“I’m sorry, sweetie, I can’t now. I’m obeying.”
She was prostrate on the dining table, arms behind her, ass up facing the door. So it would be the first thing He saw coming in. The cat had wandered in and out of the room a few times since she’d been there. She’d barely noticed, in that pose trance she got into, but now Mitta'd perched herself on one of the chairs and was invisibly squawking at her from below.
Sometimes Mitta would pipe down if you just talked to her. The girl was just annoyed because she wasn’t getting pets. Though it genuinely tugged at her heart a little that she wasn’t able to give them now.
Talking was OK, though. Probably. She made a mental note that she should snitch on herself to Master about it the next chance she got. Just in case it wasn’t.
Maybe He’d give her another rule.
She was dressed, she remembered. Like, a lot. She’d modeled it in the mirror. Red g-string under a tartan microskirt and white cotton thigh-highs that kind of itched her. No shoes. Master didn’t like shoes on the table.
When He’d posed her there she’d had a thought, she’d wondered: what if we’re having company? As for why He’d dressed her. Because He’d been talking lately about showing her off to people. Not just exposing herself, which seemed daunting enough, but as a slave. Already it was becoming a big part of her fantasy life. What it would feel like, masturbating for a stranger and then climaxing for them at her Owner’s command. How much of a whore it would make her.
Had he been training her for it? Maybe he was and he wasn’t letting her remember.
She was wet again. She hoped she wouldn’t drip all over the socks. Don’t anticipate. Master had said to her once, why do you imagine your pussy can predict the future?
Mitta hopped onto the table, where she was Not Allowed, and started slinking around her legs. She tried saying “Off!” in a stern voice but broke up from the laughter she was suppressing. “Mitta, look what you’re doing to my concentration!”
The cat walked across her neck.
Mitta obeyed nobody but Mitta. Not even Master. She sighed. It was funny to think how much more docile and trainable she was, how much less independent than her own cat.
Mitta the Kitta. Master’s cat. Not hers, though she’d adopted the little one way before Master came. Sometimes she still had to remind herself. Everything here was His, including the cat, including her. Especially her.
Mitta made a last squeak of discontent then slung herself off the table on some new business.
She felt the air cooling the wetness between her legs. In the quiet her mind spun down, and she lost herself again. She breathed and let the pose take her over.