50 Shades of Reality (a Different Kind of 'Mommy Porn')

Note: The following story must be read aloud in your most sultry, sexy voice.
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Woman's feet lying on a red couch for chill out.
Woman's feet lying on a red couch for chill out.

Among the hottest books of the past four years have been the novels in E.L. James' Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy -- selling over 100 million copies. The books have been dubbed "mommy porn" for their vivid descriptions of explicit sex, erotic bondage and horrible dialogue.

The trailer for the film adaptation of the first book was released last July, creating more media buzz than a wardrobe malfunction. Now, after seven months of marketing foreplay (which is more than even the characters in the book can stand), the movie hits the big screen just in time for Valentine's Day.

Though I haven't seen the movie, I did peek at a few pages of the book. And fellas, I gotta tell you something: if you want to try and recreate scenes from this book with your significant other this weekend, it'll take a lot more than a bouquet of flowers. No, this craziness requires a trip to Home Depot and a notarized waiver signed by you, your wife and a representative from the Department of Homeland Security.

Way too much trouble.

However, if you simply want to increase your chances at romance this weekend, I have composed my own version of "mommy porn" for my wife. I gave it to her as a birthday gift a couple of years ago, and she was overflowing with desire after the first few paragraphs.

So, today I offer this to you as a free gift. A gift that keeps on giving.

Note: The following story must be read aloud in your most sultry, sexy voice.

Fifty Shades of Reality
by Scott Dannemiller

The look on her face was utter shock, but the sensation in her soul was pure bliss. He was doing things she had never before dreamed of. This was virgin territory.

"Is this how you like it?" He asked, a grin growing across his cheeks.

"That's right. Just like that," she answered, still trying to hide her surprise. "That's how I like it."

He gingerly grasped her panties between his thumb and forefinger. She leaned back and relaxed, breathing a heavy sigh. As she settled into the couch, he brought the delicates to his chin.

Tucked them underneath.

Folded them in half.

And placed them into the laundry basket.

A rush went through her body, climbing her spine and erupting out the crown of her head. As he grabbed her socks, it didn't take long for her to realize he had done this before. He didn't just ball them up like other guys. No. He took his time. Laying one sock on top of the other, and lightly folding them over.

"So precise!" she marveled at his technique.

"I learned this from an older woman," he confessed.

"My aunt Edna. She says it keeps the elastic from stretching. Don't worry. I've got this. I can go all night."

Her core filled with ecstasy. She watched as the neatly folded stacks of laundry rose higher and higher. Socks. Underwear. Shirts. Shorts. Reaching their peak. And just as she thought they might topple over, he moved each of them to the basket, arranging them by family member so as to efficiently distribute them between their final resting places.

"I'm going to leave you alone for a moment. I need to go put these things away."

As he walked down the hallway toward the bedroom, she watched his tight buttocks sway back and forth, disguised by his baggy gym shorts. Her eyes were distracted by something on the right hind pocket. What could it be? And then she remembered...


Just this morning, she had awoken to a sun-drenched room. There were squeals of delight coming from the kitchen. Yes, her prince had risen before her and whisked the children off to the breakfast table. There, he had lovingly prepared a meal. Toast. Milk. Fruit salad. And yes, oatmeal. Oh, the oatmeal. And not the kind from the paper pouch. No. He was too much man for that.

These were McCann's Steel Cut Oats. Steel. Cut. The kind that required warm water, heated to boiling. Heat. Hot heat. Then turned down to a simmer to bubble and roll. Full of fiber and tasteless. Nutritious. And he had somehow encouraged the kids to eat them. To eat them all. All except the blob that his daughter had dropped in his chair. The blob that now adorned his rounded haunches. Rugged and beautiful. Like the freshly cleaned kitchen cabinet doors he had left gleaming, scented with Clorox wipes and Endust.

As she paced through the living room and into the dining area, bleary-eyed and foggy from a good night's sleep, his voice cut through the clutter.

"It's just how you like it. Hot. And sweet."

She grabbed her cup of coffee and took a sip. He had lightened it with a heavy dose of Pumpkin Spice non-dairy creamer.

A real man remembers a woman's lactose intolerance, she thought.

She glanced up at him to see his strong hands wrapped firmly around the shaft. The shaft of the mop. Sweat covered his brow. He was moving gracefully. Back and forth. Back and forth. To the rhythm of beautiful music. Like Norah Jones singing the theme song to a Lifetime movie starring Meredith Baxter as a woman scorned, then finding love again after 50.

As she watched, his graceful movements increased to a quickened tempo. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back n forth. Backnforth. Bcknfrth. The music now more Beyoncé than Norah. His movements strong, yet controlled. The sweat dripping off the end of his nose.

It was a stubborn stain.

Grape juice? Spaghetti sauce? A smashed pea? No one could be sure. But what was certain is that he was dominating this kitchen floor. Unleashing his power. And she surrendered to it. Submissive.


She felt a warm breath on her earlobe, waking her from her flashback of the morning. The clouds parted ever so slightly.

"Lift your legs," said the deep baritone.

It was almost a whisper, hardly registering in her sleepy haze. She hesitated. What was he asking?

"Just for a moment," said the voice. "Then you can relax. Please. Lift your legs."

She had fallen asleep in the afterglow of the laundry. Fading into the couch like toddler spit-up. So much had happened since the folding. But she did as the voice commanded.

As she contracted her abdominals, finely honed by Zumba and Ben and Jerry, her feet broke free from the carpet.

It was like an orchestra. As she moved, so did he. Finely tuned movements. Sliding the great machine under her heels. The sight made the hair on her arm stand on end, like the nap of the carpet each time he withdrew the vacuum. The pattern he left on the rug was pure perfection. Abstract art with a purpose. With each pass, eons of pet hair and footfalls disappeared in an instant as the high-traffic area in front of the sofa was tamed. Her muscles were burning, but it hurt so good.

"Please don't stop. Don't stop! Don't stop!" she wailed. "That looks so good! "

"I have to." He replied.

"No! But why?" she asked. "You were almost finished."

"Oh, I promise I'll be back. But I have to go."

Anticipating, almost as if he was channeling Radar O'Reilly in a scene from M*A*S*H, he moved toward the hall bath. A tiny voice cried out, "Mommy! Wipe my bottom!" It was in that moment that she knew why he couldn't finish.

He bounded to the bathroom, still sporting the smashed oatmeal brooch on his behind, prepared for something dirty. Very dirty. She knew it well.

She scanned the house to find herself firmly ensconced in Camelot. Every room had been scoured. The wood floors were shining. The dust had all been wiped away. There was a crock pot simmering on the kitchen island. What could it be? Pot roast? Gumbo? Chicken and dumplings? It could be dishwater seasoned with floor sweepings, for all she cared. She hadn't lifted a finger all day, and it was nearly dinnertime.

The rest of the evening was a blur of activity. She was like the queen bee, with everyone buzzing around. Food was eaten without complaint. Dishes were washed and children bathed. Bedtime stories were read while she watched HGTV in the other room. She sat alone in her happy home, marveling at the man who made it all possible. Her heart swelled like the giant blister that now covered her husband's mop-pushing hand.

"You coming to bed?" he inquired. "I've got something planned just for you."

Her spine tingled. She looked in his direction. He had showered, shaved, and smelled like Irish Spring. Not the old-fashioned scent, but the new, fancy-smelling kind. Somewhere between Old Spice and Axe body spray.

"Oh yes." She delighted. "I'll be right there."

"I'll be waiting."

She changed into a tank top and slipped on her favorite sweatpants that she'd worn since her days as a Kappa Delta. She turned toward the bed and saw him. Ready. Waiting. Willing.

She slipped between the sheets and turned away, unable to look into his piercing hazel eyes. She felt a hand on her back. It moved slowly southward, then northward again, with a subtle pressure. A squeeze of the shoulder, a tease of the neck. Fingers through the hair. For 15 minutes his hands moved all over her, from waistline to necklace, relieving the tension brought about by the everyday. She let herself go. Free to enjoy the backrub.

A backrub without a future.

He slowly slid over and kissed her shoulder.

"I have a headache," he whispered. "I love you. Good night."

"I love you, too," she echoed. And, along with her gorgeous hunk of a man, she drifted off to sleep.




Scott Dannemiller is a writer, blogger, worship leader and former missionary with the Presbyterian Church. He writes the blog The Accidental Missionary, where this post first appeared. Follow The Accidental Missionary on Facebook.

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