Misha's Huge Ass vs. Office Chair

by inertia_enjoyer (baja_california_treefrog)

Summary:

Itza has a big fat problem. The nerdy soft butch copy editor she has a thing with is complaining about her chair getting too small. Now she has to get her a chair that she actually fits in. So sad! How will they fuck about it?

Notes:

btw Misha is like 6' 2" and Itza is like 5'5". this is important.

Chapter 1: Canapes

Itza remembers the day Misha asked for a bigger chair with surreal clarity. She masturbates to it on a regular basis.

It was a dry and insipid autumn Tuesday, the summer swelter still dragging its feet as the days neared closer to the winter solstice. A beautiful day to clock into work and edit shitty pulp. Guess it must have gotten to Misha, ‘cause not even two hours into the work day she ducks into Itza’s office sideways and awkwardly stands there. She fidgets one hand in her pocket; habitually pushes her glasses up. Then Itza stops pretending to work and swivels around to face Misha. The feeble whirring of the portable fan fills up the stuffy office, sweating a pitiful breeze on Itza's neck.

“So.” She leans back in her slightly unergonomic leather chair and kicks her feet upon the sturdy desk. “ What’s up?”

Misha stares at the floor. Then she stares at Itza's hands.

The air grows thick as time lapses. The beaded sweat at her buzzed nape slowly, agonizingly, drips down. Misha makes a few faces, trying on different sentences before actually speaking.

"My chair."

Itza cocks her handsome head and stretches out a hand, like she's presenting an invisible saucer.

“I need a new one.”

Itza shifts back, her eyebrows crawl up towards her short cropped silver hair.

“Really? You haven’t even broken it or anything.” She rasps as she gesticulates her hands around. “Or have you?”

“No, no it’s not broken yet.” Misha rushes to clarify. Oh. A bit of a shame, if Itza’s being honest. “But I still need a new one.” She tucks a stray curl behind her ear, looking away. Her dark eyes flick back to Itza’s. The eye contact is balmy. Much left unspoken, much said, especially while on the clock.

“I don’t really fit anymore.” She looks away and shifts her weight onto her other leg. “ I can kind of fit, but it hurts now.” She looks back to Itza, an eyebrow raised, accompanied by a maybe-smirk. Her hand gently rests on the dome of her belly, as if Itza needs a visual queue to see the very obvious reality that she has helped Misha eat herself into a new category of fatness.

“Ah. Gotcha.” Itza sets her oiled wingtips down on the floor and crosses a well-tailored leg over the other.

Well, duh, she thinks. Of course her ass was too big for her own chair. Itza didn’t know whether to feel surprised about the chair lasting this long, or for Misha taking so long to say something about it. She’d seen her struggle with it for months. Itza knew. Itza was intimately aware of how those arm rests were digging into her. Her pinched sides spilled over, the fruitless, uncomfortable shifting in her chair, accompanied by a concerto of creaks, groans, and--.

 "So."

Itza semi-flails out of her perverted daydream. She feels like Misha can tell. She purses her lips, opens her mouth, pauses, then eloquently states "So."

"I'm going to highlight every use of the word 'member' in this very bad romance novel now." And with that, she shimmies through the not-up-to-code door, and does just that.

She thinks about that exchange over, and over. The not-quite-shame in Misha’s voice, the half-embarrassment in her eyes. Itza damn near exploded when Misha set her hand on her stomach, just to make sure Itza knew she was also in a shirt where the buttons pucker a work-appropriate amount.

And now that the new chair’s here, Itza honestly misses the old one. She finds herself really missing the way Misha’s ass would spill off its sides. But hey, a new chair just means more room for more Misha.

And more room for more Misha indeed. She grazes constantly throughout the day, fasting from breakfast only to have lunch, which consists of a loaf of bread, a wedge of Kashkaval, and almost an entire roll of salami. And this was after a second breakfast sandwich. In the new chair, void of armrests at the request of Misha, she actually has enough room to lean back and spread her legs, let that belly of hers hang between those thick thighs ( Itza tries, and fails, to keep her glances work-appropriate). At one point Itza goes to buy office snacks just to put a bowl of them near Misha. They’re almost gone by 4:00 pm. God, she doesn’t know if she can last until the end of the workday with Misha whoring herself out like this. All that’s keeping her going is knowing that later today, it’ll be just her and Misha. Her and Misha and that Porto’s cake she’s got hidden in the office’s icebox.

But first, obligatory Friday after-work drinks. Thankfully, with people they both can stand.

They sit down for dinner, taking the bench seats outdoors. Misha gingerly sets herself down. Most people cannot claim to be turned on by the sound of furniture groaning, but Itza is not most people.

The drinks come, then the greasy apps, then drinks (again). By the time entrees roll around, Misha is rosy, her breathing shallow. Her dimpled hand keeps fiddling at her waistband. Itza, on her left, can hear her soft pants between talking and mouthfuls of fried curds. Struggling from gluttony, but still going back for more. Would she even want cake after a day of casually gorging herself?

Yes.

Obviously.

Once everyone’s nice and tipsy, they exchange pleasantries, and then fuck right off.

As much as Itza would like to sprint as fast as possible back to the office, Misha dictates the pace. Which, decidedly, does not entail sprinting as fast as possible. Itza doesn’t mind. This way, she gets to watch Misha jiggle with every heavy step and observe the flushed strain across her face. Her buttons started the day as well-fitted, they tent now. Misha barely talks on the way back, shallow breathing only broken up by the occasional whine or burp. A belly rub here, an assgrab there, too many other people walking around the quaint downtown for anything else.

They eventually brave the 5 minute (made 10 minute) walk back to the office. Once Itza’s inside and Misha ducks under the doorway, she immediately undoes her pants, sighing as she rubs the red creases embossed by her waistband. And Itza just can’t help herself. Hands are everywhere. Itza grabs big fat palmfuls of Misha’s shelf ass, arms barely reaching back there, and Misha makes it a point to press herself up against Itza, enveloping most of her. Itza finds herself between the cool concrete of the wall and the warm soft everything of Misha, and fuck, fuck her huge thigh is pressed between her legs. She looks up at Misha, Misha doesn’t say anything. But that smirk sculpted into her soft cheeks precedes language as she presses in a bit more. Her big soft hands easily grab and pull Itza’s slim hips, sinking her deeper into Misha.

Itza groans, loud, she fucks her hips into Misha as her orgasm tapers off. Her panting fills the silence of an office building at 8 p.m.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” she wheezes pathetically.

“You came really fast,” says Misha.

"Thank you." She pants. "And you're welcome." Pant.

"Are you going to fall asleep now?"

Itza squints at her, her top lip asymmetrically curls in unamusement. "Was that an old person joke?"

Misha shrugs, which means it probably was an old person joke.

"Y'know, one of these days I'm reporting your ass to HR."

"You literally do that though." The "i" in "literally" comes out as an "ee" through her Balkan accent. Cute.

"Okay. Whatever."

She rests her fingers in Misha’s side rolls, perfectly made for such a thing. “You know. . .” She gives a languid squeeze, and Misha’s hand returns to her ass. They lock eyes. “I can’t feed you while I fuck you down here.”

“Hmm. You could just bring the food down here instead of making me walk up the stairs.”

“Yeah yeah, whatever. Get your fatass up there.”

Misha rolls her eyes, smirks, and gives Itza’s butt a hearty smack. She buttons her pants up, and takes those stairs like a champ. A little breathless after a flight, but Itza probably couldn’t do the same if she weighed like 400 pounds.

Chapter 2: Workplace Contract Violation

The floorboards creak as Misha trudges out of the stairwell, as floorboards tend to. They both enter Itza’s office. Her doorway is slightly narrower than the rest of the rest in the building, which means that Misha has to waddle in sideways behind her. She already takes most doors at an angle, but something about how she almost completely fills up the width of her office’s doorway while in profile makes Itza feel hot and hungry.

Itza ducks down behind her desk, the cold light of the mini-fridge illuminating the sharp angles and creases of her handsome face. She presents a large lilac box, the neat cursive reads “Porto’s” with a smaller, cuter “Bakery and cafe since 1948” in pink.

“ Ah, a little dessert.” Misha drawls, inspecting the box and heading back out to her desk to sit in the chair she fits in.

“Hey, don’t go anywhere!” Itza disappears into her supply closet, accompanied by the occasional clatter of something.

She wheels out something familiar.

“Oh. You kept it?” Misha balks.

They make an eon of eye contact. Misha tightens her lip.

“If it breaks and I get hurt, I want compensation.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Itza smirks.

She wheels the chair forward, closer to the desk. Misha takes a deep breath, pats her belly two-handed, and slowly, heavily, she lowers herself onto the chair. Initially, her ass doesn’t squeeze past the armrests. But with a little shimmying, and Misha physically grabbing the armrests and spreading them wider, she manages to squeeze into her complementary ergonomic chair. Her belly spills over the armrests like dough that has proofed for too long, her ass and thighs sag out under them . Holy fuck, Itza thinks, she’s put on weight since then, Misha looks uncomfortable.

She shifts just a bit, just as fruitlessly as before, and the chair cracks. It startles both of them, Misha looks like she saw the light. But it doesn’t give out. Yet. She slowly, agonizingly, leans back, just to get a little more comfortable. As comfortable as she can get in a chair with a 300 lb weight limit, anyway. It pops in protest a few more times, but nothing like the initial snap that made them reconsider this contract-violating foreplay. Misha breaths in, then breaths out a quiet groan, gently sweeping a hand across her belly. They look at each other, Misha’s shallow breaths filling the space.

“It’s a bit small. Cozy. ” Misha sighs, face twisting in discomfort. “But I really don’t know how I’m going to eat more.” Her hands slide down to her slacks’ button. Soft fingers undo the button and zipper, Itza rushes to tug down her pants and scoop her stomach out of them. It flows out with a soft plop, coinciding with a worrying creak from the chair. Waves ripple through as Misha tucks her waistband underneath, fighting the armrests, and hikes up her button down.

“I’m so full,” She huffs.

Itza hums, agreeing. “Are you too full for cake though?”

Itza starts to rub gentle circles on the dome of Misha’s stomach, leaning in to kiss the tender softness at her neck. A hand slides up, cupping her heavy breast. She gently works at it, massaging, swiping her thumb over where she knows her nipple is. It sinks so nicely in her hand, like every part of Misha.

“You were so good today,” Itza mumbles, a greedy hand sunken into Misha’s luxurious belly. “You were so fucking hot at dinner. Gorging yourself in front of everyone after a whole day of eating. Shameless. Out of control. You couldn’t even stop if you wanted to.” Misha takes a sharp breath, gasping as Itza uses both hands to play with her tits. She starts to suck at her thick double chin, Misha whines. Itza’s mouth works her way up, grazing her teeth where her jawline would be, then they suck face for a little. She pulls away, dragging her hands back down to the top of Misha’s gut. Pressing lightly, she rolls her palms up the gentle slope, savoring the soft give she still has. She rolls her palms in again, a little firmer. She works out a few small burps from Misha, voice trailing off in sighs of relief after each one.

“ I'm the one who can't control myself?” Misha lilts. Her thick hands wander to Itza, one skillfully unbuttoning her shirt, the other planted on Itza’s small (but well shaped, as Misha puts it) ass. She pulls Itza close. “ So the Porto's and second dinners just materialize in front of me, then .” Misha gasps, short and tight when Itza’s fingers pinch her nipples through her shirt.

Misha takes a hand off a hip and gently slides it between Itza’s thighs. She feels the warmth and slight dampness as she presses her palm up.

“ You're one to talk of control.” This time Misha initiates the kiss, humid and heavy. Itza bucks into her palm, already so close. “ I can control myself as well as you can.” She whispers as she pulls her hand away.

Itza reaches over and takes the cake from the desk, severing eye contact for a brief moment. They’re both flushed, breathing harder than they should be. Misha looks at her, half-lidded but focused. Itza can make out her own desperate reflection in her large tortoiseshell glasses. She’s a deity like this, undone, messy dark curls spilling out of her hair tie, excess and beauty defining her figure. It’s like she was made to contrast the sharpness and sinew of Itza, harsh handsome angles fitting into delicate flesh.

“ Maybe.” Itza admits. “ Maybe I like losing control.” She drops her shoulders, her face creases as she smiles, and Misha gives her a cheeky look, very satisfied. Misha takes a few deep breaths, patting her stomach as if she’s apologizing for what’s about to transpire. Itza rolls her chair over in front of Misha and makes a fork handy. She takes a moment to check Misha, who looks hungry again despite the shameless hedonism of today.

The room is silent save for the cardboard box sliding open. The cake is a dark chocolate sponge, sensually draped in a ganache the color of rich soil. Pedestrian maybe, but Porto’s makes their chocolate cake with pudding in between the layers instead of frosting. She knows Misha will love it. The Fork sinks into the layer of frosting, then carves through part of the cake. Itza delicately scoops it out, the rich ganache and pudding layers pulling apart from the rest of the cake. She lifts the fork to her mouth. Misha obediently wraps her lips around it, chewing slowly, her second chin creasing with each mastication.

“Hm. Not too sweet.”

“Right?”

“I hate that about most desserts. Too much sugar.” Misha takes the fork from Itza and slices an immodest bite off the cake. She makes a low hum, chewing at a leisurely pace, savoring this bite.

“I didn’t know you hated most desserts.” Itza snarks as she presses a hand into Misha’s stomach. Misha stops eating for a moment to ball a hand by her mouth and burp, then gets back into her rhythm. Itza loves it when Misha gets like this, greedy, focused on nothing else besides eating what’s in front of her. It’s Itza’s job to help her eat as much as she wants, to burp her when she needs more room, to motivate her with playful whispers and clandestine hands. Misha makes quick work of the first half of her cake, she slows down soon though, not quite a bottomless pit after hours of eating.

“Y’know, you might get fat if you keep eating like this.” Itza chides, lightly smacking Misha’s belly, relishing in the waves that propagate out from her hand.

Misha glances up past her rims, lips parted, touched with ganache. “ I might even end up as fat as you.” Itza snorts, a little unbecoming. Not as unbecoming as Misha. Glasses skewed, head lolled back, every breath an effort. She puts down the fork, cringing. Her hands skim the top of her gut that domes out now, gently massaging her ache away.

“Too much?”

A beleaguered nod. Itza’s clit throbs, her kegels clench. Fuck, Misha’s got her uncomfortably wet and all of their clothes are still on. Itza, regretfully, puts the cake and fork back on her desk.

“Lemme help you. Here.” She rubs her palms together, warming them before laying on her hands. There are new stretchmarks, pink and youthful by her hands. She’s extra soft this time, rocking her body back and forth like a masseuse would, letting her palms travel up and down. Her hands are like a boat on a body of water,

“Goddamn Misha, you’re fucking huge”, she chuckles. Misha burps.

“You’re welcome.” Her dimpled hands slide down her massive sides. They linger there before she gently presses and shakes them, groaning. Like waves in the ocean, her whole body ripples with them. Itza even notices her arm fat jiggling through her shirt sleeves. Against good judgment, Itza simply cannot take it anymore, and is filled with the overwhelming desire to rub herself raw on Misha’s thigh.

“Fuck Misha, I’ve been wanting to be on you all day. All fucking day while you ate a week's worth of my groceries.” Itza scoops up the front of her stomach in her arms. Heavy, dionysian. The masterful work of years of overindulgence collides against pillowed thighs, rippling like gelatined dessert.

“And that’s still not enough for you, hm?” Big hands invade her extra slim-cut shirt.

Itza groans. “No, please–” She gasps, “ Oh my god Misha, I just can't help myself. I was made to worship you.”

She can restrain herself no longer. She mounts, and a few bucks later, she can feel the orgasm about to crash into her.

A cataclysmic snap. The chair jerks beneath them. Instincts take over, and Itza bails like a cat on tin foil. Misha catches her footing and throws her body forward, barely managing to stand up instead of caving in the flimsy flooring they’re on. Impressively, the wheels and base of the chair remain on the ground, but the rest of the chair comes up with Misha.

Itza is statuesque and on the brink of orgasm; she cups her mouth two-handed, choking out a few breathy laughs when the spike of adrenaline subsides. She probably could get away with not writing off the chair. Misha looks god-fearing. She pushes her glasses up, looks down to the chair stuck on her ass, then to the rest of the chair on the floor.

She peers up past her rims, gaping. She breaks eye contact, eyes wide as she huffs in disbelief.

Itza doubles over, cackling, laughing in the face of death.

Misha cracks a smile, perfectly set between soft ruddy cheeks. “Are you going to get this off me? What do I keep you around for?”

It’s a bit of a process. But with enough tugging from Itza and pushing from Misha, the chair is freed with a mighty thud upon the slate gray carpet. Breathless, Itza faces Misha, arms akimbo.

“Maybe this is a sign.”

“For what?” Misha says as she tosses her arms up.

“We should probably get busy on furniture that won’t break with both of us on it.” Itza shrugs, palms facing Misha. She tilts her head towards Misha and quirks a brow.

“. . . You’re really going to make me walk to my apartment right now?”

Itza’s hands return to her hips. “Well, were you planning on just spending the night here? I need you on your back anyways. ”

Misha’s mouth opens, then closes, at an uncharacteristic loss for words. Her mouth shifts, gently creasing her cheek.

“Okay. Fine.”

Notes:

TAG YOURSELF

Are you the

a) Chocolate Layer Cake

b) Slate Gray Carpet

c) The paperwork Itza would have had to file if Misha got hurt

d) Misha's 80% cotton 20% elastane blend slacks

Chapter 3: A Second Near Death Experience

Notes:

to all my haters, to all those too unintelligent to appreciate dorks with a hella fat pussy, to the trolls who state "I bet inertia enjoyer ao3 will never post the sex scene. they will die of their terminal case of cringe before they could even conceive of a sex scene. also i bet they wack it to jojos bizarre adventure self-cest standfic or something" I HAVE PROVED YOU ALL WRONG!!! I HAVE PREVAILED!!!!!! and I have only ever wacked it to wholesome person-on-person jjba slash fic btw.

I hereby consecrate The Archives of Our Own with epic lesbian sex.

Enjoy responsibly.

The smell of Misha’s apartment is warm and familiar, herby like a well-seasoned meal. It’s small once Misha walks in. She trudges past her felted living room furniture to her bedroom, Itza trailing behind like a moon of a gas giant. Misha revolves on her axis so she can indelicately slump onto her unmade bed. She sighs heavily, settling hugely upon her duvet that Itza thinks resembles a Turkish rug. She closes her eyes. Her stomach rises and falls, each breath deep, but not labored.

Itza takes her own veined deft hand and cups the side of Misha’s boyish face, the part where cheek becomes double chin, and simultaneously scrapes her lips into the other side of Misha’s neck. She suckles, relishing the hedonistic give of her neck, how even the slightest parts of the human body are another place for fat storage on Misha. Her sumptuous hands restrain Itza’s hips, they sweep across the hardened plane of her rectus abdominus, sneaking their way down to her iliac crest to her low-rise waistband. Itza bristles, then starts to use teeth, firmly rasping and sucking until she hears throaty noises from Misha.

 

The pillows on Misha’s bed need readjustment, her breasts and belly jiggling obscenely as she repositions herself more favorably. They jump up and then crash down, bouncing a few times afterwards. Her stomach follows similarly, delayed, giving the impression of an ocean heaving its tremendous inertia back and forth. She is a touch breathless and flushed, and slumps her head back against the armada of pillows supporting her. Itza crawls towards her, supplicant, with her knees and palms sinking into the cadmium quilted linens that form a modest basin around the topography of Misha. With tendinous hands, she feels Misha’s own, and circles her ochre thumb across the ruddy dimples of Misha’s knuckles. Itza presses her creased lips upon those same dimples, admiring their youthful flush, their healthy softness, before she looks up past her browbone, past tortoiseshell spectacles, into deep sienna irises.

“What do you want?” Another supplicant peck.

“What do you need?” She caresses the other hand, advancing up to her forearm.

Misha licks and purses her lips. Her gaze averts. After consideration, she looks back.

“I think,” Her own hand travels across Itza’s, modeling the riparian topography of her vasculature. “. . . I want,” Up across toned tricep and cut deltoid, her regal thumb sweeps along the sternocleidomastoid. “. . . I need,” She cups her decadent hand upon the austere structure of Itza’s jawline.

“Your mouth.”

Itza’s mouth forms a small “o”, then creases into a toothy smirk. The crows feet of many smiles past fold across her impeccable cheekbones.

“Well,” Itza announces with a lilting inflection “. . . I find these. . . unnecessary then.” A playful tug at vestigial beltloops.

“And, to be frank, offensive.” Queue the performative eyeroll from Misha.

At Misha’s size, and in her current state, doffing a pair of 4-way-stretch chino’s is a process, one that Itza honorably participates in. Like the thrill of exploration, the joy is not in the destination, but in the discoveries along the way. Thighs like escarpments, huge and sloping, tectonic. They wobble with every adjustment, completely absent of tone and stamina, a perfect place for Itza to rub herself off. Misha’s inner thighs, especially adipose, form a pair of rolls around the single hottest thing a person could possess, something Itza was unaware could exist prior to boinking Misha, a fupa. A soft roll, approximately two overflowing handfuls that hangs over Misha’s pussy. It keeps her decent even in full nudity. It fills out her men’s boxer briefs like a bulge. Today, Itza has been awarded the distinct honor of suffocating herself in it.

There’s the guiding presence of Misha’s hands on the back of Itza’s shorn head, the stubble uniformly pricking her palm like a bed of nails. Behind thick spectacles lie her pleading eyes. Anticipating. Excited. It’s the last of the eye contact they’ll have before Itza rappels down the slope of Misha, and before Misha’s doe eyes set behind the mountain range of herself.

Most couples wouldn’t like having to lift up an entire roll of fat in order to access anything. Most couples wouldn’t want the act of sex to be thoughtfully engineered around the load of someone. Yet they relish it. There are few pleasures greater than the privilege of scooping up her delicate roll, in tandem with Misha, and pressing her face into her indulgent mons. The only drawback of this position is how eye contact is impossible. An entire mountain range between them, Itza can only go off the sharp sighs and whines that travel through the canyons and arroyos, across the hills and escarpments, down to her face, engulfed on all sides.

Spit and arousal slick Itza’s face and subside down the folds of Misha into darker canyons still. As she tongues Misha’s clit, lapping at the shores, Misha’s free hand clenches around the cropped hair long enough to grab. Her breathing, shallow. Her thighs twitch and tectonically squeeze her lover’s head, as Itza lovingly gives, and as Misha graciously receives.

Itza knows she’s doing well because she knows that Misha is losing concentration. The levee of hands, created in tandem, begins to fail. Misha, supposedly tasked with holding up her fupa, falters. Her pink-tipped fingers, search, they search greedily for more of Itza. More of Itza to shove into herself, to tongue her harder, to tug on her martially clipped hair. And Itza needs it too. She loves being Misha’s bitch, bossed around. Most lesbians would like to breathe when they suck off their lover, but Itza isn’t most lesbians. As she pulls all of Misha’s clit into her mouth, sucking hard and skillfully rubbing with her tongue like her own fingers would, the dam breaks. The other hand of Misha, greedy and unsatisfied, can’t help but shove Itza deeper into her still. Hedonistic fat, no longer constrained by the levee of hands, floods over Itza’s face. The heat, the strain, the hair, the smell; an indulgence of the senses.

Itza could die happy. Itza is prepared to die happy. Her funeral march is serenaded by Misha’s choked gasps and crushing thighs as she finishes on Itza’s face. Just as Itza gets lightheaded from the ignaceous pressure that threatens to shatter her skull into a fine sediment, Misha’s grip slackens. She fully slumps back, and looking up the range Itza can see her belly rise and fall with her labored breaths.

The breaths that escape Itza herself are heavy. The hard work is the point. It’s the quiet moment after orgasm, with nothing to hear but the melodic breaths of her lover, that satisfies. She traverses the quilted basin once more, now face-to-face with Misha. From here she can admire the vermillion flush down her cheeks, the faint sheen of sweat in the creases of her neck, those perfectly skewed glasses, and the dorky smile that’s set into the apples of her face. Itza tucks a disobedient curl behind Misha’s ear, one that hasn’t been plastered to her forehead from sweat.

Misha lolls her head to fully meet Itza’s gaze. She notes those handsome wrinkles, that divine bone structure, her wizened gray hair. After pushing her frames further back on her nose, her eyes fully wander across the entire figure of Itza. Trim waist, masculine shoulders, the sexiest forearms ever machinated by the forces of the universe, all contained in immaculately tailored menswear.

“You have so much clothing on!” She petulantly whines. “I can’t believe you’re so clothed. Upsetting.” Soft fingers begin to encroach on the buttons of Itza’s friday-casual button down.

Bemused, Itza cackles and acquiesces to her nude fate.

“Hey, babe.”

“Mm.” A warm palm slides below her bikini line.

“Can you crush me again?”

Notes:

who among us here wishes they were an office chair right now