Chair For Crossed Legged Sitting Novels & Stories

“You can call me Greta.” I believe she is already testing me. There are three chairs in the seating area to choose from. One, I think, is hers, sits next to a round table with a lamp. Another bright red, over-stuffed chair takes up space directly across from her chair. The third chair is beige with a red, blue, and black plaid pattern. Red or plaid, red or plaid; I’m not sure what it says about me. I choose the plaid chair. I immediately find it stiff, causing my short legs to remain parallel to the floor. I rise, crossing over to the red chair. The over-stuffed cushions mold to my body. As I am short, my feet do not reach the tan area rug below, but my legs are not forced straight out in th

He seems to be assessing me, sizing me up like I size up a catfish before reaching down into the mud for it. After a beat, he pivots and strides toward a spigot jutting from the wall. He fills a glass jar, steps in my direction, and hands it to me. “Please, sit.” He points to a grand chair that might be a throne for the kings Mama read books about. It’s long and made of silver arms and legs and a white mattress in a seated position. It could fit a whole slew of kings. I know of furniture, since I built a table for our house, and shelves for our things, but Mama and I live simply.

This was the table of judgment. Blake remembered that this all started with him sitting on the House Leader’s Chair, still looking more like a throne than a chair. It’s high backing and seat, with a leather cushion and wooden sculptures on each end—one of an Eastern Dragon and the other of a Phoenix, both looking about to rise from the back. The arms are carved, connecting each animal using its tail. The legs were cut in the likeness of the legs of the two animals. If it weren’t for this chair, his life would have been more mundane than what it is today, and he would be none the wiser of a world of cultivation within this world.

He sits in the chair next to mine and, taking me by surprise, he grabs my chair and pulls it closer to his so they’re right up against each other. “Still too much space,” he mumbles, standing up again and pushing his chair back. He bends and lifts me into his arms. I squeak out in surprise and find myself sitting sideways in his lap, his ass now planted in the seat I was just in. “Much better,” he says, releasing a deep breath like he’s actually relieved and that the other chair had been causing him some distress or something.

"Sit there." I hesitated only a second before lowering myself into it. The leather was warm from his body. It felt intimate, wrong in the best way. He stood over me, towering, then slowly rolled the chair back a little so there was space between me and the desk. "Spread your legs, Theressa. Wide open. Put your heels on the edge of the seat."

When he didn't move or say anything, I lifted one knee, sliding it between his thigh and the arm of the chair. I felt victorious when he moved his leg to make room for me. His hand grabbed my hip, holding me steady as I pulled my other knee onto the chair and straddled him.

Wide cuffs were built into the arms and legs, positioned so whoever sat there would be held open, exposed without effort. Beneath the seat, there was an open frame that exposed your bu.tt area — making it clear the chair wasn’t just about restraint, but access. I swallowed, my pulse thudding hard as my eyes traced its lines. Julian gestured for me to enter, which I did. He turned the key in place the moment we were inside, the sound a finality that made my heart stop briefly.

“We do, but we don’t encourage it. Like i said ma’am, our equipment needs specifications to function at their utmost best. We do have others that don’t necessarily need these specifications, but they’re few.” “Can I see them?” I pressed, she looked behind me then. “They’re on our left.” she gestured, making me turn too. Roman already standing in front of the left equipment rows. No word from him all these while. “The St. Andrew’s cross will be just the one without specifications. Alongside the bondage chair, restraint tables, queening chair…so on.” Hmm. The queening chair. I moved towards it a little. Taking a full look at the normal, comfortable looking chair, but with a large gaping hole u

Which, worried me even more than someone who didn't know Danny at all. I didn't notice the chair across from me was pulled out while I was in my own head, until the girl let out a long-winded sigh. She sat down confidently, crossing one black tight-clad leg over the other. She pulled at the waistband of her shorts, and made herself comfortable.

(Hint: Anita Pallenberg as the One-eyed Wench. Once I was undressed I got on my reclining seat/bench, it was adjustable but the initial position was reclining at about a 45 degree angle. It was a minimal reclining chair, it was narrow, and had no sides except at the torso. It was designed to allow a woman, on a second intersecting chair, to recline while impaled.