The House of Majesta – The Neophyte Chair

A Sensual Awakening

The Sisterhood’s sleeping quarters at the Majesta Mansion were exotic by any standards. There was one large room for all of the ladies but it was by no means a dormitory. Six king sized beds were arranged around the room at various angles, each having their own dressing table, headboards, boudoir chairs and reading lamps. It was as if each was a room in its own right, except there were no dividing walls and no uniformity with respect to the alignment.

There was no fixed arrangement as to who slept where or who slept with whom. The ladies tended to tumble in to bed with whomever they had spent time with during the day, or whoever’s company they felt like when it was time to retire. It would come as no surprise then, that I woke up with Justine’s arm draped around the front of my neck, her sweet breath gently caressing my temple, as delicate as a butterflies’ kiss on a warm summer day, a hint of chocolate from an early morning glass of flavored milk lingering on her parted lips.  My bottom felt tender and bruised yet the sensation was actually pleasant and one that I enjoyed very much.  I pushed it back snugly against Justine’s belly, feelings of sensuality washing over me: warm, smooth and soothing.

Monique was on my other side, her head resting on my arm, her face snuggled against my breast, her lips gently nuzzling my nipple, her long slender fingers tracing delicate patterns across my pubis, twisting little circlets of my silky hair, teasing but not entering, petting without promise of release.

“Cara” she murmured to me, her voice still slightly husky from her sleep, “you know it’s likely that you will get whipped again today?”

My breathing stopped for just a second; how could I go through another swishing like the one I had just received?

Her fingers increased their tempo, tugging just a little more at my hairs, pressing slightly harder against my mons. I remained silent; I was too shocked to respond.

“You would be ok with that, wouldn’t you? You did know we girls get whipped… and you loved what happened afterwards!”

“Why me, Monique?” My mind raced. “What have I done now to deserve it?”

Monique nipped my nipple with her teeth and smiled up at me coquettishly; Justine stirred, disturbed by our whispering but not yet fully awake. I could hear activity in one of the other beds; moans of pleasure, the gentle whisper of sheets beneath bodies, the deep, passionate breathing of a lover being satisfied.

“Just because; because you’re new; maybe because Anne-Marie likes you; maybe it excited her to see your pain, to hear your screams. None of us beg her to stop; we are all used to the strap and the cane. It was quite different to hear your begging! Perhaps she will want to hear that again.”

Her fingers insinuated themselves into my slit, traced circles around my clit; around and around, a little pressure, a little teasing. I felt my breathing quicken, felt myself start to keep pace with the women in the other bed.

“But you liked it afterwards, didn’t you Cara? Your swishing excited you; Justine wasn’t that cruel!”

The images of yesterday’s swishing tumbled around my mind; the replay of the post-swishing massage caused a new wave of pleasure to build in my belly. I sank deeper and deeper into the sensations, pushing myself against Monique’s fingers, delighting in my body’s response. Her gentle sucking on my nipple resumed, her fingers flexed, applying pressure, strumming me urgently. Justine’s chocolaty breath, her compliant belly, her leg draped over mine felt like they belonged, a comfortable eider draped around my sensual self.

It was all too much, and as the waves of orgasmic pleasure rippled through my body, I heard the moans of release escape from the other bed too. I fell back limply against my pillows, resigned to my fate, accepting of my status, luxuriating in the comfort of Justine’s and Monique’s warm presence.

The Neophyte Chair

Justine and Monique led me into the dining room for breakfast at precisely two minutes before eight am. The penalty for being late, I was told, didn’t bear thinking about. We were the last of the Sisterhood to appear; all of the other ladies were standing behind their chairs, hands neatly clasped on the top of the ornately carved backrests, looking fresh and pristine in their flowing white shifts.

The setting could have come out of a page of a book on nobility; the table was laid with gleaming silverware, beams refracting through crystal glasses cast delightful little rainbows on the fresh white table cloth, silver rings encircled starched white serviettes. Light danced off the crystals in the chandelier, gentle chamber music was piped in from a hidden source.

There were four chairs vacant when we entered; the one at the head of the table was obviously for Anne-Marie. Monique directed me to the setting directly at the left of the head; she was whispered in my ear that this was the ‘Neophyte Chair’ as she took up a position at my side. The silence in the room was overwhelming and I suddenly felt a rush of nerves overcome me; Monique’s prediction of an imminent whipping rushed to the forefront of my mind.

Anne-Marie’s entrance was timed to perfection. As a maid struck a silver gong with her leather covered mallet, the door swung open and Anne-Marie walked in. Despite her charm, her very feminine deportment, her classic cream dress that could have come right out of a Victorian era boutique, her presence was powerful and in a sense, intimidating.

She greeted the ladies with a warm smile and a cordial greeting, yet her tone was measured, her enunciation was perfect. Anne-Marie projected her presence with such grace and ease, yet I had witnessed a display of sadism yesterday that had left me scared and repulsed, while at the same time, inexplicably attracted. Complex, beautiful, baffling; Anne-Marie didn’t need physical strength to project her power.

The maid servant pulled out her chair and only when she was seated did the Sisterhood make their own moves to pull out their own chairs.

I felt all eyes on me as I pulled my own chair back; the blood rushed to my face as I looked down at the seat. Under normal circumstances I would have found the seat’s surface to be interesting, perhaps a beautiful work of art in its own right; but this was the ‘Neophyte’s Chair’ and admiration for artwork was the furthest thing in my mind. I was apparently the neophyte and I didn’t quite know where to place myself; the floor did not oblige and open up to swallow me and I was left there standing and feeling a mixture of shock, trepidation and disbelief.

The seat was covered with a thick layer of glass of some sort; imagine a sparkling microwave oven glass platter turned upside down. A rough texture covered the surface, shimmering with the brilliant white light cast down from the crystal chandelier. Think of the little plastic spiked bobbles on the back of a plastic non-slip carpet runner; that is what they reminded me of. To sit on them with my already tenderized bottom was going to be an ordeal; to sit and enjoy my breakfast was going to be a stretch.

It was not, however, the threatening texture that brought the flush to my cheeks; rather it was the plug that was mounted towards the back of the seat. Not excessively large, it reminded me of the ornate glass stopper that fitted so snugly into the wine flask in my own home. The elegant curves, the flared base, the gentle taper that ended in a perfectly rounded tip. Under any other circumstances I might have been tempted to run my fingers up and down the polished surface, admiring the finish, watching the light rays spill off it’s surfaces, searching for the imperfections in the glass whilst all the while knowing that none could exist.

The purpose of this plug was all too obvious, and as I looked up and around the able, I found that all eyes were resting on me, sardonic grins and sly little smiles playing across the freshly glossed lips. My gaze settled on the seated Anne-Marie; she raised those perfectly shaped eyebrows of hers and seemed to be waiting for a response.

“It’s the Neophyte Chair; it will be yours to use and enjoy until you are formally inducted into the Sisterhood.”

I stared back at her blankly, my mind swirling, wondering how to get out of this situation without losing face. Letting one of her ladies off the hook was not the way of Anne-Marie.

There was an absolute stillness that had fallen across the room; no-one spoke, the chamber music seemed to have faded to silence. I was aware of my heart thumping in my own chest, the flush in my face and strangely enough, a stickiness that seemed to be building between my thighs.

“My dear, you will need some lubrication, of course.”

Anne-Marie continued to watch me expectantly, perhaps disappointed that I made no move. I continued to stare at her blankly.

“In the past, other neophytes…”

She looked around the room.

“…in fact, Monique was one of those I believe, ….”

Her eyes settled on Monique at my side.

“….have demonstrated their fellatio skills, you know?”

I couldn’t believe my ears; surely this wasn’t happening to me, surely Monique, who seemed so pure and wholesome, hadn’t done such a thing! I wasn’t going to kneel down in front of this audience and perform fellatio on a chair seat; mounting it afterwards with an audience would be humiliating enough.

Sensing an impasse, Anne-Marie reached into her pocket and withdrew a small tube. I looked at it as she passed it across to me; the ‘lubricant’ was a brand that I was intimately familiar with: it was toothpaste, the same brand that was available for all of the ladies to use in the Sisterhood washroom.

“Others have used this; it is readily available, easy to bring to meals and longer lasting than saliva.”

The facetiousness of her comment passed right over my head; I was in not in a receptive mood for her quips.

I took the tube with trembling hands and squeezed a liberal trail of it onto my index finger. The movement I had to make as I spread it across the plug, rubbing it up and down, being sure to cover all surfaces, was highly suggestive, though frigging a cock was the last thing I had on my mind.

With as much dignity as I could muster, I spread my skirts across the chair and pulled my panty gusset to the side. I hovered over the glass plug, my thighs straining, desperate to ensure that my entrance was accurate and my landing would be soft. The toothpaste did actually act as a lubricant, and I gently lowered myself onto the seat’s rough surface.

The eyes continued to watch me, looking for the reaction, taking a perverse pleasure in my physical and emotional distress. The seat was hard, the bobbles sharp and the flesh of my backside screamed in pain, but I was determined not to show it, desperate not to provide Anne-Marie or the Sisterhood with any of the reaction they seemed so keen to see.

“Have you ever been figged, Cara?”

It was the first time that Anne-Marie had used my name and it made me look up sharply.

“Figged? I am not sure what you mean, Anne-Marie.”

“Oh Cara! You have so much to learn here, my dear! We must give you the wonderful opportunity to experience that very soon! In the meantime, enjoy the feeling of the plug on your chair; it will provide you with just a taste of what is to come.”

The burn from the toothpaste started slowly, but minute by minute, the heat intensified. I found I had to wriggle, desperately trying to get relief. Clenching seemed to make it get hotter, relaxing made the burn penetrate deeper.

By now the girls were chatting amongst themselves and I felt Monique’s hand reach for my knee under the table cloth; a gentle pat and squeeze to let me know she was there, a gesture of friendship and comfort, a glance of compassion. I glanced at the clock on the wall and was surprised to see that it had only been a few minutes since I had mounted the plug.

Breakfast was the main meal of the day in the House of Majesta; the fresh fruits, brightly colored melons and creamy yogurts that were being enjoyed would be followed by cereals and eggs. It was a leisurely meal and the conversation was light hearted, the chatter flowed easily. Yet, I found I could not participate; my attention was riveted to my aching bottom and the unforgiving nature of those little glass bobbles that seemed to torment every nerve in my well punished posterior. To top it all, with every second that passed, the toothpaste that I had used burned hotter and hotter; the discomfort just grew and grew and grew.

“Feeling a little uncomfortable, Cara?”

Anne-Marie’s voice seemed solicitous enough, but I had come to doubt the sincerity of her compassion

“So you have not been figged yet; how about flaps? Ever been flapped?”

I shook my head despondently.

“I don’t know what that is Anne-Marie; I really am new to this all!”

“Ah! So how about this? I am prepared to let you off the chair now; perhaps tomorrow morning you will come better prepared with a more suitable lubricant. Instead, what I can offer is to flap you right now. It should be a relief not to have that plug irritating you so much.”

My ears perked up with her next remark; anything to get me out of this dreadful predicament! I was at the point where any deal she offered would have been better than the discomfort I was currently suffering. Tears of self pity were starting to trickle down my cheeks and I felt weak and humiliated in front of these ladies who just a few hours before I had imagined to be my peers. I nodded gratefully and pushed up with my straining thighs, lifting off that beastly surface, feeling a sense of relief as the plug slid free.

Nothing could be worse than the Neophyte Chair; certainly not a flapping whatever that could be!


4 thoughts on “The House of Majesta – The Neophyte Chair

  1. When I read this, it was like watching a movie! All my senses were stimulated. 🙂
    I really like to visit a place like that too!!! *sigh*
    Great writing Gail.


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