Red Leather Chair

You've been gone four days in Illinois. I bought a new chair while you were gone. Red leather, rich and dark like the walls of a Pompeian brothel.

The first thing I notice about the new leather armchair is its smell, like animals and barnyards. As soon as the delivery men leave, I throw myself onto it, rolling and sliding and sniffing the dark red earthiness. I smooth my hands over the leather, kick off my shoes and stretch out. Wherever the leather touches my skin, it is like a caress. The leather feels alive against my skin. I want more contact. More skin; more caress. I peel off my top and my bra and kneel in the big armchair. Hugging the back of the chair and feeling the naked leather on my naked skin. Rubbing my breasts against the red dimpled smoothness. Four days without you and I am randy enough to start humping a chair.

I want to surprise you. You will be home soon. I know what you like and I know what you want. I have to prepare. There are so many possibilities for love in a chair. We've talked about them together, even tried a few. We've studied anatomy, and the laws of physics. We've consulted books, and porn movies and dinky little animations of couples fucking on the Internet. And our own desires. We've consulted those too.

And then there's Rammstein.

"That's what I want," you said last time we watched Pussy uncensored together. "I like pain," you said. And I know it's true. You have a piece of shrapnel in your skull to prove it.

The restraints, the outfit, the pain. I start shivering at the thought. Or maybe I'm just cold without my top. I toss a handful of kindling onto some logs and light the fire. I have to prepare. I get my sewing basket, and some leather belts, and my black yoga leotard that's about get butchered in the name of sex.

I put on the Rammstein video clip, Pussy uncensored. Lots of pussy. The music and the images pound my head. I play it through. The images move so quickly. Mr Pain in his bondage chair. I watch the girl with the crotchless catsuit bite his nipples. Mouths gape. Cocks pound and spurt. I need a good look at the girl's costume and the restraint chair.

I have watched Pussy uncensored through seven times and all I have is a throbbing wet pussy and a headache. The headache I can fix, but the throbbing aching wet need in my pussy can only be fixed by you. Toys won't do it. The leather chair won't do it. I try that too. After watching the clip for the ninth time, I need to be touched so bad that I slip off my jeans and knickers and watch people fucking with my wet pussy pushed as hard on the new red leather as I can manage. Finally I switch off the clip and grabbed a handful of toys from the bedroom drawer. I plant my shoulders on the seat, throw my legs up over the back of the chair (maximum contact skin on leather) and watch the firelight gleam on my silver vibrator as I stroke it in and out of my pussy. Like I said, there are times when toys won't do, but if it's all you've got...

Eventually I pick up the black leotard. I need to make holes at strategic access points. A pussy hole, a slit over my ass, cutaway breast areas with leather straps. It's an impossible task out of the costume, I discover. I will have to put the leotard on, and cut it in front of a mirror. I drag in a long mirror from the bedroom and set it up where I can see it. My pale skin looks good against the dark red leather. I get distracted practicing poses for you. I keep having to wipe off shiny wet patches that my pussy leaves on the leather. I think how nice I could look for you lying there playing with my toys. I start imagining the chair as a toy. I want to hump the arm and rub myself against it and there I am back where I started with my body screaming for you and no outfit made.

I wriggle into the leotard. Making the pussy cut is easy. I can see where I am cutting. I pose for the mirror, legs wide apart. My pussy shows pink and wet and shiny like a deep gash in some tropical fruit. I will have to hem the opening, but that's easy enough. The ass slit is far more difficult. At last with the help of two hand mirrors and a piece of white tailor's chalk I have a nice "Insert here" mark chalked. I'm sure you will get the idea, even if it's a little off-centre.

Then I sit by the fire to hem around the access holes. What a cosy little domestic scene I make. I think of all the centuries of grannies who sat darning socks in front of cosy fires just like this one. And now here I am, latest in a long line of women sewing by the fireside. Except I am hemming around a neat little hole for the use of my lover's cock. Well- maybe I'm not the first woman to do that either.

The leather straps over the cut-away breast panels take a long time. I have to cut and sew on my own body again. If only I had a tailor's dummy! But in the end I have to admit that the effect is not too bad. The thin black leather straps cut dramatically across my bare breasts. My nipples are hard, and the silver buckles shine in the firelight as I move. I put on my red fuck-me shoes and strut before the mirror. I turn, I bend, I crouch, I open myself to the mirror as if it is your eyes. I am ready.

Today me. Tomorrow I prepare the chair. Your garage is a treasure trove of seatbelts and rubber and chain from the old cars you tear apart. I will have your restraints. I will have your chair. And I will have you.