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.

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.

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 Christian's version of soft and romantic.

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 cushions piled at one end.

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 bushier, and there are very small plastic beads on the end.

"Say something," Christian commands, his voice deceptively 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 sadist or masochist? Fear… yes… that seems to be the overriding 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. 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 craftsmanship outstanding.

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

His mouth quirks up, either amused or relieved.

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

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

"To please me," he whispers as he cocks his head to one side, and I see a ghost of a smile.

"Oh," I gasp. Why?

"What does that mean?" I whisper.

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.

I frown at him as I try to assimilate this idea. "Why would I do that?"

"How do I do that?" My mouth is dry, and I wish I had more wine. Okay, I understand the pleasing bit, but I am puzzled by the soft-boudoir-Elizabethan-torture set up. Do I want to know the answer?

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

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

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

"You're a sadist?"

Please him! He wants me to please him! I think my mouth drops open. Please Christian Grey. And I realize, in that moment, that yes, that's exactly what I want to do. I want him to be damned delighted with me. It's a revelation.

"In very simple terms, I want you to want to please me," he says softly. His voice is hypnotic.

I don't understand.

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

"I have rules, and I want you to comply with them. They are for your benefit and for my pleasure. If you follow these rules to my satisfaction, I shall reward you. If you don't, I shall punish you, and you will learn," he whispers. I glance at the rack of canes as he says this.

"And where does all this fit in?" I wave my hand in the general direction of the room.

Oh my. Christian rakes his hand through his hair as he gazes at me.

"It's all part of the incentive package. Both reward and punishment."

"So you'll get your kicks by exerting your will over me."

He shrugs and looks almost apologetic.

"Okay, and what do I get out of this?"

"Me," he says simply.

"It's about gaining your trust and your respect, so you'll let me exert my will over you. I will gain a great deal of pleasure, joy even, in your submission. The more you submit, the greater my joy -- it's a very simple equation."

"You're not giving anything away, Anastasia," he murmurs, exasperated. "Let's go back downstairs where I can concentrate better. It's very distracting having you in here." He holds his hand out to me, and now I'm hesitant to take it.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Anastasia." His gray eyes implore, and I know he speaks the truth. I take his hand, and he leads me out of the door.

"This will be your room. You can decorate it how you like, have whatever you like in here."

"If you do this, let me show you." Rather than going back downstairs, he turns right out of the playroom, as he calls it, and down a corridor. We pass several doors until we reach the one at the end. Beyond it is a bedroom with a large double bed, all in white… everything, furniture, walls, bedding. It's sterile and cold but with the most glorious view of Seattle through the glass wall.

"My room? You're expecting me to move in?" I can't hide the horror in my voice.

"Not full time. Just say, Friday evening through Sunday. We have to talk about all that, negotiate. If you want to do this," he adds, his voice quiet and hesitant.

Kate had said he was dangerous; she was so right. How did she know? He's dangerous to my health, because I know I'm going to say yes. And part of me doesn't want to. Part of me wants to run screaming from this room and all it represents. I am so out of my depth here.

"I'm fully aware that this is a dark path I'm leading you down, Anastasia, which is why I really want you to think about this. You must have some questions?" he says as he wanders into the kitchen area, releasing my hand.

My mouth presses in a hard line. This is what I cannot reconcile. Kind, caring Christian, who rescues me from inebriation and holds me gently while I'm throwing up into the azaleas, and the monster who possesses whips and chains in a special room.

"Not with you."

"Where do you sleep?"

"I'll sleep here?"

"You must eat, Anastasia," he admonishes and, taking my hand, leads me back downstairs.

"Yes."

Back in the impossibly big room, I am filled with deep trepidation. I am on the edge of a precipice, and I have to decide whether or not to jump.

I do. But where to start?

"Weirdly, I seem to have lost my appetite," I murmur petulantly.

"No. I told you, I don't sleep with anyone, except you when you're stupefied with drink." His eyes are reprimanding.

"My room is downstairs. Come, you must be hungry."

"How did you become this way?"

"You mentioned paperwork."

"That's fine," he says carefully.

"Why?"

"Well, apart from the NDA, a contract saying what we will and won't do. I need to know your limits, and you need to know mine. This is consensual, Anastasia."

"And if I don't want to do this?"

"Why is anyone the way they are? That's kind of hard to answer. Why do some people like cheese and other people hate it? Do you like cheese? Mrs. Jones -- my housekeeper -- has left this for supper." He takes some large, white plates from a cupboard and places one in front of me.

I stand at the breakfast bar watching him as he opens the refrigerator and pulls out a plate of different cheeses with two large bunches of green and red grapes. He sets the plate down on the worktop and proceeds to cut up a French baguette.

"This is the only sort of relationship I'm interesting in."

"But we won't have any sort of relationship?" I ask.

"What paperwork?"

"No."

"Yes."

"You've signed your NDA; you can ask me anything you want and I'll answer."

"Why?"

He shrugs. "It's the way I am."

"Sit." He points to one of the stools at the breakfast bar, and I obey his command. If I'm going to do this, I'm going to have to get used to it. I realize he's been this bossy since I met him.

I take a small bunch of grapes. This I can manage. He narrows his eyes.

"I have them written down. We'll go through them once we've eaten."

He raises an eyebrow at me.

"You'd be amazed," he says dryly.

"You will eat," he says simply. Dominating Christian, it all becomes clear. "Would you like another glass of wine?"

"Yes, please."

He pours wine into my glass and comes to sit beside me. I take a hasty sip.

"Yes."

"Have you been like this for a while?" I ask.

We're talking about cheese… Holy crap.

"I'm really not hungry," I whisper.

"Help yourself to food, Anastasia."

"Is it easy to find women who want to do this?"

"What are your rules that I have to follow?"

"Then why me? I really don't understand."

My stomach somersaults -- he wants me… in a weird way, true, but this beautiful, strange, kinky man wants me.

Food. How can I eat now?

"Anastasia, I've told you. There's something about you. I can't leave you alone." He smiles ironically. "I'm like a moth to a flame." His voice darkens. "I want you very badly, especially now, when you're biting your lip again." He takes a deep breath and swallows.

"Will you hurt me?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever been beaten?" I ask.

"Eat!"

"No. I haven't signed anything yet, so I think I'll hang on to my free will for a bit longer, if that's okay with you."

"Fifteen."

"No."

"What do you mean?"

"Have you ever hurt anyone?"

"As you wish, Miss Steele."

"I think you have that cliché the wrong way round." I grumble. I am the moth and he is the flame, and I'm going to get burnt. I know.

Holy shit.

"I will punish you when you require it, and it will be painful."

"Some of them, yes."

Oh… that surprises me. Before I can question him on this revelation further, he interrupts my train of thought.

"Yes."

"Badly?"

Oh… not as many as I thought.

His eyes soften, and his lips turn up in a smile.

I think I feel a little faint. I take another sip of wine. Alcohol -- this will make me brave.

"Physically, will you hurt me?"

"How many women?" I blurt out the question, but I'm so curious.

"For long periods of time?"

"Let's discuss this in my study. I want to show you something."

I follow him into his study, a spacious room with another floor-to-ceiling window that opens out on to the balcony. He sits on the desk, motions for me to sit on a leather chair in front of him, and hands me a piece of paper.

This is so hard to process. Here I was foolishly thinking that I'd spend a night of unparalleled passion in this man's bed, and we're negotiating this weird arrangement.

"These are the rules. They may be subject to change. They form part of the contract, which you can also have. Read these rules and let's discuss."

RULES

The Submissive will ensure she achieves a minimum of seven hours' sleep a night when she is not with the Dominant.

Sleep:

The Submissive will obey any instructions given by the Dominant immediately without hesitation or reservation and in an expeditious manner. The Submissive will agree to any sexual activity deemed fit and pleasurable by the Dominant excepting those activities which are outlined in hard limits (Appendix 2). She will do so eagerly and without hesitation.

Obedience:

Food:

The Submissive will eat regularly to maintain her health and wellbeing from a prescribed list of foods (Appendix 4). The Submissive will not snack between meals, with the exception of fruit.

Exercise:

The Dominant shall provide the Submissive with a personal trainer four times a week in hour-long sessions at times to be mutually agreed between the personal trainer and the Submissive. The personal trainer will report to the Dominant on the Submissive's progress.

During the Term, the Submissive will wear clothing only approved by the Dominant. The Dominant will provide a clothing budget for the Submissive, which the Submissive shall utilize. The Dominant shall accompany the Submissive to purchase clothing on an ad hoc basis. If the Dominant so requires, the Submissive shall wear during the Term any adornments the Dominant shall require, in the presence of the Dominant and at any other time the Dominant deems fit.

Personal Hygiene/Beauty:

Clothes:

The Submissive will keep herself clean and shaved and/or waxed at all times. The Submissive will visit a beauty salon of the Dominant's choosing at times to be decided by the Dominant, and undergo whatever treatments the Dominant sees fit.

Failure to comply with any of the above will result in immediate punishment, the nature of which shall be determined by the Dominant.

The Submissive will not drink to excess, smoke, take recreational drugs, or put herself in any unnecessary danger.

Personal Safety:

Personal Qualities:

"Hard limits?" I ask.

The Submissive will not enter into any sexual relations with anyone other than the Dominant. The Submissive will conduct herself in a respectful and modest manner at all times. She must recognize that her behavior is a direct reflection on the Dominant. She shall be held accountable for any misdeeds, wrongdoings, and misbehavior committed when not in the presence of the Dominant.

"I want to lavish money on you, let me buy you some clothes. I may need you to accompany me to functions, and I want you dressed well. I'm sure your salary, when you do get a job, won't cover the kind of clothes I'd like you to wear."

"Yes. What you won't do, what I won't do, we need to specify in our agreement."

Holy fuck.

"I'm not sure about accepting money for clothes. It feels wrong." I shift uncomfortably, the word 'ho' rattling round my head.

"I don't want to exercise four times a week."

"Okay." Think of them as a uniform.

No acts involving urination or defecation and the products thereof.

"But surely not four times a week. How about three?"

Hard Limits

No acts involving fire play.

"Okay, Miss Steele, another point well made. How about an hour on three days and one day half an hour?"

He smiles wickedly, and his eyes glow as if relieved. "Yes, I am. Okay, agreed. Are you sure you don't want to intern at my company? You're a good negotiator."

"I thought this was a negotiation?"

He purses his lips at me.

"No."

"So, limits. These are mine." He hands me another piece of paper.

"Three days, three hours. I get the impression you're going to keep me exercised when I'm here."

"I want you to do four."

"I don't have to wear them when I'm not with you?"

"Anastasia, I need you supple, strong, and with stamina. Trust me, you need to exercise."

"No, I don't think that's a good idea." I stare down at his rules. Waxing! Waxing what? Everything? Ugh.

No acts that will leave any permanent marks on the skin.

No acts involving needles, knives, piercing, or blood.

No acts involving breath control.

"Is there anything you'd like to add?" he asks kindly.

"I don't know."

Ugh. He has to write these down! Of course -- they all look very sensible, and frankly, necessary… any sane person wouldn't want to be involved in this sort of thing, surely? Though I now feel a little queasy.

"You can tell me, Anastasia. We have to be honest with each other or this isn't going to work."

No activity that involves the direct contact of electric current (whether alternating or direct), fire or flames to the body.

He gazes at me and furrows his brow. "Is there anything you won't do?"

No acts involving gynecological medical instruments.

No acts involving children or animals.

"What do you mean you don't know?"

I squirm uncomfortably and bite my lip. "I've never done anything like this."

For the first time in what seems to be ages, I blush.

Crap. I've no idea. I am completely stumped.

"Well, when you've had sex, was there anything that you didn't like doing?"

"Well… I've not had sex before, so I don't know." My voice is small. I peek up at him, and he's staring at me, mouth-open, frozen, and pale -- really pale.

"Tell me," he commands.

"Never?" he whispers. I shake my head.

I squirm uncomfortably again and stare at my knotted fingers.

"You're a virgin?" he breathes. I nod, flushing again. He closes his eyes and looks to be counting to ten. When he opens them again, he's angry, glaring at me.

"Why the fuck didn't you tell me?" he growls.