Ritual of the Red Chair Read online

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “Don’t be silly.... You want something, don’t you? You’ve been irresponsible and extravagant and yet somehow you think you deserve a reward for that, Lord alone knows why.”

  He’s not laughing. His voice is quite grave. But I know that inside he’s thoroughly enjoying himself and keeping his amusement at our absurdity under wraps. I’ll be laughing afterward too, but at the moment, I’m too preoccupied with the conflagration in my rear end and my gouging, aching need to be fondled and fucked.

  “Tell me what you want.”

  More infernal punctuation. Five solid slaps.

  “I want you to fuck me, or rub my clit, or just get me off somehow, goddammit!” I cry out, losing it. Grabbing on to the back of the red chair with one hand, I reach down between my legs and start rubbing myself, even while he’s still spanking me.

  Like lightning, Simon changes tack. He grabs my errant arm, then the other one too, making me tip forward so my face and chest are pressed against the antique leather. Then, he holds my two hands in a tight grip at the base of my spine, encircled in his long, wicked fingers, while with the other hand he spanks me all the harder. It’s only a few wallops though, then he hauls me off the chair altogether and nudges me onto the floorboards, on my knees. I swear I get a splinter from the as yet unvarnished wood.

  “I’ll get you off,” he growls, “but you’ve got to do something for me first.” While I’m still scrambling around down there, he flings himself into the red chair, his thighs akimbo, and attacks the zip of his jeans. In a blink he’s got his fly open, his trunks pushed down, and his erection, fierce and mighty, in his hand.

  “Suck it!” he commands me, his voice not quite steady. He’s as frantic as I am, in his own way, but thus far he’s been better at hiding it.

  But there’s no concealing how he feels now and, despite the burning heat in my buttocks and my own raging desire, I lick my lips at the magnificent feast of manhood that’s being offered to me.

  “Don’t just sit there, smacking your lips…get on with it. Suck me!”

  I shuffle across, wincing, and set about him. I brace a hand on his thigh, knock his own hand aside, and grab his dick like a lollipop. Then I close my eager lips around his glans and suck like hell. He might be expecting a delicate, considered performance but he’s not going to get one. I want him to come in my mouth as fast as I can achieve it…and then I can get my turn for the goodies.

  “Oh God…oh God…” he burbles, first grabbing my head, then releasing it and holding onto the side of the chair with both hands. His narrow hips lift into the air, pushing his cock at me, demanding more of what he’s getting. I alternate hard suction with wiggly, darting, remorseless tongue action, and I reach in to cup his balls too, adding a subtle hint of jeopardy to the mix.

  The pendulum has swung now, and even if I’ve got a sizzling, throbbing, thoroughly spanked bum, and I’m nearly dying of lust, I’m in charge. If my mouth wasn’t full, I’d laugh in exultation.

  I work him. I plague him. I make him howl. And it’s not long before we reach “mission accomplished.” His hips jerking, he drenches my tongue with his semen. I swallow it down, gently clean him off, then release him.

  Of course now he’s in such a thunderstruck and deflated state that he can’t really do anything for me, and sometimes I wonder at my own lack of good sense. But hey ho, I still have my hand and, collapsing back onto the floorboards, despite the pain in my buttocks, I spread my thighs, slip my fingers between them and masturbate.

  “Oh God, Suzanne, that’s so hot.” Simon often seems capable of an almost supernatural speed of recovery in these situations, and even though his cock remains fairly flaccid, his eyes are clear and on fire. With his equipment still poking out of his jeans, he leans forward in the red chair to watch my show.

  Being watched is hot too. I’m almost on the boil the moment I touch myself; the light’s been under my kettle and heating me up since well before my spanking. I could kill for an orgasm now and I don’t care any longer how I get it. The way I feel now, my hand’s as good as any bit of Simon, but I know that later, I’ll want him, and only him.

  I rub and circle and flick and tease my clit, my fingertip constantly slithering off the target, I’m so wet. With a grunt of frustration, I try to concentrate, kicking my heels against the boards, but a heartbeat later, I have help. Simon slides out of the chair, flings himself down beside me and then slips his hand between my thighs, nudging mine out of the way.

  “Here, let me, gorgeous,” he purrs in my ear, bobbing his head down to nuzzle my neck while his bigger, defter fingers seems to get the better of my slipperiness and attack my needy clit with perfect precision.

  A moment ago I didn’t care who touched me, as long as I got to come, but now I’m soaring with joy because it’s him stroking and playing with me. Impossible as it seems, he knows my body and the way it reacts as well as I do almost, and within the space of a few murmured endearments, I’m ascending toward the ceiling, my pussy clenching and clenching as I squirm my punished buttocks against the floorboards, the aching heat only intensifying my pleasure.

  “Oh baby, baby…” It’s my turn to burble now, as I reach for him, slinging a hand around the back of his head and clasping at his gorgeous blond curls. With my other, I search for his cock, my instincts hoping I can revive him. One orgasm isn’t enough, by a long shot. Not for me, and not for him.

  If he can get it up again, I’m yearning, yearning, yearning to fuck.

  Bingo! That’s my Simon. He’s always been a stallion and he doesn’t disappoint. He’s already quite hard, nearly there, and even as I fondle him his rigidity grows. I smile creamily to myself, noting that having already come he’s likely to last even better the second time around.

  “Do you want me, love?” His breath is warm against my neck, his penis even warmer in my hand.

  “What do you think, doofus?” I laugh and give him an encouraging little squeeze. “You know how horny it makes me when you spank me.... Come on…I need some service here!”

  “Your wish is my command, you insatiable wench.” Shaking himself out of my grasp, he pushes my thighs wider apart and then clambers into position. Since we’ve been engaged, we’ve made a point of insuring that condoms needn’t be an issue anymore, so I can’t wait for him to plunge in, bare and hot.

  Any lingering doubts about the fortitude of my fiancé’s erection are abolished when, with only the slightest touch of guidance from his fingers, he finds my entrance and pushes in, blind but confident. We both know he’s just a nicely sized average guy in that department, but to me, in this desperate moment, he feels gigantic. I make a weird whining noise as he shoves on in, loving the possession, and goaded even further by the weight of his body and my own on my well-smacked buttocks.

  “You all right, love?” he mutters in my ear, no doubt cognizant of that effect, even though he’s inside me and men aren’t noted for thinking straight at these times. My heart swells with love, and I almost cry. He’s just the best.

  “I’m fine. Wonderful. On cloud nine, you handsome sexy sod. Now get on with it and shag me till my eyes cross.” I squirm about beneath him, punishing my own rear end, and barely even noticing when I bang my shin against the leg of the red chair. In fact, I’m almost happy about that. It’s almost as if the chair becomes part of the lovemaking in a totally weird threesome.

  But then I forget the chair, I forget my bum, I forget everything but my darling, beautiful Simon pounding into me. Within a few moments, another orgasm coils and gathers and somehow my pussy seems to feel as if it’s sparkling…until in a silent, inner thunderclap, I come.

  “Jesus! Yes! Fuck!” I squawk most eloquently, racked by waves of pleasure, grabbing at Simon with my hands and with my body. He grunts and gasps and makes weird sounds of his own, doing crazy things with his hips that make my climax surge again.

  I don’t quite know how long we jerk and flail and grab and kick about, thro
wing our pelvises at each other like mad things. I seem to be coming continuously, but when I’m getting close to the point of exhaustion, but still loving it, he shouts a lurid oath, goes rigid as a board, and then seems to be trying to hammer me into the dusty floor beneath us.

  Afterward, it feels like we’ve both been tipped out of a washing machine that’s been on high spin. Simon hauls himself off me, and just flops alongside, his arm draped across my belly as if it’s too heavy to lift away. “Golly,” he breathes as if he’s no longer a grown, accomplished man recently turned thirty, but an adolescent who’s just survived his first fuck.

  Me, I feel battered and shagged out, but wonderful. Amazingly calm, after such a cataclysm, but that’s one of the great beauties of all this. Bizarre as it seems, being punished and playing our little power games is so relaxing, so fulfilling. It revives me in the way a perfectly restful holiday by the lake might, and we don’t even have to go anywhere. Just an hour, even half a one, and I’m blissful.

  I catch my breath as I roll onto my side, my bottom full of twinges. But I just want to look at Simon. I’m so grateful to him for these strange gifts he gives me, thankful that when he saw the Blue Book, he “got it” instinctively, drawing wisdom from its pages and knowing what to do and how. Oh, I know he enjoys it just as much as I do, but playing the dominant carries more effort with it, physically and mentally too.

  There he is, looking completely adorable. Blond curls all over the place, handsome face serene…and his gorgeous cock still poking out of his jeans, sticky and sleepy now, bless it.

  “I really am sorry about the chair, love.” His eyelashes flutter as I speak, but he doesn’t open his eyes. “I know we’ve had a lot of expenses, and we’ve still got a lot to come…but it just…um…well, spoke to me. I’m not sure I believe all that stuff about it being in a posh ladies’ knocking shop, but just the fantasy of that somehow still gets me going. I can just imagine all those prim Victorian matrons bent over the chair, in their petticoats and bloomers, and having their bums thrashed by handsome young gigolos…because they wanted it.”

  Simon opens his eyes and rolls toward me.

  “I know what you mean, sweetheart, really I do.” He strokes my face. “I haven’t got quite the vivid imagination that you have…but that chair does have a special something.”

  “If only it’d not been so pricey.” Maybe there’s a way to mitigate the cost? “Look, can we call it partly my birthday present? And maybe next Christmas too? I’d rather have this than anything else, anyway.” I pat the turned walnut leg of the chair for emphasis. It’s my birthday next month, and this beauty means more to me than a piece of jewelry or any number of pairs of new shoes.

  “Don’t worry too much about it, love,” he says, his smile reassuring, “I was only putting on an act. We can afford it if we don’t go too mad on other furniture.... And there’s a possibility that we might come into a little bit of cash soon, from Great-Auntie Millicent’s will.”

  This is some family money that’s been tied up with legal wrangling for a while now. Simon knows he can expect a bequest, but nobody knows how much yet.

  “You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

  “No, honestly, I got a phone call from Dad. Apparently they’re close to settling it and we should all get our nest eggs very soon.”

  His grin is sunny, and it is a relief. We’ve stretched ourselves a bit for this, our dream house, and Simon’s been working so hard, taking on even more responsibility at his firm, and putting in more hours to earn a bit extra for our costs.

  “Well, that’s fantastic!” I lean over and kiss him, and suddenly, despite my exhaustion of a moment ago, the taste of his lips, the feel of his cock against my naked thigh, and the foxy smell of our sexed-up bodies, has got me going again. He responds, kissing me back and making me wince when he grabs my bottom and hauls me hard against him.

  After that we give up on any further ideas of stripping old wallpaper or sanding down floorboards for the evening, and resign ourselves to just rolling around on the floor, beside the red chair, and fucking again.

  * * *

  Three weeks later, Simon texts me to say he has a birthday treat for me, oh goody, and can I meet him at the house when he gets home from the office.

  We need this, a little something special to look forward to. Simon’s been toiling extra, extra hard, both on the house and at work, and I’m just this moment back from a visit to my mother’s. Normally this would be a nice thing, but my sister’s been having man trouble, and an almighty emotional drama has ensued, so big sis Suzanne has been called on to play counselor and soother to all concerned. All the ruffled feathers are smoothed again now, but I’m must say I’m jolly glad to get home and I’m looking forward to a dose of my own “therapy” of choice.

  I’m in no doubt whatsoever that my treat is bottom-related.

  When I reach the house, I make a beeline for the sitting room, and my beloved red chair. There it is, in pride of place, next to the new fire surround, and I can see that Simon’s made progress in this room while I’ve been away. The ceiling’s freshly painted and the new moldings look gorgeous. It’ll soon be our perfect dream of a fantasy Victorian sitting room, although much lighter and airier than is traditionally authentic.

  Simon’s been moving things around a bit, I can tell from the different disposition of humps under the various dust sheets, but he’s unrolled our hearth rug in front of the red chair. No rolling around on the bare boards this time, it seems. There’s also a little parcel, wrapped in brown paper and string on the leather seat.

  Naughty Simon!

  At my insistence, my fiancé didn’t buy me a present on the occasion of my birthday, but it seems he’s got me a belated gift anyway. Curiosity grabs me, and as usual I have no patience whatsoever and attack the string without delay, dying to see the contents. As I grapple with the knot, I grin, knowing that impatience is always a punishable “failing.”

  I throw open the paper and find what look like undergarments, a mass of fine white cotton, with little bits of lace and ribbon. But they’re like no undies I’ve ever worn before. I lift up a camisole-like top, with little cap sleeves, that unfastens halfway down the front with little pearly buttons. There’s fine lace around the low boat neckline, the sleeve cuffs and the hem, and it has a drawstring at the waist. I can see it’s meant to be a modern approximation of a Victorian chemise, only not as long. It’s not actually vintage, but it’s very, very pretty.

  The knickers that go with it are gorgeous too, if a little voluminous. They have lace around the legs, which look as if they end somewhere just above the knees. There are a set of garters too, and some slightly garish striped stockings. It all looks a bit Moulin Rouge, and I can’t wait to try on my new finery.

  Of course, to be Victorian, there really ought to be a corset too, but the good ones need to be made to measure. Simon’s pretty good on my sizes, but he doesn’t know them down to the millimeter, so he’s clearly gone for easier, looser things.

  Shall I change down here? Or go upstairs to our new bedroom. I decide on the latter because we’re pretty far along with that room, and there’s a good mirror and an en suite, already plumbed in.

  I fling off my modern jeans and top, and my Marks and Spencer bra and pants, and I can almost feel myself changing and metamorphosing as I slip into my faux period fripperies. Everything fits nicely, but the loose cut of the bloomers feels weird and unsettlingly sexy. There’s a lot of air in there, and it makes me acutely conscious of my thighs and my bottom. The garters feel unusual too, but fortunately they’re just tight enough to be grippy without cutting off my circulation.

  There should probably be some buttoned boots to complete my naughty coquette’s ensemble, but they’d probably be too hard to find for someone who’s not up to speed with women’s footwear. I do wonder how he found what he’s found.

  As I’m primping with my hair, which I’m growing for the wedding, but which isn’t really long enou
gh to put up easily yet, I hear the front door slam downstairs. He doesn’t call up, although he must know I’m in here, because I lit the lamps in the sitting room, and my car’s outside.

  My stomach flutters. I get that feeling of flying back through time again. The master of the house is home, and the lady of the house has been naughty and impatient and is in need of discipline. Stern Victorian gentlemen always ruled their households with a rigorous hand.

  I fiddle with the bit of ribbon trim around the neckline of my camisole. It’s the exact blue of Simon’s eyes…or am I imagining things? All I know is that suddenly, my body is in a turmoil for him. My nipples have come up hard and puckered, and in the tentlike confines of my bloomers, my sex has got an ache on all of a sudden, and I’m swimming, dripping wet.

  All this, and I haven’t even set eyes on him yet!

  I pad downstairs in my stripy stocking-clad feet, but have to pause outside the sitting room door because I’m on the point of hyperventilating. How can just anticipating the sight of my fiancé get to me this way? Every time? It’s like I’m in complete awe of him when I know what’s ahead. My palms are damp with sweat as I push open the door.

  He’s sitting in the red chair, of course, and in the honeyed lamplight, he looks like a quiet god. I want to rush over and give him a hug because he’s approximated a costume too. Like mine, not quite a superaccurate vintage ensemble, but he’s captured the important essence of the era.

  Simon’s wearing the trousers of one of his good business suits, and the dress waistcoat he sported at the latest work’s Christmas party, along with the crisp white wing collar from the same event. The waistcoat hangs open, and I can see he’s even wearing braces. They’re clip-ons, but it’s the thought that counts. His soft blond curls are carefully slicked back in vaguely gentlemanly style, not with Macassar oil, I guess, but simply with water.

  And something that makes me have to hide a smile.

  I haven’t seen him for a few days, because he’s been away, but in the interim, I can see he’s started growing sideburns and a mustache, like a typical Victorian male. Very wispy as yet, but it’s another attempt at authenticity, and on him it looks deliciously sexy.