Fifty Shades of Beige: A Parody
Scene: A twin room in the Sea Dreams B&B, Margate. Vera and Geoff Beige have come away to the seaside to bring the spark back into their marriage. Geoff is in the bathroom considering his ear hair. Vera is sat at the dressing table writing her diary. It is dusk...
Dear Diary, oh my, we are in Margate. The coach ride down was thrilling - the constant hum of the engine and Geoff sitting beside me with a cheese and pickle sandwich made my insides clench. Even my subconscious was in silent thrall to Geoff's masterful way with a Sudoko, although I suspect that may be because my subconscious is, you know, subconscious and so beyond the reach of my conscious mind. Just saying. Oh my.
We arrived at Sea Dreams and I was vaguely amazed and slightly thrilled at how spacious our twin room is. We even have an en suite. My adrenaline spiked as Geoff sat on the edge of his bed and remarked on the firmness of the mattress, a familiar glint in his eye as his lips quirked up in a half smile. Of course, I say 'quirked' but as that isn't an actual word, what I really mean is that Geoff smiled at me then suggested I get my kit off. Oh my.
Geoff stood, all masterful like, with his trousers hanging off his hips that way - I'd told him to buy a size bigger with his waistline expanding from the bowls club having to close last winter due to council spending cuts, but he wouldn't have it. I bit my lip. Holy crap, that hurt.
'You're not getting another cold sore are you, Vera?' Geoff asked his voice full of concern, 'Don't pick at it; you'll only make it worse!'
'Um, no,' I mumbled wincing, 'I'm just trying to be provocative, like, you know, get you in the mood.'
'Sea air'll do that!' said Geoff decisively and strode towards me. Grabbing my hair he pulled me into an embrace.
'Mind me blow dry!' I muttered loudly, 'That cost me fifteen quid at Rita's!' but Geoff ignored me, pushing his tongue into my mouth and biting my lip, which when you think about it, is physically impossible but this is erotic fiction so fuck it. I responded hungrily, my insides clenching again (shouldn't have had that third Scotch egg), my adrenaline spiking again, and I realised all them keep fit pilates classes at the church hall were worth it. Oh my.
Pulling my hair back, Geoff nuzzled my neck and I mentally put a new head for his electric razor on this week's shopping list. Holy crap - I forgot to put nipple clamps on there as well as Geoff had to use one of the 'old faithfuls' to pin up the shower curtain in the downstairs bathroom as Maureen's son in law had made such a fist of putting it up in the first place.
My breath hitches, even though I don't really know what that means, as Geoff kissed my neck and with creaking knees continued kissing down my body, pulling my vest down over my still reasonably firm breasts and letting it drop to the floor. My inner goddess started line dancing in anticipation and for a moment I was distracted by the thought of Dolly Parton in a ball gag. Oh my.
Geoff stood and slipped off his cardigan. 'I want you here, now, fast, hard, Vera.' Taking off his tie, that tie, his watery grey eyes fixing mine, silently commanding me. I submit, give up my wrists for binding. All those years on the allotment mean Geoff can tie a mean knot. And for a moment I forgot our modest but comfortable surroundings as I thought about our attic conversion - the Dusty Rose Room of Mild Discomfort as we liked to call our playroom, with its very reasonably priced fitted wardrobes containing our collection of whips, floggers, sex toys and all my old knitting patterns.
An unconscious moan must have escaped my lips as Geoff cupped my sex with his callused hand. 'So warm, Vera,' he said, 'You're always ready - like winter spinach, crop after crop with that stuff.'
'Ooh, Geoff, I love it when you talk gardening to me!' I moaned. Oh my.
'Turn around,' said Geoff harshly. Holy shit... That Look. I obeyed, and found myself facing the bed. 'Bend over.'
'What, what are you going to do? Don't hurt me, please!' I shouted quietly as my nipples grew hard and elongated, brushing the candlewick bedspread.
'Please, what?' said Geoff, getting right into character now.
'Please, Sir!' I cried desperately, my insides clenching, breath hitching, adrenaline spiking etc, etc...
And then I felt it - a rolled up copy of BBC Gardening magazine came down hard on my bottom and I squeaked. Humiliated, turned on, I couldn't like this, could I? Oh my! Holy Crap! My sex grew wetter and Geoff spoke again. 'That was a warning. I will now hit you five times and you will count and say 'thank you' after each blow. Understand? And don't move!'
'Yes, Sir.' I said humbly, adding, 'Thank you, Sir.' For good measure as manners cost nothing, not that the young people today would agree with me, I'm sure.
Each blow inflamed me further. After the third, Geoff pulled down my panties, well, more pants really - the last thing you want on a long coach journey is a wayward gusset and you really can't beat Marks and Spencer Full Briefs for coverage and comfort.
'You have such a beautiful bottom, Vera.' Geoff breathed, his voice thick with want, although in truth, he still hadn't shifted that cold properly, 'And now it's all pink and warm.' He ran his hand lightly, lovingly, over my abused bum cheeks - not what they were when I was twenty but really not bad for a woman with two decades of WI membership under her belt if I do say so myself. Geoff's touch sparked a deep pull in my belly and a groan escaped my lips. He slid two fingers inside me, 'So wet, Vera,' he said, 'Always ready for me, good girl.'
I stifled a protest - I felt like the bloody dog when he called me 'good girl'. He could cut his own toenails later, silly sod. But my train of thought was interrupted by another sharp blow across my bottom. 'Four!' I cried out at the force of it, 'Thank you, Sir!' and I bit my lip and rolled my eyes.
'Don't bite your lip and roll your eyes!' said Geoff. Crap! I hadn't realised he could see my face in the dressing table mirror. 'For that, you get another two strokes!' And there they were, five, six and seven in quick succession that left me gasping, tears stinging my eyes. Holy crap that stung! Geoff pushed me forward so I fell face down on the bed and unsheathed his considerable length. 'I'm going to have you now, Vera.' he whispered, pushing my knees apart with his. Pinning me down he thrust mercilessly into me. Oh My.
His assault started slowly and gathered pace, circling his hips he grinds into me. Everything inside me ignites, including my Inner Goddess, who should not have worn polyester. The fullness, he flexes his hips and I am lost. All sensation, Geoff picks up rhythm, all consuming, I am close, recognising that delicious tightening, quickening, as my insides clench and Geoff rams me hard. 'Come for me, baby.' he grunts, which puts me right off. Baby? I walked a mile in patent wedges to take a Hot Pot to his mother when she'd had her bunions operated on and never a complaint about chaffing. Who is he calling, 'Baby'? But the assault is too much and the sloshing stirring of our mutual vortex is too much for me and my orgasm rips through me, devours me whole as I shatter into a thousand fragments. I'm mewling and whimpering as the aftershocks of my orgasm consume me but Geoff is still humping away behind me and now I just wish he'd hurry up or we'll not have time for a walk along the front before our tea.
Finally, Geoff lets go, and with a deep growl, buries his head in my neck as he buries himself inside me, groaning loudly and incoherently as he finds his 'release' at the apex of my thighs - I'll be honest with you, I've always found sperm a bit, you know, 'distasteful' and it's a bugger to get out of your delicates on a wool wash.
His breathing is erratic. I'm convinced he'll have a heart attack if he doesn't lay off the pies and beer. But he kisses me tenderly as he withdraws, then turns me over and undoes his tie, rubbing my wrists where the fabric has left its pattern. 'Come on, pet,' he says, eyes full of love, 'Let's go and get fish and chips and eat them on the beach - we are on holiday after all!'
I look up at him, at this man I love, who can still make me come like a steam train on a Sunday outing after all these years, and I realise the old bastard didn't even take his bloody socks off!
copyright Emma Mitchell 2012 - all rights reserved