The Couch Afffaire

You don't see much about my fetish online. You can google 'old fat lesbians crapping in fetish gear' and find it within two sites. You can find midget sex and girls being fucked by huge Technicolor dildos attached to stainless steel perpetual motion machines reminiscent of Jules Verne. But nowhere to be found is furniture frotteurism. It's slightly disconcerting to a person when they realize their sexual habits cannot be found by even the most perverted.

There are references to it on psychology and sexology sites, and an experienced internet researcher can find poorly edited stories where it's mentioned, but only in reference to physical frustration; i.e. 'I haven't been laid in so long, I'm about to fuck the furniture!" This remark seems an anomaly to my way of thinking. Why not fuck the furniture? I do. I don't mean stick one of those ridiculously large vibrating dildos with a suction cup bottom on the seat of a wooden chair and ride; even though that can be great fun...

What I'm talking about means putting on a satin thong, (satin glides across all kinds of upholstery) and mounting the arm of a couch. Then carefully hitch up your knees until they are bent at just the right angle, and tilt your hips until your weight is carefully distributed over the front of your clit and lips. If you settle just right, when you start to grind, the satin will absorb the brutality of the nubby friction and transfer the sweet rub right through so you feel nothing but the need for more. It always takes a minute or two before I get the rhythm and stance right. That's part of my masturbatory foreplay. I don't touch my tits or play with my nipples. I simply readjust and replace my pubis over and over. By then, I'm so turned on, that it starts to feel right, even if I'd just positioned myself the same way moments before.

My legs hold most of my weight, or else I'd end up with a fast, huge orgasm, and a bruised and sore pelvic bone. Before I'd discovered the satin thong method, I'd just wear cotton panties. My vulva would be unbearably sensitive for days afterward. I would be barely able to walk, let alone wear lingerie or even pants.

My calves feel taught and burn and my hamstrings protest over their duty. But I don't care. My hips flex and bunch as I writhe and grind. I hold on to the back of the couch and rub as fast or as slow as I want. Sometimes I'll stop myself short once or twice, then I finally let myself come so hard that once I actually made my nose run.

When I first started this\habit, I was very small. I remember being dandled on a relative's knee, and it felt really good. Later, I found rubbing myself felt kind of the same, but took a lot of effort and I was too sensitive there to do it long. I finally found my perfect masturbatory tool several years later by accident.

I have a large family. We had little money and couldn't afford a lot of furniture. One day, I got to the living room just after our favorite TV show started. There was no room for me on the couch, so I straddled the arm. Immediately I felt an urge to rub my hairless corduroy and cotton crotch against it. I moved as often as I could, but discreetly, my instincts told me my mom would freak if she knew what I was doing. In secret, I would frott the arm of the couch as fast and as often as I could in complete silence. I'd control my breathing unless I was positive I was alone in the house. Sometimes I would climax just as I heard someone entering the room. I'd disguise my gasping breath and trembling body with a false coughing fit.

Several months later my mother caught me at my habit on a Saturday morning. My siblings were on the floor watching cartoons as I was embracing my stuffed lover, rocking in silent ecstasy. I was so close to climax that I didn't hear her come down the hall. She called me by my first and middle name and dragged me into her room where we had 'the talk'. By now I was vaguely aware of what fucking was. It was the early eighties and sex was all over TV, I'd heard talk about it at school and I once accidentally entered their room when dad was going at her. I didn't see anything but a blanket covered lump rocking back and forth, but I knew they were up to something that only adults did. I watched curiously for a moment, and was vaguely excited by their noises and movement and immediately headed for the arm of the couch. As I rubbed against it I was quiet, and strained to hear the sounds they made.

She explained the mechanics of sex and said that what I had been doing was not 'nice' and only animals had that lack of self-control. I didn't understand why, but I knew that she desperately wanted me to agree. So I lied. I quietly promised not to do it anymore. By now I realized that what I was doing felt so good that I wasn't ever going to stop. I just had to make sure I wouldn't get caught again. I was careful and silent. But I craved it, and whenever I had the chance, I would make love to that couch. As I got older I tried other furniture, like the vanity bench in my bedroom. Sometimes, when I was really feeling exhibitionist and horny, I even managed to do it in the back of the classroom on the edge of my desk chair. I think I once caught a classmate watching. At the moment of noiseless fulfillment, I didn't care. Who would she tell, and what would she say?

Through roommates and lovers, even after a failed marriage and small children, I managed to keep my secret for years. No one found out. Then I met my fiancé.

When I first met him, I thought he'd be a total stick in the mud. Then I fucked him on our first date. He was a closet pervert. I'd never met a man that voluntarily licked my ass without coaching. I don't mean he just gave love to the cheeks. He dived in there and set up camp for 20 minutes. He made beautiful wet noises like a glutton immersed in a buffet. When he finally had his fill, his chin was damp from the juices of my neglected pussy. Without so much as a warning I was on my back and he was feasting on my clit with an exquisite softness and sweet finesse that only men who'd watched real lesbians would know how to do. I came more times than I can remember, and for the first time I had an orgasm during penetration with a guy that I had never slept with before.

He's a skilled lover and a wonderful man. I fell madly in love with him and in less than a year we were engaged. I love him more than I have any of my previous male or female lovers. I even fantasized about him pounding me relentlessly while I masturbated against our furniture. This made my secret moments even hotter, because our sex was so amazing. It would be stellar if I could combine the two. But I was scared. For the first time, I was considering giving up my fetish. I didn't want anything to ruin this relationship. I was more than willing to give up this one thing for him. I managed to keep off the furniture for several months after we moved in together. We were having regular sex, so the edge of my appetite remained honed, but never sharpened to the razor edge of desperation...until the dry spell.

It was nothing major, he and I both had very stressful work projects come up and we were either too tired or had no time for sex. After two weeks work went back to normal, but then I had an unnaturally brutal menstrual period. I was cramping so bad, that sex with a towel on the bed wasn't even an option. But still I wanted an orgasm.

I finally understood my mother's defense of her nicotine addiction. I wondered if I could find a support group for this? So I went online and found nothing. Was there nothing anywhere to help? I couldn't even live vicariously through mpegs because there were none. The fruitless searching just magnified my desperation. Was I so alone in this need?

In the end I broke. My period ended, but he got a terrible cold. After three days of nursing him, he finally looked better. I knew it would still be a few days before we had sex though. One afternoon I put him to bed with an aspirin and a sweet caress on his brow. Within three minutes I had my satin panties on and was astride our second hand furniture. Since I had been divorced and spent much of my time alone, I had relaxed my stringent silence habits. I had unlearned the breath control, and no longer shoved my face into the cushions to stifle an escaped whimper. That habit died in a solitary howling orgasm in my first apartment, and today I forgot I wasn't alone.

It had been so long since I had felt this complete rush. No discomfort, no worrying about someone else's pleasure, just my own body arching and rubbing.

It felt so good that I lost my peripheral awareness. I started to moan and mewl and sob. I came quickly and rushed into the orgasm, zooming right through, not stopping or even slowing. I knew it was just an instinctive reaction. My body had been denied for too long and it wasn't about to pass up this opportunity. That orgasm had just been a minor blip on my pleasure monitor. My entire weight was resting on the couch and I wasn't heeding the chafing on my inner thighs. I was riding so hard the couch was voicing its thoughts of my heedless passion with creaks and groans. It started to bang against the wall that hid my lover's eyes from my spectacular plummet off of the wagon. I could feel this second orgasm building steam...it was taking a little longer, but the tension was spreading and taking over my crotch, my thighs...all the way to my arched foot. I could feel it gathering in my quivering cheeks and rippling up my neck and scalp until I could feel it in the strands of my hair.

I was unaware of the noises coming from my throat. They weren't the sweet trills of a lover's cry. They were the harsh guttural sounds of a feral animal following its basic instinct. My teeth were clenched as tight as my fisted hands that were pulling on the faded floral print. I was oh so close, I was at the top, and I hovered...

From the corner of my eye I saw movement. As I crashed into a messy raucous detonation I locked eyes with my fiancé. His mouth was agape and his hand was on his rock solid cock. The last twitches of my body released him and he shot cum all over our antique coffee table. I guess he likes furniture too.

********

Today we went to the store to pick up a new couch. I've been a little rough on the old one. Since I realized that I never have to keep my fetish a secret from him, I told him about my fantasy of him fucking me while I am rubbing. We tried it with our couch, but the height is all wrong.

The stores were all crammed full of miniature living rooms that tried to look tasteful and organized but are actually a clash of styles and colors.

I wandered through the store and discreetly leaned against an arm or two. They were either too wide or too square or too low. We headed to the back where the bigger pieces of furniture were arranged. It's all large and mostly leather, designed for a man's study or library. It was sumptuous and elegant. He followed me, all the while keeping an eye out for the vulturous salesmen.

I asked him about one that seemed to be a good height. It's dark brown chenille. I glanced at the large sample book. I told him we could stick with the color, but chenille would crush easily and would be completely ruined after only a few trysts on its perfectly curving sides. I pushed my pelvis against it. It was slightly higher than my waist. I would need a stool or something on one side then I could rest my other knee on the cushion. I whispered to him to stand closer and breathlessly I swung my leg over. He pushed up against my ass; I could feel his hard dick. It felt like he had been imagining me fucking all of the furniture. This was it! I couldn't help it. I started to fantasize about him inside me and I began to grind.

We were partially hidden by a painted Japanese screen. My body was way ahead of me. Already I was close to climax. I begged him softly to unleash his cock. Little did I know it was already in his hand. He tore one side of my thong as he fumbled it out of the way. My body sucked him in and would not leg go as I leaned forward and grasped the wooden ball on the back corner of the couch. I used my arms for leverage because my left leg didn't reach the ground. I pushed and pulled and felt him pound me from behind. We were quiet but not without sound. Anyone who stood very still would be able to hear the wet sounds of passionate sex over the tinny muzak. I grunted quietly as I came. He knew it, could feel it and he lost control. He jerked and shook, flooding me with more cum then I've ever held.

We were just dismounting when a salesman coughed discreetly.

My skirt fluttered down demurely. I pressed my legs together to prevent the sticky moisture inside me from sliding down my legs along with the precariously dangling thong. I flicked a glance at my fiancé. His shirt hung down low enough to cover most of his open fly. I wondered how much the salesman had seen.

We bought the unit from him. Neither one of us argued when he told us we had to take that unit or when he charged us double for the upholstery change.