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.”