𝐅𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐘 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐘//𝐁.𝐄

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒*𝐕𝐄𝐍

The first thing I notice is the smell: leather, wood, polish with a faint citrus scent. It's very pleasant, and the lighting is soft, subtle. In fact, I can't see the source, but it's around the cornice in the room, emitting an ambient glow. The walls and ceiling are a deep, dark burgundy, giving a womb-like effect to the spacious room, and the floor is old, old varnished wood.

There is a large wooden cross like an X fastened to the wall facing the door. It's made of high polished mahogany, and there are restraining cuffs on each corner. Above it is an expansive iron grid suspended from the ceiling, eight foot square at least, and from it hang all manner of ropes, chains, and glinting shackles. By the door, two long, polished, ornately carved poles, like spindles from a banister but longer, hang like curtain rods across the wall.

From them swing a startling assortment of paddles, whips, riding crops, and funny-looking feathery implements. 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 sized, 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 cushions 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 carabiners 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 Anastasia's version of soft and romantic. I turn, and she's regarding me intently, as I knew she would be, her expression completely unreadable. I walk farther into the room, and she follows me.

The feathery thing has me intrigued. I touch it hesitantly. It's suede, like a small cat-o'-nine-tails but bushier, and there are very small plastic beads on the end.

"It's called a fogger." Anastasia's voice is quiet and soft. A fogger ... 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 sadist or masochist?

Fear ... yes ... that seems to be the overriding feeling. I recognize it now. But weirdly not of her-I don't think she'd hurt me, well, not without my consent. So many questions cloud my mind. Why? How? When? How often? Who? I walk toward the bed and run my hands down one of the intricately carved posts. The post is very sturdy, the crafts man ship outstanding.

"Say something," Anastasia commands, her voice deceptively soft.

"Do you do this to people or do they do it to you?" Her mouth quirks up, either amused or relieved.

"People?" She blinks a couple of times as she considers her answer."I do this to women who want me to." I don't understand.

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