Under the mattress

I’ve often thought my old futon frame might have interesting possibilities.

I’d had the old metal futon couch frame long before I met her. As instructed I’d brought it from the garage. Across the bottom of the frame I’d placed a thick sheet of plywood that I covered with a thick blanket. The futon mattress I’d folded across the back.

Once it was ready she came in with a handful of luggage straps. My arms were bound snugly at my side, my legs together. Taped in my hand was an emergency noisemaker.

She stepped back and surveyed her handiwork.

“Now, my plaything, you are ready to begin your life as a cushion. Into place with you.”

Clumsily I had on the futon and lay down. She had that sometimes-terrifying look of sardonic glee on her face.

“You lie there and be still, if you move too much, well “¦ you’ll find yourself very sorry later.” She pulled the mattress over the back and on top of me. “Goodbye, I’ll try to remember you’re down there.”

I winced as she sat down directly above my crotch, then felt the cushion crush into me as she stretched out.

Either I made a lump bottom mattress or she was in a fidgety mood. I felt her moving around, the futon mattress shoving to different part of my body.

Then she settled in and I lay there wondering how long it would be before she released me.