Why I Sleep on the Floor

There’s this type of bedroom image that comes to mind. It belongs on a Pinterest board, titled Cozy or Hygge or something. There are candles and string lights and plants and soft fabrics and mugs and books and that sort of thing. It makes you sigh contentedly like you just took the first sip of a warm drink on a cold day. And to make sure you really buy into the peaceful aesthetic, there’s a pet at the foot of the bed, fast asleep. 

And that’s an important part of this image—here is your faithful companion who’s just happy to be close by, almost blending in to the decor, a peaceful and sleepy background detail, there, but out of the way. Four legged or not.

I suppose I describe why I sleep on the floor as wanting to be that first and foremost. It is less being a part of an ascetic image from my point of view, but being part of quite the opposite from Mistress’. That is the lens I try to look through. 

… 

Currently, bedtime looks like this.

I see to final tasks, and am to be ready to be leashed for the night. I unfold the fluffy blanket that lives on the floor at the foot of the bed, which mostly get called my slave furs. I turn down the bed, lay out the turndown card, and fill the humidifier.

At 9:45, I strip out of my Uniform (uniform code says I sleep nude; she likes easy access) and wait in Inspection Position (standing, legs spread, hands clasped behind head, head/eyes straight, back straight). She comes in and inspects me, tells me I did well on my evening tasks (generally), and releases me from position. I offer her lotion and apply it for her, then get into Leashing Position (kneeling on the floor at foot of bed, knees apart, big toes crossed in back (right over left), leash across both palms, hands resting on thighs, hair/head out of the way, collar o-ring in front, back straight).

She leashes me for the night, and then it’s time for sleep.

So the floor thing is bathed in other protocol. It isn’t just sleeping on the floor. It has to be taken in context. Just sleeping on the floor does not hold much meaning for me in particular—it’s powerful, as sleeping is something you spend a significant portion of your time doing—but it’s ultimately one piece of a bigger picture, one line in a contract well over two thousand words. 

I want it to be a reflection of my life during my waking hours, not an image I take up at night with echos throughout the day. I want to sleep on the floor because it feels like the right place in my life of submission, at the end of a day of serving, not as an activity to force the feeling. 

… 

People are skeptical of this, but: the floor really isn’t that uncomfortable. Granted, still my opinion. 

The bedroom is carpeted, and I have my fluffy blanket I wrap both under me for a bit more cushioning, and over me as a blanket. I ball it up under my head as a pillow, or frequently add an actual pillow, because there is admittedly strain on my neck.

The floor for me is a symbolic place, not an item of physical discomfort. I’m allowed to be comfortable there. It’s not really a masochism thing—asceticism at best. Yes, it’s simple.

But it’s not that the floor is an inferior place because it’s less comfortable, necessarily—that’s a part of it, but not all of it—but because it is lower, it is humbler. Importantly, it means that my place is defined by her place. I don’t have my own place. During the day, during time with her, I don’t have a distinct spot I go to, I don’t have a pillow I kneel on; my place is on the floor at her feet, wherever she is in the world.

And so, the same thing at night. 

… 

Pieces of this have been incorporated over time. I’ve been sleeping on the leash nightly since May 2019 or so. The floor, nightly since May 2021. 

The leash came much earlier, yes. Like my collar, Mistress has made each iteration of it herself, rope work to match. She gifted me this latest version on Valentine’s Day (2021), the biggest difference being a little more length. Yes, I got a longer leash for Valentine’s Day. Ha. 

The leash is kind of an extension of the collar, to me. The collar is the ownership symbol she put on me, kind of meant to be an identifier even when I am away from her. It says mine. But the leash is connection, the bridge. Two ends, not the claspless circle around my neck. The leash, in the moment, says with. 

During the day, the leash is invisible. It’s there, in protocol and everything else, logistically in needing to notify her if I’m leaving the house—even for the mailbox—and especially in needing permission to go most places. But I’m not going to be physically leashed all day, because we are not together all day. 

But at night, I get the physical leash. It attaches to the bed—to her place. At night, there is, physically, with, even from the floor, which reminds me, with, loved, but not equal. 

… 

I think I have just about shaken the falling sensation. 

When you sleep in an elevated bed, a possibility is that you will fall. I am a restless sleeper, and I will curl up on the very far edge of the bed, because it’s where my body guides me. I have, often, woken by falling, or almost falling, out of bed. 

Once I started sleeping on the floor, my mind still had this boundary, this amount of rolling over I could do before it thought I had gone too far, and I would bolt upright with the sensation of falling, scrambling to catch myself.

But I wasn’t falling. I had just strayed a little on the floor. 

Still, the phantom falling, like a more physical, middle of the night, fast asleep version of the type some get when trying to fall asleep, took several months to go away. Now, it’s rare, and I stray pretty far from the foot of the bed sometimes, moving back when I wake and notice. There’s plenty of floor in the opposite direction, and it’s not like anyone else is using it in the middle of the night (except for the cats, who rage their 3 AM wars on top of me either way). My slave fur cocoon mostly moves with me. The way I wrap myself up in it, I’ve never woken up out of it, even if I’m approaching the opposite wall. 

Occasionally, I stray the other direction, and manage to roll myself partially under the bed. I can’t really fit under there on my side, my default falling asleep position, but at some point I may end up partially under it on my back. And, y’know, slam my head into the tubular steel when I move (and yes, that’ll hurt for a couple of days, masochism crowd; no, I don’t recommend it). I’ve gained some awareness of if I have rolled myself under there, though, to warn me, but it’s not perfect. 

However. I have shaken the falling sensation, because my mind realizes there is nowhere lower to fall, and has relaxed about it. How’s that for symbolism?