Monday, July 27, 2015

Fifty Shades of Parody (Chapter 20a)

"Ugh!" Christian grunts. "Ugh!"
     But it's no use.
     Christian threatened that he was going to lift me over his shoulder like the naughty little girl I am and carry me helplessly inside his Love Parlor/Bait Shop, yet gravity keeps me firmly attached to the ground.
     "Crockett!" he calls out and from out of nowhere his Man Friday appears. "Pick up Miss Steele and take her into the Bait Shop," he orders him.
     So much for helplessly.
     "Boss," Crockett complains, "can't you have me lift something easier, like Mt. Rushmore?"
     Christian ignores him and is already walking away.
     With a huff and a puff and a grunt and a groan, Crockett lifts me off my feet and over his shoulder. Step by step and inch by inch, he carries me inside.
     I look inside and am disappointed by what I see. Fish guts everywhere. And the smell. It stinks like high tide, if high tide was low tide. The strong stink of stench hits me like Mike Rice in a Las Vegas elevator. Whatever you do, don't ride in an elevator with Mike Rice.
     In a manly swipe of his arm, Christian knocks all the contents off the top of an office desk which conveniently, and for the purposes of this story, is located in a corner of the room. I see a name-plate fly into the distance with the name Dr. Deborah Nucatola on it, just underneath is her title Senior Director of Medical Services.
     "You sure did see a lot in the dim light," Christian tells me.
     "I just found it odd," I say.
     "Well, it's not so odd. We Greys rarely fish, so we rent out this Bait Shop to Planned Parenthood. It's one of their medical clinics."
     "I see," I say, not really seeing but sawing.
     "Crockett, kindly place Miss Steele on top of the desk," Christian commands his bodyguard and personal hookah-handler, "and please close the door on your way out. Miss Steele will be handling my hookah tonight."
     "Yes sir, boss," Crockett tells him, and does as he's told.
     With the door shut, it's completely dark inside the Bait Shop. My Inner Goddess shivers. Or maybe it's my Subconscious. It's so dark I can't tell.
     "Christian, where are you?" I bleat.
     "I'm right here, Ana," he tells me. "And here. And here, and here."
     The sound of his voice moves around me sexily like silk, if silk could move. Confusing me, confounding me, conflicting me, and many other words that begin with "con" and continue with "f".
     "I can't see you."
     "Good," he tells me, and I can hear the hunger in his voice.
     With the pungent aroma of fish, I'm pretty hungry, too.
     Mmm... fish.
     "I don't want you to see me," he goes on, not feeding me. "I'm going to make wild, passionate love to you in this pitch black, using only my superior sense of smell to find you."
     I hear him shuffle in the darkness.
     "Ow!" he says. "That's not you, is it?"
     "No," I answer.
     "Of course not," he says. "I knew that. I only wondered, in this darkness, if you knew that."
     I hear him shuffle some more.
     "Ow!" "Ow!" "Ow!"
     Then finally...
     "Ah... here you are."
     "Er... what?"
     I'm distracted by all the wet stickiness beneath me.
     "Mmm..."
     "Ahhh..."
     This must be the wet spot Kate is always complaining about.
     "Ooooo..."
     "Ew... what's this?"
     Um, maybe it's better I don't know.
     "Oh, Ana."
     "Oh, Christian."
     "Oh, Ana!"
     "Oh, Christian!"
     "Oh, Ana!"
     "Oh, Christian!"
     "OH, ANA!"
     "OH, CHRISTIAN!"
     "Oh, Ana! Oh, Ana! OH, ANA!"
     "I'm over here."
     "Too late. I'm done."
 
 
American Chimpanzee
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