Ritual of the Red Chair Read online

  It’s a beautiful chair. All gleaming and evocative and wicked looking; an object of desire, more than just a piece of furniture. I shouldn’t have bought it. Yet when I saw the chair, I saw Simon in 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….

  Simon and Suzanne have been exploring their wicked fantasies of dominance and discipline after finding a book of vintage BDSM photos. When they see a red chair at an antique shop that would make a perfect prop for their sexy scenarios, Suzanne can’t resist splurging on it—giving Simon another reason to punish her. But his punishment is just the beginning of the erotic rituals featuring the Red Chair…

  Book two of Portia Da Costa’s 3 Colors Sexy series. Discover how their story began in Discipline of the Blue Book and continues in Ecstasy in the White Room.

  Ritual of the Red Chair

  Portia Da Costa

  Contents

  Ritual of the Red Chair

  BPA

  Copyright

  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 world of the Blue Book, but since we found it, he simply takes my breath away. He was born to master me, just as I was born to be mastered by him.

  Don’t
get me wrong though. These are games. Our “thing” that we both get off on. In every other way, we meet as equals, in mind and heart.

  “I’m sorry,” I mutter.

  My sex aches and I’m already dying to come.

  “I should think you are,” he says in that cool, judicious voice that really gets me going, “And we shall have to do something about it, shan’t we?”

  I nod my head and stare at my toes, playing the penitent.

  “In that case, as we have this splendid chair, I think it’s time to make use of it.” He sinks into the chair, lounges back in it just as I imagined him doing, and then sets the tips of his fingers together in a steeple. “So you’d better remove your jeans and your panties, then, hadn’t you?”

  His eyes are like sapphires, dark yet lambent as he raises his hands and taps his joined fingertips thoughtfully against his lips. It’s all a performance, his shtick as the sage disciplinarian, and he’s fully aware how it gets my engine revving.

  Fumbling as if I have twenty thumbs, I grapple with the button and zipper on my jeans, get them halfway down my legs, and then remember I have to kick off my shoes. This is a bit of an act too, the flummoxed submissive, woefully aware of her lowly status. Simon sighs, not quite overplaying, but not far off.

  I sway a bit as I step out of my jeans and kick them away too. I feel so self-conscious it’s like a blanket of heat pressing against my skin, and I can barely breathe. Even so, my nostrils tickle as I get a fugitive whiff of my own arousal. Simon only arrived a few moments ago, but I’m already as sticky as if he’s had his hand inside my knickers for an hour, playing with me. I watch him breathe in too, in a long, slow inhalation, and wonder if he can smell me just as I do?

  He nods toward my panties, his sandy eyebrows quirking as if to say, get on with it.

  I skim down my flimsy panties and hover on first one foot then the other, stepping out of them. When I’m just about to toss them aside Simon holds out his hand, wiggling his fingers in a silent command for me to hand them over. Another familiar ploy.

  My face flames, but I obey. They’re revealingly fragrant.

  “Wicked girl,” he murmurs at the evidence of how much I want him. After much perusing and head shaking and general feigning of disapproval, he hangs them over one of the carved walnut finials at either side of the chair’s upholstered leather back. They dangle like a trophy, white against the golden wood and the crimson hide.

  Half-naked, I feel more exposed than if he’d bade me remove every last stitch. I’m intensely aware of my bush, and the way he glances at it. I try to use the force of my mind to compel him to touch me and give me a little pleasure before the pain, but no such luck. It’s another part of my anatomy that he’s more interested in now.

  “Turn around. Show me your bottom.”

  Trying to be graceful, I obey. Simon’s always loved my arse, and he’s been even fonder of it since we discovered the Blue Book. He likes to fondle it, stroke it, and grip it hard while we’re fucking. His favorite positions are the ones that allow him to grab on to one or both cheeks while he’s thrusting into me. I’ve no complaints, because he does it very well.

  Especially when he’s spanked me hard first, good and hard.

  Why is that, I wonder? I’m still a baby about pain, despite everything. If Simon asked me to tweeze my eyebrows for him, I’d tell him to sod off. But this game of spanking, and more, makes me crazy....

  “Very nice…but it’s a bit pale, isn’t it?” He leans forward in the red chair and grips my bum cheeks, one in each hand, circling and manipulating. Delicious shame makes me moan, even though I’d resolved to keep quiet and act all stoic. Silky moisture overflows my sex and trickles down the inside of my thigh. “But don’t worry…we’ll soon put that right.” His fingertips cruise up and down the cleft between my buttocks, skirting around my anus but not quite close enough to touch it.

  The devil. The plaguing devil.

  Without warning, he springs to his feet, abandoning my flesh.

  “Right, come on. Up onto this precious chair of yours.” He takes me by the shoulder, spins me round and urges me toward our new treasure. Manhandling me, he positions me on the seat, kneeling. I hold on to the back and press my forehead against the leather, breathing in Simon’s cologne where a hint of it lingers. He makes a number of adjustments to the placing of my thighs and my backside, insuring that my bottom is well up and presented, and my sex is open and displayed.

  As I kneel there, with everything on show, tears form in the corners of my eyes, even before he’s begun to punish me. But it’s not from shame or discomfort, no, far from that. It’s just the opposite. I love showing myself to him. I love acting as his plaything and the feeling of it is so intense that it sometimes overwhelms me. I’m weak with love for him, yet more powerful and exalted than I’ve ever felt before. I want him to take me, explore me and probe me. I want him to use me with fingers, toys, or his beautiful, beautiful cock. I’m his, but I command him, just the same.

  “Keep still,” he warns, and I realize I’ve been wriggling and waving my bottom and my sex at him, unable to stop myself.

  I freeze, but it’s a struggle. It’s like I have fireworks of excited desire and anticipation going off inside me. I want to shout at him to do something, anything, just to get on with it. But of course, for the moment, that’s not allowed.

  “That’s better…now hold that pose.”

  I’m biting my lip hard, but hopefully he can’t see my face from this angle, and it’s the other end of me he’s more interested in, anyway. His cool fingertips settle on me again, sliding over the skin of my buttocks, exploring and teasing, slow and sneaky. I breathe hard, absorbing the odor of the old leather, and imagining the history it could tell me. If the chair ever did do time in a brothel, surely what’s happening now could have happened before, many times. Surely Simon and I can’t be the first ones to see its potential? Over the years I’ll bet scores of women have knelt as I’m doing.

  Simon’s finger strays right to the edge of my pussy and I jerk, my body desperate to entice him, even while my mind is still trying make it remain motionless. He makes a little tsk sound of disapproval, but his fingertip stays where it is. I don’t know which is most thrilling, the little warning noise, or the finger grazing the edge of my perineum.

  To distract myself, I imagine a woman from the past, poised here just as I am. Nearly being masturbated, but not quite. If it was a pleasure house for ladies where the chair was in use, she must have wanted this episode, just as I do. She must have been as excited and aroused as I am, displaying herself to a handsome man whose job was to serve her every whim.

  Good grief, she must have paid him!

  Fighting not to pant, or move again, or start trembling, I somehow manage a hidden smile too. At least I don’t have to pay Simon to indulge my wicked whims. He does it because he loves me, and loves the game.

  “What are you smirking about?”

  Uh-oh, seems the smile wasn’t hidden after all, and just when I open my mouth to offer some kind of explanation, he takes my breath away. His stiff, unyielding finger slides inside me, possessing my vagina in a sudden rude intrusion.

  Without thinking, I clench myself, grabbing at him. That triggers a little ripple of early pleasure, and I bite my lip again to keep in a moan.

  “Be careful,” Simon warns, crooking his finger and making things both worse and better at once. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, miss…we’ve a long way to go before you get your rewards.”

  Even though I’m teetering on the brink, I can still mentally step back to admire him. He’s playing the game, becoming that Victorian disciplinarian, inspired by the chair. He reads me so easily, fulfilling my yearnings, matching my moods.

  “I’m sorry, sir.... Please forgive me,” I say in a wavery voice.

  “I should think so. Just you behave yourself. Are you ready to be punished?” He exerts a pressure that has me fighting not to squeal, then, just as abruptly as he pushe
d it in, he withdraws his finger.

  “Yes, sir. Yes, I am.”

  “Very well then. Let’s begin, shall we?” He lays a hand flat across my buttock, as if assessing its resilience. “Brace yourself.”

  I try, but I’m trembling. I do fear the pain, even though I invite it by pushing my bottom up and out, making a better target. Closing my eyes, I imagine Simon assaying me, stepping this way and that, selecting the right angle. In my mind, he’s dressed as the Victorian gentleman again, handsome and sober, very forbidding. I’m just deciding what color his waistcoat should be when the first spank lands, right out of the blue.

  “Ouch!”

  “Suzanne…” he warns, walloping again.

  Oh, it’s so hot. And he hits hard, his hand rigid and unrelenting. When we first started all this, he wasn’t quite as sure of himself, but now he’s a consummate master. He patterns the slaps, making a lattice of pain and fire, making me burn while exerting the minimum of effort himself.

  It should be horrible, because it really hurts…and yet…and yet…even as the tears flow, I feel my soul flying. The ache from the spanking isn’t the only one I feel.

  Simon really puts it to me, but the more it hurts, the more I invite it, wafting my rump hither and thither, lifting myself and rising to the blows.

  “You’re a wicked, wanton trollop,” he informs me, punctuating each word with a smack, “What are you?”

  “I’m a wicked, wanton trollop,” I gulp and snivel, punctuated again.

  My bum feels as if it’s on fire from just a few simple blows. Or is it that I’m burning with desire and I’m so muddled up and out of my head that I can no longer tell the difference? Either way, I discover that I can’t keep quiet and I’m chanting “please, please, please…” under my breath.

  “What are you chuntering on about?” To add emphasis, Simon catches me a sneaky slap, right on the underhang of my bottom, and I let out a squeal. That seems to please him, because he lands another, just the same, in short order.