The Chair 40

She knew he was looking at her, he was clever at not showing it but she knew. Each time she looked to her left she did not see, but sensed, his sudden head movement out of the corner of her eye. On the couple of occasions when she had swivelled casually on the bar stool and stared at him, his face remained locked on the man he was talking to, unnaturally motionless, as if his neck was made of stone. Oh yes, he was interested.

So she owed him at least a brief appraisal. Leaning back against the bar, suit jacket open, exaggerated languidness, slim and tall, maybe six three; not excessive. Lithe movements of his arms and hands as he explained whatever he was explaining to his male companion. He certainly seemed to be doing most of the talking. His hands fascinated her; long, strong fingers that moved with graceful dexterity, as if he was playing a keyboard in three dimensions. She wondered what they were talking about, but she could only catch the occasional word or phrase above the echoing hubbub that bounced and echoed from the clinical maple and stainless steel of the wine bar.

"Why don't you go over and let him introduce himself into you?" The mischievous words from her work friend Jackie pulled her back just as she had been tracing the curve of his buttocks with her eyes.

"Very nice from the eyes downward, but blond darling? Yuck! Even if it does look real." She knew Jackie well and liked her predictably sardonic wit; sure enough out came the overcooked expression of disbelief. But while Jackie's face did hammy 'unconvinced' her eyes flashed over towards him. Blondie. He was a treat for the eyes alright. Did he look away from Jackie like he did from her? Why was she wondering this? Why had she given him a name?

They ordered another two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc and resumed their conversation about their office colleagues. She laughed as Jackie brutally dismembered the good looking new guy in Orders Received, but her senses were wandering. She became intensely aware of the back of her neck, as if his glances toward her were like fragile fingers tracing circles over her skin. The leather seat of the bar stool felt hot under her, yet she gave a tiny shiver. The air conditioning in the bar stirred cool eddies, yet she felt hot. An errant whirling dervish of cold air collided into the back of her long, dark hair, briefly brushing it to one side. She thought of his strong, beautiful hands pulling her hair away so his lips could peck and kiss against the nape of her slender neck. Get a fucking grip, girl! She started to self analyse, wondering why she was so aware of this complete stranger, why she was fantasising about ...

"Ok dearest one, I know when I'm beaten. And he's spanked me black and blue." Jackie had picked up her laptop case and was gulping the last of her wine. Her scorn was insincere but her imminent departure was a dead cert. "I have to go and see Paul this evening. He's getting ready for Saudi and we need to talk."

For all her sharp wit and her dancing dialogue there was a sadness about Jackie that had drawn their friendship closer. She felt echoes of her own pain in Jackie. Her good friend was trying to handle a career enforced separation from her beloved for maybe six months, maybe two years. It all depended on how he balanced salary and love. In a way it was worse than the sudden wrenching split that had rammed into her own life six months ago. Her injuries were like those from a car crash, an unexpected tearing apart of her emotional limbs. But Jackie was someone facing a major operation; she knew where the wounds would be even before they were cut deeply and deliberately into her. They didn't actually talk about it than much, but the mirrored feelings of loss and separation laid an intimacy over their relationship, and the pathos meant that, unlike so many of her other friends, Jackie wasn't constantly trying to fast track her own slow healing by getting her get hooked up with her next man.

"You take care. Have a great evening." The lameness of her farewell made her cringe inside. But what else could she say? Tell him not to go? Fuck him senseless until he sees sense? These words would be like a scalpel blade, starting the long cut that was going to open Jackie up and turn her inside out. "See you tomorrow." They kissed with a tender friendship that felt much older than it was.

She picked up her glass, sipped flinty coolness, and decided not to turn back to glance at Blondie. Her sadness for Jackie had erased her sexual longing for a man's touch, and the erotic feelings of a few minutes ago seemed as if from a story, not her life. Her lonely, empty life.

"Hi!"

Gratitude flashed through her that she had been in a grey reverie of self pity, for had she still been imagining his kisses on her back, his soft touches of pleasure, his sudden greeting from nowhere would have made her jump, blowing away whatever cool she had in a flustering flush. Instead she turned slowly and shone demure feminine dignity onto his grinning face. She said nothing.

He didn't falter; his smile was warm and relaxed. "Your friend has left and I wondered if you wanted another one. And if you do want one I would be delighted if you would have it with me. Do you feel like having a large one?"

His open admission that he had been noticing her, and the brazen directness of his innuendo-laden approach took her aback. He stood a respectful distance away and her woman's radar told her he was not drunk, not even tipsy. His broad smile made his ridiculously blond hair glow in the dim blue wall lighting. She recovered to a state of temporary disarmament but with the option to leave quickly. Without turning towards him she said, "Ok, that would be nice."

He sat on the stool that Jackie had occupied. Was it still warm? Could he feel that warmth? She tried to trace back to where this thought had come from, why it was inside her, but she already knew. He emanated an easy, masculine sensuality that she had never experienced before. It wasn't something he was doing, it was who he was. She could not describe it to herself, she simply felt an instant, very physical attraction.

The wine glugged into two new glasses; big ones. He was being presumptuous. Uninvited, a question appeared inside her. Once it had escaped it hunted her, cornered her easily, and it had been a long time since she'd had to confront it. What if he wants to fuck me? Now? The hot leather burned under her. She threw her answer defiantly at the crouching question. It slinked back into the shadows of her conscious, waiting, watching. She took a sip, no, be honest, a swallow, of wine to calm her inner tension.

"My name is Chris but I let some of my friends call me Blondie."

She coughed and spluttered into her glass. Beads of wine trickled down her cheeks like tears of mirth. He did not react; he must have been used to ridicule at the stupid nickname. She wiped wine streaks from her face with her fingers then licked them. She stopped, realising this was inappropriately sexy in front of a man she didn't know. Why didn't he pass her a tissue from the bar? Oh, he did, finally. She recovered a little dignity with her response of utmost courtesy and sublime brevity. "Nik."

They talked safe topics. He worked for a direct competitor of her company so it was easy. What was the same, what was different? Weren't they all bastards at the top? He was gently witty, making her smile more than laugh. Was this deliberate? She sensed a powerful, deep intelligence rumbling under his small talk. She enjoyed his company as much as his physical presence. She felt drawn towards him, pulled closer to his strong, hard body. Animal magnetism. She had scoffed at the idea, but she was feeling its full force for the first time in her life. It was strong, it could pull her under, under him. She needed to hold herself. Be careful. Of what?

There was nothing predatory about him. It seemed that he was simply enjoying her company. He didn't need to try and nor did she; their conversation was easy and amusing, with the lightness and variety of a fine dining tasting menu. But she was not relaxed, she felt hot tension and dampness in her loins that made her shuffle on the stool. Every time she gave a little squirm his eyes never left hers but she sensed that he knew. Surely a man this gloriously sexy must know.

"So what do you do for pleasure?"

The directness was back and she had to think before she spoke. She decided to keep it safe and stick to simple, non-erotic truth. "I absolutely love early music, from the Renaissance mostly, especially songs for solo voice and lute." It was an admission that often drew baffled looks and she instantly regretted saying something that would surely transform her from an attractive, interesting woman into a geek. But it was true, so she stared at him, ready to challenge his inevitable scorn.

"Ah, the divine madness of John Dowland." He sighed and his eyelids slid down, as if they had suddenly become unbearably heavy. "In darkness let me dwell; the ground shall sorrow be, the roof despair, to bar all cheerful light from me."

It was a cliché of implausibility; she was stunned. He carried on regardless.

"I think we've lost something in the modern world by rejecting sadness as something bad, something to be cured. The Elizabethans were more in touch with themselves; they even had a different name for it. They talked about being in a melancholy as if it was something they inhabited, not some awful thing inside them that they needed to cast out. With Prozac, for example. Dowland was a depressive, and out of his melancholy came some of the most beautiful compositions in the world. I utterly lose myself inside his sad words and his aching music."

She wished she'd told him a lie; for the closeness of his feelings to hers created an instant intimacy that she found difficult to deal with. She suddenly felt very vulnerable to him, as though she had surrendered a private and precious piece of herself into his gentle, sexy hands. She needed to be very careful indeed. She took an abandoning swallow of wine to cool and calm her. And another one. The glass was empty.

"Come back to my apartment! I have a fantastic sound system. We can open another bottle and be music lovers into the night." His eyes shone, his enthusiasm was that of a small boy, sexlessly innocent, overpoweringly passionate. "I know it's ridiculously forward of me but how many people do you know who love that sort of music?"

None. But go back to his place an hour after first meeting? That wasn't her thing, not at all. No. No! "Yes, that would be very nice, but just for one drink."

And one fuck, or maybe more than one. What was she being careful of? She needed a large one. His large one. She needed it soon.

He lived in a smart part of town. The early evening was still hot from the June sunshine and it was an easy walk from the wine bar. He talked about their shared musical love all the way, his arms flowing and gesticulating as he illustrated his points. Inside his open plan flat she smelled new leather, musky wood, a slight hint of spicy cooking. She sat on his wide black sofa which gave an expensive, leathery moan as it absorbed her into its animal softness. She smoothed her cotton skirt, made sure the thin straps of her top were not slipping down. Her mind started its wandering again, thinking that if it had been colder outside she'd have worn a coat and he would have taken it off for her. His fingertips would have brushed across her bare neck and shoulders as they curled around her collar. She might have gasped at this first touch of him upon her body. She might have turned to him, let herself be swallowed into his sex. Fuck me. I so need to be fucked.

He was by a large set of shelves, his fingers playing a silent spidery tune on the spines of his CDs as he fussed over what to play her first. He had forgotten about his offer of wine, almost seemed to have forgotten about her. It was reassuringly respectful, but also mildly annoying. If this was a seduction he was taking the long way round. She stood up and the sofa squealed and hissed in expanding release. "I need to use your bathroom. I saw the doorway on the way in."

"Uh?" He looked alarmed. He blinked, seemed to open his mouth as if to protest.

"I won't be a minute," she said, assuming he was worried she might find the inevitable male untidiness offensive. "Don't worry, I lived with a messy someone for three years so I won't be shocked by whatever you have in there." She was already walking to the bathroom and caught his sigh of unwilling surrender behind her. Men! She shook her head.

It was big, she had expected that. It was pristinely clean and neat; that was a nice treat. She sat on the toilet and looked around. At the other end of the travertine tiled chamber was a large shower area. Under the shower was a wooden chair. She finished her pee and flushed. Puzzled curiosity led her to look at the chair. It was strongly built and reminded her of pictures she'd seen of electric chairs used for execution. There were straps for arms and ankles and another on the back that looked to be the right height for the neck. The seat was open at the bottom and an arrangement of stainless steel levers and fitments were mounted on it and under it. Some of them were connected to shower hoses linked to an array of taps on the wall.

"Hello." He was at the door. She hadn't shut it and he was standing inside, trying hard not to look. She looked at him, her face an unspoken question. "I forgot I'd left it out. If I tell you I want you to believe that I didn't ask you to ... to c-come here for this." He stumbled over the word 'come'.

"What is it for?" She looked down at the chair, wanted to run her fingers along the smooth, oily wood.

"It would take you to a place you have never been before. But that's not why I asked you here, not what I wanted. I enjoyed just having a drink with you. I was amazed when you said you love renaissance music; I wanted us to share that. I still do. This is something completely different. Something ... else." His hand fumbled at the edge of the door as he tailed off.

"What place?" Her curiosity was doing battle with her unease and it was winning. She felt imprisoned by her need to know and her imagination was filling in the large blank spaces without the need for his explanation. "What would you say if I wanted to go there? To that place, wherever it is."

"What do you want me to say?" His sheepishness left him now his secret was out, now she was asking and he had control of his answers, control of her. Yet in his new certainty she thought she saw a fine curtain of regret drape itself over his beautiful face.

"Does it hurt?"

"Only if you want it to. You probably will want it to."

"How long does it take."

"Not very long to get there. How long you stay there for, well, that can vary a lot. At least two or three hours, sometimes longer. Once it was eleven hours and it might have been longer, but I decided to stop it. Water is a precious resource." He smiled.

She felt her breath catch and tighten in her bosom. This was not real. "How many have ... been there?"

"Twenty-one."

"All women?" She had to ask.

He laughed. "I don't think it would really work on a man and even if it did that's not what I want."

"And, afterwards? How many come back?"

"They all come back. Again and again. When I can fit them in." His blue eyes grew more piercing as she felt him reappraising her, examining her sexual resources with a bright, irresistible light. He had changed, she saw it in his face, his slightly raised eyebrows; she was number twenty-two if she wanted to be, if she felt up to it. She stood by the chair, silent for many moments. "To be honest, twenty-one is more than enough and I would love us just to listen to the music." Oh, so she was wrong about his invitation. Or was his provocation as part of his seduction technique?

"Take me there." She heard her words as if someone else had spoken them. There was an edge of anger in them. She was breathing hard, almost panting. Fuck the music! She needed something, needed to know. "Please?"

"I'll be back in one second."

When he returned he was naked. And beautiful. All her senses and instincts that had told her he was hard and lean and muscular underneath his suit were revealed to be right. She tried not to look at the inevitable first. But what was the point? She was surrendering to both him and his strange, enticing contraption for reasons that she pretended to herself that she couldn't fathom. She convinced herself that she had become someone else, already in an altered state where her normal rules of engagement didn't work and weren't needed.

"We are both going to get very wet, you especially." He was so good at that double meaning but his offering this explanation as to why he had no clothes on felt like an act of gentle kindness and reassurance. She didn't need it.

He undressed her with the practiced precision of someone who had done this many times. She thought back to her little coat removal fantasy and laughed inwardly at how ludicrous this seemed now. He was unzipping her skirt. Now his first real touch on her was against her long, slender thighs as he pulled down her underwear. She looked to see if this aroused him; it didn't. But the touch of his strong, masculine fingers crackled like sexual electricity through her as they brushed over her skin. Top off, bra off. He folded her clothes in a neat pile at the other end of the bathroom.

He led her to the chair and she sat. She thought the open bottom might feel strange but it was like sitting on a wooden toilet seat. The wood was warm and smooth, varnished with a satin sheen. He tightened the leather straps over her wrists and around her ankles. He adjusted something at the back so that the neck strap was at the right height. She judged that the last person in the chair must have been quite a lot shorter than her five seven stature. Before he buckled the strap around her slender neck he asked if she was ok with it. More concern, more gentle reassurance that nothing bad was going to happen. Still nothing that felt sexual or controlling. Was he the master or the servant of her?

"Now, this is very important." He squatted down in front of her, his earnest face level with hers. She was reminded of a moment long ago when her father first told her not to cross the road without looking both ways. "I am going to attach rubber coated tongs that will pull your labia apart." She gave a silent gulp. "I need to do this to open up your clitoris to the full attentions of my chair. It won't hurt unless you move suddenly. Once I've attached them they will be held by long elastic and you can then move. Because you will probably be moving around quite a lot during the process." His words and tone were of a doctor describing a medical procedure and this was perversely reassuring to her, calming her mounting anticipation. "One final thing before we start. Three important words. 'Hotter' means I'm doing it right, 'colder' means I'm not. And most importantly, let's see ... 'Dowland' means stop. I will then stop and release you as quickly as I can. Ok? Ready?"

He slid under the chair and parted her vaginal lips with quick, expert care. She shivered at the professional intimacy of it. The pressure of the clamps was strange but they were not uncomfortable. She felt pulled apart and helplessly exposed to whatever dreadful violation his creation was about to inflict on her. He took his time, slowly turned a valve and held his fingers under the water. "We don't want to surprise you with cold water, do we?" Again the almost formal authority of a medical professional, again her wondering of what role he was playing, what role she was.

He turned another valve slowly and, oh my god, she suddenly knew. She was his helpless victim. She rocked and struggled in the chair as a million liquid kisses tingled and sparkled against her sexual core. Foaming jets of steamy heat sprayed a pattern of excruciating bliss over her clitoris. It was almost pain, almost unbearable. It was pure essence of physically sexual thrill. She was going to come, very quickly. He closed his fingers around a metal lever on the chair and began to move it. The spray began to play slowly back and forth along her womanly opening. Oh, my god. Each time he brought the spray forward to tingle over her nub she throbbed with pleasure and delight. She so nearly came but he seemed expert at sensing when she was on the teetering precipice of her climax. She felt the tension of her body weigh against her, pushing her towards the edge so that she could tumble end over end into crashing waves of joy. But just before she fell he caught her, pulled her back with his diabolical lever and the nozzle swung back under her, fizzing over her vaginal opening with insistent delight. It was gorgeous, yes, yes, but not enough to unleash the hot tightening inside her. These tantalising cycles of almostness aroused her more and more, intensifying her need. She became obsessed with watching his hand as it moved her closer to, and then further from, her needed release. She tried to move back in the chair, following his liquid beam of ecstasy. "Hotter!" she cried as he thrilled her clitoris again with his heavenly jets, "Colder. Colder!" as he cruelly moved them away, stealing her climax once again with his clever teasing. He didn't seem to hear her. She shrieked the words at him. This torture, this ordeal by orgasm denial was not what she had expected. It went on and on, back and forth, arousal and near climax in an exhaustingly exciting endless loop. In her erotic madness she saw that he was excited too, his member swollen and pulsing, seeming to grow and harden more as her own orgasm was offered, withdrawn, offered, withdrawn. He slowed his movements of the lever, stretching her frustration to unbearable drum skin tightness. Oh, my god, my god. She was hurting and throbbing with her arousal. Her neck pressed against the strap and she gasped in exquisite desperation. She writhed and struggled in the chair. Her hair was sodden with steam and spray, her face streamed with water and sweat and needful tears. She looked up at him, her eyes pleading with him. Oh, god, oh god. She closed her eyes and the safe word was building on her lips. Oh, fuck, make it stop.