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The Chair Woman
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
*** 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, gravity, 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 beauty.
Understated but classically lovely breasts. Strong shoulders 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
horizontal plane (true of many people), the eyes are slightly
different 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, analysing and measuring the very feelings
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, athletic 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 sidewise 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, lust--and something else, perhaps
bewilderment. 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 sidewise 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 manuevering until the finger is in up
tp 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 plundering
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 tightly 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?''
``...talk 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 is is positioned 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 throughly 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 measured
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 terrible, 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 savages 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 dangerous
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 wooshing 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 whistling
down the stairs and into the street.
*** end ***
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