textfiles/sex/EROTICA/C/chairwmn.txt

Archive-name: Bondage/chairwmn.txt
Archive-author: Averti
Archive-title: Chair Woman, The
 

The word that most comes to mind for this woman is `grave.'  Not
grave as in place of the dead, but grave as in stillness, gravi-
ty, even a touch of the sad and somber.  The woman has several
smiles; an evil, knowing smile; a girlish, delighted smile; a
quiet, pensive smile.  But in repose, she looks grave, like a
figure on a very old monument, stone-carved eyes forever looking
out and away, at things you or I can't quite see.
 
It is this gravity which I will shake.
 
In body she is a girl-child still.  Long, smooth legs and arms.
A tight, athletic bottom of a totally gratuitous degree of beau-
ty.  Understated but classically lovely breasts.  Strong shoul-
ders and an unusually striking long neck, with a very prideful
quality.  Her head is graceful and well-set.  A mane of long
sometimes-light and sometimes-dark blond hair.
 
It is this wholesome prettiness which I will degrade.
 
The face?  Unusual.  The woman's eyes, changeable as to shade and
hue, draw one in, over and over.  The storm-grey eyes that you
smiled into yesterday may be dark umber tomorrow.  There is also
a peculiar asymmetry, in that not only are her eyes not in hori-
zontal plane (true of many people), the eyes are slightly differ-
ent sizes.  This is not discomfiting; rather enchanting, further
proof that THIS one is THE one, and not just another one.
 
This is the one whose eyes must be made to see into Hell, and
smile at what they see.
 
To kiss this woman is to draw close enough to get inside the
orbit of those eyes, to taste sweet lips and a lively tongue and
for a moment forget what one might have seen mirrored in the
eyes...
 
But today is not a day for kissing.
 
***
 
This woman feels that she has done wrong.  Her great intelligence
wars with her sexuality, analyzing and measuring the very feel-
ings that defy analysis and corrupt measurement.  In order to be
taken away from her own constant scrutiny, she must be abused,
treated with rough disdain, as though enough humiliation and pain
trips a relay that not only allows her to come, but stills the
dry, pedantic voices in her head.
 
***
 
When I enter the room, she has been standing, roped to the top of
a door, almost on tiptoes, for about ten minutes.  The strained
posture does artistic things to the dynamics of her trim, athlet-
ic legs, and the raising and centering of her cuffed arms pushes
her small breasts together and out.  She is wearing panties and a
cotton T-shirt; this I have allowed her.
 
I walk over and stand next to her.  ``Getting any taller?'' I
ask, jokingly.
 
``No, sir.''  She doesn't like a lot of talk.  _I_ like a lot of
talk, so a lot of talk is what she gets.  She also doesn't really
know what I can accomplish with talk.  There have been those who
have been broken under my casual conversation more profoundly
than if I had used a branding iron.
 
But now the time for talking is passed.
 
I lean down and run the backs of my fingers up one calf.  The
woman shivers slightly, a racing horse in tether.
 
***
 
I return to the room, dragging a simple wooden director's chair.
What I am about to do was actually taught me by a teenage girl,
long ago; one of the legion of masturbatory exhibitionists and
general-purpose kinks that seem to find me by means of some
sexual sonar.
 
I sit down in the chair and study the woman.  Her face is in an
attractive grimace, eyes slitted, lips pulled back across her
large, healthy white teeth.  She flicks a sideways glance at me
from under her knitted brows.  There is still a good deal of
defiance in that look.  I steeple my hands and ask, ``Would you
like to be let down?''
 
The woman looks at me again, this time warily.  ``Y-yes, Sir.
Please.''
 
``Oh, it pleases.  I wouldn't have suggested the possibility if
it didn't please me.''  I get up from the director's chair and
slide it closer to her, so that the chair is almost under her,
but facing the wrong way.  ``Would you like to be let down into
this chair?'' I say, smiling.
 
She studies the smile, and a blazing mix of emotions flash across
her face; fear, anticipation, lust--and something else, perhaps
bewilderment.  This woman is seldom bewildered, and it feels
strange and exciting.  (Of course, she is relatively seldom hung
from a door, but this does not bewilder; this was requested.)
``Yes'' she says, her voice somewhat strained from her lengthy
suspension.
 
I turn up the smile another notch.  I have had 300-pound bikers
walk away backward from _this_ smile.  ``Would you like?'' I
continue, in a harsh whisper, ``to be let down _onto_ this
chair?''
 
The woman's different-sized eyes flare, and her mouth clamps
shut.  She looks sideways at me, finally not seeing me but the
authority, the terrible punishment, the indignity, the pain that
her inner voices need.  ``Please...'' she says, in a voice as
hoarse as mine.  ``Please...''
 
I step very close to the woman.  I snap my fingers and a short,
bitterly sharp leaf-bladed knife jumps from my sleeve into my
hand.  A mere trick, but impressive in the context.  Before she
can react, I slice her panties in half, one vertical swipe down
the back that kisses the skin as lightly as a breeze.  One more
pass and the wispy garment falls to the floor.  I put the knife
away (did she show a flash of disappointment?) and run my hands
slowly, carefully over her buttocks.  Not a sexual gesture; more
like an examination of the ground before some surgical operation.
 
With one hand I steadily but firmly pry her cheeks apart.  I use
the middle finger of the other hand to first locate, then touch,
then penetrate her tight, dry anus.  A gasp is born in the
woman's body but she kills it before it can reach her lips.
 
Looking the woman in the eyes, I unsmilingly work my finger in
her body, gently but steadily maneuvering until the finger is in
up to the second joint.  Her asshole is very tight, very dry,
very hot.  I wiggle the embedded finger a few times.  The woman's
face tries to stay cool, but her eyelids flutter and her mouth
tics.
 
***
 
``Close your eyes,'' I say softly.  The woman is slow.  She wants
somehow to see over her shoulders and back, to see my hand plun-
dering her ass.  ``Close your eyes, I said!'' I bark.  I take my
free hand from her buttocks and slap her across one breast, fast
but not very hard.  This is a richly symbolic ``wrong'' thing to
do to a woman; she likes it very much.
 
``Keep your fucking eyes closed'' I warn.  I remove the finger
from her asshole.  The woman gasps.  Her eyes are squeezed tight-
ly shut.  For some odd reason, the nipple of the unslapped breast
is now as hard as a gemstone and pokes impertinently at the thin
fabric of the T-shirt.
 
I pop the snap on the chair's canvas seatcover and slide the top-
back flap down.  The upper end of the back leg of the chair now
stands free, a round pole of polished wood with a rounded end,
about one inch in diameter.
 
I walk to the side table, open the drawer, take out the metal
container, walk back to the hanging woman.  I open the tin, scoop
out a healthy dollop of slippery substance with two fingers, find
her asshole, and start working the slimy fingers and the Crisco
into her anus.  The woman makes a kind of slipped-gear noise, but
keeps her eyes shut.
 
***
 
``What will you do if I let you down?''
 
``...Anything.''
 
``Oh, really?  Anything?''
 
``...Yes, sir.''
 
``Will you, oh, let's see...will you masturbate to my
directions?''
 
``If you like, Sir.''
 
``Will you talk to me while you are doing it?''
 
``...talk about...?''
 
I slap the same breast again.  Such a nice breast for hitting;
small, firm, delicately pointed.  The woman gasps.
 
***
 
``You may open your eyes,'' I say.  ``I am now going to let you
down onto the chair.''  I can see her face, showing relief, then
trying to hide it.  I slide the chair around until it is posi-
tioned up against the backs of her legs, the pole-like rear leg
sticking up at an angle.  She looks over her shoulder at the
chair, and then at me.
 
I get another gob of Crisco, and slowly and thoroughly smear it
all over the chair leg, around the knobby top and a foot down the
rounded, polished shaft.
 
The woman looks at the chair leg, at my hand, and then at my
face.  Her expression becomes...profound.  A complex mixture of
terror and desire, one might almost say.  She whispers, like dry
leaves rattling, ``I..._can't_.''
 
I smile.  ``You will.''
 
``It'll hurt me.  It could KILL me!''
 
``Well, you've got those nice long legs, and last night, I meas-
ured you and the chair, dozens of times, and sawed four inches
off the bottoms of the chair legs.''  I wipe my greasy hands on
her T-shirt, and reach for the ropes holding her wrists to the
top of the door frame.  ``As for hurt,'' I continue, ``I thought
that was the idea.''
 
The woman's odd eyes now glance frantically about the room.  She
licks her lips rapidly.  Then she seems to briefly increase in
intensity, like an overloaded light bulb.  Finally she nods.
 
***
 
``Are you comfortable?'' I ask with a hint of a sneer.  I had
tried it on myself, of course, previously, but there's always a
difference in tolerance between things under ones' own control
and things imposed from the outside.
 
The woman makes a low grunting noise.  She is standing stock
still on her toes, slightly tipped forward, holding onto the back
of the chair with both hands in a white-knuckled grip.  She
certainly has that profoundly impaled look about her.
 
***
 
``Can you deal with it?'' I ask, steadying her upper body with my
hands.  I feel obscurely like some monstrous physical therapist,
assisting a patient in some painful but necessary treatment.  At
that, I am not far wrong.
 
She squeezes out each word individually.  ``I...don't...KNOW!''
 
***
 
The woman is touching herself.  Things are beginning to happen.
She stirs lightly on her impalement, and the chair shifts and
creaks.  She groans.  ``Hurt me...more!'' she hisses.
 
I smile over her shoulder.  ``How?'' I ask, as if asking a dining
patron if she wants fresh-ground pepper.
 
``Tits!'' she snarls, massaging faster between her legs.  I am
further amused; this woman doesn't say `tits' when referring to
herself, not when she _is_ herself.  Here, in the land of sweet
pain, we bark like dogs and grunt like pigs and use the MOST
disrespectful terminology.
 
I can only free one hand.  I need to keep steady hold of the
woman, by a fist full of bunched-up T-shirt, to keep her upright.
She is just now beginning to give and lock at the knees, just a
very tiny bit.  This brings her down a tiny bit onto the chair
leg, and then back up.  I note this with some approval.
 
With my free hand, I reach around and once again begin slapping
her breasts.  To do this almost makes me squeamish; I summon a
certain professional detachment that allows me to continue with
what is, after all, both required by the woman and vital to our
enterprise.  Each delicate little breast rebounds from the flat
of my hand.  The nipples seem to grow and then wane, grow and
subside, on individual impulses of their own.  When my hand
begins to sting I seize a nipple and twist it, hard.  The woman's
fine head snaps back on her long, slender neck, and a lovely
grating noise escapes from her mouth.
 
***
 
I look down over the woman's shoulder.  One hand is digging in
the top of her vulva, the other is raking red nailmarks across
her smooth white belly.  She is rocking on the chair leg, now,
with her feet flat on the floor.  I hold her all the tighter with
one hand and arm, but there is one thing I must do before things
escalate to their determined conclusion.  Without letting go, I
kneel, reach my right arm around and down until my hand reaches
the junction of the woman's thighs.  For once I am glad to be
tall and long of arm.
 
``Take your hand away for a little'' I demand.  The woman groans
but complies.  I search with two fingers into her hot, twitching
center.  It is as wet as it has ever been.  ``I just want to'' I
say, soothingly, as I stick the two fingers up into her cunt,
``check on something'' I feel with the backs of the fingers along
the rear wall of the vagina, ``and see how it feels...''
 
I press the fingers up and backwards until I can feel the wooden
solidity of the chair leg through the intervening layers of
muscle and tissue.  I press, lightly.  The woman gives a terri-
ble, startling moan and begins to contract around my hand.  I
push very delicately at the back wall of her cunt, still holding
her firmly, as she writhes flatfooted on the chair leg.  The
woman whips a hand down to rub her clit; this I allow.  With the
other hand she captures one nipple through the T-shirt and sav-
ages it far more violently than I am accustomed to doing.  This I
allow.
 
The climax is lengthy, episodic, and serial.  Toward the end I
remove my hand and take a fresh grip on the woman's body; she
shows a tendency to slump after orgasm, and that would be danger-
ous in the current configuration.
 
It is easy enough to hold up a woman this size and slide the
chair out of and out from under her.  I let her fall, panting,
into the chair.  I stand behind her, stroking her shoulders and
pushing her sweaty bangs away from her forehead.
 
Finally she speaks.  ``Sir?''
 
``Umm hmm...''
 
``Out of scene?''
 
``Oh, yes, indeed.''
 
She makes a whooshing exhalation, then turns and gives me one of
her `evil' smiles; squinty eyes, knitted brows, mouth turned up.
I find it perfectly charming.  ``They warned me,'' she says.
 
``Who warned you?''
 
``You know.  They said you were absolutely 100% stone crazy and
dangerous.''
 
``Me?  I'm a pussycat.  I don't make people do difficult things;
just think about a walnut four-poster bed, for example.''
 
She grimaced.  ``As soon as I can get up from here, I'm not
sitting down again for two weeks.''
 
I step away, rubbing my hands together.  ``You'll be all right?''
I ask.
 
The woman half-turns to look at me.  ``You're going?''
 
``Yes.  I have other business...''
 
She nods, shivers slightly and then grimaces as some sore part is
disturbed.
 
I move toward the door.  ``I'll call you,'' I say.  I open the
door to the hall, look back over my shoulder, and add ``You can
keep the chair.  The Crisco was, I believe, yours to begin
with.''
 
The woman's last facial expression stays with me as I go whis-
tling down the stairs and into the street.
 
*** end ***