Star Trek and its characters are the property of Paramount. This not-for-profit piece of fan fiction is not intended to infringe on that ownership. The author's copyright applies only to the creative content and her original characters.
This story is one in a series about the relationship between James Kirk and Suzanne Brandt. The Kirk-Brandt Chronology lists all the stories, both in order of occurrence and order of creation.
"Suzanne, that is the ugliest piece of furniture I've ever seen."
"Well, I agree that it doesn't exactly pull the room together--"
"Are you kidding? It's practically invading it. The sofa looks scared."
"Whatever possessed you to buy it?"
"I didn't buy it for its looks."
"Thank god. For a minute, I was afraid you were color-blind as well as tone-deaf."
Brandt pushed Kirk into the chair that now occupied the greater portion of the space between the fireplace and the sofa. It groaned and rocked unsteadily. He clutched the arms and frowned in consternation.
"Now admit it," she said. "Isn't that the most comfortable chair you've ever been in? Doesn't it feel good to sink into it? Don't you feel cozy?"
She touched a control and the front of the chair flew up, lifting his feet off the ground.
She leaned on the back and the entire contraption reclined until Kirk was almost prone.
"It's a lazy boy! It's over two hundred years old. They don't even make them anymore."
"Yes, they do. There's a piece of equipment just like this at the gym."
"You were the one who kept saying we needed a comfortable chair. We'll never find anything more comfortable than this."
"How do I get out of this thing?"
"You're an admiral. You figure it out."
Damn. He knew that tone. Not exactly angry, but...snippy. He always expected the last words to be "so there." He struggled to a sitting position.
"I'm going to take a shower," she said as she left the room. "I always feel grimy after antiqueing."
He fell back in the chair and ran his hand over the matted brown fabric that was the exact texture and color of a teddy bear. One that been stored in the cellar for too long. He shuddered, wondering how many Poohs and Paddingtons had given their lives for this monstrosity.
Was this his punishment for declining the Brat's invitation to join her on an expedition through the dusty shops along South Van Ness?
"Don't buy any hummels," he had warned her as she left.
"Why in the Great Bird's galaxy would I buy hummels?"
"I don't know. But every time my mother goes into an antique store, she comes out with hummels."
At this moment, he would welcome an entire brigade of those sweet-faced knickknacks of the damned. At least he could "accidentally" break those. Getting rid of a chair upholstered with teddy bear hides was going to take some ingenuity.
But the first order of business was escape. He sat up again, pushing down on the arms, and the chair returned to an upright position. He felt around for the foot rest control, finally locating it at the front of the right arm. When the antique shape-changer had resumed its initial appearance, he stood up and observed it as it wobbled and creaked.
The dog, who had been curled up in the corner where the sun came in, ambled over to the new addition and jumped into it. The chair responded with increased noise and motion as Luke curled up and gave a satisfied yawn.
Great, Kirk thought. Now it's two to one for keeping it.
Maybe it would look better from farther away. He moved to the other side of the room and looked at it again. Maybe if he went to Oakland.
Suddenly irritated, he returned to the chair and ordered Luke out of it. The dog jumped down reluctantly, and the chair responded with a riot of sound and movement.
Kirk shook his head in dismay. Not only was it ugly and noisy, it was now covered with dog hair.
He sat down in it, and had to admit that, yes, it was cozy. It really did seem to cradle him. If only it weren't so damn noisy. But once it settled down, the motion was almost...comforting. And...
Kirk jumped up, not about to be seduced by the enemy. If Suzanne thought he would tolerate the presence of this invader, she had another think coming. He had bluffed the Romulans, defeated the M-5, and bested Apollo. He faced his newest challenger with calm assurance.
Eat my corbomite, teddy bear chair.
When Suzanne returned to the living room, Kirk had built a crackling fire in the fireplace. He was seated on the sofa, apparently engrossed in a book. She came up behind him and kissed the top of his head.
"Are we still friends?" she asked.
"Good." She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him again. "Hmm." Another kiss. "I don't believe I've ever kissed this part of you before." Kiss. "I like it." Kiss kiss kiss--
"Oh." She straightened and crossed the room. "Too bad. I was right on the verge of developing a full-fledged fetish for the top of your head."
She flopped into her newest acquisition, which gave a drawn-out sigh, as did she. She turned and stared contentedly into the flames.
Kirk looked over at her surreptitiously. She looked very desirable, stretched out in the chair and wrapped in a soft terry cloth robe. The fire lit her face softly, and she ran her fingers through her damp hair in an unwittingly sensuous gesture. Her brightly painted toes peeked out from under the hem of the robe, and he chuckled quietly, amused and pleased by this rare concession to feminine vanity.
Deciding to set his plan in motion, he put the book aside. He crossed into enemy territory and kissed the woman who had been brain-washed by physical comfort. He knew he couldn't talk her into a sensible frame of mind, but he also knew the meaning of the expression 'fight fire with fire.'
"Not enjoying your book?" she asked.
"What book?" He brought her hand to his mouth and gently bit a knuckle. "Move over. There's room for two in that thing."
"I was wondering when you'd realize that."
She scooted to one side and he eased into the space beside her. Ignoring the chair's whining protests, he gently ran a finger down the bridge of Suzanne's nose.
"What's wrong with your nose?"
"It's got a bump on it. It ruins my whole profile. If I'm ever in a terrible accident and they have to rebuild my face, make them smooth it out."
"Forget it. I love that bump." He kissed the delightful imperfection. "I love all your bumps," he added, running his hand over a couple of his favorites.
He slipped his arm under her shoulders and drew her into a gentle kiss. She settled softly against him and kissed him back. But when his tongue challenged hers to a duel, she pushed him away.
"JT, this chair is all right for cuddling, but not--"
"I know what it's for," he murmured, brushing his lips against everything that was within easy brushing distance.
Thinking, What do you mean, *if* it breaks, he said reassuringly, "We'll buy a new one."
"We can't get a *new* one. It's an antique--"
"Well, I'm not. And if it's lasted two hundred years, I'm sure it can stand up to this." He turned on his most seductive smile and played his trump card. "Please, sweetheart."
She tried to look disapproving, but her eyes gave her away.
He pulled her close and kissed her firmly, still a little incredulous that he could get so much mileage out of one simple word.
As she was drawn into active participation, she fumbled at the chair arm. Locating the control she wanted, she pressed a button.
At the sudden motion, Kirk shouted, "Earthquake!" and dragged her to the nearest doorway. She fell against the doorjamb, laughing helplessly.
"It's not an earthquake, you idiot!" she choked. "It's the chair! It vibrates."
Kirk stared at her, silently questioning her sanity. Living in San Francisco under the constant threat of an earthquake was bad enough. A vibrating chair seemed like tempting fate.
She staggered back to the chair and fell into it, still chuckling. "Well, come on," she coaxed.
"That's not a chair, it's a ride," he grumbled as he approached the demonic piece of furniture.
"Well, hop on and I'll punch your ticket."
She pressed a button and the chair shuddered to a halt.
"Does it have any other features I should know about?" he asked as he joined her. "An ejector button? Photon torpedoes?"
"We'll have to find out, won't we?"
"Scared the life out of me," he muttered as he settled in.
She put her hand on his crotch and looked at him quizzically.
"Well, not quite *all* the life," he said modestly.
"It's nice to know there are some constants in the universe."
Soon their tongues were battling happily and he was no longer sure who was kissing who. She put a hand to his cheek, and he turned his head and kissed her palm.
He ran his mouth up and down her fingers and nibbled at the tips. Her hand moved gently, directing his tongue as it tickled the crook of her fingers. He sucked the pulse point inside her wrist, sending a sudden, hot sensation up her thighs. She trembled.
Fast, short kisses, hungry kisses, wanting kisses, kisses that drowned all thought and will and reason, until there was nothing but desire.
Lips tasting hers, then moving to her jaw and throat.
Hands pushing back the collar of her robe, and a mouth pressing wetly against her shoulder.
A thumb roughly brushing a nipple that jumps up to meet it.
The chair's unsteady motion and harsh shrieking as a well-muscled chest is revealed.
Her shaking hands tugging at fabric and pulling it away.
Hardness welcome and familiar in her hand. A harsh sound against her ear. A quivering thrill, pleasure from giving pleasure.
Inhaling deeply, devouring the smell of him.
Hands pushing her robe open. A sudden chill caressing her skin.
Possession by warm hands and clever fingertips and teasing lips.
The creaking of the chair. Helpless panting. A golden voice blanketing her with Beautiful, you're so beautiful.
A hand brushing against her thighs. Desire commanding her to open.
Drowning in hazel eyes, squeezing strong, taut arms, scraping her nails over erect nipples.
Hands grasping her ass and pulling her closer.
Hardness rubbing against her, exploring, moving, finding its home.
Bearing down, almost fighting it, wanting this moment to go on forever, the moment of needing and claiming and taking.
Disappearing into wanting and having and wanting more.
Suzanne cried out ecstatically, and Kirk pumped harder, determined to break the damn chair and take pleasure in doing it.
And she wouldn't even be able to get mad at him.
Not when she's having this much fun.
The chair screamed and so did she.
Suzanne pulled her robe over them and curled up against him with a satisfied sigh. Kirk should have been perfectly happy, should have been floating in languorous depletion. But he wasn't.
He had never fucked so hard for so long, and the damn thing was still standing. Not just standing, but rocking and squeaking contentedly. If he didn't know better, he'd say it had an afterglow.
Suzanne said something he didn't quite catch.
"I said, they really understood quality workmanship back then, didn't they?"
Over the next six months, Kirk frequently tried to destroy the chair, but it withstood every assault.
Every wobble and squeak mocked him, belittling his strength, his endurance, his very manhood. He rose to each challenge and sulked over each bitter, albeit pleasurable, defeat. Once he heard a screw drop and rattle around on the floor, and his excitement at this sign of weakness almost made him lose control. But in the end, the chair was still on its feet, sighing and swaying and daring him to go one more round.
Suzanne, on the other hand, considered the chair the best seven hundred credits she'd ever spent. Happily noting his method of objecting to her interior decorating, she pondered the purchase of a Rigellian tallboy, and even considered buying a hummel or two.
On the night the chair finally gave up the ghost, Kirk gave a triumphant shout and took a victory lap around the living room. The celebration was concluded in the bedroom.
Later, as they carried the remains of the teddy bear chair to the dumpster, Suzanne comforted herself with the thought of the chaise lounge she'd seen at the junk store a few days earlier. It appeared to be very sturdy and looked like it was made out of sock monkeys.
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