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Still, Bobby was good to me. After the holidays, he visited my apartment and was surprised to see a lot of carpeting and no furniture, other than grandma’s marble tea table that served as both my desk and dining room.

“Honey,” he declared, “If I’m going to be visiting, we need to go couch shopping.”

“Oh Bobby!” I rushed into his arms and showed my excitement with a luscious smear of red lipstick across his mouth and chin. My plump lips massaged his face, warmth gliding over his cheeks and jaw, as my tongue slithered around his teeth.

“Whew,” he gasped as I withdrew to let him breathe.

“Oh Bobby,” I said again, rolling my hips against his purple soldier, hidden behind the zipper.

“Oh Baby,” he responded with an easy forward thrust. We were definitely on the same page, and in a mood to follow through.

Clothes flying, we tumbled to the carpet, rolling onto the oversized pillows as his oversized soldier strained against the limits of his zipper. My manicured hand caressed his knackers through the fine merino wool of his pants, as glossy red nails pinched the puller and ever so slowly opened the zipper teeth. One click, two, down the length, my other hand rubbing relentlessly, squeezing so gently.

Purple soldier’s pulsing head flung himself out of the recess, surprised to succumb to my tongue and throat, hot saliva oozing the path. I sucked and swallowed, pumped and tightened, enveloping the hot man parts. Soldier was my prisoner, held deep within my plump, saturated cheeks.

Bobby writhed to the rhythm of my tender succors. His fingers gripped my hair and head, guiding me, begging me, claiming me. And when his release came, an explosion of seminal fluids shot from his muzzle. I pulled myself across his chest, my mouth meeting his, sharing the goo, warm and sticky to seal our kiss.

Bobby lay on the carpet, arms and legs spread-eagle. He stared at the ceiling, spent and dazed.

“Can I get you anything else?” I asked.

“Oh, that was just about everything I need,” he mumbled. With a soft groan, he rolled onto his side, facing me. Running his hand across the nape of the rug, he said, “Soft.” As he touched the edge of a pillow he said, “Snuggly.”

“Comfy,” I agreed.

“Maybe we don’t need a couch.” He suggested. “Maybe a rug and a pillow are…” But he didn’t finish the sentence, as he reached and pulled me into his arms. A sweet kiss and he asked, “What kind of couch are you dreaming of Ms. Fox? Your wish is my command.”

I cuddled into his neck and ran my fingers through his chest hair. “Purple,” I said.

Recovered and clothed, we sat in a corner booth at the Wine Bar in mid-town. Aperitifs on the table as we waiting for a double order of steamed mussels, Bobby said, “Why don’t you come out to my house on the Island next weekend and I’ll take you to Serena and Lily’s.”

“Friends of yours?” I asked.

“Well, yes, proprietors of a new custom designer furniture store in East Hampton. I think you’ll find a couch to your liking.”

“A purple couch?” I asked.

“Any color couch your heart desires, my sweet. Delivered to your door. They are special customers of Dangler Outlets.”

So it was settled, the next weekend we headed to Bobby’s beach house, and introductions to my new friends, Serena and Lily.

Let me cut to the chase. The car ride to the Hamptons was delightful, with bubbly champagne kisses and great sightseeing out the window and in the pants. The beach house was amazing. We relished every room in the place, and the white sand and frolicking waves. And the rainforest shower afterwards.

If I haven’t mentioned yet, there are two things that hold my attention. Magnificent purple soldiers with their veins popping and their heads bulging, and shopping. Friday night at the beach house, we practiced military drills and had several glorious encounters with Purple Soldier. Saturday morning, late morning, the shopping adventure began.

Twelve weeks later, a big Dangler truck delivered a custom made, luscious lilac, corner special, deep sectional couch to my door. Bobby and I had snuggled on the model couch in the shop, testing the overstuffed cushions.

“Consider the rub count,” Serena said.

“Rub count?” Bobby and I both chimed.

She stroked her hand back and forth over the upholstery. Her long, manicured fingers brushed right, then left. Bobby and I were mesmerized by the sultry motion.

“A Belgian linen blend.”

“What’s the rub count?” Bobby asked.

“On this tactile beauty? It’s a double rub,” she confirmed, “Soft and strong.”

In bed that night, I double rubbed Bobby up and down. “Mmmm,” I moaned as we lay together, my long, manicured fingers lingered on his purple soldier. “Soft and strong,” I whispered.

“Mmmm,” he agreed, “I’m a big fan of the double rub.”

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