I’ve been dreaming about this night for years. The details have changed—the people, the places and what I secretly hoped might happen—but the outline has always stayed the same. And now it’s finally happening. That first big step is here. Right in front of us. My lips tremble and my whole body floats in a heightened state of anticipation as I hand over our IDs.

I wasn’t exactly begging you to come; I don’t do that. But I have mentioned it quite a few times. Probably about two dozen times.

You kept telling me it wasn’t your scene.

Sorry, Daddy, but that’s just silly. I told you what I tell my kids when they don’t want to eat whatever random cosmopolitan dinner I put in front of them: “How the hell do you know if you haven’t tried it?”

Not to mention, you’re here with me. And you know your little Kitty: I wave my magic wand—be it the fairy one or the buzzing kind—and poof, everything turns into a glittery carnival ride.

Even this hellhole.

So don’t you worry about the lame red velour decor, the dumpster fire of a smoking area and the toilets that I swear had a yellow police tape around them last week. I’d like to believe that it was just part of some weird, temporary décor, but in this dump, you just can’t be sure.

We are here for the music and the people, not to score the interior design.

“I promised the lady at the door that I’d show you around.” My Cheshire Cat smile turns a touch sour when I catch the less-than-enthusiastic look on your face. “Mandatory on your first visit.”

You roll your eyes in an okay, whatever sort of way. Honestly, babe, your attitude stinks a little. Maybe at some point I will have to remind you that there are hundreds, if not thousands of men out there who would kill for this experience. And I’m not exaggerating. I know the stats. First-hand.

“Should we start with the dungeon?” I suggest. And by suggest, I mean I’m already pulling you down the stairs. They are an absolute trip hazard in these bloody heels. I don’t even know why I bother. I normally walk around barefoot and half-naked in no time. Usually. It might be different with you because you clearly hate this place.

I rumble on about how lucky you are that you don’t have to suffer through the humdrum show-round. I hate them with a passion.

Once, I visited a new club and I lied that I had been there before just to avoid the tour. The guy I was meeting inside was supposed to be my guide. But he disappeared into a gangbang scene around the first corner. Consequently, a bit later, I spent half an hour trying to get back to the first floor from the smoking area. Apparently you had to go through the kitchen. Whatever the person who designed that was on, I want some of it.

And let me not even get into all the rules they make you go through, which are just common decency: don’t interrupt a scene uninvited, don’t touch anyone without consent and don’t wank in the doorway. Basically, just don’t be a dick.

This is a much smaller club. You’d have to be drunk as a skunk and blindfolded to get lost here. Oh, hold that thought, that could be a great scene later. Do I have a blindfold in my bag? Of course I do, at least two different ones.

The dungeon is very basic, really: a spanking bench in the middle, a pet cage in the corner, a cross on the wall and a nice display of impact toys behind a locked glass cabinet. The dungeon master or mistress has a key to that, but they are not here yet. Usually this room doesn’t see any action until well after midnight. Don’t ask me why. Such a waste. Let’s change that.

“Wanna try anything?” I ask, throwing my toy kit onto the bench suggestively.

But you have other ideas. “Can you take photos in here?”

“If it’s just the two of us, then yes.”

I’m not that keen. I ticked off that silly novelty on my first visit. I looked ridiculous on the cross, the bench is not suitable for my petite pois proportions and apparently isn’t adjustable, the toys are nice, but... erm, hygiene. I do like the cage, though.

“I think you would look great in the pet crate.”

Yesss. “You’ve read my mind, Daddy. Should I wear my kitten ears?”

“Yes, and everything else.”

Ooh darn, did he mean the collar?

Indeed, the whole reason I dragged you here is because it is my ultimate fantasy to play at a club as your sub. Just maybe not at this club where everybody knows me. And not exactly that side of me. “I thought we were just exploring today.” I try my luck.

I rummage through the extensive range of impact toys in my bag, pull out my oversized black-and-white kitten ears and put them on. There’s a big-ass mirror covering a wall and I take a look at myself. The ears complement my simple black dress and the thick dark curls I’ve styled my hair into tonight. I could have done a bit more makeup, maybe even cat-like eyeliner, but I had no idea what direction the night was going to take. You usually don’t. And that’s the beauty of it. You can’t ever be sure. It could be absolutely dead, or you could end up tangled up with half a dozen bodies. And everything in between.

You step behind me, your warm breath stirring the loose strands beside my ear. And fuck, yes, you did mean the collar. You’re holding it in your hand. Brushing my hair aside, you fasten it around my neck. I always feel so small in your shadow when you do this. Our eyes meet in the dark parallel world of the mirror. You are silent, but I know exactly what that look means. Despite all the circumstances, now I belong to you.

You let it hang loose around my neck. The buckle takes forever to secure because you’ve never used this setting before. You usually prefer to have it tighter. Much tighter.

Your body moulds against mine and your fingers continue stroking my neck long after you've finished fastening the collar.

“This place is growing on me.” Breathing against my ear, you swallow a small chuckle.

Yeah, I get it: you’re not talking about the place.

That crude reminder sets off a range of fantasies of where and how I’ll get that ultimate prize at the end of the night. But before I can lose myself in my favourite one—with others watching—you step away and steer me towards the cage. “In you go, naughty kitty.”

I lower myself onto my hands and knees and after a small detour to rub my face against your leg like a cat would, I crawl in. Just as I’m almost fully inside you slap me across my butt. “Hmm, there’s something missing from this picture. Do you have the tail?”

The crate is so small that I have to fold and twist myself like a contortionist just to face you. The bolt slides into place with a loud clank. Luckily, there’s no padlock.

“No, Daddy, sorry. The black tail broke and my new light-up one is too bulky, I didn’t want to bring that.”

You drop to your knees to study my face. “Broke? Please enlighten me. How the hell did that happen?”

“Sadly, no kinky story behind it, Daddy. It simply fell apart.”

The contrast between your lips curling into an amused smile and your disapprovingly raised eyebrow makes me feel funny inside. I’m overcome with a strange urge to ask you to kiss me. Maybe a tiny part of me really does believe that I’m locked in here, neglected and helpless. You are now inches away, yet completely out of reach with cold, unyielding metal bars between us.

It’s not in my nature to ask for that little reassuring kiss. But can you not read the despair in my eyes? You have the power to make this lost little kitten feel all better.

But you won’t. You’re still hung up on the perfect photo idea.

“My kitty cannot be without a tail. Just send me a link later. I’ll buy you a new one.”

Well, okay, that’s kind of sweet too. In fact I'd take a new toy over a silly kiss any day. “Thank you, Daddy. You’re ever so kind,” I purr.

“Don’t mention it, silly girl. Now let’s see some nice poses, shall we?”

There isn’t much I can do in the tiny, restrictive cage but I try my best. I settle into my default pose: sitting sideways, licking my ‘paw’. Then I go for a distressed impression: holding onto the bars and looking up at you as if begging to be let out. My final attempt is a very daring one I’ve seen somewhere online: my bottom pushed against the bars, my dress hitched up around my waist.

You click away on your phone, turning it this way and that while giving little instructions: “Arch your back a little more. Look up. Legs further apart.”

You seem most excited about the photos you take from above. “This trapped, longing look suits you. Tell Daddy what the naughty kitty wants?”

Fuck, that voice. You’re killing me.

You lower the phone and give me one of those smirks. The one that makes me melt inside. When you add a little huh? I completely lose it and let the absolute brat reply.

“You did shove your hard cock against my arse two minutes ago. What the fuck do you think I want?” I try to swallow the laugh that bubbles in my throat, forcing it into a twisted smile. I’ve been spanked for much less before.

Your eyes and lips seem to dance in the darkness, and I can’t tell whether you’re stifling a laugh or whether it’s just the red strobe light flickering across your face.

“Sorry, Daddy.” I correct myself no longer bothering to hide my smile.

When you finally speak, you are being a dickhead as usual. But you do know how to pull my strings. I'll give you that.

“I thought we were just exploring tonight.” The mocking way you throw my earlier line back at me definitely has the desired effect.

“But because you’ve asked so nicely, I’ll let you play with it a little.” Then you rein yourself in, suddenly self-conscious. “Is that allowed in here?”

“Absolutely.” Even if it wasn’t, I’d probably just lie. But hell yeah, I’ve done so much worse in this club, so much worse...

Yet when you start unbuttoning your jeans, I’m so anxious that my stomach feels like a tennis ball bouncing around inside me.

Maybe it’s the cage. It’s new, it’s unfamiliar. My mind likes novelties like that. Or it could be your nervous energy infecting me.

Your fingers move in slow motion, button by button, while you keep looking back towards the stairs over your shoulder. Before undoing the last one, you ask again, “Are you sure about this, Kitty?”

“Oh, Daddy... Trust me, these people have seen far worse. And I’m proudly responsible for some of that debauchery.”

My latest and probably worst offence flashes in front of my eyes: a masquerade a few months ago, a girl dressed as a huntress with a nice range of impact toys. (And tits to die for.) After scoping out each other’s gear, she asked whether I wanted to play.

“I normally dom,” she stated.

“So do I,” I replied. It was a bit of a standoff. But there was no way in hell I was giving up on that opportunity. Then she said that one of her toys could give me an orgasm just from spanking. My usual I don’t sub to women rule swooshed out of the non-existent window faster than I could say, “Okay, I’ll offer my butt for the greater good.” I think that’s exactly what I said. There were a few others in the room. They all laughed. The rest is history.

Except, a few weeks later, I ran into one of the club regulars at a house party. After we exchanged a few words, I overheard him telling his friend, “She’s the one I told you about earlier. The one with the baseball bat.”

Oops. It turns out my cat mask didn’t quite give me full anonymity.

Maybe after today I’ll be known as the kitty who played in the cage. No big deal. We’re all adults here. Adults with weird fetishes. So what? Isn’t that the whole point?

It just seems Daddy has his own ideas about how this is going to go.

Apparently I'm required to beg for your cock and kiss it through those cold, ridiculously chunky bars—and through your underwear. Just fucking cruel, really.

I’m on my knees, looking up at you, both hands on the bars, holding on tight. Likely taking my frustration out on them a little.

You think I’m going to beg?

You are so very wrong.

I’m the weed that grows through the pavement cracks, babe. I find my way under the harshest conditions. I might not be able to paw at you the way I want, but piss me off enough and I will make you suffer more.

The cage is roughly the height of a small dining table. My kitten ears poke through the top bars. Not ideal. I already know their fate. They’re going to be chucked aside very soon. Even sideways, it’s not giving me much room to move. But I’ll make it work. Somehow.

You kneel in front of me, trying to find the right angle. This is a bit silly. Remind me why are we torturing ourselves with this?

Reaching through the bars, I run two fingers along your shaft as if I just wanted to remind myself of your shape and length. Well, it has been a few weeks... Still irresistible. Still mouth-watering.

Fucking pants. Just why was the cage not enough?

Resentment building up fast, I grab your pride and joy a little too roughly. My murderous glare drags an irritated look out of you. Eyebrows drawn in, you shake your head at me.

I would not, I read on your face.

But I so would, Daddy. I purse my lips as if you’ve just announced there’s no pudding for dinner.

“That’s quite enough now,” you snap. Not my fault that your sharp, angry tone turns me on, is it?

I cast my eyes down. Not in submission. Only to hide the next enraged grimace. For one everlasting minute, I stroke you like nothing is wrong. Like this is any random night in your bedroom and you are just winding me up in your usual ways. My fingers toy with the swollen head, rubbing, teasing, pressing my thumb into the tip provocatively.

“Hey, look at me, naughty girl,” you remind me of my place when I accidentally go savage again and squeeze too hard.

I force a blank expression on my face as I slowly raise my eyes to meet yours.

“Tell me how much you want it and you can have it.”

It’s a familiar game between us. You know I won’t say it. I know what happens when I don’t. It will probably hurt. Maybe a lot. Not as much as the wound to my pride. Sometimes I end up being tied to furniture until I ‘come to my senses’.

Which doesn’t happen. Ever.

In the end it’s always a compromise. So what’s the compromise here, Daddy? I’m already locked in this cage.

“I’m still waiting.” You tap the bars.

“Daddy…”

I taste the next word, chewing it like something bitter.

“Ple—”

But I have no intention to finish that annoying sentence. This is my compromise. Shall we meet halfway? I run my fingers over your cock one last time before hooking them into the waistband of your underwear.

“No, kitty.” You slap my hand away. “Not yet. Not without asking nicely.”

Sometimes I hate you so fucking much. The indignant groan bursting out of me is louder and more upset than I’d care to admit.

I wrap my hand around your thickness and stroke you the way I would if the stupid black fabric wasn’t in the way. Or the bars weren’t forcing my arm into such an awkward angle. I try to pull your jeans down slightly but you’re watching my every move with offensive vigilance. I hate seeing you this grounded. I’m a creature of chaos; order and restrictions are my archenemies.

I need to change my game.

I fool you with soft fluttery kisses first. Then one finger, deliberate enough to be noticed, nowhere near enough to give you real pleasure. I entertain myself with this gentle prelude before adding the torturously slow slide of my lips.

My finger moves to the other side, still playing its cruel little part, and somewhere in the middle of this, a wicked idea starts forming about how this night could end.

“Hopefully I get to do this later with another girl.” Knowing exactly where the seam will give in, I claw into your precious composure. “Would you like that, Daddy?” I catch the tear between my nails and pull.

You press your thumb into my lips and hold it there to silence me. A smile breaks free against the pressure. Are we thinking about the same thing? Then you ease it into my mouth. Oh, we certainly are. Wishing you could shut me up properly? That makes two of us.

So what’s stopping you, Daddy? Is it the cage? Is it the unfamiliar place? Because I know that under any other circumstances you’d make me choke on those words, your fingers, your cock. And worse. The memories of the nights when you weren’t this collected blur into a raging tornado and I’m standing in the middle of it screaming with frustration.

But as much as I want to kick the goddamn cage open, I’ll behave. For now. I make the most of what you allow me to have. Sliding my lips up and down your thumb, sucking gently, I show you what I would do to your cock if only you just...

You try to pull away but I clasp a hand around your wrist. “No. I’m not done. You need to give me at least this much.”

I see the tug-of-war in your eyes. That tiny hesitation is all I need. By the time you could say no, I’m already hyper-focused on your hand, running my tongue over the raised veins at your wrist until I find your pulse beating under the skin, then trailing slowly to each fingertip. I enjoy this unusual game. For a while.

Then, without even deciding to, I bite down. Harder than I mean to. As I said, I’m frustrated. This nicey-nicey nonsense has been going on far too long. If things don’t start flying sparks soon, kitty will be throwing a fit.

“Fuck. Stop that,” you roar.

Yesss, now we’rrre finally getting somewhere. I try to restrain a grin but I have a feeling I fail miserably. Should I tell him that I didn’t bring the cane?

“That is as far from asking nicely as it gets. What am I supposed to do with you now?”

I withdraw to the centre of the cage where you presumably cannot reach me. Because I can’t think of any scenario where that sentence would end well. I sit with my legs curled under, holding my paws up in a cute, surrender-kind-of way. “But you do like it when I misbehave, don’t you, Daddy?” I blink up at you through exaggerated, fluttery lashes.

“Come here,” you simply tell me, tapping a finger on the spot where I was sitting earlier.

I reluctantly scooch closer. You have not fetched any impact toys. Whether that’s a good sign is questionable.

“I’m sure we’ve talked about biting before, haven’t we, kitten?”

No, not a blooming speech. Anything but that. Please.

“Yes, Daddy.”

“And what did I tell you about that?”

“That I must not.” I know, terrible. I’m terrible. I regret it deeply. Can we just skip to the...?

“Yet, you just did.”

“Yes, because...”

“Oi, no. Stop it there. I don’t care.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy.”

“Come here,” you repeat. Even if I have regretted anything for a minute, now I’d do it again and again and again just to hear those two simple words.

“You have such a cute little face.” You stroke my cheek with the back of your fingers. It could so easily be mistaken for an affectionate, loving touch. That's exactly what makes it so fucking cruel. I’m pretty certain where this is heading will be anything but.

“I don’t even understand how can you sometimes turn into such a nasty feral creature.” Every time you use that tone and call me names like that, I want to roll around in that filth, Daddy. Please, give me more.

“Ask for it.”

I play dumb. “For what, Daddy?”

“Do not make it worse.”

It’s suddenly very cold in this dungeon-cellar; the chill settles deep in my body, leaving every muscle trembling.

“Can you please punish me, Daddy. I do deserve it.” And please make it good.

“And what punishment does the naughty girl want?”

Want? I don’t want any. But I live for this. This dangerous threatening edge in your voice. The darkness pooling into your eyes. The way you’re gripping my collar, a nasty reminder that there’s no escape. I swallow hard against the pressure, my defiance going down with it.

You wait for a minute, day, month, I have no idea. Time doesn’t exist anymore. Your fist hardens, pulling my collar even tighter. If that was possible. But it is. I forget to breathe. Or maybe I can’t. One way or another, the darn collar has always been my downfall.

“I think a smack would correct your despicable attitude.”

Your last word barely reaches me before your hand does. Your palm hits my cheek and the flames spread like wildfire igniting every piece of my body. A blunt ache settles into my jawbone. Shame burns even deeper.

You don’t let me go. Is there more? There’s only ever been one. It’s cathartic enough not to want another. Yet I do.

But your mind seems to have wandered somewhere else entirely. “You know what I find fascinating, kitten?”

Do I want to know? “Do I want to know?”

“Perhaps fascinating is not the correct word. I find it infuriating that you have no problem asking for punishment. Yet you refuse to beg for this.”

Oh yes, I almost forgot. Your cock is supposed to be the centrepiece. Silly me. Forgive me for being far more interested in the mindfuck. So selfish of me. Perhaps punish me for that too.

“Well then, what does that make you?”

I know what you’re getting at. I am NOT a pain slut. “I don’t like labels, Daddy. Especially not that one.” Oh no, not that smirk again. “What’s so amusing, Daddy?”

“I will make you admit it one day.”

“And I’ll enjoy every attempt.”

“Don’t make me pull you out of that cage, kitty.”

That threat lands like a life-wrecking drug for this junkie. I’m sitting in a derelict room, everything worth selling gone, dignity pawned. And I still want another hit.

But you settle me back to reality. “Do you think you can behave now?”

Oh, if I could get a pound for every time I’ve heard that question. The answer is always a yes and the truth is ‘no, dear Sir, absolutely not’. This time, I just smile and change the script.

“Me, Daddy? Nah. Never.”

You give me the eye, then deliberately glance down at your cock before looking back at me. Oh. Right. Apparently I’ve been neglecting my duties.

When I still hesitate—can you just lose these ridiculous pants already?—the last frayed fibres of your patience give way, and you bark at me, “Do I have to spell it out for you, slut? Cock. Now.”

Trying to rein in the mutinous sulk taking over my face, I reluctantly reach for it. But instead of wrapping my hand around you and stroking properly, I only let my fingertips grip your girth. In my mind I’m torturing you with the not-quite-hitting-the-spot raking of my fingers. But the way you’re strangling the bars, it seems it has the opposite effect.

My thumb and index finger form a ring around your swollen head and squeeze gently. Surely this is going to leave an impression. A wet patch appears at the tip and I instinctively go for it. Underneath the unmistakable flavour of fabric softener I can taste your sweetness. “Mmm.” A delighted little moan slips out.

I crave more. Much more. Come hell and high water, I’m going to get it. Now, I rub you the way you love it, with my palm wrapped around you, sliding up and down a few times. Be it your taste or something more elaborate, I’m not going to investigate...

“Maybe, just maybe now I want your cock bad enough to beg for it.” My voice trills in sync with the rhythm of my strokes. If I wasn’t stuck in this silly cage, I’d be rubbing my face against your leg. Kitty needs food or attention. Truthfully, both.

“Daddy, please...” I plead, as I wrap my lips around your cock.

“Did your mama not teach you, it’s rude to talk with your mouth full?”

You do know how to pull my whiskers. I really had enough of this shit now. How dare you mock-insult my manners and my mother? You’ve asked for this. Now you’re gonna watch me misbehave. Properly.

My rotten revenge is to spit and drool on your junk and make an absolute filthy, sloppy mess of your underwear until the fabric clings to you like a wet T-shirt in one of those competitions. Just less aesthetics, more disorderly disaster.

Taking in the wet ruin I’ve shamelessly splodged, you finally decide to give me what I want. I promise you won’t regret it, Daddy.

Finally having my mouth stuffed with you is a trip to utopia. It’s like pulling the plug on boring and ordinary. Rules, restrictions go down in a murky whirlpool. You dig your fingers through my hair and into my scalp. A low, guttural sound leaves me—prey that knows there’s no escape.

When I swallow you with the hunger of a feral street cat who hasn’t seen food for weeks, you lose your last tether to reality.

Perfect.

I’ve been digging this hole all night, one bratty remark, one vicious fingernail at a time. Now the trapdoor is open and we are plummeting through. You reach between the bars—one hand grabbing my collar seizing me with a force that disregards the metal bars and any concern for my face. Other hand abusing my hair, turning my head at an angle, snapping me into an even more inescapable corner of primal frenzy.

My consciousness freefalls into the void; even the pet mask disintegrates. Whatever is left, is there for you to...

Take.

It’s otherworldly down here. Beautiful, in a ruined sort of way.

Don’t ever wake me.

But the bite of the collar against my neck is replaced by your hand as you speak in a fractured not-quite-back-to-reality voice.

“Do not swallow.”

What? Why?

“Sit. Tongue out. I need to capture this as the final image.”

You fix the ears on my head—miraculously still attached—and take one final shot. I bet it’s super glamorous.

I probably don’t want to see it. So much for dipping a toe in. This shit escalated fast. And it’s not even midnight.

●♤ To be continued. ♤●