Imogen's Furniture

Imogen stepped into my furniture showroom just as I was about to close-up for the day.

They say your first impression of someone forms in less than a second, but it'll take a little longer than that to describe her. If this was a film, this would be the bit where they pause the footage and someone does a voiceover but the likelihood of this getting turned into a film is pretty low!

Anyway, hit pause and hold the image, just as Imogen steps through that door...

She was 20 years younger than me, maybe late twenties, still straddling the line between youthful innocence and adult experience. You could argue the case for neither being the right fit. Old enough to be a mother, young enough to still have doting grandparents.

The first thing to strike me was her hair. Not literally -- I was standing several meters away from her and it was long but not that long! Armfuls of luxurious tousled copper curls flowing over her shoulders. The real-deal and natural, with a complexion to match, not something that came out of a L'Oreal tube, dyed-in over the bathroom sink. And I know what you're probably picturing. You've got the word "ginger" in your head and probably thinking of that unpleasant kid with the piggy nostrils and the temper in the schoolyard who used to shout a lot. The one who's hair was so stiff, it looked like he had copper coloured porridge in it. Well, forget that -- that's going down the wrong line. Think more of a young Catherine Zeta Jones, hair bouncing gloriously as she skips down a hillside. But ginger. Gorgeous.

Her face was pretty, pale, lightly freckled and sultry. You might say slightly horsey, but if you did, you better be picturing an absolute stunner of a horse! Something about the confidence in her face said she used to ride horses, among other things. She had high, light eyebrows giving her a faint look of amusement, a microscopically slight gap between her front teeth just glimpsed through soft pouty lips - the sort of teeth and mouth they use on raunchy chocolate adverts. One of her dark, come-to-bed eyes was shadowed by a curtain of her hair which she was brushing back with one hand just as you hit that pause button.

She wore a short green flowery sundress that showed off her impressive body shape, covering little more than her torso and upper thighs. Her bare arms had the pale freckled skin of a real redhead and from beneath the high hemline a matching set of pale welcoming thighs. Curvy in just the right places. As she took her first steps into the shop, her large breasts bounced very pleasingly. Have I not mentioned her playful puppies yet? It was a toss-up between hair and tits for what I noticed first. Let's call it a draw!

If this was a film, you'd see a faint trail of something flowing through the air from her neck to my nostrils. I'd caught a hint of her perfume, and in our frozen paused state, it had tied up one more of my senses. Another tick in another box.

Anyway, this is not a film, so time to bring everything back up to normal speed. Resume birds chirping outside. Resume sound of modern glass front door closing. Resume faint sound of Bananorama's Ain't What You Do It's the Way That You Do it on radio in the store room. Annnnnd go!

It only took a second for her to walk in through the front door but I knew in that small amount of time, that she'd caught me staring at her, looking her up and down, my eyes flashing excitement as my mouth forgot itself and hung open. I closed my mouth, popped my eyes back in their sockets and straightened my back. Tried to be professional. Failed.

"Sorry, were you closing?" she asked in a clear English public school voice. Confident, unhesitating. Not a lot of accent to go on - was that a southwestern accent in there? Maybe Bath? Or Oxfordshire?

"No, no. For you my front passage stays open!"

I cringed. What a stupid thing to say. In my head, I was about to deliver a James Bond carefully manicured pun, but all my mouth could produce was that. "Front passage"? What did that even mean? She looked back at me frowning momentarily at my words, but then smiled. The shop was open -- she'd understood that bit. I knew she was used to doors being kept open for her and men falling over each other to give her whatever she wanted.

Now it was her time to stare at me, weighing me up like a cat seeing a cornered mouse. This guy in his late forties, six foot, athletic, shaved head, with my short-cut beard that I was never quite happy with. I wonder what she saw through her eyes. Did she see my kind brown eyes, momentarily flushed with something entirely more primal? Was I shabby chic, or just shabby? What on earth does a woman see in a man at first sight, beyond muscles and clothes, I wondered. You can't see sexual prowess. Or integrity. As a man you learn to mask things like hunger and desire, lest they be unwarranted, so they wouldn't be on show either. Lest -- not used that word in a while! Maybe a woman sees wit and humour. And if so, with my crap opening line, I'm not doing well so far!

In that one second, maybe all she saw was some unremarkable older guy in a furniture shop that was open despite the sign on the front that said it should now be shut. And that would have saddened me as I know that I'm a lot more. It would have, if I'd been thinking abut myself but every neurone in my skull was now focussed on a green dress moving around my showroom

Despite my creepy opener, she'd smiled and had moved further into the shop. It'd been a quiet afternoon, so one extra customer, even if it stopped me from closing up, was welcome.

It was a furniture shop started many decades ago by previous owners and the decor hadn't changed much since. A sleepy shop in a sleepy but well-to-do village, lit by the sleepy light of an evening sun. Sleepy but not unloved. The room was full of expensive materials, crafted into wonderful shapes by artisan's hands. A collection of beautiful things from a different era, unappreciated by the Ikea generation. Rich dark woodwork, glossy veneers, antique chrome and exciting embroidered upholstery. A room full of amazing things that few people seemed to want these days. A relic maybe, but a good relic.

The woman seemed interested though, pausing by an ornate chaise and testing the bounce of its pink tongue-like cushion. She admired the four poster beds at the back of the shop and ran the material of the silk drapes through her fingers, ignoring the "Please don't touch" sign. She stopped by a huge, shattered tree stump that had been polished and crafted into a chair but, like most people who cooed around it, probably struggled to see how it would fit in her home and moved on.

She accidentally knocked a card with some drawer dimensions on it onto the floor. As she bent to pick it up, the back of her short dress rose dangerously high, and the edge of two lovely curvy pale butt cheeks briefly came into view over those thighs. And did my eyes deceive me - no underwear and a glint of copper? I imagined my nostrils had just caught a hint of musk in the air and felt a tingling sensation in my crotch. I looked back towards a dark corner of the shop's ceiling at the fairly new CCTV camera and found myself wondering what the playback would show. I unconsciously licked my lips and felt my pulse racing a little.

With the faintest of quivers in my voice, that made me clear my throat mid-sentence, I asked "Is there anything in particular you were looking for?", happy as she turned to respond, to have her eyes back on me.

"I don't know. You have lots of lovely things and some, I could use in my studio."

"Oh, you're an artist." I asked, picturing her brush-in-hand. I waved my pinched hand repeatedly like I was making brush strokes but if I'd done that in my car, I could be confused for calling someone a wanker!

"No not in that way. It's more......a photography studio." and she giggled mischievously. Playfully.

She mooched around the shop for another 20 minutes, picking things up, or testing things out for comfort. I waited behind the counter, trying and failing to stop following her round with my eyes.

She called me over a few times with slightly odd requests. Asking me to lay full length on my own sofas for her to see how it looked, or asking me to shake the antique chrome frame of a bed to see if it rattled. At one point she asked me to stand on the stool from a vanity table set, whilst she just stood in front of me, eyes level with my trouser belt, nodding to herself.

After she'd leaned over the rounded arms of a few Chesterfield sofas, and brushed herself up against a few faux-fur rugs, she eventually clambered up and knelt on a rich red leather chair for one, both hands resting on the back. She adjusted her knees, pushing them outwards and upwards and clambered up higher so that she now knelt on the arms of the sofa, legs angled apart, squatting low. I knew the way her legs were splayed, her dress would be raised interestingly high and maybe popping over her lovely round butt. Frustratingly there was a low bookcase between us, obscuring my view. Even so, I felt a stirring in my trousers! My imagination working overtime, filling in the gaps.

When she dismounted, adjusting the skirt of her dress, she called me over to ask the price. I had to make a few adjustments in my trousers, then walked over. I told her the cost and she seemed unphased by the 4-figure price tag.

"I like interesting things. Playful things. You have some nice stuff but it's not quite what I'm looking for. Do you have anything a bit more risqué? Tasteful like your stuff but a bit more......fun?"

I told her I didn't but suddenly wished I had.

She bought it anyway but wanted it shipped to her home. To save me taking her address down, she handed me a business card.

"Sorry, we don't do discount cards here." Again, another crap line, but this time I managed to say it drily with a bit of humour.

She giggled and bit her lip. "Really, are you sure?" suddenly smiling and wiggling her shoulders like a fidgeting child. I hadn't noticed the low neckline of her dress before, but I did now.

I looked at the card. Imogen L, an address, a phone number, then three logos beneath for WhatsApp, Twitter and one with an OF for a logo. It didn't include a job title.

"No offence," she sighed "but a lot of your stuff - its, erm... very practical. What I'm looking for is something for more intimate occasions. Do you know what I mean?"

I didn't but nodded anyway. She probably meant family gatherings, that kind of thing...

"If you get anything in, which you think I might like, you've got my details babe." and with that and a last swish of her perfume, she walked out.

From outside, the sound of a petrol-head's car fired up, a loud grunt as it reversed, then a roar as it drove off, fading slowly to silence. Just the birds twittering outside.

Did she just call me "babe"?

---

A week later, and I was out doing my annual tour of various furniture shows and a few carpentry outfits. Huge exhibition centres, with dark lofty ceilings, a lot of coffees, and a plastic visitors' name badge on my shirt proudly announcing me as visitor Carl Lovelick.

At these places you see old furniture, new furniture, furniture that turns into other furniture, furniture apps, furniture colour pickers, furniture fabric dealers and the occasional guy like me, wandering round with a possible view to actually buying some of it for his furniture business.

Grown men in sharp suits with a round-the-ear headset, trying to demonstrate how quickly fabric wears out without their special protective snake oil. "You keep rubbing mate!" I thought as I walked on, out of earshot of his over-enthusiastic voice.

At today's show, I'd already been on my feet for a few hours and was ready to call it a day. It's easy to get lost in these places, so I headed for an outer wall and instead of finding an exit, found myself near the back of the huge building. It had been a rather poorly attended show, where at times I felt I was the only visitor. Here, at the back there were a couple of lightless empty stands casting a little darkness over the aisle.

Here, tucked into a corner of the show, was a new company, I'd not heard of before, selling their stuff. Compared to the other, more traditional looking stands, it's odd choice of low red lighting drew me in. I smiled at the petite blonde-haired lady manning the display and looked around.

It took me a few seconds for my brain to catch up with my eyes and realise what I'd walked into. There were a lot of reds, blacks and chrome in the room. Red leather, black PVC, chrome fittings. Some weirdly shaped designs too: all curves, or industrial fittings. I took a look back at the lady manning the display and she threw me another smile. "Good afternoon sir."

I raised both eyebrows in acknowledgement and waved a hello. She looked a little like an air hostess: petite, blonde hair, red lipstick, white blouse, short black skirt, white stockings, heels. Tidy.

"If there's anything you like the look of today sir, just call me over."

It came across matter-of-factly so I bit back my reply about at least one thing catching my eye.

I went back to checking the merchandise. Furniture for the more sexually adventurous -- that probably describes it best. It was kind of cliched but at the same time, very tastefully done and sturdily made. Everything looked as though it could command its price tag. No particle-board, or bare screw-heads here.

I touched a few padded benches, jangled a few chains and raised my eyebrows a lot of times. Remembering Imogen's comments from the previous week and my little investigation into what the OF on her business card was, I suspected these were maybe the things she'd been looking for in my shop.

Half-way around, I found a strange chair. Its front, where your legs might go was angled down to the floor, with what I took to be a footrest jutting out -- kind of like an old-fashioned dentist's chair, or a recliner. The flat seat looked a bit short for most people with a very deliberate round indentation at the front, like you could rest a rounded football in it.

The seat's back had a weird curved support bar running across it. Padded but still looked like an uncomfortable thing to rest your head against. But the oddest thing was its sides. Instead of arms above the seat, it had none and below where the arms would have been, two wide vertical gaps in the sides that I didn't understand.

"Do you want to give it a go sir?" came the voice of the lady, now beside me, smiling, hands behind her back, her small chest pushed forwards against her white buttoned blouse.

"Er, yeah, sure." I said, putting my bag of collected free merchandise down. I looked the chair up and down, turned my back to it and sat down awkwardly.

The woman laughed gently. "No sir! That's not how you sit on it." and held out her small hand with pink painted nails to help me up.

"Please. Face the other way and hook your knees into the gaps at the side. Like you're riding a motorbike."

The other way round? I tried again, bent legs slotting into the sides, my weight on my shins and knees as I mounted the seat. It left me off balance and hovering, so I leaned forward and gripped the support bar at the back of the chair.

"Like this?" I asked.

"That's the general idea sir."

I looked down and realised I was hovering a few inches above the seat and couldn't actually sit down.

Clambering off, I told the lady it was nice but maybe not a product for me.

"Ah sir, that's because you haven't used it properly yet sir. This time, try sitting face forwards again......no, not there sir. Put your bum where you were using it like a footrest. That's right sir..."

I found myself sitting in what I'd previously thought was the footrest, my back leaning against the angled part that my calves had rested on, my neck somewhere near the edge of the seat and the slight indentation.

"Put your head back sir." And I did. It actually felt quite comfortable.

"Why don't you relax and close your eyes sir? Here. Use this eye mask." I closed my eyes and put it on, elastic pinging against my shaved head, thinking I should play along, not look like too much of a prude. I guess any serious buyers would want to at least sit in the stuff they buy and see if it was basically okay.

"Are you comfortable sir?"

"Yes, very, thanks. The headrest seems to support my head really nicely. Its well-built"

"Oh good sir. And maybe let your hands drop to your sides sir. Totally relax." And I did, my arms dropping down behind me from my shoulders, hands just touching the floor.

"Is that relaxing sir" she asked and before I could reply, I heard a faint click and a small ratchet sound and a light feeling of something round my right wrist.

"What's tha..." I started before hearing and feeling the same on my other wrist.

I went to raise my arms to feel what was on either wrist, but they couldn't move. I'd been handcuffed!

"Haha! I guess you really do show your buyers what this thing can do. Very good. If you can just let me go now, I think you may have got yourself an order."

But now I could hear the rustling of her clothes and the creak of material. The woman was getting onto the chair! Her thighs glanced against my torso, and I felt a hand on the top of my head, gently holding it down.

"You did want a full demonstration sir?"

She puIled the eye mask off and she was over me. Her stretchy skirt was pulled up over her waist and her spread thighs fell to either side of my ears. She wore blue lacy knickers. My cock tingled.

"Yes but mfffffffn mmmnnnfff" was all I managed before blue lace pressed against my lips and soft thighs stroked my cheeks. Even as my eyes widened with surprise, I noticed that her scent was delicious.

Without releasing the pressure much, her hips started to slowly gyrate, pushing my lips a little.

"Just demonstrating the chair's full potential, sir." This time the words came out of her throat less smoothly. A little huskiness had crept in from somewhere.

Her hands reached down, and she untucked her blouse from the ruffled skirt and then began unbuttoning it from the top down. With the last button popped, she leaned forward and grasped the support bar, my eyes focussing on her small perky boobs still in their blue lacy bra.

Above the crumpled skirt, I could see her stomach compress and stretch as her hips and thighs moved and the pressure on my lips increased, forcing them open. Instinctively, I licked, then licked again, my long pink tongue crushed against the blue lace, and I couldn't tell if the warm dampness there was my own saliva.

After a few minutes, she reached down and tugged at something in the gusset of her knickers. A second tug and the gusset came apart, material moving elastically out of the way, my mouth and nose now directly being ridden by her sopping wet pussy. It was waxed clean with big lips and a larger than usual clit.

The front gusset end tapped rhythmically on my forehead as she ran her fat clit over my nose and tongue. One hand returned to the top of my head, holding it in place, guiding me.

"Do you like it sir?" she asked, raising off me a fraction before she again dropped her weight.

"Ynffff!"I replied, again finding my mouth clamped to her pussy, my nose pressed against her groin. I was breathing in snorts now, each breath in filled with her scent.

The woman continued to grind, and with one hand firmly on the chair's back support, she was like a jockey riding a horse. I had no real choice but to keep licking, though it wasn't like I didn't want to. She was delicious and this felt so naughty! Almost forgotten about, my cock was bulging against my trousers, trapped.

I could see her chin and face from below, her blonde hair bouncing around it. Her respectable saleswoman's look had curled up into feisty animal, nose pinched, mouth open, eyes rolling. Her lips opened to make unspoken gibberish words and her panting became regular. Occasionally I'd hear a "Yes, yes, fuck yes!" whispered, or she'd go silent and bite her lip.