A kitten in the corner.

The sight of her as she passed me took my breath away and almost brought me to tears with appreciation.

It wasn't her makeup, for she wore little. It wasn't her attire, for her spaghetti-strapped top was modest and plain. It was her vibe, her allure, the natural sculpture of her features alone that caught me. Her shortly cropped hair, shocked with streaks of blonde, rested sofly upon her adorable head. The gentle and yet calmy confident statement on her soft, young face. Her modest chest, lithe muscles like tender veal, and the moonlit tone to her soft, alabaster skin. Apart from her lobes widely scooped in plain, heavy-gauge silver, she wore no visible adornments. Somehow, deep within me, I knew she was completely and totally shorn, and pondered whether her mound was enhanced with a christina.

Her half-lidded and slightly detached eyes, the soft pout to her small lips, the almost genteel way she observed her surroundings, her silent gait reminded me of a cat I have known, one belonging to a former lover. No... she resembled this cat exactly, and memory took me. How feline she was, this tender thing who could not have been older than eighteen but whose aura slowly cascaded with a knowing, supine grace. She was a nymph.

Were she Mine, spoke the Taskmaster within me, she would not serve Me victuals, nor pour My wine. she would not be My fucktoy. No. she would be collared and kept to a silver rung in the brickface of My blackroom wall, adoringly captived by a shimmering, fine chain and a little platinum bell.

There, as My pet, she would simply be. A thing of beauty for Me to rest Mine eyes upon as I languished in My favourite chair, enjoyed a glass of 2005 Cotes du Rhone, and rested between caning reps on the plump ass of some wayward, iniquitous, misguided, narcissistic wench who had incurred a just and potent wrath. she would be as a kitten in the corner for My pleasure to see, like a pillar of amethyst by lamplight, a Rodin on a dais.