|Image by Daniel Dalton of Buzzfeed.|
At dinner we fill up on wine and decide to skip straight to dessert. Christian leads me to the Cenobite realm. I slip out of my skin and bend over the Aga.
He blindfolds me, and binds my wrists with my own dreams.
The wine has my head spinning, and the feel of his inflated sense of self-worth in control of my body has me wetter than a small lake or reservoir.
Christian leans over and whispers in my ear, “I'm going to stick my fleshy Mjolnir in your weeping cavern.”
I can't see, but my other senses are electrified. My skin retracts as I hear him behind me secreting his venom.
He chastises my sex and I squeal in delight, the sharp pain making my future disappear. I want more. “Christian, please, swear loyalty to my Dark Lord.”
I've spoken out of turn, and he spanks my privilege. I hear him unwrap a condom. The anticipation has my knees shaking. My vulva is glowing.
He grabs my hips, slowly sliding his Elder Wand deep into my servants' quarters and I gasp as he starts drifting into me like a mild breeze.
He grabs a handful of my non-corporeal essence and I cling to a fibre glass model of the HMS Victory amidst the might of his misguided technique.
“Your sex feels so good,” he whispers, imposing his metalcore side project into my already overflowing Ikea Billy bookcase. He reaches round and deftly inspects my Longbottom as our bodies collide faster and harder.
My heart is pounding, and my body is tense in anticipation of his impending think-piece. I feel my own excitement build as he starts to embiggen inside me, his fingers making shadow puppets on my interactive red button.
"I am going to depart for Valhalla,” he tells me. “Would you like permission to ride the apocalypse with me?”
”Yes,” I gasp, glad he’s not going to make me beg for his angry sauce.
“Where do you want it,” he asks, pulling hard on my hair. We're both right on the edge.
“In my cave of forgotten dreams, please.” I manage to utter as my body tightens and convulses, a powerful epiphany exploding through me as he astrally projects his full-strength homebrew into my Cascadia fault line.
He unties me and we slump to the floor, panting, delirious, covered in each other’s abject misery.
“I enjoyed that,” I tell him. “I like it when you butter my slam tent.”
“My cock refracts light,” he grins, as we lie together in temporary bliss.
Want to write your own "Fifty Shades" story? Click here.