Some notes: I wrote this story in the second person to challenge myself. Of course, it would also happen to be the one story that I finish. The submissive character is transgender and HAS a penis, which I refer to as her "hen." I don't personally take much issue with the usual euphemisms, but I challenged myself to see if typing the word enough times could normalize my perception of it. There's no sex in this story, but there is genital contact and some come. It's also disgustingly sappy.
Enjoy the story, "Mistress."
* * * * * * * * * *
Maine had disobeyed you.
You can honestly say that you expected better of her, but no curtailing of expectations could change the reality before you; the apartment was small enough in itself, and the mess that decorated the space only succeeded in suffocating what little breathing room there was. You search within yourself to find an excuse on Maine's behalf - you know how sensitive she can be - but your musing stops short when the garish pink case of her phone makes itself apparent against the countertop.
"Maine?" you call out, but silence is all that answers.
To be completely fair, the apartment was far from being in total disarray - untidy, sure - but it looked no different from when you had left to work that morning. But with the sun looming just above the horizon, you couldn't make sense of why Maine would stray from the expectations the two of you had agreed upon.
Perhaps you would need to go over those expectations again, together.
With a heartfelt sigh, you resolve to make sense of the situation. If Maine had made any plans for the evening, she certainly hadn't divulged them to you, and she never seemed one for spontaneity either. In any case, the presence of her phone remained absolute, and you doubt she would go far without it.
Which left one feasible option as to her whereabouts.
You enter the apartment's sole bedroom and pace around the perimeter of the shared bed. It isn't long before faint rustling sounds from beneath, confirming your suspicions: your grown-ass girlfriend was hiding from you.
"Maine, come here," you command firmly. A moment passes in deafening silence, interrupted only by errant sniffling. "Maine..." adopting a higher register, you continue to press your partner, "please come out from under there."
Eventually, a hoarse "I'm sorry" is all that's offered in return.
This was juvenile, even for her. But you retain your composure and play the waiting game. Frustrating as it was, your patience was all the support you could lend the anxious catgirl at that moment. "Maine, I'm not mad with you. Please talk to me, okay?"
A few minutes of sniffle-filled silence pass before Maine unfurls herself out from under the bed frame and kneels at your feet. Cowering before you like this, stifling tears and face buried in her hands, the catgirl was completely adorable. A loose tee concealed the sheer volume of her soft, silky fur while black and brown tufts poked through the rips in her jeans. Her pointed ears were turned back, and a bushy tail curled around her front for comfort. Despite her wide torso and average height, she was very good at creating the impression of being smaller.
"Hey," you say, crouching to almost level with the catgirl.
"Hey," Maine responds flatly. Though she doesn't take her hands off her face, her ears return to a more neutral position and her tail unravels to flicker behind her.
You pat Maine's head gingerly, and she leans into your touch. With reception to physical contact made clear, you reach under her arms and hoist her up onto the bed before you. She's deceptively light, and her hands remain on you for a moment longer than necessary.
"What's wrong sweetie?" you ask. Though Maine's hands now lay in her lap, her eyes are anywhere but on you. You stroke the side of Maine's neck gently as you reassure her that there isn't anything she can't tell you, and Maine's hazel eyes meet yours for only a moment before turning down to her lap.
Finally, the catgirl seems to find her voice. "I... I'm just being emotional, I'm sorry if I scared you."
As you take your place on the bed beside her, she continues: "I don't know, it's stupid. I'm just overreacting. I'm sorry." She envelopes herself with her tail for comfort and turns to you, head bowed, and lifts her hands once more to her face. "I just feel useless. I know you just wanted me to tidy up, but since you left this morning I just felt so lonely and I tried to distract myself. I-I just felt paralyzed to do anything, and then as the day passed by that feeling only compounded, a-and, and then it was too late to do anything. So I... just, just w-wanted to hide."
Maine's voice is trembling by the time she finishes expressing herself to you. The sobbing she had choked down resurfaced itself and the girl was soon lost in a fit of tears. You draw her hands away from her puffy eyes and dab at them with a tissue. With her hands free, you take hold of one in your lap and intertwine your fingers with hers, paying no mind to the dampened fur.
"Maine," you assure your girlfriend, "you know I'm not ever
really
mad at you when it comes to play stuff like this, right sweetie?" She inhales deeply from her nose, snorting, and meets your gaze to nod. You pull another tissue from the nightstand and put it to her pink nose, allowing her to blow into it. "If you feel more comfortable not doing this sort of thing, that's perfectly fine."
"No." Maine's voice still wavers, but she's quick to object. "It's okay... it's fine. I like it, I'm just bad. I'm sorry."
You shift back against the headboard, taking your place in line with the various stuffed animals arranged by the pillows. "Plum," a large stuffed cat which Maine had affectionately named, sits directly at your side. With legs splayed to either side, you beckon the catgirl to take her place between your thighs. She obliges, facing away from you as she moves in snug, but not before taking hold of Plum; pinning the stuffed animal firmly between her arms and stomach.
You pet the catgirl before you, and her sniffling quickly subsides as you run your fingers through her soft curls and lightly scritch at the areas she so often begs for. Her grip on the plushie slackens, and a faint purring sounds from Maine as you stroke behind her ears and beneath her chin.
"S-so, is it okay?" Maine asks you.
"It is very okay."
The catgirl shifts between your legs, digging her claws into the stuffed animal while burying her face into it. A minute passes, and Maine lifts her head to sharply inhale as if in anticipation to say something, then resigns to bury herself in the plush again. It takes her a further few attempts before she can overcome her apparent reticence, but during that time you're sure to give her the patience she needs.
When she does finally speak, it's to ask you: "A-am I sti-still going to be punished?" A smile creeps upon her face as she looks to you with anticipation.
"Well," you respond, "you did disobey my direct order."
Maine's shifting grows more restless. "Yes, ma'am. I did."
