I found the book on a plane. I read it. I thought the two leading characters were fucking idiots. Yet, I read on, hoping there would be some explanation for the popularity of this trash. There was not.
However, it has inspired me to write my version, where the woman is the billionaire, and the subservient role is played by an equally stupid ass clown. It won’t be difficult to improve upon the original. Enjoy my Valentines gift to the world…
OVER FIFTY SHADES OF RED
I was in my limo driving cross-country because I was bored. I spoke through the intercom to my driver, Harvey.
“I have to pee. Pull over at the next exit.”
There, was an ihop, in Hayes, Kansas. I entered. The inner goddess in me wanting chocolate chip pancakes so badly that I ordered some, before I went to pee. Buttermilk, no powdered sugar. Extra chips. Not too much butter, but enough for lubrication. I texted Harvey to bring in my platinum to go box. I hate styrofoam. And I hate waiting even more than I hate styrofoam. Hopefully the pancakes will be ready by the time I finish peeing, so I don’t have to wait. Billionaires hate waiting.
I have had to stop and pee at least sixty times since leaving New Jersey. I suspect that I have a urinary tract infection from shoving so many kitchen utensils up my twat.
As I strolled by many fat fucks barely fitting into the blue booths, I glimpsed into the kitchen area behind the metal shelves. Ooh. That metal makes me so hot. I felt my vagina twitch as it reminded me of the metal shelves in my playroom.
There, in the kitchen, I spotted the most beautiful, pure creature in a white puffy hat. My left eyebrow uncontrollably raised. He was blond, blue-eyes, bluer than the blue of the naugahide upholstery of the ihop booths. I hate fake leather. But blue is my second favorite color. No, wait. I like green better than blue, so, it’s my third favorite color. Red is my favorite color. My limo is red. My lipstick is red. My nails are painted red. I like red because it reminds me of when I had my period. I no longer get it. I’m fifty-two.
As I was peeing, I couldn’t stop thinking about the blond in the white puffy hat. My pee was orange. A really beautiful shade of orange, from the pyridium I was taking for my burning urine. I was thinking on Friday, I might have Chang Quan paint my nails the same shade of orange for a change. As a billionaire, I can have my nails painted every day.
As I wiped my aging lips, they spoke to me.
“I must have that boy in the white puffy hat! Bring him to me.”
I pulled up my crotchless pantyhose, that were opaque white, but now they had spots of orange on them, because I don’t like to sit when I pee in any public bathrooms.
“Double crap!” I said out loud, angrily, in the stall, because this was the eighteenth pair of opaque white pantyhose I had ruined by my orange pee on this trip. Luckily I have another sixteen pairs in my red limo. That should last me until Colorado, where I plan to ski. I have a mansion in Aspen. Its brown. But I plan on painting it red as soon as I can get approval from the town. I hope my urinary track infection is better by then. Sometimes I have to pee when I am heliskiing. One time I skied into the woods to pee. I pulled down my one of a kind Bognor ski suit I had made at Gorsuch, that was red and crotchless. Anyway, as I was peeing, an avalanche started. I was still peeing, but I had to go before I would be burried alive! The avalanche came too fast. (Like the last nineteen year old carnival worker I picked up waiting in line on the Jersey Shore, to go on the Round-up ride.) I was burried, head first, red ski boots up in the air. I could feel ice on my pubic hair, which I dye red. Fortunately, there was a trail of my orange pee, which led the rescue team right to me. A Saint Bernard licked my exposed crotch. It was so hot, it melted the icecles from my pussy.
I left the ladies room, after washing my hands with my own personal red soap I keep in my Red Gucci crocodile tote, that I picked up for forty-one thousand dollars. As I turned the corner, there he was.
He said, “Excuse me, Ma’am,” as he tried to get by. He was so hot. I could see his tongue, which reminded me of the Saint Bernard. I heard my lips below screaming to get him in the limo.
“What’s your hurry, handsome?” He blushed my favorite shade of red.
“Umm, I, I, have to pee.”
“YOU CAN WAIT!” I said with authority.
I put my arm out to block the entrance of the Men’s Room.
“Do you know how attractive you are?” I asked.
He put his head down, bashfully. I love bashful boys.
“Look at me, bashful boy,” I said softly.
He looked up with his sparkly blue eyes, completely lost in my green eyes. I tried red contact lenses, but they looked creepy. My eyes are actually brown, but I have a bunch of green contact lenses in the limo. I can’t wait to strap bashful down and plunk them into his eyes as he plunks into me.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said to bashful boy.
“But…but…” I interrupt by putting my index finger over his lips to quiet him. I hope it doesn’t smell fishy. I thought I washed my hands well enough.
I take him by the hand, dragging him out of the ihop. Harvey had the platinum to go box of pancakes. It was a whirlwind of excitement I could never have imagined would happen in Kansas. I love driving through Kansas, because it reminds me of The Wizard of Oz, and Dorothy’s ruby red slippers. Oooh. Those shoes made me so hot, that I purchased them at Sotherby’s auction for ten million dollars. But it was getting to the point where I couldn’t leave the playroom anymore, where I wore them. They were too small for my size 9 foot. My damn feet keep growing. So, I have temporarily loaned them to The Smithsonian, until I get my feet operated on, so they can fit me.
As I threw Bashful Boy into the trunk of the limo, I noticed a stench. The poor boy had peed in his pants, since I didn’t allow him to go to the bathroom. I laughed hysterically. How adorable!
After stopping one more time to pee at a rest stop on i70, we arrived at my ranch, which I built where they filmed the tornado scene in The Wizard of Oz. Besides the slippers, I am also a fan, because I like to wiz. Harvey opened the trunk, where bashful boy had been banging on the door for the last eighty miles. He looked pretty confused. It was so cute!
I removed the red duct tape from his perty mouth and ordered him to join me in the ranch. I opened up the platinum to go box of pancakes. They. Were. Cold.
I was so angry that I turned a deep shade of red. “Crap! The pancakes are cold!”
I went into the kitchen and threw my entire Le Crueset red set of cookery on the floor, stomping my feet. I was so mad also, because I had purchased the entire collection at the Outlet Store on i10 in Palm Springs, on a previous cross-country search for the perfect piece of ass, and then had found it for half the price in a Home Goods in Boise, Idaho. Even billionaires like a bargain every once in a while.
“Bashful Boy, its time to make some pancakes. Are you ready?”
“Uhhh, I..I, guess so. Do you really think I’m handsome?”
“Ooooh, you are so hot, you have no idea. Actually, do you have any ideas in that pretty blond head of yours? No matter. Its time to bite into hotcakes.”
I cracked an egg on his forehead and added it to the Trader Joe’s Buttermilk pancake mix I had Fedexed to Kansas from Shrewsbury, New Jersey. These hicks out here in Kansas only use Bisquick. I hate Bisquick. And the box is yellow. I hate yellow. I do like Aunt Jemima though, because the box is a bright red. The Trader Joe’s box is more of a Burgundy, but that counts as a shade of red; plus no preservatives.
I had Harvey take off Bashful Boy’s cloths and scrub him down, while I put all of the ingredients into the red overpriced Le Crueset bowl. Once he was clean, I dismissed Harvey, instructing him to leave the red duct tape. We were alone. Just me and what’s his face, and the pancake ingredients, and my set of red Le Crueset.
I took out a whisk. “Do you know what I am going to do with this whisk, bashful boy?”
He gulps, “No.”
Bend over, I said, as I put a red apron on his rock hard chiseled body. I gently stuck the thin whisk up his ass, after using a little of the whipped butter for lubrication, and placed the red bowl of Trader Joe’s buttermilk pancake mix on the floor. I started with small girth.
“Now whisk Away!….faster…..faster! And make sure that white puffy hat stays on. It’s so sexy.”
His ass was churning round and round like that Round-up ride in Jersey. It was hot.
He finished mixing to make the batter as smooth as the skin on his hairless chest. I took two chocolate chips and tried to place them on his nipples, but they kept falling down. Crap! I made him eat them off of the floor. I hate wasting.
As he was down there, I placed my left hand, gently under his balls and started tickling his taint, while plunking green contact lenses in his blue eyes with my right hand at the same time! So erotic. His erection put the kickstand on my red bike to shame.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about, hotcakes!”
I grabbed the roll of red duct tape, and took my red spatula with the thick handle, and taped it to his throbbing hard cock. I was dripping like the photo of the syrup on the Aunt Jemima pancake box. Yummy.
“Now, you have to flip the pancakes using this spatula. If you lose your boner, you won’t be able to flip them, and I will get angry. You don’t want me to get angry, because if I do…I might have to take you into the playroom and punish you.”
“Uhh, if you keep talking like that, I might lose my erection, Ma’am.”
“My name is not Ma’am. It’s Matwatsonfire. Named after my Great Grandmother from Botswana. She was the first white woman to fuck an elephant. You will keep your erection. You are young enough. How old are you, anyway?”
“I’m 25, Ma’a…”
WHACK! She takes the whisk that is still in his ass, quickly removes it, and spanks his hotcake cheeks.
“It’s Matwatsonfire. Now don’t drop any pancakes, you gorgeous blond orangutan. You are just perfect. There is nothing more perfect than this dyslexic relationship. I, 52, you 25.”
“You are fifty-two?! You don’t look it. You’re hot. I want you.”
“In due time. In due time, bashful boy.”
“But my name is…”
“Shhh! Don’t spoil it.”
I take his dripping syrup dick dispenser and lick it to keep my human spatula efficiently stiff for flipping.
But, just as I was lifting up, he went to flip a pancake and it fell on the floor, as he blew his load. I laughed inside, but pretended I was angry, and ripped the duct tape from his penis, stuck the red spatula in his perfect butthole, and then lovingly dragged him by the red apron around his neck, towards the playroom.
I wonder if all billionaires are this romantic?
This portion of my blog is sponsored by Pancakes in Red Boxes and Orange pee.