Cats Don’t Do the Dishes, Part Three

While I was washing the dishes, Craftsmate came over and picked up a knife I had just cleaned. It was long, wide, fairly sharp looking. Without introduction, he reached up and started to tease it over my collarbone. 

“Did you use a knife like this the first time you tried knifeplay?” He asked, his voice almost teasing.

I nodded anxiously and set down the glass I was washing. My hands were trembling.

He raised the knife to my throat, “hey. Keep going.” I picked the glass up and started to wash it again as he continued to run the knife over my neck and chest. I could hear the smirk in his voice as he said, “look at you. You’ve got goosebumps.”

I went to put the glass down to dry, but my hand shook and I broke it against the counter. Craftsmate set the knife down and I looked up at him nervously. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not mad,” he replied and started to sweep the glass into the garbage carefully with his hand. “But you’re getting punished for that later, kitty.”