Ottoman

In the early days, when I was newly arrived here, quite often I'd find myself over the leather ottoman, restrained and whipped/spanked with almost everything in the toybag. The ottoman is so solid and stable that it provides a secure anchor point in a world that shrinks down to include the things that create sensations. In that world, the feel of the leather on my skin is a comfort -- a place to draw comfort and strength. The ottoman is soft, cushioned, almost like a cradle. There is nothing about the ottoman that is uncomfortable or difficult. I never have to think about something that pokes or pinches or bites. I can rely on the presence of the ottoman.

We don't use it anymore. It is in T's space. It isn't accommodating of His knees. It takes planning and intention and volition to get to where we can use the ottoman. Simpler to simply pull out the pillow, get myself over it, and hang on. Lots of reasons why the ottoman has faded from our repertoire, relegated to the background of memory. I understand, but I miss it.

swan