“Yes?”
“Boss is waiting for you in the lounge,” he directs me.
“Thank you.”
I check my watch—12:02, almost exactly on time. That should impress her. I round the divider and find Her Highness standing next to another woman who could almost be her twin. They’re both reviewing a printout, and look up in eerie unison.
“You’re late, blobber.”
“Two minutes? Jesus. Nice to see you, too.”
The woman next to Grandma is the same height, same hairstyle, and the same rimless glasses on her nose, except...
“This is my restaurant manager, Kazuko Origami.”
... she’s Asian. I extend a hand, which is ignored as usual.
“Why you late?”
It sounded more like ‘rate’ to me.
“Huh?”
“Why you late?”
“I had to wait for the valet.”
“Bad excuse.”
“I’m sorry, is this woman a replica of you, made in China perhaps?”
Kazuko kicks me in the shin.
“Ouch!”
“Not Chinese, fuckwad. Japanese!”
“Fine. I apologize. I was just trying to be funny.”
“Not funny. Here,” she hands me a polo shirt and a server’s apron, “you put this on.”
“Actually, I’m here to interview Ms. Aspinwald.”
“You put this on.”
“Ms. A? What’s this about?”
“We had to let a server go, which has left us short. We have an important luncheon beginning in the Marina Room, and I told Kazuko about your gracious offer to help.”
I stand there incredulously, considering my options. The Manager glares at me while holding the uniform. I can’t let her win. It’s food service. I’ve done this. How difficult can it be? Sure, it has been thirty years, but it couldn’t have changed that much.
“All right,” I agree as I take the shirt and apron. As a minor act of defiance, I put down my iPad and begin removing my T-shirt.
“What you doing? You go change in bathroom.”
“I go change right here. I save time,” I insist. She kicks me again. “Hey! And, no kicking or I am going the get all Ming Dynasty on your ass,” I tease as I flex and growl like Hulk Hogan. Naturally, she kicks me again.
“Not Chinese, brobber. Japanese. You hurry. Guests waiting.”
What have I gotten myself into?
Chapter Seven
Within you, I lose myself. Without you, I find myself wanting to become lost again. – Anonymous
It turns out the luncheon is for a group of third graders. What could be worse? The little brats have their choice of pizza, grilled cheese, or chicken chunks, which is simple enough to memorize as I jot down their orders. Ms. A and Kazuko are socializing and handing out gifts, like inverted sour patch ladies—sweet on the outside, sour on the inside.
I get a quick break and step into the walk-in to cool off. I text Bea to brag about my sacrifice.
Bea Plastique: Aw, you’re such a sweetie. I want to see you in your cute server outfit. I bet you look hot. ;)
Mormon Silver: Yes, aprons become me. Now if I could only find one in argyle.
Bea Plastique: Tell you what, Uncle M, let me know when you’re done, and I’ll give you a tour of the infamous Blue Room.
Mormon Silver: The what?
Bea Plastique: I think you’ll like how it’s decorated. I know I LOVE it.
As I finish reading the last text, the walk-in door opens to Kazuko.
“You slackass. Put away phone. Get movin’.”
“I was ... um ... looking for the desserts.”
“Ice cream in freezer, dumdum, not walk-in.”
I prepare a tray of tri-flavor ice cream, and proceed out to the table. The kids are already unruly; sugar is the last thing they need. As I approach, the kids become silent and start giggling and whispering. Who’s paranoid? Me.
Just as I fill both hands with plates, one little fucker whips out a squirt gun and start nailing me, right in the crotch. Perfect. I grab the gun from him.
“Very funny. Where did you get this?”
“That old lady over there gave it to me. She says you’re bad, and I should squirt you in da wiener.”
“Cute,” I say as I glare at Grandma.
“Gimme back my gun.”
“You can either have the squirt gun or the ice cream.”
“But ...”
“I’ll throw in five bucks. Which one will it be?”
“Ice cweam, pwease.”
“Good boy.”
I holster the squirt gun in my apron, give the brat a fiver, and plot my revenge. After the kids leave, the perimeter of the table looks like a war zone. Kazuko hands an odd-looking sweeping contraption to me.
“You crean.”
I mumble to myself as I run over the same french fry ten times, unsuccessfully. A text pings in.
Bea Plastique: Ready, Uncle M?
Mormon Silver: Oh, you have no idea how ready, Lovergirl. Where to?
Bea Plastique: Take the elevator down to P2 underground. Look for parking space 243. Knock three times on the blue door next to it.
Mormon Silver: This better be good.
I finish sweeping kid shrapnel and another message pings in. It has an attached picture of Bea from the neck down—naked and glistening in oil—holding the camera in front of a mirror. Slick! I’m out of here.
Chapter Eight
A friend is one who knows us, but loves us anyway. – Fr. Jerome Cummings
I sneak away before the two-headed beast can find me. I search for the Blue Room. When I arrive, it looks like an ordinary janitor’s closet. As I reach to knock, I hear a buzz of the door unlocking. I open it and feel to the right for a light switch. It is a closet. Odd. Suddenly, the wall with shelves swings open to my glistening Lovergirl.
“Hello, Uncle M.”
“This is some Get Smart shit right here.”
“Some what?”
“Never mind. Before your time. You look delicious, my love.”
“And you look ... like a server who was dragged around the beaches of Normandy,” she giggles.
I’m happy, as usual, to provide entertainment.
“Ugh, no kidding.”
“Ready for your tour?”
“Lead the way.”
The room is a BDSM fantasy suite. There are rubberized floors, like you’d see in a gym. The walls have mirrors, TVs, and cabinets. There’s blue leather furniture throughout. Bea looks sexy, shining in the subtle golden light. Nine Inch Nails’ “Closer” thumps while we walk.
“What’s this?” I ask as I examine a swing set with odd straps and pulleys.
“Oh, that’s for advanced lovers. We need to work up to that.”
“Looks like a back ache to me.”
There’s a laminated wooden paddle hanging on the wall next to three whips. The paddle has some obvious wear and a brass plaque with the initials CG.
“Who’s CG?”
“Nobody important. Check this out,” she redirects as we approach what resembles a large kid’s pool with a raised rubber mattress and Velcro straps in four corners. “Wanna take a dip?”
Although distracted, the thought is not extracted. I’ll find out who CG is.
“Fuck yes.”
“Mm, what do you want to do me, Uncle M?”
“Well, Lovergirl, I want to strap you down, massage you nose to toes, and then fuck you in the ass so hard you’ll limp for days.”
“Oh my god! YES! Do it!” she commands as she dives onto the mattress and spreads her arms and legs.
I work quickly as the NIN music and the thought of conquering her luscious ass motivates me. I strap her ankles and wrists, undress myself, and climb into the oily pool. Oil and body hair doesn’t mix well. I must remember to trim.
She arches her buttocks up toward me as I bring her to her first peak with my probing fingers. She’s wet and slippery, ready for me. Hm,
this is an ideal position for interrogation.
I kneel between her legs, reach outside the pool for my apron, and grab the squirt gun I confiscated at the luncheon. It’s time for Uncle M’s version of water boarding.
“What are you doing? Get inside me.”
“Not quite yet. First, I want to know who CG is.” I have an idea who it might be.
“I told you—nobody.”
“Wrong answer,” I respond as I squirt her in the clit.
“Hey,” she squeaks.
“I’ll repeat the question: Who [squirt] is [squirt] C [squirt] G?”
“Stop! Jesus. OK, fine.”
“I’m waiting.”
“Chris ... my ex.”
That motherfucker!
“Why is his paddle here?”
“Don’t you want me, Uncle M?”
I squirt her again. “Answer the question.”
“He’s an architect. He designed this room.”
“Are you still seeing him?”
“No! I love you, Uncle M,” she reassures me. Now she’ll pay.
“You’ve been a bad Lovergirl. Now, I’m going to take my billy club to your naughty ass.”
“Yes, please.”
I toss the squirt gun, climb onto her, and insert myself slowly. She’s so tight. The sensation gives me the urge to come in the first thrust. I reach around her right hip and stroke her clit while I slowly grind deeper and deeper. I kiss her neck, bite her ear, and lose myself in the moment, while Chris G. weighs on me.
Chapter Nine
The human heart feels things the eyes cannot see and things the mind cannot understand. – Anonymous
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 only 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.”
“OK, since you’re into hockey stuff, 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, and 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 eyes 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.
Chapter Ten
What lies behind us, and what lies before us, are tiny matters compared to what lies within us. – Ralph Waldo Emerson
I suffer through the painful end of the overtime win by the Canadiens, wondering how to free myself. Then I hear a buzz and unlatching of the door. It swings open. Shit. Not again.
The same two housekeepers who caught me in a bind in Bea’s suite walk in, carrying mops while giggling at my expense.
“Hello, sir. We were told there was a spill in aisle Blue.”
“Har-de-fucking-har. Untie me.”
“Wow, somebody’s in a bad mood.”
“I don’t think I like his attitude,” the second maid adds.
“Fine. Please untie me.”
“That’s better, but ...”
“Pretty please, with a twenty-dollar tip on top.”
“As you wish.”
They untie me and I try to get the circulation flowing to my hands and feet again. I gather my clothes and wallet. I peel off a twenty for my rescuers and pocket my gift card. At least I netted five dollars and Bea’s amazing posterior in the transaction. I consider myself ahead.
I go to the valet and retrieve my Jeep. Once home, I flop onto the couch, in desperate need of a nap. Not fifteen minutes into it, my phone beeps.
Bea Plastique: How’s it hanging, Uncle M?
Mormon Silver: I am going to beat your little butt next time I see you.
Bea Plastique: Promises, promises. Oh, and when might that be?
Mormon Silver: How about dinner at my place tonight?
I sure could use home field advantage for once.
Bea Plastique: Sounds fun. When?
Mormon Silver: 7ish.
Bea Plastique: What can I bring?
Mormon Silver: Toppings: spray whipped cream, Hershey’s syrup, and crème de menthe.
Bea Plastique: Yum!
I scurry through the grocery store gathering toy food. The checkout clerk wears an odd expression as she types the produce codes.
“Someone is planning quite the feast.”
“Indeed.”
“Who’s the lucky girl you’re going to eat this off ... I mean, with?”
I grab a banana. “Behave yourself. I’m licensed to carry, and I have a big banana.”
“Ooh, even luckier.”
Bea shows up fashionably late with the bag of toppings, as requested. I’m going to devour them and her. I make sure my Broad Street Bullies DVD plays while we eat dinner. Teasingly, I leave the dessert tray on the counter: bananas,
strawberries, and pomegranate. I also have a fondue pot simmering with melted white chocolate.
She rushes through dinner, but I intentionally stall.
“Is it time for dessert yet?” she begs.
“Not until Uncle M has cleared his plate,” I tease as I spoon another helping of green bean casserole.
She sticks out her bottom lip and crosses her arms like an infant. I laugh at her expression.
“OK, Lovergirl. Let’s have dessert.”
“Yay!”
She claps and grabs her bag of toppings. I gather the food tray and fondue pot, and lead her into my bedroom.
“What’s this?” she asks as she sees the big blue tarp covering my bed.
“I can’t afford your architect, so this baseball mound cover will have to do for my version of a Blue Room.”
It’s often wise to improvise.
Naturally, as we’re about to dine on each other, the doorbell rings.
“Are you kidding me? If this is people here to talk about Jesus, I’m going to send them to meet him.”
“I’ll do a little grounds maintenance while you’re gone,” Bea offers as she begins undressing.
I answer the door to a deliveryman holding a dozen red roses. WTF? Did Bea send me roses? There’s a note attached.
Dearest Bea, I hope you and your future ex-lover enjoy your break up sex. I’ll be waiting. CG
Fucker!
Chapter Eleven
You come to love not by finding the perfect person, but by seeing an imperfect person perfectly. – Sam Keen
“What is it, honey?” Bea asks from the bedroom.
“Nothing. Be right there.”
I stuff the roses into the garbage disposal. It grinds loudly. Bea emerges from the bedroom, already down to her lacy undergarments. How can I be mad at her when she’s so delicious?
“What are you doing?”
“Oh, that was a delivery for you,” I inform as I hand her the card. “I was trying to water the lovely roses and, oops, they slipped into the drain.”
“He’s such a jerk.”
“Are you absolutely certain this thing between you two is over?”
“Way over. He’s a freak and I want nothing to do with him.”
Fifty Shades Shadier (Fifty Shades of Silver) Page 2
