Fifty Shades of Puddin'

By Ash Robbins

Ambrosia Wood doesn't know what she's getting into when she goes to work at the trailer park owned by Curtis Brown, the Donald Trump of Hog Hollow, Tennessee. Can a simple girl who's fresh out of jail survive in his sexy world of bass boats and kink? Waders, mullets, and pork rinds—Oh, my! This is the parody where Fifty Shades of Grey meets Slingblade. It's redneck erotica, y'all. Who knew?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ash Robbins
• Release date: Feb 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301614288

Book preview

Fifty Shades of Puddin’

by

Ash Robbins

Based on idea

by

Ash Robbins and Christina Yielding

Edited by

Rachel Moore

Cover Art by

Ash Robbins

Copyright 2012 Ash Robbins All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is an obvious parody of the style and content of an obvious book. Any similarity of these fictitious characters to actual people is purely coincidental.

Special Thanks

To my beautiful and patient husband for putting up with a crazy artist for a wife; my children for understanding and not burning down the house; my parents for giving me a sense of humor and raising me in the South; my Grandmother for passing down her wisdom and her independent gene; my brother for helping in the grooming of my demented humor; my mother-in-law and extended family for their support; Machelle Gimes, Rachel Schimpf, and Ella Slayne for all those nights at IHOP; Rachel Moore for sedating the real editor inside of her to work on this grammatical prank; Mama Mary, Sprinkles, and the legal crew; all the Southerners out there who live their life proudly and can take a joke; Dolly Parton for just being the most awesome Tennessee gal ever; Joan Rivers for teaching me that it’s alright for girls to be funny; Francis Ford Coppola for keeping me from killing folks; and to my sister from another mister, Tracey Kepler, for being all that and a bag of chips.

And kudos to my original facebook fans. Thank you for supporting this crazy book and passing it along to friends, family, and everyone else you enjoy harassing: Mary Zelhof, Sally Page, the 50 Shades of Craptastic Grey ladies, Lori Otto, Kim Nelson, Vanessa Welch, Dan Leffel, Wes Porter, Doc Goodell, Linda York, Marcie Williams, Joanne Lowe, and all the rest of my precious, seriously demented fans.

Dedicated to Chris for being my unconscious, my Inner Dolly, and my JuJu,

and to

my grandfather, Foster Slatton, for calling me his puddin for all those years. I miss you.

Chapter 1

I scrunch up my face and glare at my ankle monitor. I’m pissed off like nobody’s business. I’m mad at myself for getting in so much trouble. I’m mad at the Walmart security guard for catching me. I’m mad at the friggin’ judge, and I’m real damn mad that I have to go on a job interview that I don’t even want all because of my roommate, Kandy Kane.

For some reason Kandy had to land two job interviews on the exact same day and she decided to take the one working at the office of the lumber yard instead of the one running the office of the trailer park we live in. She said she couldn’t pass up the lumber yard interview because working there would be like swimming in a river of potential husbands.

Carpenters can always afford a double wide, she’d explained. And if I was to snag me a foreman… Ooo, girl, that’s big time money. That’s an-above-ground-pool-and-a-Marshall’s-credit-card money.

She’s in the kitchen now, looking at her hooters in the reflection of the toaster. She broke out her good Sears bra and it does make them look like ripe cantaloupes floating on her chest. Her hair is freshly blonde. The box of bleach is sitting in the waste basket beside me. I’m even hating that wastebasket, but Kandy doesn’t hate anything right now — or ever — because she doesn’t have to. She’s always been the prettiest girl at the tractor pull and she knows it. I know she’ll get this new glamour job and forget about me — her mousy jail-bird of a best friend.

Didn’t this just work out perfect, Ambrosia? Kandy asks in her giddy I-just-scored-some-free-smokes voice. I mean, the judge ordered you to get a job close by and this is as close as it gets. You can walk to work.

Yeah, I answer, rolling my eyes. I don’t want to seem ungrateful because she was the only person who would take me in when I got out, but she’s still prettier than me and that still pisses me off.

I’ll be making good money and I’ll even loan you some work clothes while you get on your feet, she says, smiling at me over her shoulder.

Skank. I put on a fake smile. Don’t forget your red lipstick, I say. She looks better in pink.

You need to finish getting dressed, Ambrosia. You’ll be late for your interview and Mr. Brown is too important to be kept waiting.

Before Kandy had snatched up her interview at Dale’s Lumber she’d managed to get one for running the Pull on Inn Oasis Estates trailer park on account of the regular secretary getting hobbled by gout. The trailer park is owned by the one and only Curtis Brown. I didn’t know Curtis Brown from Charlie Brown, but I’d listened to Kandy go on and on about how he was a Mr. Somebody because he not only owns the trailer park, he also owns the tow truck company next to it, the washateria down the street, and three snow cone stands. He is the Donald Trump of Hog Hollow, Tennessee.

Well, I’m off. Kandy turns and gives me a big hug. Now you go show that Mr. Brown why you were already doin’ pre-algebra in the tenth grade and I’ll go show Dale why I got fourth runner up in the Miss Elk pageant two years in a row. She pushes up her boobs, wiggles her size-two hips, and struts out the door in her Mexican espa-zilla shoes.

I try one more time to pull my lace-trimmed leggings over my monitor. It looks like I have a big, square cancer growing under my pants. Screw it. I get up and go to the bathroom to look in the mirror. Kandy had insisted on doing my hair the night before, too. It’s Wynona-Judd-red and, I have to admit, better than the orange-blonde with three inches of auburn roots I’d had from my two months in the pokey. I’m wearing blue mascara to match my eyes and bronzer to cover my freckles. I put on some bubble-gum-flavored lip gloss, tuck my bra straps under my tank top, and head out the door.

The office is only a few rows over from our place, but it’s been raining off and on so the ground is pretty squishy. I try to stay on the gravel since I’m wearing Kandy’s cheetah print flats. I push my hands into the pockets of the jacket I also borrowed from her. It’s a navy blazer she bought off her cousin who’d worn it when she’d worked at the car rental store at the Jackson Airport. Her name is still stitched on the front, but we covered it with a flower brooch. This is as fancy as I’m getting for a job I don’t want.

I turn the corner and spy the office — it’s a trailer almost as big as ours but painted yellow with a small wooden porch built on the front and decorated with a single folding lawn chair. Some plastic flowers are stuffed in pots and wind chimes hang next to the silent bug zapper. A wooden sign hangs beside the door that just says office along with a mail slot with another little sign reading rent.

Before I get to the steps, the door opens and a woman comes out. She’s blonde and, I figure by the way she’s dressed, had just been interviewed for the job. Her bright pink suit jacket and short skirt match and she’s wearing a baby-pink lace camisole underneath. Her black bra peeks out and matches her black heels and zebra-striped purse. She has her hair pulled up in a ponytail with a perfect bump. The pink lipstick she’s wearing matches her suit and her hoop earrings almost touch her shoulders. Damn her professionalism. There is no way I can compete with her. I’m out of my league.

Don’t puss-out, I tell myself. I don’t want to let Kandy down. She’s an annoyingly-perfect bitch but she’s still my best friend. The blonde prisses past me with a smirk and I give her the look I learned from some of the black girls in jail that says I’ll shank you. She hurries to her fancy Kia and gets inside. I stomp up the stairs and open the door. Inside is another blonde. What’s with the blondes? I suddenly feel like I’m at an Aryan Brotherhood meeting with my cousins.

This new blonde looks up from the single desk in the room. She’s older than the last one. Her tan is dark like she’s spent a long weekend at the lake and her nails are acrylic with fancy designs painted on them by some of the Korean-ese folks at the nail place in town. She has on more pink ice jewelry than I’ve ever seen and her velour track suit says Juicy across her massive tatas. Everything about her screams money and I wonder why she’s here.

May I help you? she asks before leaning back in her chair and taking a sip of coffee out of her mug that says I went to Tunica, bitch.

Uh, I’m here for the three o’clock interview, I answer. I’m Ambrosia Wood. I’m taking Kandy Kane’s spot.

The woman looks at a clipboard laying on the desk, running her shiny nails down the lines and stopping. She nods. Yep, that name’s on here. What was your name again?

Ambrosia. Ambrosia Wood.

Did you fill out the application? She doesn’t look very impressed with me.

Yes. It’s right here. I pull the folded piece of paper out of my pocket and hand it to her. She looks pissed off as she unfolds it. She reminds me of the female guards at the jail - always acting better than the rest of us. I take a seat in one of the chairs while she reads over it.

The office is very clean. The curtains are pale blue with ruffles and the floor is green and white checkered linoleum. The desk, with its shiny oak veneer, looks like it came straight out of an Office Max. There are several art prints on the walls. Some are ducks and deer, but there’s also one that I’m pretty damn sure was done by that light painter guy I’ve seen on the home shopping show.

Miss Thinks-She’s-Paris-Hilton looks up at me and then presses a button on a little plastic box sitting on the desk. Curtis, I got Ambrosia Wood here for the three o’clock. She waits a second before a deep voice comes back through a lot of static.

Well, send her back, Cloreene.

Cloreene? Wasn’t that something rich folks put in their fish tanks or something? She hands my paper back to me and points to the other end of the trailer past the kitchen. There’s a single closed door at the end.

Well, don’t keep him waiting, she growls.

I hurry back towards the door but take time to admire the shiny veneer on the cabinets and counters in the kitchen. This place is spic-n-span; somebody runs a tight ship. I get to the door and knock. There’s no answer, and I wonder if I’m in the right place. I go ahead and open the door, but, when I enter, I rack my elbow hard against the door jamb.

God-damn-donkey-cock-sucker-asshole! I scream, grabbing my elbow and closing my eyes in pain.

Oh, screw a badger! I’m so embarrassed. Me and my dirty mouth. I’ve never been able to control it when I hurt myself. Two hands are on my arms and I open my eyes to look. Good God! In the name of all things moist and meaty, somebody tell me this isn’t Curtis Brown.

Ambrosia? he asks, touching my injured elbow with big, hairy hands. I’m Curtis Brown. That looks like it smarts.

I nod, unable to get words out. He’s tall, and young, and hot. Like Satan’s jock strap HOT! He’s got curly dark hair that’s shorter on top but goes past his collar in the back. He’s wearing a nice, new pair of jeans with a plaid shirt tucked into them. His belt is brown leather with a small leather pocketknife-holder hanging off one side and a pager on the other. I glance down and see he’s wearing ostrich-skin boots with crosses embroidered on the toes. He is money.

Would you like to sit? he asks and I nod. He puts his hand on my lower back to leads me to the green leather couch. It’s like a tiny firework show is shooting down my spine and into my pants. What just happened? Was it the Slim Jims I had for breakfast?

This office is just as tidy as the last one with the same green and white linoleum. But this desk is bigger and has a dark veneer. Behind it is a display of three different deer heads, each with an enormous rack. The only other thing hanging on the wall is over the couch. It’s another painting like the one in the first office.

Tommy Kinkade, I state before sitting down.

Yes, it sure is, he says, looking at me like he’s surprised and impressed. Did my auntie get you a drink? he asks, walking back towards his desk.

No, I answer.

She’s helping me out until I find a replacement for Bernice, but she never was one for goin’ above and beyond. He walks to the corner and opens a mini-fridge. He pulls out a Big Red and brings it over to me. I take it and he smiles down at me with teeth that I know have seen a dentist at least once or twice.

He takes my application from me and sits in a recliner next to the couch. I’m feeling very squirmy because my thoughts are not on the job. My crotch is twitching as I watch him read my form. He’s holding it in one hand while his other hand rests on his thigh, his thick thumb rubbin’ over his tight jeans.

I have to distract myself from that big, muscular thumb with the dark hair growing on the bottom knuckle. I’m feeling nervous and, before I know it, my mouth starts blabbering like it does when I get this way.

You’ve got a real nice place here. How’d you get so much so young? Double screw a badger! I can’t believe myself, but at least I wasn’t cursing again.

He looks up at me and I get a real look at his eyes; they’re green — the exact same shade of the lightest green in a good set of camo. Well, Miss Wood, he says, really emphasizing my last name like it tastes good to him. It’s simple — I like shit. He smiles and those damn roman candles start sparking in my panties again. I like to own lots of nice shit—expensive shit. To get all the shit I have, you have to work hard. You get up every morning, put your pants on one leg at a time, and then go out and grab the world by the balls.

So, it wasn’t because your daddy was rich? I ask before I can stop myself.

Hell no, he says with a grin that looks like a boy who just pulled the legs off a frog. My daddy wasn’t there for me. He’s never known what it’s like to have a real job, and then always whining about his cancer. I’m a self-made man. Men like me rise to the top and the weak go to work for us. He leans forward and looks at me very seriously. General Custer once said that wise men are those who know when to lead the weak and when to shoot ‘em.

He is definitely too big for his britches. So General Custer liked bossing people around too? Screw me. My damn mouth.

Yep. It’s good to be boss. It’s good to know you’re what’s between a man taking his family out to the Golden Corral or making them eat government cheese with the rest of the losers. He’s acting like a dick but, for some reason, I keep feeling nervous. Maybe it’s his big thumb rubbin’ his thigh.

He laughs. I’ve been telling you all about me but you’re the one applying for the job. I’m supposed to be asking the questions around here. He winks and looks at my application again. I’m curious why there’s White-Out where you wrote your name? He looks up and I can tell he’s laughing at me inside like I’m a Sunday morning cartoon or something.

I can’t tell him that the entire application is really the one Kandy filled out. I just covered her name with white nail polish and wrote mine.

I dripped sauce on it.

He just nods. So you worked at the Dairy Queen? What’d you do there?

Uh…just ran the register and made ice cream cones, I say. This is actually true. I worked there with Kandy my senior year of high school.

And what did you do at Shantay’s Hair Palace?

Just answered the phone and swept up hair. This is a big lie. I never worked there.

Well, Miss Wood, I have to say you don’t have any office experience to speak of. He looks at me over the paper and I feel disappointed. I didn’t want the job, but, for some reason, knowing I’m not good enough for it makes me sad.

I know. I uncross my legs and start to get up. His eyes widen and I realize he’s gawkin’ at my ankle. I tug my leggings back over my monitor.

Well, well, well. It looks like somebody’s been a naughty girl, he says, smiling bigger than before. Good Jesus. He really is hot. I didn’t think men this hot could