Chapter 3: The Breast Chair

She followed me, nude, to the basement. I enjoyed making her remove her skirt and panties in the dining room, right in front of the window, shades wide open. That she did it without complaining showed me how much her submissive tendencies were blossoming on their own.

In the basement, I had her kneel in the carpeted floor. With her hands behind her back, her boobies thrust out from her chest, rising and falling with her breathing. I noticed how the nipples quivered from her excitement, or perhaps her fear.

"Cross your hands behind your back," I ordered.

I bound her wrists with an old silk scarf of hers. My hand caressed her back and slid slowly down the firm curve of her buttocks. I could now feel, as well as see, her trembling.

"Are you afraid?" I asked.

"Very much," she said, her voice barely under control.

I brought out my new acquisition. In France it was called a Prie Dieu.

Imagine a chair, with a narrow, padded seat, only an inch or two above the floor, and two poles framing the back that end, at the top with a flat shelf side. It was a device used in Church, mostly by women, who would kneel on the padded seat leaning on the back portion where they could place their prayer books on the shelf. As you may imagine, the shelf was at a perfect height for my purposes.

I had made a couple of improvements on the design. First, on the padded knee rest, I cut four narrow openings that now held two black leather straps.

Helen knelt on the Prie Dieu and I fastened the straps around her calves.

As she leaned against the support, her breasts rested naturally on the shelf. With a face full of apprehension, she looked up at me and whimpered.

I took two leather straps and looped them around the top of her thighs, attaching each thigh to the upright pole on each side. While I did this, my hands accidentally brushed the trembling lips of her kitty finding them already slick with her juices. One of my fingers slipped inside her hot tunnel. Her body shook with her need. The air around us was redolent with the smell of her perfume and now, with her own musk.

"I don't want you to get tired," I said, "you'll be there for a while."

Two tears quivered in silence on her lower eyelids.

On the shelf, her creamy twin mounds of flesh craved attention.

I picked up a riding crop.

"We'll warm them up a little."

I began to strike at her breasts, not too hard. She yelped with surprise at the first stroke, and screamed for every other. On purpose, I did not tell her how many strokes she would get. I struck her breasts until a simple pattern of parallel lines covered them.

I stood in front of her.

A torrent of tears flowed down her cheeks as she looked up at me. My cock strained inside my pants.

"From now on," I said, "whenever I order you to the basement, you will kneel on the "breast chair" and fasten yourself with the straps."

She nodded.

I struck her breasts with the crop, hard.

"What will you do?"

"I will kneel on this breast chair and fasten the straps on my calves and thighs."