What makes an item of furniture worthy of the classification? Where is the threshold at which utility is so far sacrificed to aesthetic, that the item ceases to have any practical function, enough to be pure art and no tool?
These are the thoughts I distract myself with as I hold myself upright and immobile, bound tight with strings of glowing fairy lights and imprisoned in place atop the large plug-on-a-pole that rises from a blocky granite base. The stone has warmed slightly, but the unyielding hardness beneath my feet negates any comfort I might find from the body-heat I’ve given up to its surface.
You had me ease myself onto the plug in my high heels and collar, then step out of my heels – which were immediately confiscated – and there I was, pinned, filled and trapped.
I want to thrust against the smooth metal impaling my cunt, fuck myself with it – what’s a plug on a pole even for, if not for riding on? I want to pinch my nipples, tug them sharply, rock my hips, slap my clit. But my arms are held down tight by these strings of fairy lights wound around and across my body, and if I so much as twitch, shifting shadow between their tiny incandescences will give me away.
Except you’re already looking right at me, smirking and appraising. Enjoying my helpless subservience, clearly aware of my rising desire and finding it greatly amusing, as a sadistic, power-hungry voluptuary such as yourself would be inclined to.
My task is that of light-bearer, to stand and illuminate. Everything else is forbidden to me, speech, movement, relaxation, expression. On the outside, I’m furniture; part utility, part adornment. Furniture has no will of its own, it’s there to do a job while staying out of the way of other jobs. If I break the rules, I’ve failed to fulfil my task, morphing from art to disobedient sub in a twitch. And disobedient subs must be punished before they can be forgiven.
Actually, that line of thought is not helping me maintain my zen-like pose of enlightenment at all. No indeed, in fact the urge to take an active role in the escalation of my arousal is almost overwhelming. I note the evil grin widening across your face as you lean back in your armchair and take another sip of your drink. Casually, you reach down to rub yourself, circling your hips against the pressure of your hand, deliberately and tauntingly juxtaposing my stillness with your languid movements. The sight of you fondling yourself makes me burn with envy and desire. Which, of course, is exactly the point.
I remind myself that this is not a battle of wills, or a competition between us. Gritting my teeth will only make me resentful and bratty – and you’ll know it. As you explained to me before taking my hand to help me mount this contraption, the goal here is mind over matter. Will versus want. To hover, motionless on the edge of carnal need and serene devotion, exercising self-control for no other reason than it’s what you want me to do.
I’m supposed to be furniture, but surely I must also be Art, because so intense an inspection is inexplicable unless the subject were pleasing -or at least interesting – to the mind’s eye.
Must keep still. Must ignore the way the entrance to my cunt must stretch to accommodate the lower portions of the plug. Pay no attention to the way I want to clench, and rock, and frot. Not think about your teeth closing gently on my skin or your hand descending to cover my face when you fuck me, or your face buried between my legs…
If I’m going to fold, it will be at the end of my physical stamina, not because I listened to my hungry, twitching cunt instead of your command. If my knees or hips or spine let me down, I can concede with grace and you will be kind, praising and rewarding me for my valiant efforts. If I set myself in opposition to you by wilful indulgence, you will sigh, shake your head and set about showing me the error of my ways. With the cane.
Don’t wince, don’t squirm, and definitely don’t moan.