Pet's Punishment 2/10: Apprehension
#2 of Pet's Punishment
Eight days after the phone call, I waited on the benches by the baggage claim for my Pet's return. I'd never let it on, but I missed him badly. My fur was conditioned and brushed, my salmon shirt and black slacks clean, and I tried to keep myself calm, reading a newspaper, but anyone really watching could tell I was going a little out of my mind: I'd arrived almost an hour early, unable to delay myself from going to meet him, and I'd been staring at the same page since I sat down.
I recognized some of Sherman's coworkers coming down the escalator from the terminal. They waited sleepily for their luggage, saying little. It must have been a long trip. Some of them might recognize me, if they thought about it, as Sherman's boyfriend. He doesn't want them to know any specifics, and I respect his limits. Every second felt like an hour. Bags came, were claimed. Any workmates I recognized were long gone. I noticed Sherman's bag going round and round the carousel, and wondered if security would let me claim it for him. Sweat broke out under my fur as I stared at the escalator, unable to keep up my calm pretense any longer, terrified that something had happened to my beautiful bundle of bunny fur.
I saw his feet first, slowly descending from the terminal above. Rushing to meet him, I must have nearly collided with two or three passengers or bags, drinking in the sight of him like an oasis in the desert. Just for an instant, before he saw me, before he rushed down the descending stairs and into my arms, I caught a glimpse of his face. It was nervousness, not the trepidation I was feeling before seeing him again, but long, prolonged worry built up for days. You'd have to know him to notice it: from the fur on his left ear, I could tell he'd been nibbling on it, the way his ears drooped, and he was tired like he'd not slept well in a week.
When he saw me below, his eyes brightened like a puppy celebrating its owners return, or a kitten begging to be picked up. I could fall into those sky-blue pools. He sped down the steps and sprang into my onrushing chest, as only a rabbit can. Maybe I'm a little racist, but I've never seen a non-rabbit leap like Sherman. If I hadn't done this a few times before, I would have been knocked over, maybe rolled a few times, but I've learned what my Pet likes. I caught him in broad, strong arms, and held him against my chest: long, limber feet barely touching the ground.
"Welcome home, my Pet," I whispered into one long ear. His paws wrapped around my chest. He drew a deep, slow breath through his pink nose pressed into my shirt and the thick brown fur beneath.
"I missed you so much, Master," He breathed back, before lifting his muzzle to mine.
Standing, I'm about a head taller than my Pet, but holding him by the waist in one broad, shaggy bear arm, toes barely touching the floor, and bringing one wide paw to the fine white fur on the back of his head, I pressed my muzzle down into his, our lips locking in a low, quiet sound between a growl and a moan, my broad tongue pressing into his soft, hot, yielding mouth before drawing his narrow, rough tongue into my own maw. We must have made quite a scene. Maybe people are just used to reunions at airports, or maybe I was too distracted to notice, but I don't remember anyone objecting.
By the time we picked up his bag, got in the car, and were driving home, he was having difficulty calming his nerves. We'd been talking about the trip, dinner, the weekend. His lip quivered, the fine softness of his pelt was marred by tiny twitches. A Master notices these things. I tried broaching the subject.
"You took a little longer than the rest. Stuck in the bathroom?" I tried to keep it light. I wasn't accusing him of anything.
"No, Master." Suddenly his tone was formal, worried. "I just . . . Master I couldn't do it in the first airport. We were late to check-in and when I got the the terminal bathroom I was so nervous and stiff, and there wasn't time to get any ice or anything, and -"
"So you put it on after arrival." I understood. It was ok. He'd done his best.
"Yes, Master." His ears drooped. He was afraid he'd failed me again. From his left pocket he slowly withdrew the spare key.
"You did your best, my Pet. No one could ask any more than that." Gently, I took the key and pocketed it, making a mental note to return it to its usual place in our apartment. On our bedside table is a framed photograph of the two of us. The frame and backing are steel, locked together and keyed the same as Sherman's cage: only I can open it. The spare key sits behind the photograph. He knows he can break the glass at any time if he really needs a key, and I can't reach him, but as the photo is adhered to the glass, he'd be shattering a happy image of us as well. It's not something he'd ever do unless he knows I'd approve.
"Thank you, Master." His ears perked up, his twitching stopped.
"I know what will make you feel better."
I reached into the glove compartment, and pulled out Sherman's leash, black leather with silver fittings, matching his collar. He'd given it to me as a gift. I clipped it to the front of his collar: not particularly easy while driving, but I've had practice. He relaxed noticeably as I held the handle-loop to the wheel. Master was leading him home on a leash, and everything was going to be just fine.
We arrived home, and I retrieved Sherman's bag from the trunk before opening the passenger-side door and leading him by the leash inside. I unclipped him and hung it up while he got undressed. Sherman usually doesn't wear clothes at home: just his collar, his cage, and his fur. I can't say I don't love having a lithe, nude bunny padding around the place. Sometimes I just sit and watch his stubby puffball tail poking out over his heart-shaped buns, bobbing gently as he strides across the room. Sometimes he teases or lets me help as he undresses. This time he was distracted, mechanical.
"You've been worrying about the punishment, haven't you?" My question was soft, understanding.
"I tried not to, Master. I did my best to enjoy the trip, and most of the time, I did, but . . ." His voice trailed off as his big, blue eyes locked into my deep green ones, filling slowly with tears.
"I could never hurt you, my Pet. If you want to, we can wait until tomorrow, or -"
"No, Master. I want to get it over with. I disobeyed you and I want to own up to it." He was staring at his feet now: bashful, ashamed.
"Alright, then. I'll go and get ready, and you wait here."
"Can I use the bathroom first? It's been kind of a long flight, and I, um, couldn't when I was trying to get the cage on."
"I'm afraid not, my Pet. Stay right there."
He stood in the living room, by the door, clothes folded neatly to one side, travel bag to the other, waiting obediently as I left for the bedroom. When I came back, his paws were clasped in front of him, his fingers tensing. His mouth opened and his eyes widened in worried surprise as he saw what I carried with me, a somber look on my face: a rolled-up mat, something folded and plastic, a packet of wipes, a bottle of talcum powder, and a thick, white, crinkly, disposable, adult diaper.