couchman
03-29-2010, 7:47 PM
The Librarian
By
Couchman
Dennis, along with thousands of other college kids, often went to the college library, in part to check out books, but, in his case, to get another look at the research librarian who worked there he knew only as Greta. Greta was a tall woman in her early forties, old enough to be his mother, yet endowed with a buttocks that would put most younger co-eds to shame. She was of German heritage with the typical blonde hair and lovely bronze skin typical of that nationality. He loved to position himself near her desk and pretend to leaf through a book so he could watch her whenever she returned from a research project in the aisles and plant her perfect butt on her desk chair. Oh, how lucky that chair seat must be, he thought. If only he could somehow magically turn his face into that chair seat so Greta would sit on him.
As it happened one day, Dennis was in the book aisles searching for some books to apply to a research paper for his Cultural Anthropology class. He was kneeling down, gazing at some titles on the lower shelf when he heard the clack of heels of a woman entering the next aisle over. He quickly noticed that the way the books happened to be arranged left an open space between the bottom shelf of one aisle and the bottom shelf of the other. He was immediately excited when he realized that the legs and cream colored skirt of the woman belonged to Greta. He also noticed that a small wooden stool had been placed next to the adjacent aisle. People often used it to stand on if they were too short to reach the top shelf. They also used it to sit on. And Greta was standing right next to the stool as she searched for some books. He stared at Greta’s legs and at the stool, hoping she would decide to sit down on it. He would get a great view of her butt descending to the stool. But he was disappointed. Greta didn’t sit on it. He watched, dismayed, as her legs moved away and the clack of heels on floor as she walked a few feet out of his range of vision. He knew it was terribly risky if he got caught, but he decided he needed a closer view. He looked around and listened carefully if anyone else was nearby. Then he placed his head through the slot between the aisles. His face was now only inches away from the stool on the other side. Greta returned and stood next to the stool, her back to him, he could now look nearly straight up the length of her skirt to about waist level. The skirt she was wearing was form fitting, not so tight as to look trashy, but tight enough to cling to the curves of her magnificent butt. Suddenly, her legs were together as she allowed gravity to pull her butt to the stool. Her rounded butt nearly sat on his face. The stool groaned under her weight as she dominated it. Damn how he wanted to be that stool, with Greta sitting upon his face. Inanimate objects have all the fun, thought Dennis.
What happened next was the natural result of sexual desire blocking the rational mind. He had to get even closer to the stool. He positioned his face even closer. Now he could see not only her butt covering that lucky stool, but her entire torso leading up to golden hair. She sat on the stool a few moments, leafing through a book, and then got up. His rational mind was trying to tell him to pull his head out of that unnatural position, but sexual desire won over. Greta stood next to the stool with her back to him. His face was so close to the stool he felt a strange kinship with it. Inanimate objects have all the fun, thought Dennis. If she sat back down on the stool again, she would nearly sit on his face. And indeed she did. He caught a glimpse of that exciting woman-to-seat glance as Greta, again, sat back down on the stool, her rounded butt connecting with the stool mere inches from his face. The stool groaning a little in protest. He imagined his face as actually being the stool, with Greta sitting on it, because that’s what it was there for: just something to sit on. Unfortunately, he wasn’t an object. He was a human being and Greta looked down over her shoulder at his terrified eyes. He knew he was in trouble.
He yanked his head out of his vantage point and grabbed a book, still crouched down low, but pretending to read as if nothing had just happened. His face reddened and his body shivered as he heard the brisk clack of heels as she hastened to his aisle.
She stood with book in hand. Her voice was stern and unforgiving. “And just what do you think you’re doing young man?” she said.
“Oh, I’m just doing some research,” he said, forcing a smile.
“Really?” Greta replied. “Was staring at my butt part of your research?”
“Um… Oh, no,” he replied.
“I saw you,” she said. “I nearly sat on your face.”
“Well… I…”
“I’m going to call the police,” she warned.
“Please don’t,” he begged.
Greta glared at him. “What were you trying to do, with your head stuck in there?” she asked, curiously. “Does my butt fascinate you so much or… or what?”
“Oh… it’s silly,” he said. “I was pretending to be that little stool you sat on.”
“I see,” she said. Her demeanor was starting to relax. It seemed out of intellectual curiosity that she continued to interrogate him. “You wanted to be the stool… and when I sat on it, I would sit on your face, correct?”
“Um… yes,” he mumbled.
“But the stool is made of wood,” she said. “I can’t hurt it when I sit on it. If I had actually sat on your face like I sat on the stool, I’d crush you. You wouldn’t really want a hundred thirty pound woman sitting on your face would you.”
“Of course not,” he said. “It’s only a silly fantasy.”
Greta gazed at him thoughtfully. “You need to be taught a lesson,” she told him.
“A lesson?”
“Yes,” she continued. “You wanted to be that stool I sat on so much… Let’s see how you like it when I, actually, sit on your face.”
“You aren’t serious,” said Dennis.
“It’s either that or I call the police,” said Greta.
Of course Dennis was thinking: yes! Yes! Sit on my face, but he decided to act victimized.
“You’d hurt me,” he told her. “If you sat on my face, you’d hurt me.”
“Exactly,” she said. “I think you need to experience what it feels like to get sat on… just like that stool… and I don’t think you’ll find the experience very pleasant.”
“How?” asked Dennis. “How are you going to sit on my face here at the library?”
“I’d like to make you put your head right on that stool and sit down on your face,” she considered. “But it’s too risky. I certainly don’t want anyone to see me sitting on you… So,” she continued. “I’m going to take you home with me after work and sit on you. And if you try anything funny” she added. “If you resist… I’m a black belt in Karate. Understand?”
Dennis, with the most submissive and innocent expression he could muster said: “Oh, I wouldn’t try anything. I wouldn’t resist… I just hope you don’t hurt me.”
“It’s for your own good.” Her voice was like that of a mother punishing a child for misbehaving.
He was ordered to meet Greta at the parking lot adjacent to the library and described her car. Dennis could hardly wait to five o’clock. Greta was actually going to take him home with her and plop that sexy butt on his face. During the drive to her house, Greta continued to remind him how painful the experience was going to be, how she intended to put her whole weight on him when she sat on him, and how he would probably smother. She reminded him that he was not a piece of furniture, that he was a human being and how uncomfortable it would be when she sat on him. Dennis pretended to agree with her, all the while sneaking glances at her butt dominating her car seat, and at her shapely thighs—her skirt had ridden half way up them when she sat down on the car seat. Greta was indeed a prime example of female beauty. The lines of her ample hips curved inwards to a slim waist and then back out to form a torso of firm breasts pushing at her blouse. She had a smallish nose, wide mouth, and large, deep blue eyes. Her blonde hair was tied up in a bun, and simple, green earrings adorned her ears.
When they arrived, he followed her into her house like an obedient dog. As he walked behind her, he stared at the natural wiggle in her butt. He tried not to get hard thinking about that butt connecting with his upturned face. He didn’t want Greta to think he was going to enjoy it.
“Let me see,” she said, looking about the living room. She spied a leather hassock and said, “There… Put your head on that hassock… face up, of course.”
Dennis obeyed, trying to look worried. Actually, when it came right down to it, he was a little worried. Greta could really injure him… break his nose or something… depending on how hard she sat down on him. He got down on the carpeted floor and leaned back with his head on the hassock. He looked up at Greta, who now, from his low vantage point, loomed over him as she had when she sat on the library stool. She turned her back to him and his pulse quickened as he prepared to receive an actual connection between her butt and his face. His angle of vision was now a few inches below her knees, and he could see part way under her skirt. But, suddenly, she walked away from him, over to a glass cabinet containing some figurines.
She was ignoring him as he kept his contorted body and upturned face on the hassock.
“Um… Excuse me,” he said, politely. “But aren’t you going to sit on me?”
Great turned around and gazed at him. “Excuse me?” She said. “Do you think that little stool in the library could tell me when to sit on it..? I’ll sit on you when I feel like it.” It became obvious to Dennis that she was intending to make this experience as uncomfortable for him as possible, by deliberately keeping him waiting, his body and head in such an unnatural position, until… she… decided to sit on him.
He watched as she took one of the figurines from the glass cabinet and examined it. The suspense was killing him. Was she going to sit on his face or not? She returned the figurine to the cabinet and he was filled with relief when she again walked casually back to the hassock and, again, towered over him, facing away from him. Then she spoke, but not to him. She spoke out loud as someone might do when they’re alone. “Long day,” she said, and sighed. “It’s going to feel great to sit down and take some weight off my feet.” Her legs were together. Her knees bent and she began to sit down on his face. Her butt was now a clothy, cream colored orb descending to his face. The orb moved a little to the side as she peered down at him with exactly that same woman-to-seat glance he’d seen at the library. Then her lovely face was again replaced by her rounded butt as it descended to his face. When Greta’s butt connected with his face, he felt twin mounds of flesh beneath the skit envelope him, covering his entire head and part of his chest. At first, she didn’t allow much of her weight to compress his head into the hassock, gradually increasing the load on his face as his nose mashed deep into her. She was sitting on his face with her entire weight. He felt a combination of pain and sexual excitement. This is what it felt like to be used for something Greta wanted to sit on. Now… he… was the chair at her desk… he… was that little stool she sat on. She sat on his face for a few moments and then crossed her nylon covered legs, which added even more weight to his face. But he was able to peer with one eye under the thigh that was crossed over the other. She dangled a heeled shoe as she nonchalantly continued to sit heavily on his face.
After perhaps thirty seconds of smothering beneath her butt, he began to feel oxygen deprivation. He loved the feeling of her ample butt and her womanly weight atop his face, yet he couldn’t breathe. His sexual excitement only added additional burden on his lungs. His chest heaved. He began to panic.
But, suddenly, he heard a door slam and a much younger, energetic voice exclaim: “Hi, mom… Mom? What are you doing sitting on that man’s face!”
“…teaching him a lesson,” replied Greta. “He thinks he wants to be a seat of some kind so women will sit on his face… so… I did. I brought him home and sat on his face.” She got up and looked down at Dennis. “I hope you learned your lesson.”
Dennis blinked a few times until his eyes focused in the image of a girl about his age, dressed in a plaid mini-skirt. She had blonde hair and blue eyes, like her mother, yet somewhat shorter than she. Dennis guessed her to be about five foot three or four, and she was positively beautiful. She had inherited her mothers’ butt and legs—legs he could see more of—because her mini started half way up them.
“Oh, fun!” said the girl. “Can I sit on him?”
Dennis was still breathing heavily from Greta sitting on him, but the promise of her daughter plopping her tight butt down on his face was indeed exciting.
“Oh… I don’t know, Ursula,” Greta was hesitant. “I think you’ve had enough of getting you face sat on, haven’t you, young man.
Dennis did not reply. He waited for the next event to unravel itself.
“But you said he wants to be a seat, mom,” said Ursula. “I can sit on his face, too… can’t I?” She didn’t wait for permission from her mother. Dennis could tell she was a headstrong girl. She aggressively stroke closer to him and stood so close to the hassock he could look right up most of her tanned thighs, and the inner lining of her skirt hovering above him.
She looked down at him with an impish grin, squishing the hem of her skirt. “I’m going to sit on your face, Mr. Seat.” She told him. She twirled around, her skirt going completely over his face, and allowing him a quick glance of her rounded butt, satin panties stretched tight, and golden thighs as she sat down heavily on his face. Ursula had sat on him—unlike her mother’s slight hesitation—without any regard for hurting him. His face mashed deep into her panty clad buttocks. She casually crossed her legs as she sat on his face as nonchalantly as if it were a natural thing to sit on.
“Oh, I love sitting on you,” she said. “You make a lovely seat.”
While his face remained mashed under her weight, the twin globes of her butt, and scanty panties, he had tilted his head slightly and could see the underside of a tanned thigh as it crossed over the other to where it met the bend of her knees.
He heard Greta’s voice: “Ursula, you certainly don’t have any modesty when sitting on a man’s face”—referring, of course, to her skirt draped completely over his head. “Of course not,” replied Ursula. He’s…only… a seat… I don’t care where my skirt goes when I sit on a piece of furniture. She emphasized the word furniture. She uncrossed her legs and arose about a foot above his face. She wiggled her butt playfully and said: “Do you like my butt, Mr. Seat? Dennis stared up at cone shaped female flesh, consisting of her rounded butt and smooth thighs. She teased him a few moments and then sat back down, heavily, on his face. She was obviously very proud of her toned body and projected an exhibitionistic attitude towards showing it off. She also had a mischievous, yet dominating way about her and seemed unconcerned about how much discomfort she was causing him. Her thighs were together and her calves were pointed outwards as she sat on him.
Dennis was once more starting to panic from oxygen deprivation. His chest heaved as he tried in vain to get some air that just wasn’t there, his nose and mouth sealed shut from her butt and weight upon them.
Her mother seemed concerned: “Maybe you should get up, honey,” she said. “before you suffocate him.”
“Why?” said Ursula, showing no intention of doing so. “He’s only a seat, so I sat on him.” She spoke to her mother so nonchalantly as she sat on his face, he got the distinct impression that Ursula wasn’t thinking of him as anything, but, a piece of furniture.
“I’ve seen him around campus,” said Ursula. “Some of my friends think he’s cute, but he’s so shy and quiet.” Then she added. “But I guess a seat usually is quiet.” She giggled.
Dennis felt drowsy, as if about to pass out when Ursula released her young-womanly weight from his face. She got up and stood next to the hassock, grinning down at him. She placed a knee gently on his face a moment. “Can we keep him, mom?”
“Keep him?”
“Sure,” said Ursula. “Let’s keep him… We can use him for a seat. We can sit on him whenever we want.”
“Oh, Ursula,” replied her mom. “We can’t… keep… him. He’s a person. He’s not a piece of furniture.”
Ursula continued her persuasion. “But he likes it when we sit on him… You can tell that.”
“He’s not supposed to…like… it,” said Greta. “I sat on is face in hopes that he… wouldn’t… like it.”
“I’ll bet,” said Ursula, “that if we used him as a seat and sat on him enough, he’d get tired of it, wouldn’t you Mr. Seat.”
“Sure,” said Dennis, going along with them. “I’d get tired of it.”
Greta said: “You’ll get tired of our… butts… on your face,” said Greta. She came closer to the hassock. “… especially when I sit on you like this…” She turned her back to him. A hand reached back and smoothed the fabric of her skirt as she sat down on his face, this time without hesitation, allowing her weight to crush his head into the hassock.
Ursula giggled. “How do you like my mom’s big butt on your face?”
“I don’t have a big butt,” said her mother.
“I’ll bet… he… thinks so,” said Ursula, giggling.
“Oh. Come on,” said Greta. “ I only weight maybe ten or fifteen pounds more than you.”
“Or twenty,” said Ursula, giggling.
“I weigh one thirty,” said Greta.
“I only weigh one fifteen,” said Ursula.
“See?” said Greta. “… fifteen pounds more… and I’m taller than you.”
While the two were joking about their weight, Dennis remained crushed under Greta’s butt. It felt like she weighed a ton. Getting his face sat on by her was more painful then he’d imagined it would be. It was the magic of fantasy, he thought. This was a real woman sitting on his face.
Greta got up and stared down at him. “Don’t I hurt you?” she asked. “when I sit on your face like that?”
“Umm… yes,” admitted Dennis.
“Do you… still… want to be used as a seat?”
“Um… yes,” he replied.
Greta was silent, as if considering something. Then she said: “Well… If you don’t care anything more about yourself than to be used as just something to sit on… we can probably arrange something.”
“Oh, Good!” exclaimed Ursula.
“But we certainly can’t keep you here at the house all the time. You’ll need to attend classes. I won’t be responsible for you not getting your degree… but… if you want… You can come over any time.”
“And we’ll sit on you,” said Ursula.
To be continued…
By
Couchman
Dennis, along with thousands of other college kids, often went to the college library, in part to check out books, but, in his case, to get another look at the research librarian who worked there he knew only as Greta. Greta was a tall woman in her early forties, old enough to be his mother, yet endowed with a buttocks that would put most younger co-eds to shame. She was of German heritage with the typical blonde hair and lovely bronze skin typical of that nationality. He loved to position himself near her desk and pretend to leaf through a book so he could watch her whenever she returned from a research project in the aisles and plant her perfect butt on her desk chair. Oh, how lucky that chair seat must be, he thought. If only he could somehow magically turn his face into that chair seat so Greta would sit on him.
As it happened one day, Dennis was in the book aisles searching for some books to apply to a research paper for his Cultural Anthropology class. He was kneeling down, gazing at some titles on the lower shelf when he heard the clack of heels of a woman entering the next aisle over. He quickly noticed that the way the books happened to be arranged left an open space between the bottom shelf of one aisle and the bottom shelf of the other. He was immediately excited when he realized that the legs and cream colored skirt of the woman belonged to Greta. He also noticed that a small wooden stool had been placed next to the adjacent aisle. People often used it to stand on if they were too short to reach the top shelf. They also used it to sit on. And Greta was standing right next to the stool as she searched for some books. He stared at Greta’s legs and at the stool, hoping she would decide to sit down on it. He would get a great view of her butt descending to the stool. But he was disappointed. Greta didn’t sit on it. He watched, dismayed, as her legs moved away and the clack of heels on floor as she walked a few feet out of his range of vision. He knew it was terribly risky if he got caught, but he decided he needed a closer view. He looked around and listened carefully if anyone else was nearby. Then he placed his head through the slot between the aisles. His face was now only inches away from the stool on the other side. Greta returned and stood next to the stool, her back to him, he could now look nearly straight up the length of her skirt to about waist level. The skirt she was wearing was form fitting, not so tight as to look trashy, but tight enough to cling to the curves of her magnificent butt. Suddenly, her legs were together as she allowed gravity to pull her butt to the stool. Her rounded butt nearly sat on his face. The stool groaned under her weight as she dominated it. Damn how he wanted to be that stool, with Greta sitting upon his face. Inanimate objects have all the fun, thought Dennis.
What happened next was the natural result of sexual desire blocking the rational mind. He had to get even closer to the stool. He positioned his face even closer. Now he could see not only her butt covering that lucky stool, but her entire torso leading up to golden hair. She sat on the stool a few moments, leafing through a book, and then got up. His rational mind was trying to tell him to pull his head out of that unnatural position, but sexual desire won over. Greta stood next to the stool with her back to him. His face was so close to the stool he felt a strange kinship with it. Inanimate objects have all the fun, thought Dennis. If she sat back down on the stool again, she would nearly sit on his face. And indeed she did. He caught a glimpse of that exciting woman-to-seat glance as Greta, again, sat back down on the stool, her rounded butt connecting with the stool mere inches from his face. The stool groaning a little in protest. He imagined his face as actually being the stool, with Greta sitting on it, because that’s what it was there for: just something to sit on. Unfortunately, he wasn’t an object. He was a human being and Greta looked down over her shoulder at his terrified eyes. He knew he was in trouble.
He yanked his head out of his vantage point and grabbed a book, still crouched down low, but pretending to read as if nothing had just happened. His face reddened and his body shivered as he heard the brisk clack of heels as she hastened to his aisle.
She stood with book in hand. Her voice was stern and unforgiving. “And just what do you think you’re doing young man?” she said.
“Oh, I’m just doing some research,” he said, forcing a smile.
“Really?” Greta replied. “Was staring at my butt part of your research?”
“Um… Oh, no,” he replied.
“I saw you,” she said. “I nearly sat on your face.”
“Well… I…”
“I’m going to call the police,” she warned.
“Please don’t,” he begged.
Greta glared at him. “What were you trying to do, with your head stuck in there?” she asked, curiously. “Does my butt fascinate you so much or… or what?”
“Oh… it’s silly,” he said. “I was pretending to be that little stool you sat on.”
“I see,” she said. Her demeanor was starting to relax. It seemed out of intellectual curiosity that she continued to interrogate him. “You wanted to be the stool… and when I sat on it, I would sit on your face, correct?”
“Um… yes,” he mumbled.
“But the stool is made of wood,” she said. “I can’t hurt it when I sit on it. If I had actually sat on your face like I sat on the stool, I’d crush you. You wouldn’t really want a hundred thirty pound woman sitting on your face would you.”
“Of course not,” he said. “It’s only a silly fantasy.”
Greta gazed at him thoughtfully. “You need to be taught a lesson,” she told him.
“A lesson?”
“Yes,” she continued. “You wanted to be that stool I sat on so much… Let’s see how you like it when I, actually, sit on your face.”
“You aren’t serious,” said Dennis.
“It’s either that or I call the police,” said Greta.
Of course Dennis was thinking: yes! Yes! Sit on my face, but he decided to act victimized.
“You’d hurt me,” he told her. “If you sat on my face, you’d hurt me.”
“Exactly,” she said. “I think you need to experience what it feels like to get sat on… just like that stool… and I don’t think you’ll find the experience very pleasant.”
“How?” asked Dennis. “How are you going to sit on my face here at the library?”
“I’d like to make you put your head right on that stool and sit down on your face,” she considered. “But it’s too risky. I certainly don’t want anyone to see me sitting on you… So,” she continued. “I’m going to take you home with me after work and sit on you. And if you try anything funny” she added. “If you resist… I’m a black belt in Karate. Understand?”
Dennis, with the most submissive and innocent expression he could muster said: “Oh, I wouldn’t try anything. I wouldn’t resist… I just hope you don’t hurt me.”
“It’s for your own good.” Her voice was like that of a mother punishing a child for misbehaving.
He was ordered to meet Greta at the parking lot adjacent to the library and described her car. Dennis could hardly wait to five o’clock. Greta was actually going to take him home with her and plop that sexy butt on his face. During the drive to her house, Greta continued to remind him how painful the experience was going to be, how she intended to put her whole weight on him when she sat on him, and how he would probably smother. She reminded him that he was not a piece of furniture, that he was a human being and how uncomfortable it would be when she sat on him. Dennis pretended to agree with her, all the while sneaking glances at her butt dominating her car seat, and at her shapely thighs—her skirt had ridden half way up them when she sat down on the car seat. Greta was indeed a prime example of female beauty. The lines of her ample hips curved inwards to a slim waist and then back out to form a torso of firm breasts pushing at her blouse. She had a smallish nose, wide mouth, and large, deep blue eyes. Her blonde hair was tied up in a bun, and simple, green earrings adorned her ears.
When they arrived, he followed her into her house like an obedient dog. As he walked behind her, he stared at the natural wiggle in her butt. He tried not to get hard thinking about that butt connecting with his upturned face. He didn’t want Greta to think he was going to enjoy it.
“Let me see,” she said, looking about the living room. She spied a leather hassock and said, “There… Put your head on that hassock… face up, of course.”
Dennis obeyed, trying to look worried. Actually, when it came right down to it, he was a little worried. Greta could really injure him… break his nose or something… depending on how hard she sat down on him. He got down on the carpeted floor and leaned back with his head on the hassock. He looked up at Greta, who now, from his low vantage point, loomed over him as she had when she sat on the library stool. She turned her back to him and his pulse quickened as he prepared to receive an actual connection between her butt and his face. His angle of vision was now a few inches below her knees, and he could see part way under her skirt. But, suddenly, she walked away from him, over to a glass cabinet containing some figurines.
She was ignoring him as he kept his contorted body and upturned face on the hassock.
“Um… Excuse me,” he said, politely. “But aren’t you going to sit on me?”
Great turned around and gazed at him. “Excuse me?” She said. “Do you think that little stool in the library could tell me when to sit on it..? I’ll sit on you when I feel like it.” It became obvious to Dennis that she was intending to make this experience as uncomfortable for him as possible, by deliberately keeping him waiting, his body and head in such an unnatural position, until… she… decided to sit on him.
He watched as she took one of the figurines from the glass cabinet and examined it. The suspense was killing him. Was she going to sit on his face or not? She returned the figurine to the cabinet and he was filled with relief when she again walked casually back to the hassock and, again, towered over him, facing away from him. Then she spoke, but not to him. She spoke out loud as someone might do when they’re alone. “Long day,” she said, and sighed. “It’s going to feel great to sit down and take some weight off my feet.” Her legs were together. Her knees bent and she began to sit down on his face. Her butt was now a clothy, cream colored orb descending to his face. The orb moved a little to the side as she peered down at him with exactly that same woman-to-seat glance he’d seen at the library. Then her lovely face was again replaced by her rounded butt as it descended to his face. When Greta’s butt connected with his face, he felt twin mounds of flesh beneath the skit envelope him, covering his entire head and part of his chest. At first, she didn’t allow much of her weight to compress his head into the hassock, gradually increasing the load on his face as his nose mashed deep into her. She was sitting on his face with her entire weight. He felt a combination of pain and sexual excitement. This is what it felt like to be used for something Greta wanted to sit on. Now… he… was the chair at her desk… he… was that little stool she sat on. She sat on his face for a few moments and then crossed her nylon covered legs, which added even more weight to his face. But he was able to peer with one eye under the thigh that was crossed over the other. She dangled a heeled shoe as she nonchalantly continued to sit heavily on his face.
After perhaps thirty seconds of smothering beneath her butt, he began to feel oxygen deprivation. He loved the feeling of her ample butt and her womanly weight atop his face, yet he couldn’t breathe. His sexual excitement only added additional burden on his lungs. His chest heaved. He began to panic.
But, suddenly, he heard a door slam and a much younger, energetic voice exclaim: “Hi, mom… Mom? What are you doing sitting on that man’s face!”
“…teaching him a lesson,” replied Greta. “He thinks he wants to be a seat of some kind so women will sit on his face… so… I did. I brought him home and sat on his face.” She got up and looked down at Dennis. “I hope you learned your lesson.”
Dennis blinked a few times until his eyes focused in the image of a girl about his age, dressed in a plaid mini-skirt. She had blonde hair and blue eyes, like her mother, yet somewhat shorter than she. Dennis guessed her to be about five foot three or four, and she was positively beautiful. She had inherited her mothers’ butt and legs—legs he could see more of—because her mini started half way up them.
“Oh, fun!” said the girl. “Can I sit on him?”
Dennis was still breathing heavily from Greta sitting on him, but the promise of her daughter plopping her tight butt down on his face was indeed exciting.
“Oh… I don’t know, Ursula,” Greta was hesitant. “I think you’ve had enough of getting you face sat on, haven’t you, young man.
Dennis did not reply. He waited for the next event to unravel itself.
“But you said he wants to be a seat, mom,” said Ursula. “I can sit on his face, too… can’t I?” She didn’t wait for permission from her mother. Dennis could tell she was a headstrong girl. She aggressively stroke closer to him and stood so close to the hassock he could look right up most of her tanned thighs, and the inner lining of her skirt hovering above him.
She looked down at him with an impish grin, squishing the hem of her skirt. “I’m going to sit on your face, Mr. Seat.” She told him. She twirled around, her skirt going completely over his face, and allowing him a quick glance of her rounded butt, satin panties stretched tight, and golden thighs as she sat down heavily on his face. Ursula had sat on him—unlike her mother’s slight hesitation—without any regard for hurting him. His face mashed deep into her panty clad buttocks. She casually crossed her legs as she sat on his face as nonchalantly as if it were a natural thing to sit on.
“Oh, I love sitting on you,” she said. “You make a lovely seat.”
While his face remained mashed under her weight, the twin globes of her butt, and scanty panties, he had tilted his head slightly and could see the underside of a tanned thigh as it crossed over the other to where it met the bend of her knees.
He heard Greta’s voice: “Ursula, you certainly don’t have any modesty when sitting on a man’s face”—referring, of course, to her skirt draped completely over his head. “Of course not,” replied Ursula. He’s…only… a seat… I don’t care where my skirt goes when I sit on a piece of furniture. She emphasized the word furniture. She uncrossed her legs and arose about a foot above his face. She wiggled her butt playfully and said: “Do you like my butt, Mr. Seat? Dennis stared up at cone shaped female flesh, consisting of her rounded butt and smooth thighs. She teased him a few moments and then sat back down, heavily, on his face. She was obviously very proud of her toned body and projected an exhibitionistic attitude towards showing it off. She also had a mischievous, yet dominating way about her and seemed unconcerned about how much discomfort she was causing him. Her thighs were together and her calves were pointed outwards as she sat on him.
Dennis was once more starting to panic from oxygen deprivation. His chest heaved as he tried in vain to get some air that just wasn’t there, his nose and mouth sealed shut from her butt and weight upon them.
Her mother seemed concerned: “Maybe you should get up, honey,” she said. “before you suffocate him.”
“Why?” said Ursula, showing no intention of doing so. “He’s only a seat, so I sat on him.” She spoke to her mother so nonchalantly as she sat on his face, he got the distinct impression that Ursula wasn’t thinking of him as anything, but, a piece of furniture.
“I’ve seen him around campus,” said Ursula. “Some of my friends think he’s cute, but he’s so shy and quiet.” Then she added. “But I guess a seat usually is quiet.” She giggled.
Dennis felt drowsy, as if about to pass out when Ursula released her young-womanly weight from his face. She got up and stood next to the hassock, grinning down at him. She placed a knee gently on his face a moment. “Can we keep him, mom?”
“Keep him?”
“Sure,” said Ursula. “Let’s keep him… We can use him for a seat. We can sit on him whenever we want.”
“Oh, Ursula,” replied her mom. “We can’t… keep… him. He’s a person. He’s not a piece of furniture.”
Ursula continued her persuasion. “But he likes it when we sit on him… You can tell that.”
“He’s not supposed to…like… it,” said Greta. “I sat on is face in hopes that he… wouldn’t… like it.”
“I’ll bet,” said Ursula, “that if we used him as a seat and sat on him enough, he’d get tired of it, wouldn’t you Mr. Seat.”
“Sure,” said Dennis, going along with them. “I’d get tired of it.”
Greta said: “You’ll get tired of our… butts… on your face,” said Greta. She came closer to the hassock. “… especially when I sit on you like this…” She turned her back to him. A hand reached back and smoothed the fabric of her skirt as she sat down on his face, this time without hesitation, allowing her weight to crush his head into the hassock.
Ursula giggled. “How do you like my mom’s big butt on your face?”
“I don’t have a big butt,” said her mother.
“I’ll bet… he… thinks so,” said Ursula, giggling.
“Oh. Come on,” said Greta. “ I only weight maybe ten or fifteen pounds more than you.”
“Or twenty,” said Ursula, giggling.
“I weigh one thirty,” said Greta.
“I only weigh one fifteen,” said Ursula.
“See?” said Greta. “… fifteen pounds more… and I’m taller than you.”
While the two were joking about their weight, Dennis remained crushed under Greta’s butt. It felt like she weighed a ton. Getting his face sat on by her was more painful then he’d imagined it would be. It was the magic of fantasy, he thought. This was a real woman sitting on his face.
Greta got up and stared down at him. “Don’t I hurt you?” she asked. “when I sit on your face like that?”
“Umm… yes,” admitted Dennis.
“Do you… still… want to be used as a seat?”
“Um… yes,” he replied.
Greta was silent, as if considering something. Then she said: “Well… If you don’t care anything more about yourself than to be used as just something to sit on… we can probably arrange something.”
“Oh, Good!” exclaimed Ursula.
“But we certainly can’t keep you here at the house all the time. You’ll need to attend classes. I won’t be responsible for you not getting your degree… but… if you want… You can come over any time.”
“And we’ll sit on you,” said Ursula.
To be continued…