Fifty Shades of Silver Hair and Socks
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 Eightteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
About the Author
Accolades for Fifty Shades of Silver Hair and Socks
Fifty Shades of Silver Hair and Socks
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: 1475299850
ISBN-13: 978-1475299854
Chapter One
It’s not my fault I love you; it’s yours. – Moliere
My name is Mormon Silver, and women leave their marks on me. They distract me and drive me crazy; that causes chin frosting as well as my tendency to improperly separate colors from whites. I need to understand the effect they have, so I send a Tweet with Twitter to a local billionairess, Beatrice Plastique.
@BPlastique, you enchant me and I’d love to interview you for my blog. #whynot
I never expected a reply. Then...
@MormonSilver, I’m tied up at the moment, but I’ll fit you in soon. #whysure
I bite my bottom lip and feel a twitch in my board shorts. She’s only thirty-three, whereas I’m in the late autumn of my life at fifty. Would I have a chance at the legend?
Her assistant calls and sets up a late morning appointment. He asks me to arrive early since I need to review and sign an NDA before meeting with the blond goddess. I hardly sleep as I dream of sunset strolls on a Tahitian beach with Ms. Plastique on my arm. It could happen. Stay positive, Mormon.
The morning of that fateful day, I scrub and trim a little extra, just in case. I run through three spritzes of my secret weapon, Acqua Di Gio, and then carefully select black boxer briefs (one never knows), indigo jeans, a Hugo Boss black T-shirt, and my signature silver argyle socks. I trim my nails and apply Crest Whitestrips. Will she be kissing me?
When I arrive at her office in Rancho Santa Fe, her assistant greets me. He’s chiseled with a full head of high hair and olive skin. He scans me head to shoe and sniffs. What a pretentious pufta.
“I love your jeans. Are they Nudie?”
“Oh, thank you. Yes, in fact they are.”
“Spin for me, darling.”
“Um ... OK.”
“Wonderful. My name is Eric. I’m one of Ms. Plastique’s personal assistants.”
Fine, I misjudged him.
“Nice meeting you, Eric.”
Eric hands me a sheet of paper entitled “Interview Non-Disclosure Agreement,” and guides me to the waiting area.
“Please review this, initial each line, and sign at the bottom. Can I fetch you a chai latte?”
Wow, somebody did his homework; that’s my third-favorite beverage right behind bourbon and a woman’s love nectar.
“That would be awesome. Thank you.”
The NDA is brief but it contains curious clauses.
Interviewer will not look at interviewee’s eyes, breasts, or feet unless directed by interviewee.
Interviewer will allow interviewee to touch him as she pleases without disclosing it in his blog. Yes!
Interviewer will answer questions honestly concerning his sexual stamina and history. Wait a minute, who’s interviewing whom?
Interviewee reserves the right to bathe interviewer and demand he wear the cologne and robe of her choice. Well, I am a dirty boy.
Interviewee enjoys gentle hair pulling, neck nibbling, light spanking, nipple clamps, indirect clitoral pressure, and hockey playoffs. He shoots; he scores! Go Flyers!
I sign and nod to Eric. He picks up the phone, presumably checking with my princess, hangs up, and then smiles at me while pointing at her office door.
“Ms. Plastique will see you now. Please go right in.”
I hand Eric the signed NDA.
“Actually, I need you to give that to Ms. Plastique.”
“All right.”
I tap once on the door and walk in, trying to avoid staring at the places she specified. I catch the scent of Chanel, and see her sitting behind a glass desk staring at her Mac. God, her hair is golden, her skin is glowing, and her square-rimmed glasses are so sexy. I must have her.
“Have a seat, Mr. Silver. I’ll be right with you.”
“Please call me Mormon,” I insist as I extend the NDA and a hand to shake. She ignores my gesture and smirks.
“Sit down, Mormon ...”
I obey.
“... and take off your shoes.”
I obey.
She peeks under her desk.
“Silver socks. Interesting.”
“Thank you.”
Chapter Two
Never allow someone to be your priority while allowing yourself to be their option. – Mark Twain
The interview begins.
“May I call you Beatrice?”
“No. You may call me Bea.”
“All right. Bea, as you can see, this NDA has been signed by me.”
“Would you like more tea?”
“Thank you, no, and touché, my sweetpea. I do have a question about the ground rules before we begin.”
“Yes?”
“It’s odd not being able to look you in the eyes. Where shall I look?”
“How about at my lips.”
Bea sensually licks her glistening red lips. I melt.
“Holy shit.”
“What did you say?” Bea asks as she leans forward.
“Um, sorry.” I can’t believe I just swore in front of the most influential woman in the county.
“I have this thing about swear words.”
“I apologize. I won’t let it happen again.”
“Why? I didn’t say it’s a bad thing, did I?”
“Huh?” Sexy and strange.
“Look, Silver, although I don’t use swear words, I’m not your typical lady. When a lover uses coarse language it makes me damp down there.”
“That’s fucking hot!” I try my luck.
“You’re not a lover, Silver... not yet.”
Yet?
“OK, I know you’re a busy woman, so let’s begin.”
I wriggle uncomfortably in my chair, pull my reading glasses from my shirt collar, slide them to the base of my nose, and flip open my legal pad.
“Don’t do that.”
“Bea, I can’t see the questions I’ve prepared without my glasses.”
“Don’t touch your nose.”
“What?” I do it again.
“Stop. I’m warning you, Silver.”
“Does it gross you out? Sorry.”
“No, it turns me on.”
“My nose?” Well, that’s a first.
“No, the act of touching it.”
“Do you want to to
uch my nose?” What a goddamned freak!
“What? No.”
“I’m sorry. Have I missed something obvious?”
“You don’t understand my world. It’s nothing you’ve ever been exposed to. I have certain needs and fetishes, and I can’t expect you to comprehend them.”
“Nose fetishes?”
“That’s one. I’ll try to explain it to you, but you’re not writing about this. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” I slowly scratch the tip of my nose.
“Oh, my god! Please stop.”
“Either tell me or I’ll do it again.”
“Your nose reminds me of my big beefy clitoris and when you touch it, it’s like you’re touching me.”
“There’s no fucking way your clit is as big as my Italian schnoz.” I exclaim as I pinch the tip.
Bea slaps her hands on the top of her desk, stands, and glares at me.
“You just used the F-word again.”
“Bet your kinky fucking ass I did.”
She flies over the table, knocking the chair and me over. She’s on top of me in full mount (as they say in MMA). I’m instantly erect as she balls my shirt in each fist.
“You’re going to hockey bang me right here, right now, Silver, or I’m going to yell rape and have my assistant beat you to a bloody puddle.”
“Hockey bang?”
Chapter Three
The idea of using Viagra at my age is like erecting a brand-new flagpole in front of a condemned building. – Harvey Korman
“Did I s-s-stutter?”
“No, but I don’t recall what a hockey bang is ... and you scratched me. I think my nipple is bleeding.”
“Don’t be a baby. You call yourself a fan, Silver? Get up.”
Bea climbs off me. I stand; my jeans are uncomfortably tight with the recent addition of blood to the area. My nipple smarts, but I don’t want to rub it, as that would be extra creepy. Bea turns away from me and reaches over her desk toward her speakerphone. This exposes her underwear, which feature the Montreal Canadiens logo. Hmm, this crazy chick really is a fan. I prefer orange and black panties, but this will do. Bea removes the receiver and presses a button.
*Beep*
“What’s with the phone, Sugarbone?”
“You have two minutes,” she informs me as she shoves me backward.
“Hey, play nice!”
“Pansy.”
“Fucking psycho.”
“What did you call me?” she grabs the sleeves of my T-shirt and yanks.
“So, that’s the way you want to play. Fine.”
I grab her around the waist and pull her close. She slaps me, and grabs my shirt again. Great, now my ear is ringing.
“Ouch! We’ll have no more of that, young lady.”
I pull her dress over her head, but it snags on her hair and earrings. Well, at least her arms are tied up. Still, she struggles to slap me, flailing her arms like a gator. I chuckle.
“Yes, baby. That’s it. Wait, are you laughing at me, Silver?”
“Maybe.”
“Take off my panties and get inside me ... now!”
She writhes as I pull off her suck-y hockey team panties. Fuck Guy Lafleur. She’s soaked. I quickly undo my jeans and dive into her lusciousness. I can feel her insides quiver as I bury myself. Suddenly, I hear a voice from her speakerphone.
“One minute remaining; one minute left in the first period.”
I arch up. “What the fuck is that?”
“It’s Eric. You’d better hurry, Silver.”
“God damn it, woman! You can’t give a man time limits like that. It’s too much pressure.”
I look down at her and smirk again about her dress tying up her arms. She reaches up regardless and pinches my sore nipple.
“Ouch!”
“Deeper. Please. I need you—all of you.”
I reach down and pull up her legs. Grabbing her behind the kneecaps, I push her knees toward her shoulders and grind to new depths. She moans.
“Thirty seconds; thirty seconds remaining.”
“Wait a second. Can Eric hear us?”
“Shut up, Silver. Shoot. Hurry.”
“He is gay, right?”
“Time is running out.” She gently touches my nipple, warning me.
“Fine.”
I slam away at her. She’s so wet and lovely. Time stands still. I shoot ... a siren rings out and the office door flies open. Eric runs in and pulls us apart.
Chapter Four
Gettin’ married is a lot like getting into a tub of hot water. After you get used to it, it ain’t so hot. – Minnie Pearl
I’m home, trying to understand what just happened. I went in for an interview with a billionaire babe and left with salty sex residue, a sore nipple, and no story. Eric said he’d reschedule me—often, I hope. Bea’s a strange woman, but she definitely has a mental grip on me. I wonder where her hockey fascination originated. She probably had a fucked up childhood like most of us.
My iPhone rings with an unfamiliar number. I’ve learned not to answer those, not that I have anything against Indians. Less than a minute later, I get a text message from the same number.
How dare you ignore my call, Silver? That’s a major penalty. – B
How did she get my number? I should have known a woman with her resources would be, ahem, resourceful. I tap on my recent calls and plan my approach. She answers after five rings. Clever girl.
“Who is this and how did you get my number?”
“Very funny, Bea. I was just about to ask you the same question.”
“Oh, Mr. Silver, how nice to hear from you. What are you up to, and are you naked by chance?”
“No, my dear, I’m not naked. I’m just trying to make corners meet.”
“Ends.”
“Excuse me?”
“Ends, Silver. The cliché is ‘making ends meet.’ Aren’t you a writer?”
“Yes and actually I’m a writer who is doing laundry—folding my sheets.”
“Ah. So, your ends are meeting just fine, are they?”
“Fine enough.”
“Your home is a bit underwater, is it not?”
“Whose isn’t?”
“You know, I could help you, Silver, if you’d agreed to play with me ... my way.”
“You could get me a loan modification? Put me in, coach.”
“Oh, I will, repeatedly. Bye for now.”
*click*
What a whacky woman! I need to Google her later.
I finish my laundry and go to the gym to clear my head, which is ear-to-ear full of Plastique. She fits me like a glove. Am I just a toy to her? It disturbs me to wonder how many other writers she has “had” in her office.
After a good sweat, I return home. I hear water running. Is that damn toilet stuck again?
I bound up my staircase. It sounds like a shower—my master bath shower. Could it be?
I cautiously round the corner of my bathroom to find Bea in my shower. She’s obscured by steam and the foggy glass door. I watch the suds run from her golden mane down the line of her back, across her perfectly round buttocks, into the crevasse I want to make my home.
“Jesus, Bea! How did you get in here? For that matter, how did you know where I live?” My cock is so hard right now it practically tears through my sweats.
She turns to face me and speaks not a word as she raises an index finger to her lips to shush me. Then, she licks the tip of her finger and runs it down her chest, across her navel, to her love tunnel as she sits on my shower bench.
“You’re killing me, Ms. Plastique. I have a mind to come in there and clean up a very dirty girl.”
Bea smirks as she takes my Gillette Fusion razor from the shower shelf. With her other hand, she squirts a dab of my Old Spice liquid soap on her tiny patch of fur. She lathers up and stares longingly at me as she slowly lowers my razor toward her vagina.
“No! That’s my fucking Fusion! Do you have any idea how expensive those cartri
dges are? I beg you, don’t. Pubic hair is too coarse. It will dull and clog my blades. You evil beast. Noooooo!” I bang on the glass door. Oh, God, another hockey game! I’m like a rabid rink-side fan at the arena.
Bea teases me by pulling away the razor and inspecting it. She grows a devilish grin, puts the razor back below her navel, and swipes a tiny path. I slap my head and cringe. She looks up with those huge toasted almond eyes and extends the razor toward me.
“Would you like to finish me, Silver?”
Chapter Five
Love doesn’t make the world go ‘round. Love is what makes the ride worthwhile. – Franklin P. Jones
We made love in the shower until our toes pruned and the water ran cold. Bea wouldn’t speak to me.
I’m confused, lost, exhausted, and happily so. Still, I need to dig into her past and understand the root of her fetishes. Is this love?
I spend hours the following day Googling her name with assorted hockey terms. She was born in Canada. That explains her odd last name. Sure, Canadians love hockey, but this woman is obsessed. There must be something. I climb her family tree looking for clues. All I find is an uncle whose name is on the Stanley Cup. Hmm.
As I go to learn more about this uncle, a direct message pops up on my Twitter feed.
BPlastique: Check your bedside table. Initial, sign, and bring it to me in room 4301 at the downtown Hyatt tonight at 8pm.
Oh, Jesus. My bedside table is nothing that should be witnessed by anyone—old condoms, lotions, ugly watches, and my secret (no longer) weapon: the Fukuoku Pink Left Hand Five Finger Vibrating Massage Glove. I open the drawer slowly and find a document entitled “Rules of Sexual Engagement.” It lists ten clauses and is signed in blood red at the bottom by Beatrice Plastique. What the...?
As I read her rules, I feel myself becoming slightly aroused. This disturbs me. I’m no submissive. Then I realize she has sprayed her luscious Chanel scent on the paper. I’m tempted to sexually relieve myself, but resist because this woman demands stamina. The rules convince me she truly is from Venus.
Rules of Sexual Engagement