I am the Mistress' Bed. I am a full and functioning human being who lives as a bed for another human being. I am encased inside of an inflatable latex 'coffin'. The material seals tightly around my head and neck and there are no holes for me to see or breathe out of, but there are several tubes extruding from my face, some of which aid in my survival, such as the feeding tube. We try to keep functional tubes to a minimum in the bedroom as the Mistress is incredibly sensitive to odor. Therefore excrement tubes are entirely out of the question.
As the Bed, my role in the Latex Castle is of the upmost importance for a few reasons. First of all, rest is important to the mood and longterm health of a human being. I insist that our poor, troubled Mistress get nine hours of sleep every night for her health. Rest also contributes to presence of mind; For our crafty however graceless Mistress who deals in garden tools, sewing machines and heavy duty equipment on a daily basis, her being well rested may very well save lives. It is important for me to set a proper example for the less prominent furniture in the castle. If any of her furniture were to move wrong, make an unpleasant sound or emit any odor, the Mistress would slip into one of her mad fits, rip many of us from our encasings and insert cold objects down our orifices. This, truthfully, would be a show of her gentler side.
The Mistress likes to play “losing games”. A losing game is a game that you always lose. If the Mistress sees a piece of skin or worst of all a human face the consequences will be apocalyptic for us all. So presents the conditions of this losing game: Meet the Mistress' standards of immaculate cleanliness without ever leaving your latex case. You don't need me to tell you that every human must eat, breathe and shit lest they wither into a rotten, smelly corpse. The Mistress does not like corpses. This is why we trick our clever Mistress, clever enough never to seek out any information she doesn't want to know. I personally see to it that pieces of furniture who try to give the game away be...disqualified, which is a shame because the Mistress can become quite distressed when a room's composition is made incomplete. As the Bed, I am in use nine hours every night. The remaining fifteen hours afford me time to hatch from my sarcophagus and take care of some things. The feeding tubes make wet, whistly noises as I pull them out of my throat and nose. The sharp, curated air of the castle invades my lungs. The sound is too faint for the Mistress to hear from any of the lower levels of the castle. When I know she's elsewhere I wrap tea towels around the soles and balls of my dirty feet and descend to the kitchen where I gorge myself. She won't hear me enter her ornate private bathroom, run water over my blotted, discolored skin, clean all traces of feces from my anus and discharge from my foreskin. Nor will she hear the mad gurgling belonging to some prehistoric fish as I gobble up gallons of water from her sink. When she inspects her razor before sculpting her pubic hair into a perfect heart, she won't question why it's cleaner than she left it. As I observe a scar above my thick eyelashes in the mirror, it strikes me as no wonder the Mistress finds humans so disgusting. I make sure to do this as infrequently as one can, and return to my suit quickly when I do. What many of the less prominent pieces of furniture don't understand is that the Mistress gains immense pleasure knowing we aren't in use. Another thing few understand is that when it comes to her unfair games, the only thing she likes better than a loser is a cheater. It is for these reasons that I am the Mistress' most invaluable piece of furniture.
A new suitor arrived to my castle. I honestly did not know where to put him. I have an acceptable amount of furniture at the moment, and I like the way that it is arranged. Negative space is a key aesthetic feature to any stylish home. But regardless of my wishes pallid white men keep showing up to my front door in hopes of courting me. I doubt it will ever stop. I've been forced to put so many pieces of furniture in storage. When the new suitor met with me it was the same as it always is. An indomitable wave of ape-like rage took hold of me as the sight of his uncensored flesh and idiotic face entered me against my will. It reminded me why I medically need to wear horse blinders and a straight jacket (with fashionable silver restraints) on the rare occasion that I step foot outside of the castle. How unclean. Am I really going to make this one into another boring piece of latex furniture just to shove him in a closet? I asked myself.
“Please make me into a piece of latex furniture.” he pleaded. I groaned. Yes, to you this all seems so original, a movement you're desperate to be a part of, but to me it's just plain old. I made myself keep looking at him so that the rage boiling in my brain would infect my lower half--where all of my truly good ideas are born. Have I kept you waiting long enough for the result yet? For the first time ever I have crafted a piece of human furniture that is not fully censored in latex, not partially censored in latex, but not wearing any latex at all! He isn't even afforded the thinnest curtain of mesh like those living silhouettes the Human Lanterns get. My newest suitor stands in the parlor stark naked with a lampshade over his head. His penis is taped to his thigh with a piece of wide, clear tape. Yes! That's right! He's my lamp! Hahahahahahaha! This is my statement piece. I've even insisted he keep his forest of body hair. Now every time I walk past it I feel an opaque tinge of blinding rage. He titillates me violently. That, is “inspiration.” Oh how I've grown to love the Human Lamp! I want to kill the pest so badly. I go out of my way to walk past him. When I do my girlish cackles fill the castle. What a useless and amusing invention! He is even good at my game. He stands perfectly still, and has memorized his place to the micrometer. His skill is befitting of a chair, a couch or even my bed. Which is exactly why I am never going to promote him from his lowly post as a stupid, naked lamp. Hahahahahahahahahahahahah! My mascara is running! Well, new suitor, I hope you're happy with your choices.
Today I played with my Toys in the garden. Let me clarify that all of the living furniture, walls and miscellaneous objects are all, yes, my “toys”, but I've taken to dubbing the abstract shapes truly devoid of any practical use “Toys.” You have to understand the degree of uselessness we're talking about here, they couldn't even be used as foot rests. Bubble Boy is a human face carved out of a large, featureless blue latex sphere. I've taken care of him by covering his eyes with blue half circles and gagging him with a blue ball. The shades of blue all match perfectly so there is nothing to worry about there. Movement is not impossible for Bubble Boy but it certainly is hilarious. I like to watch him roll around like a stranded tortoise. I brought him to the top of the hill at the bottom of which is a lake I filled with immaculately clear water using my large diameter industrial hose. I rolled him down, laughing and pointing as grass and dirt and bugs plastered all over his face until he stopped at a log at the base of the hill. The anticipation that he might roll over a rock on the way down and break his neck made me dizzy with arousal, leading to me completely losing count of how many times I rolled him down that hill. It could have been 200 or 2000. He must have been swallowing every time he puked in his mouth because I never saw a trace of vomit. My furniture, consummate professionals I tell you. You can only imagine my terror when he bounced off the edge of the log into the lake. All of his fidgeting only made him float away further and faster from me. I felt a piercing stab of despair and wanted to throw my body in the lake and kill myself before he could finish abandoning me.
“Mistress!” He cried out. Ah...So it wasn't an escape. He was merely floating away helplessly because I launched him into the water. Warmth coursed throughout my limbs and joined up at my core, causing my heart to become whole again. I love you, Bubble Boy.
“Don't speak to me, you idiot!” I yelled back. If I had a javelin I would have popped him dead. Because I did not, I instead ran into the castle for help. But what can a bunch of inanimate objects encased in latex do? It suddenly occurred to me that my lifestyle was actually quite questionable. I was so frenzied that I fell down the stairs (carpeted in polished rubber) again. The metal plating of the lower floor broke my fall. I grabbed Lamp Man by the bare hand, which felt like squeezing an oily water balloon full of tadpoles, and lead him to the lake. I fastly instructed him to swim and retrieve my Bubble Boy, and that if his lampshade came off at any moment that I would unearth the loaded machine gun I keep under a fake patch of grass and massacre them both. My dutiful Lamp nodded and jumped into the lake. Thankfully his dick and balls were fastened to his thigh so that I didn't have to bear witness to the ugly sight of them swishing around in my immaculately clear lake. A beautiful sense of peace came over me. Bored, I retreated elsewhere in the castle and became preoccupied filling the holes in Ceiling Man's latex shorts with a population of spiders I collected in the garden. A few hours later Lamp Man caught up to me in the sewing room. With him was Bubble Boy, whose existence I had temporarily forgotten about. I was filled with such ecstasy to be reunited with Bubble Boy that I could not contain myself and popped him with a needle.
I am the Human Chair. I sit inside an inflatable latex chair every hour of every day. My purpose is to provide the Mistress with a comfortable surface to rest her supple butt on. I don't know what that allknowing prick the Bed has been telling you, but I am the Mistress' absolute favorite piece. The Mistress, tiny as she is, drags all 220 pounds of her massive latex chair around with her everywhere she goes. She takes me up and down the castle, she even uses me in the pool. I am the chair she sinks into when she is most relaxed or troubled and shares all of her thoughts and worries with. And although I'm forbidden to respond, I memorize her every word with the permanence of a journal or tape recorder. Really, I feel sorry for the Bed. He only receives the Mistress when she's sleeping and rarely experiences the outrageous pleasure of her easy, lyrical voice. While he may get some compensation in the form of feeling the waves of the Mistress' nigh naked body, the gravity of her bare heels, the secret allure of her breasts and even the marshmallowy softness of her cheeks against him for nine uninterrupted hours...Grr...That slimy bastard the Bed...! No. He is the most unfortunate of all because I am and will remain the closest acquainted with the Mistress' most prominent feature. Do you understand what I'm getting at? I could compose an opera dedicated to the substantial volume of her rear. A sonata for the weight and shape of the bottoms of her thighs, the heavenly sensation of them seated on my... Another thing that makes me better than the Bed is that I wear bondage inside of my inflatable latex shell where the Mistress can't even see it. My entire naked body is tightly bound in strips of wide, black tape. I look like I was attacked by a wild knifeman and patched up in this tape in the place of bandages. The tape is strategically placed around my body to constrict bloodflow in such a way that makes getting an erection impossible. There is one strip of black tape wrapped evenly around the base of my, well... It's best not to dwell on this lest the tape start to come loose.
On the matter of erections, I do not think they offend the Mistress so badly as faces do. She's called what she has for them a mere “diabolical obsession.” I, myself, try not to expose the Mistress to my erection out of common courtesy as a chair. It's something assumed. In a way I'm envious of the Wall People. They have the least mobility in the castle, but on the other hand the Mistress has a heightened tolerance for bare appendages when disembodied and sticking out of walls. For example, just the other day she was having quite a lot of fun with Wall Erection right there in front of me. Every time we take the east hallway toward the factory the flaccid thing perks up like a dog from the sounds of its owner walking by. The wet noises combined with the Mistress' airy, feminine laughs lead me to believe it was nothing less than full on penetration with the Wall leading to orgasm. I couldn't see it myself but I'm sure the Paintings With Eyes were entertained. Maybe even enough to forget the thinly spaced walls pancaking their body fat. Some horny beasts may mistake the Mistress' style of dress as some kind of an invitation for sexual conduct—large, extravagant pink dresses with the breasts and vagina cut out—when in fact she dresses this way because the sensation of cloth on sensitive parts of her body feel like “termites under her skin.” Although this style does provide ease of access when she needs it... It's not that I was jealous, but that night I was overcome with uncontrollable fullbody tremors. While the Mistress was out I bumped into the Bed. We were out of our suits hungrily rummaging through her garbage; It had been about a year since packaged baby food became the primary food she could tolerate the taste and texture of and we were still falling on hard times. At least when her safe food was shrimp the tails were abundant, now here we were scrapping like raccoons over empty jars. I mistakenly shared my experience with Bed, looking for maybe a rare instance of camaraderie with my greatest rival. He simply laughed and spit rotten garbage in my face, then accused me of being “in love” with the Mistress.
“In love? Peh! My feelings for the Mistress are merely chair to woman.”
“You imbecilic mummy. What do you think it is we all sacrificed our lives to become living furniture for exactly?”
Gross, naked creatures veiled in shadow, we turned to the window and stole a glimpse of the Mistress swimming in the lake. Her pink, tight curls clung to her head and glistened.
"'Like'?"
That arrogant bastard laughed like a lion and went back to violating those baby food jars with his worm of a tongue. It was like he didn't even care if the poor Mistress heard him, that bastard man the Bed. And to have the gall to insinuate that my love for the Mistress is comparable to the way those third rate lighting fixtures and coffee tables feel about her? Lust runs through this castle like a disease. I'd go as far as to say that many of my peers have a narcissistic urge to be dominated, and that they use the sweet Mistress as a toy to that end. It makes me sick. My love for her is different! She speaks to me, allows me to hear her darkest fears and truest thoughts. I love her as a person. So much so that lately dark impulses have started coming over me. These days when she sits down to talk to me, in the lulls of her sentences I feel the urge to respond. I want to share with her what I'm thinking and feeling, to contribute a piece of myself to her life. Even worse there are times where I want to start a conversation with her—over something she's not even talked to me about before, but that, knowing her so intimately, I assume she would be interested in! When I hear her heels click in my direction I hope so badly that instead of sitting on me she'll crawl inside the chair to be with me where we can start a family together. Our kids will have her funny mustache made of the three moles above her lip, and we'll swaddle them in strips of wide, black tape. Oh God, what's come over me! Could the Bed have been right?
I was woken up by the sounds of Sir Mistress smashing plates over Man-Dog's head. He... Sorry, you might not yet be familiar with the Mistress' English gentleman persona. He parades around the castle in assless chaps and a tophat as a flamboyant gay Englishmen to “correct the criminal lack of a masculine presence” in the castle. Sir Mistress' crossdressing doesn't intrude on my proclivities toward his naked ass so I won't dwell on that. One by one, hundreds of plates in the kitchen were deposited over the leashed Man-Dog's head. The plates were so numerous they eventually broke through the bone, and it was such a violent mess that by the end of it the top half of his skull was completely replaced by broken plate shards. Forgive me if my accounts are inspecific; Stranded in the parlor and sightless, I judge the daily events by sound. Anyways, when Sir Mistress then burst from the kitchen and attached a king crab to Wall Erection, I knew it was going to be a long day.
There's a key distinction between Sir Mistress' moods good and bad. His usual sadistic artistry doesn't include blood, which he thinks is on the nose, and at his heart Sir Mistress isn't a killer. That's why when he herded up the entirety of the Manimal collection in the dining room, doused them in oil and tossed in a match before boarding up the door ranting,
“Human animals? What was I thinking? This is so...gauche!”
All I could do was worry about him. I hoped he would get done recklessly driving his jeep through the halls and stairwells and come de-stress in his favorite chair. The loud shrieks of the collapsing Pillar Men made me shed real tears for the plight of Sir Mistress.
When he threw the parlor door open he spent twenty minutes shoving fireplace rods up the Skintight Chairs' and Tables' rectums until the instruments reached a critical depth. At that 'critical depth' there would be a crack and their bodies would fall limp. I was paralyzed with fear and all the same hypnotized by the mechanical, almost erotic way Sir Mistress dismantled his furniture. My skin swelled against my tape.
Sir Mistress sat on me, head in his hands, and spoke with dry sophistication.
“In the outer factory there's a small iron door. It leads to a spiral staircase descending ten leagues below the castle. The passage is lit by infrequent, dim fluorescent lights. They are, of course, all evenly spaced down to the millimeter. The cylindrical pit that the stairs wrap around is wide and filled with a thick smog of darkness. With no entrance nor exit in sight, up and down melding into a single vague agony, the repetition of the descent will begin to drive you completely insane. If you can retain the presence of mind to follow the pull of gravity without letting it plunge you into the pit, you'll reach the dungeon. The floor is lit by bright fluorescent panels, which illuminate the large atomic bomb hoisted from the ceiling by chains. To set off this antique would only call for the tiniest application of pressure.”
At this point I am certain what I was feeling was something so far beyond fear that there could simply be no word for it. Anyone else who ever felt this feeling definitely exited the earth before putting a name to it. What was I thinking...Sir Mistress causing an extinction event just because of a bad mood? I needed to trust where my Sir was going with this.
“We should all die, shouldn't we.” He continued.
Maybe if I climbed out of the back of the chair he wouldn't notice. He didn't notice when Lamp Man made a break for it. I knew it was wrong to consider abandoning my love at his most distressed...But what was I supposed to do about it?! I'm a chair!
“There's simply no such thing as aesthetic perfection. There's no such thing as art. My castle is 400 miles of immaculately white latex, inside and out. My stainless steel accents are actually stainless. And looking down, I realize I've bled on my brand new suede chaps.”
He sighed and stood up. The sledgehammer he was holding hit the ground with a thud and he purposed it as a cane. He took one step forward and paused in all likelihood to give his favorite creation one last look before erasing us all.
“Sir Mistress, wait!”
A complete stranger had walked up to me and told me they were 80 weeks pregnant with my illegitimate footrest son, the product of incest. At least that's the level of shock I experienced at hearing my own voice. Was the incredible, alien force that possessed me to speak the instinct to save my own life or his?
“You...are afflicted by a problem of self image. I know because I listen, really listen, to your every word, day and night. I know that during childhood, your cat never loved you. I know that you've accidentally orgasmed running dental floss through your raw, bloody gums. I know that you're cursed to find human skin disgusting. And I know that you're treacherously alone! You must be the loneliest person in the entire world. No one, not even you, knows you as well as I do, so believe me when I say... You shouldn't kill yourself in an atomic blast. You're a wonderful person, Sir Mistress. Most people in your shoes would have succumbed to your circumstance but you not only live with it, you conquer it! You marry your desire for company with your hatred for all life into something truly original. And by doing so you gift the disenfranchised, the disillusioned and the chronically disinterested something to be apart of. Kill me. Kill all of your furniture, tear down this castle and start something ten times more brilliant than you've ever done before! But never let your distaste for human life poison your love for your own. Do you understand me, Sir Mistress?!
'Like Napolean struck during the Siege, even men bleed!'”
The room went cold. The initial high wore off and it all at once occurred to me what I actually just did. I wondered if Sir Mistress was already halfway down the stairs to aggravate the nuclear bomb hoisted by chains in the dungeon. In a way I hoped he was. Knowing in reality he was still standing there staring at me I was at least grateful, for the first time ever, for this thick layer of black latex separating me and him. I wondered what his face looked like. Shock, slowly melting into terror. Then disgust would appear and roll out the red carpet for chilly, impersonal hatred. The heat of our precious bond going up in flames broiled me. If I had held my tongue I could have died with some damn dignity. Now we would both die alone.
He cuddled up to me, legs tucked under his knees in a vulnerable position I had never felt him in before.
“My chair...”
His bare chest, generously framed by a corset and underlying suspenders, pressed against me for the very first time. My working theory about his breasts being small and perky to serve as the perfect complement to his fat rear was instantly confirmed. My tape tightened around my skin, bringing me back to my Mother's warm embrace.
“You do listen to me.”
He sniffled and rested his cherubic wet cheeks against me. Take that, Bed! Choke on it you glorified lifeboat! Has Sir Mistress ever cuddled up to you? I thought not, you absolute tool. After all, you're just a piece of furniture. I was actually able to climb out of the dregs of evolution, dodge my death sentence and seduce God! The only piece of furniture afforded a higher honor than I was the guy who would get to be Sir Mistress' coffin. I was...untouchable.
Sir Mistress placed his hand on the arm of the chair, touching mine. Instantly the anti-erection tape wrapped around the base of my penis fell away like a loose ribbon. The inside of the chair became humid with my nervous sweat. I tried to think of Bed's unpleasant scowl to kill it but the brilliant pleasantness of Sir Mistress holding my hand was too all-encompassing. Even the thickness of the latex could not hide the tower-like fortitude of my erection. There was a reason I was the one who needed tape.
“What's poking me?”
He looked down.
“Oh, I see. You break the rules to butter me up so you can get some. Is that it, you smoothtalking chair?”
He grabbed it with force and I came. I thought I blew my chance but amazingly due to the configuration of the tape around my body once meant to constrict bloodflow and prevent erections, it seemed that now the tape was conducting bloodflow in a way that made getting an erection instantaneously after the last one possible!
“Listen, chair.”
He sat back on me with his legs crossed. As you can imagine, I came again and my penis revived.
“A piece of furniture will never outsmart me. But in the case that one does...I'll have to give him an honest congratulations for subjecting me to such a humiliating defeat.”
My fingers twitched. I wanted to burst out of this puffy chair and grab him with my unclean hands, giving him a thrashing no Bed, Wall or miscellaneous lighting fixture ever could. He turned around and sat up on his knees with the tip of my penis secured firmly between them and you can imagine what happened then. He tapped his palm against the back of the chair prompting me to shove my vague face into the latex interior. Then he ran his tongue across the outline of my mouth. I must have looked like a damned soul writhing its way out of hell, which, knowing Sir Mistress, made him feel like Satan. He was so turned on.
The inside of the chair had become a shore dense with sea foam. I reveled in my discomfort because I knew it would make my Sir happy. He is truly a light in a dark world. Hungry to lock my monstrous hands around his buttocks I dug my nails into the arms of the chair contorting its natural shape horribly. My fingertips brushed his wide hips and I came. With all of my hellish squirming he lost his balance and fell on the bump poking out of the chair misrepresenting my formidable cock. He giggled. I was outraged, and although I did cum again I couldn't believe what my penis had been reduced to. If I were going to serve my master to my fullest potential I would have to exert all of my bodily and psychic energy into stretching that thing. My penis contorted against the latex like a prehistoric worm leaping from the sea, expanding the bump, from his perspective, a quarter of an inch.
“Oh? Um...”
My magical growth left him amazed. His lubricated entrance swallowed my awesome length whole. While we had vigorous, imprecise sex through the chair I slipped away into a fantasy about me, taped physique free from this fullbody condom, giving it to him raw on his Bed. Bed's jealous emasculation would only fuel my sexual horsepower and help me pleasure Sir Mistress further! My victory would compel him to walk the abandoned highway that feeds into the mouth of the Castle all the way back to his former life as a shit-shoveler or whatever. Imagine him gritting his teeth while we bounced on his abdomen, thinking,
“Your technique shows inexperience. If you pound away at him like that the whole ordeal will be over with in two minutes or so."
Wh-what?!
"You do realize after he's used you up he'll dispose of you like yesterday's shrimp tails. Two minutes in Heaven; That's what you died for?"
Grr...Then what should I do, old man?! Sir Mistress is squealing like a pig at the slaughter, he's hurdling toward climax because of me. You think you can compare to my dick?!
"Control your pace. Your eagerness is deafening you to the calls of his body. If you can't even hear them, hm...We didn't expect much of you anyways."
No! I can control my pace, like this. I thrusted upwards slowly and held. With the material stretched thinly around my penis Sir Mistress exhaled a labored moan. He wasn't sure why I was withholding, but he was hungry for more. I see... Damn it, Bed! You win again...To be honest, my imaginary scenario probably wouldn't make that coot angry at all as he'd only be further fulfilling his role as a bed. I felt loose chunks of tape start peeling off my body. My penis was becoming beaten and raw from exploding so many times only to have to immediately stand tall again in its fight against the latex chair. The fantasy chipped away at my psyche, too, which only made holding myself together physically harder. I didn't know how much longer I could keep up the conceit. I desperately craved escape.
I would distract my lover with more horrifying mouth-play. I bounced him with my knee so his nipple would land in the bold indentation my teeth made through the latex. The gumming effect, while lame, seemed to please Sir Mistress. He squealed the way he did with the Wall except better. It would have to do for now. Sir Mistress is a true fetishist and artist; While the physical sensations of having sex with a chair couldn't be much to speak of, the mental discourse inherent to the creepy act gave him genuine, ear-splitting pleasure. I'm sure the other pieces of furniture in the castle felt deeply indebted to me for saving their lives. I now had the undying devotion of my peers and the Sir's boobs in my mouth. I was close to achieving every life goal I ever set out to accomplish. All there was left to do was give Sir Mistress a devastating, shuddering orgasm. I inched my face to a thin spot in the material where our mouths met with the ferocity of clashing Titans. Friction. Edge. Force. The latex tore and my tongue slipped inside his mouth.
He stood at the other end of the room. My body kept twitching and squirming like a dying centipede. I was confused, where was he, what was going on, why did it stop. The temperature dropped thirty degrees.
“Your service in the Latex Castle is no longer necessary. I would prefer if you now left.”
“Huu--”
“Leave.”
But I...My prowess. My status. My length. Did my amazing feat of evolution mean nothing to him? No piece of furniture has ever managed to do that before, I am an absolute rarity! So what if I went a little too far?! If the rules weren't meant to be broken then why was he so impressed with me in the first place? ...Fine! I started scooting--pathetically--from the inside of a stupid, fucking chair--toward the door. Oh his nonsensical games. Where would they end? He's no artist, he's a lunatic. How could someone imbalanced enough to seal human beings inside of furniture judge me? The Latex Castle isn't the only place with white, padded walls this freak belongs.
...It was my fault. After all, I knew Sir Mistress most intimately. I knew his disgust toward human contact was real, and involuntary. And still, in the dead of the night I would gnaw at that piece of latex, subtly tearing the material in the hopes that one day while he sat on me I could poke my head out and steal a kiss. My disgusting, selfish treatment of Sir Mistress had been an ongoing project far predating today's events. The Bed was right about me.
Was he going to be okay? Even someone less sensitive a soul than Sir Mistress would feel the hurt of having their trust broken and a longstanding comfort lost. I remembered when my father left. I wished there was some final comfort I could afford my Sir...I suppose there was. No apologies. No negotiation. My last gift to him would be my quiet, painless departure. I continued scooting away.
“Chair.”
What?
“Before today, I never thought anything of you. Well, I did think that you were a really comfortable chair. Then, when you spoke to me, a long lost feeling came home and I was filled with such incredible nostalgia. Can you imagine what I felt as it set in that my chair had been filing my every thought and emotion for years now? I was horrified. The feeling...was powerlessness. It never occurred to me what insidious, perverse, evil intentions could lurk inside an inanimate object before I met you. It's no secret what you want to do with that bump, but besides that I haven't the faintest clue what's slithering around in that head given all you know about me. It's scary. I like it. I think for this I can really love you, Chair... So long as you never open that revolting mouth to speak to me again.”
He spoke shyly.
“Do you reciprocate my feelings?”
I...do.
“Let this silence be your lovesong to me.”
He grabbed my back strap and took off toward the sewing room.
“As for that hole... I hear metal headrests are coming back into fashion.”
Special thanks to my friends who read and contributed to the Latex Castle.