Collared (Masters of Desires)

Exhausted, crampy, and wet, Abigail made it safely home. After replacing her tampon and taking a much-needed hot shower, she settled on the couch with a bowl of soup cupped between her hands.

Every channel she tuned into mentioned how massive the snowstorm was going to be. Bothered by the repeated news, Abigail turned off the TV and opened her Spotify app. With music blaring in the background, she edited the remaining chapters of Anderson Clint’s Feminism Isn’t Just for Women: A Guide for the Male Feminist book.

By the time the sky had turned a dark shade of gray, Abigail was utterly exhausted. She closed her laptop and rubbed the ache from her eyes. A profound yawn stretched her limbs. Had she been with her master she wouldn’t have been able to stretch this easily. She’d probably have bruises and cuts accessorizing her skin like beaded jewels. The thought of spending the weekend alone saddened her. Her eyes slowly began to pool. She blamed it on hormones and not because she already missed Master Trice.

She wondered what had caused his abrupt change of tone. He had been playful at the beginning of their conversation and turned stoic the next, not bothering to confront her allegations. It was almost as if he’d been relieved she couldn’t make it for the weekend. Why? Had he had enough of her? What issue had he referred to?

Surely Lauren picked up her slack. She’d been with him for a while, so it seemed. Whatever bond Abigail thought they’d created in mere weeks, couldn’t compare to a bond sealed by history. Her imagination was the cause of her insecurities and her insecurities were worse than reality. That much, her mother taught her, so Abigail chased the jealous thought away.

On her way to bed, she stopped by the kitchen to wash her bowl. From the outside patio, she heard a whizzing sound. Using her hands as binoculars, she pressed them against the cold glass of the window. The deciduous maple tree in the yard tried its best to fight the bitter snow and the once dead grass was cloaked in white. Wanting to make sure an intruder had not resided in her house, she flipped the patio light on.

Her heart melted at what she saw.

Cautiously, as to not to cause the poor thing a fright, she turned the knob. Soon after she’d opened the door, a kitten trekked dainty prints on the wooden floor. When Abigail went to cuddle him, he dashed under the sofa.

She got on all fours as she scooted closer to the sofa, pretending she had food in her hand.

His pupils were enlarged with fear, covering the green in his irises. His fur, though damped from the snow, was ash gray. His body was so malnourished, all Abigail could see were bones.

“Here, kitty kitty,” she cooed. The cat proceeded by scratching her wrist with badly manicured nails.

“A man after my own heart,” she joked as she crisscrossed her legs. “You and I are going to get along just fine, Mr. Grey.”

Giving the kitten a smile, she gathered a can of tuna from the kitchen pantry. From the fridge, she poured a gradual amount of milk into a plastic container. She left both in front of the couch and settled on the armchair as she waited for the cat to come out.

He eyed her with cagey eyes. She returned his wary gaze with care and urged him with an encouraging smile. “I’m not going to hurt you, buddy. Come on. You’ve got to eat. And you probably need a shower, too. And a good cuddle. I give great cuddles.”

Abigail pretended she wasn’t looking at him. From the corner of her eye, she saw as he slowly stretched an arm, digging his nails into the wool rug. He meowed and narrowed his eyes as he walked a little further and a little and a little until his face was submerged into the bowl of milk.

Snapping a picture of the kitten, she sent it to Mike.

[Abigail]

Look what the snow dragged in.

[Mike]

Oh, poor thing. Where did you find him?

[Abigail]

He was outside freezing in the cold! Should I keep him?

[Mike]

Keep him? I thought you said you didn’t want kids.

[Abigail]

A cat isn’t a kid, Mike. I can leave a cat alone for a few hours, even days and he won’t die… hopefully.

[Mike]

It looks like you’ve thought of everything.

How’s lesbian sex treating you?

[Abigail]

You mean the girl-on-girl scissoring? I can now understand your preference for dicks.

[Mike]

Speaking of…gotta go. Night.

[Abigail]

Night.

Abigail giggled at the kitty whose snout was wet with milk. What was she going to do now? Was she really thinking about keeping him? She wasn’t a cruel human who’d throw the orphaned cat back into the cold after he’d sought refuge in the warmth of her home.

Although she didn’t have a bed or toys for the cat, she was happy to have a companion, even if said companion didn’t speak her language or was distrustful of her. He’d found his home under her sofa, and no one was going to get him out of there unless they offered him a bowl of milk and tuna.

She sure as hell wasn’t going to risk more scratches. No need of getting Master Trice jealous, though she doubted he ever was. There was only one man she’d let scar her body.

After the storm this weekend, she’d get Mr. Grey groomed and buy him some goodies.