Fifty Writers on Fifty Shades of Grey (26 page)

LAURA ANTONIOU

(
“AT LAST!” the longtime BDSM erotica author cried upon reading the news. “Finally, I see what people really want in their smut! Apparently I have been doing it all wrong. No matter. I will correct twenty years of my career by writing exactly what the public wants.” Her maniacal laughter echoed through her apartment as she furiously typed …)

“Double Crap!” Tiffany extrapolated, as she realized her perfectly perky 37D breasts had gained another D overnight. “Now what will I wear to meet and interview Mr. Momzer Macher, the new President and CEO and CFO and C-something-O of the Ridiculously Huge Seattle Startup Company?”

Sighing with frustration, the gorgeous blonde who didn’t actually know how naturally attractive she was, gazed at her mirror image and fingered the honey-gold waves of her naturally wavy hair. “Darn my much more interesting and pretty roommate for getting sick and leaving me to make these hard
decisions! I know! I will wear that daring leather bustier that my gay BFF talked me into buying at that strange street fair he took me to in San Francisco! Gee, I wonder if he worked things out with that hunk he met that day. He said he was into leather, but when I asked him where to find a good purse, he just laughed.”

She blinked her cerulean eyes at the memory and then went to get her fetching outfit. It was tight in all the right places and really emphasized her 37-24-36 shape, and the leather felt so stiff and hot and sexy against her alabaster skin! And how it molded to her perfect 110 pounds!
How will I ever get through the night without fainting?
she wondered as she strapped her tiny, delicate alabaster feet into her four-inch heels, deciding not to take the
really
high ones.
Good thing I already threw up
.

At the party, everyone was in their fanciest clothes and the music was awesome and loud and there was dancing and great foods like chicken fingers and the little hot dogs in teeny buns and sushi and tapas and stuff. Tiffany, having never seen such wealth, such style, or such alcohol, despite being about to graduate from college, chose a cherry popsicle that had a fancy imported liquor in it, and was on her third when suddenly she saw … HIM.

Like. OMG. There he was, so freaking hot. In his leather pants from Dolce & Gabbana and his black silk shirt and really expensive black tie and black jacket and black diamond stick pin through the really expensive black tie and his ink-black hair and jet-black eyes and his big feet in big black boots. Oh, he was
so
into black!

“You’re Tiffany,” He murmured as he leaned in toward her, gracefully looking at her plunging cleavage and her heaving alabaster breasts.

He was so tall! Even with her lithe 5’7” frame enhanced by those four-inch heels, He was at least a foot taller! And His piercing black eyes pierced her to her very soul.

“I … I …” Tiffany stammered, letting her booze popsicle drip, drip, drip down her hand to splat, splat, splat on the floor. She bit her full, ruby-red lips in luscious lasciviousness.

“I’m disgustingly rich and dominant,” He sneered dominantly. “You will be Mine!”

“Oh, wow,” Tiffany seized. “Um. Wow. Okay. Sure. What does that mean, exactly?”

“I have a checklist,” He said triumphantly while texting a URL to her. “Go to My webpage and fill it out, and tell Me whether you like, dislike, or are neutral about the three hundred activities and fetishes listed there, and whether you’ve done them before and with whom, and what you thought about it, and then rate them on a scale of one to ten on whether you’d like to do it now, tomorrow, next week, or after the Mayan Apocalypse.”

“Um,” Tiffany coughed out, a delicate flush gathering on her porcelain features, her beautiful, full lips, her high, sculpted cheekbones, her delicately feathered eyebrows, and her oh-so-cute upturned nose. “But I’m sure I haven’t done anything on your list at all! Despite being an adult in 2012, having been through college in a very trendy urban area, I am still completely virginal and know nothing
at all
about kinky sex! I am beautiful, although I don’t actually believe that.” At this painful honesty, she blushed, stumbled, chewed her lip, and wiggled her ears in panic.

His anthracite eyes brightened under His heavy, midnight brows and He gazed at her with an acquisitional hunger, like a Guy who hasn’t had anything to eat in days. And yet she could see some painful memory, some dark—dare she think
black?
—secret lurking behind those onyx eyes.

“Then you’re
really
going to be Mine!” He thundered. “Because I Alone can teach you the gift of submission, give rise to your slave heart, grant to you the loving dominance of My Masterful Aggression, all tempered, of course, with rationality and with all due care and attention given to risk-aware negotiation. I
will teach you to serve Me with your submissive soul, your passive power, your girly gushiness, train you to come at the snap of My Fingers and find true freedom in your complete subjugation to My Will. Yes … you will even learn … bad grammar.”

“Triple crap!” Tiffany declaimed. “All that? But … how is that possible? It all sounds crazy! And yet … when I look into your charcoal eyes under that irrepressible lock of ebony hair, as I run my searching, trembling fingers across the steel buttons on your sable silk shirt, all I can think of is … Jesus Christ, I am so horny I could die. I think. But I don’t really know, because of the virgin thing? It’s a pity I was never exposed to sex education in school. Or owned a computer. Or knew how to work that Google thing.”

Mr. Momzer Macher took her pale, shaking hand and led her gentle, undulating form away from the party into his private boardroom, where the table could be set up like a bed, and tumbled her back onto it.

“I will teach you, little one,” He said with intrepid confidence in himself. “And you will be my prized little party girl, slave possession for all time. Just like the last seventeen subbies I had.”

“Oh, quadruple crap!” she extremed, as He tore away her leather bustier with one hand and fell on her like a ravening wolf. A ravening
black
wolf.

Tiffany accepted the large package delivered by the uniformed messenger and added it to the pile inside the door. Already, she had a computer from the future, hand designed by Steve Jobs with more memory than any Apple computer available, boxes of flowers, trays from the Fruit of the Month Club, and mysterious objects from the Dildo of the Month Club, a complete, mint set of
Sheena, Queen of the Jungle
comic books (she had been a comic book major in school), and even more mysteriously, a BlackBerry instead of an iPhone, also from the future. Having
just discovered the existence of email, Tiffany was learning all about the exciting new world of “cyber things.”

“Jesus Christ, Tiffany,” said her prettier, much more interesting roommate, Plotitia Device. “Is this guy trying to buy you, or what?”

Just then, Oprah popped through the door and squealed, “And you get a CAR!” at Tiffany, tossing her a set of keys. “From Momzer Macher. Bye now!”

“Oh, holy crap,” Tiffany sighed. “I just don’t know what to do! I should probably return all this stuff, except I kind of need a car and I never owned a computer and the fruit is good for me, although He insists I eat the whole box whenever we’re together. I hate that almost as much as the way He keeps threatening to beat the shit out of me in His Purple Room of Punishment. Which I hate almost as much as the way He tracks me through this thing He tagged me with.” She tugged at the radio transceiver stapled to her ear. “And I hate that almost as much as the way He threatens any man I ever talk to and pretty much goes ballistic if I make any plans that don’t include Him.”

“Call me crazy,” said Plotitia, “but he sounds kinda messed up. Maybe you should back off and go slower with this stuff.”

“If only there was a way for me to understand His Desire to do such awful things!” Tiffany sniffled. She remembered how, a few days after their tremulous meeting, she had turned from restocking the expired toothpaste from China on the shelves of the Super 99 Cent Depot where she worked, and there He was. Momzer Macher, all tall and wide shouldered and narrow hipped, with His pants hanging off His narrow hips (He forgot to wear a belt that day) and all His black clothing and His inky boots and midnight hair and soulful dark eyes hiding some mysterious, anguished past. He looked down at her and sneered dominantly, “Do you have plastic cable ties? And bungee cords? And hemp rope? And cotton rope? And burlap sacks? And two-by-fours? And clothespins? And gimp hoods?
And the trademarked Rabbit Pearl Vibrator, as seen on
Sex and the City
? Oh, and extra batteries?”

“Aisle three,” she stammered, wondering 1) what on earth He wanted to do with all those things, and 2) why a gazillionaire was doing His own shopping at the Super 99 Cent Depot. Then she stumbled, bit her lip, fluttered her eyelashes, and wrinkled her nose.

“When you do those things,” He said to her, leaning forward so she could smell the scent of Him, all clean, like He’d recently bathed, using soap, “I wanna do bad things with you.”

“Oh, crapola deluxe,” she whimpered. Yet, little did she know then, in the Super 99 Cent Depot, just what “bad things” meant. Because later on, after she accepted His invitation to coffee, after she allowed Him to rescue her from getting drunk and making out with a guy, after she met His mom (but not really His mom, but she didn’t know that yet), He then showed her that darn contract and took her to His Purple Room of Punishment. Which was His fancy name for a fuck room with a revolving, round bed, mirrored ceiling with disco ball, and stacks and stacks of cheap-ass bondage materials, plus a well-thumbed copy of
The Frugal Dom’s Guide to Kink on The Cheap
.

He had told her she needed to make the decision whether to become His Total, Complete, 24/7, Lifestyle, Gorean, Old Guarde, Euro, Submissive, Slavegirl. And then He started sending her all these presents.

“But I don’t understand what it all means!” she cried, chewing her lip and wiggling her toes and swallowing hanks of her tawny, wavy hair. “How on earth could I ever learn anything about this stuff in Seattle?”

Just then, the mail came, with an invitation to a Doms and Subs and Friends Together Munch, a flyer for the upcoming Living & Loving in Leather conference, and a catalog from the Pacific Northwest Dykes Who Make Whips. She tossed them all on top of her MacBook Pro from the Future, and shook her head sadly, bursting into tears, as she usually did when thinking of
Momzer Macher. “There’s just no way I could ever understand Him!” she wailed.

“Then you shouldn’t see him again,” pronounced Plotitia, who, despite actually having done some journalism, also didn’t know how to research things.

“Okay,” said Tiffany, stumbling over her gifts. “I’ll just return all this stuff, now!”

Suddenly, her phone rang.

“Come on out with me, baby,” purred the deep, dark voice of Momzer Macher.

“I was just talking about you!” Tiffany squeaked.

“I know, I bugged your apartment. Come with me at once, let me take you flying and show you a world of wealth beyond your deepest, most submissive dreams! Then we can go for pancakes. I’ll get you the Rooty Tooty Fresh ‘N Fruity, if you’re a good girl.”

Deep in her heart, Tiffany knew she should say no. After all, this guy was fifty shades of crazy, what with His super-secret dark past that He wouldn’t talk about and His kinky sex fantasies and how He wouldn’t let her touch Him except when He was fucking her or holding her or she was sucking His cock or they were kissing and the mysterious fact that He could make her orgasm by doing pretty much anything, even though she had never even jerked off before, and His muttering, frequently, that He wanted to beat the shit out of her and that creepy thing He said about her looking like His mom, like, oh, eww, and that annoying way He kept stalking and spying on her and scaring off all her friends and trying to keep her from visiting home and that fucking annoying way He said “laters” instead of “goodbye” like a normal person, but … but …

Pancakes
.

“Okay!” she said cheerfully, and she dashed out the door and ran right into him, as He was right there, totally kneeling so He could look through the keyhole. And He swept her off in His black helicopter and they flew around and had pancakes and
went back to His place where finally, like after 800 pages, He actually hit her in a way she was pretty sure she didn’t like AT ALL. After, she argued with Him and assured him, repeatedly, that it was totally okay with her and she knew her safeword, dammit, and then totally forgot to use it.

“I didn’t actually like any of this kinky shit, ever!” she screamed at Him, finally. And He was very upset and she was upset and they both cried and said dumb things and broke up forever, which is really not true, because if they did, there wouldn’t be a …

“Let’s get married,” Momzer Macher said to Tiffany one day.

“Okay,” said Tiffany with all the unconditional love she had in her deep heart. Inside, her inner fairy princess was doing a
pas de deux
, with a little bit of tango and a smattering of an esoteric Brazilian martial art that sort of looked like dancing except that you could totally maim someone if they didn’t duck in time.

How she loved Momzer Macher, dressed for their tropical vacation in His usual black leather pants, hanging off His narrow, sexy hips (
I have to remember to buy him a belt
, Tiffany thought) and a black shirt and black tie and black boots and black bikini underwear.
How sad that I didn’t understand His complicated past!
she thought, gazing into His deep, dark eyes, harboring the saddest past anyone ever had.

If she hadn’t been threatened by her boss, who had a grudge against Momzer Macher, if she hadn’t been stalked by several of His seventeen former slaves, if she hadn’t learned the true secret why He liked to play His sick little disgusting S&M games, if He hadn’t had to rescue her, repeatedly, from everyone who wanted to hurt Him by hurting her, why, she could have been working for a living, without a computer from the future, a new car, a new house, and a contract of all sorts of weird rules she never had any intention of signing, but He always forgot to actually ever have her sign.

Oh, and she wouldn’t be pregnant.

But that wasn’t her fault at all! Because Momzer Macher had told her He didn’t like using birth control, so
she
had to, and then she had these shots all lined up, but forgot to go get them, what with the kidnappings and midnight helicopter flights and crazy former submissives and the way they kept fighting and making up and having great sex with simultaneous orgasms.

Simultaneous orgasms made a girl somewhat forgetful!

Maybe I should tell Him about the pregnancy
, she thought. She consulted her inner fairy princess, but that twat was too busy spinning around in a dervish to Bhangra with some Watusi-inspired sidesteps. So, she looked into Momzer Macher’s deep, dark, pained eyes and said, “Could we get married soon? Because I am sort of knocked up.”

“What? Bad girl! Bad slave! What the fuck! I hate you!” Momzer Macher leapt up, shaking with fury. “How dare you!” And then He ran off, screaming, leaving her there to burst into tears.

“Oh, crap to the tenth power!” she wailed. “Holy, goddamn, motherfucking crap!” How stupid and clumsy and unattractive she was, to not have realized that the fear she constantly had about telling Him bad news was actually a sign that telling Him bad news meant He’d act like a complete dick and run off to seek comfort with one of His many ex-lovers or abusers. If only she had trusted friends to advise her and comfort her! But He had chased them all away with His jealous, controlling rages, which were all really just proof that He really loved her.

Meanwhile, Momzer Macher totally ran off and got drunk with one of His bad influences and acted like a dick. Then He sighed and came back and said to Tiffany, who had cried a whole lot, “Okay, let’s get married anyway.”

“And you won’t make me do any of that kinky shit?” Tiffany asked, having gotten a little wiser in the past 600 pages.

“No. I mean, yes, but only when you want it. Or, when I really need it, unless it upsets you. Or the baby. Whatever. It’s just
that I have realized, Tiffany, you are the perfect woman for me. You look like my crack-whore mommy, and your submission is entirely fictional, yet you love me so much you collapse into complete hysterics at the mere thought of my leaving you. Somehow, that just says you are the most amazing natural subbie. Let me buy you more stuff. And then maybe a little spanking?”

“Hm,” said Tiffany, one hand cradling her pregnant belly. “Nah. But maybe some more action with the Ben Wa balls. After we get married. I bet our baby will like that a lot.” Her inner fairy princess made a
ca-ching!
sound and nodded in satisfaction while doing the hustle.

“I can’t wait to taste breast milk again!” enthused Momzer Macher, now more or less completely submissive to His formerly virginal, sexually ignorant bride. And that was not creepy
at all
.