When I was Her rug

Ah, there I was flat on my back again. No, I wasn’t in bed. I was a rug. I’d been a rug often of late.

The lady I loved liked me that way some evenings. For a time. Really I didn’t enjoy it much. I’d get bored. Though being down there with her legs resting on me had its varied ways. At first she’d used a gag, blindfold and a pair of earplugs to make me a very quite floor covering. The gag came and went. Sometimes we’d chat just as normally as if I were sitting beside her. Took me a few tries to get used to having a conversation down there.

My remarks were often interrupted by tiny yelps. She wanted me to lose weight. And said that as long as I was going to look like I was carrying a big pin cushion in front of me I might as well be used like one.

Atop my stomach rested what I thought of as her vampire shoes. Her sharpest heels that dug in like teeth. She rarely walked in them. They were reserved for me. She told me that once I proved a less comfortable resting spot - lost weight - she wouldn’t want them there.

I’d learned my lesson but these things take time.

I was lashed snugly but not too tightly in many places. And little hooks held me down to the platform I was attached to. Who wants a rug that wriggles. While I’d liked more room for movement I didn’t complain. The night she got devilishly clever with old inner tube scraps and staple gun taught me all I wanted to know about immobility.

My cushion would be gone in a few months. And as I lay there I wondered what novel form of keeping me under foot she’d come up with next.