Book 1 - Page 31 (1/2)

Beside the door stands a substantial mahogany chest of drawers, each drawer slim as if designed to contain specimens in a crusty old museum. I wonder briefly what the drawers actually do hold. Do I want to know In the far corner is an oxblood leather padded bench, and fixed to the wall beside it is a wooden, polished rack that looks like a pool or billiard cue holder, but on closer inspection, it holds canes of varying lengths and widths. There's a stout six-foot-long table in the opposite corner - polished wood with intricately carved legs - and two matching stools underneath.

But what dominates the room is a bed. It's bigger than king-size, an ornately carved rococo four-poster with a flat top. It looks late nineteenth century. Under the canopy, I can see more gleaming chains and cuffs. There is no bedding... just a mattress covered in red leather and red satin cus.h.i.+ons piled at one end.

At the foot of the bed, set apart a few feet, is a large oxblood chesterfield couch, just stuck in the middle of the room facing the bed. An odd arrangement... to have a couch facing the bed, and I smile to myself - I've picked on the couch as odd, when really it's the most mundane piece of furniture in the room. I glance up and stare at the ceiling. There are karabiners all over the ceiling at odd intervals. I vaguely wonder what they're for. Weirdly, all the wood, dark walls, moody lighting, and oxblood leather makes the room kind of soft and romantic... I know it's anything but, this is Christian's version of soft and romantic.

I turn, and he's regarding me intently as I knew he would be, his expression completely unreadable. I walk further into the room, and he follows me. The feathery thing has me intrigued. I touch it hesitantly. It's suede, like a small cat-of-nine-tails but bus.h.i.+er, and there are very small plastic beads on the end.

”It's called a flogger,” Christian's voice is quiet and soft.

A flogger... hmm. I think I'm in shock. My subconscious has emigrated or been struck dumb or simply keeled over and expired. I am numb. I can observe and absorb but not articulate my feelings about all this, because I'm in shock. What is the appropriate response to finding out a potential lover is a complete freaky s.a.d.i.s.t or m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tFear... yes... that seems to be the over-riding feeling. I recognize it now. But weirdly not of him - I don't think he'd hurt me, well, not without my consent. So many questions cloud my mind.

WhyHowWhenHow oftenWhoI walk toward the bed and run my hands down one of the intricately carved posts. The post is very st.u.r.dy, the craftsmans.h.i.+p outstanding.

”Say something,” Christian commands, his voice deceptively soft.

”Do you do this to people or do they do it to you?”

His mouth quirks up, either amused or relieved.

”People?” He blinks a couple of times as he considers his answer. ”I do this to women who want me to.”

I don't understand.

”If you have willing volunteers, why am I here?”

”Because I want to do this with you, very much.”

”Oh,” I gasp. Why?

I wander to the far corner of the room and pat the waist high padded bench and run my fingers over the leather. He likes to hurt women. The thought depresses me.

”You're a s.a.d.i.s.t?”

”I'm a Dominant.” His eyes are a scorching gray, intense.

”What does that mean?” I whisper.

”It means I want you to willingly surrender yourself to me, in all things.”

I frown at him as I try to a.s.similate this idea.