Humour: Fifty Shades of Shite – Vol II
Git Grey walked angrily towards the Mill Centre in Clondalkin hoping there’d be a coffee shop open. He needed caffeine after the night he’d had.
How could he have known that when he turned up at B&Q Liffey Valley – where the delectable Miss Anastasia Steele worked – to buy some supplies for his playroom, he’d end up spending a night in the cells being questioned by Gardaí?
Couldn’t a guy buy cable ties, lengths of rope, a shovel and a body bag without being arrested anymore? It was all perfectly innocent; if he’d been allowed to continue with his purchases, the gimp mask would have made it all clear.
But oh no, Ana’s supervisor Jenny couldn’t have that – so rough a bear wouldn’t hug her, by the way – and the cops were there before he knew it. Before he got to say more than two words to his love.
She’d been distraught when he’d been carted away, her porcelain skin flushed with distress as she’d apologised over and over.
‘Git, I’m so sorry. If it had just been those first few items it wouldn’t have been so bad. It was the bone saw that did the damage, Jenny just freaked out, you can see how it must have looked?’
Fair point, well made.
Anyway, at least Anastasia had agreed to see him again tonight. He was bringing her for dinner and then to his penthouse in the salubrious Docklands and if there was any justice in the world he’d be getting his hole as well.
Eight hours later he stood outside the Central Bank, copper hair carefully mussed – Jedward robbed that off him - watching the delectable Miss Steele walk nervously towards him. She was wearing some sort of a skirt and top yoke, not bad. Nice tits.
‘Are ya right?’ he asked, hands in his jacket pockets. ‘C’mon, I’m marvin, have to feed you up too, if you know wharrimean wha’?’
No point beating about the bush. He hoped not anyway, waxing made everything just so much easier.
They strolled along by the Bank of Ireland and Trinity College, towards Westmoreland Street, stopping outside Git’s favourite restaurant.
‘I’m not hungry,’ whispered Ana, chewing on her bottom lip, eyes wide and overwhelmed as she looked in the window.
‘You must eat, Ana,’ Git insisted, grey eyes flashing. ‘You will eat.’ He did not like to be disobeyed.
‘I can’t, not in there,’ Ana managed, her voice barely audible, trembling, eyeing the menu, real terror in her eyes.
‘Yeah, whatever,’ Git sighed, vowing to punish her later. He strode up to the counter. ‘A large Abrakebabra Meal with Coke and a side of garlic fries please,’ he ordered.
Women. Always on bloody diets. He was going to eat his fill anyway, his trousers were hanging off his hips, he was skin and bone.
After he’d finished eating they made their way back to his place – a quick call had summoned his driver – in Git’s personal limo. A Hummer. Tinted windows, the works. Total chick magnet.
His apartment was cool and dim when they entered and smelled like Mr Sheen. Only the best. Ana was silent as she took in the white leather couches, the white shag pile rug, the white flowers and the white flat screen surround sound.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed softly, eyes widening. ‘It’s just like… like…’
‘Cribz,’ Git finished for her. ‘You’re right. 50 Cent has this exact apartment. Look at it there, pure class. See these leather-bound books? They’re actually DVD holders!’
Steering her towards the centre of the room, Git removed her jacket, his overly-long index fingers making short work of the buttons, throwing it on the sofa.
‘I want to show you my playroom, Anastasia,’ Git murmured, leading her towards the imposing glass-panelled door on the other side of the penthouse. He’d wood on him that’d repopulate the rain-forest, wait until she got a load of this.
Ana gasped as the door swung open, revealing a room every man dreamt of – posters of Jason Sherlock and Robbie Keane decorated the walls, there was a Wii and a PlayStation in one corner and a giant iPad in another, leather couches scattered everywhere. Centre stage was a super king-size bed with a mini-bar on each side and a 75 inch flat screen telly screwed to the ceiling above it.
‘When you’re in my playroom, you’ll dress appropriately, the way a real woman should dress,’ Git said, a ghost of a smile on his lips as he produced crotchless knickers and a Dublin jersey from behind his back.
Ana blushed, fingers trembling as she reached to take the items from his hands. Jaysis, she was gagging for it, he was going to hit that. Hard. Hit it with his rhythm stick.
When she was dressed, he led her towards the bed, binding her hands with the cable ties he’d bought in B&Q, his trousers barely able to contain the monster within.
‘Git, wait,’ Ana breathed. ‘There’s something I have to tell you before we do this. I’m a virgin.’
At her words Git felt something twist deep inside him. An unfamiliar sensation. Desire? Guilt? Fear?
‘Ana, my love,’ he gasped, suddenly recognising the sensation with sickening clarity. ‘I’ll be right back. I. Shouldn’t. Have. Had. The. Garlic. Fries.’
As he bolted for the en-suite he briefly wondered if Ana would be still there on his return – the door to the toilet wasn’t exactly soundproofed – but then he laughed. He’d seen her copping a sly look at his trouser truncheon. Of course she’d still be there. And then the fun could really begin.