Wednesday, February 27, 2008

My Master's Chair

In fact, it was my father's chair. His favorite chair. When my parents moved down to Florida full-time, I claimed it.

It's an Eames chair. A genuine Eames chair. Well, at least my parents thought it was genuine. My friends have doubts. Still and all, it's a great chair. Black leather, rich curved wood, a welcoming lap, an ottoman. It sits down in the basement family room and is perfect for watching television.

Enter the philosopher.

He traveled down the coast, through one state after another.
He walked in my door.
He claimed me.

And he claimed the chair.

It, she, was always his chair.
She had been waiting for him all her life.
She opened her arms, opened her lap, and he slid right in.

He settled in.
He put his legs up.
He radiated dominance.

He sat in the chair.
He ordered me to strip.
He inspected my middle-aged nakedness.
He pinched my nipple, twisting past pleasure into pain.

I've been spanked over that ottoman.
I've been whipped with his belt.
I've stayed in position without bonds.
I've left wet spots on the leather
and lipstick from the words on my body.
Master's cunt.

The chair is in the basement, in the family room, in the dungeon. The chair sits near where my boy cat gets fed. Marko, my large neurotic loving boy cat. Marko has issues. He is fearful. Fearful, neurotic, and very very submissive to his cute and perky slut of a sister. So he gets fed in a separate spot, on a separate floor. Silly cat.

I feed her first, then bring his food down to his spot under the high basement window. He is always waiting for me. Sometimes he eats right away. Sometimes he paces, looks toward the stairs, worrying about who or what will jump him the minute he turns his back.

I sit on the floor by his food, hoping my motherly presence will make him feel more secure.

I sit on the floor.
I sit on the floor at the foot of the ottoman.
My cunt starts to twitch and I slip into subspace.

The chair is possessed.
Possessed by my master.
He owns the chair, as he owns me.
And his presence is always there.

I slip into subspace, and find myself close by his side. I am kneeling, my knees spread wide, or sitting cross-legged on the floor. My head is in his lap, and he is stroking my hair murmuring that I'm his good girl now, his good kitten, his perfect slave...

Sometimes a fog of uneasiness descends. I feel a tension, HIS tension. He needs to hurt me.

I feel the tension.
I feel the fear.
I feel the desire, both his and mine.

Marko's chowing down and I'm flooding my panties. Yet again.

This is a true story.
It always happens.

The cats are fed twice a day.


Anonymous said...

I am impressed your blog has come a long way in a short time. I wish I had the courage and the chair.

oatmeal girl said...

well, you can't have the chair, but i'll gladly share the courage with you. and it isn't so much courage as an overwhelming urge to write more and have people tell me how great i am ;-)

seriously, thanks for the kind words, and to all the people who have come to visit. and for all you anonymice, it's easy to set up a gmail blog account with a pseudonym to hide behind and no profile, just so the rest of us can keep you straight.

littlegirl said...

my goodness! oatmeal girl, you can write! this was lovely, just really brilliant. i wish i had time to read all ten of your previous posts, but i can only stay for a peek.

i'm so excited you're here.

oatmeal girl said...

thanks, lg. you receive the special grad student's dispensation from reading until the term is over.