Kink Bingo: Bad Day
Jan. 12th, 2014 04:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jeriendhalSquares: Bondage, punishment
Warnings: Language, reference to abusive childhood.
Tags: Femdom, F/m, bondage, power exchange.
She sat on her lounge chair, leg propped up to ease the pressure off her knee, and watched as her pet stomped through the door of their apartment. It said something about his training that he'd taken off his shoes and socks and skinned out of his shirt automatically after he closed the door, even with the foul mood obvious on his face.
“Bad day, Pet?” she asked softly.
“It could have been worse.
"At least it's Friday,” he muttered, walking over to her and dropping to one knee to kiss the back of her hand. “How was yours?”
“Well enough. I finished going over the Thompson's file. I only had to take one pill today for the knee. I'm just enjoying the quiet before tax time really cranks up.”
“Good,” he said, taking in a breath and deliberately relaxing his expression. “Have you eaten?”
“No, not yet,” she said.
“I'll fix something for you.” He stood up, and and she smiled slightly, admiring the play of the muscles running along his belly.
“Don't forget yourself,” she called, as he turned and headed towards the kitchen.
“I'm not hungry,” he called back. She watched her pet begin puttering around the kitchen, cabinets being opened and shut with perhaps a bit more force than was necessary, and pans being banged loudly as he prepped some chicken breasts with white wine and herbs. She pretended not to notice as she read through her emails on her pad.
The phone rang, and before she could grab the handset beside her, her pet picked up the one in the kitchen. He answered it, waited a moment, then snapped, “Not interested! Fuck off and die!” before killing the call.
She counted to ten, placed her pad on the end table beside her chair, picked up her cane from where it had been leaning, and then banged it loudly twice on the wooden floor. “Pet! Present yourself!” she called.
Pet hunched automatically at her shout, turning and walking slowly towards her, standing in front of her with his bare feet shoulder width apart, hands rising to rest behind his neck as he lowered his head, staring at the floor.
“Eyes up,” she ordered, and he met her gaze reluctantly. “What the hell is the problem, Pet?”
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“'Sorry' what?”
“Sorry, Mistress.”
“Better. Now answer the question.”
“I answer phones all day. You know I don't like getting calls from solicitors,” he said, daring just the barest hint of resentment.
“I know you don't appreciate dealing with bad attitudes over the phone. What makes you think it's all right to cuss at somebody who's just trying to work at a crappy job?”
“Sorry, Mistress,” he muttered again.
She rested her hands on her cane, necessary since her accident, a disability she'd learned to live with. It had gotten easier after she'd met Pet, who had been the perfect helpmeet, helping her adapt to her limitations, even as she expanded his horizons.
“Tell me what's wrong,” she asked.
“Nothing, Mistress,” he said, his voice growing softer, eyes lowering.
“Eyes up,” she snapped, “and speak truth.”
“It's... it's just...” He shuddered, and the rest of his words came out in an angry rush, “I hate my job. I hate my boss. I hate not being smart enough to get a better one. I hate not being able to help you more. I hate watching you hurt when you move around to much. I hate...” His words trailed off miserably.
Myself, she finished silently. She gestured with her cane to his floor pad. “Kneel.”
He dropped down, keeping his hands clasped behind his neck, not looking away from her this time. She reached out, touching the stainless steel ring around his wrist, his public collar, the words of his submission carved into the inner ring, unremovable without heavy tools. Her mark upon him, making him her Pet, begged for by him and gratefully given by her. “Do you know what this is?”
“My collar, Mistress.”
“And what does it mean?”
“That I'm yours, Mistress.”
“And what did I tell you to do when something was bothering you?”
“To tell you right away, Mistress.”
“Correct. Letting it sit and fester until you're yelling at strangers on the phone is not what I want. Not what I ordered.”
“Yes, Mistress. I'm sorry.”
“I know how angry you can get, Pet. You're much better than when you first came to me.” Hostile, and hurting, not understanding his desire for submission, only knowing that it had managed to get him cut off from his own family. If she let herself remember that last conversation she'd had with his father as she'd rescued his things from garbage, she could get quite angry herself.
No, she thought firmly. Never raise a hand in anger. Only in guidance. “Pet, stand, strip, and go to the bathroom. Then get your punishment cuffs.”
He went pale as he stood up. “Yes, Mistress.” Then he fled out of the room, returning a moment later, naked with her toy bag, placing it carefully on the ottoman in front of her so it didn't thump. At a gesture form her he reached inside, pulling out his punishment cuffs. They were exquisite, medieval looking things, made of half-inch thick, polished iron, oval shaped to rest on his forearms and above his ankles to avoid damage, connected by four inches of heavy chain.
“Turn around. Hands behind your back.” He turned, presenting his wrists to her. She snapped the cuffs over them, closing them with heavy padlocks. She then leaned over carefully, locking the equally heavy ankle cuffs in place, hobbling him to a six inch stride. Last was the heavy iron collar, easily weighing six pounds, which he could not carry without bowing his head. By them she'd connected all three with a chain running from collar ring to ankles, he was wearing twenty pounds of iron.
“Bedroom,” she ordered. He began shuffling towards the bedroom, and she levered herself out of her chair to following, walking just as slowly. At her next order, he knelt down at the foot of the bed, and she eased herself down beside him. “Pet, you know I love you, but I will not abide you keeping things to yourself to you should be sharing with me, even if they are negative things.”
“I love you too, Mistress,” he said, head already starting to bow down.
“Lay down.” He did so, laying on his belly while she affixed one last chain, a mere foot of iron holding him to the bed frame, forcing him to remain on the floor. “You'll stay here, until I think you've learned your lesson. If I'm feeling generous, that means you'll share my bed tonight.”
“Thank you, Mistress,” he murmured, then added, “Don't forget the chicken breasts.”
“I won't, Pet.” She smiled, kissed his forehead, then got back to her feet, heading towards the kitchen. She knew he'd still be there when she returned, and always would be.
Warnings: Language, reference to abusive childhood.
Tags: Femdom, F/m, bondage, power exchange.
She sat on her lounge chair, leg propped up to ease the pressure off her knee, and watched as her pet stomped through the door of their apartment. It said something about his training that he'd taken off his shoes and socks and skinned out of his shirt automatically after he closed the door, even with the foul mood obvious on his face.
“Bad day, Pet?” she asked softly.
“It could have been worse.
"At least it's Friday,” he muttered, walking over to her and dropping to one knee to kiss the back of her hand. “How was yours?”
“Well enough. I finished going over the Thompson's file. I only had to take one pill today for the knee. I'm just enjoying the quiet before tax time really cranks up.”
“Good,” he said, taking in a breath and deliberately relaxing his expression. “Have you eaten?”
“No, not yet,” she said.
“I'll fix something for you.” He stood up, and and she smiled slightly, admiring the play of the muscles running along his belly.
“Don't forget yourself,” she called, as he turned and headed towards the kitchen.
“I'm not hungry,” he called back. She watched her pet begin puttering around the kitchen, cabinets being opened and shut with perhaps a bit more force than was necessary, and pans being banged loudly as he prepped some chicken breasts with white wine and herbs. She pretended not to notice as she read through her emails on her pad.
The phone rang, and before she could grab the handset beside her, her pet picked up the one in the kitchen. He answered it, waited a moment, then snapped, “Not interested! Fuck off and die!” before killing the call.
She counted to ten, placed her pad on the end table beside her chair, picked up her cane from where it had been leaning, and then banged it loudly twice on the wooden floor. “Pet! Present yourself!” she called.
Pet hunched automatically at her shout, turning and walking slowly towards her, standing in front of her with his bare feet shoulder width apart, hands rising to rest behind his neck as he lowered his head, staring at the floor.
“Eyes up,” she ordered, and he met her gaze reluctantly. “What the hell is the problem, Pet?”
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“'Sorry' what?”
“Sorry, Mistress.”
“Better. Now answer the question.”
“I answer phones all day. You know I don't like getting calls from solicitors,” he said, daring just the barest hint of resentment.
“I know you don't appreciate dealing with bad attitudes over the phone. What makes you think it's all right to cuss at somebody who's just trying to work at a crappy job?”
“Sorry, Mistress,” he muttered again.
She rested her hands on her cane, necessary since her accident, a disability she'd learned to live with. It had gotten easier after she'd met Pet, who had been the perfect helpmeet, helping her adapt to her limitations, even as she expanded his horizons.
“Tell me what's wrong,” she asked.
“Nothing, Mistress,” he said, his voice growing softer, eyes lowering.
“Eyes up,” she snapped, “and speak truth.”
“It's... it's just...” He shuddered, and the rest of his words came out in an angry rush, “I hate my job. I hate my boss. I hate not being smart enough to get a better one. I hate not being able to help you more. I hate watching you hurt when you move around to much. I hate...” His words trailed off miserably.
Myself, she finished silently. She gestured with her cane to his floor pad. “Kneel.”
He dropped down, keeping his hands clasped behind his neck, not looking away from her this time. She reached out, touching the stainless steel ring around his wrist, his public collar, the words of his submission carved into the inner ring, unremovable without heavy tools. Her mark upon him, making him her Pet, begged for by him and gratefully given by her. “Do you know what this is?”
“My collar, Mistress.”
“And what does it mean?”
“That I'm yours, Mistress.”
“And what did I tell you to do when something was bothering you?”
“To tell you right away, Mistress.”
“Correct. Letting it sit and fester until you're yelling at strangers on the phone is not what I want. Not what I ordered.”
“Yes, Mistress. I'm sorry.”
“I know how angry you can get, Pet. You're much better than when you first came to me.” Hostile, and hurting, not understanding his desire for submission, only knowing that it had managed to get him cut off from his own family. If she let herself remember that last conversation she'd had with his father as she'd rescued his things from garbage, she could get quite angry herself.
No, she thought firmly. Never raise a hand in anger. Only in guidance. “Pet, stand, strip, and go to the bathroom. Then get your punishment cuffs.”
He went pale as he stood up. “Yes, Mistress.” Then he fled out of the room, returning a moment later, naked with her toy bag, placing it carefully on the ottoman in front of her so it didn't thump. At a gesture form her he reached inside, pulling out his punishment cuffs. They were exquisite, medieval looking things, made of half-inch thick, polished iron, oval shaped to rest on his forearms and above his ankles to avoid damage, connected by four inches of heavy chain.
“Turn around. Hands behind your back.” He turned, presenting his wrists to her. She snapped the cuffs over them, closing them with heavy padlocks. She then leaned over carefully, locking the equally heavy ankle cuffs in place, hobbling him to a six inch stride. Last was the heavy iron collar, easily weighing six pounds, which he could not carry without bowing his head. By them she'd connected all three with a chain running from collar ring to ankles, he was wearing twenty pounds of iron.
“Bedroom,” she ordered. He began shuffling towards the bedroom, and she levered herself out of her chair to following, walking just as slowly. At her next order, he knelt down at the foot of the bed, and she eased herself down beside him. “Pet, you know I love you, but I will not abide you keeping things to yourself to you should be sharing with me, even if they are negative things.”
“I love you too, Mistress,” he said, head already starting to bow down.
“Lay down.” He did so, laying on his belly while she affixed one last chain, a mere foot of iron holding him to the bed frame, forcing him to remain on the floor. “You'll stay here, until I think you've learned your lesson. If I'm feeling generous, that means you'll share my bed tonight.”
“Thank you, Mistress,” he murmured, then added, “Don't forget the chicken breasts.”
“I won't, Pet.” She smiled, kissed his forehead, then got back to her feet, heading towards the kitchen. She knew he'd still be there when she returned, and always would be.
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Date: 2014-01-13 02:14 am (UTC)