Chair Pose

He kicks my legs apart, positioning my ankles at the binding sites of the spreader bar. I talk about my previous Dom as he straps me in the cuffs. 

“Old, childless bachelor, sitting on all that money, and still he insisted on sending me this cheap crap. The clips on the cuffs are already broken, see?”

“I see it,” he answers as he ties the bar to the chair’s back legs. 

With my ankles locked in place, he sets about tying the bar to the chair legs before drawing the rope between the legs and under to bind my wrists at the far edge of the seat. 

I go on with my complaining, slipping into memory. “He told me to set up wish lists for any kinky toys I wanted. I only picked out things on Etsy, but he ignored it all and sent me whatever Amazon garbage he wanted me to use. Then he made me perform with it on cam for him. I did as he ordered, but it never felt right.”

Mister clucks his tongue as he listens, my voice a little muffled now with my head flipped upside down, my face pinned between the chair back and my upstretched arm. He doesn’t share the disdain that I hold for the first Dominant to train me— I think he feels bad for the guy, imagining himself in the place of the resented ex. “Pity for him he never figured you out.”

“His loss, right, Mister? I’m not that difficult, am I? You understand me. You know how to work me.”

“Figuring you out,” he answers, tugging at the knots around each wrist to check for tightness, “is no mean feat.”

He steps back, surveying his work. If I tip my neck as far as it will reach and dig my chin into my shoulder I can see him, holding his jaw as he appraises my form, bound and spread and ready to be used however he desires. Exploring the limits of my range of motion in this pose, I arch an invitation through my back. He steps up behind me, too close now for me to see. I drop my head and study the hem of his boxers around the edge of the chair back. 

His touch lands abruptly, storming the most delicate part of me. 

“Wait! I’m not wet yet!”

“You are,” he says, squelching a finger against the pucker of my opening to make his point. “Hear it?” 

I do. It’s loud, a pot of mac n’ cheese just at the thickening point. He swipes the wet fingertip across my thigh to drive the point home. 

“That’s you.” 

“But it doesn’t feel wet, Mister…” I whine. “I’m not ready yet, I need…”

He cuts across me, teasing, pretending to be stern. “What makes you think anybody plans to use your pussy now?”

He steps away from me again and, this time, I close my eyes, not wanting to see. What will come will come, and when it does I will take it, whatever it is. 

“Besides,” he continues, his voice reaching me from the corner of the room where his play-equipment bag lies open on the floor, “we know how to get you wetter, don’t we?”

We do. He speaks of fear, of pain. These peculiar limbic stimuli that drench me for reasons that I still don’t understand. 

“Don’t we, Bunny?” he asks again, this time in a growl. Before I can answer, one rough finger shoves inside me to the hilt. My whole body starts at the shock of it, and I cry out. That was not supposed to feel good. Forceful opening: a punishment for my failure to answer the first time.

“We do, Sir.” 

With a slurp, he pulls the finger out, wiping it this time across my lower back. 

“Now then,” he says, and the next moment I feel his breath on my cheek as he bends to press his face to mine. “What’s your safeword?”

I gulp, but do not hesitate to answer. “May Day.”

“That’s right,” he says, pulling away, and all I hear after is the rush of the cane as it slices, ruthless, through the air.

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