Love, Leather, and Consequences

I was all bricked up when she strutted into my office. The first thing I noticed were those massive sweater puppies trapped beneath her tight top, desperate for freedom. After forcing myself to look away, I locked eyes with her for the first time. She was already pissed, as most broads usually are when they walk into my office.

It was only now I noticed that she had a smoking hot jawline—sharp, passionate, and curved in all the right ways to drive a man like me crazy.

"She was trouble; anyone could see that, and trouble just walked into my world."

She stopped short of my desk, causing her assets to bounce in perfect rhythm. It was then I realized her dumpy was so pronounced, even from the front, Doja Cat herself would blush.

"What the hell did you just say to me? You know that's harassment!" she snapped.

I struck a match and lit up one of my fentanyl-laced cigarettes, taking a deep drag and letting the numbing sensation invade my senses. Just like that, half of the cig was ashes.

"Are you seriously smoking right now? What the hell is wrong with you?"

Before I could respond, the first wave hit me—fast, hard, and painful. You know, like your mom likes it.

"I'm rolling!" I yelled, my body jerking as the holy spirit (aka fentanyl) took over. My body rocked, foaming at the mouth as I shouted to God, "I am Alpha and Omega! I come to overthrow the rulers of this kingdom!"

The cigarette hung from the side of my mouth as my hands waved toward the heavens, locked in the clutches of my vision quest.

The woman trembled, wide-eyed as she watched the sight of a true born-again Christian communicating with the Creator Himself. She'd had enough. Screaming bloody murder, she turned and bolted, her caboose clapping away as she fled through the door, slamming it shut behind her.

I collapsed back into my chair, letting its smooth leather cradle me as I giggled like a schoolgirl, feeling it play with my body.

"Oh, Mr. Leather, you're so bad."

The chair was rubbing me harder now, its surface working its way lower and lower until it reached my rear terminal for a little inspection.

"Whoa, sir! I'm too young for a colonoscopy!" I moaned, feeling my nipples harden.

"You shit from here all the time; how bad could it be sending something in instead?" Mr. Leather whispered back.

The chair had a way with words—too logical to ignore—and I found myself gripping its arms, ready to board the first-class flight to Pleasure Town.

"Be gentle, Mr. Leather. My uncle said it can be like a minefield back there."

But suddenly, like a spell breaking, the chair pulled away, its appendage deflating. Mr. Leather now looked disgusted.

"You're not a virgin back there?"

Those words hung in the air like a wet fart in a hospital room. I felt his disappointment.

"It's still tight, though, I swear! My uncle's not that big—there's no way he did much damage..."

Mr. Leather stared out the window, gazing at the street below. I joined him as a family of toasters walked by, their human baby crawling behind, muzzled like a dog. To my surprise, Mr. Leather began to cry.

"Dry those tears, baby. You're ruining the upholstery."

He looked at me and then gestured toward a couple below—some folding chair and a human dressed as Mr. Potato Head, holding hands.