Cats Don’t Do the Dishes, Part Four

After the food was made, Craftsmate had me take the apron off and go into his room. He had hung chain off of a section of his bed that turned the space under his bed into a makeshift cage. Blocking off the other sides with boxes, it was this fairly small area where I could crawl a few inches in either direction.

He made me get down into the cage and brought my food in to me. Before I could get to eating with the conspicuous lack of silverware, he took my hands and taped my fingers together into little “paws”. I huffed and bent down, a blush rising in my cheeks as I started to eat off of the plate.

It was indescribably humiliating. My face got messy, I would lose grasp on the plate and it would slide around, I felt utterly ridiculous lapping water up and out of a bowl. When Craftsmate reached down to have me eat something from his hand, I could barely keep it together.

Eventually, he got up and left the bedroom for a moment. When he got back, he had a bowl with some ice cream and apple pie. “The Prodigy made a pie and decided to share some,” he explained and took a seat at his desk, facing the cage. “Next time you see her, you’re going to thank her. Now, come here.”

Gingerly, I crawled out of the cage and rested my head against his knee while he ate, opening my mouth when he fed me some. When he had finished, he put the bowl in my face so I could lick it clean and I complied, feeling the humiliation burn in my cheeks.

“Good kitty,” he murmured, running his free hand through my hair.