Hm. I thought the book Fifty Shades Freed ended with Anastasia Steele Grey’s down there resembling a sphynx cat. But apparently those are sentences that fill the 528 pages following pages 1 through 50, and while the sentences make little to no sense, Hugo assures me that they do in fact continue on with the story. Here is what happened if you missed my first recrap of this book:
Christian Grey and Anastasia S. Grey rubbed parts vigorously; sometimes against one another, sometimes against innocent bystanders. A barely functioning synapse fired in Ana’s head, and produced the thought “Crapdong.” Frogs rained from the sky and immediately began humping swarms of locusts.
You are caught up.
(For all recraps of this series, visit this page)
The Greys are still mooning over each other by mooning each other on their honeymoon. Christian wants to go pick out art for their new home. How can I buy art? Ana dumbs. First guess…with money? Second guess…with Cool Ranch Doritoes®? Christian assures her that they’ll pick what they like, and not worry about the art being an investment. So yes, the poster of the kitten hanging from the tree with the saying “I’d Hit That” is completely acceptable for the foyer. Investment…jeez, Ana double dumbs. Seriously Ana, what the funghole is your problem?
The art trip reminds Ana of Gia the architect Christian has hired to redo their house. We have not met Gia, but guess what? She drowned in a sea of drool when she set her sights on the overstretched gray fabric concealing the giant Grey dong. Ana hates Gia. Ana hates all women, but most of all herself.
On their trip to Saint-Paul-de-Vence, the couple are followed by security, but Ana feels comfortable “tucked under” Christian’s arm. How is that possible? Is she made out of newspaper?
They look at art and Ana has dumb thoughts–Did Christian destroy the box of naked photographs? Should I let him take photos of me? Has the security team eaten? Is E.L. James just writing whatever the fuck pops in her head?–and feels things in her groin where her brain is located. Guess what? The female gallery employee wants Christian and asks if she can hang a picture of his ball sack next to the Renoir.
At lunch Christian randomly reveals why he likes to braid Ana’s hair “The crack whore used to let me play with her hair, I think. I don’t know if it’s a memory or a dream.”
Wait, what the fuh did he just say?
“‘I like it when you play with my hair.’ (Ana’s) voice is hesitant.” Then she drops the bombshell: “I think you loved your birth mother.” Christian is stunned and he has fathomless gray eyes. His twitchy fathomless mouth, however, is not speaking to Ana. She feels poopy.
“He gives me that look, down his nose, half amused, half wary, wholly sexy, then tucks me under his arm, and we make our way through tourists toward the spot where Philippe/Gaston has parked the roomy Merecedes.”
He examines the indentations the handcuffs left on her wrist. “It’s not sore,” Ana keeps saying and then thinks he can be savage some times. This is the greatest marriage of ever. Seriously if you are married right now, your marriage totally sucks compared to this one. Get divorced…jeez.
He buys her a bracelet and all better. The “stick thin” sales assistant stares at them like a jealous jerk face. My handcuff indentations looks so much rawer than hers, Ana thinks triumphantly (I might have made that up).
Ana really likes other women, can’t you tell?
In the car, Christian presses the button to activate the privacy partition and pulls Ana’s feet into his lap to examine the handcuff indentations on her ankles. He’s sad. She starts to give him a foot job. He’s happy.
His phone rings. “In the server room? Did it activate the fire suppression system?” Ana removes her feet. Christian doesn’t want the fire or police departments involved because his cock is on the case. Some more unrealistic one-sided phone banter–“Yeah, sounds like the argon is just as effective, worth it’s weight in gold”–and we learn there was a fire in Christian’s offices, but it was restricted to the server room and blooper ball bleaker bloom argon goldsticks. What I wrote makes just as much sense as anything E.L. James thinks up.
Ana tries to strangle herself. At least I think that’s what “My hand clutches my throat in fear” means, and she thinks what’s next.
Back on the boat Ana’s bored because Christian’s too busy to fiddle with her sex button. She wants to go shopping and take the jet ski. When she goes to ask him for permission (!) she thinks why do I feel like I’ve entered the principal’s office? Maybe because you’re asking your husband’s permission to engage in normal human activities. I understand she has to get written approval to do a number 2.
He lets her go, but she doesn’t say anything about the jet ski and her subconscious chastises her. Taylor, Christian’s main henchman, admires Ana’s chutzpah or handcuff indentations, I don’t really know or care, but it’s pointed out that he gives her a constipated smile.
Ana thinks it’s ridiculous that she has three members of the security team with her even though she was strangling herself with fear two pages ago. She jet skis around the sea, and sees Christian glowering at her from the yacht.
Taylor relays the message that Christian’s pissed. Oh my poor pathologically overprotective husband, what am I going to do with you. Likely nothing and continue to live like a Madame Alexander doll kept on a mantle. But yo, check this, Ana doesn’t appreciate being scolded by Taylor because he is not my father or my husband. There are no words.
She shops. She buys a cheap ankle bracelet, and feels empowered or stupid or something. She calls Jose for advice on what to buy Christian because time zones be damned. Jose is chilly then stunned, and I am not stunned that I don’t care.
She buys Christian a camera because he likes nudey photographs. She presents it to him, and even though she can barely look him in the eyes, she says she’d like him to take beaver shots of her.
Christian doesn’t seem too happy about that and my subconscious glares at me like I’m a domesticated farm animal.
Oops, wishful thinking. Christian is unraveling. Ana thinks clearly for once, and notices how he keeps looking at her wrists. Oh, he’s upset about this and the fire and other craptwats.
She decides the best tactic is to take pictures of his alarmed face. “‘Well,’ Ana says. ‘It was supposed to be fun, but apparently it’s a symbol of women’s oppression.’ No Ana, that would be you.
Did you guys hear me? I said they have sex.
Just to let you know I have a mangled ninja turtle and a headless barbie (thanks 1pointperspective!) waiting in the wings. And they can bang like nobody’s business.
After Christian blasts his hose into Ana’s loin fire, he confesses the office fire was arson. Someone is out to get Christian, Ana worries, but luckily seems to be just as dumb as Ana and Christian.
They head back to the States. Christian wants to carry Ana over the threshold. He’s pleased she’s put on weight. You love me even though I’m fat Ana teases through gritted teeth while she “fists her fingers” in his hair. How does one fist one’s fingers? Do Ana’s fingers each have tiny fingers that can be balled into fists?
Lunch at the in-laws. Ana’s in a funk. She’s upset Christian called her a fatty boom-ba-latty. She picks at her food. “I am going to take you to the boathouse and finally spank you in there if you don’t snap out of this mood,” Christian whispers. Christian penned the book Overcoming Depression: One Spank at a Time.
Later Christian tinkles on the piano, and the whole room stops when he begins to sing.
Apparently his family has never heard him sing before, and it’s just as exciting as that scene in the The Music Man when Winthrop busts out a verse of “The Wells Fargo Wagon” except Winthrop was 6 and Christian is a “grown” man.
Christian lets (!) Ana drive home. She grinds her vagina into the pedal, and loses the security crew. Urgent phone call to Christian. They’re being followed!!
Yeah, by the security crew.
No! By somebody else and the security crew knows this even though they lost Ana and Christian’s trail because they’re precogs or something.
Ana inserts the gas pedal directly into her super vag and takes off. I weave between the two lanes of traffic like a black piece in a game of checkers, effectively jumping the cars and trucks. What is this the Matrix? Can I take the blue pill and live in a fictional world where this book doesn’t exist? Please, Morpheus.
Ana swerves directly into the path of a tractor trailer and they are flattened like pancakes–be it highly erotic pancakes. Christian is able insert his waffle-shaped penis into Ana’s mail slot one last time and she takes her last breath climaxing.
Oops, wishful thinking again. They’re still speeding as we end on page 100.