The Fetish Dictionary takes one sexual “philia” and explores it through a short fictional scenario. This week’s word is…
“Human furniture is a form of bondage and sexual objectification in which a person’s body is incorporated into a chair, table, cabinet or other pieces of furniture.” (Source)
Am I the richest woman in the city? Yes, I think that I am. But I’m not certain, so I ask my chair.
“Am I the richest woman in the city?”
I have one of those humdrum cocktail parties with a gang of nouveau riche tonight. It’s best to unwind before a lot of cocktails and small talk, to prepare the body and moisturize the face. I fix my hair into a dark pile of curls, spray it with something expensive, and then step back to assess. Perfection is a pile of dark hair and a crisp swish of red lipstick.
My boudoir is dim and warm, perfect for the furniture. Rhett and Mike never complain about the temperature, of course. They are there to please me. Their backs are straight and strong, their flesh is hot to the touch just the way that I like it. Ankles are tied to ankles, wrists to wrists. Rhett is my chair, and Mike is my table.
I pour myself a crystal goblet of champagne, full to the brim with pink bubbly stuff. Now I place it onto Mike’s back to see if he can be a very good piece of furniture, straight and still. Not a single drop of the pink liquid is spilled. This is the only thing he is good at. He is a waste of muscle and flesh otherwise. He should be grateful that I discovered his purpose, his only skill.
“Don’t even breathe, you scum.”
It’s always so refreshing to have an orgasm before an outing. Calms the mind and prevents a temper. I give Rhett, my chair, a hard kick in the stomach.
“Flatten. I need a seat.”
Rhett is blindfolded, and moves carefully into the trained position so as not to disturb anything expensive. He lays straight down on the thick white carpet, his legs and arms bound and flattened. With his nose pointed up towards the chandelier, he opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue. A lovely, if low, chair.
My black lace lingerie is designed with a hole for my cunt, so that I am both dressed and undressed at the same time. I place my feet on either side of my chair’s face, then squat down as if I’m about to do the unthinkable in the woods.
I sit on my furniture’s tongue and mouth. Just like any other piece of well-made hardware, it does not move. It is up to me to move across his tongue and please myself on his face. I sit down hard enough for it to hurt, but not to break anything. The tongue is warm and feels good against my pussy. I prefer to do this sort of thing myself.
My pussy devours the seat, consuming Rhett’s unmoved face. Cream covers his cheeks and shellacs the dark hair of his beard. I make sure nothing on his face is untouched, rubbing him all over until I feel vibrations of pleasure move through my cunt.
And still, the glass of champagne balanced on Mike’s back remains full.
I love to see a man as an object, love to see them tied and incapable. When I leave my apartment, men will tell me about their passion for long distance running, the stock market, and leather shoes. They will ask how much money I have in the bank and what kind of salads I like to eat, then try to touch me with their sweaty hands. They will be upset when I don’t laugh at their jokes, and even more upset when I tell the truth. But here, men do nothing. Men are nothing except good places to sit.
My orgasm is powerful and brutal. Rhett’s face melts into my cunt as I roll over him, moaning. It feels so wonderful that I’m unhappy when it ends. I rise off his face and he closes his mouth, but remains still.
I remove the champagne from my table’s back and take a long sip. Then I sit on Mike’s back and consider what I will order for dinner.