The 'Sex Sofa'

“Alice, you can’t sit there! That’s the SEX SOFA!!”

If there’s one consistent feature common to all varieties of student accommodation - aside perhaps the frequent squalor, dubious odours and near constant background sound of other people’s sexual gratification - it’s the legends and fables that develop from rogue words and misheard rumours, which go on to develop their own mythical status to match that of Homer’s Odyssey.

You know the sort I mean.

Stuart’s Eternally Damp Wall. The partition that miraculously suffered simultaneously from both rising and falling damp. Container of so many moulds as to maintain a perfect balance of health for all in the house. Said to only have felt dry to the touch as a portent of ill tidings; the death of Princess Diana, 9/11, Brexit, and, presumably (though this is pure speculation on my part) the source of (or cure to) Covid-19. Should the Eternally damp wall ever fall, so would England itself.

Evie’s Cupboard. The door in the corner of Evie’s house that lead to nowhere. No key to it existed nor apparently could the door ever be removed from its hinges. Legend spoke that inside was the corpse of Lord Lucan, Shergar the missing racehorse and Jack the Ripper and that, were it to ever open, they might finally find the vacuum cleaner and discover the original colour of the carpet.

Ashley’s Stain. A mark on the kitchen wall that could only have originated from another dimension. It defied recognisable colour and texture, and couldn’t be cleaned by any natural or man made product of chemical. Some whispers spoke of it being semi-sentient sexcrement biding it’s time to replace humanity as a dominant species. Others say it was the remnants of Iain’s ill fated attempt to make pasta. The truth will never be known in our lifetime.

You see the kind of thing I mean. Weird little oddities that take on a life of their own. Stalwart legends that, even if invented during your time there, will hopefully outlive you for generations to come.

But during my time at Uni there was one mythic fable that stood above and beyond all others.

The SEX SOFA.

To the uninitiated it may have looked to be a simple and unassuming light brown leather sofa from the sixties. Notable primarily for being deeper than your standard sofa at one end, so that if you were sat back your legs would barely overhand the edge. It resembled an ordinary sofa at one end, and almost a circular bed at the other.

Which, I suspect, is how the legend came into being.

Because, make no mistake, this thing looked like it had been bought on the cheap from a used porn set. All furniture carries with it a vibe, and this screamed of former days dripping with jizz spilled uniquely from men with handlebar moustaches.

It was wipe clean, after all.

But this is merely the suspect origin tlae of the legend of the Sex Sofa. From humble beginnings its reputation grew.

For, having been bathed in spunky blessings of an unfathomable number of men for an unknowable number of decades, the Sex Sofa was said to be blessed with tremendous libidinous powers.

Some were obvious nonsense; fucking on the sofa granted participants twice the stamina of a usual session; that it gifted those seated upon it the blessing of guaranteed multiple orgasms, but curiously only those caused by fingers; that you could never get pregnant in a sexual liaison conducted upon its well worn cushions.

These so-called ‘powers’ were often discussed but - I sincerely hope, for the sake of humanity - only ever in a jokey ‘sharing the legend’ manner, more akin to sharing a ghost story around a campfire. Or, in this case, sex legends around a spunky sofa.

But there was one strand to the fable of the Sex Sofa that very much was believed. A facet that was considered to be gospel. No mere rumour or legend, this was objective fact to all believers.

“If you sit on the sofa during the fourth hour of any gathering with a member of the opposite sex, you’re guaranteed to get lucky.”

Now, as per all good legends, there are plenty of caveats to consider.

Crucially, there’s nothing to say that the person of the opposite sex you’re sat with will be the same individual with whom you’ll get lucky. Indeed, the anecdotal evidence suggested this was only the case around a third of the time. This also prevented folk from somewhat forcing the issue when it came to manifesting destiny with the partner of their dreams.

The timing is also perhaps deliberately vague. 'Forth hour’ is entirely relative to when folk consider the gathering starting time to be - a fact which is often loose at best when it comes to house based parties and shingdigs. Conveniently for the legend though, four hours in is, by any measure, likely to be the point when folk are sufficiently inebriated to believe in the powers of a mystical sex sofa.

Now, dear reader, you’re a rational individual so I know what you’re thinking. Alice, this sofa has no magical powers. It’s simply self fulfilling prophesy at work. People are sitting on the Sex Sofa at the anointed time because they want to get lucky. And in doing so, it’s signalling to any onlookers that they’re ‘up for it’, thus significantly increasing their chances of success.

And you’d be entirely correct.

But, to you cynics out there, let me also say this.

Would you not prefer to live in a world in which a ex porn set cum-cladded-couch has manifested mystical powers?

No.

Me neither.

To quote the wonderful Douglas Adams: “Isn’t it enough to see that a garden is beautiful without having to believe that there are fairies at the bottom of it too?”

Or, in this instance: “Isn’t it enough to see that sexy situations exist without having to believe that a semen soaked sofa is responsible?”

But, philosophy aside, the simple fact is that people very much *did* believe in the power of the Sex Sofa. And perhaps with good reason. During my time the Sofa was not only the apparent cause of well over a dozen copulations, but also the location of a great many more.

To many would be pilgrims, getting lucky *on* the sofa was a veritable rite of passage. Because who wouldn’t want to climax where so many have quite literally come before?

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“Alice, you can’t sit there! That’s the SEX SOFA!!”

I think on a subconscious level, I must’ve have already known this. I was several months into my second year at university, so I’d obviously heard the legend of the mythical Sex Sofa, but I’d never had reason to find myself in the house where the beast actually resided.

The sight of it alone should have been enough. It looked like a sofa with a sordid past so it shouldn’t have been hard to connect the dots. But my feet were tired from uncomfortable heels and I was desperate for a sit down.

The house in question was the location of an after party after-party. Which is to say that a theatrical event I’d been involved in had ended, a drunken after party had already been enjoyed and now folk who were still keen for the night to not quite yet end had found themselves back in the house of the brave individual who’d offered ‘We can head back to mine, I’ve got plenty of booze in.’ As such, everyone was already somewhere between ‘significantly merry’ and ‘outright sloshed’.

For the event I’d aimed for glamorous and worn a black and gold 20’s style flapper inspired dress. This was, in part, a nod to the show itself but mostly because I’d already firmly established a reputation for HIAATAMT (Hi, I’m Alice and these are my Tits) dresses and was keen to remind folk that I was also in possession of legs. As a result, this thing was SHORT. I’m not sure one can successfully identify as glamorous when even the slightest of leans forward exposed the gentle curve of an arse cheek, so in hindsight we’ll have to call this one a swing an a miss.

But, even if I say so myself; my legs looked good, especially aided as they had been, by a truly beautiful set of black heels that I acquired on the cheap, wilfully ignoring the fact they were almost certainly a full size too small for me.

In short, I desperately needed to sit down. And the Sex Sofa was the nearest available option. I’d have thrown myself upon it even if I’d been fully cognisant of its reputation.

“This is the sofa?” I said, kicking off my heels and rubbing my aching feet back to life. Certainly not the first time feet have been involved in some rubbing upon that worn leather, I’m sure.

“Well, watch me prove the legend wrong!” I said, filled with the kind of impenetrable hubris that one can only possess before turning twenty. And likely the first thing to be considered impenetrable the sofa had ever seen.

For the next couple of hours, I didn’t give the questionable couch a second thought. As per Jona Lewie ‘You will always find [me] in the kitchen at parties.’ And I was busy chatting at enormous drunken length about the show and, if I recall correctly, the hate fuck I dearly wanted to deliver to one of its critics.

But that’s another story.

After several hours I decided it might be wise to collect my shoes which remained discarded in the Sex Sofa room. Upon entering, I saw the Sofa was already mid working its magic as two individuals were engaged in some exceptionally eager and very handsy kissing.

To my surprise, one of the pair was none other than Lisa, the dear friend who had been the one to warn me of sitting on the sofa in the first place. I shan’t name who the guy in question for the sake of her dignity in case she ever reads this. And if you are reading this, Lisa; you’re welcome!

The pair were apparently all set to test one of the other legends of the Sofa as, unless I was very much mistaken, the guy’s fingers had already made their way beneath Lisa’s skirt and her breathy gasping suggested she was very much enjoying whatever it was he was doing under there.

I grabbed my shoes and, politely, left them to their fun. I made a drunken mental note to quiz Lisa as to the sofa’s powers the following day.

I’d barely been back in the kitchen five minutes before we heard the hurried scurrying of footsteps from the Sofa up the stairs into one of the bedrooms. The sofa’s work was done and the pair were keen to continue the festivities where they were less likely to be interrupted.

Cowards.

The handful of us that remained decreed we’d now stood for long enough, so made our way to get comfortable in the now abandonned living room, Sex Sofa be damned. It’d already deployed it’s magic for one night, so surely there was no risk of anything else happening?

The Sofa’s legend was wrong. There was no way Matt’s fingers were getting a double orgasm out of me.

He was trying his damndest, bless him, but it was all movement and no finesse. An enthusiastic and laudable energy, but lacked the precision and technique to get the job done.

“It’d be a lot easier if you took the dress off!”

A lazy excuse. The dress had been pulled up around my hips, my underwear long since discarded and potentially consumed by the sofa itself for nourishment. My clothing provided no barrier to his success at all.

Not that it mattered. This was the fabled Sex Sofa. I certainly wasn’t going to miss out on my chance to actually fuck on the thing.

Quite at what point in the evening Matt and I had realised we were destined participate in an intimate journey, I’m not sure either of us could identify. Cynics might suggest it was the alcohol that put the notion in our head, but it could just as easily have been the indomitable sexual will of the Sofa itself. There’d been some very mild flirting which had escalated in the blink of eye to us kissing as eagerly and passionately as Lisa and [Redacted] had been earlier.

The sofa clearly knew what it was doing.

No doubt seeing where this was going, everyone else had vacated the room almost immediately. Most had called it a night and gone home. The stubborn had returned to the kitchen.

“Have you ever fucked on the Sex Sofa?” I asked, my grin very much suggesting that if he hadn’t, he was about to.

Matt was struck momentarily mute. Partially as he wasn’t expecting such an immediate dive into his previous sexual proclivities, but mostly because it was only now dawning on him just how lucky he was about to get.

I’d been idly wanking him off for the duration of his disappointing fingering - no doubt he’d also have blamed my distraction for his lack of success too, given the opportunity - so wasting no time I threw a leg over his waist to straddle him, positioning myself over his hard, thick and very upright cock.

“Let’s not let the sofa down!” I said, as much to myself as to Matt. I may have been just one in a long line of the sofa’s sexperiments, but I damn well wanted to be memorable.

I lowered myself slowly into his cock and, once he was fully inside me and my arse touched his thighs, I started to ride him.

The squeaking from the leather was abominable.

I’d love to describe in intimate and glorious detail every moment of my time bouncing on Matt’s cock, but all that’s stuck with me is just how much noise that infernal sofa made. I swear it hadn’t been as audible when folk had been sat on it, but now, as I writhed and grinded and rode, every tiny movement produced squeaks that wouldn’t have sounded out of place alongside nails down a chalkboard.

Matt seemed entirely oblivious to it, his head resting against the back cushion, his hands grabbing the soft skin of my thighs, seemingly lost in his own deafened bliss.

I managed a few minutes of it at most.

“Okay well that’s not going to work…” I said. Matt looked absolutely crestfallen.

“Because of the squeaking!” I clarified, allaying his figures I was providing an immediate and unconstructive review of his skills.

I dismounted and positioned myself on all fours, my dress now bunched around my waist from both directions. Matt lined himself up behind me and, with a single smack of my arse for encouragement - more so for himself than for my benefit, I feel - and entered me from behind.

This felt much more like it. I barely even noticed the squeaking as the sensations of his enthusiastic motion started to take hold.

But the Sex Sofa is apparently a cruel mistress. And what it gives, it can soon take away.

For just as everything was starting to feel wonderful, the synapses were igniting and fuzzy feeling of a building orgasm began to take hold, I felt Matt’s grip on my hips tighten.

'“Nnggh, I’m close…” he said.

He could’ve saved his breath, the first sound he made was evidence enough.

“So am I, keep going!” I said, trying to sound more enthusiastic than annoyed. Something I failed entirely to achieve. I barked it like an order.

Matt managed a grand total of two more ‘in and outs’ before thoughts of his grandmother or deceased pets, or whatever he may have deployed to keep momentum at bay failed him.

“Fuuuuck, I’m gonna cum!” he declared, with a finality that suggested it wasn’t open for debate.

“Don’t get any on my dress!” I started to say as I readied myself to slide off his cock and spin 180 degrees to finish him cleanly with my mouth.

I needn’t have bothered.

I got as far as the word ‘on’ before Matt unceremoniously withdrew his cock and, pointing it in the only direction where it wouldn’t have inevitably covered both me and my fabulous dress, aimed down beneath me.

And shot three enormous spurts of cum directly onto the cushions of Sex Sofa.

Were I the superstitious sort I could readily have believed the Sofa was in fact a deamon and this is what it had wanted all along. Cum, direct from source. I was merely a means to *it’s* end.

As the cum began to pool in the divets and run slowly along the creases, I sat my disappointed bare arse down on the arm of the sex sofa. Matt apologised profusely, and hurried to get some kitchen roll and cleaning fluid to clean up his mess, offering to ‘sort me out’ upon his return.

Reader, I was already close and was in no mood to wait.

Sitting on the arm of the Sex Sofa, I slipped two fingers inside myself while my thumb skimmed and danced over my clit. Using a tried and trusted technique that had seen me through countless a night before uni, during uni and indeed is still seeing me right to this very day; I masturbated.

I masturbated hard.

Matt returned just in time to witness my knees shake and give way, and having to support myself with my non-busy arm on the back of the cushion, in order to stop myself slipping backwards into the cum.

I sat, breathing hard, looking at him stood in the doorway, kitchen roll in one hand, an anti bacterial spray in another, and the zip of his trousers still down.

I wondered how many before him the Sex Sofa had lured into just such a position, including no doubt countless film trainees and apprentices who’d been charged with washing down the set post shoot back in the day.

I wonder how many were still to come, mere thralls to the power of the Sex Sofa.

“I was going to do that!” said Matt, disappointed he hadn’t been the one to make me cum.

I smiled politely. He might have believed it, but I certainly didn’t.

Nothing sofa had suggested he’d succeed.

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