I wander listlessly through the apartment. Christian is still working. I have showered and dressed in some sweats and a T-shirt of my own, and I’m bored. I don’t want to read. If I sit still, I’ll recall Jack and his fingers on me.
I check out my old bedroom, the subs’ room. José can sleep here—he’ll like the view. It’s about eight fifteen, and the sun is beginning to sink into the west. The lights of the city twinkle below me. It’s glorious. Yes, José will like it here. I wonder idly where Christian will hang José’s pictures of me. I’d rather he didn’t. I am not keen on looking at myself.
Back down the hallway I find myself outside the playroom, and without thinking, I try the door handle. Christian normally keeps it locked, but to my surprise, the door opens. How strange. Feeling like a child playing hooky and straying into the forbidden forest, I walk in. It’s dark. I flick the switch and the lights under the cornice light up with a soft glow. It’s as I remember it. A womb-like room.
Memories of the last time I was in here flash through my mind. The belt . . . I wince at the recollection. Now it hangs innocently, lined up with others, on the rack beside the door. Tentatively I run my fingers over the belts, the floggers, the paddles, and the whips. Sheesh. This is what I need to square with Dr. Flynn. Can someone in this lifestyle just stop? It seems so improbable. Wandering over to the bed, I sit on soft red satin sheets, gazing around at all the apparatus.
Beside me is the bench, above that the assortment of canes. So many! Surely one is enough? Well, the less said about that the better. And the large table. We never tried that, whatever he does on it. My eyes fall on the chesterfield, and I move over to sit on it. It’s just a couch, nothing extraordinary about it—nothing to fasten anything to, not that I can see. Glancing behind me, I spy the museum chest. My curiosity is piqued. What does he keep in there?
As I pull open the top drawer I realize my blood is pounding through my veins. Why am I so nervous? This feels so illicit, as if I’m trespassing, which of course I am. But if he wants to marry me, well . . .
Holy fuck, what’s all this? An array of instruments and bizarre implements—I don’t have a clue what they are, or what they’re for—are carefully laid out in the display drawer. I pick one up. It’s bullet-shaped with a sort of handle. Hmm . . . what the hell do you do with that? My mind boggles, though I think I have an idea. Jeez, there are four different sizes! My scalp prickles and I glance up.
Christian is standing in the doorway, staring at me, his face unreadable. How long has he been there? I feel like I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.
“Hi.” I smile nervously at him, and I know my eyes are wide and that I’m deathly pale.
“What are you doing?” he says softly, but there’s an undercurrent in his tone.
Oh shit. Is he mad? I flush. “Er . . . I was bored and curious,” I mutter, embarrassed to be found out. He said he’d be two hours.
“That’s a very dangerous combination.” He runs his long index finger across his lower lip in quiet contemplation, not taking his eyes off me. I swallow and my mouth is dry.
Slowly, he enters the room and closes the door quietly behind him, his eyes liquid gray fire. Oh my. He leans casually over the chest of drawers, but I think his stance is deceptive. My inner goddess doesn’t know whether it’s fight or flight time.
“So, what exactly are you curious about, Miss Steele? Perhaps I could enlighten you.”
“The door was open . . . I—” I gaze at Christian as I hold my breath and blink, uncertain as ever of his reaction or what I should say. His eyes are dark. I think he’s amused, but it’s difficult to tell. He places his elbows on the museum chest and rests his chin on his clasped hands.
“I was in here earlier today wondering what to do with it all. I must have forgotten to lock it.” He scowls momentarily as if leaving the door unlocked is a terrible lapse in judgment. I frown—it’s not like him to be forgetful.
“Oh?”
“But now here you are, curious as ever.” His voice is soft, puzzled.
“You’re not mad?” I whisper, using my remaining breath.
He cocks his head to one side, and his lips twitch in amusement.
“Why would I be mad?”
“I feel like I’m trespassing . . . and you’re always mad at me.” My voice is quiet, though I’m relieved. Christian’s brow creases once more.
“Yes, you’re trespassing, but I’m not mad. I hope that one day you’ll live with me here, and all this”—he gestures vaguely round the room with one hand—“will be yours, too.”
My playroom . . . eh? I gape at him—that’s a lot to take in.
“That’s why I was in here today. Trying to decide what to do.” He taps his lips with his index finger. “Am I angry with you all the time? I wasn’t this morning.”
Oh, that’s true. I smile at the memory of Christian when we woke, and it distracts me from the thought of what will become of the playroom. He was such fun Fifty this morning.
“You were playful. I like playful Christian.”
“Do you now?” He arches an eyebrow, and his beautiful mouth curves up in a smile, a shy smile. Wow!
“What’s this?” I hold up the silver bullet thing.
“Always hungry for information, Miss Steele. That’s a butt plug,” he says gently.
“Oh . . .”
“Bought for you.”
What? “For me?”
He nods slowly, his face now serious and wary.
I frown. “You buy new, er . . . toys . . . for each submissive?”
“Some things. Yes.”
“Butt plugs?”
“Yes.”
Okay . . . I swallow. Butt plug. It’s solid metal—surely that’s uncomfortable? I remember our discussion about sex toys and hard limits after I graduated. I think at the time I said I would try. Now, actually seeing one, I don’t know if it’s something I want to do. I examine it once more and place it back in the drawer.
“And this?” I take out a long, black rubbery object, made of gradually diminishing spherical bubbles joined together, the first one large and the last much smaller. Eight bubbles in total.
“Anal beads,” says Christian, watching me carefully.
Oh! I examine them with fascinated horror. All of these, inside me . . . there! I had no idea.
“They have quite an effect if you pull them out mid-orgasm,” he adds matter-of-factly.
“This is for me?” I whisper.
“For you.” He nods slowly.
“This is the butt drawer?”
He smirks. “If you like.”
I close it quickly, flushing like a stoplight.
“Don’t you like the butt drawer?” he asks innocently, amused. I gaze at him and shrug, trying to brazen out my shock.
“It’s not top of my Christmas card list,” I mutter nonchalantly. Tentatively, I open the second drawer. He grins.
“Next drawer down holds a selection of vibrators.”
I shut the drawer quickly.
“And the next?” I whisper, ashen once more, but this time with embarrassment.
“That’s more interesting.”
Oh! Hesitantly I pull the drawer open, not taking my eyes off his beautiful but rather smug face. Inside there are an assortment of metal items and some clothespins. Clothespins! I pick up a large metal clip-like device.
“Genital clamp,” Christian says. He stands up and moves casually around so that he’s beside me. I put it back immediately and choose something more delicate—two small clips on a chain.
“Some of these are for pain, but most are for pleasure,” he murmurs.
“What’s this?”
“Nipple clamps—that’s for both.”
“Both? Nipples?”
Christian smirks at me. “Well, there are two clamps, baby. Yes, both nipples, but that’s not what I meant. These are for both pleasure and pain.”
Oh. He takes it from me.
“Hold out your little finger.”
I do as he asks, and he clamps one clip to the tip of my finger. It’s not too harsh.
“The sensation is very intense, but it’s when taking them off that they are at their most painful and pleasurable.” I remove the clip. Hmm, that might be nice. I squirm at the thought.
“I like the look of these,” I murmur and Christian smiles.
“Do you now, Miss Steele? I think I can tell.”
I nod shyly, biting my lip. He reaches up and tugs on my chin so I release my bottom lip.
“You know what that does to me,” he murmurs.
I put the clips back in the drawer, and Christian leans forward and pulls out two more.
“These are adjustable.” He holds them up for me to inspect.
“Adjustable?”
“You can wear them very tight . . . or not. Depending on your mood.”
How does he make that sound so erotic? I swallow, and to divert his attention, pull out a device that looks like a spiky pastry cutter.
“This?” I frown. No baking in the playroom, surely.
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