I HAVE CAST SAMANTHA IN THIS ROLE AND AM SHOOTING IN NOVEMBER
…Their house has abundant seating: easy chairs, dining chairs, bedroom chairs, ordinary home furniture all (although the sofa might tell a saucy tale or two…) and then there is the chair.
PHOTO OF THE HOUSE INTERIOR
PHOTO OF THE CHAIR
To most of us a request to “fetch the chair” seems normal, and a simple request; the same appeal to J prompts a very different inference.
Immediately aware of the emphasis on the definite article, this instruction may quicken her heartbeat, incite a protest, or provoke a conspiratorial smile.
‘THE’ makes all the difference you see.
This is not a chair, this is The Chair.
The chair is nothing special to look at, upright wooden frame, padded-seat; certainly not artisan crafted, rather a self-assembled item from a Swedish homeware retailer. Versatility and durability are the chair’s key characteristics, to be utilised in as many ways as Darren’s fertile imagination can conceive.
J has knelt upon it, draped herself across her husband’s knee as he sat, bent over the back with her bottom upthrust and a score or more variations.
J has been ordered to fetch the chair when her behaviour has been found wanting and Darren spontaneously decides she requires correction. Alternatively, appointments have been made for specific times, with additional requirements concerning clothing and demeanour.
Obviously not every punitive episode involves a chair. Darren is just as likely to deploy the dining table, settee or bed when disciplining his domestic delinquent. But when directed towards THE chair there’s only ever going to be one outcome.
Today J has been instructed to bring the chair to their large bedroom. A task made additionally difficult by a mix of trepidation – wondering how he will punish her – and, more prosaically, carrying a chair upstairs while wearing heels is tricky. They click noisily across the wooden floor as – somewhat flustered – J follows her husband’s direction to place the chair to the fore of a large, mirror-front wardrobe. Why specifically here she wonders?
PHOTO OF J PLACING THE CHAIR BEFORE THE MIRROR
“Put your hands on your head,” Darren instructs calmly, correctly interpreting her questioning expression. (Because I like to watch, is the answer, but this is not a moment to invite discussion).
PHOTO OF J WITH HANDS ON HEAD
J immediately complies without question. He nods approvingly at her presentation, a hint of Chanel number 5 if he’s not mistaken, blue eye shadow, dark pink lipstick, his wife has made a great deal of preparatory effort.
“You look lovely,” he comments, perfunctorily. J gives an inward sigh of relief; that’s one test passed and additional strokes hopefully avoided, she thinks.
Darren turns the chair so the seat is closest to the mirror and with charismatic authority guides his tense and wary spouse until she’s stood directly behind the straight back. “Please bend over and grip the edge of the seat cushion.”
PHOTO OF POSE
The formality of his words further emphasise the power dynamic of this encounter. Poised, at least outwardly so, J acquiesces, observes her predicament reflected in the mirror. Her favourite silver necklace – a gift from him – dangles hypnotically in J’s cleavage, twinkling in the sunlight streaming through the window.
PHOTO OF CLEAVAGE AND NECKLACE
Must keep still, she thinks, suddenly aware that her body is shaking slightly. She looks at the mirror again, critically considering her reflection: Face still pretty, but how about my body? Can’t see from here, does my bottom still thrill him the way it did when I was younger?
With a practiced hand Darren raises the hem of her skirt over pale posterior curves with a sensuous rustle of fabric and drapes it neatly around her waist.
PHOTO OF POSE
An involuntary moan escapes J lips. “Excellent,” he says appreciatively, running his hand up trim ankles, straight slender legs and taut thighs to the crowning glory of J’s bottom. This is why he so often insists she wear heels when being taken to task; they tighten the leg muscles and push out her firm buttocks quite delightfully.
PHOTO OF HEELS AND LEGS UP TO BOTTOM
“New lingerie,” she ventures nervously, keen to please, although from his perspective it’s a statement of the obvious. “Just as I specified – obedience duly noted,” Darren replies in a business like tone, quelling any prospect of further discourse. He pulls her knickers down in a single, assured move; an unequivocal statement of intent that elicits a muted yelp in response.
PHOTO OF KNICKERS DOWN
Baring an obedient bottom, one of life’s greatest pleasures, reflects Darren as he walks across the room to a chest of drawers beyond J’s line of sight. She hears the scrape of an oak drawer opening and, knowing only too well the contents, wonders anxiously which instrument of correction he will select.
What, she wonders, might it be? Pleeease not the cane, it hurts so much, and not in a good way. This scary recollection sends a wave of adrenalin coursing through J’s veins, an awful anticipation evoking a contradictory surge of emotions: Wishing her imminent ordeal over yet simultaneously – her erotic imagination in overdrive – wondering what will follow? A properly applied punishment evokes certain needs in a woman and, forgetting her predicament for a moment, J muses on how Darren might fulfil them. Sadly her all too brief reverie is interrupted as J senses measured strides returning across the rug, catches a blurred glimpse of Darren’s raised hand.
Any second now she’ll discover which implement he’s chosen to chastise her with today. Screwing her eyes tight shut, J awaits the first fiery impact.
PHOTO OF SCREWED UP EYES
Subsequently events become blurred, time no longer linear. As her husband beats her soundly, J involuntarily stamps her feet, gasping at each successive impact of a wicked leather paddle. Resists the urge to cry out – it’s far too quiet in this oh-so-respectable area and the window is open – what, she wonders might a neighbour make of the percussive sound of leather upon taut buttocks now filling the room?
PHOTO OF LEATHER PADDLE STRIKING BOTTOM
PHOTO OF BLUSHED BOTTOM
Stroke follows overlapping stroke until J is certain she can’t take any more. Her upper thighs burn, heat radiates from her buttocks, she pleads for him to stop; tears in her eyes, but an equally damp pussy betrays her arousal.
As if clairvoyant Darren ends her torment and lays a steadying hand on J’s trembling waist. “Pity the mirror can’t show you that lovely red glowing bottom,” he observes affectionately, “ and with so many livid marks, perhaps you’d like to give it a rub?”
PHOTO OF RUBBING HER BOTTOM
“Oh thank God!” Silent no longer, J shoots upright, dignity surrendered, hands frantically massaging her burning cheeks, hears the unmistakeable sound of a camera shutter capturing her willing submission for posterity.
“Bend back over the chair, open your legs wide as possible and push that naughty bottom up and out, I’ve got something else to give you, he instructs calmly.”
PHOTO OF WIDE OPEN LEGS AND VIEW OF SPANKED BOTTOM AND PUSSY FROM BEHIND
This, thinks J, lowering herself back down, is what she’s been waiting for, craving in fact, the ultimate motive to indulge this disciplinary ritual. “No need to be gentle…“ she murmurs lasciviously, voice thick with emotion and desire.
PHOTO OF SAMANTHA READY, LOOKING OVER HER SHOULDER