Once again, February 19th was GODDESS DAY and I have officially turned the big “5-0.” I am extremely overjoyed to have made it thus far. Praying for many more years to come!
Had quite a few things happen this week. Along with the celebrating all last weekend, which was really great, my furbaby Meeko had to be hospitalized the night before my birthday. He hurt himself and had to have a minor surgical procedure, but of course, I ugly-cried the whole night and now my little snookums is wearing the cone of shame until he heals. I’m really broken up about it.
Then, one of my coworkers passed away suddenly the day after my birthday. We’re not sure what happened to her. She was a very young woman and I must admit that I’m still a bit shell-shocked from it. She was a sweet and wonderful person, loving wife and daughter, and I ask that you keep Miracle’s family in your prayers (yes, that was her real name).
So, on to the story. To begin, I would like to thank the following people for their input and suggestions on the trip to Australia:
From Facebook (in no particular order)—Bridget Walker, Jaimini Dave, Catherine Parr, Kath Imlach, Kelly Peisley, Kayhla Rae Toia, Belinda Narbey, Stargazer Ninety-Three, Rebekkah Benjamin, Linda McWilliams, Jac Monaco, Racheal Antoinette, Alexis Rae, Heather Ellesley, Kath Imlach, Jeanette Emerson.
From Twitter (in no particular order)—TV Obsessed and Contrite Shadow
If I didn’t mention your name and you gave me a suggestion in any format, please charge it to my head and not to my heart. I tried to mention everyone.
I will also say that this was a somewhat difficult storyline for me to write. I may still be writing it as you read this. It has taken and is taking me weeks and weeks to get it done. I’m sorry to say that I wasn’t very pleased with this trip for a few reasons. I had an entire dissertation written about my experience and once I read it back, I was like, “Nobody wants to hear that crap!” So, I scrapped it—or should say that I just kept it for myself, like a bitch journal.
I will say that I’ve taken some creative license here. While some of it is very true to fact, some of it is fictional—i.e. the places that they visit are real while the boat that they sail on is made up of three different ships. Anywho, here it begins. I hope you don’t feel that the next few chapters are a colossal waste of your time.
In addition, I know I had about four French translators looking over my translations. However, I haven’t used any extensive French lately, and I forgot who they were. SPOILER: there will be some French in a few of the next chapters, including this one. If I’ve translated incorrectly, please shoot me an email in the “contact me” link or hit me on Facebook DM’s and let me know what the mistakes are. It’ll be much appreciated. I apologize for the long author’s note.
This is a work of creativity. As such, you may see words, concepts, scenes, actions, behaviors, pictures, implements, and people that may or may not be socially acceptable and/or offensive. If you are sensitive to adverse and alternative subject matter of any kind, please do not proceed, because I guarantee you’ll find it here. You have been warned. Read at your own risk.
I do not own Fifty Shades Trilogy, or the characters. They belong to E. L. James. I am only exercising my right to exploit, abuse, and mangle the characters to MY discretion in MY story in MY interpretation as a fan. If something that I say displeases you, please, just leave. If you don’t like this story or me, please don’t spoil this experience for everyone. Just go away. For the rest of you, the saga continues…
Chapter 73—Heading Down Undah
One half hour after leaving LAX, we arrive at a luxury hotel in Beverly Hills called the Hotel Montage. We follow our cousins through this outrageously posh establishment to the elevators and straight up to the rooftop. There we find an elegant restaurant with a spectacular view appropriately called the Rooftop Grill where Leo is apparently very well-known and was quickly able to have the restaurant rearranged at a moment’s notice to change a reservation for six to a reservation for eight for brunch as he forgot that we were bringing our security staff along.
“I wasn’t trying to leave anybody out, Christian,” Leo says as we’re seated. “I’m just not that cozy with my staff,” he adds matter-of-factly with no malice.
“Oh, I’m not that friendly with my staff either,” Christian says. “And this is no offense to Lawrence—he’s a consummate professional and I’m glad to have him around, but that man…” All eyes follow Christian’s pointing finger to Jason. “He’s been with me for many years. He probably knows some things about me that no one else knows…”
“Sorry, Butterfly. I love you dearly, but Jason has known me longer.”
“Hmph,” I huff as Christian continues his explanation.
“Anyway,” he continues, “he’s saved my life more times than I even know. He’s gone so far as to take a bullet for me when I was sure to be a goner. So, even though he may be my staff, he doubles as my best friend.”
“No shit?” Leo says, looking down the table at Jason, who just looks back at him. “I’ve got some good guys on my team, but I don’t think any of them are that loyal.”
“Jason’s the best,” he reinforces. “I trust him blindly with my life, and he knows that. If it hadn’t been for him, I may not have made it to the altar.” Okay, now you’ve got my fucking attention.
“What?” I say in horror and he just looks at me.
“It was a bad night and you know it. Do you want to rehash it?” he asks flatly. I raise my hands in surrender and pick up my menu. Everything looks delicious and I’m fucking ravenous.
“Maybe we should find something else to talk about,” Lanie says leaning over to me.
“Yes, I think we should,” I agree, still examining my menu.
“Everything on the menu here is divine. So, just close your eyes and point. Wherever your finger lands, you’ll be happy.”
“Leo seems a lot like Christian,” I say, “eats in the best places, people at his beck and call…”
“Yep, that’s Leo,” she says. “Women throwing themselves at him even though he’s married… It takes some getting used to.”
“Tell me about it,” I lament. “They’re so certain that I’m just the bracelet or the flavor of the month—the trophy wife—that they completely disregard me. Well, they used to, anyway”
“I’ll bet they used to,” Lanie scoffs a laugh. “After that interview you guys did—you’re blowing shit up with a gun that’s bigger than you! I expected you to pull the trigger on that shotgun and at any second, go flying backwards like they do in the cartoons.” I can’t suppress my laughter.
“Yeah, that was a general consensus. People always underestimate my size, except for those who know me,” I point out. “My dad was really big on me being able to defend myself once I became an adult. He started teaching me different things when I was younger, but then we were separated for a while. We reconnected when I became an adult, and now, I’m G. I. Jane. He taught Christian how to shoot, too.” Her eyes widen.
“Your father? He did?” she asks. I nod.
“After that incident he’s talking about where Jason took a bullet for him, he didn’t want to be caught off-guard. He used to be extremely anti-gun, but that crazy woman pointed my gun at him…”
“Wait a minute,” Lanie interrupts me. “Your gun?”
I sigh deeply and give Lanie the short version of the incident that ultimately led to Christian learning how to shoot—the entire ugly ordeal of Jason jumping from whatever secret door was in the room and launching himself between Christian and a bullet hurling at him from a Beretta registered to me. Placing myself back there where the Pedophile nearly destroyed my reason for living at the time, I actually get a little choked up and light-headed for a moment.
“Butterfly!” Christian is nearly holding me up in moments. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine,” I try to brush him off.
“You’re not fine,” he demands. “You damn near fell out of the chair. What’s wrong?” I don’t want to tell him that I’m thinking of that wretched blonde bitch when we’re supposed to be on vacation, but Lanie does it for me.
“It’s my fault, Christian,” she says. “She was telling me about… the incident that caused you to go learn how to shoot.” He and Jason share a look, then he turns back to me.
“It’s not your fault, Lanie, it’s mine,” he says. “I’m the one who brought it up.”
“Oh, gosh, please, everybody, I’m fine,” I protest. “I was slightly overwhelmed for a moment. I’ll be fine after a glass of red.”
“Or a bottle,” Lanie corrects and waves over a server. “While we’re making our brunch selections, we’ll have two bottles of the Napa Valley Mascot 2010 Cabernet Sauvignon, one Domaines Ott Château de Selle Côtes de Provence Coeur de Grain Rosé, one Perrier-Jouët, Belle Époque Épernay—2008, if you have it, and… white or red, Christian?” she asks during a pause. My husband is momentarily taken aback.
“Um… white… dry,” he says. Lanie turns back to the server.
“Um… the Napa Accendo Cellars Sauvignon Blanc,” she says.
“Excellent choices, ma’am,” he says as he retrieves the wine menus and leaves the table. Christian and I are stunned into silence while Leo just smiles.
“My sister was a wine connoisseur before she left Detroit,” Burtie says. “We just discovered it.” He smiles a crooked smile and turns his attention back to the menu.
“Babe, have you tried lobster benedict?” Bernie asks Burtie.
“No, I haven’t, but I was just looking at that. Great minds think alike,” Burtie says and Bernie blushes.
“Okay, so I’ll order the lobster and you order something else and we can share, okay?” Bernie replies sweetly and Burnie nods with a smile and examines the menu again. In moments, Burtie is leaning over to Bernie and they’re agreeing on their menu choices.
“My brother used to be a different person,” Lanie says with a bit of melancholy. “He used to be very vibrant and really full of life—before all this happened. When I went to get him in Detroit, it was like his light went out. You could have led him off a bridge and he would have blindly followed. When he’s with Bertie, he’s like his old self again. It’s like none of this happened, and the Golden Child is back.” She wipes a tear from her eye. “I should have gone back,” she says. “I should have fought my own battle instead of leaving Burtie to fight it. I sent him into the lion’s den and look what happened.”
“Then he would have beaten you,” I point out to her.
“It should’ve been me!” she hisses quietly. “I never should’ve sent Burtie back to face that man alone! He wasn’t prepared. There’s no way he could’ve seen that coming. I knew Freeman was a monster. I knew all along! I saw it firsthand. Burtie didn’t. Burtie never saw it. He was ambushed. It should have been me…”
“No, sis,” Burtie says, his voice strong and unwavering. “It shouldn’t have been you, and it shouldn’t have been me either. It shouldn’t have been either one of us and it shouldn’t have been Mom. He’s the monster, yet we’re the ones left to suffer. He stole our lives and our happiness and he’s sitting back there about to inherit Grandpa’s money and his house… I’m done. He’s stolen enough from me. I’m not letting him steal another minute. Where’s my wine?”
“Right here, handsome,” the waiter says, returning to the table with several bottles of wine on a rolling serving tray and another server to assist.
“Uh, no, darlin’,” Bernie speaks up. “That one’s taken.”
“Ah!” the server gasps, covering his heart with both hands. “Quel tragique.” He drops his head in mock mourning before raising his gaze to Bernie. “Pardonnez-moi, monsieur.” Bernie smiles.
“Tu es pardonné. Il est délicieux, n’est-ce pas?” Bernie replies.
“Oui, très délicieux! Vous êtes un gars chanceux. Pardonnez mon impolitesse,” the server replies.
“I have no idea what they’re saying,” Burtie says.
“Trust me, it’s very flattering,” I say with a chuckle. Lanie turns a gaze to me.
“Parlez vous français?” she asks.
“Oui, madame,” I respond.
“Oh, cut it out,” Leo interjects before turning to Christian. “Doesn’t this get on your nerves?” Christian smirks and I immediately know that he’s thinking about sex.
“Um, no, not really,” he says, and Leo raises a brow. “Je parle français aussi.”
“Oh, dear God,” Leo laments. “Can we please speak English for the rest of the morning?”
The occupants of the table laugh, and the servers uncork our wines and champagnes as we make our brunch choices. I quickly learn that you can easily expect too much by going to brunch in a high-end luxury hotel in Beverly Hills. I’m not sure what I expected, but I’m a bit disappointed with the menu.
The breakfast portion of the brunch menu is outstanding—buttermilk pancakes; fresh, homemade pastries; fresh fruits and berries; a large variety of breakfast meats; roasted potatoes; avocado toast; eggs cooked to order, including cast iron huevos rancheros and lobster benedict—but if you want lunch instead of breakfast, it’s a little lean. They pretty much have mussels, crudité, guacamole, and shrimp cocktail.
Seriously? I plan on drinking at least half of one of those bottles of Cabernet that was just uncorked, and if I want lunch instead of breakfast, my choices are celery and chips and dip?
I do see that if you want something from the grill, you could order that separately—which is what Jason and Ben did. Your choices are basically burgers and fries, patty melts, and fish tacos. And if you’re really adventurous, you can opt for the quinoa salad or the no-meat burger options.
I order an impossible breakfast and do my best to hide my discontent. I won’t disparage my lovely cousins, but we didn’t need to rent a limo and drive all the way to Beverly Hills for this. We could have gotten something like this in the VIP lounge at the airport.
When the food arrives, I dig right in like a starving man having ordered extra helpings of breakfast meat to make up for the lunch I would have rather ordered. Luckily, I don’t look like a barbarian tearing into the meat as Christian had pretty much the same idea. Jason’s and Ben’s burgers look delectable, but only because he must be acquainted with the whole “gourmet burger” thing and ordered “extra meat” in his and Ben’s patties. Shit, that’s what I should have ordered.
The buttermilk pancakes and fresh pastries make up for the fact that I ordered breakfast when I really wanted lunch. Even the lobster benedict looks like a child’s serving.
Our waiter makes sure the glasses remain full and the table is clean. He’s very attentive to us and I’m only too sure that it’s because he wants to get a few extra glimpses at Burtie, until…
“Excuse me,” he says to my husband as we’re finishing our meal, “but did she call you ‘Christian?’” Christian frowns.
“Yes,” he says sharply.
“As in ‘Christian Grey?’” he continues, unmoved by Christian’s ire.
“Yes,” he replies just as sharply. The server turns to me.
“That means you’re Anastasia!” he exclaims. “I thought I recognized you, but I didn’t want to believe it!”
Okay, so now, the wind just got snatched out of me and I have to quickly find my words without looking like a total idiot.
“Um… y… yeah,” I say, more than a bit taken aback.
“Oh my God I never ask this but if I don’t I’m gonna die may I please have your autograph.” He says it all in one sentence, and I’m totally blown away. Christian is sitting next to me, his ire now replaced with badly stifled snickering.
“You’re not serious!” I say in disbelief.
“Oh my God yes I am!” he says in that one breath again. “I have a gaggle of catty females who are just going to die when they see this oh God am I bothering you I’ll go away!” He starts to scamper away from our table.
“No!” I catch him before he leaves. “Breathe, for God’s sake.”
“I’m sorry I talk this way when I’m really excited!” he informs me.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Spencer,” he replies.
“Okay, Spencer, will a picture be better for your catty friends?” His eyes widen.
“Dear God yes!” he nearly growls while taking out his phone. I hold my hand out, and he puts the phone in my hand. I hand it to Christian.
“Here, dear, take a picture of me and Spencer,” I say with a wide smile. He raises a brow at me, and I walk over to Spencer without giving him time to protest. Spencer and I strike a pose together and stand there for several seconds while Christian fiddles with the phone.
“Christian, what are you doing?” I protest with a frown breaking the pose.
“I’m trying to take a picture, but I think it’s recording instead,” he says.
“Oh! Oh! Lemme see!” Spencer turns the phone around and looks at it, capturing Christian briefly on the screen. “Oh my God that’s even better!” He scurries back over to me after handing the phone back to my husband.
“Okay, Christian, Spencer says that’s even better,” I tease.
“I heard him, dear,” he replies, turning the camera back to us. Spencer and I talk very briefly to the camera about nothing, just long enough to get enough footage for his catty friends to know that it’s really me, after which I give him a kiss on the cheek, and he declares that he’s never washing his cheek again.
“Now, I only ask one favor,” I tell him.
“Anything!” he says.
“Wait until after noon to post that on your social media,” I tell him. “That way, we’ll be on our jet and out of California, and we won’t have to worry about being swarmed by the Paparazzi, okay?”
“Absolutely,” Spencer replies. “I wouldn’t want them to ruin my golden moment anyway. Thank you so much, Anastasia,” he adds. “I told them all that you seemed so down to earth and they said I was wrong. Now, I have proof!” He happily twists his phone back and forth.
“If you don’t mind me asking, who’s ‘they?’”
“It’s just a group of my college mates,” he says, waving me off. “They’re my friends, and they’re cool, but they’re celebrity chasers—you know, they follow celebrities through the news and stuff and sometimes they make assumptions. I think a lot of times they get it wrong. They said John Legend was gay! I’m gay… I think I’d know if John Legend was gay!” he says with a touch of sarcasm. I chuckle.
“Well, thank you for making our brunch fun,” I say giving him a hug.
“You just made my month, Anastasia,” he replies with a sweet smile before leaving. I sigh.
“Okay, let’s get out of here. We’ve been made,” I say.
“We’ve been more than made, dear,” Christian teases. “Don’t you want to stick around and take a selfie or two with the cook?”
“Stop teasing me or this is going to be the longest, loneliest vacation you’ve ever had.”
“Couldn’t be worse than Greece,” he says, finishing his wine and rising from his seat.
“I could never live here,” I say after we board the plane again to head to Sydney.
“Why do you say that?” Christian asks as he buckles his seat belt.
“Celebrity chasers? Groups of college girls who follow the news and think they know me? We’d never get any peace! At least they leave us alone sometimes in Seattle! Out here, it’s like collecting bonuses in a video game!” Christian smiles.
“I was pleasantly surprised that he only knew of me because of you,” he chuckles. “It was somewhat refreshing.”
“I was pleasantly surprised that he called Burtie ‘handsome,’” I reply. “I could see exactly what Lanie was saying when she said that he’s changed. He clearly feels that the scars affect his appearance, which they do honestly. They’re the first thing that you see when you look at him, but he’s not disfigured. He’s just… scarred.”
“Well, his fiancé certainly seems very fond of him. That has to help a bit,” he says.
“I’m sure it does. I think hearing his sister wish his fate on herself may have helped to snap him out of his melancholy a bit as well. Burtie’s having a terrible time with what his father did to him. I’m certain he wouldn’t have wanted that to happen to Lanie.” Christian shakes his head.
“It’s beyond me how one person can ruin so many people’s lives in one fell swoop,” he says. “That man is like a plague. I’ve watched so many of my family cry over him—my father, my uncle, his own wife and children… I shudder to think how many tears Pops and Grandma Ruby shed over his worthless ass!”
“Some people are narcissistic to the point of no return,” I tell him. “Look at Chuck and his mom and his brother, Joe. At least at some point, Joe was justified in the anger he felt for the pain Chuck had caused, but the basis is the same. They were both unforgiving of the wrongs they felt were imposed on them—whether real or imagined—and they set out to cause immeasurable harm, misery, and pain, which they did. The difference is that Joseph’s anger is centered directly on Chuck and the results of his drinking, whereas it seems that Freeman just doesn’t care about anybody.”
“He doesn’t,” Christian hisses, then sighs heavily. “I hate feeling like the world would be a better place without some people, but I swear to God, as bad as it sounds, he’s one of those people.”
“You don’t really mean that,” I scold.
“I don’t know if I mean it or not,” he says, running his hand across his forehead and then through his hair. “I don’t really wish anybody dead, not really—gone, maybe, but not dead.”
“Well, what’s the difference?” I ask.
“Gone is like that fucker Rossiter,” he says. “I kept meaning to tell you, but right before we left, I learned that he’s out of our lives forever. He accepted a settlement…”
“You paid him?” I interrupt, horrified.
“Fuck, no! Do I look crazy?” he says. Well, then, what does he mean by a settlement? “The gag order is so tight that anytime he talks to anybody in the Seattle area about anything, they only want to talk about me and you and, of course, he can’t. So, he can’t get work. He can’t even get gigs—he can’t get anything. We met with him and his attorney and I swore to drag this thing out to Armageddon.
“He can’t offer a settlement because he doesn’t have anything I want. He’s broke. He has no influence in any market anywhere. The only thing I want from him is to go the fuck away. So, those were my terms… go the fuck away—all the way away. Don’t talk about us, don’t approach us, nothing—go the fuck away. I even suggested that he might want to start over in a new area since everybody here already knows who he is.”
“And he accepted that?” I ask, surprised.
“Not immediately,” he admits. “He asked what was in it for him. Of course, he expected me to pay him off to make him leave. I let him know in no uncertain terms that I would drag him and his little ambulance chaser through court for the next 15 years and wouldn’t give him shit—and he would end up paying my court costs.
“Needless to say, his attorney correctly read that I wasn’t coming off of one thin red dime for this fucker, suddenly became irreparably insulted by something in the conversation that I said—God only knows what—and ceremoniously marched out of the talks. I told the Pussy DJ to give his attorney a call and I would guarantee that he wouldn’t answer or return any of his calls. Seriously, who in their right mind would take a case that wouldn’t pay off?”
“So… no more Rossiter?” I inquire.
“No more Rossiter,” he confirms. “It’s my understanding that he’s leaving the state. He’ll be on the normal watch list with a few tweaks to make sure that his ass isn’t doing interviews or writing books or anything. Speaking of writing books…” He runs his hands through his hair and holds his head down.
“Still nothing on the Pedophile huh?” He shakes his head with both hands on the back of his neck.
“Her,” he says, “I wish she’d die.”
Now, we can’t have that negative energy floating around the universe, especially while in a pressurized tube for the next 14 hours. I stand and move over to him, climbing in his lap and forcing him to raise his head.
“We’re not going to talk about her or even think about her for this entire trip,” I say, snaking my arms around his neck. “She, and anything else that’s going to cause us to feel sour, is off limits unless we absolutely must discuss it. We just met with Burtie and the family, so we discussed that. We don’t need to discuss the rest of this crap.”
I cover his lips with mine and plant a deep kiss on his mouth. He moans into mine and I almost forget that we’re not alone in the plane… almost.
“Fourteen hours until we reach the Land Down Under. Any idea what we can do with that kind of time?” he asks waggling his brow.
“Did you bring the cards?” I ask, waggling my own. He bursts out laughing.
“No, Mrs. Grey, I didn’t, but I’m sure we can find some other ways to amuse ourselves.”
“Amusing,” I say, feigning hurt. “You find it amusing, do you?”
“It… has its moments,” he admits. I punch him playfully in the shoulder.
“Asshole.” I stand from his lap and walk back to the bedroom. “Your ass won’t be laughing when I’m done with you,” I add under my voice.
I watch her walk to the back of the plane, gray and black tweed wrapped tight around her ass and caressing her mid thigh. Bernard made a statement about her looking like Jackie O. I don’t remember any fucking pictures of Jackie O looking like that! The only thing that stands out to me about Jackie O are those pillbox hats and those gigantic sunglasses. I think Butterfly has a hundred pairs of those oversized glasses, and while I’m pondering the thought, that ass switches its way through the bedroom door before she closes it behind her.
I swear to God, if she locked me out of that room, I’m going to break that damn door down.
To my delight, the door slides open when I try it. I make sure to lock it behind me, however. I have to walk all the way into the room to see her. She’s at the foot of the bed getting undressed. She has already removed the short tweed jacket and is unzipping her skirt as I make my way into the room. The skirt drops to the floor, showcasing a beautiful pair of black thigh high stockings held up by suspenders either by Agent Provocateur or Victoria’s Secret. I can’t tell which right now because I’m too busy watching the ass framed under the suspenders to care about the brand.
I watch her shimmy out of the black shirt that was under the tweed suit with her back to me and… what’s this? She wasn’t wearing a bra? How did she pull that off? I continue to observe from my perch against the wall near the door, and I can see her release something that almost looks like pasties from where I’m standing. Whatever they are, she pushes some button and pulls a couple of strings and her breasts release.
Jesus, do they release! I’m drooling over here!
“What are you waiting for? Christmas?” she says, her voice low and husky as she undoes the belts holding her stockings and rolls them off her legs.
Good fucking question. What am I waiting for?
I quickly remove my blazer and pull my black T-shirt over my head, dropping them to the floor before she even gets to the second stocking. I toe out of my shoes and undo my jeans as she rolls the second stocking down her leg and places it on the chair near the wall along with the rest of her clothes. I’m leaving a garment trail behind me and she’s stacking her shit neatly on the chair. Well, she got a head start—I’m trying to catch up.
I drop my jeans and my boxer briefs freeing my aching cock while she undoes the hooks holding the suspenders around her waist. Fucking hell, she’s wearing a thong and her ass looks glorious. I’m going to have some of that ass. I need a good, hard… sleep.
When she turns around to face me in nothing but that sexy ass thong, I’m stepping on each sock to pull my feet from them, leaving a mass of unkempt clothes from the door to the bed. Ask me if I care. She does that finger beckoning thing to call me to her and I’m there so fast that I don’t even feel my legs move.
When I get over to her, I reach for her waist to pull her to me and she pushes me backwards onto the bed… hard! Well, goddamn! I fall so hard onto the bed that I bounce a couple of times. She drops to her knees and before I know what’s going on, she’s locked onto my dick.
“Ssssssss!” I hiss as she sucks my cock deep and hard into her mouth. “Goddammit, Ana!”
She nearly swallows the damn thing, bobbing madly as if I need to be fluffed! Trust me, baby, this dick is very ready and if you keep that up, I ain’t gonna last!
She puts that theory to the test, though, for several minutes. She’s grippin’ and suckin’ and squeezin’ and slurpin’ like a pro on a porno, complete with all the grunting and groaning and wet, sloppy noises! My dick is screaming like, “What did I do to deserve this??”
She slurps and sucks on my dick, saliva coating the shaft and oozing from her mouth, adding lubrication to her skillful stroking hands. Each time her hot mouth releases my head, I feel my balls lift and separate, begging her to continue so they can release. I groan loudly and grab the sheets underneath me, my thighs tightening in anticipation of those velvety lips wrapping around my shaft again.
Her tongue and mouth gently lick and caress the head of my dick, so fucking hot and hard from her feverish blowjob moments before. This teasing is torturous, over and around my frenulum, and I’m literally crawling backwards to get away from the torment, but she just follows me up the bed and continues her rhythm, licking and tasting that tender patch of skin with her whole mouth, the entire time gently stroking the taut skin of my hot, aching balls with her freshly manicured nails. Dear God, I’m going to lose my mind.
She crawls up on the bed and turns around so that her ass is facing me, though she doesn’t straddle me. Her head dips between my legs again and I can no longer see my cock or my pelvis—but I can feel the shaft in her throat.
“Fuuuuuuck…” I groan mournfully, throwing my head back and preparing for the onslaught. She slides her mouth up and down mercilessly on my cock, my head, rim, and frenulum rubbing against her throat with each pass. I can’t keep still, and I can’t control myself. I put one hand on her head and wrap the other partially around her body, matching her stroke on my cock with my hips and mumbling incoherent chants of pleasure with each thrust, but with unusual control, she puts her hand flat on my pelvis and halts my motion and push after about five thrusts. I fucking want to cry.
“Ana…” I breathe mournfully, “God, Ana, please…”
She quickly wiggles from my grasp and straddles me facing away from me. My cock is standing straight up, pink and hard and ready, and she slowly lowers herself onto me. Fuck, she’s so hot and tight. I gasp when she takes all of me inside her. She sits there for a moment and I’m panting like a fucking puppy, feeling the inside of her walls wrapped around me. My hands grasp her hips and I want to thrust…
“No!” she demands, her voice soft, but forceful. I swallow hard and try to prepare for what she has planned. She lays down on my body, her back to my chest, and slowly begins to move.
“Slow,” she coaches as her hips roll sensually over mine, pushing and pulling on my shaft and massaging the head and walls in a slow, hot fuck. I open my mouth to let air in as she fucks me, and I can feel her begin to get wetter, her breathing and sounds changing. Fuck, I’m not going to make it.
She’s writhing against my body and tormenting my dick slowly, pushing down onto it and pulling off of it—I’m afraid to move my hips for fear that I’m going to nut any second, until…
She moves one of my hands from her hip and guides it over to her clit. At first, I’m sure I’m a goner, because my hand can feel my dick going inside of her now. Then suddenly, my brain kicks in…
She’s given me a task!
I reach down to my dick and gather a bit of the moisture that I know I’ll find there, then I press my hand firmly over her Mons and plant my middle finger just under her clit—at the most sensitive point. Now, I’ll match her stroke and let her hips push her Mons against my hand and her clit against my finger. Her response is immediate. Her writhing becomes more sensual and her hands stretch above both our heads. Her tits are sticking straight up with her hands stretched above us that way, so I move my other hand over her breast and hold her against me—just a bit. She’s so feral, there’s no holding her still.
I feel her clit getting stiff under my finger and I dare not move it, but fuck if it’s not making me harder. God, this shit is so hot—a handful of tit, a handful of pussy, and my dick sinking deep into that hot core. We’re moving as one, achingly slowly chasing an imminent orgasm, and just when I think it can’t get any hotter, she places her hand flat against the headboard for leverage and pushes down on my dick.
I cry out from the unexpected onslaught of pleasure as she once again dominates my cock. I keep my hands in place, but she’s running this ride—I’m just the lucky passenger.
She starts to heave and convulse, squeaking pants and wheezing coming from her throat as her control pumps and thrusts become wild flails. It takes me a moment to realize that she’s coming and trying not to let her screams be heard over the Pacific. So, I place my hands between her legs and spread both thighs, intent on giving her maximum pleasure through her orgasm… and not prepared for the effect it would have on me.
I must open my legs to keep up with her stroke. Not only does the air hit my testicles and tightens the skin, but also each stroke is hitting her balls deep.
It’s. A fucking. Wrap.
We are madly thumping in this bed and I’m fucking her like a wild dog. She’s still writhing and wheezing, and I don’t know if she’s coming or if she’s just hanging in there for me, but my balls pop so hard that I start squirming on the bed. I’m squeezing the meat of her thighs like I’m squeezing juice from an orange as I pump and empty hard into her. The throbbing and vibrations are so intense that my dick pops out of her pussy. On cue, she sits up and grabs my cock, jerking the rest of the orgasm out of me.
I cry out like a bitch.
When the ride is over and we’re lying there sweaty and spent, I’m silently thankful for breastfeeding and her IUD. Without them, we would be recounting this story as the day our third child was conceived.
“Are you awake?” I ask, when I think my wife is stirring a bit.
“Mmm, just barely,” she says as she stretches. “What time is it?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “We’re not going to know until we land anyway.” She yawns. “That was hot, baby.”
“Mmm-hmm,” she says. “So, why do I feel your cock against my thigh?”
“Because I want that ass,” I admit. “I wanted it before we fell asleep, but you wore me out.”
“And you didn’t wear me out,” she accuses.
“One good turn deserves another,” I croon, placing open-mouthed kisses on her shoulder.
“Um… if we don’t know what time it is, how do we know how much time we have left?”
“Because I don’t know what time it is, but I know how long we’ve been in the sky,” I tell her. “We’ve got several hours left.”
“Shouldn’t we eat first?” she asks. I think she’s stalling, but she’s right. We’ve been in the air for hours. It’s past dinner time. I throw my legs over the edge of the bed and reach for my pants.
“I’ll go see if dinner has already been served,” I say. I pull my jeans on, but I don’t fasten them. I pull my T-shirt over my head as I walk to the restroom. After I relieve myself, I walk out into the main cabin area and see that Jason and Lawrence are finishing their meal. The flight attendant comes from the galley area and flushes bright red when she sees me. This is her first flight with me, so I assume that she hasn’t been apprised of the fact that I’ll fuck my wife whenever I want, wherever I want that won’t get us arrested.
“Good… evening, Mr. Grey,” she says, barely able to get her words out and looking past me instead of at me—an elementary evasion tactic. “Would you and Mrs. Grey like dinner now?”
“Yes,” I reply. “What’s on the menu?”
“Chicken Cacciatore over roasted potatoes and sautéed spinach,” she replies, still avoiding eye contact. I nod.
“Mrs. Grey is a bit indisposed, so we’ll be taking our dinner in our room. Just knock when it’s ready.”
“Yes, sir,” she says before making a speedy getaway. I look over at Jason, who is quite unsuccessful at hiding his mirth and Lawrence, who keeps his head down and his gazed fixed on the last potato on his plate as if it may run away. I shake my head and head back to the bedroom. Butterfly is in the bathroom and I hear water running. I walk back into the room and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the dresser.
From my head to my toes, I look totally JBF and I have no doubt that I’m sex funky. I shake my head and remove my T-shirt before climbing back into bed and waiting for my wife and my dinner.
About five minutes later, Butterfly emerges from the restroom in a simple sheath dress and smelling like springtime and heaven.
“Why are you dressed?” I ask.
“I thought we were going to eat,” she replies, replacing and overnight bag near the nightstand.
“We are, but we’re going to eat in here. I thought you would be more comfortable…” and I can fuck you faster when we’re finished with our meal.
“Well, you think of everything, don’t you, Mr. Grey?” she asks, putting her hands on her hips and thoroughly reading my ulterior motives.
“That I do,” I reply, “so you can get rid of the cute little cover-up because it’s obstructing my view.” She giggles and pulls the dress over her head, laying it out with the rest of the day’s wardrobe on the chair.
“You can lose those, too,” I say, gesturing to the sexy lace underwear she’s wearing.
“Only because I don’t have another pair on board,” she says. “I learned my lesson with Anguilla, but I still may feel the need to wash my undies so that I’ll have the other pair available in case of emergency.” She slides out of the sexy white scrap of material and they join the clothes on the chair as well.
“So… what do I do now?” she asks
“Don’t fuck with me, Anastasia,” I warn. “We won’t eat until we land in Australia.” She doesn’t flinch standing there naked in front of me, but I think she doesn’t realize that I will make good on my threat. While I’m pondering the situation carefully, there’s a knock at the door. I don’t move at first, examining her and waiting to see who’ll crack first. There’s another knock at the door.
“It’s me, sir,” Jason says through the door. “Should I return later?”
I still don’t move, then my wife folds her arms, hoisting her breasts up a bit.
“Do you want to open the door?” she inquires, “Or should I?”
Now, I’m not sure who’s the winner of this particular game of stare, because although she spoke first, the idea of Jason seeing that juicy body in all its sensual glory has me damn near scrambling to get the door, a little disappointed that I don’t get to unnerve our poor flight attendant with the view of me in nothing but my jeans coupled with the undeniable scent of sex that’s going to rush from this room the moment I open the door. I make quick work of pulling in the food cart and shooing Jason away so that I can drop these jeans as quickly as possible.
I uncover two succulent servings of Chicken Cacciatore with spinach and crescent rolls along with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon breathing next to two wine glasses. Under another cover and packed on ice is two servings of tiramisu and on the bottom of the cart is an ice cooler that contains four large bottles of water.
Jason—or the poor verklempt flight attendant—was thinking ahead not to disturb us again.
“God, I’m famished!” she says, plopping down onto the bed next to me and retrieving a fork. I calculate the time based on my watch that still set to Seattle time, and it’s been nearly eight hours since we had brunch. Couple that with hot, sweat-inducing, mind-blowing sex and, yes, it’s time to eat!
The Chicken Cacciatore is delicious. Even though the meal is chef-prepared for the trip, the servings are small because you don’t want to eat too much on an airplane, particularly a 14-hour flight. Butterfly savors the meal and we have a little fun with the tiramisu eating it off of each other—which invariably leads to getting caught in that gaze and… well you know the rest.
I got that valium-sleep-inducing ass that I was craving, and we’re both out cold until 90 minutes before we’re scheduled to land in Australia. We’ve got just enough time to get showered, dressed, and in our seats just in time for the descent into Sydney.
You can see the lights of the city at night and the traffic traveling on the opposite side of the road. I always wondered who decided which side was the correct side to drive or to place the steering wheel.
The city is stunning. Butterfly is photographing our arrival over the Harbor and the unbelievable view. You can easily make out the form of the Sydney Opera House even from way up here appearing to float majestically on the water in the dark. I’m already glad that we’re in Sydney and we haven’t even landed yet.
Once we’ve proceeded through customs and finished with inspection, our bags are loaded into a waiting limousine. The last thing I felt like doing the moment I step off a 14-hour flight is scrambling to get luggage inside of a taxi or on a train. That stuff might be okay to get around and see the sights, but getting from the airport to our hotel? Somebody get this luggage and get us where we need to be.
The strangest thing to get used to once we land in Sydney—besides the complete opposite seasons—is the loss of time. We left LAX at about noon on Saturday. However, by the time we check into our hotel in Sydney, it’s about 11:30pm on Sunday night. We lost nearly two days flying to Australia, but we’ll get those two days back when we fly back home.
Now, it may seem like all we’ve done is eat, sleep, and fuck on our trip—which is pretty much the truth—but that light dinner throughout the 14-hour flight was just enough to keep us from starving and, once again, we are famished! Even though we’ll have at least one good meal is Sydney tomorrow, it won’t be dinner. So, once we check into the Westin Sydney, we take a stroll down Elizabeth St. to Martin Place to see what food the nightlife has for us. We decide to head through Hyde Park and see the fountain since there doesn’t seem to be many people in the park this late at night.
Mistake! Big mistake!
We’re all cuddled up walking along being romantic—as romantic as you can be with two security guards walking behind you. The night is beautiful, and the weather is warm. I say something witty to my wife that causes her to throw her head back in genuine laughter that warms my heart.
And then she freezes.
That same beautiful voice that just warmed my heart with a melodic laugh chills my soul with a blood-curdling scream.
She shrinks back into my arms as if she would push herself into my body if she could, staring in terror at the sky. Three grown men all duck in alarm, waiting to see what monster is headed in our direction.
Bats. Lots and lots of bats.
Okay, I could see how that could be scary. I’m a bit alarmed at the sight myself at first, especially since my wife is screaming like someone’s eating her alive. Even I have to admit the sight is pretty fucking creepy. I wrap my arms around my wife and look at Jason.
“Get us a taxi now!” I order him before I turn my attention to my screaming wife.
“Okay, baby, I’ve got you. They’re not going to bother you,” I comfort. Truth is, she’s not okay because I’ve got her. She’s okay because the bats in this part of the world are mostly herbivores. Being as well-traveled as I am, I’ve picked up quite a few tidbits of not-so-useless information. Generally, these bats are harmless to people, but that doesn’t mean you want to pet them.
Jason makes quick work of hailing a taxi, and I hurriedly get my wife inside of it. She’s crying now, sitting between me and Lawrence while Jason sits in the front seat.
“Whehre to, mate…?” The cabbie pauses when he sees my distraught wife. “Is she alroight?”
My wife has taken to shivering and whimpering now, clutching my jacket for dear life and obviously—but unsuccessfully—trying to compose herself.
“Not really,” I say, examining her closely. “The local wildlife just scared the shit out of her.”
“Aah,” he says, “the foxes. Don’t worry, Sheila. Thy only eat berries an’ stuff.” Butterfly is beginning to calm a bit but is still quite shaken up.
“Do you want to go back to the hotel?” I ask. She shakes her head.
“I’m hungry,” she whimpers.
“We can get room service,” I offer.
“We’ve only got one day in Sydney,” she complains. “I don’t want room service!” She sounds like a petulant child. I look to the cabbie.
“Any suggestions?” I ask. “We’re taking a cruise tomorrow afternoon, so tonight and tomorrow will be our only chance to see Sydney.”
“It’s lyte, mate, but thehre’s a few places. Looks like she could use a little fun. Gimme a minute.” He pulls out his phone and swipes at the screen a few times. I had better stick close to my wife because she suddenly looks stricken by the authentic Australian accent, and it doesn’t help that the guy is a good-looking fucker who just rescued her from vicious fruit-eating bats.
“Big Poppas,” the Australian female answers through the taxi’s Bluetooth. It sounds like there’s a party going on in the background.
“Can I speak ta Carla, please?” he asks, although Carla sounds more like Cahlah.
“One minute.” A few moments later, “This is Cahlah.” And the party is back.
“Cahly, it’s ya fyv’rite Aussie, babe. Listen, got a fayhr hehr—Americans—a mate and his sheila and theih bodyguahds…”
How did he know all that?
“… Says they’re only here for one noight and they catchin’ a boat out the hahbah tomarrah arvo. The guhl’s got a bit of a froight from the ole foxes, heh heh. I’m sure they’ll be etuhnally grayteful if you can get ‘em a table an’ a meal tanoight. Whadya think theh, Cahly?”
“Aye, it’s Sunday! Send ‘em on in, mah tips been dreadful! I need ev’rythin’ I can get! What’s the nehm?” The cabby looks back at me.
“Jason Taylor,” Jason says before I can say anything.
“Jyson Tylor, pahty of fouh, three blokes and a sheila. Be theh in a minute, we’he not fah.”
“Thaynks, mate,” and he ends the call.
“It sounds… lively,” I say, cautiously. The cabbie laughs.
“Don’t worry, mate. Just good music. The food’s really good an’ yah sheila’ll get a chance to relax.”
We arrive at a non-intimidating structure about five minutes later—clean, and full! It makes me wonder why Carla’s tips aren’t so good tonight. You can hear the music outside—old school hip hop, it sounds like. I have a feeling my wife is going to like this place.
“Is that… Usher?” she asks, identifying the song playing from inside the bar.
“Yeh,” the cabbie says. “The nehm’s Big Poppa’s, nehmed ahftah Biggie Smalls himself. Ahsk foh Cahlah, she’ll tyke good cah’of yah!” I shake his hand.
“Thanks, man, I really appreciate it.” I slip him $100. “I’m sorry, I haven’t had time to exchange yet…”
“That’s quoite alroight, mate!” he says jovially and hands me a card. “I’m Noah. Heh’s my numbah. If ya need a roide to tha hahbah tomarrah, give me a ring. Wheheveh I am, I’m at cha sehvice!”
“I’ll do that,” I say, tucking his card into my pocket. “We’ll need transport to a few places tomorrow.”
“I’ll sty in the areah, then, mate,” he says.
“By the way, my name’s Christian, and the lovely, frightened girl is my beautiful wife Ana.”
“Lovely to meet ya… who’s Jyson?” he asks bemused. I point to Jason. “Oh, okay. Noice to meet you, too, mate.” Jason nods once.
“How late are you working tonight, Noah?” I ask.
“I knock off at three,” he says.
“Well, I’d appreciate it if you could be here at 2:30. I don’t think my wife wants to stroll at night anymore.”
“Shuh thing, mate. Ah’ll see yah then.” I get out first and examine the building. I assume nothing too crazy can be going on inside of a bar with full glass windows in front. When I reach for Butterfly’s hand to help her out of the taxi…
“Uh oh…” She takes my hand and steps out.
“What?” she says, frowning at me as she steps out of the taxi. I remove my blazer.
“I… think the foxes scared you a little more than usual.” I gesture my head to her dress. She looks down to see what I’m referring to… huge wet spots on her dress that have leaked down the front a bit.
“Oh, shit,” she exclaims quietly. I put my jacket over her shoulders, and she slides her arms in, rolling up the sleeves and buttoning all the buttons. The thing damn near covers her entire dress.
“You still want to go inside, or do you want to go back to the hotel?” I ask.
“Hell, no!” she replies. No to which one? “I’m starving, and Carla’s tips have been dreadful. I’ll go to the bathroom and shove some paper towel in my bra. Let’s go.” She walks ahead of me to get to the bar and I have to quickstep to catch up with her. I still don’t know how and will never understand how this little woman can move so quickly and easily in sky-high stilettos!
We step in the lively establishment and ask for Carla. When I say this place is full, I mean it’s really full—at midnight on a Sunday. A tall blonde walks over to us.
“Ah’m Cahlah. Ya the Amehricans?” she asks.
“We are,” I reply. “Noah told us to ask for you.”
“OI don have any tehbles left in the restaurant, but we’ve got some seats in the bah downstehs. Is that okeh?”
“Can I get food down there?” Butterfly asks. “I mean real food like real people eat?” Carla laughs.
“Shuh, sheila, follow me.”
We fall in step behind Carla, who leads us through the restaurant and down a flight of stairs. We walk through the bar—not as crowded as the restaurant, but the source of the music—and right over a picture of the one and only Big Poppa made from mosaic tiles in the floor.
“That’s kinda cool,” Butterfly says as Carla leads us to the table—a large booth with leather seats.
“OI’ll bring you a treh of stahtehs, and what can OI get ya ta drink?” she asks.
“I’ll have a beer. The lady will have a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon…” I look at Butterfly to get her approval, and she nods. “And the gentlemen will have two sodas.”
“Two sodas, a frothy, and a cab sav for the sheila,” she says, writing on her pad. She places menus on the table. “I’ll be back with your stahtehs and drinks.”
“Um, Carla, where’s the ladies’ room?” Butterfly asks. Carla points to the back.
“Dunny’s roight bahk theh through those doohs and to the left,” she says and Butterfly nods. When she leaves, Butterfly bends down to me.
“Why do they keep calling me ‘Sheila?’” she asks. I shrug.
“I’m not sure, baby, but in context, I think it means ‘woman’ or ‘girl,’” I reply.
“It does,” Jason says with a nod.
“Okay,” Butterfly says. “I just want to know what I’m being called. I had a feeling if it was bad, they wouldn’t all call me that, but still…” She heads off towards the restroom and Jason jerks his head for Lawrence to follow. He stands from the chair and scurries behind her.
“He doesn’t know to follow her?” I ask.
“I’m not making excuses for him. I don’t know why he didn’t get up.” I twist my lips.
“No slip-ups on this trip, Jason,” I say sternly. “He’s been a good egg up to now.”
“I’ll debrief him—make sure he doesn’t drop the ball.” Yeah, you do that, because if he fucks up, he’ll have to find another way back to the states and then he’ll have to hide from me when he gets there.
I find myself bopping to Outkast while waiting for my sheila to return from the restroom. She’s in there longer than I’m comfortable with, so I try to occupy myself with taking in the sights. The locals—at least I think they’re locals—don’t look or behave particularly differently than we do in the states. Everybody’s just drinking, chatting, eating and having a good time. I don’t know what I expect to see, but I guess I just expected to see something different. This is just your usual weekend hangout playing old-school hip-hop and serving food at a later hour.
My attention is drawn to the classic art on the walls in beautiful onyx frames, not because of the art itself, but because of the big white block words printed over the pictures that have nothing to do with the pictures themselves…
The blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice…
Bitch don’t kill my vibe…
What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I mean, I’ve heard the berry quote, but the picture has nothing to do with it. Maybe the vibe picture can be explained by the ancient Grecian woman lying on the daybed looking a bit perturbed…
As I’m trying to decipher the meaning of the pictures, Carla comes back to the table with our drinks and some food we hadn’t ordered yet. Maybe these were the “starters” she was talking about.
“Heh’s yah drinks,” she says, handing each of the drinks to me as I place them on the table. “These ah yah stahtahs. Yah guhl seems like she’s stahvin’ so I brought cha the three plattah meat and cheese.”
The three-platter-meat-and cheese is just what it sounds like—three large platters of various wedges of cheese, breads, crackers, meats… it’s basically a very large gourmet antipasto. Although I’m certain that my wife will be satisfied with the layout, I go about the business of ordering one of just about everything on the menu. I’m looking at the other tables and although the food looks fantastic, the servings look kind of small. If my wife gets another airplane-sized meal, she just might go postal.
After a stunned Carla leaves the table to prepare our veritable buffet, I take note of the fact that my wife still hasn’t returned from the bathroom. By now, Beyoncé has played and ended and now Get Low is playing. Did she fall in? I don’t know what gives away my thoughts, but Jason gets my attention by putting his hand on my forearm.
“I’ll go check,” he says, and begins to rise from his seat. His butt has barely left the chair when we see this tiny figure in a giant Tom Ford blazer dancing her way through the crowd. She stops at one group of raucous women and they all bop there for a moment with their hands in the air pointing “to the window, to the wall.” My wife rolls her hips and shows off her moves to the hip hop music, and I’ve never been so thrilled to see a big man following her than I am at this moment to see Lawrence not three feet away from her as she gyrates in this group of women. She revels there for a few more moments to the unedited lyrics of Li’l John’s music before she high fives one of the women and dances her way back over to the table.
She hasn’t even had a drink yet.
“I was worried,” I say when she sits. “What took so long?”
“I was drenched,” she exclaims, a little breathless. “They had a hand dryer in there, thank God. I had to do something. The dress is pretty much ruined. It might as well be dry.” She throws her hands in the air again to take advantage of the “window” chorus once more, then downs her entire glass of Cabernet.
“I want something stronger,” she says. “Ooo, that looks yummy.” She takes a small piece of bread and stacks it with a piece of the gourmet meat and cheese and takes a bite, popping an olive in her mouth as well. “Mmm, that’s delicious.”
“Don’t fill up on it. We’ve got food coming—and don’t forget we’re going on a cruise tomorrow. I don’t think a ‘hangover’ would mix well with a boat ride.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll only have one or two drinks. What did you order?”
“Um… a whole lot,” I say, knowing that I pretty much pointed at what was on the menu and took some suggestions from Carla. “I wanted to make sure that no one left hungry.”
“Good plan, Mr. Grey,” she declares as she loads a cracker with spreadable cheese and more meat. “They have a lot of cheese varieties here, huh?” she says, uncharacteristically talking with her mouth full.
“Looks that way,” I chuckle watching her shovel gourmet antipasto into her mouth. I’m glad to see that she has apparently shaken the experience with the bats and the milky-dress incident hasn’t left her embarrassed and devastated.
And she really does look quite cute in my jacket.
“Quel tragique.”—”What a tragedy.”
“Pardonnez-moi, monsieur.”—”Forgive me, sir.”
“Tu es pardonné. Il est délicieux, n’est-ce pas?”—”You are forgiven. He’s delicious, isn’t he?”
“Oui, très délicieux! Vous êtes un gars chanceux. Pardonnez mon impolitesse”—”Yes, very delicious! You are a lucky guy. Forgive my rudeness ”
“Parlez vous français?”—”Do you speak French?”
“Oui, madame,”—”Yes, ma’am”
“Je parle français aussi.”—”I speak French too.”
Please do not beat me over the head too badly for my bad imitation of an Australian accent. I’m doing the best I can.
I’ve taken some liberties with Big Poppa’s because they weren’t open yet at the time this story was set and Sunday is actually “bring your own wine” day, but they couldn’t expect a couple of Americans running from bats to have a bottle of wine shoved in their inside pocket.
I also know that taxi drivers and restaurant servers don’t expect to be tipped, but it adds to the story and the “Christian Grey always gets what he wants when he wants it” aspect of the story, so I did it anyway.
Li’l John—Get Low
The new question and answer thread is always open for questions about the story. Be sure to read it and please adhere to the rules when asking questions. You can find it on the left, second from last on the menu or you can click HERE.
There has been yet another development where if you feel the need to talk to fellow readers about personal issues, you need a sounding board, you want to vent about something in your life, please feel free to visit the link on the left in the menu entitled “Do You Need To Talk.” No subject is taboo. I just ask that you approach the link with respect for those who have concerns as well as those who respond. You can also get to the link by clicking HERE.
The Australia Picture Board can be found here: https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/raising-grey-the-trip-to-australia/
Pins for this chapter can be found here:
And of course, the regular Pinterest board is here:
You can join my mailing list on the “Contact Me” page. Just click the link and it will lead you to a form to join the list.