der 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
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 ha一ve 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
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