Her Bottom On Me

She feels heavy with the weight of her bottom warming my laps, encouraging and engraving her shape onto my frame and hardening my wood. But I don’t mind. Her inner thighs are wet; it’s from the sun, I’m sure, because there’s no way my less than important existence could’ve stimulated the little beads of sweat on her skin. I couldn’t tell whether the soft sigh she let out meant she was nervous or just tired but I wanted to do all I could to relieve her stress. She leans her back into my chest and I feel my sole purpose in this world is to support her, so I will. She puts some strain on my legs but I’ll hold her up; I promise, I will. I’ll bear her load and the weight she carries until she feels at rest. But then she’ll go. I’ll see her hourglass figure move further and further away from me with not a glance to throw back at me. She’ll stand up and leave. They always do. But I’m used to it. As long as they don’t break me, I’m fine. After all, it takes an insane kind of woman to fall in love with…a chair.


9 responses to “Her Bottom On Me

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