Craftsmate had made me dinner and, after serving himself, put my plate on the floor. I got down onto my knees and went to start eating when he interrupted me.
“Not yet,” he said, picking up the roll of duct tape and taping my hands into little fists.
I huffed, pawing my napkin closer before gingerly lowering my face down to pick up a piece of broccoli.
Craftsmate watched for a few minutes with a smirk on his face as I carefully avoided getting food on my face as best as I could. All of a sudden, he reached forward and grabbed my hair.
“That’s not how kitties eat,” he insisted before shoving my face deep into the plate, covering it in food and sauce. “Kitties are messier, like this.” He pushed down a bit longer, shaking my head against the plate before pulling me up.
I stifled a whimper and cursed at him. Getting this vulnerable still scares me sometimes. I’m frightened when things start to get messy, especially when it comes to how much I enjoy it.
My head processes this sort of stuff in a way that figures that if I express outrage my partner will do it again without me having to ask. But this time, I had to.
“Do that again?” I choked out. I hated having to admit I liked it. I was ashamed to admit I wanted it. But, he complied, reaching up and shoving my face into the food once more.
“Good kitty,” he murmured as he practically wiped the dish with my face.
Without another word, I swallowed my pride and started eating.