Fifty Shades of Lies

  Fifty Shades of Lies

  Charlize Benett

  “Is this man a gift from God, a Demon or the real Master of the Universe?”

  A young, beautiful model, Grey-Ana, goes on a reality show audition, impersonating her twin sister Bleu-Rae, who has taken ill and could not attend. She encounters, the young, ever so gorgeous entrepreneur & CEO, Mr. Steel Maximillion, the creator of “Who Wants to Marry a Billionaire.”

  The worldly, smart-ass Grey-Ana is remarkably startled by his perplexity, yet charming and intimidating demeanor. She wonders if she has fallen into a trap, or is initiating for an occult of some sort. Despite this, Grey-Ana finds she now wants the star-role on the reality show, and she desperately wants to get close to Steel Maximillion.

  Unfortunately, she was only there as a stand-in for her twin sister. Unable to resist Grey-Ana’s beauty, wit, and tenacious spirit, Steel admits he wants her, too—but on his own terms. Grey-Ana must lie to him, on his demand. She didn't sign-up for this! Shocked, yet thrilled by Steel’s unimaginable erotic tastes, Grey-Ana hesitates to lie. She doesn’t understand his need for her to lie to him. She has certainly had her fair share of slut-a-thons, but she was a virgin at lying. Her lifelong fear is to utter a lie.

  For all the trappings of success—his multi-million dollar TV series, his vast wealth and good looks—Is Steel the man of her dreams, or a demon, and the real Master of the Universe!? Will Grey-Ana be forced to choose between lying or selling her soul to the devil? When the couple embarks on a daring, sinuous physical affair, Grey-Ana discovers Steel Maxmillion’s VAST secret and explores her own fantasies too! Sizzling erotic and stunningly amusing; this book will keep you turning the pages.

  Fifty Shades of Lies is a parody that will give you what all other Shades of Anything won’t—it will possess you, make you burn and will stay with you for all… eternity!

  This book is intended for mature audiences.

  Charlize Bennett

  FIFTY SHADES OF LIES

  I frowned at myself in the mirror. Damn my substandard average lips—I think they are so frick’n thin; well at least in comparison to my sisters—and damn Bleu-Rae for being sick and subjecting me to this outlandish ordeal.

  As I was getting dressed, I inwardly cursed Rae and my thin lips all morning long. I tried to apply my lipstick, but it kept bleeding passed my lip-line and onto my skin. Not cute.

  I recently had read in a beauty magazine that if you purse, suck and bite your lips, constantly, this action will cause the blood to surface, hence, temporary making your lips appear larger. Think, nineteen-seventies, the way little tarts allowed men to suck on their necks, giving them a half a dozen, tacky hickeys. Eww. I hoped this part of history does not repeats itself.

  Anyway, to plump up your lips naturally, do a pursing, sucking and biting daily mantra, kind of like giving someone a hickey. They article claimed the side effects to this ritual are quite remarkable. Aside, from the consequential swelling, if done subtly, the beauty advisor emphasized the word subtly, guys will find all this kind of sexy. So purse your lips—don't forget to bat your lashes while flashing your man coy little bites to your bottom lip here and there.

  In the mirror these facial contortions looked kind of retarded to me, but I was willing to try anything. Curl, purse and bite. There were five words of caution: do not over do it. This could cause bleeding, bruising, and make you look like an imbecile in the midst of being seductive. I kept that in mind.

  I recited this five times as a mantra whilst I tried, once more, with fattening my lips up. I quickly applied a thick, gooey plumping gloss over my tender lips. This helped. It really did, but not enough. I wanted Angelina Jolie lips. God, what we do to ourselves to look beautiful is outrageous, at times. Nonetheless, I knew the day was coming where I would concede to painful lip injections. I bit my lower lip. Hard.

  “Ouch. Fuck. That hurt,” I whined out loud from the self-inflicting pain.

  Before exiting the bathroom I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. Wow. Damn. This biting mantra might work after all. My lips already appeared more swollen. I tossed my head from side to side. Don’t hate me because I am beautiful. I hastily threw my make-up bag under the counter and excited the bathroom. I didn’t want to be late for my—no Bleu-Rae’s, TV interview with Mr. Maximillion.

  Bleu-Rae is my sister—my twin sister. She had a once in a lifetime TV interview, and a chance to appear on one of the hottest reality shows, but, unfortunately, she had come down with a major flu bug. There was no way she could attend in her condition, so she asked, well, rather begged for me to go in her place. After all we are identical twins. No one could tell us apart if they didn’t pay close attention. We both had full big red curls, pale skin, rosy cheeks and large alluring blue eyes with the longest, thickest and the blackest set of eyelashes one shouldn’t be so lucky to adorn. In this case two of us were. Bleu-Rae once did a commercial for mascara, what a scam it was since she already started out with luscious lashes to begin with. There were two minor exceptions in our looks—this included one defining facial feature, and one body characteristic that we did not share; I was one inch taller than her, and she had much fuller lips than mine. However, she wasn’t born with big luscious lips; these were the handy artistry of Dr. Joel who gave her amazing injections.

  * * *

  When I entered the living room, Bleu-Rae was sprawled out on the sofa. An episode of Judge Judy was blaring on the TV. As usual she was reaming someone’s ass off. Blue-Rae was coughing and laughing her ass off too. Judge Judy is one of our favorites TV shows.

  “Turn that down. Jeez it’s loud enough to blind a deaf man.” I shouted.

  Hum, did I say that right? Oh well, it sounded quite profound to me. Similar, to what I had read in a Chinese cookie, once. God, sometimes I shocked myself—I feel I am fairly intelligent, witty and clever like one of my favorite authors, Earning Flemingway. He was this famous author that wrote the epic book called Love Story—I think. I believed, he became a drunkard and died of a broken heart—I think—well, all I know was he was a super intelligent man, just like me. Of course, in my case I am a woman. A friend of mine who is not very bright is always challenging me, telling me Earning Flemingway’s real name was Earnest Hemingway. What an idiot she can be at times… who would name their son Earnest? Seriously…

  Secretly, I felt somewhat honored that Blue-Rae had chosen me to stand in for her today. Okay, that’s a bit unfair, because choice has had nothing to do with it; she was downright sick and begged me to impersonate her. Technically, having me do this was all about saving her ass. She knew I didn’t want anything to do with lying. I had never told lied in my life.

  I had previously planned to go to the beach with some friends; to enter into a Miss California bikini contest. I should have been at the mall getting my pale skin bronzed at No lines r us Tanning salon. Instead, I was going to meet the CEO of this dumb show. Allegedly, Mr. Maximillion is an exceptional tycoon, who is a major benefactor for the show, kind of similar to the Donald’s role, as a media mogul, and owner of the Miss America Pageant.

  I had never really understood why this mega tycoon, Donald Duck was involved in the Miss America Pageant in the first place. Wasn’t hanging out in a fantasyland enough for him? I guessed they needed a mascot with ridiculous hair, someone who would not out shine the contestants. But, seriously why the Donald? A good friend of mine who was a past participant on the show said that the Donald was a real quack. She said, I quote, “He cracked me up… then fired me,” but that is another story.

  Back to Bleu-Rae, and how she got this gig. Her road to fame, as it was told to me, happened in a serendipitous way. Mr. Maximillion’s talent scout saw my sister’s photo on the wall of this
really cool pancake breakfast place in West Hollywood. This restaurant has a policy that if you can eat all your pancakes, which is like three pounds of dough, anyway, they will post your picture on the Wall Of Lame—I mean the Wall Of Fame. This wall is a real hot spot for advertising your mug—or to get mugged. Hollywood Dick are always there scouting for new talent. That is how this all began for Rae. The term Dick, is the alias name for a private scout, on the lookout for hot girls for big movie directors, producers and all that, yada, yada, yada. Your chances of running into a big Hollywood Dick, is very probable. If it can happen to Rae it can happen to anyone. The best advice I would give to a wannabe scarlet is to “stay alert,” because you never know when a Dick is watching you… so, be on your guard.

  Mr. Maximillion’s people contacted Blue-Rae and offered her this interview and a chance to be the next bachelorette on his show. She had never met him in person, thank God; otherwise there was no way I would have agreed to impersonate her. Rumor has it Mr. Maximillion is a very powerful player in Hollywood. He can make or break someone’s career, maybe even his or her life. I couldn’t believe he had this much power, but that’s rumors for you. I also heard he’s so fucking gorgeous, were talking blazing hot—hotter than the devil himself.

  “I don’t know if I can do this Rae.” I snapped at my sister over the blaring television. “Turn that down already. Shit. I can’t hear myself yell at you.”

  “Gray-Ana I’m sorry.” Bleu-Rae blurted back, as she stabbed the TV controller, turning down the volume.

  “You know I have never told a lie in all my twenty-one years. This is going to kill me. I just don’t—” She interrupted me.

  “You have to do this for me,” she whined. “It took me six months to get this interview. That’s a lifetime for me. I am aging fast. It will take another six to reschedule. Between Global warming and the dry air here I will look like a raisin, Botox won’t even help me.”

  “Lighten up… you will only be twenty-two, by then.” I rolled my eyes.

  “Yeah, in Cali that’s like forty-two, by then, all I will be considered for is that stupid has-been reality show. That’s it. That’s it.” Her behavior was so dramatic. She was good, reality show fans will love to hate her.

  “C’mon Rae, can’t I just blow him off… please?” I pleaded giggling at the realization of my double entendre. I think this went over Rae’s head.

  “No.” She stammered. “As one of the finalist—I can’t blow him off. It would ruin my reputation. Well,… on second thought, blowing him off might do wonders for my chances, if you know what I mean.” Bleu-Rae laughed and began to cough pretentiously. Of, course I knew what she meant. I said it first. I think she was milking this a bit. She wanted me to feel guilty.

  “Oh and that would be good for your reputation, huh?” I remarked factiously.

  “Jeez, just kidding. Please, just don’t be late.” She begged me in her rasping, really sore, throaty voice. “You’re going to do this for me, aren’t you?” Her lips curled outward, as she pouted. God, she had me wrapped around her pinky finger.

  I stared at her red-rimmed runny eyes, snot was draining from her celestial pink nose… I threw her a handful of tissues.

  “Of course, I’ll go Bleu-Rae. I just wish I didn’t have to lie about who I am. Maybe, if I don’t say… in so many words that I am you, it won’t count as a lie.” I murmured, my eyes flashed to the television.

  “Sure. Tell me tough, how are you going to that?” Rae’s voice blurred into Judge Judy’s, ranting voice.

  “I’ll think of something…” My voice trailed off, as I focused on the television.

  Judge Judy: You know how I tell when a 17 teen year old girl is lying? When her mouth moves!

  My stomach twisted in fifty-thousand knots. What Judge Judy was said was a sign, it was a bad omen. I was a virgin at lying. Something was going to go terribly wrong. I felt it in my soul. This was going to be the worst day of my life. I was going to lose my honor, my self-trust—If you can’t trust yourself, who can you trust? I may as well cut my wrist right now. Okay that’s a bit extremely—suddenly, Judge Judy’s eyes, they locked with mine; she scolded me. Don’t lie… that’s the devil’s drug. Once you taste it you will burn—burn—burn in hell.

  “Grey-Ana—Grey—Ana—Ana.” My sister’s voice jolted me back to reality. “You are not lying. You are just passing my lie onto Mr. Maximillion,” she firmly said, speaking with conviction.

  I stared at her for a millisecond trying to make sense of this. There was no use. I would have to work it out on my own.

  “Rae, you should go back to bed. Would you like a Vicodin to help you sleep?”

  “Yes, please, they’re in the kitchen cabinet.” I quickly retrieved her pain medicine, and poured her a glass of water.

  “Here, Sweetie.” I knelt on the floor next to her, and gave her the horse pill and water.

  “Thanks,” she sniffled, swallowing her medicine. “Here are my answers, please don’t fuck this up for me. I have faith in you.” Blue-Rae handed me a small sheet of paper. I stare blankly at her pre-proposed questions for the interview and her replies. “Memorize them,” she snapped, ordering me around.

  “He is going to know I am not you,” my voice was anxious. “I know nothing about this kind of thing,” I wistfully expressed, trying but failing to suppress my rising panic. “You’re the one who wants a husband, not me.” I shrieked, tearing off the fake lashes that I really didn’t need in the first place. Rae insisted that I wore them.

  “Why did you do that?” she hollered.

  “They’re ridiculous. I look like spider woman.” I argued, plastering the lashes on Rae’s forehead. She laughed and then so did I.

  “Okay fine. Forget the lashes. I guess you’re pretty enough without them. Almost, as gorgeous as me. So go. I don’t want you to be late,” her voice cracked, sounding like a dying victim. Using guilt tactics, again, I thought. “You can take my car.” Bleu-Rae said.

  My eyes brightened. I couldn’t believe that she offered me her car. Wow, she really wanted this opportunity. I actually felt very sorry for Rae. It was her dream to be on this show. There was no way I would let her down. If the shoe were reversed she would do it for me. I thought.

  “Okay… I‘m going… I’m going. Now, go back to bed, but, please make sure you eat something. You need to get well, so you can do this show.” I turned to leave. “Oh yeah, I made some soup for you. All you have to do is heat it up.” I stared at her fondly… only for you Bleu-Rae would I do this.

  “I will. Good luck… and thanks Grey-Ana. You’re a life saver.” Rae flopped back between the sofa cushions.

  “Yeah… yeah. See you laters,” I smiled wryly at her, grabbed her keys and headed out the door into our attached garage.

  * * *

  The roads were clear as I set off from Calabasas. It was early, twelve-forty five to be precise. I loved that we lived near Los Angeles, the city that never wakes up. I didn’t have to be in Santa Monica until two this afternoon. I was excited that Rae had lent me her car. If nothing else the ride would be fun.

  My stomach knotted—second thoughts—doubts were getting the best of me. I could not believe I had let her talk me into doing this interview. But, then again, Bleu-Rae could talk anyone into anything. To be honest, I couldn’t wait to see her on the show. God have mercy on the man she chooses. It was not that she would not make an exceptional wife—I think she might when the time comes. Hum, was that a double negative, followed by a positive? I hoped I didn’t just jinx her. God I was obsessing. Internal—dialogue—overload. I was feeling way too analytical. This is a nervous habit of mine.

  I swiftly made the curve speeding onto the ramp heading towards the 405 highway. I have to say her sporty BMW i28 convertible is so much more fun to drive than my Audi SUV. The miles had slipped away, when I put my foot to the petal.

  It was a very cloudy day, but, at least, it was not raining; it rarely does in southern California. The Los Angeles traf
fic was heavy. I only had an hour to go. I was feeling fairly confident that I should be able to find somewhere to park. Thank heavens for the Sat Nav on the i28 otherwise I’d be royally screwed.

  As the miles melted away, I thought about what kind of wife my sister would make.

  Rae is super outgoing, creative and everyone falls in love with her charms. She can be a bit argumentative, lazy and extremely messy, but most men overlook these character flaws because she is so beautiful, slender and stacked with a perfect set of C cup tits. The rest of her figure—36-23-34—is perfect, as well. Identical to mine. Did I mention she loves to have monkey sex, too?

  Life is about give and take, a fine balance, like a good wine. By the way, Blue-Rae loves expensive wines. The man she picks will definitely have to learn the meaning of the word compromise. He will have to know how to cook, do her laundry and train her little shit-head dog. Prince, is three years old and still poops and pees all over our house. On second thought, her new hubby will have to do all the housekeeping. Forget compromising. I know Rae will not be doing any of the chores, making beds, cleaning toilets, or dishes. Nada. If Rae has to lift a finger, it will be to pick her nose. At home her skinny-girl ass will be plopped down on the sofa, with a glass of vino in one hand, and the TV remote in the other. I hate how she flips through the channels like a fish out of water, tuning into every reality show—she even records them, and tweets about them. She’s obsessed.

  Her favorite song is Marry Me. When her last relationship ended a few months ago, she was very depressed. She sent him a love dedication on the well-known radio show, Delia After Dark. The song dedication was Love Don’t Run. Despite, Rae’s efforts, her boyfriend ran and fast, all the way to New York City. I felt awful for her.

  Poor Rae, she really wants this show and she wants to be married. Wait, only if he is a mega rich man.

  What man would not love Bleu-Rae? I adore her. The little voice in my head is rolling her eyes. Okay, it’s true, Rae-Rae loves to be spoiled and she loves to spend money. But, the kind of men she goes after—they have it to spend on her, so why not? Perhaps, this man will get her a housekeeper. God, help her. The housekeeper that is…