Ritual of the Red Chair. Portia Da Costa

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.