Dear “51 Shades Of Brown” fans, before we get to the brand new excerpt, I just wanted to reassure you that I am alive and well. Since the presidential election in November, it has been a challenge to muster the wherewithal to deliver another sexy excerpt, but you all have given me the motivation.
As you can see above, this site is more internationally popular than ever before! People in remote villages have been periodically checking in on the Brown Knight’s adventures. #humbled #blessed
Please spread the word about http://www.51shadesofbrown.com — not only to your family and friends, but also to anyone you happen to see in public. Word of mouth is key. And the website is super easy to remember.
And now, time for the new excerpt….
51 Shades of Brown, (BONUS) Excerpt #45 [Chapter 181]
She wished, and even prayed, that she had just endured this indignity for the very last time ever. She couldn’t take it any more.
Anastasiya Viktoriya Kournikovasharapova had heard about the conditions in the gulags where her ancestors were forced to survive, but never did they have to tolerate being defiled the way that she had.
The unforgiving, frigid Russian air chilled her bones tonight more deeply than ever before. Perched on the luxury hotel balcony, smoking a post-coital cigarette which failed to ease her emotional suffering, she began to shiver. She cocked her head back to chug down a shot of vodka distilled in her mother homeland, hoping to offer herself a momentary respite from the cold. Yet even this warming elixir failed to drown away her profound sorrows.
Suddenly, she shuddered when he surprised her from behind by caressing her erect goosebumps with the small fingers on his extremely tiny hands. Her visceral disgust felt as though it was about to boil over.
“You were tremendous in there. Just tremendous. In a bigly way,” whispered the orange-skinned predator, clad only in a bathrobe with an over-sized embroidered “45” ostentatiously emblazoned on the back side. “You and your colleagues in there made my head spin. Just tremendous. Did you like how I walked into the hotel and grabbed you without consent? I’m a celebrity. I can do anything. A lot of people don’t know this, but that’s the definition of sexual assault. I actually invented those words. I use the best words. I’m really very smart. Covfefe.”
The haunting sound of Tic-Tac pellets bouncing off the walls of his pocket-sized container, as he extracted a candy and placed it on his reptilian tongue, made her want to vomit. The bright orange colored breath mints matched the tint on his shriveled, wrinkled skin.
Anastasiya Viktoriya Kournikovasharapova never wanted her life to come to this. She never dreamed that she would end up selling her own body to the night, but Putin’s corrupt regime had brought her to her knees.
So here she was in the executive suite at a hotel arranged by Putin himself, forced with other women to perform golden showers in front of this vile excuse for a man.
This was not her first time participating in the sordid ritual for this particular celebrity, but on this occasion, she felt particularly disturbed by his unimpressive, microscopic package, which looked like a reluctant sea turtle’s head barely poking out of its shell. He had defensively declared that he was experiencing “shrinkage,” but all the women present knew that the air was in fact warm within the temperature-controlled hotel bedroom. She couldn’t purge from her mind the horrifying image of his Cheeto-color spray tan smudging from his flabby body onto the bedsheets as he laid there nude to witness this orchestrated, shameful act by her and her female coworkers.
Just as the bile began to rise up her throat and she prepared herself to violently spew projectile vomit, Anastasiya Viktoriya Kournikovasharapova noticed sudden movement among his security detail within the hotel room, as a strong door knock echoed through the chamber and out to the balcony.
“Oh goodie! It’s room service! My order is finally here! I’m starving! Oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy…” he repeated as he charged inside.
Through the disturbance in the room, she noticed a bellhop pushing in a dining cart which ended up being parked in the hotel room within a meter of the balcony where she stood. She observed the bellhop methodically surveying his surroundings. As he scanned the room, he ever so slightly turned towards the balcony to convey a disarming, devilish grin directed at the curvy Russian woman. At that moment, the bellhop’s face came into view and she realized that it was him.
The international man of mystery himself. The Brown Knight in disguise. Sri-Sheshadariprativadibayankaram. A man among men.
His brilliant disguise initially fooled her, because she had never before seen this world-famous hero without his signature mustache. Yet here he was with what appeared to be cleanly shaven skin above his upper lip, which glistened from the coconut oil which had been meticulously applied to his entire body.
Right then, for the first time ever when she had been in the same room with that perverted American, she felt safe. Protected.
She could no longer suppress her desire to finally enjoy pleasures of the flesh again without the pretext of degradation. And she wanted to do that with him. He was the one.
She had never before been with an Indian man, but it had always been one of her deepest desires, as is the case for virtually all women in the world. She knew that behind every successful woman was a strong Indian man. And, good heavens, did she want the Brown Knight behind her.
Life without ever having enjoyed an Indian man would be akin to going through life without ever tasting crushed red pepper sprinkled onto a slice of pizza. She couldn’t go on eating Totino’s frozen pizza; she wanted a more sophisticated pizza slice for once in her life.
If he was a Slurpee, she was dying to slurp. She was thirsty. And she could smell the aroma of Indian spices emanating from his body, which only served to further whet her appetite. The legend of the man who launched a thousand tastebuds was overwhelming.
This debonair Indian sex symbol had reinvented the wheel, and made it even better. If he were a bird, he would sleep in…and still get the worm. He was not just an Indian alpha male; he was the alpha male.
Sri-Sheshadariprativadibayankaram turned towards the divisive spray-tanned monster, pulled off the elegant metal plate cover, and revealed his room service order: an overcooked, rock hard, well done steak, with a small bowl filled with coconut chutney to be enjoyed as a garnish.
The orange man-child, after seeing the Indian condiment, flipped out with an epic meltdown.
“Where’s my ketchup?! I always have my well-done steaks with ketchup!!! Get me daddy–I mean, Vladimir—-I mean Mr. Putin on the phone! RIGHT NOW!” yelled Cheetolini as he stormed into the bedroom & slammed the door behind him in yet another one of his typical, childish tantrums.
“If he cries, he cries,” whispered the unsympathetic sultry Russian sex industry professional.
During the commotion, as members of his security detail raced behind him to appease the spray-tanned clown with lollipops, the Brown Knight casually picked up a folder on the hotel table with the label “Dossier” on its cover, and slipped it under his bellhop jacket. Sri-Sheshadariprativadibayankaram was covertly playing 4 dimensional chess while everyone else in the room was playing checkers. In one motion, he lifted the tablecloth of the dining cart facing Anastasiya Viktoriya Kournikovasharapova to reveal a hidden compartment on the lower rack, and he twitched his head to indicate his instructions to her.
She quickly climbed into the dining cart before he covered her hiding spot with the overhanging tablecloth and then pushed the stowaway through the hotel room door and down the hallway. She lifted up the tablecloth to catch a glimpse of her savior, just as he ripped off the fake skin above his lips, thereby releasing his engorged, thick, lustrous mustache which had been hidden beneath but now burst outward and seemingly throbbed. As the coconut oil residue from his mustache cover sprayed onto her milky white Russian skin, Anastasiya Viktoriya Kournikovasharapova moaned to the Brown Knight “I’m starving.”
Sri-Sheshadariprativadibayankaram gallantly pushed the cart down the hallway into another hotel room, which had already been adorned with rose petals & dimly lit by candles, and whispered in response “I’m pleased that you’re hungry; tonight, Indian is on the menu.”
The Brown Knight, still cradling the dossier against his bosom with his daring Indian intelligence mission impeccably accomplished, gently closed the hotel room door for privacy to celebrate the spoils of his victory…