He Is Tied To A Chair

He is tied to a chair.

He doesn't deserve to be. If there is any logic to sexual desire, and there isn't, then he probably shouldn't be tied to this chair. It feels wrong because it is. He became the boss of me slowly, an imperceptible creep over the years. It started, as it always does, with tenderness. His devotion was without an agenda. He never seemed to have anything to gain by my company. I became greedy for the certainty that he would hold me and soothe me like it was my right to be soothed. Slowly and surely, my head rested on his shoulder, swirling with alcohol and confusion, began to fill with thoughts of him. And when I moved away, I missed him. Did I call him? Not as often as I should have. Did I give myself to other men? Of course. Did I secretly assume I could walk back in and be his favourite again? Yes.

So when I stepped off the coach all those years later, I knew. My feet hit the floor and I saw him and I realized that everything would have to be rearranged so I could be with him. People do ask me about that feeling, was it a lightning bolt, and was it love at first sight? No, it was a sharp, humbling intake of breath. It was the shame of having been wrong about him all these years. He was so much taller now and strong. Self possessed. Untouchable. I got in the car and I knew that I might not get a second chance to get my hands on him. That he may love someone else felt like agony.

That might be why he is tied to the chair. He wanted my hands on him, but not before he gallantly put up the camp bed and left the room so I could undress without an audience. Bastard. But yes, he relented when I crawled in his bed with faint excuses and lies. So he got the girl of his dreams, after so many years, he even got the girl to crawl into his bed and take his clothes off and now he loves to show me off. He loves to sling his protective arm around my shoulder. I dress up when we go out and he walks around like he is the king of the world because he held out for me and I came running back in the end. Do I let him play the king of the world? Absolutely, he does a handsome job of it. I let him open jars and teach me things and put me over his knee and spank me. That's always been king of the world territory. We have been together for a while and this is an ordinary Saturday night, where I have tied him to a chair.

He looks beautiful. I know he is waiting for the first move but he really does look so beautiful that I take my time to enjoy it. Tied up men are delicious. They have a swell against rope. Their flesh should not be tied at all so it's a joy to watch them struggle. To see the slight cramp, the flexing of tingling fingers. Jaw bones, biceps, steeled for the inevitable lashes. I can see him sweat, lovely sweat I may lick off slowly with exquisite teasing as I graze his cock.

Tied up women are simply delicate wrists and slim ankles, which is a lot less fun than looping a rope around the broadest limbs of a man who resists it. I assess how easily he could bust out. I don't know if he is tied because he wants to be, ropes are there for show or if I really have him bound. Both options turn me on immensely. I don't tell him, but if he busts out and teaches me a lesson, well, I am wet just thinking of it.

What do I want? I am a woman, and to go with all the stereotypes about what women want, I want everything. I want to hear the stinging slap as he fights not to cry out. I want the deep kiss, I straddle him so my flesh is finally on his and I want to see him squirm as I pull away so quickly that he moans. I can see him watch me as and get harder, my body is tantalisingly out of reach. I have gorgeous curves and he doesn't have a hand free. Too bad, so sad, I tell him and I laugh. I can touch him, or make him watch me touch myself and he has to sit quietly and watch me. I want him to have a little, then a lot, then nothing at all. Then more than he can bear. I want to splash all my selfish whims across his skin because he is mine to do what I like with. Now is the chance to do all the grubby horrid things that I can get away with before the tables turn tomorrow night. I can hardly pick where to start. The anticipation is killing him.

I like to see him burn with lust. I can't get enough, my ego is bottomless really. I kiss his neck while I pull his hair. Icarus, tattooed on his bicep, jumps just a little and with that twitch, I have him. That's the key to really making a man suffer, watching for that tell that gives him away despite his best efforts. Not even the Samson types can hold it together for very long. I like it more when they fight. I like how he locks his jaw because he is proud. He doesn't want to give me the satisfaction of visibly hurting so I continue slowly until he begins to waver. He always does give in. I am smart enough to watch as I caress and pinch and I wait until he can't stand it any longer. He can see this. I don't blindfold him because I don't want him to have the privacy of pleasure behind his eyelids. I want him to see how exposed he is. He has done his fair share of picking me up and throwing me on the bed. Those arms earn our money. They put up our shelves. They lift weights with a great sense of proud display while I flutter with admiration. They hold me at night and they are now tied firmly behind his back so his chest is horribly bare and available for whatever I lavish upon it.

Kisses and blows. Welts and marks. His skin is so smooth and so beautifully tan and so I create a masterpiece, stroke by stroke. I can see him reel so I bring him back with kisses. I nibble his earlobes, loop my arms around his neck. I whisper lovely words about how much I adore him and then I make him burn. Bit by bit I am taking him apart. I know that he craves this, it looks cruel but I know that he is connected to what he needs to feel. Some nights he returns; silent and furious to the point of concealed tears. I see them threaten in his eyes so I don't say anything, I just hold him. He comes home brimming with anger and shame, such powerlessness. There are things he cannot permit himself to feel. I know of his failures and the burdens that he places upon himself, many of which are his own creation. I know that being a man is a tough, thankless job and I know that he feels that block of never quite being able to say that out loud. He is throwing himself against the bricks. It makes him rage to see the unfairness of it. I wake sometimes in the night to see him looking at me with sadness, like he will never be enough.

He doesn't need to say it out loud because I already know it. So I give him the pain he feels already. His body is the landscape and I can see the storm pass over it. I can see that he comes alive in the sensations; they bring him back to me. I give him permission to struggle against the ropes. This is his way to find his limit and go past it. He can feel his muscles ache and contort, he can feel the sharp relief of a slap or a whip and he knows more than ever he is alive. The pain has arrived and he has business with it, so he fights until he wins. He is not alone anymore with the fear and regret. He knows that I can see him at his most inadequate and I love him. I love him with a disgusting generosity. I give him my nails up his back, I bite his nipples, when he hits fever pitch I run the pinwheel over his desperate flesh until the tiny pinpricks make his eyes wet with tears because he is so over stimulated.

I might not ever let him go; a tiny part of him is terrified that I could leave him here forever. The more he lets himself enjoy this, the worse it would be if I got up and left. If his ecstacy bored me, he would look a fool. He worries that having given me what I asked for, I may tire of it. He is terrfied that I will just leave one day. The terror of giving yourself up to a woman is that you may never step back into the man you were. She may lose her respect for you. If you admit that what you want most is to give up your hold on yourself and on her, even for a night, she may never defer to you again. That is the why he is tied to chair, so he can feel the bottomless terror that he might not be the man he wants to be.

The ropes are untied eventually. His eyes are a little glassy, I can see the cortisol racing in his blood stream. I know that any moment now his endocrine system will flood him with comfort, so I take him back to bed and I soothe him. I am his girl again. Soft loving kisses, I hold him close and I adore him. He is exhausted and he is ill at ease and I spoil him until he can relax. The pain has gone and he has endured it, now he can stand to be loved. He is king of the world again.