cats don’t do the dishes

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Cats Don’t Do the Dishes, Part Eight  

By the time he had finished with me, it was nearly midnight, I had been wearing the plug for about eight hours and I was unbelievably subspaced. Craftsmate sat me up in bed and helped me to drink some water. 

My head slumped down against his chest and he stroked my hair. I was at this point where the lights had stopped being harsh on my eyes and everything looked a little glassy. He tucked me into his bed and sat down at his desk beside the bed to get some work done.

At one point, he reached out and held my hand. After a few moments, I drew my hand back and tugged on one of his fingers playfully. “Chinese finger trap,” I joked as he tried to pull his finger back.

He yanked his finger out of my hand and shook his head. “Your vagina’s a Chinese finger trap.”

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Cats Don’t Do the Dishes, Part Seven  

Once he had finished flogging me, Craftsmate reached up and tilted his lamp so the light hit my cunt. Pulling up a chair, he sat down in front of me and calmly pulled my labia apart. He picked up a roll of duct tape and started to tape me open, securing my labia to the inside of my thighs.

“What are you doing?” I mumbled around the gag. He ignored me and started to tease his fingers over my terribly exposed pussy. 

Eventually, he picked up a knife and traced the dull end over my labia, slit and clitoris. I practically jumped through the roof, unable to contain myself as he continued to violate my helpless pussy with his fingers and the knife. I shuddered every time he pushed the dull end against me, my eyes wide and my fingers fluttering uselessly in their bonds.

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Cats Don’t Do the Dishes, Part Six

Craftsmate tied me facedown on his bed and proceeded to get his flogger out. He beat me until I was crying out so much that he had to gag me and put music on to drown out all the noise.

Then, he sat down on me and started to tickle my ribs. I am absurdly ticklish and I absolutely hate being tickled. A few minutes in, I was panting for breath and drooling around the gag. He stopped, moved his duvet cover so I could see the small puddle of my salvia that had soaked into it, and proceeded to scold me for drooling all over his bed.

“Look at the mess you made,” he chided, pulling on my hair before pushing my face into it. I blushed six shades of red.

He rolled me over and tied me back down, picking the flogger back up and starting to beat my breasts.

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Cats Don’t Do the Dishes, Part Five 

Craftsmate wiped my face clean and smiled down at me. “Why don’t you show me your tail, kitty?”

I blushed and turned, dipping my back and presenting my ass to him.

“Wag it a bit,” he said.

I shook my hips a bit and felt the tail wag back and forth between my legs. He reached forward and tugged a bit on the tail, eliciting a sharp gasp as I bucked back against the yank. He chuckled softly and got up to his feet, patting the bed.

“I think you owe me for my glass, don’t you?” He grinned. “Let’s see how you can pay me back.”

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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.

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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.”

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Cats Don’t Do the Dishes, Part Two

When I got into Craftsmate’s room, I set my clothes down on the floor down by the door and he approached me, giving me a hug and smoothing my hair back. I was nervous, but I showed him the plug in my ass, pushing my panties aside so he could see the handle.

From his box of random crafts supplies, he pulled out a piece of leather and tied it to the end of my plug. He had been hinting a bit at the notion of having me be a pet and I had expressed interest. “There you go, kitty, you’ve got a tail,” he said and patted my ass. “Now, I’m going to make dinner and you can clean what I’ve left in the sink.”

I huffed. “But cats don’t do the dishes. You’re conflating fantasies.” Nonetheless, he made me put an apron over my basically naked body and leashed me to the sink.

At one point, there was a knock on the door and I managed to work the leash off and run into his bedroom. It was, of all people, his neighbor The Prodigy looking to borrow some nutmeg. Once she had left, he went into the bedroom, brought me back out into the kitchen, and tied the leash back onto the sink.

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Cats Don’t Do the Dishes, Part One

Craftsmate had been asking about my plug a lot in the past week or so when I got the text about what to do when I came to his room. I had arranged to hang out with him and mess around a bit that lazy Sunday afternoon, but I had never received instructions like this from him before.

He had said that I should come over to his place, strip down immediately once I had gotten through the door and let myself into his bedroom. I considered that I was fine with the idea of doing this, even if it was madly blush-inducing. I even got a little ballsy and put my plug in.

As I was getting ready to go, I stole a glance into the mirror and saw the blush burn in my cheeks. Walking over to Craftsmate’s place, I got so anxious I had to put my headphones in and play music to distract myself. I was sure people could see right through my blush, though I knew it was a completely ludicrous assumption to make that blushing girl equals plugged ass.

When I reached his place, I set my backpack down and took a look around. His roommates weren’t home and the shades of the living area were drawn. I stripped down to everything but my panties, walked into the kitchen and had a glass of water. Steeling myself, I walked over to the door to his bedroom and pulled it open.