50 Shades of Tyler Blue

The story so far:

It was a surprise that made me go wow and have a weenchy bit of acid reflux when he showed up in the door of my humble antiques shop in his custom made Bugatti Buttlicker with built in Jacuzzis and ground to air missiles.

“Wow,” I said again.

“Hello again,” he said. “Sorry about the door of your shop. I can give you the money to get it repaired because I’m a fantastically wealthy young man.”

“Wow,” I said. “Yes you are.”

I hadn’t expected to see him so soon after I’d received a call to go and value his father’s antique collection of codpieces at one of his many mansions the day before.

All the time I’d been there I’d been goose bumpy conscious of him looking at me, making odd groaning noises while gnawing repeatedly on his knuckles.

“Are you all right?” I asked at one point.

“You are an extraordinarily attractive young woman,” he said at last, dabbing at his ear with a bleeding knuckle.

“Wow,” I said, “and you are a very very rich young man.”

“Yes I am,” he said, “a very very very rich and young man.”

I’d moved to Los Angeles to find myself, but hadn’t managed to do it there so instead moved to whatever city he lived in. Almost immediately, his intense wealth and strangely heavy breathing told me that Tyler Blue was a most intense and rich young man.

“What do you think of this one?” he said, handing me an enormous black leather codpiece, “touch it. Caress it. Don’t be afraid to explore it. You can even lick it if you want. I’m sure it’s been washed at least once since the Middle Ages.”

“Wow,” I said, “it’s really big, isn’t it?”

“Yes it is,” he said, “really, really big.”

On and on we went down his unusually long hallway, looking at codpieces. I told him I’d never seen so many in one place before. “Oh, there’s plenty more where they came from,” he said, waggling his eyebrows moodily before wincing in sudden pain from a bleeding knuckle.

At the very end of the hallway stood a cement mixer. “What’s that for?” I asked hungrily.

“It’s the most special thing in my entire collection,” he said, “apart from my fabulous wealth of course. It’s the cherry on top of a very kinky cake, the vigorous climax at the end of a special evening.”

“Wow,” I said. “What does it do?”

“Well, er, normally it mixes cement.”

“Wow. And anything else?”

His bleeding knuckles grew impressively sweaty. His musk of Lagerfeld and BO became utterly overpowering as he began breathing rapidly and moving his hand around his scrotum like a spacecraft orbiting a distant asteroid.

“Well, you just climb up there,” he started to say, “and…” Suddenly Tyler Blue turned Tyler Red with a furious blush. “It’s too soon,” he shrieked, “too soon. And I’ve just remembered there are 560 more chapters.” He rushed past me and disappeared into one of his seventy two bathrooms.

Minutes later, as he emerged with a tourniquet around his knuckles, I gave him my valuation of his codpiece collection. He frowned moodily, his lustrous pea green eyes looking broody.

“Not what you were hoping for?” I said.

“No, it’s just I could make more money selling one of my lamps.”

“Well, if they give you pleasure.”

Tyler Blue was Tyler Red again for a moment. He regained his impressive composure by sucking on an unbloodied knuckle. “And of course I don’t need the money,” he said, “as I clearly have wads and wads of it.”

“Wow. I can certainly see that.”

“Yes. You can. Can’t you?”

“How on earth did you make it all?” I asked.

“Oh,” he said, “it’s something to do with computers.”

“Yes,” I said. “I thought it might be something like that.”

“Yes,” he said.

“But I can’t help wondering have I been wasting my time here?”

“Oh no,” he said, “I’d love to have you for dinner sometime.”

“Wow,” I said, “why not now?”

“My carving equipment is being cleaned.”

“I see.”

“But I’m anxious to compensate you for your time.”

“Oh. There’s no need.”

“No really. I am, as you have pointed out several times now, a fabulously wealthy and young man. Money is no object. Here, have a lollipop. Think of me as you suck on it.”

I did. Several times.

So it was with a big ‘wow’ of surprise that I watched him crash through the door of my shop the next day. An armed guard and blood drenched Rottweiler stood guard by the Buttlicker while he rushed towards me.

He seized me by the arm. “Ow, I mean wow,” I said.

“There’s something you need to know about me,” he said, peering into the depths of my soul from inside his RayBans, breathing right down into my colon with breath that smelled like a furious mix of Karl Lagerfeld and petrol.

“Wow,” I attempted to breathe back, “is it that you’re fabulously wealthy?”

“No,” he breathed back, wheezing a little now, “it’s that my parents weren’t very nice to me.”

“Wow,” I said, “I thought it might be something like that.”

“How devastating and true your womanly insight is,” the petrol fumes were starting to make me dizzy.

“And the best thing is,” I managed just before I passed out, “it makes all our dark disturbed sexual stuff perfectly ok for middle aged matrons to read about, because you’re damaged.”

“And fantastically wealthy,” he reminded me.

“Wow. And fantastically wealthy,” I said, before going unconscious and hitting my head on the antique floor.

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