whipchick (whipchick) wrote,
whipchick
whipchick

Game Night

“It’s Game Night,” he whispered softly into my ear. My eyes scanned his loft apartment, the grey leather Phillipe Starck sofa sitting in the vast, open expanse of platinum-plated floor. Perhaps one day I would call this beautiful place home and polish the solid silver chairs and arrange the Tiffany ornaments. But for now, my inner goddess was dancing the Macarena and I could only bite my lip and stammer, “H-h-holy crap!”

“Come here,” he commanded. I started towards him and fell over, once again tripped by my own clumsiness, landing in a pile of long, coltish legs and pale-skinned arms at his feet, clad in Ferragamo loafers. I looked up his strong, muscular legs to his taut stomach and broad chest, then to his gorgeous face, the epitome of male beauty and perfection. He was perfect. And beautiful. My cheeks burned with a fiery blush and I longed to sink into my usual nondescriptiveness of hair of no particular color and large eyes, but my inner goddess consoled me, wiggling her hips and a pair of semaphore flags to signal that everything would be all right.

I had driven my new Audi to the abode of my—lover? Boyfriend? How he’d hate that word! He always insisted I call him Viscount Lord Masterful, but I knew that insistence was only a badge of the terrible trauma he’d suffered as a child. He had been raised in a Belgian whorehouse from babyhood—a brothel sprout. When they moved to America, his addict mother, to support her hardcore Entenmann’s crumb cake habit, had forced him to pose for Garden&Gun. “I could have handled even Field&Stream,” he’d said, “But holding a plate of macaroons in a garden of azaleas for the Spring Shooting issue was too much. I don’t know where I found the strength to refuse to hold the Confederate flag, but even my thirty-two-year-old self knew that something was terribly wrong.”

How could I know what other injuries his soul had suffered? My inner goddess offered forth an interpretive dance in the style of Martha Graham. Or maybe Agnes de Mille. No, definitely Martha Graham.

“Give me your wrists,” Viscount Lord Masterful stated masterfully, and I offered forth my slender appendages. He swiftly wrapped them in scarlet satin ribbons. The soft fabric caressed my pale skin, and I could tell these were no dollar trimming reels from Jo-ann’s Fabric, but the real thing, purchased at incredible expense from some sort of place to purchase very expensive things. No doubt he had charged them to his American Express Violet-Titanium card, the exclusive credit account which he alone held. My stomach fluttered with butterflies and I bit my lip.

He shuddered, exclaiming, “When you bite your lip it fills me with incredible passion, but I must conceal that passion from you!”

“I know,” I said. “Your childhood—”

“Hush, my pet,” he said, and clasped a hand over my mouth. “You must not speak again, as per clause 487.62B section 38 of our contract decreeing that you shall serve as my love-slave.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I said when he lifted his velvet hand, a hand as soft as velvet, with very soft velvety skin covering his underlying steel or some other very hard thing, which is a contrast, “I’ve been meaning to ask you, just what is a butt plug anyway?”

Lord Viscount Masterful laughed softly, a sound that crept up my spine and caused my virginal body to shake with longing. Inside, my inner goddess broke into a Savion-Glover-inspired modern tap routine with Afro-Caribbean influences. “That’s for me to know and you to find out, my darling,” he purred.

Would today be the today he finally claimed me for his own? I bit my lip at the thought, and he groaned with longing. My inner goddess inside me metaphorically bit her lip, too.

He led me down the hall, every inch more terrifying than the last as we passed priceless Da Vinci paintings and very expensive and hard-to-find Faberge eggs displayed carelessly on console tables. My inner goddess rigged a flaming limbo pole and began warming up her backbends. At last he paused, his hand on a doorknob. “Are you ready for the Roseate Room of Pain, my adorable gazelle?”

“I’m not sure,” I whispered, and stumbled, falling into his arms, despite having previously been standing still.

“Pursuant to clause 261, section 17, subsection C, it doesn’t really matter now, does it?”

Slowly, he pushed the door open. For a moment, my eyes were clouded with darkness, but slowly they adjusted. I slowly looked around, slowly. Against every wall were long tables, crowded with computer monitors, all glowing softly with a soft light as if something not very bright was lit up but only a little bit. Roughly, he strapped my torso to an Aeron chair, and I noted the ergonomic structure and sleek styling of this very expensive, exclusive office chair.

“Now—finally—” he stammered, with a hesitation so unlike him that my inner goddess paused in the middle of calling a traditional barn dance to listen more closely “—now I can finally reveal to you my secret desires.” Do-si-do indeed, I thought, ready to promenade left.

My eyes grew round as he hurried from monitor to monitor, frantically typing in code. At last he finished, and took a deep breath. “Now—now you’ll see. Perhaps it will change everything you believe about me, everything you thought you knew. But I cannot hide my true longing any longer.”

He pressed ENTER and the screens flickered into life, scrolling endless codes.

#4e5054, #272727, #282828, #292929, #2b2b2b, #2c2c2c, #2e2e2e, #313131, #323232, #343434, #353535, #373737, #393939, #3a3a3a, #3c3c3c, #3f3f3f, #404040, #424242, #444444, #454545, #474747, #484848, #4a4a4a, #4b4b4b, #4d4d4d, #4e4e4e, #505050, #515151, #535353, #565656, #575757, #585858, #595959, #5b5b5b, #5c5c5c, #5e5e5e, #616161, #626262, #646464, #656565, #676767, #6a6a6a, #6b6b6b, #6c6c6c, #6d6d6d, #6f6f6f, #727272, #737373, #757575, #767676, #777777, #7b7b7b, #7c7c7c, #7d7d7d, #7e7e7e, #808080, #818181, #838383, #868686, #878787, #888888, #898989, #8b8b8b, #8c8c8c, #8e8e8e, #919191, #929292, #949494, #959595, #979797, #9a9a9a, #9b9b9b, #9c9c9c, #9d9d9d, #9f9f9f, #a0a0a0, #a2a2a2, #a5a5a5, #a6a6a6, #a8a8a8, #a9a9a9, #ababab, #aeaeae, #afafaf, #b0b0b0

“Oh!” I gasped, my inner goddess whirling into a triumphant minuet complete with panniers, powdered wig and vermin scratcher, “It’s…beautiful. So beautiful…”

I bit my lip and his breath caught. Heedless of my bonds, he rushed to embrace me, and I fell over. We lay on the floor, a pile of limbs and appendages and arms and legs. His head pillowed on my lap, he sobbed, “I never believed anyone would love me if they knew…”

For the first time, I dared to use his name. “Zoroaster—”

His face brimming with hope, like a glass full of more water than can really fit in a glass but is held by surface tension, he looked into my eyes.

“You forget, my love,” I said. “I majored in graphic design. I will always love your fifty shades of grey…”





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I'm still sad I couldn't think of a great pun for "butt plug." Suggestions welcome!



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Tags: fiction, horror, humor, ljidol, parody
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