It is lovely, isn't it? Yes, quite lovely. Danish? Some sort of Scandi design anyway. They're so stylish, aren't they? The Danes?
Effortless, apparently. Something to do with Hygge, perhaps? In the centre of the room.
Knees apart. Arse: high. Sternum pressed onto the unyielding chairback. Are you new to the area? The flats on the Kings Road? How. Lovely. Well done you. Quite an investment- you must have an eye for property and style! Well! You are here, aren't you?
We have some lovely things… Blinded to the world. Not a chink of light entering your retinas. You can hear me moving. Moving around you. The instructions are clear- "If you move, or say a single syllable, I will simply leave. If you cum, I will leave. Do you understand?" Nodded acquiescence.
Ankles roped with purpose. Scant regard for anything other than effect. Comfort: secondplace. Aesthetic: immaterial. Left ankle to one arm of the chair. Right, to the other. Facing the back of the chair; knees spread.
Cushioned by increasingly threadbare velvet. Now, I do need to add a petit health warning; I know the velvet is just adorable- god- just feel it- but it's not suitable if you're going to use it a lot. All of my pieces are professionally cleaned of course- it's a perk- but this chair's not suitable if we're going to have breakfast cereal or God-know-what-else smeared into it.
I bind your wrists. You're hugging the chairback; the long, elegant curves of the ribs of the chair presenting you a familiar form to hold. I secure you; forced slightly back onto your haunches; the effect of which is to leave you open. I orbit you. Observing. Adjusting your blindfold, you can only imagine the sight; the perfection you present to me. As my fingers graze your face, you react as if you've been starved- forgetting my instruction to you- your intent isn't clear other than to feel the warmth of my hand again, on your cheek; your face; my fingers: in your mouth.
Have you thought of a table?
We've got a stunning reclaimed oak frame with a new reinforced glass top. So simple. So chic.
The table was a consideration. You: ranged on top in a similar pose to which you find yourself now. The window of the glass, glaring into you from below. The chair, though, offers me the shape that I envisaged would, and is supporting the sculpture of you like a scaffold.
I'd considered doing this quickly. Tape, perhaps. A few, perfunctory unwinding turns 'round each of your wrists and ankles. But somehow the rope is aesthetic. The column of your limb, snug, sweaty, next to the hard, unforgiving, warm-honey of the wood. I can't quite assimilate- digest- the visual assault on my senses. Do you entertain much? "Count with me", I begin. You know what's coming. You nod.
Even though you've played this dumb-ass game a hundred times, the odd position; the atypical use of this everyday furniture has knocked your balance, and with it your certainty.
You're still mentally, futilely trying to calculate the odds of you falling off the chair, when the first, hard blow lands across your buttocks. The blow isn't that hard.
Hard enough to elicit your first, grateful gasp. But your centre of gravity is off; you think the chair is going over. Of course: it doesn't, but you forget to utter the number: one. "Oh dear. Start again…" Of course we have some beautiful bits and pieces. 'Objet'. Decanters- vintage, of course; glasses. Table linen.
Staying with the Scandi-chic feel: all designed to give your dining room that effortless charm. 'Three'. 'Good girl.' Through distraction, it has taken you 12 attempts to count out three consecutive spanks. Consequently, you can feel the pulse of your blood, throbbing, negotiating its way through the damaged capillaries in your arse.
But I'm sensing you're becoming inured. Immune to the distractions of, between spanks, me walking to your face, and sliding my cock: rigid, into your throat, your tongue somehow remaining soft as your lips grip me. No longer put-off your count by my incessant tongue, or fingers, urging you to disobey my order not to cum, leaving you teetering on the brink, before my stinging, poker-hot palm takes you back from the ledge.
The base of the candle is over an inch in diameter. Smooth beeswax. Rounded: a bit. I run it from where your throat now rests on the chair, and, collecting your generous sweat-drool, I collect its equivalent with my fingers from your obliging cunt.
Adorned, the blunt candle-base presses, insistently against your anus; the tight ring of muscle's resistance: futile. Stretched open at both ends; you no longer suck at my cock, more like holding me in your mouth as you sob.
Well! Hasn't time flown. Some exquisite choices. Discerning. Shall I say the figure quickly? Hahaha, whisper it? Probably best. Such style and quality is never, ever cheap- there's always a piper to pay, isn't there?
The thing is, this will never go out of fashion. And of course, the memories you'll share together with each other: priceless.