Пятьдесят оттенков серого
Chapter 7
It’sbiggerthankingsized,anornatelycarvedrococofour-posterwithaflattop.Itlookslatenineteenthcentury.Underthecanopy,Icanseemoregleamingchainsandcuffs.Thereisnobedding…justamattresscoveredinredleatherandredsatincushionspiledatoneend.
Atthefootofthebed,setapartafewfeet,isalargeoxbloodchesterfieldcouch,juststuckinthemiddleoftheroomfacingthebed.Anoddarrangement…tohaveacouchfacingthebed,andIsmiletomyself—I’vepickedonthecouchasodd,whenreallyit’sthemostmundanepieceoffurnitureintheroom.Iglanceupandstareattheceiling.Therearecarabinersallovertheceilingatoddintervals.Ivaguelywonderwhatthey’refor.Weirdly,allthewood,darkwalls,moodylighting,andoxbloodleathermakestheroomkindofsoftandromantic…Iknowit’sanythingbut;thisisChristian’sversionofsoftandromantic.
Iturn,andhe’sregardingmeintently,asIknewhewouldbe,hisexpressioncompletelyunreadable.Iwalkfartherintotheroom,andhefollowsme.Thefeatherythinghasmeintrigued.Itouchithesitantly.It’ssuede,likeasmallcat-o’-nine-tailsbutbushier,andthereareverysmallplasticbeadsontheend.
“It’scalledaflogger.”Christian’svoiceisquietandsoft.
Aflogger…hmm.IthinkI’minshock.Mysubconscioushasemigratedorbeenstruckdumborsimplykeeledoverandexpired.Iamnumb.Icanobserveandabsorbbutnotarticulatemyfeelingsaboutallthis,becauseI’minshock.
