Linotte Reads “Fifty Shades Darker”: Chapter Eighteen

Happy Wednesday afternoon! Let’s get through it with some laugh-out-loud zingers from Fifty Shades Darker. Trust me, this will be the best way to spend your break time!

Christian continues to drive past single-story, well-kept, clapboard houses where kids play either clustered around their basketball hoops in their yards or cycling and running around in the street. It all looks affluent and wholesome with the houses nestling among the trees. Perhaps we’re going to visit someone? Who?

“Will you keep an open mind?” he asks.
I frown.
“Christian, I’ve needed an open mind since the day I met you.”

No, you’ve needed someone to ask you what the fuck do you think you’re doing since the day you met him.

The dark wood doors open, and a woman with dark brown hair, a sincere smile, and a sharp lilac suit stands waiting. I’m grateful I changed into my new navy shift dress to impress Dr. Flynn. Okay, I’m not wearing killer heels like her–but still, I’m not in jeans.

But she’s a special snowflake! She doesn’t need to wear heels!

In the distance lies Bainbridge Island, and further still on this crystal clear evening, the setting sun sinks slowly, glowing blood and flame orange, beyond Olympic National Park. Vermillion hues bleed into the sky–opals, aquamarines, ceruleans–melding with the darker purples of the scant wispy clouds and the land beyond the Sound. It is nature’s best, a visual symphony orchestrated in the sky and reflected in the deep, still waters of the Sound. I am lost to the view–staring, trying to absorb such beauty.

Doesn’t this sound like a really bad imitation of both Stephenie Meyer’s writing and a Van Gogh painting?

Downstairs in the basement there’s a cinema–Jeez–and game room. Hmm . . . what sort of games could we play in here?

I don’t know. Maybe Chutes and Ladders or Uncle Wiggly? How about Scrabble? You can never go wrong with Scrabble!

“Do you like being rich?”
“Yes. Show me someone who doesn’t,” he says darkly.
Okay, get off that subject quickly.

I take a deep breath and head back out into the club. I mean, it’s not as if I haven’t gone panty-less before. My inner goddess is draped in a pink feather boa and diamonds, strutting her stuff in fuck-me shoes.

I hear his sharp intake of breath–he’s not so immune. Good, I am finally getting to him. My inner goddess fist-pumps the air above her chaise longue.
Keeping my eyes locked on his, I take the spear in my mouth, and suck, gently . . . delicately . . . on the end. The hollandaise sauce is mouthwatering. I bite down, moaning quietly in appreciation.

Interesting visual here: Frank N. Furter reclining on a chaise longue just like in that famous painting of Juliette Recamier, wearing a pink feather boa and fist-pumping the air. Also, performing fellatio on an asparagus spear?

“We will fuck in the car at a time and place of my choosing. Right now, I want to take you on every available surface of my apartment.”
It’s like he’s addressing me below the waist . . . my inner goddess performs four arabesques and a pas de Basque.

So he’s talking to her vajayjay? Also, does Ana have the entire cast of The Nutcracker performing in her head?

“Do you know how much you turn me on?”
“What?” I pant. “No . . . I . . .”
“Well, you do,” he mutters, “all the time.”

And that’s it for this week!