Fifty Shades of the Gray Report

The UPS man trips when delivering me and I fall into his apartment. I had heard about W. Blake Gray, an international man of mystery who seems to have unfathomable riches without ever doing any real work. But seeing him in person is staggering, and I feel shivers down there. He is the most beautiful man in the world -- and did I mention the unfathomable riches? Of course that doesn't matter to me. But his face is cold and cruel.

He says, "Stay away from me. I'm not good for you." I shiver with delight.

I'm just days away from graduation, my official release date, and I've never been tasted. Not many men have tried. I prefer to stay bottled up. I look at myself in the mirror sometimes, and I just see an ordinary, somewhat flat shape, but my closest friend tells me I'm hot. I wear her labels so often that you'd think I don't have any clothes of my own.

There's a static electricity unleashed when Gray touches me. He's so beautiful, so frickin' wealthy, and he also is a trained pilot, a concert pianist and a professional ballroom dancer. Oh, and he's only 25 years old. And he made all his money from scratch and has four dozen Teutonic women working for him, all of whom are Harvard and Oxford graduates whose only dialogue is "Yes, sir." What could a man like him want in me?


I get a little excited in his home and realize I'm a little high in alcohol, and I can't handle it. I've never had too much alcohol before. I'm in a hallway and I just tip over, about to vomit out my contents, when suddenly Gray arrives. He holds me, caresses me, lifts me lovingly, escorts me to his cellar. He lays me flat and shuts the door. I feel a chill, and then the quiet takes me.

How long before the door opens? I couldn't say. He lifts me out; his touch is so powerful. I feel a wetness down there. The view is breathtaking from Gray's apartment. And did I mention he's got a garage full of cars and a private plane? Not that any of that matters to me.

I respond to his touch, warming, leaning into it, but he puts me down, not gently. "I'm not like other men," he says. "I don't make love -- I drink hard." I whimper. I simper. My subconscious says, "You know you want him." My inner goddess says, "If you're the subconscious, why can we hear you all the time? Aren't you supposed to be subconscious?" My subconscious rolls her eyes. "You mean the subsubconscious," she says. My subsubconscious rolls her eyes.

I'm ready for him. I want him to be my first. I want him so badly. Did I mention the money? Not that that's important.

Gray says, "If we're going to do this, there are rules you have to know." He hands me a printout. It's a little hard to read, and I tell him so. "Sorry, my printer's an experimental model created to bring modern PR materials to information-starved children in Darfur. To conserve ink, instead of black it prints in 50 shades of gray." Wow, he cares about starving children too! And there's not a mole on his body and he's self-taught and he looks great in pants. I am so wet. 

This contract specifies the relationship between W. Blake Gray, the most beautiful, wealthy, talented man in the world, herein referred to as The Dominator, and some bottle that fell into his apartment, herein referred to as The Submission:

1) The Submission agrees that she exists purely for the exclusive use at any time for any reason of The Dominator, subject to the Hard Limits and Soft Limits below

2) The Submission agrees to submit to laboratory testing to ensure she is free from contamination

3) The Submission agrees to a regular program of exercise to keep her from losing her structure

4) The Dominator agrees to keep the Submission from physical harm and to provide appropriate glassware on an ad hoc basis

Hard Limits

Heating with fire, smashing with hammers, causing physical injuries, mixing with cola

Soft Limits

Will the Submission agree to:
Caressing the tongue?
Stroking the palate?
Going all the way down the throat?
Being spit?
Soaring like Icarus close to the sun, building and building until like a comet smashing into the earth, the world shatters into a million crystals that twinkle in mid-air before reassembling into banana slugs to make a soft landing pad as the Dominator finds his release?

I don't want to sign his contract, so I start a long string of emails, like this one:

To: W. Blake "Born Christian" Gray
From: Barbera
Subject: Communication

I don't want to sign your contract!

Barbera

To: Barbera
From: W. Blake Gray, the most beautiful, wealthy, talented man in the world
Subject: Re: Communication

So don't sign it.

From the desk of
W. Blake Gray, the most beautiful, wealthy, talented man in the world

To: W. Blake Gray
From: Barbera
Subject: Breakdown

Maybe we shouldn't see each other anymore.

Barbera

To: Barbera
From: W. Blake Gray, the most beautiful, wealthy, talented man in the world
Subject: Re: Breakdown

Oh, God no, I can't live, I can't bear it, get over here right now, I have to have you immediately.

From the desk of
W. Blake Gray, the most beautiful, wealthy, talented man in the world

He carries me into his Red Room of Pain. It isn't actually red, but it does have a metallic rack over the sink with several knives. He holds me so firmly that I can't move. Then he shows me a clasping device: a plastic ring around a wafer-thin circle of metal. He clamps the device on me and turns it.

The sensation is shocking, as the metal slices into my capsule. I draw in a breath sharply. I am so wet, you'd think I was a liquid.

"Don't move," he says sternly and turns again. I shudder, the tension building in me as I feel like I am being sliced open, exposed, my soul turning to butter or jelly or maybe a buttered roll topped with jelly. Wow, I'd never been touched before, but now every time he touches me within two minutes I have an earth-shattering orgasm, no matter what he does to me. And did I mention the money? Not that it's important.

"I want to uncork you. I'll be gentle. The fear of the pain is worse than the pain," he says.

I trust him. Or do I trust him? I don't know if I trust me to trust him. I think I trust him to tell me if I should trust him, but I don't know if I trust me to trust that I'll ask him if I should trust him to trust me. I'm so confused.

The first touch of the corkscrew is a shock, and I cry out. "Count it out loud. Count it," he says, and I count the turns. "One!" I scream, as the corkscrew penetrates me deeper. He has such a big corkscrew, it's really enormous, and it's fully hard. I can't believe he's going to put that entire thing in me. "Two!" I scream, and because I haven't had an orgasm in nearly 200 words, I shiver as I gradually morph into a thousand tiny winged butterflies that each morph into a thousand tiny gnats that also each transform into a thousand tiny sandfleas, hopping once powerfully until they sink down into the sand of a warm tropical beach.

But he's still turning that enormous corkscrew in me. I feel so full, so pressed from within, and now he turns harder. "Three!" I yell, and "Four!" He pants, he strains. "Five!" I yell, the corkscrew fully in me, and he finds his release, perhaps by looking in his pockets.

"I'm going to pull it out now," he says. He tugs and tugs and works around my sensitive opening, around and around, until my vision turns to snow on a television screen and I fall gently onto the rolling hills of an alpine landscape, shuddering and shuddering and crying out. Seconds later he also finds his release, because that's just how this goes.

I feel spent, but also more open than ever. I have a long internal monologue. Can I be with him? Can he be with me? What if I'm with him but the he that's with me can't be the he that's he when he's not with me? What if I want more? Just for practice I have a long shuddering orgasm, wilting like a thousand daffodils left to dry in the mild afternoon sun of late spring.

"I'm going to taste you now," he says, and he wields a tight-looking glass. He restrains me in the glass until I can't move. The feeling is so intense, I can't move, I don't know where the sensation will come from. Then suddenly, his lips, brushing against me, so softly, so gently, first here and then there. I quiver and the chains of my tannins lengthen and harden. And now I'm in his mouth, warm and wet, and I explode, flying out of his mouth like a thousand pieces of hail into the sink, where I gently slide down toward the drain.

But then his mouth is on me again. Again, so soon? I don't think I could be more aroused, but he swishes me in his mouth, side to side, side to side, until Bam! Again I am expelled, like a thousand pellets of buckshot into the side of his sink, where I softly sluice into the drain.

He reaches for a small thin metal tablet with a keyboard. "What's that?" I ask. "It's new technology. It's called a laptop computer," he says. Wow, I've never seen anything like it! I wish I could show it to my entire family, I'm sure they'd all be equally impressed with this miraculous device. I have another internal monologue. What if he buys me one of these so-called "laptop computers?" Would I be a ho? Because I don't love him for his money. Wait a minute -- did I say love? Do I love him? That's such a big step to take, and I have so little evidence. What's a few dozen mind-shattering orgasms, and the fact that I talk and think about him all the time. And did I mention the money? Oh, crap, the money doesn't matter. I forgot. Maybe I don't love him. But if I don't love him we can't be together. I start to cry. Maybe I'll ask him by email.

To: W. Blake Gray
From: Barbera
Subject: DTR

I don't know what our relationship means. Are we together, and if so does that mean something? I heard you've tasted other wines. How many?

Barbera

To: Barbera
From: W. Blake Gray, the most beautiful, wealthy, talented man in the world
Subject: The 15

I've tasted 15 other wines today. None of them meant anything to me; I didn't spend the night with any of them.

From the desk of
W. Blake Gray, the most beautiful, wealthy, talented man in the world

Oh my God, he's had 15 other wines! I want to know the names of every one, so that I can taunt him about each for the rest of our lives. I look at all the other bottles around me. Is she one of the 15? Is she?

He's typing some notes into the "laptop computer." He types beautifully, cocking his head to one side in the most adorable way. I ask him to show me how he drank the other wines.

"This is going to be intense," he says. "Are you sure you want this?" I assure him it is. I beg him to take me like he took them. I need to know the depths of his depravity.

Suddenly he grabs me and he takes a deep drink. And he doesn't spit. I have no orgasm. No orgasm!

"I'm leaving you forever," I say. "You and your so-called 'laptop computer' and your automotive device and your other unfathomable high technology. You and your uncountable mungoganillions of dollars earned by occasionally making a phone call for 10 seconds in which you say 4 words. You and your possessiveness and your magic lips that make me shudder like a milkshake machine. Yep, I'm out of here, forever, for good. Goodbye."

THE END

BUT MY INTERNAL GODDESS WILL BE BACK IN FIFTY-ONE SHADES OF THE GRAY REPORT. AND FIFTY-TWO. BWAHAHAHAHA. WHO'S SUFFERING NOW?

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