'' I get up from the director's chair and slide it closer to her, so that the chair is almost under her, but facing the wrong way.'' I get up from the director's chair and slide it closer to her, so that the chair is almost under her, but facing the wrong way. ``Would you like to be let down into this chair?'' I say, smiling. She studies the smile, and a blazing mix of emotions flash across her face; fear, anticipation, lust--and something else, perhaps bewilderment. This woman is seldom bewildered, and it feels strange and exciting. (Of course, she is relatively seldom hung from a door, but this does not bewilder; this was requested.) ``Yes'' she says, her voice somewhat strained from her lengthy suspension. I turn up the smile another notch. I have had 300-pound bikers walk away backward from _this_ smile. ``Would you like?'' I continue, in a harsh whisper, ``to be let down _onto_ this chair?'' The woman's different-sized eyes flare, and her mouth clamps shut. She looks sideways at me, finally not seeing me but the authority, the terrible punishment, the indignity, the pain that her inner voices need. ``Please...'' she says, in a voice as hoarse as mine. ``Please...'' I step very close to the woman. I snap my fingers and a short, bitterly sharp leaf-bladed knife jumps from my sleeve into my hand. A mere trick, but impressive in the context. Before she can react, I slice her panties in half, one vertical swipe down the back that kisses the skin as lightly as a breeze. One more pass and the wispy garment falls to the floor. |