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I nudged the handle gently with my foot, and as I turned it like a jack-in-the-box, the dildo bobbed up and down. The mechanics on this thing must be incredible. The toy looked fun too. “Dude, you have a sex chair in your basement that doesn’t exist.” If it was wrong to be torn between wanting to preserve this piece and wanting to try it out, I didn’t want to be right.
I’d been staying with Deacon since I lost my workshop and apartment in a fire two or three months ago, and I loved seeing all the weird things that came through here. But this blew it all out of the water. Even before the sex chair, but especially now. “What else is down here?”
“Let’s find out.” Deacon turned toward the next shape, but Brooke didn’t move. “Are you all right?” When he rested a hand on her arm, she jumped and tore her gaze from the chair.
“I’m fine. Totally. I just… Why are there straps on the arms?”
I swallowed my laugh. She was serious. “Some people like being restrained when they’re being fucked.”
“Like with handcuffs. To the bed. With a partner. I understand that.” Brooke was staring at the chair again. “But…”
“The box doesn’t work by itself. It’s possible there wasn’t electricity when it was made,” Deacon said.
Brooke continued to stare. The long shadows of the dim light exaggerated the rise and fall of her chest, as her breath came out faster. She looked fascinated, rather than disgusted.
I couldn’t fathom being so naive, but I also didn’t fault her for it. Since this was an afternoon of wagers, I was willing to bet five bucks Deacon would take this opportunity to hit on her. Again.
Not that I minded watching that back and forth. I wasn’t interested in balancing a relationship along with the fucked-up-ness I was dealing with in my head, but I was still male and liked a good show. Their interactions tookslow burnto a whole new level, and the anticipation was both entertaining and delicious to watch.
Brooke finally tore her gaze away from the seat. “We should see what else is down here. I’m not sure I could find a place for a piece like that in my living room.”
My laugh slipped out this time. “Was that a consideration?”
“It is if I get first pick of what’s down here.” She’d shaken off her fixation.
It was a good thing I’d only bet myself.
Deacon moved on to a longer, shorter sheet-covered piece next. He was more careful unveiling it, which kept the dust to a minimum. The furniture underneath was almost a fainting couch, but the seat flowed up in a gentle curve, instead of being flat. Almost the perfect shape for twisting someone into all sorts of interesting, furniture-assisted fucking positions.
Deacon spent a few minutes examining it, and determined it was probably as old as it looked, and in excellent condition, considering it had been hidden away down here for who knew how long.
We moved on to other pieces, trying to follow some sort of line toward the end of the light. Most of them were like the fainting couch—possibly benign, but possibly with other purposes. Like the benches that weren’t the right height, width, or shape for sitting or resting one’s feet on.
“We’ll be here all night if we keep doing big reveals on these things,” Deacon said. “Everybody grab a sheet.”
We did. I uncovered a chair. Not a sexy mysterious one with straps or a hole in the middle. As far as I could tell, it was just a wooden chair. It didn’t look very comfortable, so maybe if pain was someone’s kink…
Which it was for me, and I still wouldn’t sit there. Really it was just a chair.
Deacon uncovered a wooden chest. That would be fun to take a peek inside.
But Brooke scored. She was standing in front of a wooden slab almost as tall as her but tilted at an angle. There were definitely straps on this one, and the gear system on the bottom made it look like both angle of board and strap position were adjustable. And there was a hole right about where the face would go if one were leaned against it on their chest.
“Holy shit. It’s a Berkley horse.” The awe in Deacon’s voice matched my excitement.
I didn’t know the term. “A what, now?”
“I’m so glad I’m not the only one who doesn’t understand,” Brooke said.
I was pretty sure I understood the device, just not what Deacon called it.
“Allow me to explain and demonstrate.” Deacon reached for Brooke’s hand. “Early 1800’s, there was this dominatrix named Theresa Berkley who needed a device that made torture more fun.”
He coaxed her to lean forward, her face where it belonged.
“So it’s not like an ancient massage chair?” Brooke’s laugh was nervous, and her voice husky.
“Not quite.” Deacon pressed close behind her, to slide his hands along her arms, raising them as he moved. “Wrists are restrained here.” He didn’t strap her in, but she stayed in position when he pulled away. He wedged her feet apart with his. “Ankles are bound as well, and bottoms come down.”
