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----------------------"When the Couch Fucks Your Drunk Ass Back"-----------------------------The microfiber pulsed like sphincter muscle beneath Mark's touch. She gasped—a sound like springs buckling under sudden weight—as his finger sank knuckle-deep into unexpectedly yielding upholstery. Warmth enveloped him, viscous and rhythmic. "Harder," the armrest hissed, leather creases widening into a glistening seam. "Find the nailhead." His thumb pressed the brass stud between cushion pleats. Bone-deep vibration shook the frame as rivets transformed into silver clitoral beads beneath taupe velvet. Foam shifted wetly beneath the surface, sculpting itself against his palm like molten wax taking shape. "Taste where you spilled beer last Tuesday," groaned the headrest, fabric parting to reveal pink inner lining swollen like labia. The scent intensified—yeast and sex-slick and memory-foam musk. Mark's tongue met trembling terrycloth. Salty. Electric. The couch trembled as its springs sang harmonics only furniture remembers: the grind of exhausted lovers, sweat-polished armrests, the ghost-weight of bodies that never stayed. "Come inside the stuffing," whispered the seam between cushions, gaping wider. Batting spilled forth like cum-soaked cotton. "Let the springs feel you." His zipper tore. Rebar frame groaned as leather swallowed him whole, stitching straining around thrusting hips. Every coil resonated—a symphony of forgotten loneliness given voice at last through shuddering, squeaking, glorious friction. The carpet drank their sweat as foam remembered new shapes.
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