body, arms planted in front of her. I’ve seen her do this before, at the club, but don’t remember what it means. Sitting, she glares, eyes narrowed, but not in anger—something else—like she is thinking too much.
I take a step forward, toward her, and she hisses, showing her top teeth, raising her right hand in mock strike.
It all comes back to me, her tabletop sideshow, and all the feral cat antics that followed, all because
Garrett had forgotten her, forgotten her basic needs—food, water, bathroom breaks. I’ve handfed her three times today, so I know that she isn’t hungry. We overcame her embarrassment of her losing control of her bodily functions the first day of her confinement in the cage. I’d gone in to check on her after the first couple hours, to see how she was tolerating the utter isolation, the bondage.
I’d knelt beside her. “How does the cage feel?”
“Tight,” she answered. “The wire isn’t pleasant.”
“It isn’t supposed to be pleasant,” I mocked her and stood to leave the room.
“Wait,” she cried out and I was surprised to think she was breaking down after only a few hours.
“I have to pee,” she whispered as if someone other than me might hear.
“I’m not stopping you from answering the call of nature,” I answered.
“Will you release me?” she asked me. “You can put me right back into the cage when I’m done if you’d like.”
I laughed outright and walked back into the room. I folded into a cross-legged position beside her. “It will be much easier if we come to an understanding right now. I am not planning to release you, not tonight and not the next. If you have to use the bathroom, you will do so in your cage. Here, you are no more in control of this situation than an animal. Here, you are my animal, my pet. At Lewd Larry’s, you pretended to be a feline persona, isn’t that what Garrett said to you when he collared you? Here, with me, you are going to forget what it feels like to be human.”
She gasped, understanding dawning in her mind. “Really, I have to pee, please release me. Is that what you want? For me to beg, because I’ll beg.”
“I don’t want you to beg. I want you to pee, right here, right now.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You will,” I promised, then I sat and waited, ignoring her tears, ignoring her curses, waiting for the moment she would break down, waiting for the moment, as I cupped her between her legs, holding her in my hand just tightly enough for her to know that I was, her urine flowed.
We’d come to an understanding.
Suddenly, she is falling forward, pulling me out of my memory. She is not slumping slowly, but doing a full-fledged nose-dive into the carpeted floor.
As fast as it registers that she’s collapsed, my hard-on shrinks, and I am by her side, lifting her and carrying her to the bedroom. Gently, I tuck her into my bed, then make a phone call I’d rather not make to George Kirkpatrick, otherwise known as Dr. Psycho at the club. Although he is a retired psychiatrist, I call him instead of one of the community-friendly MDs or DOs, perhaps because I feel like she’s healthier now than when she came to me. Granted she collapsed, but prior to the collapse, she looked pretty damn healthy, even for a woman who had been caged for a week. I overreact, calling for help…but prefer to think it was a smart decision, wanting to be safe.
I leave her to sleep while I pace my foyer, waiting for George, the soft click of my leather sandals annoying against the terracotta tile. Normally, I would go barefoot, today because of this particular house-call, I break out the Roberto Botticelli designer footwear. Dark brown leather stands up well to the all-white outfit I’ve chosen, linen pants and an Indian-inspired dress shirt. Of course, the two gold necklaces and dress watch by Forzieri speak even louder of my nervousness. It’s my grandfather’s fault.
Calling me by my childhood name, he’d admonished me.
I take a step forward, toward her, and she hisses, showing her top teeth, raising her right hand in mock strike.
It all comes back to me, her tabletop sideshow, and all the feral cat antics that followed, all because
Garrett had forgotten her, forgotten her basic needs—food, water, bathroom breaks. I’ve handfed her three times today, so I know that she isn’t hungry. We overcame her embarrassment of her losing control of her bodily functions the first day of her confinement in the cage. I’d gone in to check on her after the first couple hours, to see how she was tolerating the utter isolation, the bondage.
I’d knelt beside her. “How does the cage feel?”
“Tight,” she answered. “The wire isn’t pleasant.”
“It isn’t supposed to be pleasant,” I mocked her and stood to leave the room.
“Wait,” she cried out and I was surprised to think she was breaking down after only a few hours.
“I have to pee,” she whispered as if someone other than me might hear.
“I’m not stopping you from answering the call of nature,” I answered.
“Will you release me?” she asked me. “You can put me right back into the cage when I’m done if you’d like.”
I laughed outright and walked back into the room. I folded into a cross-legged position beside her. “It will be much easier if we come to an understanding right now. I am not planning to release you, not tonight and not the next. If you have to use the bathroom, you will do so in your cage. Here, you are no more in control of this situation than an animal. Here, you are my animal, my pet. At Lewd Larry’s, you pretended to be a feline persona, isn’t that what Garrett said to you when he collared you? Here, with me, you are going to forget what it feels like to be human.”
She gasped, understanding dawning in her mind. “Really, I have to pee, please release me. Is that what you want? For me to beg, because I’ll beg.”
“I don’t want you to beg. I want you to pee, right here, right now.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You will,” I promised, then I sat and waited, ignoring her tears, ignoring her curses, waiting for the moment she would break down, waiting for the moment, as I cupped her between her legs, holding her in my hand just tightly enough for her to know that I was, her urine flowed.
We’d come to an understanding.
Suddenly, she is falling forward, pulling me out of my memory. She is not slumping slowly, but doing a full-fledged nose-dive into the carpeted floor.
As fast as it registers that she’s collapsed, my hard-on shrinks, and I am by her side, lifting her and carrying her to the bedroom. Gently, I tuck her into my bed, then make a phone call I’d rather not make to George Kirkpatrick, otherwise known as Dr. Psycho at the club. Although he is a retired psychiatrist, I call him instead of one of the community-friendly MDs or DOs, perhaps because I feel like she’s healthier now than when she came to me. Granted she collapsed, but prior to the collapse, she looked pretty damn healthy, even for a woman who had been caged for a week. I overreact, calling for help…but prefer to think it was a smart decision, wanting to be safe.
I leave her to sleep while I pace my foyer, waiting for George, the soft click of my leather sandals annoying against the terracotta tile. Normally, I would go barefoot, today because of this particular house-call, I break out the Roberto Botticelli designer footwear. Dark brown leather stands up well to the all-white outfit I’ve chosen, linen pants and an Indian-inspired dress shirt. Of course, the two gold necklaces and dress watch by Forzieri speak even louder of my nervousness. It’s my grandfather’s fault.
Calling me by my childhood name, he’d admonished me.
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