What a Nice Guy by Phil Torcivia

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Fifty Shades Shadier - Chapter Nine

I'm tempted to leave her strapped down, but I can't bring myself to do it. As our heartbeats return to normal, Bea leads me into a side room--an amazing bathroom with black tile, a whirlpool, and a shower that rains from above. Bea turns on the shower and taps buttons on a control panel to change the mood of the music. Sade sings while we scrub the oils from each other. I'm hard again. I can't resist her. If this keeps up I'll need an IV. Then again, I do love my Kindle and I'm two orgasms away from another $25 gift card.

As we make love on the edge of the tub, my jealous thoughts of Chris G. subside. Her second orgasm is explosive as I'm beginning to learn how to push her love buttons.

We dry off, put on soft robes, and return to the play area. I fiddle with the straps on the funky swing, trying to imagine what goes where and how.


"The next time we make love, I want you to tell me exactly what you want and how you want it," I suggest.
"As long as you talk dirty to me."
"I do."
"Not really; you're more like PG. I prefer triple-X."
"Really? Like what?"
"You know."
"I don't, otherwise I'd comply ... probably. I say 'fuck' a lot. That's good, right?"
"Sure, but there are other naughty words."
"Oh, that's right: you're into hockey stuff. OK, how about punishment for 'High Dicking,' 'Cross-Licking,' and 'El-blowing' penalties?"
"Funny. No, I mean other swear words."
"Like?"
"I can't say them. I don't swear, remember?"
"Fine. I'll say a swear word and you give me a hotness reading on a scale of one to ten, with ten being sizzling. Cool?"
"Cool."
"Pussy."
"Three."
"What? That deserves a six, minimum. All right. Cock."
"Seven."
"Hmm, better. How about twat?"
"That one depends."
"On?"
"The adjective."
"Ah, I got this. So, something like honey dripping hungry little twat is good and stinky twat is bad."
"You're catching on."

We continue playing the word games, then Bea offers to demonstrate the swing to me.

"Let me strap you in."
"Ha! No way."
"Don't you trust me?"
"Not really."
"I'm hurt, Uncle M. Oh well. Pity. You were so close to getting that Kindle gift card."
Jesus. She knows my weaknesses. 
"OK, fine. Be gentle."
"Of course."

Bea straps my wrists and ankles, and runs a harness under my lower back. The bungee straps give a bit, so I bounce playfully.

"Say, why don't you climb aboard, Lovergirl," I dare her.
"Nope."
Ah, that's right--dirty talk.
"Get your delicious cunt over here right now and straddle my fuck stick."

Her eyed widen, she drops the robe, undoes mine, and saddles up. We bounce like crazy as I wonder if the straps might give way. Orgasm number three comes in minutes as Uncle M relishes the thought of another conquest and another eBook.

Bea dismounts, walks away, and begins dressing. Oh, no.

"Um, Lovergirl?"
She ignores me.
"Sweetie?"
Nothing.
"Honey?"
Shit.

Bea--fully dressed now--changes the channel on the TV I'm facing. A DVD begins playing: NHL Playoff Series, Game 1. April 24, 2008: Montreal Canadiens 4, Philadelphia Flyers 3.

She reaches into her purse, pulls out a gift card, tosses it my way, winks, and leaves me hanging.

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