A simple chair. Wooden. With four legs, its back and its comfortable brocade and velvet seat.
A piece of furniture you can find in any home to rest, eat, read…
And nevertheless that chair today has a special value.
Someone suffers teetering on his knees. Ropes, leather restraints, sensory deprivation, genital torture, immobilizations in general. Confined to isolation on a simple chair.
A trickle of drool under the gag. A gasp, a moan, a veiled plea.
The thrum of my heels approaching and he gets goose bumps with the rubbing of my nails. I smile. I walk away. I watch from time to time while I type.
This is not a story, but a real scene in real time. What is on the chair belongs to me and his sacrifice is my passion.