Fuck your sofa?

(Gotta start somewhere, y'know?)

By your reaction to the cardboard box, you're afraid to take your eyes away from it for fear of being drawn in by anything else. Investigating further is no longer a viable option under your bending willpower, you're so horny you can't help it. Part of you wants to edge, another wants to fill condoms with massive loads that wouldn't be humanly possible. You half expect yourself to sprout wings and fuck a skyscraper by the intensity alone. You couldn't possibly have the time to satisfy every specific craving for release.

It's the box! It has to be the box! Your whole body is shaking looking at the damn thing, and those kink cards are the catalyst spurring you on to indulge in fetishes you weren't even aware of. Maybe it's the goddamn hand-lotion swapped out to smuggle some intense aphrodisiac?! Ha ha. The results show that you could market that stuff to compete against Viagra.

You stumble back onto your couch, a single leathery touch causing a slew of perverse scenarios spiraling into other more perverted scenarios. Suddenly you imagine your dick sliding between the rolls of leather between each cushion, and your pants come off. You can't really discern fiction from reality in this state, an expectant fervor roiling the perceived outcome. Your couch is not going to turn into a beautiful woman (or man), it's not going to moan your name incoherently while in the throes of ecstasy no matter how badly you want it to. Every metaphorical corner you turn, only by logic you can course-correct that your world is not going to shift into some absurdist playground to get your rocks off; and even logic was beginning to fail. It's a couch, and you're turned on by it.

"Oh, okay! I'm doing this?"

You mount the back rest and shove your dick into the cushion's crevices. Stark naked with the backdrop of an unobscured window to the street below, and no shame to your mind as you plow that leather fuck sofa; it's a good lay. You caress it's sideboard, the dimpled upholstery and play with one of its decorative buttons. Engorged in it's interior alongside lint and spare change, you shutter while reaching down to stroke it's tapering square legs, and fluff of its gliders sticking out beneath.

The leather drags subtly on your tongue as you lick across it. It's seams like a gutter for your pre to be absorbed into the foamy loft. You squinch your eyes and moan, wracked in the pleasure each cushion is causing an unlikely squeezing to your dick. As if moving on it's own to service you completely, utterly, fully. You speed up, mostly for yourself but you can't shake the feeling your desires have underlying empathy. You are turned on by the connection as well. Emotion itself and the feelings for the moment. Your silly monkey brain is getting choked up - and aroused - by all the times you and your couch have had together.

Why didn't you fuck your sofa sooner? This is delightful! The mentions of your past hold that it's always been there for you. Since the Sunday it was delivered off the truck, to the countless days of holding your plate on it's arm rest, often while sharing the space with your friends over. You imagine the times your sofa may have favored your friends on occasion, perhaps wooed by the butt print Tony, or Skye had left. You're ready to burst just thinking about how your sofa may have been unfaithful to you.

(Cough)

You cum, but it's a mixed bag as you wish you'd have edged yourself on its upholstery, or not have cummed at all. Being a human was hot! Being a human was degrading, and degradation was hot! You're having a hard time keeping it straight in your head...