50 Shades of Grey – Chapter Eight
So this is it: we have finally reached the chapter with the sex in it. Ana has just revealed to Christian that she’s a virgin and he isn’t happy about it. Not to worry though, I’m sure he’ll be gentle…
50 Shades of Grey
“I knew you were inexperienced, but a virgin!” He says it like it’s a really dirty word.
Ana has out-dirtied Christian Grey. Who’d have thunk it?
“May God forgive me.”
Show a virgin a kinky playroom and God will smite you. Do unspeakable things to fallen women in said room, however, and He’ll probably cheer you on.
“How have you avoided sex?”
Yes, how Ana? Given your lack of balance, I’m surprised you haven’t tripped and fallen onto a penis before now.
There is more drivel about Ana being a virgin. This is getting more air time than it needs. Move on.
“You’re biting your lip.”
“Don’t apologise. It’s just that I want to bite it, too, hard.”
OMG! You can’t say that to a virgin! Oh wait, yes you can.
“We’re going to rectify the situation right now.”
“What do you mean? What situation?”
“Your situation. Ana, I’m going to make love to you, now.”
Not after a speech like that, you ain’t.
The floor has fallen away. I’m a situation.
Christ, no you’re not. God forbid any young woman should read this and believe Ana and Christian’s crap.
“That’s if you want to, I mean, I don’t want to push my luck.”
Oh, never mind, it’s OK because he’s asked first.
He gives me a wicked grin, the effects of which travel all the way down there.
There? Well, I’m sure I don’t know what you’re referring to.
“We can start your training tonight – with the basics.”
Again with the romance.
He jabbers on about wanting her, and her wanting him. Regarding his ‘fucking hard, not making love’ policy, he says he will make an exception for tonight, or maybe combine the two…
He pulls me up into his arms so I can feel the length of his body against mine, this swift action taking me by surprise.
That’s not the only swift action that’s going to take you by surprise tonight, am I right? *high five*
“Please, Ana, let me make love to you.”
“Yes,” I whisper, because that’s why I’m here.
…in this book, as a character, whose sole function is to be fucked.
The enormous bed is ultramodern … On the wall above it is a stunning painting of the sea.
Isn’t the wall above a bed called … a ceiling?
He steps out of his Converse shoes…
I have Converses. You don’t step out of them. To liberate your feet you must tug at the shoes until they leap out of your hands and hurl across the room. It’s not sexy.
Christian Grey’s feet … wow … what is it about naked feet?
Could Ana have a little bit of a fetish?
“Do you want the blinds drawn?”
“I thought you didn’t let anyone sleep in your bed.”
“Who says we’re going to sleep?”
“Oh.” Holy hell.
Another example of Ana’s staggering capacity for being dense. He is standing half-naked in front of her, holding a condom, after having said “I’m going to make love to you tonight,” and she still thinks they’re going to sleep.
Leaning down, he kisses me. His lips are demanding, firm and slow, molding mine.
See EL James uses the lips as microcosms of the characters themselves? I must highlight this sentence, as the first example of any form of literary technique in the entire book so far.
He starts unbuttoning my shirt while he places feather-like kisses across my jaw, my chin, and the corners of my mouth. Slowly he peels it off me and lets it fall to the floor.
Alas, this horrifyingly ambiguous sentence follows straight after. He’s peeled off her mouth? Thank God.
I’m in the pale blue lacy perfect-fit bra. Thank heavens.
No, thank Kate. The one who dressed you.
He holds me against his hips, and I feel his erection, which he languidly pushes into me.
The word ‘languid’? In a sex scene?
I moan once more into his mouth.
Releasing me, he suddenly drops to his knees. He grabs my hips with both his hands and runs his tongue around my navel … He leans forward, running his nose up the apex between my thighs. I feel him. There.
If he gets her off using his nose, I’ll be mightily impressed.
He … pushes me gently so I fall on to the mattress. He lifts my foot by the heel and runs his thumbnail up my instep.
Nothing like a bit of sexy foot scratching.
“You’re very beautiful, Anastasia Steele. I can’t wait to be inside you.”
Holy shit. His words.
Yup, he’s a poet alright.
“Show me how you pleasure yourself.”
“I don’t,” I mumble.
Oh dear Lord, so speaks the robot woman.
He strokes her breasts until she comes, which goes a little something like this…
I fall apart in his hands, my body convulsing and shattering into a thousand pieces. … Oh my. That was extraordinary. Now I know what all the fuss is about.
All the fuss. Brilliant.
His finger slips through the fine lace and slowly circles around me – there.
In this context, the word ‘there’ encompasses a whole load of complicated shit. For a book supposedly so graphic, EL James keeps escaping to this conveniently vague term.
Pulling off his boxer briefs, his erection springs free.
He kneels up and pulls a condom onto his considerable length.
I’ve not heard it called that before. It feels like this is how someone wearing a monocle would describe it.
“Don’t worry,” he breathes … “You expand, too.”
Keep that dirty talk coming.
“I’m going to fuck you now, Miss Steele.”
Roger that, Mr. Grey. No really, roger that.
“Hard,” he whispers, and he slams into me.
Oh man, slams?!
“Aargh!” I cry as I feel a weird pinching sensation deep inside me as he rips through my virginity.
This isn’t erotic any more.
He moves slowly at first, easing himself in and out of me. … I moan, and he pounds on… I start to stiffen as he thrusts on and on. “Come for me, Ana,” he whispers breathlessly, and I unravel at his words…
Slamming, ripping and pounding does it for her. They’re going to get along famously.
I climax and splinter into a million pieces underneath him.
It was only a thousand pieces before. Stupid, crap first orgasm.
Two orgasms … coming apart at the seams, like the spin cycle on a washing machine.
You’re washing your clothes wrong.
“I want you sore, baby,” he murmurs … “Every time you move tomorrow, I want you to be reminded that I’ve been here.”
She really won’t need reminding. In fact, I’ll bet an awful lot of money that we won’t hear the end of this.
I come, loudly calling out a garbled version of his name into the mattress.
She falls asleep and wakes up to find him playing sad piano tunes in the living room, thereby demonstrating that he’s not just a walking penis, but also a complex character.
“Bed,” he orders. “You’ll be exhausted in the morning.”
Yeh she will, but not from listening to you play the piano.
Instinctively, I reach out to run my fingers through the smattering of dark hair on his chest to see how it feels. Immediately he steps back out of my reach.
He seems to have a thing about his chest. He kept his shirt on during sex. Could there be some sort of secret afoot? I can hardly bear the mystery.
Read Chapter Nine.