Raising Grey: Chapter 83—Basking in Barossa Valley

FUN, FUN, FUN!!!

I enjoyed writing and editing this chapter so much that there will be no warnings besides that the previous disclaimers apply. Travelling through the Barossa Valley was so much fun, and I adored the experience more than anything that I’ve written in Book IV so far, and that says a lot. Please, please, please try to follow the pictures on the Pinterest page for this chapter as you read. I guarantee it will enhance your experience immensely. They can be found at THIS LINK and there are eight Barossa Valley subheadings. If you’re a visual person like me, you won’t regret it!

Thank you all for going on this journey with me and I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Chapter 83—Basking in Barossa Valley

ANASTASIA

St. Hugo’s was a divine experience. It was almost spoiled by two uncouth cows who pointed me out, once again, as Christian’s bracelet, but he quickly put them in their place without saying a word directly to either of them while at the same time making me feel every bit the beautiful princess.

I still don’t understand what strikes people’s ire so much about us. I guess it’s okay to be young, rich, beautiful, or happy, but not all four. I’m not saying that my husband is a bad person, but in his business dealings, I’m certain that he has pissed off a person or three. I haven’t done anything to anybody! Yet, they come at me with their claws bared for no reason whatsoever…

Because I’m married to Christian…
Because I’m pretty…
Because we’re rich…

I don’t even know anymore. I’m working on my pledge to not let what people say about me bother me so much, but I have to admit that I’m not doing such a great job. I’ve never been able to embrace the concept of not liking someone simply for the cause of not liking them. They either think I’m a gold-digger or a trophy wife. Do they think I’m not good enough? And if not me, then who would’ve been?

What would satisfy the criteria of marrying the great Christian Grey—another billionairess? Then they would have been angry with her for being too damn ambitious and wanting too much.

He’s beautiful and he married a beautiful woman. What if he had married a dog? They would be talking about his taste and her looks.

He’s young and I’m young. What if he had married a cougar? That May-December “romance” would have gotten quite the un-rave reviews!

And God only knows what major shit they would be talking if we had marital problems splattered all over the tabloids.

You’re damned if you do and you’re damned if you don’t, so I’m back to the way of thinking that I need to let this shit roll off of me. I just didn’t think I would be subjected to that jealous type of scrutiny in a foreign country where no one knows who we are or anything about us. I guess people are just naturally catty and there’s really nothing you can do about that.

Bearing this in mind, I have every intention of eating way too much food and drinking way too much of the delicious offerings of the region, and anybody who doesn’t like it or me can kiss the darkest, wettest part of my lily-white ass!

Jacob’s Creek is our next stop and it’s so close that we could walk. Nonetheless, I have no arguments with taking the short jaunt in this beautiful classic Chrysler. We’re adding the delicious St. Hugo’s Cabernet to our wine cellar, and we’ve decided to keep one bottle of the Screaming Eagle and one of the St. Hugo for our collection. However, I believe in living and enjoying life and I plan on drinking the rest.

Just like at St. Hugo, we enjoy four tastings from the winery’s cellar door exclusive Heritage wine collection paired with four delicious courses matched perfectly with the wine. I remember the steps involved in the tastings and what to look for—techniques taught to me by my husband on our honeymoon. I’m proud and a bit astonished that I remember these things since these are very specific details and our honeymoon was before the accident that has subdued a lot of my memories.

I combine the knowledge I received from Christian with a bit of my own knowledge and repeat the steps from the tasting at St. Hugo’s…

Hold the glass by the stem so as not to affect the temperature of the wine.
Examine the color and body of the wine. Is it dark and rich or easy to see through like colored glass?

I remember my husband speaking of the dress of the wine—the color. He taught me that that darker the color, the older the vintage. So, while some of our reds are ruby and a bit transparent, the older wines are darker, richer, and more of a brick color.

I swirl the glass and examine the legs. They’re thick and a bit heavy on some, not so much on others.

Cover my nose with the glass and absorb the smell to pick up certain notes in each vintage before I take a sip and aerate the wine to give my tongue the chance to ponder the flavor.

I make the most of the experience. Jacob’s Creek boasts fine wines and delicious dishes to tempt the palate. However, I must say that St. Hugo’s felt more personable where Jacob’s Creek seemed a bit more mass-production-commercial to me. There was even the option to have a picnic lunch on site, but even that seemed more like, “Here’s your box—now go down past the old fig tree to the creek… with all the other people who bought a box lunch.”

John’s keen senses zero in on the fact that I’m not enjoying this experience as much as St. Hugo. I don’t hate it—it just seems like a bit of a downgrade. We don’t dawdle at Jacob’s Creek for too long before we’re back on another picturesque journey to our next winery.

The Charles Melton Vineyard is a bit more my taste. This winery is quaint—the quaintness of St. Hugo, but not such a large scale. At the risk of being considered a snob, I feel that if you’re going to spend the day in wine country riding around in a vintage luxury car and spending $1000 on a single bottle of wine, none of the wineries that you visit should feel like you’re walking into a liquor store.

Charles Melton definitely meets the mark.

This winery is mainly known for its delectable shirazes and grenaches, two vintages that were somewhat unfashionable when the winery was founded in 1984 but have grown majorly in popularity since then, especially in this region. These wines aren’t as pricey as the St. Hugo, but they’re surprisingly delicious. The winery specializes in only a few blends and you get to sample them all. I’m happy to order a case of the La Belle Mere Grenache Shiraz Mataro and the Grains of Paradise Shiraz. The Grains of Paradise boast a complex sweetness reminiscent of sitting in a swing or in the grass in the meadow on a cool spring or slightly cooler summer Sunday afternoon while the Grenache begs to mature for a few years in the cellar to richen the Barossa ripeness and the boldness of the smoky, dark, sweet fruits.

We don’t get the pairing experience at Charles Melton without actually ordering a meal. However, we’re able to indulge in tastings of olive oil and cheeses, and smoked meats from the local butcher between cellar door visits.

I’m beginning to feel the effects of some of the wines by the time we reach the Yalumba Winery, but that doesn’t stop me from indulging in the Winemaker’s Lunch on the Yalumba Signature Lawn. Now, I’m already a sheet or two to the wind, not completely over the edge but feeling mighty fine. This apparently means absolutely nothing to the sommeliers at Yalumba, who for whatever reason feel that you should taste as many wines as your body can possibly hold.

I have officially lost count of how many wines we’ve tasted before we even get to lunch. You taste three to four wines—maybe five—at each winery that you visit. This place has something like 15! Just to taste! This doesn’t include the pairings with lunch. And the wines at Yalumba are devilishly delicious! There are four different heavenly Rieslings in the tasting, and I even like the Chardonnay and the Sauvignon Blanc… and Chardonnay is definitely not my thing unless it’s part of a pairing. I’m very pleasantly surprised by the Eden Valley Virgilius Viognier and the Grenache of Rosé, but I have a feeling that my prior libations may have contributed to my enjoyment of these elixirs.

We sample a concoction called Running with the Bulls Tempranillo—and not even my previous inebriation helped with that experience. That’s a definite no.

The Cabernet/Shiraz mixes make up for that experience, however—the Signature blend as well as The Scribbler blend. I can see some of these making their way back to the States with us.

Somewhere in between the seventh, eighth, tenth tasting, I don’t know, it’s time for us to have our Winemaker’s Lunch. I inform Christian that I’d like a case of the Signature and Scribbler blends. He subsequently decides that he wants the Eden Vineyard Shiraz Viognier and Eden Valley Sauvignon Blanc. So, he arranges for the wines to be shipped. No sooner than he put his Amex Black back in his wallet that I turn around and come face-to-face with the same two cows that we saw at St. Hugo’s walking into the cellar door.

Now, I’m not toasted, but I’ve been officially dipped, and the filter is off.

“Oh, look, there’s second place! Or third… or tenth… or whatever,” I blurt out with a giggle while pointing at them and leaning on my husband who tries and fails to stifle a laugh. I’m sure that if they didn’t get my meaning, he did.

If I’m a trophy wife, they’re way down on the placement list!

“Come, my inebriated Butterfly,” he says, putting his arm around my waist to stable me as we leave the cellar door.

“Bye!” I say cheerfully looking over my shoulder while waving at the cows who were talking about me earlier.

“I love it when you’re like this,” he says, scooping me into his arms once we’re outside, “not too drunk but pickled just enough.”

Live acoustic music is playing on the lawn while we enjoy the sunshine, great food, and yet more wine pairings from Yalumba—Old Bush Vine Grenache and The Guardian Shiraz Viognier blend, both from Samuel’s Garden. Lunch consists of decadent courses ranging from prosciutto-wrapped scallops to lamb, Scotch fillets, and smoked salmon. Tarts, cannolis, and souffles with vanilla bean ice-cream complete our meal and we sit in the sunshine allowing it to digest a bit. After a tall, cold glass of water and a trip or two to the ladies’ room, my high has worn off a bit—not completely, but a bit, and I’m ready to hit the valley again.

I’m sitting happily snuggled in the arms of my husband in the back seat of the vintage Chrysler, smiling widely on the inside and probably on the outside as well, as we once again travel down picturesque streets with rolling green hills lined with beautiful trees. As we approach the more populated areas, we see cozy little houses and then a church, followed by more commercial-type buildings—still a bit of a small-town feel, but more business and commerce in this area… the grocery store, the cheese shop, the post office, the beauty salon.

Once again, it could be all the wine, but I’m beginning to think of John as a personal friend of ours. He has proven to be a wealth of knowledge throughout our excursion, providing entertaining commentary on the history and culture of the Barossa, the amazing wines, local characters that we’ve seen or met along the way, and the culture, architecture, and terrain of the region. It was he who suggested that we sample the cheeses, meats, and wares of the area in between our tastings to accommodate our alcohol intake from the wineries that provided tastings without parings. We quickly learn that our wine-tasting experience is bespoke, and I’m more and more pleased that John is our guide through the enchanting valley.

Our next stop is Penfolds.

We pull up at a tan stucco building in the middle of the city. I frown a bit because I’m expecting more experiences like St. Hugo’s and less like Jacob’s Creek, but even Jacob’s Creek wasn’t this commercial—full asphalt parking lot and the building looks like it could be anything… a factory, a storage facility, a hardware store. There are no vineyards, fields, or trees anywhere, and I just don’t have a good feeling about it.

Apparently, my face said that out loud.

John informs us that the Penfolds Magill Estate Winery and Cellar Door is more than an hour away, and he didn’t want us to leave Barossa Valley without having tried their flagship Grange.

“Give it a chahnce, sheila,” John says. “OI’m cehtain you won’t be disappointed.”

Well, if John says so…

We enter the well-too-lit cellar door and I feel like I’m in a liquor store again. It’s worse than Jacob’s Creek… at least they had the creek!

John tells the vintner where we’ve traveled most of the day and informs her that he thinks we’d like the “A Taste of Grange” and the “Laboratory” experience.

Though the location is missing the ambience and the je ne sais quoi of the other on-site cellar doors, the experience is still wonderful. The staff is unbelievably accommodating, and I think I tasted more wine than I did at Yalumba… and just as tasty! The Taste of Grange experience is fabulous, and our host is just as engaging as John is. We get the opportunity to taste a number of delicious luxury granges from various years. He was right and I feel a little guilty about judging the book by its stucco cover.

Oh, but the experience isn’t over yet. The “Laboratory” experience that John spoke of refers to the Winemaker’s Laboratory, where you get to create your own blend of Penfold’s to take home. I noticed that other wineries have the option available, but John never suggested it and I was too busy tasting the wines to ask about it. We each got our own lab jacket and begin the process of blending the wines to create our own custom vintage. Of course, my husband wants the perfect white blend while I aim for the perfect mixture of dark fruits and full-bodied richness characteristic of my favorite Cabernets.

More blending, more tasting, and we leave this blessed establishment with two bottles each of our custom blend—going in the Chrysler with us and they may make it onto the jet—with a personalized label on each bottle that boasts Christian and me as “Assistant Winemaker” on our respective bottles.

Of course, we can’t leave without the world-renowned Granges of Penfolds. Yes, they boast a hefty price-tag, but they’re worth every penny! We get a mixed case of the Granges including the 2012 Grange St. Louis with crystal decanter, and a second case of the Cabernet. I had to include the 2010 Bin 707, one of the darkest and richest blends I’ve tasted with hints of blueberry and mulberry in a dense black core.

We depart our glorious experience at Penfolds and head to Maggie Beer’s Farm Shop for afternoon tea. I’m more than pleased to see that as we drive toward Maggie Beer’s, the roads are looking more rural and rustic like before. Not to besmirch Penfolds by all means, but this is more what I expected when travelling through Barossa Valley.

How do I describe Maggie Beer’s?

Maggie Beer’s is a produce shop, wine shop, cookery, eatery and pheasant farm tucked back off the road just outside of the city not four miles—or six kilometers—from Penfolds. The entrance looks very rustic, but inside is a gorgeous country-kitchen-type feel on a much larger scale exuding a general store vibe with the extensive line of fresh jams and products.

Birds are roaming free on the grounds—large birds with babies. I think they’re pheasants, but I’m not sure since this is also a pheasant farm… where the pheasants are cooked and eaten. There is, however, an aviary of native birds on the grounds, one of which is a beautiful peacock with a royal blue neck and a fabulous green plume of feathers behind him. At one point, he also finds his way out of the cage and struts around for us, showing off his long, colorful feathers.

Maggie Beer and her husband Colin started the pheasant farm in the 1970’s and became the first breeders of quail and pheasant in Australia. From there, they opened the farm shop and the restaurant and became quite famous in the area. With the success of the restaurant, they started to make pate to sell to the public. They came full circle to sell the pate in the farm shop and the operation just kept growing and growing. Now the restaurant and farm shop are favorites in the neighborhood, and Maggie is famous for her seasonal recipes, condiments, pastes, and marmalades. Many of her cookbooks are sold in the farm shop and I’ve procured a wicker basket which is filled with several of those books right now.

Although we could if we wanted to, this is the one place where we didn’t have any wine. There were too many other things to see and taste. The Eatery is a bustling dining area with yellow chairs that leads to an outside eating area—a brick patio that connects to a wooden deck over the Blue Lake. There are no demonstrations occurring at the time, but Maggie Beer’s has an open kitchen with chairs in front like a small theater as well as a full kitchen with multiple cooking stations for demonstrations and classes.

Christian and I browse the various wares of the shop, tasting homemade jams on gourmet crackers—raspberry pomegranate, Seville marmalade, fig and fennel paste, and salted brandy caramel just to name a few. I’m completely lamenting the fact that there’s nothing like this place that I know of in Seattle, but I’m certain that with the Marketplace there, I can find something somewhere locally that has all the fresh produce, jams, and exotic flavors that I see here… or at least something similar.

As I sip a delicious cappuccino, I’ve passed my basket on to Ben to carry while I look at the various “hampers” for sale. “Hampers” are selections of various jams, flavors, marmalades, etc., combined in a seasonal or flavor group and sold as a package. I choose the Favourites List Hamper, the Maggie’s Favourites Hamper, and the Fine Spread Hamper, making sure that my selections include the delightful marmalades and jams that I tasted today as well as a variety of cooking wines, chutneys, sauces, and verjuice.

We’ve now moved from coffee to pear cider—an indescribably tasty experience—and I continue with my shopping and browsing, being sure to choose gift sets for Gail, Keri, and Ms. Solomon. I’m not sure that the pastes, pates, and jams would be to Keri’s taste, but there’s one way to find out.

As we relax on the wood deck, we watch the turtles swimming in the Blue Lake. While sipping another coffee along with a tall glass of cool water, we enjoy small servings of three decadent desserts—orange ricotta cake, Meyer lemon pie with apricot jam, and dried pear and glace ginger Eccles cakes. As the dreamy confections melt on my tongue followed by the smoothest coffee I’ve ever tasted, I can’t help but ponder how troubled my spirit was not so long ago. This experience seems worlds away from where we were just two days ago—the tragedies and suffering at Port Arthur and the tormented spirits still stuck in that place. How the two places and experiences can be in the same trip, but be so hugely different is totally beyond me.

I don’t linger on it too long as I enjoy my burnt fig, honeycomb, and caramel ice cream. Yes… I must find something like this in Seattle!

I feel very good about my haul from Maggie Beer’s and I’m ready to move on to our next experience. It’s late afternoon and my buzz is dying a bit, which means I need more wine! John tells us that we have one more stop before returning to St. Hugo’s for dinner and then taking our ride back to Adelaide to conclude our trip to wine country.

“You’re playful when you’re tipsy,” Christian says when we get back into the car.

“No, I’m not,” I say, my high from earlier nearly totally abated after the rehydration, coffee, and small amount of exercise at Maggie Beer’s. “I’m logical when I’m tipsy. My mind clears, my thoughts are logical, and my filter’s off.”

“And apparently, that makes you playful,” he counters with a laugh. I chuckle.

“Maybe… under the right circumstances, but you’ve never seen me wine drunk. Usually, if I’m wine drunk, I’m angry.”

“I have seen you drunk,” he protests, his brow furrowed. “On the Slasher.”

“I was Cosmo drunk on the Slasher,” I correct him. “I was not wine drunk. You’ve never seen me wine drunk. I’ve only been wine drunk one time that I can remember during our relationship and that was…” I trail off. No, now is not a good time to bring that up.

“That was when?” he presses.

“Early,” I say, “very early in the relationship.” I still don’t want to talk about it.

“I don’t reme…”

“Let’s… let’s not, okay?” I say beseechingly. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. We’ve been having a great day. Let’s not ruin it with unnecessary and unpleasant memories.” He twists his lips.

“I can’t argue with that,” he says, tightening his grip around my waist.

“Excyuse the intrusion,” John says from the front seat, “but my OI sy thaht from what OI’ve seen, yew two hahve the roight fohmula foh a long and happy marriage.” I smile.

“We’re still working on it, John,” I admit, “but I certainly hope you’re right.”

“I know he’s right,” Christian says softly before kissing my temple. “

Our final stop before dinner is the Seppeltsfield Tasting Room. According to John, this is one of the most distinguished wineries in the Barossa Valley. We had originally intended to stop at the Torbreck Winery, but then discovered that some of the blends from that winery originate from Seppeltsfield. So, why not just go to the source?

Seppeltsfield Winery prides itself on delivering history in a bottle. That’s quite an ambitious goal, to say the very least. In light of this, patrons and connoisseurs frequent the establishment expecting absolutely nothing but the very best. As such, Seppeltsfield strives not to disappoint.

The Seppeltsfield tour isn’t a short one, and certainly not boring. John and our Seppeltsfield host keep us engaged and entertained as we learn about the impressive 163-year history of the winery. The grounds of the winery combine old-world charm in the 18th and 19th century architecture with modern landscaping that ties the old with the new and presents a fabulous backdrop. While wandering around the grounds of this estate, you awe at the glorious modern fountains and endless date palm trees while simultaneously feeling as though you’ve stepped back in time.

Throughout the tour, we see the original 1851 Seppelt Homestead where the Seppelts lived as well as the fully-restored Seppeltsfield cottage, both available for lodging with a reservation. Christian comments about how small the quarters are. Our host informs us that these lodgings were actually indicative of the wealthy in that time, especially since the Seppelts had the bigger picture in mind—farming, winery, village, the whole kit and caboodle.

We also see the Elm Walk, which is a favorite for weddings, and the 1860’s blending cellars. Some of the original equipment used to create and barrel the wines and can still be seen on-site.

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Strolling through the beautifully restored grounds and admiring the gardens and the exquisite landscape, we also see the Dining Hall that was used until 1890, Winemakers Terrace & Chimney, better known as the distillery, used until 1877, and the Laboratory used until 1945. The 19th Century Clydesdale Stables have been redeveloped into the JamFactory Art & Design Studios while the Bottling Hall last used in 1900 is now the home of the Seppeltsfield Cellar Door.

I don’t know that any of the other wineries have one of these as it wasn’t pointed out to us throughout our tour, but the Seppeltsfield has a Gravity Cellar. The Gravity Cellar is built into the hillside on descending terraces consisting of 120 big open top tanks that allow gravity’s natural pull to direct the course and flow of the fruit through the winery, which means less handling of the fruit and a purer fermentation process.

We tasted some of the wares of the cellar door after our initial overall tour of the grounds. Our tasting consisted of a flight of four wines from the Paramount Collection—two styles of Apera, a Tokay, and a Muscat. It’s very easy to see why this is one of the oldest and most distinguished wineries in the Barossa, having an entire village built around and named after it. However, our hosts were strategically saving the best for last.

Our final trip is to the Centennial Cellar. Mere words won’t do justice to our experience in this place. A barrel of the best crops of Tawny from each year dating back to 1878 is housed in this cellar with instructions that it was not to be bottled for at least another 100 years from the date it was barreled. As such, there are several tours with different historical themes that are based on tastings from this cellar. But make no mistake—as this is the crown jewel of the Seppeltsfield Winery, it’s gonna cost ya!

Our tour of the Centennial Cellar includes a combination of the Moments in History experience and the Centenary Experience. For the Moments in History, we taste wine from various times through history—from 1969 and the year of the Moon Landing; from D-Day in 1944; from 1939 and the end of the Great Depression; from 1972, the year the Watergate scandal began; from 1997 and the death of Lady Di; and of course, 1985… the year a Butterfly was born. Oh, and of course, from 1983—the year of the birth of my favorite mogul.

There’s seems to be a strange reminiscent connection to tasting wines from those years, not that you were magically transported to the event because of the year of the wine, but I do feel a bit of connection to the time and year of the occurrences and it does make you think. It seems somewhat… symmetric how different the wines differ from our birth years, even though we’re only two years apart. The most current wine we tasted is the 1997, and there’s no mistaking that the older the wines are, the more powerful the flavor and more distinct the vintage.

I have to say that none were as profound as the Centenary Tasting, where we’re able to taste a 100-year old Para Vintage Tawny. Still in the bowels of the winery where the aromas hypnotize almost as much as the flavors—who am I kidding? I’m tipsy again, but not too tipsy to appreciate this experience.

Our host dips a wine thief into the barrel of 1914 Tawny—much like he did with the many other barrels that we’ve tasted, but a new wine thief each time draws out a sample and fills a small tasting glass. These are not the wine glasses that we’ve been using. These are small, crystal verres à vin—something like a tiny sherry glass.

We watch in awe as the fluid seeps slowly into the glass, oozing down the side before filling the triangular bottom of the glass and rising up the angles. Our host hands us each a glass and I attempt follow the wine-tasting techniques that I’ve learned…

No.

It’s difficult to follow the traditional tasting rules when you experience a 100-year-old wine. The elixir flows out of the wine thief like heavy olive oil. The slowness with which it fills the glass is not theatrical. The wine is thick… rich, dark in color like fresh molasses and clinging to the sides of the glass like a thin syrup.

No smelling…
No swirling…
No aerating…

Just taste.

“That’s remarkable,” Christian nearly purrs as he sips the wine.

“Incredible,” I whisper as the most indescribably rich, full-bodied flavor coats my mouth. I close my eyes and savor the taste of an insanely decadent and delicious wine that I’ll probably never taste again. When I open my eyes, my husband is staring at me… in that way.

“Warren,” he says to our host. “Is there any way that I can get some of this shipped back to America?” Warren already has that I’m so sorry look on his face.

“We don’t reahlly sell the Centennial Collection, sir,” Warren says, “not in volume anywy. We have collectible oitems that ahr avaylable to be ohdehed and pehsonalized. However, thy tayke some toime to bottle, and thy can be vehry expensive and in small quawntities.”

Now, I’m expecting my I-want-it-and-I-want-it-now husband to start waving around his Amex Black, demanding immediate satisfaction. I’m surprised when the suave and reserved Christian Grey appears.

“I see,” he says. “So, can you tell me my options?”

Wow. I try not to let my expression betray my astonishment at my husband’s diplomacy. Granted, he’s not always a bull in a China shop, but when he wants something, he wants it and there’s no negotiating… and I can tell he wants this. I take another sip of the elixir. Dear God, it’s divine.

“Mmm,” I say, letting the flavors coat my tongue again and momentarily floating off to an ethereal experience. When I open my eyes this time, John, Warren, and Christian are all looking at me. I swallow hard.

“Sorry,” I murmur, shrinking a bit. Warren clears his throat and turns back to Christian, garnering his attention.

“The Collection can be ohdehed in 100ml ohr 375ml collectible bottles…”

I stand by quietly and demurely as Warren explains how the Centennial Collection is sold—bottles smaller that an American soda can for nearly $3000 American each… and they take about a month to ship to the States… after they’re bottled. So, it could be six to eight weeks before we even see this stuff.

Noting that Christian hasn’t lost interest at the mention of the quantity or the price of the 1914 blend, Warren continues to explain that the Tawny will be bottled by hand and presented in a Jarrah timber box with a serial number and a certificate of authenticity. I hate to tell you this, Warren, but if I know my husband, that pretty box and that pretty bottle won’t mean anything because my husband plans to sit and watch me drink it. I’m careful not to take the last swallow of the vintage left in my glass until we’re about to leave.

I quickly calculate in my head that 375ml is about a cup and a half. Considering that I’ve taken two sips of the tasting already in my hand and there remains one more healthy swallow, we could get five to six good tastings out of that bottle considering that my tasting may have been about ¼ of a cup—and assuming we can preserve the wine somehow once we’ve opened it…

“Is it at all possible that I could get three bottles?” Christian asks.

Three bottles?? Is he insane? That’s nearly $10,000 for just over a quart of wine! It’s good, but it’s not that good.

“Three bottles?” Warren asks incredibly. “Of the…” he trails off.

“The 1914 Centennial Para Vintage Tawny blend—the 375ml… $2750 each you said, right?”

“Um, yes sir, plus shipping.” Warren appears to be nearly dumbstruck.

“Good,” Christian says. “If we order them now, I may have them by Valentine’s Day.” He looks over at me and winks.

“Capital tour, Warren, capital tour,” Christian says, turning his attention back to Warren. “Lead the way, sir.”

Warren’s face takes on an almost ethereal glow as he collects the tools of his trade, and I finish my last sip of the extra-terrestrial elixir.

*-*

The sun has made its way across the sky and we have arranged for several bottles from the Seppeltsfield Winery to be shipped to Grey Crossing in Seattle—including three bottles of the Centennial Collection—by the time we make our way to dinner. At first, we had planned to return to St. Hugo’s, which would have been nice, but we had already been there—and apparently, John read my expression and deduced that I would much rather go somewhere new as our last stop in Barossa Valley, so he makes the executive decision that our final stop will be on the way back to swap the Chrysler for the Mercedes before we return to Adelaide, but it won’t be St. Hugo’s.

Our drive is only about nine minutes and we arrive at another winery called Artisans at Barossa. I wonder if one of the ways that the Barossa stays in business is by keeping its guests drunk—my buzz from Seppeltsfield hasn’t worn off at all by the time we get to Artisans.

The car has barely stopped when I see the door opening and a gentleman that isn’t my husband standing there holding the door for me.

“Ma’am,” I hear him say in an Australian accent. At the same time, I hear another accent refer to Christian as “sir” as he exits the Daimler. I smile at the gentleman and take his proffered hand to help me out of the car.

He nods once and Christian is by my side almost immediately. I didn’t want to be rude to the guy, but I knew Christian would be bumping him out of the way in moments. Of course, my husband wraps my hand around his forearm and begins to lead me away. I look over my shoulder at the guy still holding the door of the Chrysler, looking a bit crestfallen.

“Thank you,” I say while he’s still in earshot. He raises his head to me, smiles, and nods again. I fall in step with my husband and he raises a brow at me.

“What?” I say. “You swooped in like a lion claiming a piece of raw meat. I just didn’t want to be rude.”

“Forever charming the locals,” he chides gently.

“I haven’t been charming the locals!” I retort quietly… at least not intentionally. Christian scoffs a laugh.

“Yeah, and I didn’t just spend $10,000 on just over a liter of wine because you looked and sounded like you were coming while you were drinking it,” he declares before leading me into the winery.


CHRISTIAN

Three thousand dollars a bottle on 100-year-old wine.

Yes, one of those bottles will be a collectors item, but at least one of those bottles will be part of a Butterfly fuck-fest. I could have fucked her right there on the cellar floor with the sounds that she was making sipping that stuff!

And then this valet or whatever he is comes flying to the door to let her out before the car even stops. Did he fucking smell her arriving? I know she’s sexy, but damn. And I’m sure he nutted himself when she turned around and said, “Thank you.”

So, John has brought us to another location called Artisans since Butterfly hinted that she didn’t want to go back to St. Hugo’s. I’m surprised, because St. Hugo’s was very nice and I wouldn’t have minded having dinner there, but my lady wants to see something else, so it’s something else we’re seeing.

The Artisans of Barossa has a restaurant called the Harvest Kitchen. Apparently, they feed you and feed you—all the fruits of the field and the meat of the land, whatever’s in season—until you don’t want any more all while they’re pickling you in various wines. It’s one flat cost per person for the experience, although I’m not really concerned about the cost. I’m more concerned about my wife. I just want her to enjoy herself.

We are seated at a table for four next to the window with a beautiful view of the deck and the vineyards. The tables are somewhat close, so the other diners in the restaurant are nearly sitting in your lap. I’m not sure that I like that, but I don’t get time to protest as the parade of food and wine begins almost immediately.

There are several bottles—not just glasses, bottles of wine placed on our table. We try to inform the staff that our security detail will not be drinking, but apparently, word travels fast in the Barossa, and I hear a whisper or two about the couple doing the Daimler tour and purchasing cases of wine at every winery, including $10,000 worth from Seppeltsfield. I have a feeling that John may have had something to do with how fast word is traveling, but again, as long as my girl has a good time…

I’ve come to discover that Artisans of Barossa carries several different varieties of wines from several different labels… or sublabels, I’m not sure—such as John Duval and Sons of Eden. In addition to the endless flow of food, we indulge in several John Duval reds and whites, as well as a variety of Sons of Eden Grenaches, Shirazes, Rosés, and Rieslings. The other Artisans include Schwarz Wine Company, Hobbs of Barossa Ranges, Massena, and Spinifex Wines, and the staff is intent that we taste them all!

The food begins and it, along with the wine, just keeps coming and coming. The menu begins with charcuterie and cheese with Schwarz Wine Company Meta Grenache; anchovy on grilled sourdough with basil and tomato; a separate cheese, fig, date, and prosciutto tray with some vintage of Red Muscat that fails me at the moment; and Tweedvale labneh with Ras el Hanout and nigella with two sourdough “croutons” shaped like a butterfly… and Spinifex Muscat a Petit Grains—a delicate and somewhat sweet white wine which, surprisingly, we both like.

My wife begins to draw attention to our table as the food and wine parade continues. She repeatedly asks the staff for information on what she’s eating and drinking, which they’re only too happy to provide since her aura is infectious—so infectious in fact, that other diners nearby somehow find it appropriate to join in our conversation and meal, explaining to Butterfly what wines have been paired with which foods and why. One couple, we learn, is also here from the United States, vacationing from North Carolina. Another is from Vancouver while a third joins us from Hawaii. Butterfly engages everyone like we’ve all arrived together.

Our food and wine parade continues with Sons of Eden Freya Riesling and crispy fried Barossa free-range chicken; fig and stout beef empanadas and Hobbs of Barossa Ranges Tin Lids Shiraz Aria Secca; fried gnocchi with truffle & Parmesan mousse; smoked fish brandade with more sourdough “croutons”; Hutton Vale Farm Merquez sausage with fennel; ancient grain salad with vache curd and pomegranate molasses dressing; and Hutton Vale lamb pide with yogurt, fresh herb salad and pomegranate molasses and two Rosés and more wine—I have long since lost track of the vintages.

For dessert, we have vanilla ice cream with salted caramel and popcorn—the strangest combination I’ve ever seen and surprisingly compatible. I’m quite surprised when my wife—who prefers a Cabernet over any libation in the world—partakes in what one of the staff calls Artisans Riesling Spritzer, made with Freya Riesling with ginger, verjuice and ice. My wife’s a red drinker and she had two of these in addition to all the wine we’re drinking!

The wine and conversation keep flowing and we have now attracted the attention of an older, graying gentleman who was sitting alone at a table near the window at the other end of the room. He asks if he can join us, and the couple next to us—from North Carolina—invites him to pull up a chair. I can see that he has zeroed in on my Butterfly, but I won’t behave like a Neanderthal, at least not yet and especially after all the wine I’ve had… not as much as Butterfly, but I’ve had my fair share.

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I watch his interaction with the group—or lack thereof—and each time my lady speaks, his interest is piqued. He’s good at making it appear that he’s conversing with the group when he’s clearly only engaging Butterfly. Jason and Lawrence are now on alert, but not DEFCON, just alert enough to keep an eye on the situation, as am I.

He’s well-traveled, divorced or never married—my guess is never married—probably in his early to mid-fifties, sophisticated and refined… and he’s French. He’s also no fool. He’s waiting for my reaction to him and I won’t show my hand. Butterfly is sitting across from me and I haven’t done anything to show possession or piss on my territory. He knows she’s mine and he’s setting the table—nothing overt, but sly little signals and subliminal messages, waiting for the gauche American to emerge so that he can come off all suave and sophisticated and show my wife what she’s missing.

I’ve devoured bigger fish than you in the boardroom, Gaston.

In the meantime, she who claims that she’s not charming the locals appears to be making friends left and right with her witty banter even with her limited knowledge of wine. Her ignorance appears to enamor her with the staff and the other patrons of the restaurants, with our uninvited dining companions getting a kick out of telling her what notes she may be tasting in certain wines as she admits that she has had so many that the flavors are all running together. Gaston, whom I discover is named Maxime, decides to test her on that fact, declaring that there is a hint of boysenberry in the John Duval Grenache.

“Hmm,” Butterfly says, aerating the wine before swallowing, even though she had already tasted the vintage several times before during the evening, along with several other wines. She’s still bubbly and smiling, but she’s quite drunk as she tests the spirits on her tongue.

“It could be my pickled brain, Maxime,” she says to her quizzer, “but I don’t taste any boysenberry. Cranberry… or maybe raspberry… but no boysenberry.”

“That is because you are correct, madam,” our French dinner-mate declares. “There is no boysenberry in this blend.” My wife fakes a scoff.

“Maxime, you cad!” she declares, pretending to be affronted, “why would you lie to me?”

“Not a lie, Mrs. Grey,” he clarifies. “A test, and you passed.” He wipes his lips with his napkin and stands. He knows he’s been whipped. I’m not falling into his trap, but that doesn’t stop him from pulling one last trick.

“It has been a pleasure,” he says in his smooth French accent. “You have made what would have been a boring dinner alone quite delightful.” He takes her hand and leans down to kiss it, but pauses before his lips touch her skin and looks at me. I want to tell him to get his paws off my wife, but… I just nod once. He presses his lips gently to her hand before raising only his gaze to make eye-contact with her.

“Au revoir, madam,” he says, his voice low and a bit suggestive.

“Enchanté, monsieur,” my wife replies softly. Maxime places his free hand over his heart before releasing her and stepping next to me.

“She’s exquisite,” he says in my ear before walking past me and leaving the restaurant. Yes, Gaston, I know… believe me, I know. My wife carries on with the tables around her once Maxime is gone like she and this fucker didn’t just share a tender moment—in his eyes, anyway. Right now, she’s floating on spirits and having a good time, holding court with a bunch of strangers with six watchful eyes on her. She knows she’s safe, and she’s glowing with enjoyment. Women and men alike are captivated by her conversation and company at the moment. Who am I to interfere?

The sun is setting over the horizon and although my Butterfly is still having a good time as the Belle of the Ball—even though her Gaston has vacated the premises—she yawns, and I know that it’s time for us to leave. Jason and I leave Lawrence with her as we go to relieve ourselves. We head to the restroom to refresh ourselves before we leave, and I see something that I don’t think I’ve ever seen anywhere ever…

A line at the men’s room!

It’s short, but it’s a line, nonetheless. I look over at Jason, who shrugs and we just wait. There are four guys in front of us and the first two at the door are having a conversation that I can’t help but overhear:

“Aye, ya get a load o’tha brunette in tha puhple dress?” one says to the other. You mean the brunette in the purple dress with the husband that’s standing two people behind you?

“Yeh,” the other concurs. “She’s a real lookah!”

“OI’ll say… gohgeous and sweet. Whehr d’ya get one a’those, mate?” the first one continues.

“OI dunno. She’s gotta be one of a koind. Most Amehricans OI’ve met ahr real arseholes,” the second observes. Jason looks over at me and I shake my head, signaling him not to engage. She’s not here and she can’t hear them.

“Cehful thehr, that bloke she’s been haynging on’ll prob’ly lop ya balls off!” The first cautions. Damn straight.

“No shite!” the second says. “OI would, too. It‘s a real gem he’s got thehr. Whut’s he cahl ‘er… Butterfloy?”

“Yeh. He’s a real goneh, but wouldn’t you be?” the first says.

“In a minute, mate. In a minute…” and the conversation moves on to something else before they head into the restroom a few moments later. I don’t need to be told, but yes, my hot wife is an international sensation.

Once we get inside, I see why there’s a line. Everybody’s wine kicked in at the same time and there’s limited “facilities” inside. Bloke #1 and Bloke #2 quickly wash their hands and leave once Jason and I enter the restroom, the two men before us apparently having run in and run out in record time. As we’re washing our hands once we handled our business, I decide to quickly pick Jason’s brain.

“Jason, by any chance, do you recall the situation Butterfly was alluding earlier?” I ask.

“Which situation, sir?” he questions while drying his hands.

“About her being wine-drunk earlier in our relationship?” His brow furrows for a moment, then his frown is replaced with recognition.

“Oh, yeah, I remember,” he says, tossing his paper towel in the trash. I stand there expecting, drying my own hands and it takes him a second or two to catch on.

“The demise of one Anderson Sheppard tie?” he hints. Tie… tie… oh, the tie! It’s unbelievable to me that that particular thought has occurred to us twice during this trip. Well, once for me and now once for her.

“Yeah,” I say disposing of my paper towel, “I can see why she wouldn’t want to rehash that. Not one of my prouder moments.”

“Indeed, sir,” he says as we exit the restroom.

By the time we’re leaving Artisans, we have eaten way too much food, drank way too much wine, and made good on our reputation to have a few cases of their best vintages shipped to Seattle, including Paul Duval’s Grenache to remind her of her “test” with Maxime, and two of the Eligo Master Class Set from the same vintner. Butterfly is just fine to walk to the Daimler. However, once we get back to our original destination to swap into the Mercedes, she’s out like a light.

She’s going to hate that she’s missing such a beautiful sunset in wine country, but the pictures will have to do as I must carry her from one vehicle to the other so that we can return to Adelaide. The trees and the sunset make you feel like singing the theme to the Lion King.

I thank John for a splendid day and ask him if it’s customary—or impolite—to tip him for a job well done. He declines and assures me that I’ve purchased enough wine to ensure that he’ll be able to maintain his priority standing with the local wineries, and only ask that I give him and the tour a good review on social media.

Social media… hmm.

I shake his hand after I’ve deposited my inebriated wife into the Mercedes, and we’re on our way back to the hotel.

An hour later, we arrive at Peppers and my pickled princess pops up like she wasn’t asleep for the entire ride. She exits the vehicle and strolls carefully into the hotel and to the elevator, then to our suite where she removes her shoes at the door and heads straight for the bathroom. Hoping that she’s not in there paying homage to the porcelain gods, I go to the other bathroom to get ready for bed.

Once I’ve taken care of my incidentals, I come back to the bedroom still in my jeans and I fully expect to see her face down on the bed sleeping off the alcohol—but no. She’s still in the bathroom adjacent to the bedroom, only now the shade is open so that I can see her. She’s gloriously naked and I immediately have to talk my dick down. She’s cleaning her breast pump, signaling me that she has emptied her breasts before coming to bed. Now, she picks up a brush and meticulously begins brushing her incredibly long hair.

Hmm, she doesn’t look like she’s stumbling drunk. She even does that thing where she holds her head forward to brush the back of her hair and she’s not toppling into walls or anything. And I’m just sitting here watching her… watching that glorious naked body preparing for bed, preparing to lay next to me and torment me while she sleeps off the alcohol and I talk my raging, thumping dick down. I’m so mesmerized by her that I don’t notice that she’s staring at me through the glass, still brushing her beautiful hair. I take a deep breath to control myself and stand as she finishes her nighttime grooming before turning off the lights and coming into the room.

“Why are you still wearing those?” she asks when she looks at my jeans.

“I was distracted,” I say. “I’m just getting ready for bed.”

“Well, take them off. I want to suck your dick,” she says matter-of-factly.

Wha…?

My dick reacts, but my brain is slow on the pickup.

“Baby, I’d love to be inside you—especially inside your mouth—but… you’re drunk. That’s something I don’t do. It always has to be consensual…”

“Do I look drunk to you?” she asks. “Do I really look like I can’t give consent to fuck my husband?”

“Uh…” I’m speechless at the moment. I’m standing here with a rock-hard cock disputing my beautiful, naked, horny wife about why she can’t suck my dick.

“I am not drunk,” she protests. “I’m a little pickled, but I’m not drunk. I’m completely sentient, and I said I wanna suck your dick. Now, are you really going to deny me?”

If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she’s stone cold sober when she says that.

“Absolutely not, Mrs. Grey,” I reply.

“Good. Now, shut the fuck up and drop your pants.”

You don’t have to tell me twice. I’m unbuckling and unzipping before she even gets the words out of her mouth. In moments, my jeans are in a mound at my ankles. She pushes me gently and I fall backwards onto the bed. She quickly removes my pants from my ankles, pushes my thighs apart and situates herself on her knees between my legs. She wraps her lips gently around the head of my cock and I already know, she plans to tease me incessantly tonight.

Fuck! Get ready, Grey.

I lick my lips and prepare myself for the orgasm refusal ride of a lifetime, especially after all the orgasms I refused her last night before I finally let her come.

“Damn, baby, you look so good,” I breathe as she looks up at me with beautiful, blue come-hither eyes, her hands at the base of my throbbing cock and her lips and tongue softly and deliciously teasing the head. I have to lean up on my elbows to watch her, which means that I can’t touch her unless I want to lay flat or balance myself on one of the most insane ab workouts I’ve ever done.

She licks and licks and licks, never taking her eyes off mine, until my dick is hot and hard and thumping. The friction from her tongue is insane and I’m fucking losing my mind with need. I drop my head back, unable to hold it up anymore through this damn torment, and I feel my cock slide into her mouth, but then out again, her lips teasing my shaft gently. The fire I was feeling a moment ago is slowly subsiding, being replaced by a different pleasure that slowly rising on the skin of my cock.

What is she doing to me? I lament inwardly. I swear if she had kept up that small amount of friction, she would have gotten a big fountain, but she changed up the rhythm on me and now…

While I’m contemplating my situation, I feel her mouth cover my cock again, but she doesn’t pull back. What is she doing? I try to look down at her, but her hair is covering her head a bit—not completely, but enough to obstruct my view.

But not enough to obstruct the feeling!

“Ah! Shit!” I exclaim as I feel tightening and a little friction on the head of my cock—just the head. What the fuck? I focus my pleasure-blinded eyes and see that she’s deep-throating me, but her mouth is not on my cock—just her throat.

Holy mother of God, this woman is inhuman!

“God! How do you do that!” I hiss, trying not to thrust into her throat. She throats my cock so that I feel the heat from her mouth on my shaft, but not the friction, but I can feel that throat wrapping around that head!

“Jesus! Fuck! Jesus!” I choke, my cock burning and thickening with pleasure. She has never done this shit to me before! I know my wife’s a freak, but she’s a fucking superfreak when she’s had a few drinks in her.

“God! Ana! Fuck!” I groan, and I can’t help it. I grab her hair and lift it away from her face, holding it in the back of her head like a ponytail. I have to see this. I won’t push her head down on me, but I fucking have to see this.

She lets me watch for a few moments—my impressive cock balls deep in her mouth and the feeling of her throat hot and squeezing the head of my dick. I groan, my hand and thigh shaking from trying not to thrust.

Either she needed air, or she knew that I was breaths away from coming, because she slides my cock out of her throat, almost igniting an orgasm. She pauses for a few moments and I find myself anxiously sliding to the edge of the bed so that I can sit up. After a brief break, my shaft is in her mouth again. This time, she’s giving a blowjob. Her head is bobbing wildly on my cock and shaft and her fist is pumping where her mouth is not, following her mouth with every stroke.

“Sweet Jesus!” I hiss, holding her hair as her head bobs on my cock. I have no idea if I’m pushing her head down onto me, but my hand is clenched in her hair, holding on for dear life. My cock is being worked mercilessly and I feel myself rising yet again from the new stimulation. I hold my head back, panting and choking and trying to get air in. Fuck! It’s so good… I’m gonna come…

Her mouth releases my cock with a pop, and I swear my whole body shakes in dismay. Fuck, that was fucking more than my cock could take. I can feel the sweat forming on my chest and back. It hasn’t even been that long, has it? A few minutes, she’s been doing this? I don’t even know.

She pushes me back onto the bed and makes me move all the way to the top so that she can get on the bed with me. She nestles herself comfortably between my legs and takes my shiny, aching, pink cock in her hand again. Now I can see her ass, and her hips, and delicious mouth and tongue teasing my dick, and her eyes daring me to come… and she starts over, massaging that little bundle of nerves as she holds my cock.

Dear God, not again…

I fist the sheets next to me because I can’t be responsible for my actions this time when she denies me this orgasm. It’s rising… slowly… hot, hard, and intense. She licks with purpose, that same bundle of nerves, over and over again. I groan in my chest. If she’s going to stop, I want her to stop before it gets too intense… too painful. I don’t think I can take it this time.

I groan again and grip the sheets. I feel it. My balls are tightening, and the ache of release is coming. Stop, for God’s sake!

I begin to pant. I can’t stop it! My thighs are tightening, and my knees and legs are weak—and she keeps going and going, that delicious stimulation that goes right to the pleasure nerves. I’m gazing at her, beautiful and intent in her purpose.

Please…

Did I say that out loud? Did I think that? What did I do? Whatever happens, she has pushed me to the point where I don’t have control of my body anymore. All my muscles are tightening and I’m about to blow. If she stops at this point, it’ll be for nothing because…

“Fuck! Fuck! Aw, shit!”

As she licks that sensitive bundle on the underside of my cock, cum squirts gloriously out of the head and runs down over my dick and her hand. My shaft is so fucking red and hard that it looks almost painful and I can’t even identify the sounds coming from my chest and throat, but she keeps licking and licking, a new spurt flowing with every stroke of her tongue. I’m gripping the sheets nearly in agony—she made me wait for so long… didn’t she? Or did she just turn me on so much that it felt like an eternity?

I watched her sashay her naked ass around that bathroom until I was hypnotized, and my cock was thumping out of my pants.

Then I watched her do things that made me want to come so badly that I could cry, but I was already there.

It hasn’t been that long. She just fucking made me want her really bad, then she tormented me intensely to make it seem like it was longer than it was. Now, I’m coming so fucking hard and my balls are so full and heavy that I’m certain that even after this cosmic blast, I’ll still be ready to go again in a very short period of time.

When my cock has given all the initial offering that it’s going to give, I fall helpless onto the bed, twitching with every touch knowing full well what’s next before she even speaks…

“I’m not through with you yet…”


A/N: Christian keeps referring to Maxime as “Gaston,” who is the male antagonist from Beauty and the Beast

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~~love and handcuffs

 

 

Raising Grey: Chapter 82—Now, Where Were We?

Danger—Aussie accent ahead. Turn away now.

There are probably some bad attempts at French laced in here, too. Beware, you’ve been warned!

All other previous disclaimers still apply.

Chapter 82—Now, Where Were We?

ANASTASIA

I am on fucking fire.

My body is completely alight with orgasmic release and I’m still trembling for more. I didn’t know he packed toys and I have no idea when he had the time to do it because I packed his bags, but I’m sure the fuck glad he did.

Maybe he picked something up when we separated in the Marketplace.

Who the fuck cares?! Get back to the “alight with orgasmic release” part!
I have to agree with the Bitch on this one.

He’s rubbing my ass and playing with that heavenly butt plug while I catch my breath and come down from a blinding climax. His hands anoint the sides of my body from just under my arms all the way down my thighs to my knees before he issues the command that I hoped I would hear.

“Turn over.”

I roll over onto my back, still blindfolded and mindful of the butt plug still inserted.

“Are you comfortable?” he asks when I’m situated.

“Yes,” I whisper, my hands resting on the bed on either side of my head.

“Good,” he says. I feel him leave the bed for a moment and I wonder with anticipation what he’s doing. I take this time to try to decipher the scents in the room. Lilac for sure… no, maybe it’s jasmine… mixed with…

I hear him come back into the room and feel the bed dip when he returns. I feel a strawberry against my lips, so I open my mouth and take a bite. As I’m chewing, I feel his body over mine and his lips cover my mouth. I open slightly, and cool wine flows from his to mine. I swallow the mouthful of strawberry and wine, totally food seduced at this point. A bit of the chocolate confection from dessert passes my lips and I savor the flavor as his body rises from mine, and moments later, oiled hands anoint my neck and shoulders.

He keeps me alight with sensations, causing one to flow right into the other—the strawberry into the wine into the chocolate and back into the massage. I purr with satisfaction as his oily hands travel from my shoulders down and over my breasts and nipples over my torso and abs and down to my pelvis. He reoils his hands to spread copious amounts around my mounds, my outer lips, the sensitive crevices at the junction of my thighs and pelvis and my top and inner thighs.

His hands travel masterfully all over the front of my body, touching and tempting me. Then, I feel a strawberry at my lips again. I bite and chew and wait for the wine, but it doesn’t come. Instead…

“Ah!”

Gentle pressure closes over my nipple. I bite my tongue and breathe in. It’s not his mouth—it’s a nipple clamp, the adjustable kind. I wait as he secures it, just enough to plump and sensitize my nipple. He doesn’t dawdle. He goes straight to the other one, which has become taunt in the process, and attaches the second clamp. He pauses for a moment, and even blindfolded, I can tell that he’s admiring his handiwork.

I feel him cover my body again, his erection pressing into my leg—and his mouth closes over one nipple and the clamp. I cry out in arousal, pushing my breast up towards him as his hand teases the other nipple in the clamp.

“Christian…” I whimper, so turned on that I can barely think. I keep my hands on the bed next to my head—it’s better this way—and his mouth feasts on my nipple while his fingers play with the other. Then he switches, giving both nipples the benefit of his talented tongue. I have to hurry and swallow the strawberry so that I don’t choke on it from my radical breathing, and the sweet flavor lingers on my tongue while my man stimulates my nipples.

It’s glorious!

He moves away from my nipples and slowly slides down my body, rubbing and planting kisses along the way. My breathing is more controlled when he gets to my feet and starts a gentle massage with the oil again. Yes, that’s jasmine. It’s a favorite scent of his… and mine, along with cinnamon and vanilla. His massage is gentle and firm at the same time, relaxing my ankles, my calves, my knees… and giving my throbbing clit a brief reprieve to recuperate. I know Christian Grey enough to know that the orgasmic stimulation is far from over, and it’s not the butt plug or the nipple clamp that’s giving it away.

It’s the thigh massage. The way that his hands are spread open on my thighs, kneading upwards so that his thumbs run across the crevices gently over my outer lips, he’s about to attack.

He straddles my legs again and there’s a pause in his massage. When he returns, the texture of the oil is different. Even though I can still smell the jasmine in the air, it’s not as strong. It’s not in the oil, and I’m very soon to find out why.

“Mmm… mmm…” I groan. He continues his massage, up the top of my thigh, across those sensitive crevices, over my outer lips, only this time, the tip of my clit is protruding ever so slightly, and his thumb zeros right in on it. He runs his oily thumb up and down just inside my lips with each upward motion of his hand, pressing my clit in and pushing it up, stroking it just so between my lips. I want to crawl off the damn bed as I try to stifle my whimper.

“Let me hear you, baby,” he encourages.

“Ah,” I gasp, the heat so hot and the moan releasing some of the pressure in my chest. His thumbs feel so good, one stroking my clit and the other teasing the crevice between my pelvis and thigh.

“Christian!” I breathe, grabbing my breasts and stimulating the nipple clamps there. I hear him gasp and he continues to rub intermittently, giving me seconds to recoil before I’m squirming on the bed again in ecstasy.

He moves his hands to my thighs and pushes them open—not eagle-spread, but open enough. He puts his hand over my mons, pressing firmly and squeezing just enough to heighten arousal, using the base to open my lips so that the clit protrudes just a little more than it did when he pleasured it with his thumbs.

Well, maybe more than a little more… I feel air on the underside. I can tell that he’s positioned between my legs, on his knees maybe…

“Oh, God,” I gasp deeply as I feel something I’ve never felt before—wet, smooth, soft. He starts at the tip of my clit with a titillating tickle, and I turn my head and bite my lip, sinking into a pleasure I’ve never felt before.

Is it a feather? No, it’s much heavier… thicker than a feather.

It moves from the tip of my clit, slowly down the underside and over the surface of my inner lips. Then it travels back up the same way that it started.

It moves up… and down… and up… and down… up and down… and up and down… flicking over and off the top of my clit just once… then it comes back… starts at the tip and moves down the underside and over the inner lips… then up again… then down… The strange stimulation is sending ripples through my body and even causing my thoughts to stutter—enough to ignite and keep me burning, but not enough for orgasm unless he keeps going and going and going. He’s exquisite in his meticulous movements, back and forth masterfully, like an artist.

An artist…

That’s what it is! It’s a paintbrush!

This has to me the most agonizing, glorious new thing I’ve ever felt! Wherever he got this idea, I owe ginormous homage and he needs to tell me how I can get some, too! This is fucking genius!

My whimpering is almost embarrassing, but this feeling is divine and irresistible. I can’t be silent… I can’t keep still… dear God, my stomach muscles are fucking aching and my pelvis is actually cramping with pleasure! How can that be?

Several moments later, the brush makes its final stroke and I’m panting in ecstatic exhaustion. Every time I’m about to come, he changes the rhythm and stimulation so that it brings me back a bit, not enough to start over, but enough to stop the rise to orgasm. It’s maddening—and magnificent!

Next, I feel cold air on my clit. He’s blowing on it, I know he’s about to dive in and taste the rainbow. What will he do—deep massage with a firm tongue? Fast, tormenting flicks to bring me to a quick release? A deep clitoral suck accompanied by a two-finger g-spot stimulation? Oh, no. Not just yet. Mr. Grey has other plans for me.

He lays his head on my inner thigh while placing his hand gently on the other to spread my legs. His tongue licks lazily over my inner lips and up to my clit, firming a bit when it gets to that fiery bundle of nerves, up and down like he’s casually licking an ice-cream cone. He repeats his lick over and over, his breath panting gently in contentment as his tongue covers all the necessary skin, never missing a spot in a gentle, sensual erotic caress.

“Oui… oui… mon amour,” I breathe as I flex my tightening clit. His massage doesn’t change, though his grip tightens a bit on my thigh, his hand presses flatter on my stomach and he continues to lick… and lick… and lick…

Fire is burning in my chest and my stomach is quivering madly, right where he’s pressing it—not to mention this infernal butt plug is still in my ass and that pleasure hasn’t ceased since the first orgasm! The rhythm syncs with my body and I feel the tightening in the small of my back.

And so does he.

The rhythm stops and he lifts my legs to expose my core and ass. He holds one leg up and commences a circular feast, around and around with a flexible rolling tongue—his entire tongue—as his free hand pushes, turns, pulls, and manipulates the butt plug.

Putain d’enfer, il l’a encore fait!

I whimper, nearly sob, my protest as my core continues to burn, but the orgasm backs away. I can’t take much more of this. The massage is delicious, round and round with his tongue masterfully covering my clit then traveling down to my vaginal opening and back up to madly manipulate that love button. Over and over he repeats the cycle, causing me to tremble and my muscles to clench painfully, but if it rises again and he changes rhythm, I’ll certainly expire.

I need it deep! I want to come!

“S’il vous plaît,” I whisper my plea, my voice desperate. “S’il vous plaît…”

He groans in his chest and situates himself between my legs. He throws my legs over his shoulders, reaches around my hips and cups both breasts, clamps and all.

“S’il vous plaît,” I groan again, more loudly this time, certain that he’s going to deny my again. Even though it’s heightening my pleasure, I can’t take any more. He massages my breasts firmly, causing my nipples to pebble in excitement. He parts my lips with his and proceeds to give my core the deepest, most sensual kiss—no teasing; his tongue, lips, and mouth are purposeful.

“S’il vous plaît, Christian, s’il vous plaît,” I beg. I’m desperate. The massage is so deep, so hot, I’m right fucking there. If he stops me this time, I’ll scream… I’ll cry… I’ll rip his fucking throat out! He can’t stop!

He massages harder, squeezes harder, kisses deeper, licks and sucks wildly, his mouth is watering all over my core, causing a delicious slip-and-slide sensation down there. I clamp my hands over his and squeeze and he moans, diving deeper into my core…

God, don’t stop… please don’t stop…

My back is so tight that it hurts, and when the orgasm starts to creep, I literally sob in my throat. I won’t be able to stand it if he stops.

I feel my legs cramping, stiffening… no…

I lock my ankles behind him and thrust my pussy into his mouth begging him in my native language not to stop and let me come. His kiss reaches down into me and wrenches a painful, merciless orgasm from my loins that has me screaming, still begging him not to stop—literally paralyzed with pleasure and pain as this climax wraps around my clit, these nipple clamps, and that butt plug all at the same time.

I think I’m still coming in my ass when he leaps to his knees, lifts my already elevated hips to his pelvis and thrusts double-digit inches of hard, hot, pulsing meat inside me. I scream at the pleasure. I love his mouth and tongue, but nothing feels like his dick!

“God damn, you’re so fucking hot!” he growls as the plunges into me over and over, like an animal. He thrusts and thrusts and thrusts, mindlessly, before he throws his head back and growls loudly, his eyes squeezed shut and his face twisted. He’s breathing like a bear and I don’t know if he came, but he snatches his rock-hard dick out of me. He tortures my clit with the head of his dick over and over, breathing and grunting like a bear before sitting flat on the bed.

“Turn around!” he growls, his voice deep and hungry. I move very quickly. “On your knees!” he commands. Okay, doggie-style. “Give me those pillows.”

Okay, not doggie-style.

I get into position as instructed. He opens his legs and rests them on my calves.

“Get comfortable, however you have to. Get on this dick and fuck me til you come.”

Til I come? I just came! You sure about that, Grey? I look over my shoulder at him questioning and he glares back at me as if to say, “What the fuck are you waiting for?’

Okay, you asked for it.

I wait for him to lie back on the pillows and I sit down on his pelvis—not on his dick, on his pelvis. I bring my calves from under his knees and open my legs as wide as I can.

This is my damn party? Then, I’m going to have it.

I grab that beautiful rock hard and veiny piece of flesh and stroke gently. The oil from my pussy is coating his skin and he grunts when I grab him.

“Get on with it!” he demands.

“Quiet!” I hiss. “This is mine now.” He forcefully grabs my hips as a warning, and I throw a glance over my shoulder.

“What are you gonna do?” I taunt. “Fuck me?” I glare at him, still teasing the head of his cock with my oily hands. His hips move ever so slightly to match the stimulation as he grits his teeth.

That’s what I thought. And now, Mr. Grey, I’m going to drive you crazy.

I begin to rock my hips up and down so that my open pussy strokes the side of his dick while my oily fist still grips and manipulates his head.

“Shit,” he hisses softly as he grips my hips. That’s right, Grey, just lay there and let me do what I do.

The veins on the side of his cock stimulate the underside of my clit and I lick my lips. Damn, that feels good. I get a little lost in the feeling of his glorious cock rubbing against my clit and I forget for a moment that there’s a man attached to it that’s going to come quickly if I don’t stop. His agonized groan brings me back to the here and now.

How about a little tease, Grey?

I plant my feet on either side of his hips and steady my hands on the bed on either side of him. Using only my hips, I massage my clit with the head and side of his dick—achingly slowly pumping my pelvis so that my clit rides up… and down…  and up… and down… over the slit and pulsing ridge of his head and partially down the side of his shaft.

“Oh, my God, yes,” I breathe as I watch the show between my legs; the head of his dick appearing and reappearing just beyond my mons; the burn of the friction going straight through my core…

“Jesus!” he prays quietly as his hands reach around my body and tease my tender nipples. One of the nipple clamps has fallen off, but both nipples are still hot and taut.

“Uh!” I groan, throwing my head back as pleasure once again shoots from three different directions. I know this has had the same effect on him that his changing rhythm had on me—that he’s still on fire, but has drawn back from “ready to blow.” I slide against that dick a few more times, biting and licking my lips in my own ecstasy until I’m nearly over the edge myself, and then I stop. I need that magnificent piece of meat inside me for this orgasm.

I resume the initial position he requested, situating myself between his legs and my calves under his thighs, causing him to bend his knees and open his legs very wide. With my ass in the air and the ass plug staring him in the face, I reach between my legs and thrust my finger into my core. I momentarily stifle the moan that wants to escape, but fail in the effort when I drag the moistened finger over my throbbing clit and massage it gently.

“Christ, baby, you’re so damn hot,” he breathes forcefully.

Like you wouldn’t believe, Mr. Grey, like you wouldn’t fucking believe.

I reach down and grab his cock and rub the head against my clit two or three times more before I guide him to my hungry opening. There, I hold him in place while the opening and lips of my aching pussy gently and slowly tease the head of his cock. I can feel the ridge just inside my vagina as the release and reentry make that luscious, wet “kissing” sound. I’m insanely turned on by this, so with him watching it, I know that he’s losing his fucking mind.

“Anastasia,” he breathes, his voice tortured, “God, you’re too much…”

“You make me this way,” I reply, my voice steeped in passion like a mindless horny nymph.

A few more vaginal kisses and I slide effortlessly down onto his cock, all the way to the balls. He groans loudly and places both hands on my ass. I start a rhythmic glide with just the slightest directional roll, raising my ass up towards him when I drop onto his dick, then pulling my hips down and forward when I rise off of it. His pleasure sounds are tortured, deep, and sexy, and my core is on fire filled with his thumping meat.

“Christian,” I mewl, “you feel so good… you’re so hard…”

I fight to keep my rhythm now with him filling me wall to wall. I know he’s rising to orgasm because he so thick and wide inside me, and I am once again producing that heat and wetness that’s accumulating on his dick and leaving an arousal cockring at the base near the balls. It would be embarrassing if it wasn’t so fucking hot and I wasn’t so goddamn turned on.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Grey,” I pant breathily. “I’ll come… I’ll come really fucking hard for you.”

“Fuck!” he hisses as he rubs my lower back, and I can feel his thighs tightening with pleasure. He wants to enjoy it, so he’s going to hold out until I blow. I push back onto his dick repeatedly so that I get maximum penetration and he groans again.

“God!” I gasp as I pump harder. His hands are still grabbing my ass and one of them moves and pushes the butt plug.

“Oh, God,” I exclaim, the pleasure so much that I can’t concentrate on my movement anymore. I straighten my body and balance on my knees, still bouncing on that wonderfully, deliciously hard cock. One hand moves to tease the nipple still painfully confined in the nipple clamp while the other shamelessly moves to circle my burning clit. I feel the sensation rise immediately from my feet, taking only a few seconds to overtake my thighs. Just as it begins to tingle and burn deep inside my core, he grabs my hip and pulls the butt plug out.

I scream and detonate into such a dangerously violent orgasm that I can’t even tell what the fuck is going on at the moment. All I know is fire and light and dizziness and trembling and screaming… lots and lots of screaming. My attempt to seduce my husband has backfired and I’m having one of the longest, hottest, heaviest, most mind-numbing orgasms I have ever fucked myself into.

I don’t know how long it is before I come down from that electric display and experience, but when I do, I’m on my knees, my chest flat on the bed with hair sticking to my sweaty face, panting profusely. Once I’m able to breathe a bit, I lift my head just slightly and catch him in the mirror. I didn’t know it was there.

He hasn’t come. I know he hasn’t because he’s still very hard inside me, but he’s smirking at my back—clearly unaware that I can see him.

Mo-ther-fucker, I’ll show you…

I put my hands flat on the bed and curl my back like a cat stretching from a deep sleep. Then, I roll my hips again, like I did in the beginning, only faster… and harder… and faster!

I get another glimpse of him in the mirror and that smug look has left his face. His hands have grasped my hips again, trying and failing to control my thrust as his mouth alternates between biting his lip and clenching his teeth.

“Slow it down, fuck baby, slow it down,” he begs breathlessly. Fuck you, Grey. Come, you cocky motherfucker.

“Uuuuhhhh!” I moan sensually, knowing that the sound of my voice will help to set him off, and partially because I absolutely adore how he feels inside me, even though there’s no hope of me coming again tonight. I lean up on my knees again and thrust my hands into my hair, lifting it sensually over my head, closing my eyes and puckering my lips as I roll my hips relentless and fast over his cock.

“You feel so good,” I mewl truthfully, “so good…” I add a gasp to the last two words and his breathing is no longer controlled. He’s losing it.

“Good… Fuck…” he hisses as he grabs my hips right below my waist and sinks into the bed a bit to angle his cock more.

That’s it, Grey. Give it to me. I’m going to milk you dry.

I fall back onto the bed with a helpless mewl, steady myself on my hands, and bounce my ass on his dick in an intense buns-of-steel workout while clenching my Kegels so hard that it’s a wonder my IUD doesn’t pop out like an orange seed. After a few minutes of bouncing and listening to my own mewling, I glance in the mirror to check on my husband.

His head is thrust back and he’s firmly holding my hips. His lips are moving like he’s saying something, but nothing comes out. After a few moments, his eyes return to our joined bodies and I reach behind me a stick a finger in my ass where the butt plug used to be.

“Oh, fuck!” he growls at the sight and begins to wildly thrust into me, overpowering my smooth, massaging stroke. He pumps into me feverishly, gritting his teeth and grunting and throwing his head back again. When the first cry of orgasm escapes his lips, I rise off his cock, open my ass, and capture his ejaculating shaft between the cheeks. Surprised and impassioned, his eyes open wildly, and his mouth is gaping as he’s gasping for breath.

I roll my still-oily ass over his squirting dick and watch him gaze in amazement as I hold it between my ass cheeks and pump the cum from his balls.

“Fuck!” he chokes. “Oh, God, do that! Do that! Fuck, yes! That ass! Oh shit! Shit! Shit! Shiiiiittt!”

His eyes are plastered to my ass like he can’t believe what he’s seeing—a fantastic stream of candle-lighting shooting up out of my oily ass from his dick. My husband sounds like he’s passing a kidney stone and I’m taking extreme pleasure in watching his haughty ass irk out an orgasm as intense as the one I just had. In fact…

I raise my hips, swivel and drop my pussy onto his still pulsing cock. He screams as I pull and push slow and hard, flexing my Kegels over his dick to mimic the tighten-release-push-pull of an oily handjob on the head and walls of his shaft.

“Gooooooooooddamn! Goddamn! Goddamn! Goddamn!” He’s twitching and trembling as he rides out the aftershocks and I smile to myself as he finally falls limp, breathless, and helpless, his body silently calling for mercy.

*-*

Had it not been for Jason calling to wake us, we might have missed out on the day’s events. As it turns out, a car will be arriving at 9am to take us to the Barossa Valley for a wine tour. The Valley is only an hour away, but Christian rightfully had them coordinate everything with Jason. I’m a bit jealous right now because for all intent and purposes, Jason is Christian’s Marilyn… and Andrea is Christian’s Marilyn. And Andrea has a Luma. Marilyn doesn’t have a Luma. She organizes my life all by herself.

I really miss Marilyn.

As we’re a bit pressed for time, I use the en suite to pump, shower, and prepare for the day while Christian uses the second bathroom. I can’t have another day where I don’t speak to my children, so when I’m done pumping and prepping, I call my babies for a little facetime. Keri informs me that Minnie is becoming a bit crabby and wouldn’t take her bottle last night. I’m certain it’s because she’s accustomed to the changeup between the rubber nipple and the breast—and she’s not getting one of those. This is further driven home by her elation to see my face on the phone and her subsequent displeasure with having to give the phone back to Keri. I can’t stand to hear her anguish, especially since I’m inadvertently causing it, so I hand the phone to Christian and let him get a little baby time while I try to nurse the wounds of my breaking heart.

“It happens all the time, baby,” he says, putting his arms around me and trying to comfort me while I stare out the window overlooking the City of Churches.

“Was she still crying when you ended the call?” I ask, never turning to face him.

“She settled a bit,” he says, pulling me against him… which means that she was still crying, just not as much. I suddenly can’t wait to have her in my arms.

“I’m a terrible mother,” I say, wiping away a tear.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You are no such thing,” Christian scolds gently. “You’re both having a bit of separation anxiety. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last. Now I want you to stop that ridiculousness right now. It’s not true and I don’t have to tell you that.”

“I just… I shouldn’t have left her,” I protest.

“She’ll be fine,” he coaches. “What are you going to do when she goes to school?”

“Oh, God,” I say, and I’m overwhelmed with emotion. I drop my face in my hands and begin to weep. I hear my husband sigh heavily and I can imagine that he’s totally exasperated with me, and that just makes me cry harder.

“Don’t cry,” he says softly, turning me around to him and wrapping his arms around me. I stand there and weep into his T-shirt for several minutes until it’s covered in colored moisturizer and tears and he has to go and change it, and I have to wash my face and refresh my make-up. I still don’t feel good about leaving my baby, but I feel a little better since I’ve had my cry… I think.

Christian emerges in a white Izod over his jeans, declaring that he has no more T-shirts and will have to have the ones he has laundered since we still have two more days—including today—and the trip back to Seattle. Quite frankly, I like the Izod better.

39f548032e3227319813a69b6ab79224-christian-grey-jamie-dornan

I’m looking very Sex and The City in a comfortable flowy Halston Heritage lavender mini cut just above the knee and a pair of Louboutin Madmonica spiked open-toe cork wedge sandals. We rush down to breakfast so that we aren’t starting the day and an hour-long car ride to wine country on an empty stomach. That definitely wouldn’t be a good idea. My little crying spell and the subsequent cleanup cut our eating time in half, so we have a simple breakfast of eggs, Canadian bacon, roasted tomatoes, toast and juice—something that we can eat quickly, but not too quickly, before the car arrives.

“You were sleeping like the dead,” I say quietly to Christian during breakfast.

“I put in a lot of work last night,” he says proudly. “Bringing your beautiful wife to three orgasms is quite the feat.” He winks at me.

“Oh, really?” I challenge. “And I guess I had absolutely nothing to do with that last one, huh?” I raise my brow at him.

“Well… I… you… um…” Amazing. I’ve brought my husband to a stuttering mess.

“Um-hmm,” I say, filling my fork with food. “Well, while you opted for quantity—which was quite nice—I concentrated my efforts on quality. How do you think I did?” I throw an innocent gaze over at him, full well remembering watching him in the mirror muttering silent prayers while I rode his pulsing shaft relentlessly.

“You…” He clears his throat. “You… um… you did fine.” He quickly takes a sip of his coffee. I smile devilishly at him. I’ll just bet.

“Thank you, Mr. Grey,” I say, eating the food from my fork, chewing and smiling triumphantly. “By the way,” I add once I’ve swallowed my food. “Your choice of music…” I say, trailing off. He raises his gaze to me.

“Did you like it?” he asks.

“It was… a lot of new stuff. Some oldies… I didn’t think you were into the new stuff.”

“I can’t take credit for this song list,” he admits. “I typed a request into Pandora and just let it play.”

“What was the request?” I ask curiously.

“Baby-making music,” he says proudly. I burst out laughing.

After breakfast, a private van picks us up to take us on a beautifully scenic drive through the city of Adelaide and all the way north to the Barossa Valley. The ride will be approximately an hour long with plenty of sites to see along the way.

“Um, ma’am, I nohmally don’t comment on attiyah, but ya moight wanna chaynge ya shoes,” the driver says as we approach the car. Christian glares at him for a moment. He only glances at Christian momentarily before turning his attention back to me.

“It’s… foh ya comfoht, ma’am,” he adds. “There’ll be a lot of walking, ma’am,” he says in an attempt to get me to change my shoes. I immediately see the concern for my feet since I’m wearing wedges.

“Don’t worry about me,” I say with a warm smile. “Heels and I are old friends. I’d be much less comfortable in flats, and I have no problem taking them off if they become unbearable, which is not likely.”

“The touh is mohr than six hours, ma’am. If yoh’re shuh…” he urges once more. I appreciate his concern.

“I’m sure,” I smile. “Thank you for your kindness.” I elbow Christian in the side as he’s still glaring at the guy. “Stop it!” I chide softly. He looks down at me and I cock my head at him as an additional warning. When he appears to behave, I smile again at the driver and get in the van.

“Come on, Christian,” I chide gently to keep him from further harassing our driver. He leans in and sits next to me.

“The first thing he noticed was your shoes, huh?” he says as our security follows us into the van. It’s a late model Mercedes—it seats seven, but I’m not sure of the model.

“He’s probably trained to do that, dear,” I point out. “Can you imagine how many women have come on the tour wearing the wrong shoes and did nothing but complain the entire time?” The driver gets into the car and confirms what I’m saying.

“She’s roight, mate,” he says to Christian. “I don’t know whaht thehy’re expectin’, but plenty o’ sheilas get in wehring six-inch heels and thehy’re miserable halfway through the trip. Imagine how ya’d feel troying to enjoy ya day with blistahs on ya feet!! I always check an’ give ‘em toime and option ta chaynge. I’m sorry… I didn’t mean ta offend ya.” Christian sighs and waves him off.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I’m just… very possessive of my wife, and it’s been an… interesting trip on that note so far.” I chuckle.

“Tell me about it!” I murmur mirthfully. The driver smiles in the rearview.

“Thanks, mate. Roight, then, shall we go?” He smiles widely and starts the car.

The scenery is absolutely breathtaking, including the gorgeous vineyards that lay before us once we clear the city limits. They’re everywhere along the road through the Adelaide Hills, from really small patches of land to huge estates. I’m captivated by the beautiful landscapes, but not so captivated that I can’t tell that my husband is distracted. Is he still pissed off at the driver?


CHRISTIAN

“I wanted to have more information for you before I called you with conjecture, sir,” Josh says as I’m drying my hair. I brought the phone into the en suite with me and it’s a good thing I did. Josh has information hot off “the presses” for me.

“What do you have?” I ask as I begin my grooming routine.

“Lincoln is talking to anyone who’ll listen. She’s a media dream and nightmare at the same time. She’s very indiscreet. She gives enough information to have you chomping at the bit, but it’s not hard for the educated researcher to decipher exactly who she’s talking about—they just can’t afford to speculate without further information.”

“Fuck, I was afraid of that,” I hiss around a mouthful of toothpaste. “How close is she to a release date?”

“She’s aiming for May,” Josh says. Shit, that means she’s got a lot of information already on paper, or at least shared with her fucking ghostwriter. “She’s got a good solid timeline in front of her and nothing between her and the tell-all but air and opportunity.” She picked the perfect time to leak her story—right after our exposé hit the air.

“Did she make you for working for me?” I ask.

“I don’t think so,” he says. “If she did, she didn’t let on, or she just doesn’t care. She didn’t give me the name of her ghostwriter either. She gave me a penname, but at the moment, it leads nowhere. I’ve got Alex looking into some things for me and I’m discreetly chasing a few leads myself.”

“Shit!” I hiss. “So much for nipping this thing at the bud.”

“Don’t lose faith,” he says. “It’s only been a few days. Sometimes, it takes a little more digging to find the buried treasure. That’s why I was waiting to call you…” and I got impatient and jumped the gun.

“She gave me pretty much the same information that she’s giving to any other reporter that comes through there,” he continues. “Everything she said to me, we’ve already read in the papers, but to her, it’s fresh and new information every time she gives it. So, I listen for fresh and new information. I listen for context clues that nobody else would know to listen for. Like I said, I’m chasing a few things to narrow down a few solid theories, but I won’t relay information that sends you in the wrong direction—I have to know for sure.”

“I appreciate that,” I reply with a disappointed sigh. I’ve been literally itching for some information on the crazy bitch, and pretty much… nothing.

“I do have some other information, though,” he adds. “The warden cornered me as I was leaving…”

Oh, now we’re getting somewhere.

“What did he want?” I ask.

He asked who I was working for. I told him that I was freelancing, that I’m hoping to get an angle that nobody else has gotten and I’ll sell my story to the highest bidder. It’s easier to get what you need from a crook if you come off as cutthroat and hungry than if you show any signs of ethics whatsoever.”

“What makes you think he’s a crook?” I ask. He scoffs. “I mean, I pretty certain that he’s crooked. I just want to know what makes you think he’s a crook.”

“Upstanding member of society and leader of industry has been trying to get in touch with you for several days on a matter that you know will directly affect him and you avoid his calls… You’re either crooked or stupid—or both!” I twist my lips. Excellent judge of character.

“He asked if I had gotten any material that was worth printing. I told him that I hadn’t. Everything that she gave me, I already knew. So, he dangles a carrot in front of me. He says the book, the story, and the possible subsequent movie rights are likely to blow the top off the social scene and quite possibly the financial scene. He knows it’s you. He didn’t say so, but he made enough references. I don’t know what Lincoln said, but he knows, and at this moment, he’ll protect her through the screenplay to get his payoff.”

Well, this is just fucking great. She didn’t have to tell him much of anything. Of course, he knows it’s me. I paid his ass off to keep her quiet. Now, he’s avoiding my calls and siding with her, giving her carte blanche when it comes to talking to reporters and her fucking ghost writer.

“He wants to get the profits from the book. She just wants to tell her story, but her story is so sick and twisted, I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to write it. The way she portrays the roles of certain characters, it’s not pretty. Her rendition will implicate people and suggest that they’re pretending to be victims when they fully participated in the activities.” She’s obviously referring to the fact that I became a Dom once I came of age and continued the BDSM lifestyle…

Or at least that’s what I thought.

“The brief description that she gave me made it look like she had a club—a coven, if you will—of pedophiles; that they engaged in consensual sexual relations with minors and that said minors joined the club and continued the cycle when they became of age.”

“Wait a minute… what?” I say, staring horrified into the mirror.  

“I can’t make it any clearer,” he says. “There are underground pedophile sex clubs all over the world. It’s disgusting, but it’s true. It’s a real movement, and there are a lot of people involved… a lot! Her basis from what I can see is that she was part of—or the head or madame of—one such organization. And Christian, she can say what she wants, because she’s writing it as fiction. So, whether it’s true or not, the sensationalism of it will have this shit flying off the shelves. Think O.J. Simpson and If I Did It.

Oh, hell. That’s already a horribly touchy subject. Now, we’re comparing my life and the lives of several other sexually victimized young boys to the story of a man who may or may not have nearly beheaded the mother of his children and her male companion?

And now, I don’t have Holstein’s cooperation because he’s more concerned with a piece of the possible pie. Fine, fuck it. They want to play dirty, then it’s dirty they’ll get.

“And no clue on BD Simmons.” It’s a statement in the form of a question.

“Nothing concrete,” Josh says. “Again, I won’t put flawed information into the hands of the most powerful man on the western seaboard.”

“Duly noted,” I reply. That really wouldn’t be wise. “I need you to keep me posted the moment you do get something concrete. My response to this matter will be swift and sure. Time and discretion are of the utmost essence.”

I end the call and try to pretend that this information has not soured my entire mood.

“You’re not here.”

My wife’s voice brings my attention back to the fact that we’re cruising along a country road on our way to one of Australia’s many famed wine regions. I can’t hide the fact that I’m completely distracted by the conversation that I had with Josh this morning. She’s probably going to be pissed that I called him, but… I have to tell her something.

“Excuse me, parlez vous français?” I say, leaning forward to the driver. He glances in the rearview mirror.

“I’m sorry, mate?” he says.

“Parlez vous français?” I repeat.

“Sorry,” he says, watching the mirror and the road, “not shuh whaht cha sayin’, mate.”

“No problem. Thank you,” I say, turning to my wife to have the entire conversation with her in French.

“J’ai parlé à Josh ce matin,” I say. She sighs.
(I spoke to Josh this morning.)

“Qu’a t’il dit?” she says.
(What did he say?)

“Il essaie toujours de savoir qui est l’auteur, mais Holstein protège Lincoln.” She rolls her eyes in frustration.
(He’s still trying to find out who the ghost writer is, but Holstein is protecting Lincoln.)

“Je le savais!” she hisses. “Je le savais putain! Cela explique pourquoi il ne prenait pas vos appels.”
(I knew it! I fucking knew it! That explains why he was not taking your calls.)

“Ça a empire,” I inform her. “Elle donne l’impression que nous étions un club secret de pédophiles… comme si nous étions un groupe entier cherchant des enfants et les recrutant plus tard dans leur cercle quand ils sont devenus majeurs.” Her eyes widen in horror.
(It gets worse. She gives the impression that we were a secret club of pedophiles… as if we were an entire group trolling for children regularly and later recruiting them into our circle when they became of age.)

“Vous n’êtes pas sérieux,” she whispers incredulously. “Qui dans leur esprit accepterait d’écrire quelque chose comme ça?” I shake my head.
(You’re not serious. Who in their right mind would agree to write something like this?)

“Tu sais aussi bien que moi qu’il y a un public pour tout, bébé,” I reply. “Vous devez juste trouver le créneau qui est prêt à écouter vos conneries.” She drops her head in her hands.
(You know as well as I do that there’s an audience for everything, baby. You just have to find the niche that’s willing to listen to your bullshit.)

“C’est irréel.” she laments. “C’est absolument irréel. Si je n’en étais pas personnellement conscient, je ne penserais pas qu’un être humain puisse survivre avec autant de mal. Je plaisantais quand je l’appelais «démon puant, méchant, sale, visqueux, visqueux, démone pédo-salope de l’enfer», mais que cette horrible reine diabolique appartient vraiment au plus profond les profondeurs du pire tourment éternel jamais imaginable. Il n’y a absolument aucune rédemption pour elle. Elle marche à pied détérioration, damnation et destruction et elle doit être détruite…”
(This is unreal. This is absolutely unreal. If I wasn’t personally aware of it, I wouldn’t think that any one human being could survive harboring this much evil. I was joking when I called her a ‘stank-ass, slutty, nasty, filthy, slimy, Pedo-Bitch She-Thing demon from hell,’ but that horrific, wretched, inhuman, devil queen really does belong in the deepest, hottest depths of the worst eternal torment ever imaginable. There is absolutely no redemption for her. She is walking deterioration, damnation, and destruction and she must be destroyed…)

I had all but forgotten about that name, but Butterfly is right. This woman is pure evil personified, the worst manifestation of Satanic personification—Princess Beelzebub unleashed on this earthly realm, and the world would truly be a better place without her in it.

My wife has completely gone off on a French tangent now. All the men in the car—including the driver—have gone a bit pale and are looking everywhere but at us, and as far as I know. I’m the only one who knows what she’s saying… maybe…

“Do you speak French?” I ask Lawrence. He shakes his head.

“German, sir,” he says. I look at Jason. I know Spanish is his second language.

“A word here and there, sir,” he says, “enough to know she’s pissed.”

“Stop talking about me like I’m not here!” Butterfly snaps. We weren’t… only that last statement, but I’m not going to be the one to dispute her on it. All the men quickly turn their attention to anything else—the scenery, the road, a speck of lint on the carpet, anything safe—while I turn my attention back to one angry little Butterfly.

“I shouldn’t have told you,” I confess, “at least not now. It’s going to ruin your day.”

“No, it won’t,” she says matter-of-factly, “because I know that you’re going to do everything humanly possible to rectify this situation. I know that you’re going to use your endless resources to make sure that this woman is not able to ruin the many, many lives that she could possibly ruin—now or ever again—with this ridiculous undertaking. You’re going to do what needs to be done to put an end to this—or I will.”

Three sets of eyes zero in on my wife and I’m sure it would have been four if the driver could look at her without putting us all at risk.

“Butterfly…” I begin my protest.

“I’m going to let you handle this, Christian,” she says, her voice unwavering. “I’m going to watch, and I’m going to let you handle it. But if for any reason, you are unable to stop this from happening, I want you to remember something—all those boys, their families, my children! I will stop at nothing and no one to terminate this ridiculous pursuit! She wants us to believe she’s crazy? Fine! I’m crazier! She will not jeopardize the lives of my children and that is my final word! And that’s not a threat, Christian, that’s a promise!”

I’m glaring at this woman possessed because I swear, I’ve never seen her before. Al usually tells me which version of “Ana” I’m dealing with when she steps out of herself, and he’s not here to identify this one for me. I’m quickly running through my head all the Ana’s he has introduced me to…

Knife-throwing Ana…
Marine’s Daughter Ana…
First-Blood or Rambo Ana…

Shit, I don’t know. All I know is that she’s glaring at me with the glassiest blue eyes I’ve ever seen, her pupils so constricted, they’re almost invisible. I fucking well better answer her.

“I. Will take. Care. Of this,” I say, finitely. She glares at me for a moment longer before she slowly nods once.

“Good,” she says firmly. “Keep me posted.” She turns her gaze away from me and back to the scenery going by outside the window. I throw a cautionary glance at Jason, who returns my glare before glancing over at Lawrence. A silent conversation ensues between the three of us to not let her out of our sight or she just might hurt someone today. The conversation inside my head is much more detailed.

Get this shit on lockdown or there’s going to be fucking hell to pay.

*-*

Tensions ease once we arrive at our destination. Butterfly has all but forgotten our conversation about the Pedophile, and it’s my job to ensure that her thoughts don’t wander in that direction again. Granted, it’s my fault they wandered in that direction in the first place, but I couldn’t keep the truth from her, especially since my ire and distraction was written all over my face.

“Hello,” a friendly gentleman greets us when we exit the Mercedes. “Ma nayme’s John. OI’ll be yohr touhr goide tahdeye.” I take Butterfly’s hand as Jason and Lawrence exit the vehicle.

“I’m Christian. This is my wife, Anastasia. These gentlemen are my security detail.” John’s brow rises.

“Political official, ahre ya?” John asks. I shake my head.

“No, nothing like that… but perfectly legal,” I assure him.

“Can nevah beh too syfe, eh mate?” he says with a nod before continuing directly to the next topic. “Tell me, whaht’s yohr expehrience with woine?”

Hmmm, how do I answer that?

“My wife is basically a Cabernet woman, but can be easily swayed with smooth reds,” I begin, and Butterfly playfully slaps my arm. “One of her favorites is the Screaming Eagle from Napa Valley. We discovered it on the wine train tours a couple of years ago.”

“Yes, OI’m quite familiah with the Screamin’ Eagle,” John confirms. “Which yeahr?”

“2006,” I confirm. “It’s apparently hard to find, but our concierge was able to locate a dozen and have them shipped to our home.” John nods.

“Have ya had tha pleasah of tha ’92?” he asks. I shake my head.

“I can’t say that I have.” John nods again.

“Extremely rahe vintage, mate,” he says, his voice laced with a bit of awe. “Aged in 60% new oak; it’s mohe puhple than woine colored and has a jammy black currant aroma mixed with hints of oak. Very difficult ta locyte and OI’ve huhd of bottles runnin’ upwuhds of 500,000 Amehrican!” He pauses for a moment. “Sorry thehre, mate. OI get a little carried awy talking about the woines.” I wave him off, playing down the fact that I’m thoroughly impressed with his knowledge of wines.

“Don’t be,” I excuse, “I’m a bit of a connoisseur myself, versatile with a preference to dry whites. I may pick your brain about what exclusive blends the region has to offer.” John smiles widely.

“OI’m yoh goiy, mate,” he says happily.

“I’m afraid we haven’t been able to expand our palates much since our honeymoon,” I add.

“Ah, newlyweds?” he asks. Butterfly giggles.

“Somewhat,” she replies. “We’ve been married for 18 months.”

“Yeah, thaht’s still newlywed,” John says. “Ahr little cornah of tha world hehr is whaht we cahl a woine town—everything hehr is centehred on tha woine.”

“I’ve heard that you have some award-winning Shiraz in these parts,” I coax. John smiles widely again.

“You huhd correct, mate,” he says gleefully. “Did ya do anythin’ special on ya honeymoon? Somethin’ that stuck out to ya, maybe?” I shrug.

“Well, our honeymoon started in Paris, then continued in Greece,” Butterfly says. “To be honest, the entire trip was pretty special, so it’s hard to pick just one thing. We had a tasting at Le Dokhan’s…”

“Ah, Le Dokhan’s!” John interrupts, “worhld-renowned champyne, oldest estahblishment in Pehris. You both must have vehry discuhning palates.”

“We’ve tasted a wine or three,” I confirm.

“Well, in thaht cyse, OI’ve got tha perhfect day in moind foh ya. Fahllow me and we’ll get stahted.”

He walks ahead of us and leads us to a rebuilt and refurbished 1962 Daimler Chrysler. Apparently, this beautiful classic car will be our transportation for the day.

“Ooo, very nice,” Butterfly says as she climbs inside.

John is quite chatty during the course of our tour and I’m very soon to discover why. He’s very proud of the Barossa Valley having lived here most of his life and conducted tours for over 20 years. He boasts having given this tour to dignitaries and wine connoisseurs from all over the world and promises to look me up so that he can add our tour to his updated list of bragging rights. He informs us that our tour has no specific itinerary and that if at any time we don’t like the course of the day to let him know and we can adjust accordingly.

We take a short drive to St. Hugo first. Although my wife was distracted with thoughts of Elena Lincoln’s demise on the trip to the valley, she’s quite attentive as John informs us of the history of St. Hugo. She remembered to bring the camera this time, and she’s taking several shots ranging from the picturesque countryside to quirky street signs pointing in various directions.

At the risk of sounding like the terrible snob that I can be, I’m extremely pleased with the vibe we’re getting from the Barossa Valley, and even more pleased when I hear of the settlement of the area. Most of Australia—particularly the ports we visited earlier in our vacation—was settled by convicts or others who had been exiled to Australia from England. Contrarily, settlers of South Australia and the Barossa Valley came looking for a better life. They were mostly merchants and farmers, those in search of their fortune on the shores and bush of Australia in the late 1800’s. Most prominent in this area were German settlers, and many of the vineyards they planted are still around today.

I’m not ashamed to say that the spirit that my Butterfly is gleaning from this area is much more relaxed and pleasant than the monsters she acquired at Port Arthur. So, yes, the snob in me is much more partial to the Barossa Valley, and I intend to do more research on our excursions in the future.

As we arrive at St. Hugo, John tells us that the current winery is comprised of original structures from the ruins of William Jacob’s winery, which was built over 150 years ago, as well as new additions designed to seamlessly tie in with the old ruins. We travel down a winding driveway with a stunning view of half-century-old cork trees—one of the few plantations of its kind in Australia.

Our tour begins with a short but refreshing walk through the vineyard. We note that some of the vines have been named and John tells us about how some of the names were chosen. One of the royal families came to the vineyard for an exclusive tour called the Sainthood Experience and the row of vines was named after them. Parcels from the vineyard of that row were picked and a custom wine was blended, where it is stored to age for three years and will then be delivered to that family. I don’t bother asking what that experience costs—I can imagine that even I would find it exorbitant.

After the tour, we head into a cozy tasting room, cellar door, and restaurant to literally enjoy the fruits of the field with a few other patrons of the vineyard. It’s easy to see that John is well known in the area. He takes pride in showcasing his knowledge and sharing his personal Barossa friendships and connections. It’s like he’s part of a special club that knows the inside scoop of all the secrets of the land—a wine fraternity, if you will.

Watching the wines being poured into the glasses is almost a spiritual moment. You can almost see the blends flowing out of the bottle and into the glass in slow motion, and your mouth waters with anticipation to taste it. The way the wine washes up from the bowl of the glass and gracefully caresses the sides enhances the experience. It’s almost like you’re watching a vintage being born in front of you even though you know that’s not the case.

Each tasting is accompanied by a very small gourmet entrée to complete the wine-tasting experience—a light degustation, not the complete chef’s experience, but we didn’t want that right now. Unlike the regular practice of pairing the right type of wine with the food, St. Hugo’s chef chooses his foods to complement the wines. After all, the wines are the stars of the show. The dishes are arranged with the wines according to taste—bitter, sweet, sour, fatty, savory, etc. We taste the various wines along with the simple dishes and ingredients and pick our favorites—which flavors we felt went best with each vintage, and which vintages we preferred over others. I’m pretty partial to the signature Shiraz while Butterfly predictably leans to an incredibly decadent Cabernet.

John is only too happy to inform the vintner that we would like three bottles of the 2005 Signature Coonawarra Cabernet Sauvignon to be packed and prepared to take back to the States. Reminding us of the tax and hassle of getting the wine through customs, he offered to send it directly to our address in Seattle. I wouldn’t have minded the tax on the wine—at $1000 a bottle, it couldn’t have been much for someone like me—but he raises a good point about the hassle of customs, and we may find more wine that we’d like to ship home. In light of that information, I agree to have the bottles shipped and give him our information for the shipping.

Just as I’m finishing the transaction, Butterfly scoffs loudly and indiscreetly. I frown and turn to her.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. I know she’s had a bit of wine, but it’s no more than we’ve had at a normal dinner and we’re just getting started, so it can’t be that.

“I must be one helluva hot dish!” she’s says uncensored. Okay…

“Well… yeah, but why is that a bad thing?” I ask.

“Because people can’t believe for the life of them that we just met, fell in love, got married, and started a family. I just have to be a trophy wife!”

That statement tells me everything I need to hear. There’s only one other group of people in the cellar door with us and they’re standing just to the left of her—two couples about our age examining the wine menu. At least the men are examining the wine menu. The women are looking over at Butterfly. They subsequently divert their gaze when they see me glaring at them.

“You are a trophy wife, baby. Get used to it,” I say loud enough for them to hear. They giggle and Butterfly gasps. “That’s because you’re one hell of a fucking prize. And the next time someone says that about you, just remember that they’re only saying it because they’re so goddamn jealous that they could chew out their own fucking tongues.”

I raise my brow at her and wait for acknowledgment. I get it in the form of her beautiful, coy smile that I know is only reserved for me. I lift her chin and kiss her gently.

“Never get upset about trolls, baby,” I say, still holding her chin, but looking at the cunts who disparaged her. “They’ve got nothing on you and they know it, and that’s why they try to cut you down.” I bring my eyes back to Butterfly’s. “Comprendre?”

“Oui, monsieur,” she replies sweetly. I brush her lips with another soft kiss.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say, taking her hand and tucking it into the crease of my elbow. “The riff-raff is starting to bother me.”

As we pass the couples still standing at the counter, I hear one of the men say, “Geez, what the fuck did you say?’”


A/N: Yes, they’re everywhere!

More music from the special night:
Usher—
Trading Places
Nelly and Kelly Rowland—
Dilemma
Usher—Lovers and Friends
Trey Songz—
All We Do
Slo Mo—
Ride
Jeremiah—
Birthday Sex
Guinuwine—
Differences
Trey Songz—
On Top
K Camp—
Blessing

Putain d’enfer, il l’a encore fait!—Fucking hell, he did it again!
S’il vous plaît”—”Please!”

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/ and the pictures from today’s chapter are in the “Adeliade,” “Peppers,” and “Barossa Valley” sections, and there are a lot of them!!

And of course, the regular Pinterest board is here: https://www.pinterest.com/ladeeceo/raising-grey/

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.

~~love and handcuffs