, , , , , , ,

A guest post from Pechorin, his version of events from Hers -The Chair.

I’d arrived at hers on the Thursday evening, and we had the most vanilla of sex that we’d had since we’d started seeing each other. (Vanilla is relative, of course.) We’d woken the following morning with plans for the day that we’d both booked off work. Those plans were, of course, significantly disrupted by sex, and by my characteristic absent-mindedness in all matters of geography and public transport.We went iceskating. I hadn’t been since I was 12 and that occasion ended with a trip in an ambulance and some euphoric concussion. So I was predictably terrible at iceskating, and she was predictably awesome. But, thanks to my trademark disorganisation, we weren’t there for long before we had to set off to London, for the second half of the day: sex shopping.

We went to Harmony in Soho, a pleasant shop with dubious taste in music and an unsettlingly good-looking guy behind the till. (For a moment, I considered asking him if he was for sale.)

Sex shops are like libraries. Everybody mills about wordlessly, never making eye-contact, never betraying any human emotion beyond that weird awkward etiquette smile you do when you walk past a colleague with whom you have nothing to talk about. In a sex shop, like a library, everybody is habitually browsing.

Not her though. She doesn’t conform to sex shop etiquette. She stuck her finger into a box with a ‘real-feel’ male masturbator inside it, to see what the material felt like, and burst into hysterical, giggly laughter.

“EEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!” she said, loudly.

I laughed too. After all, why shouldn’t sex shops be fun? Or libraries, for that matter.

I led her to the bondage section, where the laughter stopped and she began to shrink.

In almost no time, we had picked out what we had come for: nipple clamps, a threatening leather paddle, and a two foot spreader bar with really gorgeous leather cuffs at each end. We paid, and then we went and sat by the Thames and had a couple of drinks, until it was nearly dark. We eventually jumped on a train and headed back to my flat.

I didn’t have her attention at all on the train home, and it was frustrating. She was reading, never even glancing up at me sat opposite her, despite my intense staring at her. All day and at every opportunity she had been reading, but usually I had been able to slip my hands between her thighs while she did so (in fact, I even moved down to lick her on an earlier train, and got caught by a man standing up as we pulled into his station). But not this time. Instead, all I could do was plot and fantasise about what I was going to do to her when we got home.

As the train pulled into our station, she glanced up.

“Is this us?” she enquired innocently. I glared back in reply, nodded slowly, almost threateningly, and she shrank visibly.

We stood, and I led her to a taxi rank. She suddenly looked tiny and protective as I got us a lift home. We sat in the back of the taxi, her on my left, and I slid my hand to the back of her head, grabbing a handful of hair just tightly enough to take her breath away but not enough to make her yelp. If the taxi driver had looked round, he would have though I was romantically playing with her hair.

I wasn’t.

I held her painfully like this all the way back to the flat, all the while having a very normal conversation with the driver. By the time we arrived, she was almost fully subdued and by the time I had forced her onto her knees inside the front door of the flat and pushed my erection in her mouth, she had slipped fully under.

She has an incredible talent that enables her to submit, to devolve almost effortlessly into a trance-like state of lower consciousness.

I love knowing she trusts me enough that she allows herself to slip into this state with me. You might not believe that this kind of sex can be intimate, but I defy you to show me more trusting, more intimate sexual activity. Romantic it may not be, but intimate it certainly is.

But even when she has regressed into this mode, she’s never fully passive. When she’s submissive, she’s never a passenger. She’s alert, responsive and active – sometimes very animated. It’s not passivity. It’s something else, something I haven’t really seen before, and if you described it to me the way I just described it to you, I wouldn’t believe you. I still wouldn’t believe it now if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.

I led her to the bedroom, my cock still in her mouth, and I sat her on a metal chair in the corner of the room. I blindfolded her, and tied her wrists together with the spreader bar behind her back. I tied her ankles with silk rope to the iron legs of the chair – I had tried metal handcuffs first but they were obviously far too painful. I wrapped a collar around her neck and padlocked it, and connected it by a metal chain to the chair.

I stepped back and regarded my work. She was my masterpiece, my magnus opus. I sat on the bed in front of her and began to talk softly, but firmly.

“Are you comfortable? You need to tell me now, because I’m asking for a reason.”

Her lips trembled slightly, and her breathing was a little erratic. She was trying to say something. I watched with fascination as she struggled to form the words. In that moment, for her, trying to talk to me must have felt like trying to throw a punch underwater.

“I…. can’t talk.”

The words fell out of her. I needed to bring her up a bit, and when I did she asked me to adjust some things and close a window. I did so. I ran my hand over her body, and enjoyed the heat and wetness between her legs. She was enjoying this. I made her taste how much she was enjoying it. She was enjoying it far too much for my liking. So I spoke again.

“I’m going out. I might be a while.”

And with that, I buttoned my jeans and left. I glanced over my shoulder as I walked out the door and noted a look of confusion register on her face. I closed the door.

The next hour or so was one of the most exhilarating hours of my sexual career. I had been nervously looking forward to this moment since I paid for the spreader bar earlier in the day. I had known for hours that I was going to tie her to that iron chair, make her dripping wet, and then leave her there. But I hadn’t predicted how I would feel. I hadn’t thought about that at all.

I left the flat and began the long, slow walk into the night. I didn’t really have a reason to go out, so I headed for the only shop that was open and still serving alcohol after 11pm. It’s a good couple of miles, and it requires walking up what I’ve come to call “Jacob’s Ladder”, a never-ending series of steps that connect my village at the top of the valley with the village below.

I started my trek with a sadistic grin on my face and a lump in my trousers, even stopping to tweet about my sadism. I had that rare kind of nervous anxiety that I imagine only a kidnapper can experience – a feeling of power and control but also apprehension, in case anything goes wrong while she’s unsupervised.

But mostly, my head was filled pride at my own deviousness. How many times must she have wondered whether I had really left the flat at all? Was she wondering if I was sat in the room watching her? I had done something similar to her before. Had she been calling my name? Was her heart thumping in her chest? Was she on the edge of a panic attack? She must have heard my key in the door a thousand times.

Images flashed through my mind of her struggling to get free, as I wondered back from the shop. The image of her struggling against her restraints provided an interesting metaphor for my own internal struggle in that moment: how can I actively desire to treat someone I care about so badly? What evolutionary purpose is served by our ability to enjoy causing distress to those we should protect? How can I fuck her like I hate her, and then comfort her like I love her?

Right now, as I’m writing this, I’m happy and excited to embrace these contradictions. I have no intention of reconciling them. In fact, I find the contradictions thrilling. It makes me examine myself.

Eventually my key entered the door for real, and I saw her sat in the chair, patiently and obediently awaiting my return. I was proud of her. I put the shopping away and sat in front of her again.“You did well. Really well.”

“I was very patient” she replied quietly, with a tiny hint of a smile that betrayed her own pride in my praise. I slid my hand into her underwear. She was still wet. In fact, there was a tiny pool of wetness on the chair seat.

She had earned a break, so I untied her and kissed her on the forehead.

But I was nowhere near finished. Throughout the day I had been mentally logging the amount of times she had said ‘no’ to me. She had said it fourteen times, and I was going to pay her back for each and every one – with interest – with the thick, black leather paddle we had bought together.

I’ll tell you about that soon.

The Blog Of The Unknown Hedonist