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The erotic bondage novel Fifty Shades of Grey is now a runaway global bestseller. In it, a naive college student named Anastasia Steele is dominated by sadistic billionaire tycoon Christian Grey. Readers are clamouring for the next instalment. (Andy Dean/Andy Dean)
The erotic bondage novel Fifty Shades of Grey is now a runaway global bestseller. In it, a naive college student named Anastasia Steele is dominated by sadistic billionaire tycoon Christian Grey. Readers are clamouring for the next instalment. (Andy Dean/Andy Dean)

Road Sage

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The erotic bondage novel Fifty Shades of Grey is now a runaway global bestseller. In it, a naive college student named Anastasia Steele is dominated by sadistic billionaire tycoon Christian Grey. Readers are clamouring for the next instalment. Fear not, noble warm-blooded bibliophiles. Light a candle, run the bath, and prepare to be turned on.

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Road Sage presents the latest chapter in the world of sadomasochistic ecstasy: Fifty Shades of Grey: Driver’s Education.

Chapter One

Christian opens the passenger side door of his impressive black Audi SUV. It’s a massive vehicle. I mean, really big, and strong. The inside is decorated with taut black leather. He gestures for me to enter in an extremely menacing, yet understanding way.

“Please,” he commands. “I’m going to teach you how to park.”

I have never been so simultaneously frightened and drawn to a man. He seems really old, yet has the body of a young man. He wants to control me and know everything that I’m doing yet when he finds out what I’ve been up to he doesn’t get angry like other guys. He is an excellent dresser but in no way gay. I hope I pick up all his driving tips!

Christian drives us through the city. He bobs and swerves his Audi back and forth between lanes. The other drivers screech to desperate stops, trying to avoid colliding with us. They swear and yell. Jeez. This guy really likes changing lanes!

“Never signal, Anastasia,” Christian tells me sternly. “It shows weakness.”

His jaws clench. He checks his seatbelt. It’s unfastened. He reaches over, his hand caressing my seat belt buckle. He unfastens it.

Suddenly, I hear a BlackBerry ringing. Christian expertly takes his eyes off the road and rifles underneath his seat. He finally finds it, after almost killing two or three pedestrians and one cyclist.

“Grey,” he brusquely snaps into the phone. I hear a meek voice on the other end of the line.

Then I hear another ring.

“Here,” Christian instructs me as he opens the glove compartment and draws out his iPhone. I do as commanded and clasp the steering wheel. Christian is now driving an Audi SUV “no-hands” through a crowded city street while talking on two mobile devices and paying no attention to the road.

Where’s this coming from? He’s got me steering with a reach-over!

Christian puts hundreds of lives in danger. Weirdly, I find his total disregard for the safety of others liberating.

Soon, we’re at the shopping mall. Christian hands me a form. He looks at me with his eyes. “Before we begin driver’s education I need you to sign an agreement.”

“Agreement?” I reply.

Jeez, this guy uses big words.

“It says that you’ll drive exactly the way I tell you to but if you are ever arrested you won’t tell the police who taught you.”

His voice is powerful, imposing, it has potency, yet there is a condescension and contempt, which tell me I can trust him. I sign a lavish signature. This act done, Christian pulls his Audi diagonally across the last three available parking spaces.

“Firstly, know this, Anastasia. I park … hard. Secondly, never occupy less than three spaces. Thirdly, you don’t know yet what you’re in for.”

He raises his considerably lengthy hand and gestures to the space next to us. There, parked poorly, is my car “Wanda,” an old sea-blue VW Beetle given to me by Jose, a kind, handsome mechanic who is in no way interesting.

Christian puts his Audi in reverse and backs it into my Beetle, leaving a large dent. “Why are you doing this?” I cry, feeling both shocked and titillated.

“I have rules, Anastasia. I want you to comply. They are for my benefit and your pleasure and driving prowess. If you follow them, I will see to it that your driver’s licence is renewed and you even won’t have to pay off any of your parking tickets. If not, it’s public transit.”

“You’re a sadist?”

“I’m a motorist. I derive pleasure from inconveniencing and endangering others.”

So that’s what driving is all about.

“Your turn now,” Christian says solemnly. He raises his supple yet vulnerable physique from the driver’s seat and directs me into it. Before me I see a Volvo parked nearby. It’s a stranger’s car. They’ve done me no harm.

“Do it,” Christian instructs me. Oh no … Can I? How?

Instinctively I back out of my spaces and, as I do, the Audi grinds a deep scratch into the Volvo. I go forward. Ding. I hit a Camry. Then back again scratching the Volvo. Then forward hitting the Camry. I am pressed between these two vehicles, damaging both. Ecstatic fever grips me.

“Well done, Miss Steele,” Christian says. “You pass the first test. Now let us go to the drive-thru.”

Follow Andrew Clark on Twitter: @aclarkcomedy

Follow on Twitter: @aclarkcomedy

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