Fifty Shades of Silver Hair and Socks - Chapter 4

I'm home trying to understand what just happened. I went in for an interview with a billionaire babe and left with salty sex residue, a sore nipple, and no story. Eric said he'd reschedule me--often, I hope. Bea's a strange woman, but she definitely has a mental grip on me. I wonder where her hockey fascination originated. She probably had a fucked up childhood like most of us.

My iPhone rings with an unfamiliar number. I've learned not to answer those, not that I have anything against Indians. Less than a minute later I get a text message from the same number.

How dare you ignore my call, Silver. That's a major penalty. - B

How did she get my number? I should have known a woman with her resources would be, eh hem, resourceful. I tap on my recent calls and plan my approach. She answers after five rings. Clever girl.

"Who is this and how did you get my number?"
"Very funny, Bea. I was just about to ask you the same question."
"Oh, Mr. Silver, how nice to hear from you. What are you up to, and are you naked by chance?"
"No, my dear, I'm not naked. I'm just trying to make corners meet."
"Ends."
"Excuse me?"
"Ends, Silver. The cliché is 'making ends meet.' Aren't you a writer?"
"Yes, and actually I'm a writer who is doing laundry--folding my sheets."
"Ah. So, your ends are meeting just fine, are they?"
"Fine enough."
"Your home is a bit underwater, is it not?"
"Whose isn't?"
"You know, I could help you, Silver, if you'd agreed to play with me ... my way."
"You could get me a loan modification? Put me in, coach."
"Oh, I will, repeatedly. Bye for now."
*click*

What a whacky woman! I need to Google her later.

I finish my laundry and go to the gym to clear my head, which is ear-to-ear full of Plastique. She fits me like a glove. Am I just a toy to her? It disturbs me to wonder how many other writers she has "had" in her office.

After a good sweat I return home. I hear water running. Is that damn toilet stuck again?

I bound up my staircase. It sounds like a shower--my master bath shower. Could it be?

I cautiously round the corner of my bathroom to find Bea in my shower. She's partially obscured by steam and the foggy glass door. I watch the suds run from her golden mane down the line of her back, across her perfectly round buttocks, into the crevasse I want to make my home.

"Jesus, Bea! How did you get in here? For that matter, how did you know where I live?" My cock is so hard right now it practically tears through my sweats.

She turns to face me and speaks not a word as she raises an index finger to her lips to shush me. Then, she licks the tip of her finger and runs it down her chest, across her navel, to her love tunnel as she sits on my shower bench.

"You're killing me, Ms. Plastique. I have a mind to come in there and clean up a very dirty girl."

Bea smirks as she reaches my shower shelf and takes hold of my Gillette Fusion razor. With her other hand she grabs my Old Spice liquid soap and squirts a dab on her tiny patch of fur. She lathers up and stares longingly at me as she slowly lowers my razor toward her vagina.

"No! That's my fucking Fusion! Do you have any idea how expensive those cartridges are? I beg you, don't. Pubic hair is too coarse. It will dull and clog my blades. You evil beast. Noooooo!" I bang on the glass door. Oh, God, another hockey game! I'm like a rabid rink-side fan at the arena.

Bea teases me by pulling away the razor and inspecting it. She grows a devilish grin, puts the razor back under her navel and swipes a tiny path. I slap my head and cringe. She looks up with those huge toasted almond eyes and extends the razor toward me.

"Would you like to finish me, Silver?"

(this isn't over)