Here is my first entry, a bit of lunchtime entertainment, as I ponder over my sandwich what would have happened if E. L. James had been hit by a bus and I had been asked to take over and finish her novel, '50 Shades of Grey'. I don't have much inspiration for sweeping works of romance, so I have resorted to imagining what my brief encounters in the bedroom would have been like if such things had ever existed. Rest assured, though, that although you may be tempted to think that my version of Christian Grey is based on my own idiosyncrasies, the character in my pastiche is not me, so you can feel spared from throwing up at that thought.
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He slipped off his leather jacket and hooked it onto the stand. It hung very well on its pole, eventually falling in seductive folds over its tanned body. Putting up one hand, he began to reach out to her, as though beckoning – his hold over her so complete that this was all it took. Pulse quickening, she began to approach him and he her, a plump-breasted partridge in a danse macabre with a cunning fox. As she came to within touching distance of his uncoated shirt, his controlling hand reached out to her. She shut her eyes and waited for the soft press of his hand to reach her. Instead, he reached right over her shoulder and switched the lights off. “Believe me, it’s probably better if we don’t have to look at this next bit.”
She continued towards him, only her silhouette now framed against
the silvery moonlight through the window behind her, and as soon as she could
feel his body pressed against hers, she began to run her fingers down the hem
of his shirt, occasionally slipping them under the garment. “My,” she said, “what
a man you are! You’re so rough…so rugged.”
She felt the comfort of his rough and rugged breath as he
spoke softly into her ear, “Darling...darling...”
“Yes? Tell me something beautiful,” she pleaded.
"You're rubbing my buttons," he whispered.
"I know. And you're pressing all of mine, you ravenous man."
“No, I really mean you’re attempting to seduce my jacket.”
“Oh. But it hangs so well, doesn’t it?”
“It really does. Good price, too.”
“Shall we move to the bed?”
She hooked her finger over the top button of his shirt. Their roles
reversed, it was as though she were now in charge, and she was guiding her
catch to the den to toy with it.
They manoeuvred as one in the darkness, heading in the presumed
direction of the bed, illuminated by the warm glow of her peachy cheeks. Momentarily,
she turned her head to the side and glanced in the mirror at the figures
gliding in unison through the room now frozen in time, as though the stars had
ordained at the moment of creation that this night should be so. The universe
was theirs, she thought. And as her thoughts ran wild and her pulse raced ahead
of her and her cheeks grew peachier yet, she caught the remnants of the previous
night’s Chinese and fell over. Helpless on the floor but still clinging to his button. She was unable to keep
him up, and as he went down on top of her, his top button ripped open to reveal the fruity countenance of his labour.
She was now at one with her food on the floor and ready to
be devoured. As he swooped over her, she lay there and implored him to take
her, chicken fried rice and all. They screamed as their bodies became
intertwined, he reaching all over her – first this way and then that, never
allowing her to predict the next movement, always catching her by surprise – she
laughing as his hands mingled tantalisingly with her sugar snap peas. She
reached out and, sensing her chance, made for his remaining buttons. He
arrested her movement by clasping her warm, slight hands in his. This would do
for her; her skin tingled like black lace on sweat. “Believe me,” he whispered once again. “It’s probably better if we don’t
bother with all the clothes off business.”
The initial excitement having died down, she lay there
still, he on top of her. With the authority that she knew only he had, he let
out a deep groan and set her poor heart a flutter once more. She knew he was
ready to unleash himself. And she herself felt like all her body was melting
away, malleable and instantly responsive to his every whim, and only his.
Groaning once more, he reached down her body with a single finger and undid his
belt, as his other hand held on reassuringly to hers and pressed them down to
her buxom chest. She looked to the ceiling and bit her lip in anticipation of
what was to come. And then he whipped it out, quick as a flash, this time
letting out the most satisfied groan of all as he freed the hard, dark and
enormous remote control that had become lodged in his trousers as he fell. “That’s
better. Just in time for Newsnight. Can we have it on? It’ll give me something
to concentrate on.”
Clambering onto the bed, he turned on the TV. “That really was
below the belt,” she said, as she composed herself and picked the prawns out of
her luscious hair. ‘At least,’ she thought to console herself, ‘something is
turned on.’
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By The Imperial Orange
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