The Couch

Colin sold Davey the couch for $3 and a half-empty case of Miller High Life. He was so glad to be rid of it that Davey, suspicious, asked what was wrong with it. There didn’t seem to be anything specific. Sure, it was a little scuffed in places, but Davey couldn’t imagine that Colin—his thriftiest friend, the guy who wouldn’t spend more than $30 gambling in Vegas—would give up a perfectly good couch because the cushions were a little marred.

Colin shook his head, said, “Look, D. You’d be doing me a favor getting this thing out of my house. I can’t spend another fucking day with it. Seriously…”

Davey tried to get Colin to explain further, but he refused to talk about the couch anymore except to say that: no, it wasn’t bed bug infested; no, it wasn’t sagging in the middle; and no, he definitely would not come to his senses in a few days and want it back.

So one Saturday morning, Davey borrowed his uncle’s truck and headed out to pick up the couch.

7:00 a.m.

Honestly, it looked great in his place. 

It matched his rug and fit snugly in the living room of his apartment. However, the big thing was a bitch to move into a third-story walk-up. Colin had helped him wrangle the damn thing up the stairs and into the apartment, but when Davey asked if he wanted to take a seat and have a beer, Colin looked like he'd just been offered heroin.

"Nah, man. I've gotta…I gotta head out," Colin said. 

"Yeah, man. No worries," Davey replied. 

And then Colin got the fuck out of there. Davey wondered what his deal was, but the work of hauling a couch in the height of summer had gotten Davey sweaty and exhausted. He crashed on his new-to-him couch and flicked on the TV. 

He made it through a couple minutes of some show about buying tiny houses before he started nodding off. He kicked off his shoes and spread out on the couch a little. His dinner shift at the restaurant didn’t start until much later, so he had time for a short nap.

1:30 p.m.

Davey yawned and blinked at the sunlight streaming into his living room. He must not have slept long. 

He'd had a weird dream, he could recall that much, but the details were hazy and distant. His ex-girlfriend was in it and he could recall that she had been wearing a tight white t-shirt and no bra. She'd turned out to be an asshole in the end, but her chest could never be faulted.

Davey wasn't surprised that he was half hard. His ex was hot, so no surprise there, but something tickled the back of his mind: why had the dream been so strange?

As he stretched, yawned again, Davey started to remember bits and pieces from the dream. He'd been on a ferry with his ex and he'd gone to the bathroom and there was a man at the urinal. He recalled the guy's cock, which he'd seen casually, accidentally. Even soft it was huge. It made Davey's mouth water and that's when he woke up. 

"Fucking weird," Davey said aloud. 

He shifted on the couch and lifted up his shirt to scratch his stomach. It was a little furry, a bit overgrown for his taste. He'd had a few girlfriends who were into a hairier look, but he mostly liked to keep things trimmed all over. He'd heard that there were a lot of gay guys who went crazy for a furry dude. He wondered if that was true. He didn't have enough gay friends to poll. 

His hand moved up and down his stomach, playing with the short brown hair. He'd shave before work. Probably. 

2:15 p.m. 

"Fuck…" Davey groaned.

He woke up sweaty and disoriented. This time he'd dreamed he was a superhero. It was a dumb dream and he didn't recall most of the details, but he did remember his costume: blue and red spandex. Tight everywhere. In the dream he liked how it showed off his crotch. He strolled around town with a huge bulge that everyone could see.

In real life Davey was more of a t-shirt and jeans guy. Modest. He'd never wear an outfit like that. He chuckled to himself, shook his head, and reached up to take off his shirt which was wet and clinging to him from his sleep sweat.

"Should get up soon. Shower, shave," he said to himself. 

Instead, Davey kicked off his shorts and yesterday's briefs. He'd meant to get a shower in before heading to Colin's but ultimately decided against it. He'd just thrown on a t-shirt and a pair of shorts to go pick up the couch. It wasn't that far and besides, he felt pretty clean.

Davey was surprised by how comfortable the couch was underneath his now naked body. He wondered if Colin had lain on it like he was lying on it now. Naked and…

Davey's cock got so hard that it bobbed. When he looked down there was already a pearl of precum forming at the tip.

"Down boy." 

Davey laughed. He'd tell Colin later that he'd gotten a boner from thinking about him naked. He'd get a kick out of that. Colin was the kind of HRC donating straight dude that wouldn't get hung up on a buddy of his having a momentary sexy thought about him. Admittedly, Colin had a nice body. A great ass. Davey had only noticed because they ran together regularly and Colin's shorts almost always showed off his thick muscle ass. Especially once they'd gotten some distance and sweat started to make things cling and ride. 

Davey wondered if he shaved it. His brawny ass. That was crazy though, wasn't it? Most guy didn't shave their asses…their holes. 

"Woah. Maybe don't think about another dude's hole?" He told himself.

Davey would maybe leave that part out when he talked to Colin about it later. 

Another yawn. "What is my problem?" 

Then, he said outloud firmly, "I should get up." 

3:30 p.m.

Davey woke up with his hand on his hard cock. He'd started sweating again and his whole body seemed slick with it. He was a little parched, but didn't make any immediate move to get up and get a drink of water.

His shift at work would be starting soon. He still had time to get showered and get going, but instead he stretched until his legs shook and settled back on the couch. His hand was still on his cock, but it slowly started to slide lower and cup his balls. Davey was pretty proud of his balls. They were big and hung low. He'd always said that they were the reason he always shot such powerful loads. Balls that big had to contribute, right? 

His hand wrapped around his balls and tugged them down, away from his cock. He groaned a little. He hadn't had time to get off much recently. His 9-to-5 had been ramping up and with his weekend gig at the restaurant there weren't enough hours in the day to satisfy all his needs.

He tugged a bit harder. A wave of pleasure radiated from his balls outward. 

"Big balls. Big fucking balls," Davey said. 

He wasn't much of a talker during sex, but sometimes when he got particularly horny he could get into it. "Shit. I must really be hard up." 

He checked the clock. There was still time for him to take care of himself quickly and get to work on time. It was still doable. 

He spread out his fingers and hooked his thumb around his cock while his other fingers encased his balls. When he looked down there was a small pool of sticky precum in his stomach fur. 

"Jesus…"

He played with his cock and balls for a while, sort of aimlessly, until his middle finger started to venture south toward the tender skin between his cock and ass. He didn’t play with his butt much, but here he was stroking his way toward it. 

It kind of made sense, considering how horny he'd been. Guys tended to be more sexually adventurous when they were pent up. That was definitely a thing.

He spread his hairy legs across the couch to get better access and once he had, his middle finger began circling his still sweaty hole. His head felt light and warm and far away from whatever his body was doing. He tried to shift on the couch but just ended up yawning again. He yawned so hard that his body shook and seemingly accidentally his entire middle finger shoved its way into his tight hole.

“Ah…” Davey groaned. 

Every guy has tried it: a finger rubbing against the sensitive, puckered hole in the shower to get it clean. And sometimes—rarely, but sometimes—that finger makes its way a few millimeters into the tight, warm crevice. The odd, nearly painful sensation that Davey remembered from his youthful attempts at butt play was gone, replaced by lightness in his head, heat swelling in his chest, and a vertiginous feeling of falling, but somehow falling inward, toward himself.

The offending finger, not content to merely violate Davey's most private space, dug deeper and his cock throbbed hard, dumping another glob of precum onto his stomach. 

"Shit. I…" 

The sweat concentrated between his cheeks allowed his finger to push deep without significant resistance and the feeling of having his sweat-slick asshole finger-fucked made Davey squirm against the couch. 

But the couch offered no shelter from the penetration. 

Davey's index finger began circling his hole. He grunted and rolled over. A part of his mind worried about his cock—now producing a substantial amount of dick-spit on the regular—staining his newly acquired couch, but just then his index finger slipped into his hole, too. 

"Fuck, it's too much," Davey whispered, as if to a lover. But there was no one to hear him and his fingers continued to prise his ass open. 

Davey looked over his shoulder at the clock while his fingers pumped his butt and saw that it was already 4:30. He was supposed to be starting work. If he got up now, right now, he could get dressed, run to work and explain himself. But he didn’t get up; instead he pushed three fingers into his hole, stretching it further than it had ever been stretched. He expected it to hurt, but it didn’t. 

His ass just felt well used. Full. 

6:30 p.m. 

Davey looked over at his phone. It had finally gone silent. It started ringing about fifteen minutes after he was supposed to have shown up for work. It rang about five times. It was a Saturday night and he imagined his co-workers running around, working even harder to try to cover the extra tables he was supposed to be waiting on. He felt some guilt, but what his mind kept tripping up on was one of his co-workers, Gabriel, whose ass always filled out his tight black slacks. He imagined it was Gabriel's hole his fingers were inside, whose ass he was fucking hard and relentless now. 

Davey was getting familiar with his own grunts and how his fantasizing had become increasingly masculine. He pictured Colin coming back to tell him that he'd made a mistake, that he wanted his couch back, and finding his best friend finger fucking himself on the couch. In the fantasy, Davey was mortified, but Colin would see how bad of a state his friend was in and he'd offer up his cock. Davey had never been fucked before, but he wouldn't mind trying it now.

It's because I'm horny, Davey thought. I wouldn't let another guy fuck my hole. My tight, sweaty hole. Not if I wasn't fucking horned up like this.

His hand slid out from between his firm cheeks and came up to his face. His mouth was no longer dry. In fact, he had no trouble cleaning his fingers and coating them one-by-one in his spit. The musky taste of his own ass lingered, reminding him of his debased, out of character behavior as his fingers stuffed themselves back into his butt.

Still lying on his stomach, Davey rubbed his cock against the couch. He'd stopped worrying about his precum leaving stains on it hours ago. His mind conjured justifications: Colin knew what I'd be doing on the couch, he wanted me to leak all over it. I live alone, no one will ever even sit on this couch beside me, so what difference does it make.

I'll clean it when I get up. I'll get it spick-and-span, Davey thought. I'll get down on my hands knees and wipe all of the dick juice off of it. Maybe I'll use my tongue…

The thought made Davey's cock twitch hard and the pleasure of it sent him over the edge. His hole clamped down on his fingers and he shot the first blast cum between his stomach and the couch. His hips forced his crotch hard into the couch's soft cushions as he unloaded. In his blissed out, orgasmic state, it felt almost like he was making love to the couch. Fucking the couch. Making it his. Impregnating it with his seed.

Davey trembled, still fingering himself and humping the couch until he'd worked out the very last of it.

11:30 p.m. 

"Oh fuck," Davey groaned as he woke up. He was lying on his back again and his fingers were again inside him. Again. A particularly rough thrust had jolted him awake. He didn't understand how his ass wasn't sore or how his fingers kept sliding in and out of it so easily without lube. But the brief moment of confusion melted as one of his fingers grazed his prostate. If he thought about it, he guessed his wrist did ache a little, but it felt like a minor concern. An afterthought. Somebody else's problem. 

The apartment was dark, lit only by a streetlamp across the street. The amber light was forgiving, so Davey couldn't see the mess he'd made on the couch, but he could smell it: his cum, his ass, and his sweat. It was a heady cocktail and he found himself huffing it involuntarily. Every deep breath made his cock harder and his hole feel better around his fingers. 

"I can't take much more," he whined. His fingers didn't care, they just continued pounding his hole. 

Twice Davey almost stood up, got off the couch, and limped to bed, but each time his mind found some new fantasy to keep him engaged. The first fantasy was about how he'd lose his weekend job now and he didn't have the means to pay for his spacious apartment without it. He'd have to offer his landlord his newly discovered asset: his voracious hole. Maybe his landlord would offer to use his lean body and juicy ass in exchange for rent at a rate of a dollar an hour. At that rate he wouldn't even be able to afford one month of rent even if he whored out his ass 24/7. The idea of sinking deeper into depravity without any hope of escape made Davey cry out and shoot a hands-free load in a huge spout that went over his head, into his hair, and onto his face. 

Davey's fingers finally slowed. But though they never stopped fucking him entirely.

5:45 a.m.

When the first rays of sun came over the couch and illuminated the apartment, Davey tried to get off the couch again.

He'd slept fitfully. He woke up every half hour or so to find one hand fingering him and the other jerking him off or tweaking his nipples or cupping his fat balls.

Sometimes he would wake up with another spray of cum across his stomach or his face. Sometimes he'd be awake as his hands wrung out another orgasm from him. He knew, realistically, that his loads should be getting weaker with each ensuing orgasm, but each one remained as earth-shattering as the last and he was plastered with the proof.

As the hours wore on, Davey found he had less energy to resist the pleasurable sensations. Not that he'd had much control since the beginning, however even his mind began to give up the pretense that he was the one driving it.

But when Davey saw the sun was coming up and realized that he'd spent nearly an entirely day pleasuring himself, he made a concerted effort to get off the couch. He pulled his fingers out of his asshole and took his hand off of his cock. He forced his hands to his sides and leveraged himself up into a sitting position. He even managed to swing his legs off of the couch. He shook the cobwebs out of his head and went to stand…

And the force of the fantasy that hit him was like a physical blow. He flinched as his mind conjured images of the couch's soft fabric wrapping him up, cocooning him, and stimulating every part of him simultaneously. He imagined it fucking his throat, twisting his nipples until he leaked, sucking up his cock into its softness yet somehow also turning hard and fucking him until he pumped cum into it. Endless cum. Endless times. 

He couldn't help himself. One hand went between his legs and began fingering his hole—finding it as wanton as the night before. His other hand went to his cock, which felt harder and bigger than Davey had ever seen it. He could only look on as his hands worked him. His hips rocked back and forth, even bounced up and down a little as his fingers ravaged him. He could barely breathe as the horny feelings washed over him and wrung any meaningful thought out of him. 

He was so preoccupied and overstimulated that he only realized he was cumming when he looked down and saw his dick, seizing and shooting its payload in fat, long spurts. His orgasm painted his stomach and chest, arched up and splashed his face and further up into his hair again. 

His hole fluttered futility against his fingers, unable to eject them. Davey laid back against the couch, exhausted, reeling, and again cum covered.

After that, he rallied, he managed to stand up and get himself cleaned up. Or at least he wanted to, but a wave of pleasurable lethargy washed over him, and his spent cock twitched and released another thread of milky cum.

I’ll just squeeze the cum out, he thought. But his other hand was already cupping his balls, and his hole twitched hard. It was hungry and impatient. His free hand moved to feed it.