*Previous installments of this story can be viewed in my profile. This is a 50 shades of Grey parody.
*Previously: After Ana has an inappropriately sexual dream about the tech support guy who fixed her laptop a few days ago, and screams out his name in the night, Christian is furious with her; he’s seen it all on the webcam set up to surveil her while he’s away. He accepts her explanation that she doesn’t remember what she was dreaming about, but ignores her in retaliation.*
*In this chapter, Ana tries to find the right words to express her own unexplored desires in a story of her own, after she reviews a book manuscript which is everything she never wanted to read about sex from a male POV.*
**Warnings: NSFW. Crude language, ableist language, misogyny, manipulation, voyeurism, non-consensual sex and sexual coercion.**
##SIX
Late that night, alone, while Christian was working in his office, ignoring me yet again, I found myself bored with my own work, longing for something better than the drivel I was currently reading. I set the manuscript aside and glanced at the pile of other documents I’d brought home with me, sighing at the title of the topmost one: Song of the Seaman, it read. Please let that not be a terrible pun, I thought to myself. the genre was flagged as “romance,” which did not bode well for these hopes.
“Call me the man who sails to the very edge of the Earth,” read the opening line.
*A long time ago, I can’t remember how long exactly, I got really fucking bored with my job, where I sat at a desk all day, crunching numbers in accounting for an evil computer corporation that believes it’s the literal second coming of Jesus H. Christ on Earth. I’d get so heated by the incompetence of the cocksuckers I worked with that one day I did what I’d fantasized about doing for so long. I stormed around the office in a rage, knocking the damn baseball caps off their autistic heads of Dave and Steve and Mitch and all the other idiots who thought they were above handing in their timesheets so I could fucking give them their bloated salaries they didn’t deserve.*
*HR had some words with me; the choicest words about “company morale” and “needing to be a team player” and I told them, ever so politely, to go fuck themselves, because I was done with all that. And after I collected my severance pay, I got the hell outta the city and booked a cruise on the seven seas. You could say I was a real man and fell on my sword for what I believed, except I was smarter than that, because instead of dying I lived instead. And this was LIVING.*
*You know what you find out at sea on some classy-ass bored-housewife-let’s-spice-up-the-marriage-midlife-crisis-cruise? A whole fucking lot of salt water, and a whole fucking lot of pussy just stewing in its own lemon juice. And I had plans for the both of them. I’d swim in the ocean so long my junk would preserve itself in the upright position, all crisp and turgid, like a fucking gherkin, and I’d suck so many lemons my teeth would need veneers by the end of the trip. What, you think I’m a monster? If they were honest with themselves, every single dude on planet Earth would admit that the sea has this effect on every single man. It puts a sword in his hand, and if he lives in a time when swords aren’t a thing anymore, his own dick will have to suffice to bend the world to his will.*
“Ugh,” I groaned. The sword metaphor certainly wasn’t original, and I hadn’t liked it the first time I’d ever read it, either. And really, the author thought a graphic description of preserving his -thing – in brine was the height of eroticism? He couldn’t even be bothered to imagine a specific woman he desired, just disembodied orifices waiting for him to – I couldn’t bring myself to stoop to repeating his vulgar language. I blinked, and my eyes stung as though they had been splashed by salt-water. That thought was ridiculous, I realized. This was just an idiotic manuscript in poor taste which would never see another reader’s desk, if I could help that. There was no reason it should affect me to read these words.
Yes, I had problems acknowledging the reality of copulation, sometimes: I still struggled to think of my sex in euphemisms other than “down there.” I felt queasy at the thought of the more graphic words I could use. That wasn’t me at all. Coarseness would never titillate me, though I knew it thrilled some. But certainly, such words weren’t necessary at all. Sometimes restraint could be more erotic than naming the object of one’s desire outright. Surely, I could do better than that horrible pickle metaphor.
I paused, staring at the screen, and then felt my pulse rise as I contemplated something I had not done in a very, very long time, a time when I believed I myself might have something to say, before I silenced my own words to endlessly listen to the words of others.
My story wasn’t brilliant, that much I knew, but my breath caught in my throat as I wrote it, and I could feel myself tightening with anticipation as I imagined the object of my desire: a stranger, lost in the woods. He was not tall, but dark; not rugged, but delicate. He waited wordlessly and silently for a woman to notice him, a woman he’d spent his life dreaming about without ever seeing her face. He didn’t know that the woman’s eyes were everywhere in the forest, buried in its earth and proliferate as its leaves, coincident with the eyes of the animals who surveyed him in a thousand lenses honed by nature to place him in the panopticon of my vision. His innocence was sweet and it made me long for him. He could not see me there, though I saw that he desired me with his body, without knowing my name. He waited for me to claim him, naked and trembling.
I couldn’t make the woman in the story reach out to touch him. I couldn’t give her human form, and so I could not embrace him. The resolution of the story was a question mark, hovering somewhere below the words I wrote and deleted and rewrote, as the thrill of my forbidden fantasy washed over me, accompanied by the sensation of guilt which told me I shouldn’t think these thoughts at all.
I don’t know what came over me, but I stared directly into the camera, wondering if someone still saw me at this moment. Christian’s messaging system and video feed were turned off, so presumably, there was no one watching. No one should be watching, but I wondered if a certain person on tech support, whose job it was to be the ever-present eyes and ears tracking me, watched anyway. I wondered, and stared.
“Lucifer,” I whispered. “Help me.”
I waited, for nothing, it turned out. There was no response on the screen. I sat there silently for a very long time, blinking into the camera like a startled deer who wanders into the road and is blinded by the advancing headlights. I craved the collision itself, my body meeting another’s at full speed, though I knew this fantasy was, knowing Christian, quite literally a death-wish. I sighed, and shut the laptop, chewing my lower lip in frustration.
Christian came to our bed that night, long after I’d fallen asleep. I started as he shook me awake, then, smiling drowsily, pulled him into my arms, thrilled that finally he’d come back to me. He held me gently, kissing my hair, and I sighed with delight. “Ana,” he was saying. “Ana, my love.” I yawned, and tried to push him down beside me so I could curl against his chest as I slept, but he resisted, sitting up instead, straddling my body, then pulling down his underwear and tilting his hips towards my face.
“Christian,” I laughed. “Really. You wake me up from a dead sleep just to…” I flinched as he pressed himself against my lips, smiling down at me. “Kiss me,” he demanded, and so I took him into my mouth; he sighed as my tongue caressed him. After a minute, I leaned away, and rested my head against the pillow, pressing my hands to my eyes. I was exhausted, and simply being awake was painful. “Was that what you wanted, love?” I yawned. He didn’t respond. “Let’s finish this in the morning,” I said sleepily, as I attempted to turn to the side, still pinned and immobile between Christian’s legs.
Christian gently turned my shoulders down so I laid flat on my back again, then buried his face against my neck, smothering it with kisses. He laid down on top of me, and his hips dug into me as he positioned himself between my thighs.
“Christian,” I said, feebly. “Please…”
“Don’t you want me anymore?” He asked, his face crestfallen. His cock pressed against me, and as he pushed his head past my opening, his hand moved from where he’d guided himself into my body, moving upwards to stroke me, then hovering there, tracing light circles around my sensitive flesh. I shivered with pleasure, despite myself.
“Of course I want you,” I said, grasping his hips as I pushed my body upwards and away from his with a contrite smile. “I just wasn’t expecting this. I was dead asleep a minute ago, and I’m tired. What time is it?”
“It’s two in the morning,” said Christian. “You forget that I’ll be away all tomorrow. And now you make me feel unwanted, with all this complaining.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, pulling his face to mine, and kissing him. “You’re right. Let’s show each other how much we love each other, then.”
He smiled in the lamplight, then sank himself deeply into me until I gasped and cried out with the pain. “I already am,” he replied.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/7f35z8/nsfw_50_shades_of_celibacy_mf_parody_voyeurism