The blindfold makes me nervous, so he puts it on first. It fits snugly, no light seeping through. My heart kicks it up a notch. I look for him with my hand, holding onto his bicep as he secures the tie behind my head. He pats my hand as he removes it. I feel the collar next, smell the leather, his fingertips brushing my throat as it tightens, the metallic ring of the bell and clasp. Once the collar’s on, I can’t speak. I’m his kitten, now, and kitties don’t speak. What was unsettling about the blindfold, the collar fixes; I’m in his hands, and I’m safe there.
I hear the attachment of the leash, and the tug. I keep the line taut enough to know which direction he’s leading me, trusting him to guide my steps. “Four steps down, kitten,” he says. “Four more, kitten.”
Then, “Down.” I kneel smoothly, then lean forward onto my hands. The floor is carpeted. My bell jingles, the leash pulling me forward again, and I continue on my hands and knees. I don’t go far before the leash is removed, followed by a brisk smack on my ass. “Go on in, kitten,” his voice directs, and I hurry to obey.