TieD Up For Christmas

The door swung shut behind Ava with a heavy, final clunk.

She was sealed in absolute blackness. The air was cold, thick, and smelled faintly of leather and metal, a scent immediately distinct from the clean air and sweat of Noah's living room.

"Come in," his voice had instructed, the words barely audible, pulling her deeper into the void.

Noah did not speak again. The silence was unnerving, far worse than the noise she'd heard for months.

Then, with a soundless snap, the darkness was violently banished.

The lights came on.

Ava gasped, a sharp, choked sound that died in the sudden, jarring illumination. She froze instantly, every lawyerly instinct screaming danger, halt, withdraw.

The room was large, with no windows, and designed with a ruthless aesthetic. The walls were painted a deep, lustrous black, and thick, plush carpets covered the floor in the same color. However, every piece of equipment, every accent, every shadow was cast in a dominant, aggressive red.

This was not a bedroom. It wasn't even a sex room.

It was a performance space. A dedicated chamber.

She had just walked straight into the place where months of moans had been born against her shared wall.

Her stomach fluttered violently.

All that time, she thought she was listening to sex. Turns out she'd been listening to various women being flogged, gagged, and possibly electrocuted. And they seemed to like it.

Her eyes moved slowly, drinking every detail she wished she wasn't impressed by.

In the center stood a heavy Andrew Cross, a large, upright wooden frame in the shape of an 'X,' stained black and detailed with heavy silver rings. Nearby, chains hung from the ceiling, thick lengths of cold metal that glittered under the powerful overhead lights.

To the side, there was a simple, sturdy table covered in black leather, mounted with various straps and cuffs.

Her eyes snagged on a separate wall rack: thick whips and canes, polished and ready. Next to them, a collection of wires, clamps, and cables...she shuddered, thinking of her earlier internal joke: flogged, gagged, possibly electrocuted. The jumper wires were terrifyingly real.

She was standing in a dungeon.

Ava spun around, seeking Noah, finding him standing casually next to the leather table, his legs crossed at the ankle and his arms folded across his vast, bare chest. He was utterly impassive, watching her reaction with skilled detachment.

His hair was bright under the warm light, high cheekbones cut like marble, mouth set in a straight, unreadable line. He was broader in this room than he'd seemed outside of it, something about the stark lines and hard edges gave him a gravitational pull that tugged her forward.

She hated how her knees felt untrustworthy.

He didn't move, didn't speak, didn't blink.

He just watched her. The same way he had watched her at the door.

She tried to speak, but the words stuck in her dry throat. Her mind raced from the logical (violation of lease agreement? safety standards?) to the primal (run).

Of course, he's into BDSM. The thought was so absurd it nearly made her laugh hysterically. The sex god next door wasn't just loud; he was a literal master. And she, a woman who hadn't managed to get a man's penis fully inside her, was standing in his playground.

Could she handle this? Did she even want him to still fuck her?

Her confidence, the fragile thing that had powered her across the hall, began to rebuild itself, fueled by a renewed sense of defiance. She had overcome a decade of shame. She wouldn't be intimidated by furniture.

She took a deliberate step forward, planting her feet. Using her most professional, courtroom voice, firm, steady, and utterly devoid of emotion, she asked him, "What is this?"

Noah simply quirked a brow, the only movement he allowed himself. The silence stretched long and accusatory.

Then, he slowly unfolded his arms, straightened from his casual stance, and walked behind the leather table. He placed his palms flat on the surface, leaning forward slightly, his gaze fixed on Ava, void of any discernible emotion.

"You're not blind, Ava." His voice, that rough, accented rumble, was colder here, detached, fitting the metallic atmosphere of the room. He didn't raise his volume, yet every syllable was a command.

Ava's pulse thudded at the base of her neck.

Her instinct was to joke, to say something irreverent, something snarky, something that would drag her sanity back by the hair.

Instead, her mouth muttered, "Jesus Christ."

Noah's expression didn't change. "He's not in here."

Gosh.

Of course, he would say something like that.

Her eyes narrowed, even though her pulse was sprinting. "You know, most people give a house tour before dumping someone into... this."

Still, nothing came from Noah. No smile, not even arrogance. Just cool detachment. He was like ice and fire at the same time.

She tried speaking again. "So what is the purpose of this room?"

Noah merely answered her in a bored tone. "Pleasure."

"Pleasure?" Ava asked, her gaze warily scanning an object that looked like a well-done caricature of a chainsaw. If someone who wasn't experienced walked into this room, they'd think this was a slaughterhouse.

Ava shuddered. It seems her neighbor was into stuff she'd never considered.

"Just what kind of pleasure would you be giving a woman in this room?" she muttered to herself.

"I don't fuck women, but I can bring them pleasure. I can fuck you, as you've requested, but with other... means." Noah answered her question.

Ava was stunned. Incensed. She looked wildly around the room, trying to make sense of his words. For months, she'd heard the ecstatic screams and moans. And all this time, the women weren't being penetrated?

They were being tortured by devices. Flogged, clamped, and possibly electrocuted?

No. Absolutely no. She was here for a cock attached to a body. She had dealt with devices her whole life!