So. A version of 50 Shades of Grey where Mr Grey is ugly and poor would be interesting.
Here’s what I have so far:
“Get in,” he commands.
I didn’t know he was going to turn up, again, outside my office. I didn’t even know I wanted him to. But standing outside the old Hyundai Accent — with its cracked windscreen and sprawling rust, with the multi-coloured panels and distressed sounding engine — makes me realise just how much I’ve missed him.
I claim the passenger’s seat and buckle up. My inner goddess is all about safety.
Ghristian Crey runs his cold grey eyes over me, lingering for a moment at where my miniskirt ends and my bare thighs begin. I feel flushed at being so close to him. I breathe in his intoxicating scent. Lynx Excite with a hint of sweat. Just like a man ought to smell. There is also the distinct aroma of stale fast-food, and I kick away an old Big Mac container by my feet.
Everything about Ghristian is rough and dirty, and the thought of what sex with him might be like makes me wet. I’d worry about leaving a stain on the seat, if it weren’t so stained already.
As we speed off, with a shutter and rasp, I suggestively touch the gearshift with my index finger. The nob comes off and disappears under my seat. I gasp.
“Sorry love, it’s a bit of a pit in here,” he says, his voice high and whiny and in contrast to his stout, manly body. Like the delicate sound of a clarinet coming from a trombone.
“It’s OK,” I say, biting my lip.
“As soon as I get a job, I’m gonna trade in for some new wheels.”
It’s raining outside and I’m cold, in spite of the fire burning inside me. I turn the dial for the heating but it too comes off in my hand, followed by an aggressive whirling sound and the smell of petrol.
“Oh yeah, and the heating is bust,” he says, watching my nipples harden beneath my sheer blouse, “You should have worn a coat, love.”
“Why did you come for me?” I whisper, biting my lip.
“You are mine, that’s why. You are mine to get whenever I want.”
“But I need to get back to work. I’ve only got half an hour for lunch. My manager will be pissed.”
“You do what I say from now on. I am your boss. And I say take off your panties.”
I obey, because I can’t say no to him. He’s got me under his power. As I wriggle out of my panties, I vaguely wonder who will pay his rent if I lose my job. I hand him the panties and he smells them greedily.
I like seeing him smile. He doesn’t very often, probably because of his missing teeth, but I like it when he does. I look at him while he’s driving, admiring his distinguished head. A large dome, bare and a bit sunburned, surrounded by a soft moat of hair. Oh God, why does he have to be so irresistible?
I reach across and caress his impressive potbelly, rubbing my hand over its rotund rise and down to his crotch. I undo the zipper and liberate his erection.
Screw my inner goddess, I think, as I unbuckle my seatbelt.
People are, of course, entitled to enjoy their quick fixes. In between all the organic kale, we all crave something deep-fried every now and then. As readers we can indulge. As writers, it’s useful to consider the value of having something to say. If you have a point, a message, an idea, or an observation you can throw in all the anal fisting you want. The sex will work, if the characters having it are more than cardboard cut-outs.