The Chair

He told me what to wear. He doesn't often do that. I pride myself of having very good taste in clothes and he seems to appreciate my efforts. Today I was told to wear a skirt. It must be above the knee and definitely not tight. No underwear.

I arrive at his place, turn the key, step through the door and stop. That should not be in his kitchen. There should be a table and books and a fruit bowl and...

That should not be in his kitchen. That should not be in anyone's kitchen. It should be in a doctor's surgery... not even there; the damned things are barbaric. Where the hell did he get a gynecologist's chair?

As if reading my mind he appears, wearing his dressing gown, and cheerfully comments that it is amazing what you can pick up for a few bucks at an auction these days. He becomes more serious, stands beside the chair, and pats its armrest with his hand.

My hand goes to my throat. I feel my pulse, it seems ready to fly off by itself. I feel the ribbon, symbol of my promise.

He pats the chair again. Should I turn and run? Perhaps I don't have to... He might accept me without the ribbon. He might accept me with conditions. Maybe I could be an ordinary girlfriend.

Who am I kidding? Turn him into just an ordinary boyfriend? I'd be gone in a month. I am strong, I can do this.

I slowly walk towards the abomination. It is perfect evil. He hasn't even got a modern one, contoured plastic in pastel shades. Oh no this is a real antique - all chrome and dark leather. Someone, probably him, has lovingly polished the chrome till is gleams.

I turn and sit. My mother would be proud of my posture, my back is straight as a rod. My arms are on the armrests. My nails dig holes in the leather.

He looks at me expectantly. I know what comes next but I do nothing. He looks at me some more. Slowly I place my feet in the stirrups. He kneels down, takes another two ribbons from his pocket and ties my feet in place. He walks behind the chair, takes the tails of the ribbon round my neck and ties them behind the headrest. I shake. He put his hands over mine and gives a little squeeze. He says nothing but I know he is not going to tie my hands. I must keep them there by my own will. I am strong, I can do this.

He steps into the space between my legs, lifts the hem of my skirt and drops the whole thing in a bundle at my waist. I am open. I am exposed. I am more exposed than if I was naked on the side of the motorway in rush hour. He doesn't look. If he is playing doctor he's supposed to look. He stares straight into my eyes.

With just two fingers of each hand, pushes my knees a little further apart. My exposure excites him. His erection has found its own way out of the dressing gown.

My legs are a mile apart. His cock is an inch away.

I'm not sure if I am supposed to be wetting myself or wetting myself. He puts his hands on my shoulders and kneads the muscles. I try to relax. I know that he will never give me a challenge I cannot meet.

He runs his fingernails up the inside of my thighs. Slowly, so slowly. The fingers reach my pudendum and change directions, tracing the crease where my legs meet my body. Fire courses through me and I catch my breath. Still he has not taken his eyes off mine.

He firmly holds my hip and leans forward to kiss me. No, not a kiss, just a touch. He touches his lips to mine. He pulls back, I try to follow but the ribbon stops me. Damn it! I could cry.

My legs are a mile apart. His cock is an inch away. A very, very, very long inch.

He leans forward and kisses me, really kisses me. He straightens up. This time I do not try to follow. If he wants to kiss me, he will. If he wants to... if he wants to do anything, he will. What he wants is to look into my eyes. He wants to look into my soul. He wants to own my soul. And he does.

His hands move up from my hips. They hold, they touch, they explore. And then they withdraw.

My legs are a mile apart. His cock is an inch away.

I try to speak but nothing comes out. I swallow and try again, I whisper the word "please".

He hesitates for a moment then kneels down and starts to untie my feet. What? No! No! I didn't mean stop. Not stop. Then I understand. Its this damned chair, this medieval instrument of torture. It makes a woman vulnerable, it takes away her dignity, but it doesn't actually make it possible to fuck her while she is sitting in it. Damn it! Damn it to hell!

As soon as he has untied my feet I try to flip over and nearly choke myself on the neck ribbon. He puts a hand on my shoulder to calm me and pulls it around. I am still tied. My left cheek is pressed against the leather of the chair but that's all right; my bum is in the air where it needs to be. I have my right hand on the armrest supporting my weight and my left hand... My left hand should be in the other armrest, shouldn't it? OK, I'm not that strong. My left hand does what it needs to do.

I spare a thought for the other women who have had their cheek against this leather. Turning their face away as some doctor examines them. Touches them clinically. Touches them clinically in a place where they should be touched tenderly, roughly, teasingly, passionately, anything but clinically.

He enters me, anything but clinically.

God, I need this.