Fifty Shades of Grey

He eyes me warily for a moment and somehow, even though he's so tall, he manages to ease his way gracefully to the door of the helicopter and open it. He jumps out, waiting for me to follow, and takes my hand as I clamber down on to the helipad. It's very windy on top of the building, and I'm nervous about the fact that I'm standing at least thirty stories high in an unenclosed space. Christian wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me tightly against him.

"Come," he shouts above the noise of the wind. He drags me over to an elevator shaft and, after tapping a number into a keypad, the doors open. It's warm inside and all mirrored glass. I can see Christian to infinity everywhere I look, and the wonderful thing is, he's holding me to infinity too. Christian taps another code into the keypad, then the doors close and the elevator descends.

Moments later, we're in an all-white foyer. In the middle is a round, dark wood table, and on it is an unbelievably huge bunch of white flowers. On the walls there are paintings, everywhere. He opens two double doors, and the white theme continues through the wide corridor and directly opposite where a palatial room opens up. It's the main living area, double height. Huge is too small a word for it. The far wall is glass and leads on to a balcony that overlooks Seattle.

To the right is an imposing 'U' shaped sofa that could sit ten adults comfortably. It faces a state-of-the-art stainless steel - or maybe platinum for all I know - modern fireplace.

The fire is lit and flaming gently. On the left beside us, by the entryway, is the kitchen area.

All white with dark wood worktops and a large breakfast bar which seats six.

Near the kitchen area, in front of the glass wall, is a dining table surrounded by sixteen chairs. And tucked in the corner is a full size, shiny black grand piano. Oh yes... he probably plays the piano too. There is art of all shapes and sizes on all the walls. In fact, this apartment looks more like a gallery than a place to live.

"Can I take your jacket?" Christian asks. I shake my head. I'm still cold from the wind on the helipad.

"Would you like a drink?" he asks. I blink at him. After last night! Is he trying to be funny For one second, I think about asking for a margarita - but I don't have the nerve.

"I'm going to have a glass of white wine, would you like to join me?"

"Yes, please," I murmur.

I am standing in this enormous room feeling out of place. I walk over to the glass wall, and I realize that the lower half of the wall opens concertina-style on to the balcony. Seattle is lit up and lively in the background. I walk back to the kitchen area - it takes a few seconds, it's so far from the glass wall - and Christian is opening a bottle of wine. He's removed his jacket.

"Pouilly Fume okay with you?"

"I know nothing about wine, Christian. I'm sure it will be fine." My voice is soft and hesitant. My heart is thumping. I want to run. This is seriously rich. Seriously over-the-top Bill Gates style wealthy. What am I doing hereYou know very well what you're doing here - my subconscious sneers at me. Yes, I want to be in Christian Grey's bed.

"Here." He hands me a glass of wine. Even the glasses are rich... heavy, contempo-rary, crystal. I take a sip, and the wine is light, crisp, and delicious.

"You're very quiet, and you're not even blushing. In fact - I think this is the palest I've ever seen you, Anastasia," he murmurs. "Are you hungry?"

I shake my head. Not for food.

"It's a very big place you have here."

"Big?"

"Big."

"It's big," he agrees, and his eyes glow with amusement. I take another sip of wine.

"Do you play?" I point my chin at the piano.

"Yes."

"Well?"

"Yes."

"Of course you do. Is there anything you can't do well?"

"Yes... a few things." He takes a sip of his wine. He doesn't take his eyes off me. I feel them following me as I turn and glance around this vast room. Room is the wrong word.

It's not a room - it's a mission statement.

"Do you want to sit?"

I nod, and he takes my hand and leads me to the large off-white couch. As I sit, I'm struck by the fact that I feel like Tess Durbeyfield looking at the new house that belongs to the notorious Alec D'Urberville. The thought makes me smile.

"What's so amusing?" He sits down beside me, turning to face me. He rests his head on his right hand, his elbow propped on the back of the couch.

"Why did you give me Tess of the D'Urbervilles specifically?" I ask. Christian stares at me for a moment. I think he's surprised by my question.

"Well, you said you liked Thomas Hardy."

"Is that the only reason?" Even I can hear the disappointment in my voice. His mouth presses into a hard line.

"It seemed appropriate. I could hold you to some impossibly high ideal like Angel Clare or debase you completely like Alec D'Urberville," he murmurs, and his gray eyes flash dark and dangerous.

"If there are only two choices, I'll take the debasement." I whisper, gazing at him. My subconscious is staring at me in awe. He gasps.

"Anastasia, stop biting your lip, please. It's very distracting. You don't know what you're saying."

"That's why I'm here."

He frowns.

"Yes. Would you excuse me a moment?" He disappears through a wide doorway on the far side of the room. He's gone for a couple of minutes and returns with a document.

"This is a non-disclosure agreement." He shrugs and has the grace to look a little embarrassed. "My lawyer insists on it." He hands it to me. I'm completely bemused. "If you're going for option two, debasement, you'll need to sign this."

"And if I don't want to sign anything?"

"Then it's Angel Clare high ideals, well, for most of the book anyway."

"What does this agreement mean?"

"It means you cannot disclose anything about us. Anything, to anyone."

I stare at him in disbelief. Holy shit. It's bad, really bad, and now I'm very curious to know.

"Okay. I'll sign."

He hands me a pen.

"Aren't you even going to read it?"

"No."

He frowns.

"Anastasia, you should always read anything you sign," he admonishes me.

"Christian, what you fail to understand is that I wouldn't talk about us to anyone, anyway. Even Kate. So it's immaterial whether I sign an agreement or not. If it means so much to you, or your lawyer... whom you obviously talk to, then fine. I'll sign."

He gazes down at me, and he nods gravely.

"Fair point well made, Miss Steele."

I lavishly sign on the dotted line of both copies and hand one back to him. Folding the other, I place it my purse and take a large swig of my wine. I'm sounding so much braver than I'm actually feeling.

"Does this mean you're going to make love to me tonight, Christian?" Holy shit. Did I just say that His mouth drops open slightly, but he recovers quickly.

"No, Anastasia it doesn't. Firstly, I don't make love. I f*ck... hard. Secondly, there's a lot more paperwork to do, and thirdly, you don't yet know what you're in for. You could still run for the hills. Come, I want to show you my playroom."

My mouth drops open. F*ck hard! Holy shit, that sounds so... hot. But why are we looking at a playroomI am mystified.

"You want to play on your Xbox?" I ask. He laughs, loudly.

"No, Anastasia, no Xbox, no Playstation. Come." He stands, holding out his hand. I let him lead me back out to the corridor. On the right of the double doors, where we came in, another door leads to a staircase. We go up to the second floor and turn right. Producing a key from his pocket, he unlocks yet another door and takes a deep breath.

"You can leave anytime. The helicopter is on stand-by to take you whenever you want to go, you can stay the night and go home in the morning. It's fine whatever you decide."

"Just open the damn door, Christian."

He opens the door and stands back to let me in. I gaze at him once more. I so want to know what's in here. Taking a deep breath I walk in.

And it feels like I've time-traveled back to the sixteenth century and the Spanish Inquisition.

Holy f*ck.

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 bur-gundy, 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-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.

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 karabiners 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.

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.

"It's called a flogger," Christian's voice is quiet and 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 masochistFear... yes... that seems to be the over-riding 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.

WhyHowWhenHow oftenWhoI walk toward the bed and run my hands down one of the intricately carved posts. The post is very sturdy, the craftsmanship outstanding.

"Say something," Christian commands, his voice deceptively soft.

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

His mouth quirks up, either amused or relieved.

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

I don't understand.

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

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

"Oh," I gasp. Why?

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.

"You're a sadist?"

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

"What does that mean?" I whisper.

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

I frown at him as I try to assimilate this idea.

"Why would I do that?"

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

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.

"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 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.

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

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

"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."

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