and she turns herself around...
"Hmmm... it makes me feel..."--I look for exactly the right word--"...supercalifragilistic."
Now it was my turn to say, "What?"
"You mean 'expialidocious.' It makes you feel supercalifragilisticexpialidocious."
"No, just supercalifragilistic."
...and that's what it's all about.
The vibration is driving me wild as I keep moving the Nimbus 5000 forward and back, forward and back. I don't know how much more I can take before I'll explode in an explosion of exploding explosions. In the vacuuming world, what I'm holding in my hand is known as The Suckmaster Supreme.
"I can feel it in my skin," I moan.
"I can feel it in my bones," I cry.
"I can feel it in the little man at the front of the boat," I whimper.
"The little man at the front of the boat."
"The little man at the...er ... ah... wha?"
"The front of the boat! The front of the boat!"
"And what does the little man say?"
"He says to... to... keep on vacuuming!"
And I do.
Until the vacuuming ends in a crescendo of spent passion.
"That was incredible," Christian tells me, breathlessly. He looks at the carpet. It's clean. "Is this your first time?"
"Yes," I confess. Not bad for a first-timer.
"I don't believe it," he goes on. "You didn't even get a cramp."
I blush with pride. He's amazed at my sucking ability. In fact, so am I. Who knew?
"You're really good at sucking. I mean, really good at sucking. You sucked it all up. You didn't leave anything."
He stands close to me, our bodies almost touching. I can feel his warmth, his aura, the size of his wallet.
"I've never seen this carpet so clean," he says.
I stand on my tip-toes and lift my head slightly to kiss him lightly on the lips.
He pulls away.
"I'm sorry," he says." I've never been able to kiss a girl after she's just vacuumed."
The doorbell rings.
Christian looks at his watch/slash/security monitor.
"Oh," he says, recognizing someone being let into his Fortress of Solitude by someone else. I can only see half of the screen from the angle I'm at, and I see what looks like Larry King, except with long pointy ears. "It's just Doobie with my mother."
"It's just your mother?" I ask. "She looks like Larry King, except with long pointy ears." And then it hits me. "It's Just Your Mother?!" I yell, my voice raising a few octaves.
"IT'S JUST MY MOTHER!" he yells back at me, his voice raising a few octaves higher than mine.
"AHHHH!" I scream, running around the room in panic, my Bert and Ernie's bouncing wildly in front of me.
"AHHHH!" he screams, pressing the palms of his hands against his cheeks. He looks like if the kid from Home Alone had a baby with Edvard Munch's The Scream.
"Buckle up," we can hear his mother announce through his tie clip/slash/intercom. "It's going to be a bumpy night."
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