Saturday night before we began playing, the four of us were sitting in a quiet room, talking. I started out at Master's feet, since there were only three chairs handy, and after a short while he removed my shirt. Then a while later he told me to get down on all fours and let them rest their feet on me. For a minute it was both, but then it was just hers. She was wearing tall leather army-type boots (sorry, I'm not an expert on boot names), expertly polished, with many buttons and hooks. My thoughts as I became a footstool were, at the start, about how hot this was, being objectified, and how lucky I am to have a Master who thinks about such things.
Then I started following the conversation more- it was about languages, and other countries, mostly. I wanted to chime in, but I didn't feel it would be right for a footstool to speak up. So I stayed quiet.
After a bit more time my arms began to ache quietly but I just enjoyed the bit of suffering and fatigue even more. Long before they gave out completely my Master pulled me back up to a sitting position.
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New blog name: The Thinking Footstool
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Hi have on a couple of occasions been a footstall. It's definitely humbling!
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Roz