Fifty Shades Shadier by Phil Torcivia Page B

undergarments.”
    “I’m not that big. I’ve been cutting back on carbs, actually,” I insist while patting my belly.
    Grandma storms out in a huff. Fine by me. Bea giggles.
    “Why is that on your TV, you naughty Lovergirl?”
    “I think Eric was watching it ... while masturbating.”
    “Christ.”
    “Kidding. I was watching it. I know you’re not crazy about the ending, but the part leading up to it was smokin’ hot, if you ask me.”
    “Lovely.”
    “Listen, you need to promise me you’ll use your charm on Grandma. We need her support.”
    “Ugh.”
    “If you do this for me, Uncle M, I’ll do this for you,” she says as she grabs my package.
    “We have unfinished business from the elevator, don’t we? My turn.” I lift and set her on the loveseat. I remove her sweatpants. She’s pantyless. How convenient and delicious! “Oh, look: Grandma left her brandy. Can’t let that go to waste.”
    I take the crystal tumbler and drizzle brandy into her bellybutton. I lick gently as the brandy river winds its way toward her spot. The coolness of the alcohol teases, as her clit dances around my tongue. I’m drunk on the sweet combination with Lovergirl’s juices. As Bea arches into climax, the front door swings open.
    “I left in such a hurry I forgot my ... oh, for the love of ... you’re disgusting—the both of you.”
    I slump down and rest my cheek against Bea’s abdomen as Grandma grabs her purse, leaves, and slams the door. Bea runs her fingers through my hair as we giggle.
    This won’t be easy.
     

Chapter Four
     
    Write the bad things that are done to you in sand, but write the good things that happen to you on a piece of marble. – Anonymous
     
    After a night of proper, horizontal celebration about our engagement, I decide to sneak out of bed and make a nice breakfast for my princess. Cooking is a passion, and a great way for me to decompress. I slide on my boxer-briefs, and stumble foggy-eyed into the kitchen. I open the fridge, grab eggs, and begin searching beneath the stove for a pan. Suddenly, I hear a spoon clinking against the side of a glass. Where am I, at a wedding reception?
    I turn to find Grandma seated at the breakfast nook wearing reading glasses while browsing the Union Tribune.
    “Be a good boy and warm up my coffee,” she orders as she slides the mug in my direction.
    “Huh?”
    “Oh, and put on a shirt, will you? I wouldn’t want to find one of your silver chest hairs in my eggs.”
    “Grandma, what are you doing here?”
    “You may call me by my proper name, Silver.”
    “Which is?”
    “Gertrude Aspinwald ... Ms. A, if you like.”
    Silly name.
    “Fine,” I agree as I carry the pot of coffee over and top off her mug. She doesn’t look up.
    I retreat to the bedroom, grab my shirt off the floor, and return—no longer a health risk.
    “So, Ms. A, how would you like your eggs?”
    “Two whites with one yolk over easy. Fry up some bacon too. I prefer it crisp, but not burned.”
    “Don’t you have room service here?”
    She’s testing me...
    “Of course. Don’t you know how to separate eggs?”
    ... and I’m not giving in.
    “Of course.”
    “Then you best get a-crackin’. You have a long day ahead of you.”
    “In fact, I do. I’ve fallen behind in my blogging. I was supposed to interview Bea, and in two blinks I’m halfway down the aisle.”
    “Not even one-tenth the way.”
    I ignore her sass and begin cooking silently. I can feel her eyes. The TV remote is sitting on the counter, so I flip on the TV to catch some news. Naturally, in my groggy, yet agitated state I forget the video of yours truly strapped to the bed is still loaded. Grandma snickers. I hit the “Source” button and finally find the news.
    “You know something, maybe you should interview me for your blob.”
    “Blog. B-L-O-G.”
    “Whatever.”
    “What, of interest, would you have for my readers?”
    “Plenty. We could talk about my empire, how my father became rich by