Velour Couch

In Apartment Two C, Stacy sat on the couch, squinting at Carrie's old television set. Then she sneezed and a gusher of urine soaked the couch cushion.

"Fuck!" Stacy yelled, got to her feet and casually flipped the cushion over.

Then she waddled into the bathroom, stripped out of her soaked panties and maternity slacks, dropped them into the hamper, and nude from the waist down, padded back out and sat on the couch.

The idea hit her, if she sneezed again and soaked the cushion again, there would be no other side to flip it to, and so she moved to the end cushion, the chair portion of the couch.

Later on, she spilled her drink on that cushion, so moved to the center cushion and used the ottoman as a table.

Because the ottoman did not have a level surface, and Doug had broken one wheel off in a stoned rampage, the ottoman was quickly doused with Stacy's drink.

Stacy watched 'The Bachelor' alone, but since she didn't like any of the contestants still on the program, and because Carrie wasn't there and she didn't have Carrie's carrot sticks and celery sticks to nibble on, Stacy decided to go to bed early.

Laying her head down, Stacy realized, she could smell the urine soaked cushion, so she wiggled around and lay her head on the other end.

In Apartment Two A, Brennan looked at the toaster oven and realized just how potentially dangerous the item was. His agent responded that Brennan wasn't paid for his opinion, he was paid to write the User's Manuals for the items.

As angry as he was, Brennan smiled as he heard Carrie comment to 'The Bachelor' in the living room.

It was a manufacture red 'Reality' show, with very little reality but Carrie watched the insipid show religiously.

"I'm going to bed," Carrie announced. "And you better not try to fuck me, hear?"

"F-f-fine, I w-w-won't," Brennan said, only a little hint of a stutter.

He chuckled when he heard her indignant squeal. He put the toaster oven aside, made sure it was unplugged and went into the bedroom.

"No, go away," Carrie ordered, already under the comforter.

M-m-mad at m-m-me?" he asked, crawling into the bed and scooting toward her.

"What do you think?" she barked, biting down on his nose.

"Ow!" he exclaimed then laughed when she stuffed her tongue into his mouth.

"Oh!" she sighed when he lifted her left leg and eased his erection into her bald pussy.

"St-st-still m-m-mad..." he asked.

"Love you too much to stay mad at you," she admitted, relishing the feeling as he slowly filled her pussy.

"L-l-love y-y-you t-t-too," he said, concentrating on anything but the delicious feelings that enveloped his cock.

"Come on, let's do it doggy style; I just washed these sheets two days ago," Carrie said as her orgasm was coming close.

Brennan reluctantly pulled out of her drooling pussy and then helped her wiggle into position.

"Oh shit, o God," Carrie groaned as he slid himself into her again.

"Shit! Don't!" she screamed when he reached around her pudgy thigh and found her swollen clitoris.

Her pussy clamped down around his cock and he spurted into her pussy. Carrie tried to reach around her swollen belly to catch the semen before it dripped onto the mattress but did not succeed.

"Damn it; guess I'm going back to the laundry mat," she giggled as she listened to Brennan trying to catch his breath.

He walked around on his knees and presented his cock to her face. She sucked him up to erection again and sighed with contentment when he slid into her pussy again.

"Oh, Baby, Oh!" she groaned as he played with her breasts; they were quite sensitive.

"Oh!" she suddenly barked when he let go of her left breast and again tickled her clitoris.

Again he filled her pussy and this time she just let the semen drool out of her pussy, down her fat thighs, onto the mattress.

"Love you," Carrie murmured when Brennan sponged her slimy pussy lips clean with a damp, warm wash cloth.

"L-l-love y-y-you t-t-too," Brennan admitted, but she was already snoring.

"S-s-s-s-s-so m-m-m-m-much it s-s-s-s-s-s-s-scares m-m-m-m-me," he said.

Then he returned to his examination of the toaster oven. The design flaws in the cheaply made device were glaring but Brennan sighed and forged ahead.

In Apartment Two C, Stacy, feeling the need to pass gas, relaxed her sphincter muscle, then tried to clamp back down as she defecated mightily onto the middle cushion of the couch.

"Shit!" she screamed, unmindful of how thin the walls of the apartment were, unmindful of her neighbors.

"God damn, cannot believe..." Stacy complained as she waddled into the bathroom.

A blast of ice cold water greeted her as she turned the taps on.

After cleaning herself up, she tried her best to clean the couch with nothing but wet paper towels. Finally, after most of a roll had been used, Stacy decided it was clean enough and flipped the cushion over.

Sleep, however, was impossible; the stench was imbedded in her nostrils, so she decided to make a pot of coffee; Carrie had left her old coffee pot in the apartment.

With coffee in hand, Stacy sat on the first cushion ; the smell of urine by now overwhelmed by the other smells in the small apartment.

"Oh! OH! Uh!" Stacy suddenly groaned , feeling a mighty cramp in her belly.

The first cushion was drenched as Stacy's water broke.

She called 911, told the operator what the emergency was, then shrugged into her robe.

Briefly, Stacy did wonder if she should call Frank and let him know. The thought of calling her best friend and letting Carrie know her god child was about to be born did not occur to Stacy.

"Oh my God!" Stacy cried out as a contraction hit and the middle cushion was doused with a half of a mug of coffee with too much sugar and creamer.

"Of course these mother fuckers always live up on the second or third floor," one of the paramedics complained as they raced to the address given.

Brennan heard the ambulance scream to a stop, heard the clank of the gurney as it came up the stairs, and was in his robe and peering out the door when the two paramedics entered Two C.

"Huh? What?" Carrie sleepily asked when Brennan nudged her awake.

"Y-y-y-your f-f-f-friend..." Brennan stammered.

"Stacy?" Carrie asked, struggling to sit up.

"Y-y-y-..." Brennan said.

"Okay, Baby," Carrie said.

She was in her slacks, bra and blouse by the time the two paramedics wheeled Stacy to the stairs.

"We'll be right there; where are y'all taking her?" Carrie said.

"St. Elizabeth's," one of the men said.

"L-l-l-let's g-g-g-go," Brennan said.

Stacy's mother grumbled and groaned, but thanked Carrie for calling her as Brennan drove, following the ambulance.

"Thank you, Baby," Carrie said, resting her hand on Brennan's leg.

"W-w-welc-c-come," he said and parked the car.

Nearly eight hours later, Braxton Marilee was born.

"Now that's a name I'll never be able to say," Brennan wrote on the back of a pamphlet he found in the hospital lobby and Carrie laughed.

The couch was still damp and stunk horribly when Stacy and Braxton were released. Carrie looked at the cushions and declared it a complete loss; she'd never be able to thoroughly clean it .

"I mean, shit, really, Stacy? You just flip the fucking cushions over?" Carrie spat.

"What the fuck you so mad about, huh?" Stacy snapped back. "Shit, fucking couch was free."

Brennan was about to offer his own couch but Carrie very quickly told him no.

"God damn, some people you just can't do nothing for them,," she snapped at Brennan. "They just fucking take it for granted.

"Fine, bitch, oh and guess what? You ain't going be Braxton's god mother neither, huh?" Stacy screamed at her friend.

After Carrie slammed the door of Apartment Two C shut, Stacy decided she'd try a little wheedling and whining on her mother.

"You made your bed," Stacy's mother said. "Too bad it's a little uncomfortable. You're the one decided get knocked up by some loser can't even pay for the kids he's already got and now you're sleeping on the floor? Well that's a God damned shame."

"That's your granddaughter," Stacy reminded her mother.

"Oh no ma'am. Braxton, God damn, what the hell kind of name is that anyway, Braxton? She's got a baby bed I bought for her," her mother said calmly. "You sold that bed pay for drugs, or booze or whatever the hell you're hooked on? That's on you. Can't afford her? Give her up for adoption. Oh, and try to find some couple that'll give her a normal name."

After Stacy skipped the first month's rent, the landlord made moves to evict her. Brennan did ask Carrie, but Carrie tearfully told him, it was time for Stacy to grow up and realize the world didn't owe her anything.

Stacy ignored the posted notice and then ignored the hammering on the door a few days after the posting of the notice.

So the landlord used his master key and swung the door open.

"God damned mother fuckers; I got a baby!" Stacy screamed as the two police officers escorted her out the apartment.

"You going do this to a mother with a baby?" Stacy screamed at the stone faced landlord.

Stacy carried the screaming Braxton to Apartment Two A and hammered on the door.

"Go away, Stacy," Carrie tearfully told her friend and closed and locked the door.

Stacy then drove to her sister's trailer, but her sister's boyfriend told Stacy she wasn't welcome. Her brother and her brother's partner also told her that they had no room for her or her baby.

The shelter did take her and her baby. Most of the residents were extremely suspicious of Stacy, though. She was, after all, an employee of St. Elizabeth Parish. Or at least she claimed to be an employee of the parish.

In Apartment Two A, Brennan held Carrie as she sobbed, heart-broken over having to turn her back on her best friend and her best friend's baby.

Then she gasped and clutched her belly.

"Nine one one; what is your emergency?" the operator asked.

"Sir, slow down, I can't understand you," the operator said as Brennan stuttered and stammered that his girlfriend's baby was coming and it was almost five weeks premature.

"Brennan, give me the phone," Carrie groaned.

"Hi, I'm having a baby; it's about five weeks premature and my boyfriend's a little excited," Carrie grunted into the telephone. "But we can drive there quicker than y'all can get here."

Brennan helped Carrie down the stairs, almost more of a hindrance than a help.

As he unlocked her door, Carrie looked at the assortment of her old furniture that sat by the dumpster. The table and three chairs, the ottoman, the loveseat and the chair, separated. The chair lay on its back, ripped underside now visible.

Ian Thomas Buckmeyer was almost born in the passenger seat of Brennan's car; he was born on the gurney as Carrie was being wheeled onto the elevator.

"Dude, it'll be all right," the orderly told the sobbing Brennan. "This hospital's one of the best, okay?"

When Brennan did come in to see Carrie, he was much more composed.

"He's f-f-fine," Brennan smiled, his relief evident.

Carrie smiled and linked fingers with him.

"W-w-why you'd n-n-name him Ian?" Brennan asked.

"It's a name you'll be able to pronounce okay," she said.

She patted his hand.

"I noticed you don't have that much trouble with vowels, and it's a good, strong name, goes with St. Thomas; his middle name's Thomas, after St. Thomas Aquinas," Carrie said.

"S-s-s-s-so y-y-y-y-you n-n-n-n-named..." Brennan said aloud in wonder.

"Who bought a baby bed? Who bought a changing table? Who rearranged his whole office for the baby?" Carrie asked, smiling at Brennan.

"W-w-w-well I d-d-d-did, b-b-b-but..." Brennan said.

"So, I knew my boyfriend would be there and I kind of knew my man would want to talk to the little guy. Kind of hard to talk to the little guy when you can't say his name, huh?" Carrie said.

"And I w-w-w-will b-b-b-be t-t-t-talk-k-king t-t-t-to h-h-h-him," Brennan promised. "A l-l-l-lot."

Outside of the apartment building, a man spotted the loveseat and other furniture. Seeing it from the relatively unsoiled rear, the loveseat did look good, serviceable.

He placed his hand on it and imagined his nineteen year old daughter kneeling on the cushion, hands gripping the rear of the loveseat while he pounded her willing pussy from behind.

But a glance at the stained cushions, and the sight of the cockroaches that were already laying claim to the furniture made the man move on, abandoning the discarded items to their fate.

Carrie was discharged from St. Elizabeth Trauma Center the following day, but Ian remained at the hospital for six days. Carrie had made the decision to breast feed so she was frequently at the Neo-natal ward and Brennan was right there with her.

On the day Ian was discharged, Brennan was proudly walking with Carrie as she cradled Ian. Brennan's ex-wife, coming into the Emergency Room, bleeding from a beer bottle cut her latest boyfriend had given her, stopped and stared at the trio.

"What are you doing here, L-l-l-loser?" she sneered.

"T-taking my son h-h-home, L-l-loser," Brennan smiled proudly.

"But you have a super sparkly day, b-b-b-bitch," Carrie said.

****

The landfill in Jack's Creek, Louisiana put the loveseat, ottoman, and chair into the compacter, along with several other items. The man gave a visual inspection that no one was inside the large mechanism, then threw the switch.

With a scream, the velour and foam rubber and pine wood and steel springs gave up its imbedded memories of Sammy and Michelle, Nicole, Doug and Derek, Carrie and Stacy.

The memories, like the people that had made them, were twisted and mangled and entwined with other memories within the compactor, until with a final groan, they died.

THE END.

**Author's Note: I write these stories for my pleasure; I post them here for your enjoyment. Thank you for reading my stories.

Yes, this was a dark, unhappy story. It came to me as I watched the young couple moving out of the rental home next door and saw the filthy, disgusting couch they left behind. I also saw three people stop and examine the couch, then deciding it wasn't worth it. I don't know who finally did take it but it was gone the next morning.

(I'm sure, in the dead of the night, that hideous blue looked good. I'm also sure, in the light of day, the new owners likewise left it at the curb for the next victim.)

Disclaimers: Yes I need and Editor; it jumps around too much, there's too many people to keep track of, it's too long, it's in the wrong category, it's stupid shit, and I suck.

I also do not read emails; if I could figure out how to turn that feature off, I would. The few emails I did take the time to read were so vindictive and hateful, I just delete them now. If you hate me and hate my stories that much, just don't read them.

But I do thank those that take the time to leave comments, critiques (even the negative ones; some make me laugh) and take the time to rank these little tales. Much appreciated.

And you have a warm and fuzzy feel-good kind of day.

What the hell; have two warm and fuzzy feel good days. In a row.