__________________________the story in full detail___________________________
Fifty Shades of Grey
A hamburger helper story written by a 5- year old boy with four characters, Anastasia, Christian, The inner goddess, The subconscious and Bella and Edward and Thor and Hercules and long fingers and fan fiction and hot cakes and Masters of the Universe and Legos and The Hunger Games, I mean Twilight and is that five? I meant five.
My palms were sweating incredibly because I had exams I was not prepared for and forgot why I was in school. But I promised my roommate Katty, that I would help her. She was the editor of the W paper and had to interview some guy, I think on fashion. I have no idea why and didn’t ask. She was sick and I’m such a clumsy knob there wasn’t a point, achingly. Anyway, there were no details, but from her sick bed she blasted out a folder.
“Its all in there. Just go,” she whined fleetingly.
The inner goddess in me was struggling with my unconscious because on one hand I wanted to help my bff and number three, I had to study, so it was a real mud pit of Tarzan soil. But friends are for life so I went.
I sped to his office, a giant, tall, really big, huge, tall skyscraper that was gray. I feel so intimated I thought sheepishly. Oh, pull yourself together I thought slapping myself pointedly.
I parked then gasped at the parking fees. I hope they validate I thought hopefully.
I went up the very detailed elevator for 45 flights and entered a mirrored giant hallway of mirrors, then was met by a towered blond secretary who was curt. She scared me but I will act not scared I thought reassuringly. Oh come on inner goddess. We can do this. For Katty. She’s my parapet.
The office was so big, spacious and gray and spacious.
“Would you like some water?” she said nicely. I took the glass then dropped it and watched it spill, well, it broke first, then it spilled on the spacious gray carpet. Oh clumsy Anastasia, I thought angrily banging my thigh with an open fist.
I finally reached his office, a huge spacious steel door. Oh, my last name is Steele. Get it? How coincidental I thought coincidentally. After it opened, I flailed around like some kind of swirling dish idiot and fell flat on my face.
I was on all fours, like a dog. A submissive dog. Oh stupid me!!! I thought stupidly. Aren’t they all submissive? Get a grip of yourself you whacko!
I felt his two warm hands like hot bread wrap around my waist and he helped me up. He wasn’t some old man, but I’ll be a monkey’s uncle, he was probably 27 and a billionaire. I started to sweat. Water was forming in goblets around my neck like a water necklace from Arizona.
His long pointy finger excited me when he held out his hand. I shook it. The finger was so erotic I got wet on my ankles. Damn why did you wear panty hose, you stupid clod. I hope I don’t look like a klutz even though I just fell to the floor completely for no reason, I thought ironically, then pulled my scarf to my face and the sluice gates opened.
“Hello. I’m Christian Grey,” he blurted droolingly. Steele, Grey? The tower of coincidences made me want to pull my face off.
I described his boring office for pages and pages like a real writer might, except real writers don’t actually do that and then suddenly, his gray gray eyes were boring into me, then burrowing, or some part of me, making my heart flutter like a butterfly or a hummingbird or a jack rabbit, or "things that flutter for 200 bob."
More sweating and gasping for no reason and then when working at Home Depot, he shows up like a Greek god passing through like he forgot his wings.
I was suddenly lost in a quagmire of sensation. How can that be? I go on and on trying to wrap my brain around another coincidence. He wants ME to help him. He likes ME!!!!! And possibly Sally Field. Can it be so? I’m 22, about to graduate college, have no cell phone, or Facebook or don’t know what Google is. And I’m a plain Jane. And stupid. And a half-wit and I tell myself these things constantly to the point of wanting to hurl. Hurl the emotional lust that I revel in.
He’s got me right under my skin, literally.
“I want some thick rope, electrical cord, cable rods, masking tape, steel plates, a ball gag, latex, handcuffs, electrical wire, fishnets, masks and, oh, do you carry 4- foot didoes?"
I caught myself staring into his piercing gray eyes. Be clever dumbass be clever.
“You’re so cocky.” OMG did I just say that. OMG. “It sounds like quite a DYI project you are working on.”
“Why would it be DYI, I have 22 billion dollars.”
I scratched my arm until it bled.
“Oh, silly me. I totally forgot you were rich. So is this a hobby?"
“Yes, I’m a birdman. I build nifty cages, attract the naivest birds in the whole county, bind their feet together, tape their beaks shut, truss them into a 4 square knot, handcuff their little heads to a steel, gray post, and use a dildo well, you know, for monkey sex.. I’m shy so…”
"Oh, please I didn’t mean to pry," I stuttered haltingly. Oh brainless me! That’s what I get for trying to be clever, now he’ll never want to see me again and I love birds. I was afraid my subconscious was wearing her Edvard Munch face again while my inner goddess was whistling with her hands behind her back.
He wrapped the cords around his man shaped arms.
“But before anything, I make sure the bird signs a contract so it’s legal. There is a whole list of rules they have to follow,"he murmured. Then his mouth quirked up.
I was so impressed.
“Wow,” I murmured back.
Of course he knows the law. He has 170,000 employees, runs all these companies and is a birdwatcher. Is there anything he can’t do?
My inner goddess wanted to reach out and squeeze his private area, but my subconscious was hiding behind the house paint, so I was in a dill pickle.
“My rope?” he questioned phlegmatically.
“Oh, you have a cold?” I purred sympathetically.
“Constipated,” he coughed gruntingly.
I handed him 30 feet of yellow course rope.
“What is the electrical wire for?”
“Obvious. If the birds try to get away they get a nice little shock. But in fairness, if they stay they get a nice little reward.”
“Cool. Like birdseed?”
“Yeah, they like to lick it off my dick.”
His voice and gray eyes were giving me spaghetti legs.
Eventually I signed the contract and joined the birds. I also lost a lot of weight cause he made me so fluttery and love struck I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t eat when I was aroused either, or nervous, or scared, or happy or sad or feeling spacious or bloaty.
But that’s good cause he never fed me anyway. Except oysters. He sure loved oysters and I don’t know why but whenever I felt adventurous, like I wanted to try the seed lick, I craved oysters.