Ritual of the Red Chair. Portia Da Costa

      It’s a beautiful chair. A gorgeous chair. All gleaming and evocative and red leather covered and wicked looking; an object of desire, more than just a piece of furniture.

      I shouldn’t have bought it. Simon will go nuts when he arrives and finds I’ve had it delivered. This glorious old town house we’ve bought was just a smidgen beyond our budget, even allowing for us doing it up ourselves, and on top of that we’re saving for our wedding. There just isn’t really any money to splurge on luscious Victorian antiques, no matter how divine and desirable they are.

      Yet when I saw the chair, I saw Simon in it, and that’s why I went back and bought it. I could just imagine him lounging against the leather, enthroned like a sex god and ready to dispense retribution, just like one of those vintage disciplinary gentlemen in the Blue Book.

      Ah, the dear old Blue Book. Suddenly, I’m awash with memories, and I’m back there, on holiday at that cottage by the lake, opening those pages, poring over the old Victorian spanking photographs they contained…and seeing the light. Neither of us had really had a clue before then about the wicked, delicious secrets that really turn us on. Well, maybe we had, a bit, but it took the book to make our fantasies bloom into life.

      The Blue Book became our instruction manual. Simon’s guide when he took me over his knee; my template of deportment as I lay there, being punished. We played, and loved, and fucked throughout that holiday, all fired up by our discoveries on those pages.

      The book is closed and in a safe place right now, but somehow it’s still open in my mind, the images morphing and blending with the reality of this chair. The texture of the red leather and the sheen of polished wood. It all swirls together, priming me for the games we’ve played ever since then, too, the dark rituals of pain and pleasure, lush and sweet.

      Suspended somewhere between the past and the present, I walk around the chair, examining it and knowing with every step that it’s worth the extravagance.

      The frame is fashioned from exquisitely turned walnut, with sexily carved legs and side panels, and the upholstery is done in red leather, a deep, smooth, silky, almost buttery red leather, aged now and a bit scuffed and discolored here and there, but still splendid and alive with magical history.

      Eager to sell, the antique shop owner waxed lyrical about the chair’s provenance. His claim was that it’d once been amongst the furnishings of a notorious Victorian house of pleasure, a naughty and rather innovative Hampstead brothel, frequented by aristocratic ladies in search of the kind of imaginative rumpo they couldn’t get from their stuffy husbands at home. I suspected that the entire tale was fabricated, but Simon’s eyes lit up as he listened to the spiel, no doubt imagining the intersection between the man brothel and contents of the Blue Book…and the sight of that was enough to convince me we must have the chair, whatever the cost.

      “Suzanne? Are you there?”

      Oops, now I’m in for it. I didn’t think he’d be here just yet. We’ve been working on our new house in every minute of our free time, and doing as much of the renovation ourselves as we can. Simon the workaholic stays much longer at the office than I do, so I’m always here first, before he arrives, doing the odd bit of scraping and sanding. We usually have a quick evening meal together before getting really stuck in another hour or two. I’d planned to hide the chair under one of the many dust sheets draped everywhere, and then get around to revealing it at the right moment, when he’s mellow.

      But mellow or otherwise, it seems that moment’s here now.

      The front door slams and I hear his firm, light stride crossing the entrance hall. It’s too late now to conceal my crime, but I will him to hurry, hurry, hurry. I want him here, now, to catch me with the chair. I want to see the stern-sweet look in his beautiful blue eyes, and to kneel before him, acknowledging my fault, my rash spending.

      Simon appears in the doorway, and my heart leaps. God, how I love him! I love him and want him more with every day.

      “Oh, you wicked, wicked girl,” he says, in a soft, low voice. Our eyes meet and the light in his tells me he knows everything, instantly. He comprehends my motivation, my desire, and, despite the cost, he unspokenly applauds me.

      The unmitigated devil, he intended me to buy it.

      I feel light-headed. I’m trembling. His fierce expression makes my blood surge, and the lines of his cheekbones are pure, high and grave. But in those eyes of his there’s laughter too; exultation and grateful love. Punishing me is so much more fun when I fabricate a reason.

      He shakes his blond head. “I thought we decided we couldn’t afford this…and yet, still, somehow, it’s here.” Striding forward, he lays his long, elegant hand on the upholstered leather back of chair. His fingers curve as if he’s assessing its fitness for purpose. “What have you got to say for yourself, Suzanne? What’s your excuse this time?”

      The cheek of it. I’m actually quite careful with our money as a rule. A mad splurge like this is an exception, not the norm, and it’s usually him who makes the occasional crazy purchase.

      But still when I meet his eye, I quiver inside. I swallow. My mouth is dry with anticipation, even though another part of me is already wet. Very wet. I never fail to wonder at how easily and comfortably we slip into our roles. They’re like a set of clothes that fit us better than any other.

      Speaking of which, Simon is looking fit as ever in jeans and an old shirt, but with his fingers still assessing the leather, just the way he’ll soon assess my flesh, I can easily imagine him dressed in clothing more contemporary with the chair. He’d look amazing as a rigorous Victorian gentleman in immaculate neckwear, a wing collar and a long, dark frock coat, his blond curls tamed and smoothed with Macassar oil.

      “I just couldn’t resist it,” I say very quietly, really meaning that I can’t resist him. “It’s just right for the house. We couldn’t let it go to someone else, could we?”

      He looks at me, his expression perfectly level, his sculpted face quite straight. He’s as excited as I am. I can almost taste it in the air. But he’s become a consummate actor since we began this erotic voyage and he loves this familiar role. “But we agreed there’d be no further large purchases until we’d paid for the rewiring and the new plumbing and we had a clearer idea of how much the wedding will cost.” He flicks his gaze to the seat of the chair for a beat. “You gave your word, darling. You promised…no silly spending.”

      I can’t speak. Stern Simon flusters me so. I knew he was “the one” long before we discovered the