Ritual of the Red Chair Page 3

  “Well, don’t dawdle around out there, girl. Step forward.” Stern, but not loud. Not shouty. He comprehended from the very beginning that there was no necessity to growl and posture.

  I creep into the room and stand in front of him, fighting not to fidget. I press my fisted hands into the fullness of material at the sides of my bloomers.

  He looks me up and down, taking in how I look in his gift. His face is straight and grave, but the lights are dancing in his blue eyes. He can’t do anything about that. He can’t hide it from me. He’s as in thrall to all this as I’ve become.

  “I see you didn’t have the patience to wait, then?” He affects a sigh, and I have to purse my lips not to make a smart remark or giggle. He is good at portraying an authoritarian Victorian master of the house. It’s just me that’s so useless as a meek maid or demure, dutiful wife.

  “No, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I just saw the parcel and I was curious to see what was in it.”

  “Of course you were....” He tips his head on one side. “But one can be curious about a thing without being impatient and disobedient, can’t one?”

  “Yes…yes, I know.”

  His own lips twitch, as if he’s fighting his smiles too. Then he stiffens his spine and sits up a little straighter, as if setting himself for the game that lies ahead. There’s an elegance about him that calls to me, and I just want to grab him and kiss him or just fall down and worship him. My fingers tingle with the urge to reach for him and I have to grab at folds of the cotton material of my bloomers to stop myself.

  “Tut-tut, you’re fidgeting now. How many times have I told you to be calm and quiet and good in these situations, Suzanne. You must deport yourself like a lady…even if you aren’t one.”

  Cheek!

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  I must have let slip a defiant note there, because his glorious blue eyes narrow. “And you should speak when you’re spoken to, as well.” He fixes me with a cool glare that’s also almost unbearably hot and stirring. “I’d like silence from you now, Suzanne, do you understand me?”

  I nod.

  “Except perhaps…” he pauses “…if you have to cry…” Another beat. “Or to scream.”

  Ah, so now we know where we stand. It’s going to be a hard one. My heart thuds a tattoo and I feel the hard grind of desire in the pit of my belly. Inside the loose bloomers, I’m so wet that it trickles down my inner thigh.

  “And now, I think, you need to spend a little time reflecting on your shortcomings, Suzanne. A short period of quiet and stillness. I shall take a glass of whiskey and perhaps read a little while you consider your behavior.”

  Oh no, beat me now! I can’t bear to wait.

  He opens the little drawer underneath the table that’s set beside the red chair, takes out several items and lays them on the top.

  A short length of white silk cord. A black scarf, also silk by the looks of it. A slipper. It’s one of his own leather-soled bedroom slippers; he must have brought it with him from the flat.

  Oh God…

  Rising nimbly to his feet, he takes hold of my arms, then draws my hands together behind my back. I know better than to try and resist, and just hold them there while he secures them with the white cord. Then, he fastens the silk scarf around my eyes, plunging me into darkness. It’s not quite pitch-black—because even folded, the silk is fine—but it’s still a very dark gray and I can no longer see shapes.

  “Very good,” he murmurs, then clasps me securely by the upper arm and leads me across the room.

  It’s scary. I feel disorientated by the darkness, and a little giddy. It’s only a few steps though, and then he maneuvers me into position. As far as I can tell, I’m in the corner of the room—the naughty corner—and he nudges me until my nose is almost pressed up against the new wallpaper. I can smell the wheaty odor of the recently dried paste.

  “Very good,” he repeats, but I can sense him studying me. What devilishness is he planning? “But not quite sufficient to teach you humility. Ah, yes, I know....”

  With a swift, almost brutal wrench, he drags down my bloomers to my knees and bunches them there, baring me back and front.

  Why does this surprise me? Displaying me is one of his favorite quirks, especially just bum and pussy like this. It’s not that he doesn’t admire my breasts, because he loves them, but he knows how having just my lower bits on show drives me wild.

  To add to the ignominy, he gives my breast a quick, very hard squeeze, then reaches down and does the same to my pussy, diving in between the lips with two fingers.

  I nearly die of gorgeous embarrassment when this results in an audible liquid sound.

  “Dirty little trollop,” he whispers, right in my ear, standing beside me, and then gives me one more wet squeeze. And when he snatches away his hand, he offers the two exploratory fingers to my lips, and commands, “Clean me.”

  Obediently, I begin to lick, but he pushes his fingers into my mouth. Not roughly, but with assertion, forcing me to absorb my own taste. I suck a bit, probably being more provocative than I should, and I imagine him springing to hardness inside his elegant trousers.

  “That’s enough of that,” he says in a low voice, a little unsteady, and I hide my smile. Mission accomplished.

  I wish he’d move closer and press his erection against my bottom, and let me clutch at it with my bound fingers, but he doesn’t. Instead he walks away, and I hear the clink of a glass, and then the familiar creak of the red leather when he sits down. There’s a rustle. It sounds like pages turning. Maybe it’s the Blue Book he’s brought here? We’ve purchased others since, but that’s the one we always return to.

  He says nothing, and I imagine him sitting there and reading the book. Standing here in my faux vintage garments I feel as if I’m in the book too, just like one of the naughty girls who’re being punished by gentlemen from yesteryear.

  There’s one particular image that swims into my mind as I stand here. It’s of a girl clad much like me, with her bum on show too, and she’s with not one man, but a group of hearty fellows with serious mustaches. One’s fiddling with her—presumably after beating her, because the sepia tone shows darker on her naked buttocks—while the others sit around and watch the show. At least one has his cock out of his trousers.

  The idea of that excites me. It’s something we’ve talked about. Being watched, either while Simon punishes me, or fucks me. Neither of us want to do anything with anybody else; we love each other, we’re exclusive. But performing for an audience, that’s another thing entirely, and lying in bed at night we’ve told each other stories.

  Elaborate exhibitionistic fantasies about me, bent over a chair—perhaps a red one—while people standing around watch Simon spank me. Desire grinds me again, just at the thought of it. Avid eyes upon me as I writhe and cry. People getting aroused when they see Simon whip out his handsome cock and slot it into me afterward. I don’t mind other woman and men seeing him, because he’s magnificent. Just as long as I’m the only one who gets his inches.

  “Suzanne!”

  Simon’s voice is warning and I realize I’ve been standing here rubbing my thighs together because my pussy aches so much.

  I freeze. I was supposed to stand still and maintain my decorum, but I’ve been hitching about like a bitch in heat. Naughty, naughty.

  “What are you doing, you dirty girl?” He sounds more amused than cross. He’s certainly happy. We’ve arrived at the main event now. “You may speak.”

  “I…I was feeling uncomfortable.”

  “Feeling uncomfortable ‘what.’”

  “I was feeling uncomfortable, sir.”

  I hear the “clop” sound of the glass being set down, and then the softer sound of the book. He gets up from the red chair and I imagine him adjusting his stiff cock in his trousers because he knows I can’t see him. But my mind’s eye sees him perfectly as he gets himself comfortable.

  “In what way were you feeling uncomfortable?” Swift, li
ght steps have brought him to me, and he’s standing so close his trouser-clad thigh is brushing against me. Involuntarily I sway, trying again to get a feel of his stiffness. “Stop that,” he adds more fiercely.

  “Um…between my legs. Feeling uncomfortable, that is. I think I need an orgasm.”

  It’s a bold foray, but I sense he’s pleased. I’ve made it easier to segue into the main event.

  His hand settles on my bottom, flexing. “Well, if you’re to have one, you’ll have to earn it. As you’ve already demonstrated your lewdness, it’ll be a high price to pay, do you understand.”

  “Yes, sir. I know that, sir.”

  “Capital. Let’s get on with it then.” He takes me by the upper arm and leads me toward the location of the red chair. I can picture where most of the furniture is, but even if I couldn’t I trust his touch completely.

  In a new move though, he leads me behind our beloved antique and, with a hand on my shoulder, he pushes me over the back of the chair and makes me tip right over, my face pressing against the seat, my toes just touching the floor, and my bottom sticking up in the air.

  I’m perfectly presented, and precariously balanced because, with my hands secured, I can’t grip on. But of course, that’s part of the ordeal—being rendered even more vulnerable than usual. Especially when he nudges apart my thighs, exposing my pussy from behind. I wonder if I’m making a wet patch on the leather. I expect I am.

  Crouching beside the chair, he leans in close and mutters a bit of filth and wickedness in my ear about pushing things into me. He does this in a low, rough growl of a voice, as if he’s a different persona for a moment. When he straightens up again, he’s back to being stern and refined.

  “You’re a wicked, filthy and licentious young woman, Suzanne, and I’m going to punish you heavily for that. I’m going to use the slipper on you until you cry…and then we’ll see, shall we?”

  He means he’s going to fuck me, also heavily, over the back of this chair.

  I hear him take up the slipper, and step into position. He places it against the bare skin of my buttock, as if introducing the two of us to each other. Bum cheek, meet leather, any second now you’ll be the best of friends.

  I expect him to say something, but he doesn’t. He just lays on the first whack with some gusto.

  It’s a solid thump of stinging heat and I squeal, I can’t help myself.

  He ignores me and lets fall another, and another, and another, in quick succession. I churn against the back of the chair, trying to get away from the fire he’s setting in my rear end. It’s stinging, throbbing and pulsating. So quickly. This isn’t a measured, artistic disciplining. This is workmanlike and, as he warned, heavily delivered.

  And yet there is some degree of creativity. As I snivel and gasp, breathing hard against the pain, I can feel him patterning the blows to insure maximum coverage. He wallops the crowns of my bottom cheeks first, giving them a thorough roasting. Then he goes higher, with flat strokes, heating up the upper slopes…then he works his way down again to leather the lower regions.

  He pauses then, setting the slipper aside somewhere while he takes me by the hips and shuffles me farther forward. I let out an unladylike oath as his gripping fingers press into punished areas, but he ignores my lack of control and continues positioning me to his liking.

  I’m in an even more precarious pickle now, almost on the point of tipping right over and tumbling headfirst onto the red leather seat, but not quite. I let out a low moan, knowing what’s coming.

  He slams the slipper into the underslope of first one bottom cheek, then the other, catching me right on the very most tender area. My cries obviously please him, as he concentrates there for a while, slapping, slapping, slapping until I’m weeping freely, just as he predicted.

  Stepping back, he pauses for a moment, and I realize he’s just taking time out to get his breath and to admire the spectacle of my distressed wriggling over the back of the chair. I’d love to clasp my blazing bum, to hold the heat and redness, but with my bound hands I can’t, so I just wiggle and jiggle about.

  Of course I’m trying to rub my crotch against the leather as best I can too. Flaming though my bottom is, the grinding ache of frustration in my pussy is far, far worse. My clit feels so swollen and in need, it almost wails in a counterpoint to my groans.

  Oh, my darling, darling Simon, please touch me.

  As if he’s heard me, he slips a hand beneath my belly for a moment, deftly finding my center and giving me a few strokes of an entirely different kind.

  “Oh, God!”

  I’m a hair away from coming. I’m almost there. But in an act more punishing than any amount of belaboring with slippers, he snatches his hand away.

  “In a minute, in a minute…I need to do your thighs first.”

  “Noooo…” I whimper, meaning yes, no, I don’t know, whatever, just do it.

  With his free hand on the small of my back, he lays into my thighs, just above my bunched-up bloomers and my garters. The skin there is so susceptible that I whine, literally. The most startling sounds are coming out of my mouth. I can’t believe it’s me making them.

  He doesn’t linger long there. I don’t think he can. I might be lying here with my bottom feeling as if it’s been barbecued, but I can’t help but imagine my Simon, standing behind me, perhaps a little flushed in the face from his exertions, but still elegant…apart from the mighty, tenting bulge in his trousers. He can’t resist me, and he’ll be aching too, just as I am.

  The slipper hits the floor, and then there are two more thumps. Is he kicking off his shoes? I lie there, churning myself against the red leather, completely unable to keep still as I burn and burn, listening to what my beloved fiancé is doing.

  He’s undressing. Good grief, he’s stripping off.

  A second later he grabs me by the hips, pulling me into position, and making me curse him for a fucker when his long thumbs abrade the flaming upper cheeks of my bottom. With even less apparent care for my pain, he grips me hard with one hand, then uses the other to guide his erection into my channel. He feels huge and hot, hotter than my flesh. In one long shove, he powers home, driving deep.

  “Oh yes, love, yes,” he sighs, churning himself now, working in to the limit, his wiry pubic hair like sandpaper against my screaming flesh.

  And then he just lies there over me, as if he’s warming himself, both within and without, on my heat. He’s warm too, like a blanket over my back, and in spite of everything I feel uniquely cherished and adored.

  It’s an odd, uncomfortable position. I’m in pain, and my hands are trapped between us, and I can’t touch myself between my legs, as I’m dying to do…but it still feels wonderful.

  “Oh love, oh love…” he sighs again, and as if he’s heard my thoughts, I feel him grapple with the knot of the silk cord and free me. Suddenly there’s light as he whips off the blindfold too.

  I don’t need to reach down and touch myself now, as I’d wanted to, because he does it for me, adjusting our positions.

  “I love you, baby, I love you,” he croons, his finger circling and slicking my clit in just the perfect way I want, love and need.

  I come immediately. A flood of sweet pleasure, golden, almost calming. New tears stream down my face at the delicious release that’s a warm, pulsing glow that echoes and subtly blends with Simon’s handiwork.

  “I love you too,” I gasp, feeling him jerk, and push, and come in glory too.

  * * *

  Later, I’m curled up in the red chair, exhausted but sublimely relaxed, even though my roasted bottom and my haunches are quietly burning. It’s pain but it’s not pain, if that makes sense. It’s a familiar sensation now; it’s a friend to me. Like my Simon, who is also soul mate and lover too.

  The leather of the seat is deliciously cool against my heat, and I bless my own impetuosity in indulging in it. It was worth every last penny. Smiling, I rest my face against the chair back. I can’t help but grin.

&
nbsp; “Here we are!” Simon walks into the room, still naked and carrying a blanket. He strides across, his lovely cock swinging and also relaxed now. I love it that he’s so comfortable strolling around starkers. He’s still just as powerful and dignified and masterful without his clothes.

  He swathes me in the blanket, mindful of my spanked bottom, and then pours me some of the whiskey he was drinking earlier. I’m intoxicated enough already, without alcohol, but the smoky, peaty flavor of this fine single malt is delicious and I sip it gratefully.

  “Thank you, love.” I give him a heartfelt look.

  “It’s just whiskey,” he says, sitting cross-legged on the floorboards and running a caressing hand along my calf.

  “No, I mean for tonight. For the Victorian undies, and the scenario…using the chair like that. I love the way you make it all so special, like a little drama.” I place my hand over his and give it a squeeze.

  “Only the best for you, love…” He smiles up into my face. “I wish I’d had more time and I could have got hold of some genuine Victorian stuff…but I think we did okay.”

  “Well, it was the best birthday gift ever. Thank you, my love.”

  Simon laughs and, setting down his glass, rises gracefully to his feet, his gorgeous body gleaming in the lamplight. “That wasn’t your gift,” he announces, looking a little bit smug. “This…this is your gift!” With a degree of aplomb, and perhaps excitement too, he takes a couple of steps toward one of the humps of rearranged furniture and dust sheets, and whips the expanse of beige colored cloth away, flinging it to one side.

  Heedless of my sizzling bottom, I swivel in the red chair and find myself looking at…another red chair!

  It’s the exact match of the one I’m in and, if anything, it seems to be in even finer condition. It’s beautiful.

  “It’s gorgeous…beautiful. Thank you, my love.” Swathing myself in my blanket I pad over to it. Simon looks inordinately proud of himself, as if he’s presenting our new acquisition on the Antiques Roadshow and has just been told it’s worth a small fortune.