Fifty Shames of Earl Grey: A Parody Fanny Merkin (the giving tree read aloud TXT) 📖

same hospital I was discharged from earlier, and Earl removes his mother from the trunk. He hoists her in the air and plops her down into a wheelchair once we’re in the hospital waiting room. Earl’s mother is pale and unconscious. And possibly not breathing.

“Is she going to be okay?” I ask Earl, who is texting on his BlackBerry.

“Dr. Drew will be here shortly,” he says. “He’ll know what to do.”

“But I don’t think she’s breathing. Shouldn’t we do the Heimlich maneuver or something?”

Earl looks at her lifeless body. “She doesn’t look good, I’ll give you that.”

She pops her eyes open. “I never look good,” she mutters.

“OMG,” Earl says. “I thought I’d lost you again.”

“I’ll be fine,” his mother says. “All I want is for you to be happy. You kids go and do whatever it is you were going to do.”

“Are you sure?” Earl says. “We had some kinky sex stuff planned, but we can totally put that on hold.”

His mother shakes her head. “Go do your thing. If twenty years of pumping quarters into slot machines didn’t stop my heart, some little car crash isn’t going to.”

Earl kisses her forehead. “I’ll be back to check up on you.”

He takes me by the hand. As we’re leaving the hospital, he stops in the doorway. “Thank you for everything,” he says, placing a hand under my chin and raising my eyes to meet his. “I couldn’t face my mother returning from the dead without you by my side.”

Earl kisses me passionately. He’s so sweet that I temporarily forget he’s taking me back to his penthouse to show me just how sadistic he can be. For the moment, though, I enjoy his lips on mine.

Chapter Twenty-six

BEND OVER THE BED,” Earl commands. He has changed from his NASCAR jumpsuit into a black leather vest and flannel kilt. Rubber prosthetics are attached to his ears so that they appear pointed. I am only to address him as the Elfin Warlord Sliverin, he says. I am completely naked except for a pair of faery wings tied around my back. My faery princess name is Labiamajora.

“Stay,” he says. Earl leaves me bent over the edge of the waterbed. I watch the green lava hypnotically separate and clump back together in the lava lamp beside the bed. When I hear him return, there’s a faint jingling. What is he planning? My inner guidette hides in her tanning bed.

“The Elf Council has found you guilty of stealing mead from our supply shed,” Earl says. “How do you plead?”

“Guilty,” I say, exactly as he instructed me prior to our “scene.” I try to turn my head to see what he’s going to hit me with, but he orders me to keep my face down and eyes shut.

“I’m going to roll a standard D-twenty to determine how many times to paddle you as punishment for your crimes against Elfkind,” he says. I hear him roll the twenty-sided die on the nightstand.

“Nineteen,” he says.

Gulp.

“After each blow, you are to count out loud. Do you understand?”

I nod. I feel him rub my butt cheeks with his palms, massaging them. It feels good. Why can’t we just give each other massages? I close my eyes and bite my lip, ready for the beating to commence.

WHAP! I feel the full force of a flat object paddle my left buttock. The telltale jangling gives it away: he’s using his tambourine. I was expecting to scream in pain, but I have skinny jeans that hurt my ass worse.

“Count!” he yells.

“Wait, Slytherin,” I say. “Time-out.”

“Time-out?”

“Am I supposed to count once for each butt cheek, or does it count as one time for the pair?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” he admits. “How about we count each cheek separately. And it’s Sliverin, not Slytherin.”

“Okay,” I say. “One!” I almost add, “ha ha ha,” like the Count from Sesame Street, but I’m somehow able to contain myself.

“Good girl, Labiamajora,” Earl says. “The Elf Council will be pleased that you have accepted your punishment so eagerly.”

He swats me with the tambourine again. “Two!” I shout. It takes all my power not to giggle, as I just can’t get the Sesame Street Count out of my head.

Earl hits me a third time and I yell, “Three!” I finally let out a small giggle. Maybe if he was actually hurting me I would be able to contain myself. My butt barely even stings.

He ignores the laugh and hits me again. “Four!” I shout, immediately breaking down into uncontrolled laughter.

He hits me again, and again, and again. Every time he strikes my ass with the tambourine, I count out loud. And laugh. My voice gets weaker, and by the time we reach “seventeen,” I’m ready to tap out. I can’t take anymore. The pain from laughing is giving my abs a real workout.

“Count, Labiamajora,” he says sternly.

It takes all my willpower to gather myself. “Seventeen,” I say. I think I’ve finally contained my laughter, until a loud snort escapes through my nose.

“You think this is funny?” he says, paddling me again.

I’m laughing so hard that tears are running down my face now.

“Count!” he yells.

“I can’t,” I say weakly.

“Surely you know what number comes after seventeen? Or did they not teach you that at faery boarding school?”

“Yes,” I say, whimpering.

“‛Yes’ isn’t a number,” he says, smacking me again.

“Eighteen!” I scream. “Nineteen!” My legs buckle and I fall onto the floor in a fit of laughter.

When my breathing finally returns to normal, I pull myself up. Earl is lying on the waterbed, his head buried in his forearms. I sit down next to him and put an arm on his back.

“Get away from me!” he says petulantly.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I started thinking about the Count from Sesame Street, and then the tambourine was making that silly jangling noise, and you’re wearing those pointy ears, and . . . I couldn’t help myself.”

He lifts his head and stares at me with his gray eyes. “You think all of this is funny,” he says, waving a hand