The wicker chair. Dedicated to discomfort.

Sa’afia bent over the back of her wicker armchair. She kept a blanket thrown over it so it was comfortable for her sit at, beside her window. I’d dropped that on the floor before pushing her over the back, hand on the back of her neck till her head pressed on the chair cushion. I wanted the wicker weaving to mark her belly while I fucked her. 

I’d joined her and we’d fucked with urgency. The chair had moved across the room and only stopped once its front feet were pressed against the wall. Sa’afia’s sides ran with sweat. Most of the sweat was mine. 

Despite the furious tension in our bodies Sa’afia’s hands hung limply on either side of the chair. After a period of bdsm-ish intensity I usually want the sex to bring my partner and me closer to equality. Joined, we start to move from dominant and submissive to something gentler. The submissive may regain rights – to speak, for example – that I might have been taken away during the session.

This was different. I’d felt that Sa’afia didn’t want to leave her new place yet. She was enjoying submission, and her awareness of herself, doing things that only submissives do. So I’d told her that she was to keep the top of her head in the pillow, and to let her hands hang down. If I saw her move her head or her hands, I’d said, I’d be disappointed in her. By that stage in her surrender that was a harsher threat than any physical punishment I could promise.   

But comfort wasn’t the point

But the muscles of her spread thighs were taut, and her welted ass blazed heat back at me. She’d been breathing hard, like an exhausted runner, but now here were deeper noises, grunts from inside her. I hadn’t heard those sounds before. They were sex, desperation and a kind of determination.

Sa’afia was about to come. It’s a moment I like. It’s the moment that I can recall, in living detail.

And then I shouted too. So was I.