Fifty Shades of Flannel
Chapter 5
I was having a wonderful dream: All My Children was still on the air. Nina and Cliff were back together and she was wearing a gorgeous Laura Ashley blouse circa 1982; all the laundry was folded and I didn't have to be in carpool for two hours. I began to float…
Christian was leaning over me waving a red lacquer fan.
It took a moment for me to remember where I was. Oh that's right. I was in the perversion galaxy of a total stranger.
Mrs. Steele, you've fainted. Don't worry, I'm here to take care of you.
Knowing that his version of "take care" would involve something akin to a forced weekend at Club Med with recently released inmates, I leapt to my feet.
I have an idea. Let's role play. I said as I positioned myself in front of him.
Christian's eyes took on an unpleasant iciness.
We're going to play ATM. I'm the ATM and you are the cardholder. I stood with arms akimbo and straightened my spine.
Christian looked confused. Like a frightened doe in a foreboding condo.
I continued to control the situation.
You pretend to swipe your card. He complied with a weak effort, batting his imaginary card at my chest.
Denied! I sang out.
He tried again. He was off his game. Excellent.
Denied! I triumphantly chorused.
This isn't that fun. I was hoping we could play Gallic slave owner and nubile village nymph. His voice trailed off as I remained strong in my ATM character.
Nope! We're playing ATM; it was a huge hit at my son's fourth birthday last year. Come on. Try again. The bank may well take your card on this one.
A gong sounded. Now I was confused.
My friend the doctor who makes house calls and who I may, or may not, have had a sexual relationship with is here. To examine you. It's in your contract. Christian had dropped his pretend card to the ground.
What the devil had I signed? And did I have time to concoct an examination gown out of my Lanz remnants?
It was vital to remain in character.
Nope. I'm still an ATM. Can't examine a machine… Especially if stirrups are involved.
And that little mascara wand thing. Not a machine tool, you see…
A quiet knock at the door caused both Christian and I to turn.
An attractive woman in her late forties entered the room. She was wearing the time-honored Upscale-Gynecologist-to-Billionaire outfit of St. John's suit, Ferragamo pumps and an Hermes bag.
She briskly opened the bag, put on welder's goggles and a pair of latex gloves.
Merciful Summer's Eve, what was about to happen to me?