It’s just a couch. Not particularly pretty – verging on exceedingly ugly, in fact – its pilled brown fabric has seen years of laundry piles, children’s feet, dumped shopping, and tired bottoms. It’s really a practical couch. It takes up one wall in the dining room, close enough to the kitchen to sit and talk and drink a glass of wine (once you move some laundry, that is). It’s near the dining table, near the computer, near the bookcase, near the la-z-boy. More than just practical, it’s convenient.
On the rare occasions when the couch is cleared of crap, it can be lifted, folded, and flattened into its other form. The practical couch becomes a useful divan. A flat expanse of brown lines, big enough for a drunken sleep, or for two to embrace closely and lasciviously.
It’s seen some action, this couch. It’s seen me on my knees before it (before Hermes), slowly sliding my mouth up and down his cock and watching his expression. It’s seen Hermes on his knees in turn (before me), causing me to writhe and cry out and jut my hips so my cunt is closer to his wicked tongue. It’s seen Metis nearby, not quite watching, not quite ignoring, present and comforting and arousing all at once.
It’s also seen snuggling. Folks curled up comfortably, watching a movie on the computer screen. Wine, ignored, on the floor. And the inevitable slide into deep lustful kisses, under-the-jumper gropes, and an the slow slide to writhing, groaning, and exploring.
Most recently, the lone piece of furniture remaining in a packed-up house, the couch was lifted and folded and flattened out. There were boxes and paper scattered along the floor, cleaning product lined up on the counter, clothing discarded in the corner. Sweltering in the heat, Hermes and I channeled our fire into kisses. Our lips clashed and melded, bodies sticking together then sliding across sweaty expanses.
My juices sunk into the towel laid down, beneficently blessing the brown fabric beneath with a hint of moisture. Our sweat stuck us to it, and dog hair lifted off it to stick to our skins (causing hilarity afterwards). The errant condom found hiding in the bathroom drawer was put to good use, and we laughed and kissed and fucked our way to blissful hot orgasms.
It was just a couch. But, as all couches do, it created and held memories. Here’s hoping the new owners make some of their own. At least, once they vacuum off the dog-hair …
Painting is François Boucher, “Nude on a Sofa”