Whips, clamps, blindfolds—I had become comfortable with everything Christian's Red Room of Pain had to offer. But just when I thought I knew everything about him, he wanted to introduce me to an even darker secret.

"Ana, now that you've become comfortable with everything in my Red Room of Pain, I want to introduce you to something even darker," said Christian.

"Something even darker?" I asked. "Do you have a… Maroon Room of Pain?" How many secrets does this secretive man have? My subconscious was telling me to be wary, but my inner goddess was moonwalking while juggling chainsaws and playing Olivia Newton-John's "Physical" on the harmonica at the thought of getting even kinkier.

"I prefer to think of it as my Blood Red Room of Pain," said Christian as he threw open the iron door tucked away in a dark corner of his dank basement.

I could see why he called it the Blood Red Room of Pain: the walls were splattered with blood red paint, and the room was full of instruments of pain. Knives, chainsaws, axes, branding irons, a torture rack and much more were present, and they all appeared to be well used. How could someone use dangerous things like these for sex?

"How can you use dangerous things like these for sex?" I asked as I picked up a knife.

"I'm going to show you," said Christian as he strapped me to an antique surgical table. "But I also use these for much, much more than sex," said Christian as he picked up a scalpel.

"Like what?" I enquired. "Are you going to use that to cut my clothes off? And why is this table so wet? Is it sweaty from the passionate lovemaking you've done on it?" My inner goddess started doing backflips on a tightrope over an exploding dildo factory at the thought of what was about to come next.

"No, Ana. It's blood." Christian examined the scalpel, shook his head, and traded it for a flail.

"Blood? Have you been preparing or eating undercooked meat on this table?" I quizzed.

"Oh, Jesus Christ. Ana, do I have to spell it out for you?" Christian catechized.

"Spell what out? Your unstoppable attraction to me?" I pried.

"Ana, I use this room to torture and kill people. I'm a serial killer." Christian waved the flail over his head, then frowned and swapped it for a chainsaw.

"You're a serial killer?" I gasped. How could an abusive, controlling, cold-hearted, emotionally distant and borderline sociopathic multi-millionaire with an unflinchingly loyal staff and a long list of ex-submissives be a serial killer? "So you call it the Blood Red Room… because the red paint is blood!" I exclaimed.

"Yes. And yes," communicated Grey. He revved up the chainsaw.

My self-conscious gave me an "I told you so" look, while my inner goddess had more of a "Let's wait and see where this goes, it could be super-hot" expression going on. Then I put on my "Ow, chainsaws hurt!" face.