That 'ol Rocin' Chair

You have had a tiring day, indeed a stressful week, and now sit in the colonial rocking chair, relaxing in front of the open fire - eyes closed. I stand behind you, alternately massaging your shoulders and gently stroking your hair, a kiss planted on your neck between ministrations. You hold my hand from time to time; your relaxing murmurs in harmony with the singing of the fire; the warmth from the logs indistinguishable from the growing heat of your longing.

Gently, without a word, I place the blindfold over your eyes and pull taut the fastener. Your body tightens, not in fear but in anticipation of what is to come - but "What IS to come?" you ask yourself silently, knowing that you now may not speak without permission.

"Stand my sweet one" I command, firmly but gently. And you rise from the chair, conscious of your increasing heart-rate and deeper breaths. I unbutton your blouse, slowly - being sure to brush my hands against your encased breasts; not squeezing, but brushing - tantalizingly brief connections.

"Skirt!" I say and you, knowing the command, lift your skirt to show me that you have, as is always required at home, no panties on. Satisfied as to your compliance, I unbutton your skirt and let it drop to the floor, whereupon you step from it. Still from behind, I ease your breasts from their encasement, letting them rest on the now vacant cups. You stand slightly shivering, not from the cold, because the fire is warm, but from the reaction you always have as you stand exposed before me.

And then you feel your collar being placed and locked around your neck, the leather's aroma powerfully erotic - the cold metal studs like ice pricks on your warm skin. I attach the chain leash, its fine, cold, steel links lying between your breasts and dangling to the floor. You suck your breath in response to the cold - or is it in response to the symbolism?

"Sit" I command and you gingerly take your seat, not seeing but feeling your way. The leash now sits between your pussy lips, cold and intrusive - but oh so delicious. I place your feet upon the base of the rocker and strap your ankles to the legs: then your wrists to the arms of the chair. You are rocking back and forth, back and forth, seemingly without propulsion, the steel leash rubbing between your swollen lips at each change of direction.

Stopping the rocking, I attach our favourite clamps to the nipples of your exposed breasts as they perch, provocatively, upon their lacy platform. And then again you rock, back and forth in front of the singing fire. The fine chain of the clamps sways between your breasts, the third strand not yet connected to the centre of your pleasure.

But suddenly, without warning, I apply the riding crop to your pubic mound, the slaps in time with the rocking, your small landing strip of hair insufficient to cushion the delightful blows. And then the tip of the crop is meeting your pussy lips on each end of the rocking. The sound quickly changes from a slap-slap to a squish-squish as you soak the seat, that heavenly perfume being the most powerful aphrodisiac to me. My cock is hard as I stand there exposed, the steel ring at its tip shining in the flickering light of the fire. I want you so much, I love you so dearly.

I cease the application of the crop to your sodden gash and apply the clamp to your clitoris. Your nipples and clit are now connected by the thin, steel chain – all three sites of pleasure under my control and mercy.

I undo the shackles which pin your ankles and wrists to the chair and, leaving the cuffs in place upon your limbs, I lift you to your feet – kissing you deeply, hungrily, tongue on tongue. You respond passionately, sucking me deeper and deeper into your mouth, into your soul.

I lead you to the back of the chair and reconnect your wrist cuffs to the eye-bolts on the chair-frame. You are now bent over, legs splayed, and breasts swaying with the gentle rocking of the chair. The chain from the clamps hangs lightly from your engorged, dark nipples. But you feel my hand upon the chain, lifting it momentarily, and then the sudden letting go – now with something heavy, pulling down, pulling on your teats, stretching your clit. The weight I clipped onto the intersection of the three strands hangs down, also swaying with the rocking and applying the most exquisite pleasures to you.

I am behind you, the collar leash in my hand, pulling you back and forth gently to keep up the rhythm of the chair, to keep up the insistent pulling of chains on clamps, to keep you moving inexorably closer to your desired release from frustration. For I have not allowed you an orgasm for a while: you have been brought to the edge many times, and then denied. Your body, mind, soul have screamed out for release these last couple of days, for mercy, but none came.

You are so aroused your juices are flowing down your thighs, some even dripping onto the polished board floor. Your scent fills the room and you love it: I love it. We are intoxicated by it. And then, without warning, I thrust into you from behind – hard, deep, my steel ring right within your womb. I pull on your leash with one hand, rocking you in time with my pumping, adding to the infernal pulling of the weight on your nipples and clit. You feel a finger from my other hand push past your rosebud and you know that the time is near: your salvation is at hand. It's getting all too much: my cock pumping, your nipples stretching, the swollen clit being assaulted, my finger deep inside you. "Please, please, please Michael, sweetheart, darling, please let me come!!!" you scream inside. "PLEASE....".

You sense my body tighten, you feel my cock make one last sudden expansion, and I yell "Come my sweet one, come for me" and we explode together – on another planet, in another world. We are One, we are WE. This is love, this is trust, this IS life.