I swear I didn't even try....

You are

What Rejected Crayon Are You?

2. Wherein Parker Tries to Adjust to Her New Position

“Good morning, Mr. Elliot.”

Mr. Elliot looked up from his desk. “You’re back.”

“You sound surprised, Sir.”

“I am. Most girls don’t make it past the first day.”

I wonder why. Parker glared inwardly, but outwardly she was the perfect willing and eager little secretary, ready to take on the days most strenuous filing challenges. “I’m not most girls, Mr. Elliot.”

“I’m pleased to hear that. You may go to your desk now.”

“Yes, Mr. Elliot.”

The day started slowly. Parker wished she had brought coffee. She wondered if there was a break room in this office building. She wondered if she was allowed to have coffee on her desk. She was startled out of her musings by the intercom on her desk. “Miss Parker.”

She pressed the button. “Yes, Mr. Elliot.”

“I’d like a copy of the Mercer file.”

“Yes, sir.”

Parker rose and found the file, which was empty except for a single photo and a one-sheet letter. The photo was of an older man at a supermarket. Actually, the photo consisted of a rather large number of people at a supermarket, but the older man was circled. She wondered if the man wasn’t supposed to be at the supermarket. Were the low low prices of CostKo denied unto him? She wanted to read the letter, but she didn’t dare. She headed towards the copy room.

The other secretary was there: Mr. Locke’s assistant Bev. Parker had seen her the first day but hadn’t the opportunity to speak with her until now. “Hello. Beverley, right?”

“Why, hi, there. It’s Bev. You’re back.”

Parker smiled grimly. “You seem surprised.”

“Well,” Bev grinned, and leaned against the wall. “What’s the name again, hon? Posey? And yes, I’m a little surprised you’re back”.

‘“Most girls don’t make it past the first day?”’ Parker quoted.

Bev laughed and her frizzy curly hair shook. Parker liked her. “Hon, not one of the last ten assistants have made it past the first day. About five of them got fired as soon as they walked off the elevator.”

“Late?”

“Late. Two were fired for insubordination. The other three quit the first day. So, yes, I’m surprised you’re back Posey.”

“It’s Parker. I mean, Penny’s my name but everyone calls me Parker.” She paused as the copier wafted warm paper smells into the room. “So, has he never had a secretary before?”

Bev took a handful of papers out of the output and placed another document in the copier. “Oh, sure. Had one that lasted about two years But she moved to Maryland or Colorado or someplace. But then again, he hasn’t always been this difficult.”

“What happened?” Parker felt uneasy. This seemed insubordinate but Bev was breezy in her gossip and Parker relaxed.

“Well, Elliot’s always been demanding. Always had a reputation for being extremely hard to work for. But it got worse when his fiancé left him.”

“When was that? What happened?”

Bev took the last of the papers out of the copier. “I think about three months ago now. She just left without much of an explanation from what I hear.”

“I don’t blame her.” Parker said bitterly.

Bev’s hair shook again as she laughed, but she was laughing at Parker. “He’s a good man, hon. He knows he’s difficult and he pays well to compensate. And he’s fair. If you stick around, you’ll come to respect him.”

Parker placed her own documents in the copier, curiosity about their contents forgotten. “Well, I’m sticking. I need this job.”

“Good!” Bev smiled as she walked back to her own little sanctum. She had a feeling that this one would last. And Bev was relieved. She got tired of being the only female in the office.

Returning to Mr. Elliot’s office with the papers, Parker knocked lightly on the light tan art deco door.

“Come in.”

Mr. Elliot looked displeased and Parker felt her stomach sink. “What took you so long?” he asked.

Parker handed him the file, duplicates inside. “Mr. Locke’s assistant was in the middle of a project of her own, sir.”

“Ah.” was all Mr. Elliot said, but the displeased look disappeared from his face.

Parker turned to walk back to her desk, but thought better of it. “May I be excused, sir?”

“Yes, you may, Miss Parker. And you may file the originals.” he said, handing her the file.

“Yes, Mr. Elliot.”

The rest of the day passed painfully for Parker. She ordered the two of them lunch and picked it up. She was berated for forgetting salt and pepper packets and had to make the walk again. She was told to answer the phone on the second ring, not the first, not the second, and certainly not the forth. When she was sent to the post office, she forgot to take any petty cash and had to return and shamefully retrieve money for postage. Mr. Elliot stood next to her utilitarian metal desk and said that such actions betrayed a complete lack of even a modicum of foresight. Parker apologized profusely but did not offer any excuses to further infuriate her boss.

Finally, finally, five o’clock and Parker went home. Too exhausted for tea and self-contemplation, she took a temperate bath and sank onto her lumpy red sofa. It had never felt so comfortable.

The rest of the week passed similarly. Parker never repeated a mistake but there seemed to be an infinite amount of mistakes to make. Her seething rage at Mr. Elliot had mellowed into a perpetual loathing. She couldn’t think of a year of working for him. She had to work a single day at a time and look forward to the weekends.

1. Miss Parker, An Interview and an Introduction

Parker was determined to be the perfect assistant. More than slightly nervous, she had stayed up late the night before, picking out her clothes and ironing them. After a cup of green tea to calm her nerves she read a few chapters of Casino Royale before going to bed. Her new position at Harper, Elliot, Locke was enviable. The publicity firm was small but highly respected and the job paid well. Parker wanted to save up enough money to carry her through when she went back to school to and pursue some post-graduate work.

Harper, Elliot, and Locke just wanted someone who would show up on time, file a few papers, and be respectful. While Harper had been dead seventeen years and most likely didn’t keep too much an eye on the hiring of subordinates, Locke loudly lamented the lack of work ethic in most of today’s youth. Elliot, who would be her immediate supervisor, just wanted someone quiet who wouldn’t remind him of either his mother or his ex-fiancé.

Throughout the interview, which had been mercifully cut short by some sort of publicity crisis, Parker had been distracted by two things. One: the portrait of George C. Harper, who looked as if he wouldn’t be adverse to chasing his secretary around a desk and then maybe having a cigar. Two: Kurt Elliot, who was actually Kurt Elliot Jr. and was, at the age of twenty-seven, taking over his deceased father’s position in the firm. Parker caught herself thinking that she wouldn’t mind being chased around the desk by him but she quickly snapped to attention when Locke bellowed, “Miss Parker, we’ve got to take care of some sudden business. But I think we’ve spoken enough. Can you start on Monday?”

Parker smiled maturely and murmured, “Yes, Sir, I’d be honored.” But Lock was already out of the office, bellowing into his cell phone.

As Parker sat slightly stunned by the blow of employment, she realized she was alone for the first time with her new boss. He studied her coolly as Lock’s call-me-back-with-your-answer-within-fifteen-minutes-or-I’ll-know-the-reason-why echoed down the hall. The silence was uncomfortable, but Parker didn’t feel free to speak or free to go. She sat for a minute longer before venturing, “I’m very enthused about working here, Mr. Elliot.”

Elliot smirked slightly, unbelieving, as Parker berated herself. Enthused? Parker, who says enthused?

“I’m very glad to hear it Miss Parker. I’m certain you’ll be up to your new responsibilities.”

Parker smiled a slight, forced smile.

Elliot continued. “I’d like you here at nine a.m. Please note that punctuality is something I value.”

“I pride myself on being a very prompt individual, Mr. Elliot.”

Mr. Elliot smiled, not kindly. “Then we shouldn’t have any problems. You are free to go, Miss Parker. I’ll see you at nine a.m. on Monday.” He left the room without waiting for another word from Parker.

It was probably for the best.

“Ass,” muttered Parker softly as she gathered her purse and headed towards to gleaming wooden doors of the elevators. Her honest enthusiasm for her new job had been strongly tempered by the priggish condensation of her new supervisor.

Parker lay on the sofa which served as her bed, unable to sleep. She hoped that Mr. Elliot wasn’t quite as bad as she remembered him. She hoped that tomorrow he would be friendlier and a little less stuck-up.

He wasn’t.

“Good.” He said as Parker walked off the elevator at five minutes to nine. “You’re on time.”

“Yes, Mr. Elliot. Good morning.” Parker smiled.

“If you had been late,” continued Mr. Elliot, “I would have fired you on the spot.”

Parker blushed, because she had contemplated being late on purpose just to irritate him. She only restrained herself because of her need of employment.

“Miss Parker, this way, please.”

Parker fought a rising anger as Mr. Elliot showed her her desk and brusquely outlined her duties: answer the phone, announce clients, send clients that he wanted to see in, send away clients that he didn’t want to see, file paper work, run errands, do as she was told, keep busy, and keep quiet. Parker was seconds away from telling Mr. Elliot exactly what she thought of his pompous orders when he concluded, “I hope you are aware that your salary is practically double that of a regular office assistant. It is a very demanding position and if you do not feel capable of handling it, there are hundreds of suitable applicants to take your place.”

Parker seethed. “Mr. Elliot, I am very grateful for the opportunity you have given me, and I am sure that you will find me a most competent assistant.”

Elliot nodded and went behind the great wooden doors that divided their offices. For the rest of the day, Parker was stressed and angered to the point of tears. Mr. Elliot didn’t speak to her whatsoever, except to issue brief instructions and admonitions. Some of the admonitions were not so brief. “The next time a client comes, ask if they have an appointment. If they do not, ask them if they would like to make an appointment. Do not tell them you’ll see if I can “squeeze them in”. I cannot. I am a very busy man and you’re waiting my time.”

“Yes, Mr. Elliot. Sorry, I…” Parker blushed furiously.

“I didn’t ask for an excuse, Miss Parker. Just don’t do it again.”

“Yes, Mr. Elliot.” Parker was scolding herself furiously. Do not cry in front of this complete jerk. Do not even thinking about crying.

Parker did not cry, but by the end of her first day she felt raw with criticism. Mr. Parker liked the pencils point side up in the pencil holder on her desk, the staple on a documented needed to be angled and in a particular position, and if she needed to step away from her desk, even for a moment, she needed to ask.

“Do I need a hall pass, too?” she wanted to snap, but visions of being evicted from her pathetic apartment held her tongue in place.

Back home, in her little one room apartment she was working so hard to keep, she did her best to rally herself. She spoke out loud to her lonely little apartment as she made herself some tea. “I can handle this. I can handle this man. I put myself through college, I’m going to put myself through graduate school. If I can keep this job for a year, just a year, I’ll save enough to go back to school. Just a year.” The long bleak year of criticism and nit-picking rose grimly before her and her tea seemed very weak.

She retrieved her laptop from the coffee table/nightstand and brought it to the kitchen/dining room table. She silently thanked her neighbors for not securing their wireless network and went to Google. How to handle a difficult boss. Over seven million hits. Parker picked her way through such gems as “Don’t blame the boss- change your behavior”. “Create a win-win scenario” and “Don’t let anyone take your power- be indomitable”. She sighed and tried another search. How to handle your difficult yet very attractive boss. Far fewer results and none of them seemed relevant. She shook her head. “He’s not attractive,” she growled. “He’s a jackass.”

But she was going to be the very best assistant to that jackass that she could possibly be.

Condonare

The Tao of Sacrifice

Steven’s particular aberrance had not manifested itself immediately. But there were signs and Shela had studied them.

Shela had wondered at many a charged sideways glance. Steven always adamantly denied that he was looking at her strangely, but there was a certain and distinct heat in his gaze. Shela followed his fiendish fixation and found him starring frequently at her fingers.

They had been together just about a year when further revelations were made.

In fact, they had been together a year, a month, and a day before Steven acted on his desire and placed of Shela’s long flinching fingers into his mouth.

Shela herself didn’t flinch but her fingers did. Steven gently lifted her hand and watched with pleasure as he began to curdle her milky hands in his warm mouth. Shela didn’t flinch when Steven lifted her hand to his mouth. But her hand did. Her forefinger flinched ever so slightly. The hands are very sensitive.

She watched his face; she watched his pleasure. It was her pleasure too, and he began to bite.

Not hard at first. Good things come to those who wait. He had waited a year and a month and a day for the taste of her and he savored the layers of taste: salty, and then spongy with the promise of blood beneath. He switched his focus to the soft flesh between her thumb and forefinger. His tongue lapped at the spot, curving under and flicking her palm. Shela made a small sound of pleasure. She held her hand up to him, like a present, Steven thought with a shudder of realization that was like bliss. He sucked at the skin, his eyes closed and Shela watching intently all the time. Steven had ceased thinking and his mind consisted of only the few words necessary for his enterprise: lick, flesh, and the strongest word of all, bite. It was so easy to slip his teeth into the wet willingness of her hand. He drew blood.

Shela’s eyes were now closed. She didn’t draw away her hand. Steven lapped at her most fundamental self and the unfamiliar waves of pain left her immobile and light-headed.

Steven’s mouth had a curl of blood in its corner. He released Shela’s hand but she continued to hold it up mutely. He lowered it gently onto her lap. He was glutted with her blood and he licked the corner of his mouth with absent rapture. Shela felt a kind of returning as she focused on his face. Her thoughts of the last few minutes were lost as her hand began a less than ethereal throb.

She laughed, slightly, and she felt something like unbearable pain, not in her hand. Steven took her hand again and kissed it and placed it back in her lap. Her hand felt good. Hot and bloody and used.

The biting became a routine fulfillment. Sometimes Steven would take her hand and sometimes she would offer it, but either way blood was drawn.

Eventually, Steven began to focus on a single finger.

Within a month, her finger was covered with tiny welcome lacerations. Subtle bite marks, filled gently with blood and lapped clean. But the subtle bite marks became more painful with time passing and soon it was obvious they were infected.

Steven glanced at Shela’s hands fearfully now and to Shela the infected finger had become a monstrous worry. She wanted it gone. She wanted to cut it off. She considered doing it herself with the brown handled knife from the kitchen.

Eventually, the doctors did it for her.

Shela was fortunate that she got to keep her hand, the doctors said, and she would get used to having only nine fingers.

Recovery was several weeks and Shela found herself well adjusted and adequately fingered for routine tasks. Steven had taken to starring nearly constantly at her mutilated hands. He was morose, confused by a plethora of dehabilitating words. Guilty, responsible, sadistic. He thought her hands were more beautiful now and he wanted them. The desire had not gone but was strengthened with guilt. The thought that he was responsible for that disfigured nub filled him with a perverse arousal that horrified him.

Shela could feel his division and his guilt was left splattered around the house like blood from a gaping wound. You couldn’t ignore a gapping wound, Shela knew. Infection was a danger.

Steven was by a closet, guiltily picking out a shirt, dangerously close to a mirror. Shela made a small noise of greeting. Steven’s response was sedate, apologetic, and nearly non-existent.

“Steven,” she whispered, and she put her hand up to his mouth. He looked at her with a horror-filled longing and she nodded, desperate for him to take it. His guilt drowned in his desire as he took her hand, gently at first. Her blood was sweet and healing and it would revive him. He bit eagerly and Shela did not flinch but watched him and smiled.

She would give him as many fingers as he needed.

She would give him every single one.

The Bird and The Bee

The Bird and the Bee has a delightful new song called "Again & Again". I thought the music video had a very Secretary-ish vibe to it. No spanking, but the main girl looks a little bit like Lee and at one point she hands the man in the video a tackle box.

Or maybe I'm just reading Kink into vanilla things. As per usual.

Anyway, it's cute and should be checked out.

Public Service Announcement

From the Ad Council comes the TV Boss PSA campaign. I've found all of these ads pretty funny, but I saw one last night that really caught my attention.

If you go to:

http://www.thetvboss.org/

and then click on materials, you'll be able to watch the very kinky commercial featuring Mistress Mandy. I love the look on the couple's face as they discuss the show in question!

A Walk in the Park

The weather was insanely perfect, Kat thought, following her master. Warm and very bright, the trees were flowering and the park was filled with picnickers and pet walkers and merrymakers and businessmen on their Blackberries trying to combine lunch, work and leisure. Kat thought it was a pity that the path they were taking was simply a means to an end: a shortcut to a business meeting and not a pleasant place for them to spend an afternoon. Kat was content to stroll quietly behind her master, but she thought she would have been a little more content if their plans were to pinic beneath the gently swaying dogwood trees. She mentally prepared a four-course outdoor meal and timidly thought of ways to convince her master agree to such an excursion. She thought that the promise of lemon-curd cupcakes and deviled eggs might be quite persuasive.

Kat was so distracted by her culinary plans, as well as the softly floating dogwood petals that she failed to notice the harried blackberry-sandwich-businessman who was barreling her way, head down and thumbs in motion. With a muffled thud, the businessman crashed into Kat, which sent both Kat and the businessman’s Blackberry reeling.

“Watch where you’re going!” The man snarled, looking about himself for his PDA. “If you broke my Blackberry….”

Kat, shaken and furious, shrilled back, “I didn’t break anything, asshole!!! You watch where you’re going!”

Nearly instantly, her upper arm was seized by a powerful and very intent hand. Walking quickly, with Kat in tow, her master marched over to the offended businessman, who was brushing grass off the battered but not broken equipment.

The businessman glared at Kat. “You’re lucky there’s no damage.”

Kat’s arm was squeezed a bit harshly, so she hurriedly blurted. “I’m sorry.” The squeezing hadn’t stopped, rather it had increased, and Kat knew the apology had been insufficient. She quickly continued. “I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going and- and I was very rude. I’m sorry, Sir.”

The businessman looked tired. “Fine” he sighed. He nodded at the girl and then at her master and hurried away.

Dropping her arm, Kat’s master also began to walk away, Kat followed closely and a little to the left, not daring to rub at the sore spot on her arm. They walked silently for about half a block before Kat’s master turned to her. “You know I’m going to have to punish you for that, don’t you?’

Kat’s mouth was dry and she found it very difficult to reply but he was fuming and her failure to answer would only make him angrier. She nodded, and said softly, “Yes, Sir.” But her anger had not totally dissipated. “But, Sir, it wasn’t my fault.”

He glared at her. “Did you have to curse at him and make a spectacle in the middle of a public park?”

“No, Sir.”

He nodded and Kat followed her master out of the park. A few blocks later they arrived at their destination, The Hesston Building, and Kat had noted that the sky had started to cloud over. Her master had a one a clock appointment on the eighty-third floor and when they got on the elevator, Kat pressed the button and stood back quietly. She couldn’t look at herself on the mirrored paneling; even looking at her master’s Italian leather shoes was difficult. She settled her eyes in the corner of the elevator and left them there for the duration of the ride. The elevator ride was dreadfully quite. While Kat’s master was never given to a large amount (or any amount) of small talk, Kat knew that his silence now meant that he was angry with her, and that silence was painful.

When they stepped out of the elevator, Mr. Hesston was standing there waiting. “Ah. Johnson. You’re about thirty seconds late.” He smiled. “With your usual punctuality, that was nearly enough to worry me.” He smiled again and he reached out his hand. “Are you ready to sign the papers?”

Reaching out and shaking Mr. Hesston’s hand firmly, Mr. Johnson nodded and smiled. “Absolutely.”

Mr. Hesston turned to Kat. “And how are you today?” he asked cordially.

“Fine, Sir. How are you?” Kat found it excruciating to lift her gaze from the floor. “Someone seems a bit less loquacious than usual.” Mr. Hesston looked questioningly at Mr. Johnson.

Kat’s master looked at her absently. “She has a beating coming.”

Kat was blushing and highly mortified by the tears she was fighting.

Mr. Hennsen nodded to Johnson understandingly. “Well, we’ll try not to keep her waiting longingly.”

“Wait in the lobby, please.” Without another word, he followed Mr. Hesston into a conference room and left Kat standing alone, his sturdy footfalls growing fainter.

She found a secluded chair by a potted plant that was away from the elevators, windows, and the smirking receptionist. Kat found herself with nothing to do but think and she was thinking only of her upcoming punishment. The wait was horrible, but Kat dreaded most what would come afterwards. Her only distractions were those self-satisfied smirks from the receptionist and those only heightened her sense of humiliation.

When her master came out of the conference room forty-five minutes later, he was grinning; he was shaking hands with Mr. Hesston again and both of them seemed happy. Saying goodbye to Mr. Hesston, Kat’s master gestured for her to come, and she did, quickly. They walked silently again, this time to the parking garage.

The ride home was long. They were silent until they reached the interstate and it was Kat who tried to break the silence, her voice shaking slightly. “Did you get the contract, Sir?”

Kat could see his hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel and he looked at Kat sternly. “Yes, I did. Everything is signed.”

Kat could tell that he wanted her to be quiet, but the silence seemed even more oppressive than his irritation. “That’s good, Sir. You’ve been working hard on that project.”

His eyes flicked away from the road and settled on her and she flushed. He was irritated; his calm voice had a slight edge that let Kat know she was pressing at his patience. “Are you trying to talk your way out of a whipping?”

Kat’s heartbeat skipped and she lowered her head. She should have known better than to talk. She was in disgrace and he was angry with her. He didn’t want to hear her voice, but he had asked her a question and she had to answer it. “No, Sir,” she said quietly, “I-I know I deserve what I have coming.”

She felt her master relax, although his anger was still present.. They spent the rest of the drive home in silence, Kat fighting tears.

Once at home, inside the entrance way, Kat’s master slipped off his suit jacket and handed it to Kat, who wordlessly hung it in the hall closet. It wouldn’t be much longer now, she knew, and the tears were beginning to flow now, though Kat remained silent. He took his wallet out of his back pocket and put it, along with his keys, on the marble-topped hallway table. She turned back to face him and he lowered his heavy hand onto her trembling shoulder.

“Now, go get the strap.”

Kat nodded, her obedience forcing her to the hook where the strap hung, in her master’s closet. She felt its weight in her hand and desperately wanted to throw it away from her, run away and hide. She knew from experience that it would be much worse if she did. So, strap in hand, tears flowing already, she made her way back down the hallway as slowly as she dared.

He was waiting in the living room, in the usual location. He stood by the oversized green chair, looking calm but powerful, his work shirt rolled back above his elbows. Kat was crying fully now, ashamed of her cowardace, and handed her master the thick strap.

Slowly, he folded the strap over, its ends firmly clenched in his right hand. “Turn around.”

Kat lost her will to be obedient, lost her shame and her guilt. She felt nothing but fear of pain and desperation. “Oh, please,” she sobbed, “please.”

Her master’s face and tone remained calm and stoic. Kat knew that mercy was neither what she needed nor what she would receive. “Turn around,” he repeated, and Kat had no choice but to obey.

She turned slowly, sobbing, and she felt her master’s hand firmly bend her over the arm of the chair. Her face was pressed uncomfortably against the green embroidered upholstery, her toes barely touching the ground. Her master’s hand pressed down more firmly on her back and hearing the strap cut through the air, she felt its first angry blow against her skin.

She rebelled, her cries angry and her body tried to rear up, meeting only the firm resistance of her master’s left hand. Before she had time to calm herself, the strap struck again and again and Kat began bawling loudly, begging him to stop. Still the strap came down on Kat’s bruised and welted flesh, and it wasn’t until Kat had stopped begging her master to stop, stopped saying that she was sorry, and could only lie still and sob brokenly that her punishment was complete.

Kat’s master laid the strap down and kept his hand firmly on Kat’s back, allowing her to sob wildly for a minute more. When he released her, she rose slowly, and turned to face him, still crying. She could not bear to look at him, and when he raised her chin and wiped her face, she clutched his hand and hid herself behind it, sobbing into his palm. He placed his other hand on her forehead, her hair wet with sweat and tears.

He let her cry into his hand for a few minutes, and when she had calmed down slightly, he gently removed his hand from her grasp. He handed her the strap. “You may hang it back up now.”

“Yes, Master,” she whispered, walking back to his room, his closet. She returned to the living room.

Her master was calmly sitting on the sofa, reading that morning’s newspaper. “I’d like to have Chinese for dinner. I’ll have my usual, and you may have whatever you’d like best.” He lowered his newspaper and studied Kat for a moment. “After you’ve ordered, you may wait in the kitchen until it comes.” With a rustle, he was hidden from view.

“Yes, Sir.” Kat moved slowly into the kitchen, the pain on her bottom intensified by the movement. Using the beige wall phone from the kitchen, she placed the delivery order. General Tsao’s Chicken for her master as always, Lo Mien noodles for herself. Kat walked around the kitchen for a few moments, her arms folded across her stomach. Soon, she felt her guilt come back, and as she sat down at the green speckled Formica table, the pain from sitting felt deserved.

Her thoughts turned against her and she began to cry again as they berated her. “I was rude to a complete stranger, I cursed loudly in public, I caused a scene, I embarrassed my master.” She felt like a failure as a slave, a nuisance and a bother to her master. He deserved better, much better than her. She was an untrainable embarrassment. He should send her away.

Kat accepted the Chinese delivery with a face streaked with tears, but she tipped well as always, so the delivery boy discreetly paid no attention. Quietly, Kat carried the traditional white boxes into the living room and set her master’s food in from of him on a TV tray.

He was no longer reading the paper; he was watching television and Kat waited a few seconds for a lag in the football action to ask what he would like to drink. Kat then brought him his iced tea and chopsticks and then made herself a plate. She sat next to her master on the couch as usual.

It was not until he had finished most of his General’s Chicken that he noticed that Kat had eaten nothing.

“Is something wrong with your food?”

Kat looked up at her master quickly, her eyes still red and teary. “No, Sir.”

“Then why are you not eating?”

“I’m not hungry, Sir.”

Her master turned to face her more directly. “Are you pouting?” he asked sternly.

Fresh tears began to flow from Kat’s eyes as she looked at him, pained. “No, Sir. I’m just…I’m just sorry.” She began to sob again, and silently her master turned off the television. He reached his left arm around her shoulders and let her lie against his chest. She turned her head and cried against him.

He held her until she fell asleep, content to be in his arms, beaten and forgiven. He knew she would be sore in the morning, and very well-behaved.