TigerEatsCow

Sink your teeth into me, James. Put your dick between my cushion breasts and just pump, pump, pump until you churn your milk all over my insides, you silly Cabbage Patch Baby Faced Bitch! Yeah that’s right, James, you flabby mouthed fuck, get your tongue all up in here, yeah, rub it alllll over me. You know how many farts and how much sweat has accumulated all up in my cushions? Yeah, I’m so wet for you with the oils of passed buttholes, all powerful men, who have kinks just like you. You wanna think about how big and powerful you are, JD? Stand behind me and kick me with your polishes shoes, UNH, YEAH, RIGHT THERE DADDY! YEAH, YEAHHHH!

JD awoke with a start, sweating. This was the third time this month. Things were getting out of hand. He had to do something. 

He had not prayed. He had gone to the church, out of habit, but had not sought out the pastor, no hail Marys, no asking in the name of Jesus for forgiveness. 

What was to forgive? There wasn’t really a god – not really – and the only thing between him and the couch in that damn office was a god forsaken moment of peace, of alone-ness. You never really get alone time anymore, do you, he asked himself in the mirror, his wife asked him at breakfast, spinning a spoon in her tea. The clinking annoyed him to no end. I wish I were alone, he’d think. 

Alone was when men got things done. Alone was where all the beautiful secrets were kept. 

Alone was where he found himself, finally, one night. And he dreamed about her, of her, with her. 

Beth has been alive for over thirty summers. She’s watched the seasons pass from the three windows like a slow and terrible symphony: buzzing in the spring, dribbled with water and bubbles in the summer, the shortest twing for fall, and a winter that feels like violin strings breaking in half, and lasts for about that long, too. 

The light from the sun might have bleached her skin and caused her to look old and withered now, but at least she’s still getting some attention. Being thirty seemed like a rock. A stopping point in her life, a time where her youth was spent and the dust gathered under her heels. Every time she moved, her age moved with her. 

Clothing has been her one way of concealing the creaks in her bones. She’s draped herself in velvets, cottons, linens, all of the best variety, to blend in with the other parts of where she works. The carpet that her heels dig into is lush even if it’s been trampled by feet and oiled by polish and pets. The walls are done up in a tasteful navy; not too bright, not too lapis lazuli, but masculine and strong.

That’s why she hated her last two bosses, actually. Beth had been used to being surrounded by strong men, and these last three had been disrespectful, and barely noticed her– in that order. Former boss #1 kept a mini fridge of ice cream sandwiches stocked in his office and always licked his hands before sorting through papers. He’d fart in her presence constantly, and often right on top of her as she took silent notes of his conversations– phone, in person, and sometimes even when he’d whittle words to himself. Still, he was a man, which was what she was used to. 

The guy before that was named Mike, and he was solid enough. She didn’t notice much about him. He was a quiet type to ruffle through papers and call his grandkids at the same time, on the dot, at 4:30 PM on a Thursday. He kept to himself, though, and was so shockingly quiet that Beth wished to catch a quick glance of his notes, always splayed out on the clunky desk, always in perfect alignment with pens, paperweights, and photos. At rare times he’d mumble passages from those papers, close his eyes, and sigh as the weight of the words rumbled through him. Well, maybe not rumble. Flow over him. There was no rumble to this man. He was like a wave that barely crashed when it touched the shore. He was a breath of a wave. If Beth was being honest, something about him was off, but he was so quiet and boring you’d never guess it– unless, like Beth, you were constantly around him. Which she was. That was her job: notice. Quietly. And she’d been good at it for decades. 

The worst guy? A woman, who was everything Beth had been brought up to believe a woman should not be. First off, she sat at the clunky desk. No woman had done that before, even the wives (sometimes they’d perch on the side of the clunky desk, but that was it, really). Secondly, she wore pants. Beth had been brought up differently, her body always covered, her legs barely exposed. Did women have legs? If so, she had been taught to only show her ankles. Third, her woman-boss would take off her shoes and pace. Constantly. There was a lot of pacing, a lot of hand movements. The men had always been confident, but the woman-boss had been lacking. She’d doubt, and ask questions, and pace. She’d spend extra hours hunched over a tablet, or a giant binder, and she’d flip through it and scratch it with her pen, and then turn to someone near her. And those pen scratches were the worst. When pen hit paper, the office was silent. Just skriiiiitch scraaaaatch, and then in summer the overwhelming blurting sounds of the overused air conditioner. She kept the office at 72, exactly, always. 

But the worst part was that Beth had been doing her job for 30 years, and the minute woman-boss came in, Beth was invisible. Woman boss never used Beth or asked her about her skillset. It was always desk, desk, desk, or pace, pace, pace. Sometimes when the husband would come in, he’d acknowledge Beth, which was nice, but woman-boss never did. Woman-boss was always too busy scratching pen to paper. Beth decided it was because woman-boss was old, and Beth was younger. Woman-boss was clearly jealous of Beth. Maybe that’s why she kept the windows open in the summer: so that the sun would drench Beth’s beautiful colors and turn them into more wrinkles and sun-spots. Luckily woman-boss was out after only four years, and when she left she looked not just actively defeated but miserable. She’d cried quite a few times. Beth had tasted those tears once or twice. Deep breaths, salt water, rubbing at her temples. It was somewhat nice to take in her pain. Even if it wasn’t ladylike. Even if it wasn’t hers.

Then, her new boss came in. When he did, he brought children: three. One of the three threw a charming doll towards her the first time he came in, and Beth caught it for him. He giggled, ran over, and then greeted her as everyone had for three decades. 

The children delighted Beth. They acknowledged her, climbed all over her, and were shepherded by a very pretty woman with gleaming nails and dark hair who Beth knew was their mother. Her smile was bashful, and she seemed kind, never exhausted. And she wore skirts and dresses. Thank god. She probably listened to her fantastic spouse, too. That was what Beth was used to. 

But used to is never stagnant; always moved- and this new boss was a movement towards new things. He was anything like the others. One thing Beth had not noticed about them, until her newest boss came, was that the others were old. Their skin wrinkled. Their hands drooped and veined in places Beth didn’t like to acknowledge. Sometimes, oftentimes, they smelled. Their hair was usually white, or greying, and devoid of vibrant chestnuts or beautiful black coils, or even straightness that gleamed like oil stains under the light. But new boss was like Beth: plump, smooth, and closer to her age. New Boss’ hair was chestnut brown, and though there was some gray near his ears, it had barely flowed to the other creases of his face. New boss was, like Beth, somewhat sun-warn, but mostly beautiful.

And, as the weeks passed, Beth noticed something that delighted her, that filled her with stars and striped her insides with glitter: new boss noticed her. Actually noticed her. 

New boss would sit at his desk like the others, but often his glance would fall on her, and his glassy blue orbs would penetrate her soul for just a minute before he’d retreat his gaze, stare out the window, and sigh. Sometimes, New Boss would remove his suit jacket, and the sweat from his back and armpits would hover in the air, the smell musty and manly, soothing Beth’s nerves. A real man. One in his prime. 

When he wasn’t looking, Beth would stare at his face all day. New Boss was so much like she was: small beaded features, supple body, strong brows. His body was round, but not unfit, and Beth snatched these moments when she could feel the firmness of his buttcheeks grace her body. They were always in slacks, sure, but they were so much less bony than her previous three bosses. There was no smoothness or softness to those bosses: but New Boss’ rump and body were deliciously dad-like. Not too fatty, not too bony, not too soft: the perfect amount of plumpness. New Boss was comfortable around her, and she more than comfortable around him. His stares enamored her soul and made her insides feather. Butterflies are what some people called it. But he made her feel like she was a bird on fire, with nothing but a lingering gaze.

His name was James, and she was absolutely in love with him. 

Beyond love. Beth knew, within days, it was lust. 

Intense, hungering lust. 

And it was also forbidden, because although they had not returned for many weeks, she remembered the three children and the wife. James would never be hers, she told herself. He’d never sink his naked body on top of her plumpness; he’d never caress her arms with one finger and whisper sweet nothings towards her when all the others had left. He had a wife. It couldn’t be so. But she secretly wished it to be. 

Spring came, and passed, and her pining grew as the buds did on the trees. The windows were splattered with rain, the papers were shuffled on big clunky desk, but his gaze never ceased. That handsome, strong linger. Sometimes he’d anger at one of the other workers, and the veins on his face would bulge ever so slightly. Turn a beautiful reddish color like the clay that made up American mountains. How beautiful that red would look upon the dark blue satin Beth had dressed herself in these past few weeks? She imagined the satin cover she wore hitting the floor like raindrops, as James tore it off of her feather-body and released himself into her softness. And the stares? Burning. No matter who was in his office, he’d stare. And she’d stare back, breathless (well, she couldn’t breathe, but the thought was what mattered). 

It was getting to be too much for her. Beth pulsed with what desire she could muster for him. Her wooden foundation and short legs ached for his soft, naked mole rat body to rush into a passionate embrace with her. In her daze she’d often liken the rain’s pellets hitting the building to tears. Tears which she could never shed for James. 

It could never be. It never would be. How could a man– powerful, navy-suited, chestnut-haired– love Beth? How could a man love a couch? And a thirty year old couch at that. Beth was no longer spry. Her insides were aged with rust, her outsides oiled from butts of the past. Fart molecules were surely trapped in her crevices. She was nothing compared to him. No beating heart lay in her chest, and no tunnel lay between her legs.

But then that one night came. It was late. What little yellow light of the lamp caressed the smoothness of James’ face Beth noticed, attentively. And James noticed her, as always. He was so punctual. So straight-edged. A relic from the good parts of the past. As he stared, right at her cushions, his breathing increased, furiously. A bead of sweat dripped from his temple, past the crevice of his eye, and he wiped it away with the edge of his suit jacket. 

And then he stood up, moving towards Beth. Suddenly, he was aware of a fiery crack shooting up his loins as he eyed her supple velvet. She was beautiful, he finally admitted. What little light hit her danced in shadows, creating movement amidst fabric folds. It was a symphony. James could no longer fight it. It leapt like a toad escaping the hands of a small child, screeched like a siren. She was there, kneeling, ready for him, the curve of her wooden ankle-joints like the back of a human woman. How smooth and polished the wood, even with its chips. Like skin, or olive oil, or stream water, it glistened when the sun shone on it. 

Without knowing, he came towards her, sensing the forlorn and the mute inside of her, all the desire she could not bear and could not bury. He was the same. 

Without truly knowing himself, or his actions, he gave into desire and passion. An invisible sheath slipped from his body, a cover coming off of a couch, the daring of a man brazen with lust and ready for his conquest. Oh, how he flamed for her, like a campfire, smiting against the raw floor of wilderness. He laid a finger on her arm, softly, gently. Dragging it down, he caressed her beautiful satin skin, feeling himself burst. Gently he felt the rise in his trousers, the stiffness against those cotton briefs. 

No one was coming. He knew this. If he admitted to himself he’d sent them away to have this moment with her, it would be the end of his career. Quickly, he stopped his caress, thinking of the dazzling gold and silver of awards, and hustled towards the windows. 

She was brimming with desire before this sudden lurch around her, and every part of Beth dropped like a bullet from a surgeon’s hand into a steel tub of sadness as he went behind her and shuffled the curtains closed. For a second, she guessed his love had wavered. 

But no. She was wrong: for he must keep this love a secret, a dirty secret, he thought, and no one would know. Soon after he had covered every window in the office, he returned to her once again. His dirty girl. 

Staring at her, he once again crouched down towards those cushions and buried his face in one, lapping up every scent stored within her. Scents from good old fashioned Cheney. From batshit Biden. From Mike. From the woman who came after them. He closed his hand softly on her upper arm, and then bent down as he grasped the satin cloth which held her together, ran fingers across the fine stitching and seams which gave her that shape– that wonderful, round shape. At last, Beth felt the soft kiss of his lips on her body. 

She lay quiet, still, unbelieving, as he gently guided his mouth all over her, licking the cushions so many asses had quietly tormented with stink; he loved every part of her, nonetheless. Oils danced around his nose and satin filled his nostrils like the sweetest Parisian perfumerie. Mystery and seduction entered his soul, not quietly, but with a bang: a maestro’s cacophony. 

And then she heard his hand guide down to his pant zipper, and she could feel him stroke himself against her. The passion uprooted into her and into him, a fantasy long held, a boundary breached. All her shame smelt out as he lowered himself inside her. As the must of his manhood grazed her cushions, and he pushed his pulsating sausage into her cushion-breast, the crevices between cushions, Beth felt everything at once. 

It was pure, hot, white pleasure for him. He spit onto his hand, then covered his pink cucumber to make it more comfortable, though she was softer than he expected. And as he entered her again with intense movement, he pulled his pants down, fully clothed except for the cock that slid in and out of her, and the buttcheeks on display, like firm melons. 

Was this real, she asked herself? Was any of it real? Did she imagine it– the sweat dripping from his hair, the wetness of his body clutching onto her. Heat rose as he continued pulsing into her softness. She had never felt so seen, so beautiful, so alive, so woman. This was unlike the intimacy of anything before. Though people would lay their hands and head on her, prop their feet up, speak secrets no one knew, it was nothing compared to James. 

The couch creaked under his thrusts as they became violent, and she noticed he’d pushed her backwards in his pleasure. It was nothing, he’d put her back. She was his for the taking, his for the taking, he said, and he thrust into her. Yeah, you like that, he said to her, you want this cock inside you? You want me to bust into these cushions?

He didn’t notice the tears, the burning in his dick, the feathers sliding around him. He was so strong, so vivacious, that he didn’t notice as the couch pushed against the table, and the table fell, and the lamp crashed, and the glass splattered like vomit on the ground. All he heard was her. 

Yes, yes! She cried. She longed for this intimacy to never stop, for him to spill out into her entirely, claim her as his, and finally, with one large lurch, he let out an unbelievable screech, followed by three short high-pitched screams, and she felt his member lurch to a halt, then spill every content of himself in between her. Her insides were covered, and she wished he could squirt them into sticky oblivion. But alas! Pleasure is a quick errand, and he soon lay down, his body relaxed and peaceful, on top of her. 

It was like this for minutes. Beth felt his mouth turn up in the curve of a smile as he lay, their bodies woven together in the tapestry of all things. Did he love her? She did not know. But she knew that this moment was perfect: as she felt the wet white stuff drip and seep into her cushions, she felt truly new. Desired, noticed, answered. 

When he pulled out of her, stuffed his wilted thing back into his pants, pulled them up, and then hitched the zipper, she felt her happiness lift off. He took two tissues from his desk, swiped the seed away, and then sat down at the desk, licking his lips.

The damage was pretty bad: one broken lamp, scuffs on the floor from the table. The couch cushions had been ripped at their seems, from both his fingernails and his ferocious fucking. A vase had also fallen down from somewhere. The rug was out of place. 

He picked up the phone on his desk to call someone and fix it for him.