Chair Scene

The chair looms in the corner, all chunky bars and wipe-clean padding; the leather straps dangling, waiting for a warm body to enclose in their sturdy embrace. Mine.

One of them pushes me across the room, small contemptuous shoves as the others look on with predatory smirks, anticipation gleaming in their eyes. Today I’m playing the dumb terrified animal captured and tormented; I move as though in a daze, eyes wide and trembling, silent and passive. I’m a toy, a vessel, a doll for them to play with until they get bored or break me, whichever comes first. For this I need no words. Nothing is required of me but pliant flesh, open holes, a heartbeat.

He shoves me again; with my hands tied behind me I lose balance as he intended, stumble against the chair, fall to the smooth lino floor. Lie at his feet, face upturned. Waiting.

He beckons his companions over; they hoist me onto my knees and close ranks around me. Naked male bodies fill my vision, a tattoo here, a thatch of hair there. Hardening dicks everywhere. The men don’t speak to me; why would they? To them, I’m animated furniture, ambulatory equipment. I’m here to be fucked hard and emptied into, nothing more.

They rub themselves against me, scratchy hairs and smooth skin, hands grabbing at my hair to guide my head towards the nearest of the swollen dicks. It slides into my mouth forcing my jaws apart, flattening my tongue. He works himself back and forth slowly, never once looking down at me. They talk among themselves; work, sport, current affairs, as though sharing a meal in a restaurant or over drinks in a bar, the only acknowledgement of my presence an occasional hissing indrawn breath of arousal while he fucks my mouth. It’s someone else’s turn now. His cock is shorter but chunkier, stretching my mouth open more widely. I close my eyes and focus on the hot firm flesh in my mouth. It twitches against my tongue, and then he is clutching my head and pressing my face deep into his groin, reaching further for the back of my throat with every jerk of his hips. He pushes me off, turns away to argue a point with the man next to him. Someone else takes over.

By the time they’ve all sampled my mouth, I’m drooling and stiff-jawed, hair in disarray, lips numb. If I were an active participant in this scene, I’d tell them how slick and aching to be filled my cunt is now, beg them to suck on my swollen clit and knead my breasts hard enough to raise bruises. But toys don’t talk so I stay silent.

Hands reach under my arms, grip my shoulders and pull me to my feet. When my wrists are untied, they fall to my sides as limp as the straps hanging from the chair. I’m guided to my place in its padded embrace, my limbs arranged with impersonal touch and brisk efficiency until I am pinned, legs elevated and held wide apart, wrists held together above my head. Secured and immobilised by a web of sturdy leather straps, their finishing touch to my preparation is a ball gag fastened tightly around my head.

They must see how wet I am, how flushed and erect my nipples and clit, but they don’t comment, even to each other. A fucktoy is supposed to be wet and ready; unremarkably receptive. I am not here to be appreciated, so I contain my urgent moans of arousal. This restraint and exposure are artefacts of convenience, and so am I.

As the first positions himself with care for the first thrust, I do not make eye contact or visibly react. Behind glazed eyes and a neutral expression I accept the invasion of my body, never betraying the willingness of my participation. He fucks me hard, fast, without finesse, hands on my hips and gaze fixed to my breasts, watching them bounce with the drive of his cock inside me. I couldn’t struggle if I wanted to, nor plead, nor entreat and so I relax, willing myself not to clench around his hardness. Experiencing the use of my cunt with total passivity, I can focus on pure sensation; the sounds of wet flesh slapping, his low grunts of pleasure and breath quickening with exertion. The fascinated stares of his companions, now silently awaiting their turn, roaming over my sweat-slicked skin. The smell of musk and arousal, the taste of the gag, the jolting and creaking of straps and frame.

One by one, they take their turns to shove their flesh into mine, fill me up, take what they need until they are spent and I am sore. A dull yearning ache of unrelieved tension overlaid by sharper pangs from scratches, friction, chafing; all I need now is a flickering tongue to my clitoris, and I would spill my own orgasm in screams and thrashing limbs. Instead, they resume their conversations and clothing, pick up the threads of everyday life and having done so, saunter from the room leaving me behind.

Alone, still bound and gagged, I feel their juices leave me in slow drips, snaking creamy trails across my skin, drying alongside my own sweat and drool, and all I want is more.