They'd been at his house, and he was showing her his tool shop. She'd looked over some of the work he'd done, and jokingly, kind of, asked about bondage-type furniture.
Later, she showed him some examples from online catalogs. She'd apparently been looking at them for a while. He looked them over, checked the prices and particulars, and then he rather casually told her he could simply make something custom, or adapt something, with no real problem. A chair, maybe. Her eyes flashed open and she got terribly excited with the idea.
They'd actually gone shopping for furniture, after a while of pillow talk and discussion, and eventually had found the exact, delightful piece in an out-of-the-way, dusty antique mall. They'd picked it out together. It was an older, maybe early 20th Century, chair. It was finely fitted with wide arms and a low back, a sort of captain's chair. She'd loved it immediately.
He remembered with amusement and a little embarrassment how she'd placed herself in it backwards, trying it for fit, and how they'd discussed in low tones and almost giggling whispers what he could do to make it more comfortable, or perhaps effective? The piece hadn't been in the greatest of condition, but he was glad of that; it would have been a shame to attack or even refinish a truly nice chair, but this one was absolutely perfect for their purpose. Loose joints and bad finish, some damage, all repairable but disqualifying it from heirloom status. He liked it, and she loved it. She'd stroked the seat with her hand when he carried it out to his truck, smiling softly to herself.
He had his shop set up in a heated half part of his garage, his sort of guy den, complete with beer fridge. She'd come over while he worked on the chair. He remembered how amused he was when she brought over a bottle of fine wine and, smiling, placed it in his guy fridge, staking her claim.
