Free Fifty Shames of Earl Grey: A Parody by Fanny Merkin Page B

The song is called ‛Every Rose Has Its Thorn.’”
    “Which one of us is the rose?”
    “Ask me later,” he says. He looks me up and down, sipping my body in like a baby drinking apple juice from a sippy cup. “ Risky Business. I like it.”
    “Risky what?”
    “The dress shirt and underwear look. Nevermind,” he says.
    He seems sadder now than when he was playing, so I change the topic of conversation. “How long have you been playing tambourine?”
    “Since junior high school,” he says. “The tambourine is only one of many percussion instruments I’m trained on.” I try to imagine the broad-shouldered, sexy beast before me as a child, but it’s impossible.
    “Anna, your finger is in your nose again,” he says.
    I yank it out. “Sorry.”
    “Don’t apologize. You have no idea how badly it turns me on when you do that,” he says. “If you pick your nose in public, I might not be able to stop myself from taking you where you stand.”
    “Yikes.”
    “Which reminds me: Are you feeling okay? From earlier, I mean,” he says, his eyes wandering to my nether regions.
    “Yes,” I say. “More than okay.”
    “Good. I’m glad,” he says. “Are you hungry?”
    I shrug. “I had a big breakfast. Remember?”
    “How could I forget? Then what are you hungry for, if not food?”
    “I think you know the answer to that, Mr. Grey.”
    He hops off his barstool and we head back into the Dorm Room of Doom. Looks like Round Two will happen after all . . .

    Back in his waterbed, Earl flips me over onto my stomach. “On your hands and knees,” he growls.
    “Yes,” I say, raising myself.
    I feel a firm hand slap my behind. “When we’re in the Room of Doom, address me properly, Anna. ‛Yes, Sir .’”
    “Yes, Sir,” I say. It feels so natural.
    “Good girl,” he says, rubbing the spot on my bottom where he spanked me. I love his touch.
    I hear him tearing into a foil condom packet. “I’m going to do it to you doggy style,” he says.
    “Should I bark?” I ask.
    “Why would you bark?”
    “Well, I thought maybe that’s why it’s called ‛doggy style’ . . .”
    “I’d prefer if you didn’t bark like a dog,” he says. “I’m not into bestiality.”
    “Well, someone’s not very kinky,” I mutter.
    “Just hold still,” he says, thrusting powerfully into me from behind. He grabs ahold of my hair and pulls gently. “You like?” he asks.
    “Yes, Sir,” I say as he slides in and out of me. It’s not as romantic as earlier, but there’s a raw, primal feeling to what we’re doing that makes me want to howl like a wolf. I’m afraid if I do, though, he’ll stop, and I can’t bear the thought of him stopping midcoitus.
    I moan, and then moan again, and again, and again, until his rhythmic thrusting pushes me over the edge. This time, my orgasm turns my arms and legs to jelly, and I collapse on the bed.
    “Turn around and sit up,” he orders me.
    “Yes, Sir,” I say, giggling. He’s screwed me silly! I can barely move, but I somehow manage to sit up. I rest my back against the headboard.
    “Now I’m going to make babies with your face, Anna,” he says, crawling toward me on his knees. Can that thing fit in my mouth? I wonder, staring at him. I have a horrible flashback to earlier in the day, when I choked on his toothbrush—twice. This is no toothbrush.
    Earl straddles my body and points his man of steel at my mouth. Up this close, Grey’s anatomy looks like a nineteen-inch nail.
    “Don’t be afraid,” he says. “You can do it. It’s just like sword swallowing.”
    Gulp . “I’ve never swallowed a sword before,” I say, staring down the barrel of his love gun.
    “Oh,” he says. “That’s weird. Well, I’ll give you a lesson then.”
    “In sword swallowing?”
    “Yes,” he says. “In sword swallowing. Get dressed.”
    Back in the living room, Earl teaches me the ancient art of sword swallowing. The trick, he says, is to suppress the muscles and processes