Not as good, I'm afraid.
The Chair
I wake up. Something is wrong. I try to shake the cobwebs out of my head. I probably shouldn’t have drunk so much last night.
The room is dimly lit, however the light from the naked bulb overhead hurts my eyes. I try to move, but cant. I am tied down; I look down at my arms, leather straps hold my wrists tied to the armrests of a wooden chair. I look down at myself, I am naked, sitting on a chair, and unable to move.
I try to break out of the chair. I pull on my arms. My muscles tense, bulge; the straps cut into my arms. No joy. I cannot free my arms.
I try to free my legs, the chair shakes under my efforts. My quads bulge and writhe on my thighs. No effect.
I feel trapped. Shake my head. I am thirsty.
Must gather my wits.
I look around me. The room is dimly lit. A single low power light bulb hangs from the roof. The chair is made out of dark stained wood. The straps, where I can see them are dark leather. I can see straps round my wrists and my chest. Already there are dark sweat stains on the straps.
I am naked, but not cold. The room must be warm, maybe 75 degrees. There is a chest of drawers against the far wall. To my right, a large bed.
I sigh in relief. This is obviously a play room; but whose?
I try to remember. Yesterday, the party. The group. Must be one of the doms or dommes there, however, I do not recognize the room.
I look around again, Not a sound, nothing but the light, unblinking. The smell of lumber, recent lumber. Teak, I smell teak. A new playroom. The fresh wood smell, not yet obscured by leather and sweat.
I feel trapped. I do not know how long have I been here. It cannot have been too long, since the chair is unpadded, and my butt is not yet numb; I do need to take a leak however.
A faint smell reaches my ears; incense. Faint, as if far away, or in another room. Also sound. New Age music, flutes, harps, playing without a beat or rhythm. The kind of music I call “Vegetarian music” Music so relaxing, it gives me stress. As if I needed any more stress.
Once again I brace myself against the floor, and try, unsuccessfully to break my bonds. This is not fun. I never liked this idea of being tied down. It goes against all my principles. I throw my weight around, I want the chair to acknowledge my efforts at least; to displace its mass, to force it to move, at least an inch. No effect. The chair must be bolted to the floor. I feel the floorboards, my feet are bare, bit I can’t see them.
Sweat beads on my forehead; drops trickle down and, pausing on my eyebrows, drop into my eyes. They sting, but I cannot wipe my eyes. I feel my hair wet. And throughout it all, the smell of Teak. Woodsy, fresh, somewhat spicy. Add some salt to it, and it would be Keith’s yacht. Sailing on the bay.
Teak. No one I know has a Teak playroom.
Breath, ragged, anxious. What is going to happen here. Whose prisoner am I?
I still need to take a leak, but I still hold it. As a result, I am getting a hard on. This is ridiculous. I have never been turned on by being bound. Anyone who walks in is not going to think so though. If this keeps on, I shall just go right here.
The vegetarian music gets louder. Is the incense smell stronger?
Is someone going to come? I am getting quite tired of this.
My hair is wet right now. I feel sweat dripping down from my scalp. My eyes still sting. My chest, covered by drops of sweat.
There are rings embedded in the walls. A well appointed dungeon. And here I sit, basting in my own sweat. I feel like a Thanksgiving turkey.
I can now smell the leather straps. New leather. Everything seems new.
I scream out:
‘Hello! Who is there?”
No answer, naturally.
Fear, Phobos. I must admit, to myself, I am afraid. I jerk against my bonds yet another time. Why, I do not know. I remember the Litany against fear:
“I must not fear
Fear is the mind killer
Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration”
The lines from “Dune” fill my mind, and indeed have a calming effect. I just need Vladimir Harkonnen to walk into the room and the analogy would be complete.
It must have been some bad weed last night. Note to self: “Kill Richard” That will teach him to bring bad grass to a party.
My mouth is dry. I have a bad hangover.
I need coffee, but something tells me I am not getting any. (Pun intended)
A noise at the door. A lock slides open. The door opens, creaking slightly; it needs oil.
A small woman walks in. Black shoulder length hair, large mischievous eyes and a round face.
Leslie.
I hope she doesn’t have PMS today.
