Fifty Shades Effed (Fifty Shades of Silver) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty (Epilogue)

  About the Author

  Accolades for Fifty Shades Effed

  Fifty Shades Effed

  by Phil Torcivia

  Like Phil on Facebook: Facebook.com/SuchaNiceGuy

  Follow Phil on Twitter: @PhilTorcivia

  Blog: PhilTorcivia.blogspot.com

  Author website: Torcivia.com

  Nothing in this book is true except my desire to cover my ass with this statement.

  Cover designed by Anna V. Chastain of ChastainGraphics.com

  Copy editing by Marguerite Walker II

  Author photo by Micaela Malmi of EpicPhotoJournalism.com

  Copyright ©2012 Phil Torcivia

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 147817286X

  ISBN-13: 978-1478172864

  Chapter One

  By the time a man realizes that maybe his father was right, he usually has a son who thinks he’s wrong. - Charles Wadsworth

  I’m playing catch with my teenage son. He has his mother’s blond hair. It’s a typical July day in San Diego—warm, bright sunshine, and not a cloud in the sky. The only sounds are distant birds and the slap of baseball against mitt. Little stinker has quite an arm.

  “No curve balls,” I warn.

  “I know. So, Pop,” he asks as he hurls a four-seamer.

  *BZZZT, CRACK*

  Ouch.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve been kind of seeing this girl at school.”

  “Seeing her or seeing her?” I pry as I toss the ball back a little harder.

  *PFFFT, SLAP*

  Not bad for sixty-seven. The old man still has it.

  “You know, seeing her. Anyway, I was at her house last night, helping with calculus.”

  “Uh huh.”

  *BZZZT, CRACK*

  “Her parents called her downstairs, so I did some exploration.”

  “And, what did you find?”

  *PFFFT, POP*

  “Well, since you’re always warning me to avoid bedside tables, that was the first place I looked.”

  Oh, Jesus.

  “And?”

  “What’s a butt plug?”

  *BZZZT, DINK, BONK* — Curve ball, square in the nuts.

  “Argggh!”

  I double over and feel as though my balls have shot out my ears.

  “Honey. Wake up.”

  Who’s shaking me?

  “Mormon. Hey.”

  Oh, it’s Bea.

  “You had a bad dream, sweetie.”

  I check my package. All good. “Phew, that was a strange one.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I was playing catch with our son.”

  “Really? We haven’t determined that it’s going to be a boy, have we?”

  “Well ...”

  “OK, I’ll play along. What did he look like?”

  “A cross between Wayne Gretzky and the most beautiful woman in the world,” I tease as I boop her nose and give her a kiss.

  “Aw. And, his name?”

  “Pippino.”

  “What?”

  “Pippino. If we have a boy, that has to be his name,” I state matter-of-factly.

  “Ha, ha. You’re silly.”

  “I’m not kidding. It’s an Italian tradition. My first son must be named after my father, Pippino Silveri.”

  “No freaking way.”

  Is she serious?

  “Yes, freaking way. I’ll wrestle you for it,” I say as I attack her. She giggles. “How do you manage to smell so good in the morning?”

  “Don’t change the subject, mister. Our son will not be named Pippino.”

  “Resistance is futile,” I warn as I tug down on the waistband of her pajamas. “Do you hear that, Pippino?” I speak into her pelvis with my fake Italian accept. “You mamma, she’s ashamed of-a you name.”

  “I think it’s going to be a girl, anyway.”

  “Ah, Pippina!”

  We laugh and wrestle, which naturally turns into morning sex. No better way to start the day. I’m thankful her morning sickness subsided, but I never realized women get hornier when pregnant. I’m definitely going to need assistance.

  Chapter Two

  I love you, not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you. – Roy Croft

  After good-morning nookie in my lover’s condo, Bea hits the shower and I hit eggs on the side of an omelet pan. Once again, I’m derailed by the clinking of spoon against coffee mug. The beast rises.

  “Top o’ the morning to you, Ms. Aspinwald,” I greet and bow.

  “French toast.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’d like French toast with cinnamon butter.”

  “Wouldn’t you prefer blueberry muffins with a side of rabbit?” I sneer. I can hardly look at her since she defiled my glove.

  “You do realize, Blobber, that this wedding isn’t going to happen.”

  “It most certainly is going to happen. Didn’t you get the invitation? This Saturday, Coronado Beach, noonish. Guests are encouraged to bring covered plates. I could sign you up for deviled eggs.”

  “Chris is a powerful man. I don’t know if you’re more brave or stupid ... I’m betting on stupid.”

  “You know dillweed has a girlfriend, right? Annie, I believe, was her name. Innocent thing with horrible taste in men.”

  “She’s insignificant,” Grandma sniffs as she pushes her reading glasses up her nose and stares at printed pages. “Do you know what this is, Blobber?”

  “An excerpt from my blob?”

  “Five forty five.”

  “Ah, it’s your weight analysis,” I respond while dipping bread in egg batter.

  “It’s your credit score.”

  Nosy little nit.

  “Right. So?”

  “You’re behind on mortgage payments and you have four maxed-out credit cards.”

  “I also have a hairy mole on my ass,” I respond while glaring at her.

  “My granddaughter will soon realize you’re marrying her to get your hands on my money. She’ll dispose of you like dryer lint.”

  “I’m marrying her because I love her, and I’ll gladly sign a pre-nup.”

  “Why don’t you accept the offer from Chris, pay off your debts, and find a more appropriate mate—perhaps one with four legs.”

  “You two will never buy me off. Stop wasting your time.”

  “Warm up my coffee, and flip those before they burn.”

  I endure breakfast with the beast as I hear the shower turn off and wait for my love to rescue me.

  “I must admit, you’re a decent cook. I could put in a word for you at Denny’s,” Grandma remarks.

  “How kind of you.”

  As Bea emerges from the bedroom in her silk robe, Grandma rises to leave. Naturally, she places my credit report in front of Bea on her way out.

  “Have a wonderful morning. Bea, your future ex isn’t a bad cook at all. He’ll make someone a nice housewife someday,” Grandma remarks as she exits.

  “You made her breakfast? You’
re such a sweetie,” Bea compliments as she crumbles the credit report, tosses it in the garbage, and checks the pan. “Ooh, French toast. Are these for me?”

  “They are.”

  “And, I see you found the syrup,” she teases as she dangles Mrs. Butterworth between her thumb and index finger. “I love syrup.”

  “Do you know what I’m going to do with that syrup later?”

  “Pancakes?”

  I take the bottle from her, squeeze a dot on my left index finger, and place it in her mouth. She sucks the tip, teasingly. I slide my finger down her chin, over her neck, and down her chest, parting her robe as I do. Bea tips her head back. I squeeze a bit more between her breasts and let it run a bit before catching the sugary stream with my tongue and planting a sweet kiss on her soft lips.

  “I’m going to coat you and lick you to nirvana.”

  Chapter Three

  In the arithmetic of love, one plus one equals everything, and two minus one equals nothing. – Mignon McLaughlin

  On my way home, Bea’s assistant, Eric, calls to invite me to lunch. He refuses to tell me his motive over the phone. Maybe I can scarf more of those little yellow pills to help keep up with my sexual dynamo.

  I get a few more blog entries done and meet Eric at the San Diego County Fair. Hmm, beer battered chocolate covered bacon for lunch? Sure, why not? You only die once. I hope he’s not a fan of rides, as my stomach has never appreciated them.

  “Big E, what’s happening?”

  “Good to see you, Mormon,” he greets while giving me the handshake, shoulder-bump man-hug.” Let’s hit the food court. I’m starving.”

  “Me, too.”

  “So, I wasn’t sure if Bea told you, but she has asked me to walk her down the aisle Saturday, and I wanted to make sure you’re cool with that.”

  “Dude, of course I am. You know, she rarely speaks about her parents.”

  “She was twelve when they had the accident. Her grandmother and various nannies raised her.”

  “Well, she turned out perfectly crazy, and I’m absolutely crazy about her. I just wish there were some way to win over Grandma and make Chris disappear.”

  “I’m sure it will work out. Love conquers all, Mormon. Ooh, and speaking of love,” Eric beams as a handsome fellow approaches; “here comes my man, Daniel.”

  We greet and stroll around the Fair, sampling the artery cloggery that abounds.

  “So, gentlemen, I’d like to enlist your help in a stunt I’m planning. Bea is having a girls’ night with her friends on Thursday. I want to surprise them with something. Should I hire a male stripper?”

  “Wait. Wasn’t she on stage for your party?” Eric asks.

  “Indeed she was.”

  “Then you must return the favor,” Daniel adds.

  Ha! No fucking way.

  “Yes, dress up in a police uniform and jump out of a cake,” Eric teases.

  “Right.”

  “I’m serious. It would be hysterical.”

  “It would be traumatizing. I’m fifty. I eat cake.”

  “Oh my god, I still have that uniform from the Pride Parade. It comes with handcuffs, too,” Daniel offers.

  “Perfect,” Eric cheers, “and you two are similar size. You must, Mormon. Come on. We’ll both be there to provide oral, I mean moral support.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Please,” they chime, in stereo.

  “Fine. Fuck it. I’ll chug half a bottle of tequila and do it.”

  “I’ll arrange for the cake and bring Daniel’s costume to work with me tomorrow,” Eric insists.

  “Can’t believe I’m going to do this. Will Grandma be there?”

  “No, Thursday is bingo night at The Rock Church. She’d never miss that.”

  “Phew. Now I need a favor from you, Eric.”

  “Anything.”

  “Got any more of those pain-thrillers Bea borrowed from you?”

  “Indeed I do,” Eric agrees.

  “Might I have a handful for the honeymoon? I’m probably going to need all the help I can get.”

  “Of course.”

  The three of us enjoy the sights, then go our separate ways. I brainstorm ideas to make my emergence from pastry more amusing. This calls for restraints, a whip, and the biggest, blackest strap-on I can find. Hustler Store, here I come.

  Chapter Four

  Love is friendship set on fire. – Jeremy Taylor

  I’m greeted at the door of the Hustler Store by a lovely young lady wearing an apron. She asks if I need help. Lots. Do I dare ask about the apron? No.

  It’s a vast store, with stripper wear on the first floor and stairs leading up to the loft of kinkery.

  “My name is Nelly. Do you have anything special in mind?”

  “I don’t even know where to begin, Nelly.”

  “Well,” she asks, “is it for a man or a woman?”

  “For this man’s woman.”

  “Excellent. What does she enjoy?”

  “Overtime goals and zucchini.”

  “Um ...”

  “Right. You can see my predicament.”

  She leads me along a wall of dildos and vibrators. I’m not one to blush, but this place has me crimson.

  “What does this do?” I ask while attempting to read the price without touching the U-shaped device.

  “Ah, this one is very popular. You have a good eye, sir.” She sounds like she’s selling me a BMW. “This vibrator stimulates the woman, both inside and out.”

  I stand perplexed.

  “Her clitoris and her G-spot.”

  “Of course. I’d like one in purple. Oh, and someone stole my Fukuoku Glove, so I’ll need one of those too—in black, please. Anything else you can recommend?”

  “Lotions?”

  “Do you have bacon-flavored?”

  “...”

  “Kidding. Something minty will do.”

  “Excellent. Anything else? Perhaps more advanced devices for the adventuresome?”

  “Bring it.”

  She leads me over to the corner with triangular dildo-ish toys and strings with different sized beads and a ring that reminds me of the merry-go-round ride of my childhood.

  “Do you know what these are?”

  “Dog toys?”

  “No, silly, these are for anal play.” Ouch. “These are butt plugs and these are anal beads. They’ll both go well with your minty lube. Have you used either before?”

  “Of course, I have. I’m a skilled plugologist.”

  “Great. Then, you’ll require his and hers.”

  “Whoa, Nelly—only hers.”

  “Ever tried it?”

  “No.”

  “How about a pinky?” she gestures.

  “What?”

  “You know, during a blowjob. It heightens the sensation.”

  “Exit only.”

  “Don’t be like that. It doesn’t mean you’re gay. The anus is quite sensitive and erogenous.”

  “Yes, it is,” adds a boy-stander I’m unaware is standing by me. “You must try the beads too. They all go in except the ring, and just when you’re ready to pop, have your lover yank them out with the ring. Heavenly!”

  My virgin butt hole puckers as I try to digest their suggestions.

  “Fine. Double bag them. Here’s my card.”

  Lovergirl has me outmatched, but I plan to prove I can hang. I’ll whip out my new arsenal and wear her ass (tee, hee) out before she leaves for her girls’ night. Shit! I almost forgot.

  “I also need a big black strap-on.”

  “Will the Cockasaurus Rex do?” she asks while dangling something resembling a toasted Genoa Salami in front of me.

  “I believe it will.”

  Chapter Five

  Let there be such oneness between us, that when one cries, the other tastes salt. – Rossabelle Believe

  Bea accepts my offer to cook dinner—stuffed artichokes and filet kabobs. When she arrives, I’m on my second glass of wine. I’ve l
eft the sex toys in the plain paper bag between our place settings.

  “What’s in the bag?”

  “Dessert, my love. No peeking!”

  “You’re no fun.”

  “Oh, just you wait.”

  “I’ll go upstairs and freshen up. Be right back.”

  I continue cooking with wine, my unconventional way. Sure, I’m a little heavy on the garlic salt, but it makes everything better, as long as both lovers partake.

  “Sweetie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you come up here a minute?”

  “Sure.” Uh, oh. What did she find?

  When I step into my master bath, she’s wearing one of my button-downs and her lace panties, standing sideways in front of the full-length mirror.

  “Look!” she glows, showing the first signs of a baby bump.

  “Hm. I’ve got two words for you: salad bar.”

  “Hey.”

  “Light beer?”

  “Stop it.”

  “Can you feel that lunch burrito kicking?”

  “Ha, ha. Not yet. I’m just over four months, so this is about right. No more top buttons for me,” she pouts.

  “So cute. Can I take a picture and post it as little Pippino’s first update on Facebook?”

  “No, Gordon will not have a Facebook account until he is sixteen.”

  “Gordon?”

  “You can call him Gordie.”

  “You can call him Pip.”

  “I have a suggestion: Let’s settle this child-naming thing with a contest.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “A sort of sexual Olympics,” she offers.

  “Ooh, I love a challenge. You’re going down, woman.”

  “And so are you. The first event is the sideways sixty-nine sprint to orgasm.”

  “Huh?”

  “The first one to bring the other to orgasm wins.”

  “Now?”

  “Go turn off the stove and grill, and get your butt back up here.”

  “Italy shall have its first gold medal of this Olympiad,” I tease, as I sprint downstairs and turn down the heat. “Dun, DUN-duh, dun dun DUN dun ...”

  “That sounds more like ‘Rocky’ to me.”

  “Shut it.”