Booktok Chair Novels & Stories

Luna Tamika sat there. There are 2 comfy, thick leather chairs in front of the desk. On the left side of the office were a wide, floor-to-ceiling bookshelf and a zero-gravity chair where Toya sat on the phone. She was typing something on her laptop, which was on a little table next to her. I walked past her to go back to sit on the sofa. And she dramatically rolls her eyes at the phone while still talking. I stifle a giggle. There's also a door with gold lettering labeled 'Alphas Office' in between the bookshelf and the sofa I'm sitting on. Lastly, there is a recliner that matches the sofa I am on and a glass coffee table. A tiger lily and a calathea plant are on the table. I see she really

Stay to myself, don't do or say anything offensive and remain upright. Just. Keep. Moving. My new mantra. I was guided forward, my clunky shoes soundless on the stone floor, every step heavier than the last. But I made it to my seat without a problem-no tripping, no challenges. Wicked. The chair was massive, some kind of carved black wood with huge arm rests making me shudder to touch them. They literally looked like arms, skeletal, ending in grasping claws cupped upward. I refused to turn around and see what was carved into the top of the chair, knowing it would likely give me nightmares later and praying quietly the seat was really wood and I wasn't sitting on what remained of someone.

Look. Everett pulled a chair over and sat down next to me. He reached towards my laptop, making my stomach flip and heart race faster, and he picked up a book next to it, ‘Hmm… “The Alpha’s Roar”?’ he read the title of one of the children’s books and chuckled, ‘Why are you looking at books for children?’

DAMIEN'S POV Saturday we found the chairs,not at the first place or the second. The third shop, a small furniture store on Clement that Elara had read about but never visited, run by a man in his sixties who made pieces to order and kept a small selection of finished work on the floor. The chairs were near the back. Two of them, slightly different from each other in the way handmade things were, the same design executed twice with natural variation. Deep seats, wide arms, fabric the color of dark moss that looked like it had already been lived in.

He sat and he looked at the room. Two people at tables. One with a laptop. One with a book — the actual physical book, the open spine resting at the reading angle, the person's head bent at the concentration. A child in the corner, age perhaps seven, reading what appeared to be a graphic novel, the images large and the text secondary, the child absorbed in the same quality of sustained reading that the fourteen-degree chair had been specified to enable. He looked at the child.

His chest rose and fell quickly, and his boots echoed sharply against the polished floor. As expected, Zane didn’t flinch. He sat behind a massive black oak desk, comfortably nestled in a deep leather chair that looked like a throne. The room smelled of smoke and expensive cologne. The walls were lined with dark shelves filled with books, trophies, and a few framed photographs that seemed too perfect to be real. One side of the room had tall glass windows, the curtains half drawn. Heavy shadows danced along the walls.

Her sweeping eyes paused on the sleek furniture —low and modern—which was placed with surgical precisions. Nirvana couldn’t see any photos or clutter anywhere near, but she could see a chair which was clearly used often by the window and it was the only one that looked slightly softened compared to the others. An unfinished book with a paper—probably a sketch— tucked into it was placed on the chair and on the table beside the chair was a terrarium.

(Hint: Anita Pallenberg as the One-eyed Wench. Once I was undressed I got on my reclining seat/bench, it was adjustable but the initial position was reclining at about a 45 degree angle. It was a minimal reclining chair, it was narrow, and had no sides except at the torso. It was designed to allow a woman, on a second intersecting chair, to recline while impaled.

Oh my god. I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. But it wasn’t the chains or cuffs that made my breath catch. No, it was the throne-like chair at the very center—a dark, high-backed seat with broad armrests and a slightly reclined angle. There were subtle restraints embedded in its design, meant to hold someone’s wrists and ankles in place. It was a chair meant for display, for control. A place where a submissive would kneel at their master’s feet. I could almost picture myself there, looking up at Alex, his gaze dark and commanding, that deep voice of his rumbling, “Kneel for me.”

I know who’s organized this. The guy runs through how to charge and operate it, and how to fold it down, and I listen as best as I can while my head spins. When he’s done, I bring the chair inside and take it into the living room. Mum looks up from her crochet and stares at it. “It’s from Kip,” I say, my voice squeaky with emotion. We both know it’ll mean increased freedom for her around the house, and maybe even when we go out, if I can figure a way to get it in and out of the car.