Fifty Shames of Earl Grey: A Parody by Fanny Merkin (reading an ebook .TXT) 📗

gray eyes. “Hold still,” he says. “There’s something else . . .” He reaches his long fingers back into my womanly chasm and—

“Aha!” he says, relaxing his puzzled look. He tugs gently on something inside me, and slowly draws a yellow handkerchief through my mud flaps and into the air. What a trick! He winks at me; I smile back. He’s not done, though—he keeps pulling, and a blue one, attached to the first, follows! And then an orange one! He continues pulling, and ends up with a string of twelve handkerchiefs, all tied together. It’s the sweetest magic trick anyone has ever done using my Katy Perry. I would clap, but my hands are still tied up above my head.

Earl raises his index finger and smiles wickedly. One more thing! What will he “find” inside me next? I look at him quizzically. No way in hell is he pulling a rabbit out of me . . . He inserts two of his long fingers back inside me and begins feeling along the upper wall of my mantrap. He presses his fingers into an area rich with nerve endings. It feels . . . delicious. “Look what I found,” he says, registering the look of pure bliss on my face. “Your G-spot.”

For the next fifteen minutes, Earl works on me with his long fingers. The tie keeps my hands held in place firmly above my head, so I can’t interfere or guide him. It’s maddening yet oh so erotic. I get wetter and wetter the closer I get to climaxing, until I’m certain I will die of dehydration. But I don’t die. Instead, my body shudders in one final bout of ecstasy. My climax seems to last for several minutes, to the point I simply can’t take it anymore. I collapse, his tie digging deeper into my wrists. I’m exhausted yet fulfilled. Also, my hands may need to be amputated.

“That was . . .” I trail off, unable to complete my sentence. I gaze at him dreamily.

Earl slowly pulls his fingers out of me, and as he does he pulls something else out: a white dove!

“Presto!” he says, cradling the dove in his hand. The bird coos, and then spreads and flaps its wings to shake off my love juice. Earl lets the dove go, smiling as it soars to the heavens and—

—into the ceiling fan. We are both sprayed with feathers. The bird’s lifeless and mangled body is thrown against the wall.

“That certainly didn’t go as planned,” Earl says, stepping off the bed and untying me.

No shit, Sherlock. It occurs to me what an apt metaphor the bird’s death is, though: a poor, innocent, virginal white dove clubbed to death by the sadistic ceiling fan. Can Earl and I ever have a normal life together? Or will his dark desires drive him over the edge? It’s a question best left for another time. For now, covered in feathers and Four Loko, I sleep.

Chapter Twenty-two

I WAKE UP AGAIN TO AN EMPTY BED. Sunlight streams into the cabin. Where is Earl? I hear the toilet flush and he saunters out of the bathroom. He is completely naked, and his skin seems to sparkle in the sunlight. Just like a—

“Good morning, Anna,” he says.

“I thought you’d left me,” I say. “No work today?”

He shakes his head. “I called in sick,” he says.

Oh no. “Do you feel ill? What’s wrong?”

He laughs. “Oh, Anna,” he says. “I’m love sick.”

Did he just use the L-word? “Are you in love with me, Mr. Grey?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” he says. It’s hard to concentrate on his words when his James Franco is flopping about between his legs.

My inner guidette hesitates. If he’s in love with me, then that begs the question: Am I in love with him? He’s so attractive, and so rich—but on the flip side, he’s a moody bastard whose fifty shames constantly threaten to overwhelm him and anyone he comes into contact with. It’s a lot to process this early in the morning.

“What time is it?” I ask, changing the topic.

He smiles. “It’s the dicking hour, baby.”

After we have sex three times in a variety of interesting positions, Earl says he has a surprise for me.

“Can I take a shower first?” I ask. I still have feathers stuck to my body.

“Of course,” he says. “Mind if I join you?”

We bang twice in the shower, once using a loofah and once completely upside down. After I have my fifth orgasm of the morning, we step out of the shower and towel off. Most of our sex so far has been fairly normal. It pleases me, because I don’t have any interest in being caned or Tasered or whatever. But could it ever be enough for the sadistic Earl Grey?

I ask him what the surprise is.

“You’ll see,” he says, bending me over the sink and doing me again.

After we dress in matching Hawaiian shirts (“aloha shirts” in Hawaii, according to Earl, who is practically a walking and talking Wikipedia), we mount an ATV and cruise through the jungle. Earl instructed me to wear a skirt and leave my panties at the cabin. Sitting behind him, my legs spread around him, with my pubic hair whipping in the wind: This is so perfect.

We stop at a large set of wooden doors that have to be at least a hundred feet tall. They’re the only entrance through an enormous wall that seems to run for thousands of feet in either direction.

“What is this?”

Earl presses a button on his keychain and the doors swing open. “Welcome to Triassic Safari,” he says.

“Is this like Jurassic Park?” I ask. I may have been only a baby when the movie came out, but it’s one even I’ve heard of.

“Mine came first,” he says.

“You weren’t even ten when the movie came out,” I say.

“I had the idea when I was five months old. I didn’t have the money and expertise to execute it until a few years ago. Michael Crichton