Booktok Chair Novels & Stories

He found a book and made himself comfortable on the rocking chair. "Why do you have a rocking chair?" I found it strange. He crossed his legs. "Because you made me break my other chair." "So you bought a rocking chair?" "It's my mothers," he answered quickly and looked up from his book giving me a tight smile. I sat down on the bed in front of him and he pretended like he couldn't see me. I peeped at the title of the book. "Lord of the rings," I said and he picked the book further up to cover his face.

She closed the door. The click was small. It still sounded like something being locked. Now I was alone in my office, sitting in a chair too large and too comfortable for a woman currently considering a list of people she wanted to destroy legally. I had chosen the chair myself two years ago after spending three weeks in a designer chair that looked beautiful but made my spine want to sue. The leather was dark cognac, tall, wide, with a backrest that made me look like the CEO of an interiors magazine, not the mother of a four-year-old who had just accused chicken soup of being propaganda.

Lexi had to admit though, she missed the smell of books here that Bartholomew's office smelled richly of. "We had people working on it from the first few days that we arrived here. I've only just started using it though because honestly…the chairs are much comfier here than the ones in our bedroom." Ann smirked as she carefully sat in one of the overlarge chairs that seemed to welcome her in the cushioning's loving embrace. An chuckled at LExi's face as she sank into the chair next to her with a groan of pleasure. "You're right. These are heavenly. I want my own now." She said with a pointed look at both Allen and Greyson, "I'm sure you two can rustle up a couple of chairs for us all."

He seems to be assessing me, sizing me up like I size up a catfish before reaching down into the mud for it. After a beat, he pivots and strides toward a spigot jutting from the wall. He fills a glass jar, steps in my direction, and hands it to me. “Please, sit.” He points to a grand chair that might be a throne for the kings Mama read books about. It’s long and made of silver arms and legs and a white mattress in a seated position. It could fit a whole slew of kings. I know of furniture, since I built a table for our house, and shelves for our things, but Mama and I live simply.

A shiver went through me, and I had to bite my cheek to keep from begging him to do that again. My eyes looked from station to station growing bigger with each and every piece of equipment that I recognized. I looked over to find Jordan and Jack engrossed in a conversation about the carpentry on several of the items. The innovation and imagination that went into every piece seemed to impress them greatly. I looked at the piece in front of it and recognized it as a kneeling chair. It was designed for the sub to kneel and bend over the flat surface on top, presenting her backside at the perfect position for a spanking or other various torturing ideas.

She wasn't certain of what else could help her than to finally speak to Theo. Seconds tick too slow, and her eyelids are getting heavy, indicating signs of a feeble state of her health. Tiya Lucia grabbed her 2-year-old chair, which she personally paid for a customized design. The chair was wrapped in vintage style fabric. The color was her favorite, burnt sienna, with silver traces of triangle patterns. It had a resting back with a length above her head. The chair had only one resting arm, like the one on the school. The desk was thick like it had a secret vault inside.

There was a magazine rack in the West Village townhouse. It stood in the corner of the living room beside the reading chair that was Alexander's — the one he'd had since the penthouse, the only piece of furniture from the penthouse that had made the move in its identical form, because some chairs were simply the right chair and you did not replace them. The chair had been with him through the penthouse years, through the Dom years before that, through the long stretch of his life when the chair had been the only thing in his apartment that wasn't strictly functional. It was leather, worn in the specific places where his body had worn it, the arms softened by years of elbows, the seat cushion

Sade said, holding up a hand. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “What the hell is that?” she asked, pointing to a very unique accent chair I had picked out. “It’s a chair,” I answered. “I don’t know if it’s really made for sitting, but it looked cool—different.” Khloe was standing with her arms folded across her chest, giving me a look that said she had told me so. “That looks like something out of a medieval dungeon slash torture chamber,” Sade said, staring at the chair as if it would attack. “It’s hideous and alarming in general.”

She slowly edged her way around it, and then dropped into the plush office chair with a sigh. So comfortable. So tempting. She almost wished she could fall asleep here. Jia let her body slump in the chair to test exactly how much she sank into the cushioning, which turned out to be to a considerable depth. Well, she thought as she fought her way back out, she was not going to do that again. The leather squeaked and whined until she struggled back onto her feet, and she turned around to look askance at the Satan Chair that threatened to suck the soul out of her. Nope, she thought. She rolled the chair back with a push and eased her way back around the desk again.

Peeking around the room, I ensure no one is in sight. Climbing onto the chair next to the bookshelf, I run my fingers along the spines of the books. Jessica told me that it would be the one with no writing. Finally, I find it. An old tattered book that has clearly been looked through a thousand times. Standing on my tiptoes, I carefully pull the book off the shelf and slide down onto the chair.