Fifty Shades of Flannel Chapter 3
It was a few feet from the helicopter to the black Audi SUV that Christian had waiting for us. I settled into the luxurious seat. My sarong was doing a marvelous job of buffing the charcoal colored leather.
Let him see my many talents in action.
Suddenly the most boring…I mean angelic… music fills the automobile's chamber. I say things like chamber when I could just say interior.
It makes some people want to punch me in the nose (like co-workers) and others, like Christian, want to lash me to a suede wall and possibly suspend me from the ceiling. But that's just a guess.
You do like pre-Elizabethan choral interpretations with madrigal accompaniment, I trust? Christian asks peering towards my exposed eye.
What you said, I answer confidently.
In short order, we arrive at his stark and foreboding high rise building. What would I find within? And why don't I feel any sense of imminent danger? I've never missed an episode of To Catch a Predator or Murder She Wrote, but being here with him…depraved never felt so right.
Once inside his duplex, he immediately handed me a heavy crystal goblet of buttery Chardonnay. This was not to be confused with the earlier glasses of crisp Sancerre, perplexing Sauvignon, and impudent, yet well educated, Pinot Gris that I had downed.
He returns with a document. I lavishly sign without reading it (thanks Chardonnay). He needs to see that I am a woman of impulse as well.
Let's examine my playroom, he said, taking my goblet from me, and manfully steering using my flannel sarong as a leash.
I am known in some circles as a woman who knows her way around a ping-pong table, I say cheekily.
That's not quite what I have in mind.
What could he mean? Foosball? I hope it's not Wii Fit. The last time I tried Zumba, I nearly…
My thoughts are quickly interrupted as he opened the door to his pleasure chamber I gasped. Three words came to mind:
Murphy's Oil Soap.
Wow, that's a lot of polished wood, I observe.
That's what she said, he responded.