Updated on August 5, 2015
50 Shades Darker – Chapter 11
After Christian threatened to lock Ana up if she didn’t take a bodyguard to work with her – although why she needs to work at all, goodness knows (honestly, that’s his opinion) – they played a game of pool. We left him about to pot a ball. Shortly before she pots his balls. Wahey!
50 Shades Darker
Christian taps the white ball…
There’s a lot of detailed description about the ball going into the bloody pocket. It goes in, that’s all we need to know.
“You’re not going to be a sore loser, are you?”
“Depends how hard you spank me,” I whisper.
AH HA HA HA.
“…waving your delectable derriere at me…”
Yes, he called it a delectable derriere.
His eyes glow a soft grey with excitement.
They don’t glow grey. They ARE grey.
He tells her to get naked. There’s more innuendo which is REALLY HILARIOUS and NEVER GETS OLD. He takes her clothes off her, rubs his nose on her thigh, and he says he’s going to be quite rough with her because she’s been basically telling him to be all day.
He leans over and picks up the cue.
Oh fuck, what’s he going to do with that?
Bloody hell, from vanilla sex to penetrating her with a pool cue?
“Why don’t you sink the black?”
Oh. I guess not.
…my inner goddess grabs a rose between her teeth and starts to tango.
Like the insufferable attention whore she is.
“…if you miss this time, I’m really going to let you have it.”
What? Have what?
His penis. Come on, you’re not that dense.
He keeps stroking her bum and slapping her so she misses the shots. She goes to take the final shot and he gives her a kiss on each arse cheek. You know, for luck or something. She misses again and he tells her it’s spanking time.
I close my eyes and absorb the pain…. I am crossing to the dark side.
You’re enjoying light spanking. It’s not THE DARK SIDE.
Slowly he sinks into me, filling me. I surrender, exploding around him – a draining, soul-grabbing orgasm.
Yoink! Got your soul!
“You never fail, Ana. You are beautiful, bright, challenging, fun, sexy…”
Yes, you are, reader. Go on, keep buying my books. Don’t they make you feel good about yourself?
“Tomorrow – when I go to work – can Sawyer just deliver me to the front door of the office, then pick me up at the end of the day? Please, Christian. Please,” I plead.
There’s something seriously wrong with your relationship when you’re pleading for your freedom.
“You won’t go out? Okay.”
I beam at him. “Thank you.”
I don’t see how anybody anywhere can have a shred of respect for Ana.
The next day she gets up and makes conversation with the help (ie: the woman who’s making her packed lunch and the man who’s driving her to work). She gets to work and what does she do? Emails Christian incessantly.
“Christian, are you asking me to move in with you?”
Well, they are in a stable, healthy relationship, so it’s probably a good idea.
“I’m going to that Fiction Symposium in New York on Thursday … [says Jack, her boss] … I’d like you to come with me.”
An overnight trip away with her boss? Christian will probably be fine with this.
“I’ve been asked to go to a conference in New York on Thursday.”
“If it’s with that sleazeball you work with, then the answer is no, over my dead body.”
It really wasn’t a question.
She calls him out over email, telling him she’s not going to fuck or whip another man, and asking him to trust and respect her. He goes silent. Elena, aka Mrs Robinson, emails inviting her to lunch. At no point does it occur to her to stop twatting around and do some work.
My phone rings … an achingly familiar voice snarls at me. “Will you try to be a little more circumspect in the language you use in your work email?” He hangs up.
Now she’s taking CALLS from him? GO BACK TO WORK.
I pick up my BlackBerry and call his mobile.
Oh, for the love of God.
“Ana!” Jack shouts. “Don’t book that flight! For some reason, suddenly, all travel and hotel expenses for staff have to be approved by senior management. This has come right from the top. Apparently a moratorium on all spending has just been implemented.”
In the space of three minutes Christian has implemented this directive and made it known to EVERYBODY. Looks like it isn’t just his penis that’s magic.
They email SOME MORE whilst I bash my head bloody against the desk. He guarantees Ana that Jack will make a pass at her and tells her he’s “just protecting what’s mine.” She decides not to be horrified and instead copies and pastes in the email Elena sent her. Yes, PASTES IT IN, so we get to read it AGAIN.
Jack returns after midday and tells me that New York is off for me.
Well done, Christian. You’ve managed to out-psycho yourself.
“Ana, please could you go and get me some lunch?” says Jack.
Crap. I sigh. He’ll never know, and I’ll be quick.
I hope you get gunned down by Leila you spineless sap.
Within fifteen minutes, I am back – safe and sound.
Yeh, but Christian definitely has spies. He’ll know.
Jack asks her to work late. For the third time that day her heart sinks because she knows Christian won’t like it. The moral of the story is: controlling relationships are great!
The phone rings.
“You assured me you wouldn’t go out,” Christian interrupts me.
“You’re being so suffocating.”
“Suffocating?” he whispers, surprised … appalled.
He’s SURPRISED and APPALLED that she thinks this?!
An unloved child; a hideously abusive environment; a mother who couldn’t protect him, whom he couldn’t protect, and who died in front of him.
WE’VE READ THIS TWENTY TIMES, STOP RECAPPING!
Jack leans over me … His arm brushes mine. Accidentally? …he murmurs, his mouth inches from my ear.
You know, EL James, the fact that Christian is right, doesn’t make his methods right.
He tucks a strand of my hair that’s come loose from my hair tie behind my ear and gently caresses the lobe.
You know, Anastasia, the fact that Christian is a psychopath who will keep you safe from other psychopaths, doesn’t mean you have to stay with him. You could be with someone sane.
“You like him then? Your boyfriend?”
“I love him,” I answer.
“I see. What’s his surname?”
Of all the questions to ask. Not laboured at all. Not shoehorned in so EL James could use this bullshit rip-off line…
“Grey. Christian Grey.”
Jack is successfully scared off and I suppose we are meant to believe that Christian is some sort of hero in this situation. Which he isn’t. Because he is a psychopath.
The Audi is parked by the sidewalk … Christian is in the rear seat.
“Are you still mad?” he asks.
Yes, is the answer.
“I don’t know.”
They go to his building, get in the elevator and she’s turned on again. It’s like Pavlov’s dogs but with transportation.
“Oh, Ana.” He groans and he grabs me, his arms snaking around me.
How many more chapters are there? I can’t read much more of this tripe.
His eyes are dark, lips parted, and he’s breathing as hard as am I.
Ah, it’s been a while since we had a good old-fashioned typo.
“I’m going to take you now.”
Of course you are.
He pulls back and then moves into me again, so slow, so sweet.
“You’re mine, Anastasia,” he murmurs.
No, you’re not.
No. Not his. Not anybody’s but your own.
They finish, go upstairs and she tells him he was right about Jack being a perv. She also tells him that she won’t move in with him until he begins to trust her and let her do her own thing. That all seems really sensible, but let’s not forget that this is otherwise the most destructive, toxic relationship in the history of humanity.
“I love you, Anastasia. I will do everything in my power to protect you. I cannot imagine my life without you.”
For some reason this is highlighted in my Kindle, which I think means people are talking about it. I cannot imagine why, since it’s the least original sentence in the whole shebang.
“Mrs Lincoln is on her way up, sir.”
Fuck! Why can’t that damned woman leave us alone?
Because EL ‘characters-as-plot-devices’ James says so!
Read Chapter Twelve.