The Chair

ebooks erotica by Hansa Bosbach

The door clicked shut, “good girl, now we begin” I said.

I had given Isa specific instructions via text before she arrived. She was to wear a skirt, short and tight… with a zipper in the back. Nude stockings… no underwear. A black leather corset that pushed up her tits and cinched her waist in a pleasing way… a long coat to wear on the way here and Black stiletto heels. Nothing else was allowed.  She was to enter by the front door, hang her coat on the hook and enter the first room on the right. There would be one chair in the room facing the wall. She was to sit, spread her legs as far as the skirt would allow and wait. She was told that following these instructions meant giving consent to let me use her as I saw fit. Her safe word would be red.

My dear Isa had followed her instructions to the letter. I heard her enter from where I sat in the back room. I heard her heels click across the floor and the soft rustle of fabric as she hung her coat. Raising the glass of amber liqueur to my lips, I leaned back in my chair imagining her seeing herself in the full length mirror in the hall. Did she adjust her skirt? Did she think she looked like a slut? Or wonder what her pale skin would look like when next she looked in the mirror?

The liquor burned warm down my throat. I chided myself for drinking… It wasn’t like me. Usually, I would not want anything that may alter my focus when I play. But this was Isa… and damm it… I was nervous.  I had seen her in passing a few times as she went for a walk in the evening. I watched her as I sat on my porch with my tea, sighing as the steam curled in the cooling air. She was gorgeous. The tight pants she went for walks in looked like they were but tints and hues of paint spread across her shapely legs. Her chest pushed outward from her top as if straining to be free showing just a hint of cleavage… perfect.

I made it a point to take my tea in the evening outside in hopes of seeing her. For months I had admired her from afar, never daring to talk to her. After all… I was nothing special, and she… she was angelic. Sure… my job kept me in decent shape. I was decently strong and not overweight. But I just knew… somewhere deep inside… she could have any man she wanted. And she could do so much better than me.

I probably would never have talked to her if she hadn’t answered my online query about local bdsm events. Of course… at the time I had no idea it was her. She had asked if I was a dominant or a submissive, and if I had experience with the bdsm lifestyle. I answered saying I was most definitely a dominant and that I had more than a bit of experience. But I was having problems finding a good local group. The few I had found were mostly more swinger groups or far too cliquish for my taste. She told me about a group that would meet twice a month to talk and support each other. An interesting cross section of people interested in BDSM all with different skills and specialties. She offered to Introduce me but said she wanted to talk in person before to get a feel for what kind of person I was and suggested we get coffee. This was sensible I thought, good groups don’t let just anyone in. And meeting in a public place was a good sign of healthy precaution. So I agreed. I gave a brief description of myself. Glasses… beard with a bit of gray… jeans and black button down with a vest.

A week later I was seated in a coffee shop. It was nothing fancy, just a little neighborhood place with a few small tables and a patio. I had been here a few times before and liked the quiet ambiance when I wanted to sit and think. I had just started sipping on a cup of earl gray from one of those big earthenware mugs when my evening eye candy walked in. Holy shit she was pretty I thought as she ordered a coffee. I watched her curiously wondering if she frequented this place as she bantered with the guy behind the counter. She took her coffee from the barista and glanced around the room. Our eyes met… suddenly she was walking with confident strides directly toward my table, her heels clicking a staccato rhythm that mirrored my rising heart rate. Had she seen me watching from my porch?  Did she think I was stalking her? Was I about to get yelled at? Then she was standing in front of me with her hand extended in greeting “Hi, I’m Isa.” She said in a voice that caugh…

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