I do not know how long I have been in the chair. We came home, my Master, my Mistress, and I, from an afternoon in the park and a bit of antiquing, had a simple and wonderful dinner, and I was brought up to the master suite where the chair was waiting, draped in a pure white sheet and decorated with leather straps on the arms and front legs. I hadn’t expected this. I wanted this. I fantasized about this for months. I wanted to be trussed up tighter than a defendant in old Salem and used like a whore, but we had been so busy over the last couple days that the fantasy had slipped from my mind.
They undressed me, exposing my freckled flesh and big tits to the humid July air that punished the suite. My Mistress gave me a light, sweet kiss as she tickled my belly and slid my panties past my hips. My Master, standing behind me, pulled my long red hair to one side and kissed my warm neck. I turned my head, looking for his mouth. It was savory and his tongue tickled me with its hundreds of little bumps. He placed a velvet sleep mask over my eyes. They gently walked me backwards and sat me in the chair. The sheet was cool on my bare skin. It was the only cool thing in the room. They lashed my wrists to the arms of the simple padded chair, and my ankles to its chrome legs. Then, they left. I heard them go downstairs, and they have not returned.
How long has it been? How long are they going to torture me like this? There are moments when the sultry summer air lulls me into sleep. I wake with a start and I don’t know if I was dozing for seconds or hours. Strange sensations and images from falling into quick dreams obscure reality. There are moments when I think they are in front of me, but they are phantom feelings. Every creak and sound from within and without the house makes my head turn in hope that it is them, standing nearby and waiting to use me at their leisure.
I hear creaking on the stairs. Are they are both returning? Is this illusion? How long has it been? It has been long enough that the chair’s white sheet is soaked from my sweat and my juice. I want to call out to them, but I know that such an act might make them leave. They are silence personified. If I say anything, they will disappear.
They are here. They are close. They are next to me. This is no illusion. I can feel the heat of their bodies. My body has become a five-foot once-inch antenna for the slightest sign of them. My fingers strain to touch them. My breath quickens. They have encircled me, like wolves watching a deer. I lean forward in the chair, trying to brush my face against them. There is nothing but empty, humid air.
Who will strike first? What is going to happen? How long have I been in this chair? Would my Master pinch and twist my nipples, taking care to tweak the solitary ring in my left breast, or would my Mistress slide her sultry tongue between my lips? Would they attack in collusion, or take their turns with me while the other watched? I don’t know which possibility excites me more. Or would they simply leave me in the chair, leaving me to contemplate more naughty thoughts? I dared not ask them.
Then, there is a brush of fingers across my jaw. My hair is pulled away from my neck and soft lips, those of my Mistress, kiss the wet spot between my neck and shoulder. I sigh, grateful for the simplest of gestures. The kisses walk across my neck to my spine. Her hands caress my bare shoulders and tickle my arms. Another kiss, this one from my Master, lands on my forehead. His stubbly face brushes my cheek and his fingertips slide down my body to cup one of my breasts in his smooth hand.
Then they disappear. They were like ghosts, and I was a prisoner in this haunted, carnal suite. I whimper in protest. My body sways in more attempts to find them. I know they were still there, watching me. They were not far, but with my restraints they may as well have gone back downstairs or even left the house. I could do nothing but wait.
Someone sucks on my fingers. I quiver and moan and manage to caress the cheek of my Mistress with my remaining fingers. She kisses them all as my Master begins sucking on my opposite toes. A fiery current shoots up my arm from my fingers, down over my nipple and belly, through my clit, and down to the sole of my foot. It wis too much. I come in thrashing jerks that rock the chair on the carpeted floor. I can hear my Mistress laughing with appreciation.
There is a warm mouth on my nipple. I groan under the pleasurable heat, a different sensation from the humid, musky air all around me. There is a cold mouth on my other nipple. It holds an ice cube against my nipple ring, raising goose bumps on my tit. The mouths leave me, but soon return, having switched sides this time. My cold nipple is flashed with heat that almost feels searing. The hot nipple is doused in cool ice that dribbles down to my shaking belly.
Someone puts an ice cube on my cunt. I quickly inhale as I jerk back in the chair. My clit is flooded with cold water. My nipples ache in sympathy. My Master’s hot mouth takes place of the cube. His lips clamp onto me like a vise. His hot tongue licks every drop of ice water from my seam. My clit throbs in his mouth. I come again, filling his mouth with something much hotter and sweeter than ice water. My Master sucks my come down his throat, his slippery chin bouncing between my thighs.