Now with the advancement of technology and the “Fifty Shades of Grey” download to my Kindle, Saturday nights mean curling up on the sofa dressed in footed pajamas, ordering in pizza, and experiencing my own fantasy with Domino’s online tracking system.
Thanks to the delivery experts at Domino’s, an online “Tracker” has been engineered to keep customers up to date on the status of their order from the moment it’s prepared to the second it leaves the store for delivery.
I not only get to monitor the progress of my pizza, I get to engage in personal fantasy at the same time. I simply select a background theme and presto, I’m at a baseball game, a rock concert, or in an erotic romance novel.
With a click of the “Erotic Romance” tab, flower petals cascade down upon me as the sound of waves crash in the background. Before I can say, “Holy Cow! I’m on Google!” a handsome business mogul sweeps me away . . .
I begin by filling out the online order form:
Location for delivery?
Please be specific.
My virgin body is splayed across my homemade quilt . . .
Type of residency i.e. house, apartment, other?
You know how I like it . . . hot and oozing.
Special delivery instructions for the driver (i.e. knock, ring, text)?
Wear sexy ripped jeans, and ring my bell again and again . . .
I am informed that my deliveryman, Christian Grey, is preparing my order just as I like it and that he’ll arrive soon. I follow the progress of my order, and within thirty minutes my doorbell rings as scheduled.
I take a deep breath and open the door. I’m wearing my most flattering jeans.
Christian’s mouth drops open but he quickly recovers. “Good evening, Analisa, you look stunning.”
Jeez, he looks so freaking hot. I want to reach out and touch Christian’s copper wavy locks. He is dastardly good-looking . . . and he smells of body wash and pizza, an inebriating mix.
I gaze into his smoldering grey eyes. “Hello, Christian.” I glance down. “That looks so . . . hot. But forgive me, I didn’t order anchovies on my pizza.”
“Analisa,” he says, looking amused, “if you are not completely satisfied with your Domino’s Pizza experience we will make it right or you don’t pay. However, there is a special contract I’d like you to sign first . . .”
I gaze at him. “I know I will be completely satisfied. I’ll take the pizzas,” I say, taking hold of the warm pies.
“Good girl, Analisa. That will be $647.”
I am mystified. “For two pizzas? Why so much?”
“Analisa, you ordered 50 pizzas. I’m having the rest helicoptered in.”
“ I could have sworn I entered 50 for the address.” Double crap. “Are you certain?”
He laughs loudly. “Don’t get your panties in such a twist . . . if you are not completely satisfied . . .”
“Oh Christian,” I interrupt, “I am satisfied . . . with your white linen shirt, soft ripped jeans that hang from your hips, top button casually undone. The fantasy, I mean the pizza, is fabulous.”
“We aim to please.”
His head turns fractionally toward me, his eyes darkest slate.
I bite my lip.
He watches me intently. “I’d like to bite that pizza . . . and then I’d like to . . . Oh, f7*% the paperwork,” he growls and lunges at me, pushing me against the door.
Before I know it, he’s got both of my hands in one of his in a vice-like grip above my head, and he’s pinning me to the wall using a pizza box. Holy sh*&. His other hand grabs another pizza box and yanks the lid down. He brings his face forward and suddenly his lips are on my pizza, exploring it with his tongue. His teeth clamp down as he savagely tugs and stretches the cheese beyond oblivion.
My medulla oblongata is pulsating. I have never seen anyone eat pizza like this. My inner goddess tells me this is wrong, but holy hell is it erotic. “Does this mean you’re going to eat pizza with me tonight, Christian?” Holy sh&*. Did I just say that?
“You don’t know what you’re in for, Analisa. I plan to inflict pizza on you like you’ve never known.”
“You’re a sadist?”
“I’m a Dominos.” His eyes are a scorching gray, intense.
“What does that mean?” I whisper.
“It means I want you to willingly surrender yourself to me, in all things cheesy.”
“So you’ll get your kicks by exerting toppings onto me? Why would I do that?”
“To please me,” he whispers as he cocks his head to one side, and I see a trace of a smile. “It’s about gaining your trust and your respect, so you’ll let me exert over you pepperoni, mushrooms, anchovies, and anything else I crave. I will gain a great deal of pleasure and joy when you submit your order. The more you submit, the greater my joy – it’s a very simple equation.”
I frown at him as I try to assimilate this idea. “But why are you a Dominos?”
“Why is anyone the way they are? That’s kind of hard to answer. Why do some people like cheese and other people like pickles? Do you like cheese?”
He wants me to please him with cheese! I think. My mouth drops open. Please Christian Grey. And I realize, in that moment, that yes, that’s exactly what I want to do, even if he screws up my order. I want to please him with cheese pizza. It’s a revelation.
“Why, yes, I do like cheese!” I gasp.
“Good girl. I’ll be back for more . . . Laters, baby.”
He turns and walks back to his Audi A5.
“Wait! Shouldn’t I pay?”
“Yes ma’am. I’m waiting for you to pay.” Awakened from my reverie, I stare blankly at the pizza delivery guy who impatiently taps his foot on the ground.
I pay him. He thanks me and walks back to his 1975 Ford Pinto parked on the street.
“Holy F*&%$!” my inner goddess sighs . . .
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