"The last part."
"Yours." I met his eyes, letting him see the truth there. "Completely. Willingly. Yours."
"My perfect girl." He kissed me, soft and deep, reward for honesty. "Ready to show me how perfect?"
"Yes, Daddy."
He led me to the chair, movements careful and reverent. "This works on a simple principle. Polite phrases trigger rewards. The more sincere, the more intense the response. Understand?"
"I understand."
"Good. Now, undress for me. Slowly."
I complied, making a show of it. Not because he demanded it but because I wanted to. Wanted to watch his eyes track each revealed inch of skin, wanted to feel desired and owned and treasured all at once. The nightgown pooled at my feet, followed by the simple cotton panties that were already damp with anticipation.
"Beautiful," he breathed, then shook his head as if clearing it. "In the chair now. Let me position you."
The seat was warm—heated, I realized. Everything about it designed for extended sessions. He arranged me carefully, legs spread and secured to the stirrups that held me open, arms resting on padded supports that left me displayed but comfortable.
Straps came next. Not harsh or hurried but methodical. Across my thighs, my waist, my chest above and below my breasts. Each one snug but not painful, holding me in place while allowing minute movements. By the time he finished, I couldn't close my legs, couldn't hide, couldn't do anything but exist in the position he'd chosen.
"How does that feel?"
"Secure," I answered honestly. "Safe."
"Good. Now, the interesting part."
He produced what looked like a small earpiece, tucking it carefully in place. Immediately, soft white noise filled my hearing—not unpleasant, just present. Blocking out distractions, narrowing my world to his voice when he spoke.
"The chair responds to your words," he explained, moving to a control panel I hadn't noticed. "But also to your tone. Sincerity matters. False politeness gets nothing. Real submission gets everything. Understand?"
"Yes, Daddy."
A gentle vibration pulsed between my legs—brief but promising. I gasped, understanding flooding through me. The chair had responded to my words. To the easy way 'Daddy' rolled off my tongue now.
"Very good." He settled in a chair positioned for optimal viewing. "Now, we begin. Tell me how you're feeling."
"Exposed," I said, then thought better. "But not bad exposed. Just... aware. Of every inch of skin. Of how you're looking at me. Of how much I want—"
Another pulse, stronger this time. Reward for honesty.
"Want what?"
"Want to be good for you." The words came without thought. "Want to please you. Make you proud."
This time the vibration lasted longer, building gradually before fading. I found myself arching slightly, chasing the sensation, but the restraints held me perfectly still.
"You are good for me." His voice through the earpiece felt intimate, like he was speaking directly to my soul. "Tell me what else you are."
"I'm..." I licked my lips, searching for words that would earn another reward. Not calculating—just wanting to give him truth. "I'm yours. Your experiment. Your subject. Your good girl who wants to learn everything you'll teach me."
The chair came alive. Multiple points of stimulation—vibration, pressure, something that felt like tongues but couldn't be—all working in concert to build pleasure that made thought difficult. But just as I approached the edge, it stopped.
"Thank the chair," he instructed.
"Thank you," I gasped.
Nothing.
