Bondage Sex Stories

The Chair Woman

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, lustbewilderment. 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?'' `` 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.

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