While we were off on shitpost sabbatical, we took the opportunity to occasionally flop around the house in undignified positions. By “we,” I mean “me,” since someone else was at work, trying to save humanity by giving us a viable second home before we finish ruining this one. I digress.
So there I was, whored out on the bed like a hairy French Venus (more French bulldog than Venus, if I’m being honest here), and I felt the bed rumble.
The bed rumbles when the Bed Demon, aka Stanley, gets on his back and crawls under the bed so he can drag himself in circles by clawing around the bed frame (which is has material covering it.) It’s funny, except at 3AM when you wake up not knowing what the hell is going on and your cerebellum decides it’s a velociraptor rapist coming to diddle your life away. I digress.
So Stanley was being The Bed Demon, which prompted me to hoot and holler to encourage him. “Rah! Yes! Get it, Stanley! Make your orbit! Leave your mark! Carve your sigil!” I shouted. You have to support and cherish your demon, after all.
After a few passes, the summoning circle was complete, and he squirted out from under the bed. The next thing I knew, I had a face full of ass and claws in my belly, furiously kneading me as he purred and demanded I pay attention to the Pucker of Doom.
I laid there like a slug (it’s my only defense) for a few minutes, and he wandered off to the side and got quiet. I read my book for a while, and that was that.
Then I got up and saw what he’d done.
He’d dead-ass gone to sleep like this. Now that it’s cooler, he routinely sleeps on the bed like this, happily nested in the valley between Heather’s pillows.
No, I’m not going to make a “Heather’s Pillows” joke, because you already thought it, you delinquent.