The Breast Chair.
She followed me, nude, to the basement. I enjoyed making her remove her skirt and panties in the dining room, right in front of the window, shades wide open. That she did it without complaining showed me how much her submissive tendencies were blossoming on their own.
In the basement, I had her kneel in the carpeted floor. With her hands behind her back, her boobies thrust out from her chest, rising and falling with her breathing. I noticed how the nipples quivered from her excitement, or perhaps her fear.
"Cross your hands behind your back," I ordered.
I bound her wrists with an old silk scarf of hers. My hand caressed her back and slid slowly down the firm curve of her buttocks. I could now feel, as well as see, her trembling.
"Are you afraid?" I asked.
"Very much," she said, her voice barely under control.
I brought out my new acquisition. In France it was called a Prie Dieu.
Imagine a chair, with a narrow, padded seat, only an inch or two above the floor, and two poles framing the back that end, at the top with a flat shelf. It was a device used in Church, mostly by women, who would kneel on the padded seat, leaning on the back portion where they would place their prayer books on the shelf. As you may imagine, the shelf was at a perfect height for my purposes.
I had made a couple of improvements on the design. First, on the padded knee rest, I cut four narrow openings that now held two black leather straps.
Helen knelt on the Prie Dieu and I fastened the straps around her calves.
As she leaned against the support, her breasts rested naturally on the shelf. With a face full of apprehension, she looked up at me and whimpered.
I took two leather straps and looped them around the top of her thighs, attaching each thigh to the upright pole on each side. While I did this, my hands accidentally brushed the trembling lips of her kitty finding them already slick with her juices. One of my fingers slipped inside her hot tunnel. Her body shook with her need. The air around us was redolent with the smell of her perfume and now, with her own musk.
"I don't want you to get tired," I said, "you'll be there for a while."
Two tears quivered in silence on her lower eyelids.
On the shelf, her creamy twin mounds of flesh craved attention.
I picked up a riding crop.
"We'll warm them up a little."
I began to strike at her breasts, not too hard. She yelped with surprise at the first stroke, and screamed for every other. On purpose, I did not tell her how many strokes she would get. I struck her breasts until a simple pattern of parallel lines covered them.
I stood in front of her.
A torrent of tears flowed down her cheeks as she looked up at me. My cock strained inside my pants.
"From now on," I said, "whenever I order you to the basement, you will kneel on the "breast chair" and fasten yourself with the straps."
I struck her breasts with the crop, hard.
"What will you do?"
"I will kneel on this breast chair and fasten the straps on my calves and thighs."
"Excellent," I said.
The shelf was slightly concave so it curved itself around her body. On each end, and in the center, I had drilled a hole. I brought out a similar flat piece of wood that I had cut and carved to match the shelf. It had matching holes too. I placed it on top of her breasts; I did not fail to notice her whimper as the rough wood on the bottom came into contact with her bruised bosoms.
Her eyes almost popped out of their sockets when I pushed a long threaded screw through each hole and placed a large nut on the top end of each screw. As I began to quickly tighten the screws with my ratcheting nut driver, I said:
"Since this is the first time, we shall not use teeth."
"You should thank me," I added.
Between whimpers, as her breasts were crushed between the two wooden shelves, she managed to squeal:
The long handle of the ratcheting driver made it easy to tighten the nuts until her areolas stuck out of the front of the device and I could see the wood cutting into the exposed flesh. She screamed until she ran out of breath. I stopped.
I heard her labored breathing and walked around her, enjoying the sight of her kneeling body, fastened to the breast chair, and of her breasts, squeezed between the boards, like peanut butter on bread.
Her breathing became more and more ragged. I wondered.
I knelt in front of her and looked straight into her eyes. Her eyes were open but I doubted she could see me.
I reached forward to touch her between her legs.
I had thought to put clothespins on her nipples now but, in her state, I doubted she would even feel them. Fortunately, I had some other things in my box.
I picked up two alligator clamps that I had cut off a set of jumper cables.
She'll sure notice these ones, I said to myself.
Her screams filled the basement for a long time. When they died down, I knelt in front of her. Her lungs heaved like a bellows and her breath came in ragged grunts.
With my fingers I flicked one clamp; she yelped, and her breathing got faster. I flicked the other.
"Nooo," she yelped again and breathed even faster.
I touched her pussy. It was gushing.
She was ready.
I began to flick one clamp, then the other one, alternating at random between them. Her yelps became screams, then grunts, then screams again, until her whole body shook with the spasms that raked her body.
I saw her juices squirt from her pussy.
I let her come down.
With her breasts captured in the vise of the breast chair, and her nipples crushed between the jaws of the clamps, it took her a while to regain her senses. Every now and then, another spasm racked her body.
"Was it good?" I asked.
"Yes," she whimpered.
"Now for my reward," I said.
My hand, coated with jelly slid between her ass cheeks.
"When I'm done."