Fifty Shades of Shade - "The Fifty Shades of Grey Parady" (8 page)

             
“We’re here,” he says.

             
The helicopter turns off and Sebastian puts the parking brake on. We step onto the helipad. The wind is so strong that it sends me flying off the building, whips me, and tosses me back on the building exactly where I was before.

             
Shade holds me close. “Be careful.”

             
Moments later we’re in his apartment. Huge is not the word.
Fuckinghuge
is more like the word. The far wall is all glass and leads onto a balcony overlooking all of America, past Europe, and into Asia. There is all manner of wealthy excess in the furniture and art. Near the kitchen there is a dining table surrounded by sixteen chairs that each have their own little dining table next to it. In the corner is a grand piano. The spirit of Ray Charles is playing a beautiful tune on it.

             
Shade snaps his fingers at ghost Ray Charles. “That’ll be all for tonight, Ray.” Ray Charles nods then disappears, presumably back to the afterlife. I wonder if ghost Ray Charles
is also blind?

             
“Would you like a drink?”

             
After last night? He has to be joking. He takes out an expensive bottle of white wine and two glasses. He shows me the bottle.

             
“Does a 1997 Marcel Marceau Chardonnay sound okay?”

             
“I know nothing about wine, Sebastian. I’m sure it’s fine.”

             
He pours it out. I look around at this unparalleled luxury. What am I doing here?

             
“You’re very quiet and pale. Are you okay?”

             
“Fine,” I say, missing my mouth completely and pouring wine all down my back.

             
Shade looks at me. He then takes out some papers. “Here, sign these.”

             
A contract? “What is it?”

             
“It’s an NDA. It says that you can’t talk about this to anyone. My lawyer insists.”

             
He opens a large drawer and his lawyer pops out. “I insist,” he says.

             
I knew the lawyer was legit because he was holding a briefcase.

             
“What if I don’t want to sign it?”

             
“Well, then it’s just going to be you and your subconscious hanging out on Friday nights from now on.”

             
I was thinking this weekend we can go bowling.

             
I stared at him in disbelief. Is this for real? But I’m curious.

             
“Okay, I’ll sign it.”

             
He hands me a pen. “Aren’t you going to read it first?”

             
“No.”

             
“
Chastity
, you should always read anything you sign.”

             
“Sebastian, what you fail to understand is that I’m incapable of reading anything that isn’t classic English literature. Is this contract ‘Wuthering Heights?’
”

             
“No.”

             
“So, then I’m not going to read it.”

             
He
thinks. “Solid point, Miss Stool. Well put.”

             
I sign the document and hand it back to him, keeping a copy for myself. Suddenly, my horniness is feeling braver.

             
“Does this mean you’re going to make intercourse to me tonight?”

             
His mouth drops. “No, Chastity. Firstly, I don’t make intercourse. I fuck…hard. Like a jack hammer controlled by a grizzly bear. Secondly, there’s more paperwork to sign first. Thirdly, you don’t know what you’re in for. Come, let me show you the playroom.”

             
Ooh, playroom. Ooh, fuck hard. That last paragraph was full of juicy tidbits.

             
He stands, holding out his hand.

             
“Follow me.” He leads me down a corridor to large double doors. Taking a key out of his pocket he opens the first set of doors, leading us to a second set of doors. He regurgitates another key out
of his mouth and uses that
to open up those
doors
.

             
“I’ll tell you now, you can leave at any time. The helicopter is ready to
fly you back.”

             
“Just open the door, Sebastian.”

             
He opens the doors and lets me in. I take in everything that’s before me.

             
Holy shittytitty.
     

             
The first thing I notice is that the term ‘playroom’ was possibly an ironic one; on account of the room being obviously used for violent sex.

             
Looking around through the soft lighting and the combination leather/beaten-flesh smell, I see a large mahogany cross against the wall with restraints and coffee cup holders on each of its corners. Hanging from a giant iron grid on the ceiling are all manner of ropes, chains, and shackles. Hanging on the wall are all sorts of whips, crossbows, spiked-clubs and cutesy-looking implements of death. Against the wall is a leather bench with a rack behind it holding various canes (uncandied, mind you). Next to the rack is an old-school Ms. Pac Man machine. Across the room is a long table in the opposite corner and two matching stools underneath. On top of that table is a lovely floral centerpiece with a celebratory balloon attached that reads, “Happy Dominating.”

             
But the true focal point of the room is the bed. Humongous, carved, it looks late nineteenth century, or Crate and Barrel. Under its canopy hang more shackles and chains and fishing lures. The mattress has only red leather sheets with satin cushions piled up.
I notice the little tag you’re not supposed to remove was removed from the mattress.

             
Hanging across intervals of the ceiling are various rock climbing gear and harnesses. Against the back wall is a poster of U2.

             
I turn to Shade and he’s looking at me intently, waiting for my verbal reaction. I notice another feathery thing across the room. I walk over and touch it, it’s bushy and beaded and if you press a button it plays “Fur Elise.”

             
“It’s called a painmaker.” Sebastian’s voice is quiet and soft.

             
I think I’m in shock. I wait for my subconscious to chime in and make sense of this, but the italics are nowhere to be found. I’m frightened, but not of him oddly enough, and not of Ms. Pac Man, but of everything else in this room. How do you react when you find out a potential lover is a complete sado-masochist? So many questions in my mind. Why? How? When? Where? Who?
What? Whither?

             
“Say something,” Sebastian demands
.

             
“Burgermeat.”

             
“Something related to what’s going on now.”

             
“Um, do you do this to people or do they do it to you?”

             
“I do it to women who want me to.”

             
“If you have women who want to do it why am I here?
”

             
“Because I really want to do this to you. I’m a Dominant. I want you to submit to me.”

             
“Why would I do that?”

             
“To please me. I want you to want to please me.”

             
The odd thing is, despite these beyond unfamiliar circumstances, I do. I do want to please Sebastian Shade. Bad.

             
“The more you submit,” he says, “the greater my joy.”

             
“And what do I get out of this?”

             
“Me.”

             
Hm, Melissa did tell me he was dangerous.

             
“I’m not going to hurt you.”

             
Ah, well, I guess she was wrong.

             
“Come, let’s go over the stipulations,” he urges.

             
We walk out of the Red Room of Pain and into the Brown Room of Paperwork. He sits behind a desk, gesturing me to take a seat in front of him. He hands me a slip of paper:

RULES

Obedience:

             
The Submissive will obey any instruction given by the Dominant without hesitation or reservation and not without the express written consent of the NFL.

Sleep:

             
The Submissive will ensure she gets a minimum of eighteen (18) hours of sleep a night when she is not with the Dominant.

Food:

             
The Submissive will eat regularly to maintain her health and well-being, this includes having a complete balanced breakfast like the ones they show on the cereal commercials.

Clothes:

             
The Submissive will wear what the Dominant desires her to wear, and will accompany the Dominant on shopping trips to various mall outlets and Sunglass Huts.

Exercise:

             
The Dominant will provide the Submissive with rigorous Zumba sessions four times a week, and the Insanity workout twice a week.

Personal Hygiene:

             
The Submissive will keep herself shaven and/or waxed at all times. The Submissive will visit a beauty salon of the Dominant’s choosing, or one run by Koreans.

Personal Safety:

             
The Submissive will not drink to excess, smoke, take recreational drugs, watch
The Maury Povich Show
, or anything else that could put her in direct danger.

Personal Qualities:

             
The Submissive will not enter into any sexual relations with anyone other than th
e Dominant, especially that stupid
photographer Ramiro. She will be held accountable for any misdeeds, wrong doings, and misbehavior committed when not in the presence of the Dominant.

Failure to comply with any of the above will result in immediate punishment, the nature of which shall be determined by the Dominant.

             
Jesus Mohammed Christ!

             
“There’s also your Hard Limits,” he says.

             
“Hard Limits?”

             
“These are mine.” He hands me another piece of paper:

HARD LIMITS

-
       
No acts involving fireplay

-
       
No acts involving urination, defecation, or
earwax

-
       
No acts involving needles, knives, piercing, or blood

-
       
No TV on in the background, especially
King of Queens
reruns

-
       
No acts involving children, animals, or a mutant hybrid of the two

-
       
No acts that will leave permanent marks on the skin

-
       
No acts involving breath control

-
       
No acts involving electricity, fire, or cannons

No cannons. That makes sense.

             
“Is there anything you’d like to add?” he asks.

             
“I don’t know.”

             
“Well, when you’ve had sex, was there anything you didn’t like doing?”

             
“I…um…have never had sex. Ever.”

             
“You’re a virgin?” He seems outraged. “Why didn’t you fucking tell me??”

Yeah, he’s outraged.

             
I shrug. “I watched
Friends With Benefits
the whole way through once. Does that count?”