chain

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.

It’s strange that I can look at an image like this and actually feel longing. Because I’ve been taken fairly close to there before, and when the person with me knew how to handle it, it was incredibly satisfying. It’s hard to describe without sounding needy or fucked up or dependent or a lot of the other critiques of people who identify as submissive.

But, it’s just in the way he holds her, the way she leans on him, how the chain doesn’t come off. He’ll assure her of how good she was and how proud she made him. She’ll have the opportunity to just let it out. There’s an arrangement there. There’s intimacy.

There’s something about the word bitch.

Slut, whore, words like that, they all tend to have a lot more accountability. A lot more agency. They seem to be a direct result of the things you choose to do and you sort of own them. My reactions to being called these words during play usually have a degree of smugness to them. It’s an accusation of being the sort of person who enjoys this stuff. And I’m confirming it.

But, bitch, I don’t know. It’s rougher. It screams ownership, subjugation. It reduces you to something animal-like, primal, something that relies on just instinct and physical cues. Simpler thoughts and more visceral reactions usually accompany being called this or having to call myself this.

I guess I should clarify that I kind of love/hate/love the word bitch.

“She understood that her heart operated on its own instructions, that she had no control over it or, indeed, anything else.” – Jeffrey Eugenides, Middlesex.

Resolute.

thekinknextdoor:

this strikes Me as so Histoire d’O, so birdlike, so powerful

Ivy

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