50 Shades of Crazy by E. B. Archer
Patient to Therapist: “Until Fifty Shades of Grey it never occurred to me that it was every woman’s fantasy to be taken by a man against her will, let alone that over one hundred million women could become infatuated by the notion. After all, it’s not what I was brought up to believe. It seems somewhat disappointing—and disconcerting—to me that a piece of pop-culture fluff should contradict what we women have fought for and achieved over these past one hundred years. Don’t get me wrong, I am neither a lesbian, a feminist, a fanatic nor a prude, I simply wonder at how eager our male dominated society would be to accept the notion of a man being taken by a woman against his will. And while I’m all for a bit of fantasy, we seem to have moved the yardstick: since when did rape become synonymous with ravishment?
So Christian Grey is dead and to him I say good riddance.”
When the man who made it acceptable for a woman to be tied up and taken against her will is found dead, police suspect him the victim of one of his own provocative parlor games gone too far. Fiction soon overwhelms fact as floral tributes from across the country pile up on “Christian’s” front lawn and fans and acolytes gather in the resort town of Sag Harbor to pay tribute, to light candles and demand justice for the man who shares a name with the fictional character with who so many have become obsessed. Could it be a lover turning the tables? Could it be the work of a sociopath resentful of the message portrayed in the popular novel and movie Fifty Shades of Grey?
When the killing is linked to a second homicide, speculation of a serial-killer loose on the streets of New York City explodes, with the death of Christian Grey trending nationally on both social and in mainstream media: which could either make or break the prospects of up-and-coming media mogul Christina Blanco as she prepares to take her fledgling media company public in a billion dollar IPO.
For Christina, resisting the temptation to backslide into the hell and horrors of her past behavior is complicated by her demanding investors, an over-zealous NYPD Detective determined to declare Christina suspect number one and her confused and conflicted feelings toward Aiden Quartermaine, handsome, wealthy, heir to a vast fortune but who looks at Christina as if she’s trying to pull a con. When a blogger for Christina’s web site, using the name Anastasianne, reveals details online of the Grey killing known only to police, suspicion grows and Christina is forced either to batten the hatches or to cut and run.
With only her instinct to guide her, Christina decides on a course of action that proves fateful not only to herself but the people around her.
Features bonus previews of these other E. B. Archer novels: Finding Faith and A Reasonable Suspect
Description
About the author:
Archer welcomes all reader comments and actively encourages reader reviews of her work. Please review Archer’s novels at Amazon.com and share her work with your friends; to an artist, positive word of mouth is the best form of flattery. To receive advance notice of upcoming publications you may contact the author directly at [email protected] or visit the author’s page at Amazon Author Central or Goodreads.com.
Here is a short sample from the book:
About Me
I’m a twenty-something female living in New York City, Lower Manhattan to be precise. I earn a decent income for my age. I consider myself sophisticated and open-minded yet until Fifty Shades of Grey it never occurred to me that it was every woman’s fantasy to be taken by a man against her will. It’s not what I was brought up to believe, is it? Suddenly, I feel as if I’ve been going about it all wrong. My therapist says: “When it comes to sex, a hundred million women are now telling you there is no such thing as wrong.”
I’m not repressed, but there are simply certain things I’d never thought to consider doing while having sex–like being tied up by a man and being taken forcibly from behind. I tell my therapist it’s too close to rape for me to be comfortable with it and she says to me, as if I’m twelve: “It’s a ravishment fantasy, not a rape fantasy.”
Currently, I’m unattached so I’ve downloaded the Tinder hookup app to keep things suitably at arm’s-length. I’ll use Airbnb to arrange for rooms because I don’t believe you should shit where you eat, either.
My therapist says: “Write it all down, share.” So, this is me, sharing. Aside from being therapeutic, my goal is simply for you, readers, to want to read through to the next page, return for the next installment.
I’ll post updates as soon after they occur as possible. I may eventually add some multi-media too but I’m not sure of the legality of posting video so in this I’ll proceed cautiously.
I warmly welcome comments and want you to share with your friends and to share your observations; tell me how I’m doing; offer me encouragement, advice and support.
My therapist says contrary to the opinion of men, female desire is not an Original Sin, it’s part of the primal urge, has been since the first caveman dragged his woman by her hair into his cave; so please, don’t slut-shame me. As women, we’re all in this together.
My therapist also agrees I need to make up for lost time. Well, dear readers, consider what follows next as me making up for lost time.
My Story
__________________________________________________________________
Fifty Shades of Crazy
It’s Saturday night. I search for a guy on Tinder. (I love Tinder and plan on making it my default hookup app.) After five minutes, I find a guy I like. I swipe right, I wait. As usual, I look amazing so I know it won’t take long; I imagine once they get a look at me, guys find it very hard to swipe me left. And if you don’t know what I’m talking about by swiping right or left, crawl out of your cave and check out the app!
The guy I like finds me in five minutes; I knew it. He likes what he sees because he swipes right himself—obviously, otherwise how are we expected to connect? Soon, we’re talking to each other via chatbox.
His name is Christian—I know, a bummer, but it’s too soon to hold it against him. (So long as he doesn’t wear loafers with no socks, lol.) I don’t share my exact location but Tinder reveals that I’m downtown anyway, Lower Manhattan. Christian tells me he’s at KGB, the bar, on East 4th between 2nd and 3rd Avenues: a literary type, then, or a literary-type wanna-be who is simply trying to impress me. (On its website, the KGB bills itself as “a place where drinks are cheap and strong and the level of excellence is such that it has been named the best literary venue in New York City by New York Magazine, the Village Voice and everyone else who bestows such awards of recognition.”)
I figure it’s a toss-up that the guy either is well-read, pretentious or just cheap. I chat him up for a bit while I try to decide which.
I ask what he does for living because you can tell a lot about a guy by knowing how he spends most of his day.
investment banker
Cheap, then.
with who
solomon goldberg
Cheap and pretentious. Good-looking enough, though; according to his profile picture good-looking enough for me to want to proceed. I check the KGB website on my mobile phone to see what’s doing over there.
new york stories night at kgb–who’s reading?
right now amina tushara
I confirm that Amina Tushara is indeed reading tonight at KGB’s New York Stories series. So, Christian passes the first test of authenticity. I say:
ok-lets meet
i’m here n waiting
be there in 30
what are you drinking
mmm…lets see…you know the bronx
the borough or the drink
ha ha cute
its been said
and funny
that too
the drink btw
it will be waiting
I’m at the Blue Note and can be to KGB in ten minutes but I leave him thinking I’ll be thirty minutes anyway. I’ll creep him for a bit before I introduce myself, make sure he isn’t chatting up any other girls, make sure his profile pic isn’t an avatar and he isn’t, in reality, a troll: it happens.
I’m here at KGB. The place is packed. I’ve been once before. Someone onstage is reciting words better left said to a therapist. I’m almost embarrassed for the guy.
I’m searching for my guy now. There are a lot of people here so he doesn’t exactly stand out.
A tap on my shoulder; I’m startled. I turn, it’s him, Christian, standing there offering a cocktail which looks an awful lot to me like The Bronx.
“You got here early,” he says with a smile that tells me he also knows exactly why. He passes me the drink. “Let’s sit.” We do. Onstage, the guy is still reciting. “These days, everyone’s a poet,” Christian says disdainfully.
We clink glasses. The drink goes down like breakfast juice. He drinks something over ice: bourbon, whiskey? I’m not enough of an aficionado to know; Christian orders two more.
“Well?” he says.
“Well?” I say back at him.
“What do you think?”
“About?”
“About us.”
“There’s an Us already?”
Christian sets down his drink, leans forward at me over the table. Blue eyes: go figure. He says, “With these things, I find it’s easiest to avoid awkwardness and misunderstanding by first deciding if we each find the other fuckable. If we do, we make a night of it. If not,” he consults his wristband, which is a fancy Apple iWatch, “it’s still early enough to trade up.”
I’m not sure how to respond. I’m not offended—Christian is never meant to be anything more than a casual encounter anyway. Mostly, I’m pissed-off at him for being so transparent.
“Okay,” I say, “You first.”
“Well,” he says, making out as if to give me the keen once-over, “I wouldn’t kick you out of my bed.”
“High praise.”
“Your turn.”
Christian is good-looking. He wears socks and he does not wear loafers. With those blue eyes, he is highly fuckable. Not wanting to make it too easy on him, I say, “Well, Christian, before making a decision to trade up, I need to see the size of your penis.”
“Okay,” he says as if I am asking him the time.
We slip into the ladies, find an unoccupied stall where Christian drops his pants. He says he’s big but when a guy says that I know enough to trust but verify. With his pants down at his knees, I verify that Christian is what he claims: both long enough and thick enough to do what I need done.
We leave KGB. Christian orders a ride using Uber: pays in cash, no receipt, no record. Maybe he’s married and maybe I don’t give a shit.
We arrive at a paid-for-by-cash luxury furnished apartment suite I’d found earlier in the day on Airbnb. The apartment is vacant. Five hundred dollars for the night and the owner doesn’t ask questions—hell, he can barely even speak English.
“Nice place,” Christian says.
“Thanks,” I say. It’s okay that he thinks I live here. I offer a drink: tequila or Jack Daniels. (The booze belongs to me; the apartment is furnished but not with alcohol.)
In the living room, we do shots of tequila and make out. Christian is a good kisser. Through his shirt, I can tell he’s buff. I already know he has a big dick. I don’t know how many shots it takes before he has his hand up my top. I squeeze his dick through his blue jeans as if I’m rolling dough.
We move to the bedroom where we strip. Christian has done a commendable job of manscaping: his body is entirely hairless. I, on the other hand, am still sporting a full winter jacket. Christian stares at my bush; I can’t yet tell if it’s in wonder or in disgust. But his penis is still standing straight up and throbbing. I take this as a good sign. I retrieve a sports bag I have stashed at the side of the bed. I’d left the bag earlier, when I’d paid for the apartment and retrieved the key.
Christian watches me lay out the contents of the bag onto the bedspread, looking as if he’s just won the Powerball Lottery; when I show him the cocaine, his jaw drops.
We do a few lines, snorting off a side night-table. It’s really good stuff. I feel as if I’ve stuck my fingers in a light socket and my hair is standing on end. Christian’s eyes are wide, he perspires and his cock is bouncing around between his legs like a Jack Russell Terrier in a way only the owner of a Jack Russell Terrier can imagine. I clasp Christian’s face with a hand on either side of his head and draw him roughly toward me so that when our lips meet I can almost feel our teeth clank. He has powder residue on his nose and on his upper lip. I lick this off using my tongue. I stick my tongue down his throat. We kiss like we’ve been in love forever or like we’re total strangers. (One of my best lines, I think; hope they keep it when they turn this into a book.)
I mop up the remaining residue of coke from the night-table using my trusty, all-purpose tongue and as an offering slip it to Christian. I work it over his gums. In seconds, we’re on the floor, kissing and sweating and groping. His cock finds its way between my legs. It’s easy because we’re both so wet. We hump like this with me on top for five minutes. I disengage and take him in my mouth but I don’t let him cum. After a few minutes of this, I sit on Christian’s face. He works his way through my pubic hair, gorging as if I’m serving up his last meal. Within seconds, I grind down on his face with my hips: the first of what I hope will be a series of multiple orgasms.
On the bed, I lay on my tummy. I instruct Christian to bind me ankles and wrists and to choose from an assortment of mouth-gags. As I’m the one being tied up, I figure: dealer’s choice.
Now splayed on the king-size mattress like a giant starfish, secured firmly at both ankles and wrists to the four-poster bed-frame, I elevate my rump in cautious anticipation. Christian is still looking as if he’s won the Powerball Lottery.
Though my breathing is steady my heart thumps in my chest like a jackhammer. So this is it, the point of no return, I think. Earlier, I babbled something about safe words. Safe, hah! What good is a safe word when you’re lying trussed up and hog-tied with a three inch inflatable penis gag stuffed down your throat?
I’ve never before in my life felt so unconditionally exposed, so utterly and unabashedly helpless (but that’s the point, isn’t it?). I’m not a novice, of course, I’ve been with other guys and I don’t mean to imply otherwise. But here, gagged and lying hog-tied and spread-eagle on a bed with my ass raised to the ceiling like an open invitation, I wonder if it is this very sense of vulnerability, the thought of being ravished without being raped, that has me squirming like a virgin. And perhaps it really is every woman’s fantasy to be taken against her will by a man.
The room is dark, illuminated only by the lights of a Manhattan skyline visible through the open bedroom curtain, dominated in the near foreground by the mass of the One World Trade Center tower. The glass of the tower shimmers, made slick by a light, falling rain: wet, rigid, erect and appearing impossibly huge against a backdrop of smaller buildings. Inwardly, I cringe, embarrassed at my own choice of school-girl imagery, hoping that when it comes time to talk dirty, I acquit myself more admirably, if not more respectably.
From a corner of the room I watch as Christian approaches. In the dim light, his expression is benign, inscrutable. But his silhouette, my God, his silhouette is to die for. His penis is like an exclamation point drawing him toward me, declaring his true intentions: rigid, erect and—to me—impossibly huge; it quivers like a divining rod in search of water.
Jesus. Had I said it aloud? “Jesus,” I repeat more fervently, hoping to make myself heard through the muzzle.
I tremble. My breath catches. My nipples stiffen. My back arches. A warm sensation floods from my abdomen to my groin, my conscious mind surrendering inexorably and irretrievably to the unrestrained possibilities of my now overactive imagination. I struggle to all-fours, waggle my hips insistently, hoping to Christian that it does appear as an open and obvious invitation.
As if reading my mind, he climbs the bed. He kneels behind me. He kisses my butt cheeks. Using his tongue, he toys with the crack of my ass. à la Leonardo DiCaprio in The Wolf of Wall Street, he snorts a line of coke off my bum. He nuzzles and licks my bush; unexpectedly, I cum again. Rising to his knees, Christian teases my butt-hole with the head of his penis.
“Yes,” I say, expressing consent.
He tries to enter.
“Lube,” I say, instructing him on the finer arts.
Christian acknowledges this by sliding his penis into my vagina. He thrusts hard for two minutes. He thrusts real, real hard for five minutes more. For leverage, he places his hands on my shoulders. I can feel the blood leach from my skin at the point where his fingers dig into my flesh, deep enough for me to know it will leave a bruise. I know I’m in trouble when he twists his fingers through my hair, snapping my head back at an unnatural angle, pulling hard enough to almost remove my scalp.
“Fuck Fifty Shades of Grey, cupcake,” Christian says in a voice that sounds to me like what a snake would sound like if a snake could speak. “This is what real sex feels like.”
He enters me from behind: no warning, no lubrication, no restraint. I yelp. I think: well, I asked for it, didn’t I? I bury my face in the pillow and start to scream.
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