The Whisky Room

One lamp lit, the rest of the study in shadow. The only sound is a fall cutting the air as He tests it against His own thigh. Does it lick or bite, sting or thud, does it have fangs? How much precision does it demand to move from gentle caress to skittering burn? Function first. Always.

Then form. Black, tan, brown as the foundation, with gold, silver, copper and bronze braided through the handles. Everything else chosen for what it represents, what it signals, what it says about the hand holding it.

Every one of them is one of a kind. El cuts each piece from hides the two of them hunt down themselves, and the ones with the right temper rarely come twice. He tests what she makes. What excels hangs on this wall.

The door is already closed behind you.

Black and red leather floggers on an oxblood Chesterfield beside a glass of whisky, The Whisky Room by Collared Foxy