Kitten And Master Quotes

My name is Kitten and my master is gone. What could possibly be more important?

Rough Night, Kitten?

You little subs make me nervous. Being around you is too much like walking into a room filled with tiny kittens and trying not to step on one.

Look at me, kitten.” I did and felt safe. Deacon wouldn’t let anything happen to me. “Who do you see?” he asked. “My master.” “I have you, darling.” He gripped my chin tightly. “I have you.

Women worry too much about how they smell or taste. I assure you, I love to taste a woman’s primal essence on my tongue.” Something melted inside her. He liked it? “Really? You’re not just being polite, are you, Sir?” “No, kitten, when it comes to sex, I don’t have a polite bone in my body.

my mane is Kitten and my master us gone.

A dog is a pitiful thing, depending wholly on companionship, and utterly lost except in packs or by the side of his master. Leave him alone and he does not know what to do except bark and howl and trot about till sheer exhaustion forces him to sleep. A cat, however, is never without the potentialities of contentment. Like a superior man, he knows how to be alone and happy. Once he looks about and finds no one to amuse him, he settles down to the task of amusing himself; and no one really knows cats without having occasionally peeked stealthily at some lively and well-balanced kitten which believes itself to be alone.

Here, now. What have we here?" Blade whispered. "A little kitten, all of my own," he purred. "Far from home.

We don’t have to fight, little kitten,” he says. His voice is smoother than melted butter. “If you’re an obedient pet, I could be a very kind master . . .

He felt like a chess-master who, two moves from achieving checkmate, suddenly sees a live kitten dropped on to the middle of the board, scattering pieces.

His master plan to get them all out the door early met its first check of the day when he opened his closet door to discover that Zap the Cat, having penetrated the security of Vorkosigan House through Miles's quisling cook, had made a nest on the floor among his boots and fallen clothing to have kittens. Six of them. Zap ignored his threats about the dire consequences of attacking an Imperial Auditor, and purred and growled from the dimness in her usual schizophrenic fashion. Miles gathered his nerve and rescued his best boots and House uniform, at a cost of some high Vor blood, and sent them downstairs for a hasty cleaning by the overworked Armsman Pym. The Countess, delighted as ever to find her biological empire increasing, came in thoughtfully bearing a cat-gourmet tray prepared by Ma Kosti that Miles would have had no hesitation in eating for his own breakfast. In the general chaos of the morning, however, he had to go down to the kitchen and scrounge his meal. The Countess sat on the floor and cooed into his closet for a good half-hour, and not only escaped laceration, but managed to pick up, sex, and name the whole batch of little squirming furballs before tearing herself away to hurry and dress.

Don’t fight it, Kitten. Breathe. We Marines have a saying—pain is weakness leaving the body. Inhale.

John Maynard Keynes saw the truth at the bottom of all this, which is that our fixation on what he called “purposiveness”—on using time well for future purposes, or on “personal productivity,” he might have said, had he been writing today—is ultimately motivated by the desire not to die. “The ‘purposive’ man,” Keynes wrote, “is always trying to secure a spurious and delusive immortality for his actions by pushing his interests in them forward into time. He does not love his cat, but his cat’s kittens; nor in truth the kittens, but only the kittens’ kittens, and so on forward forever to the end of cat-dom. For him, jam is not jam unless it is a case of jam tomorrow and never jam today. Thus by pushing his jam always forward into the future, he strives to secure for his act of boiling it an immortality.” Because he never has to “cash out” the meaningfulness of his actions in the here and now, the purposive man gets to imagine himself an omnipotent god, whose influence over reality extends infinitely off into the future; he gets to feel as though he’s truly the master of his time. But the price he pays is a steep one. He never gets to love an actual cat, in the present moment. Nor does he ever get to enjoy any actual jam. By trying too hard to make the most of his time, he misses his life.

I spy a particularly nice cardigan on a nearby shelf and grab it. It’s dark grey and as soft as a kitten, but my jaw falls on the floor when I see the price tag. “Oh, fuck me gently.” Joanna and the staff member look over, and I don’t miss the faint scowl on the guy’s face. “Sorry,” I say. “That was rude. I meant fornicate me gently, if you please.

Okay, drop.” He nodded in satisfaction at her clean descent. “Again, Harper.” Biting back a curse, she did it again. And again. And again. And a-fucking-gain. “Better. Much better. Now, do it once more. This time, I’m going to ask you to go higher and hold it a lot longer.” When she slumped, Knox arched a brow. “Do you want to try flying or not? We’ll do it today, but only if you master this move.” Harper rolled back her shoulders. “I’ll do it,” she bit out. She wanted to punch him square in the face for grinning at her. “What’s so funny?” “I’m not laughing.” “Not out loud.” “You’re just cute when you’re agitated.” She was back to being a hissing, spitting kitten that amused the hell out of Knox and his demon.

Within a month of their taking up their residence in Half Moon Street, it had been borne in upon his lordship that his wife was no more fit to carve her way through life than the kitten he called her. His lordship, who had never known responsibility, or shown the least ability to regulate his own career on respectable lines, found himself sole lord and master of a confiding little creature who placed implicit faith in his judgement, and relied upon him not only to guide her footsteps, but to rescue her from the consequences of her own ignorance. A man with a colder heart than Sherry's would have shrugged and turned a blind eye to his wife's difficulties. But the Viscount's heart was not cold, and just as his protective instinct had one night made him search all night through the woods at Sheringham Place for a favorite dog which had dug deep into a rabbit burrow and had been trapped there, so it compelled him to take such care of his Hero as occurred to him. She had always looked up and adored him, and while he took this for granted he was by no means oblivious to it, and did his best to be kind to her. He was amused, but a little touched, to discover that no deeper felicity was known to her than to go about in his company; she would grow out of that soon enough, he supposed, quite forgetting that when she had shown a willingness to go out with Lord Wrotham the instinct of possessiveness in him had led him to discourage such practices in no uncertain manner.

I don't know why my mother insisted on giving us two of Jezebel's kittens as a housewarming gift. Who is going to watch them?" "Not a problem. Oded already offered. And they're Juju's kittens too." "Exactly," he says with a shudder. "Well, Keanu is adorable and Katniss is---" "Trouble. I caught her climbing the curtains the other day.

Because you’ve worked so hard to hide that part of yourself from the world. I like that with me, you just can’t keep it locked away. It’s cute. It’s endearing.” Ugh. It sounds like he’s describing a kitten. I don’t want to be cute and endearing to him, I want to be sexy and irresistible.

He wished they would go easier on his kitten. Hell, she’d just delivered three babies through a gaping hole in her belly.

It was the kitten’s voice. It stood beside her, mewing plaintively. She turned, and considered it—her familiar. It was the smallest and thinnest kitten that she had ever seen. It was so young that it could barely stand steadily upon its legs. She caught herself thinking that it was too young to be taken from its mother. But the thought was ridiculous. Probably it had no mother, for it was the Devil’s kitten, and sucked, not milk, but blood. But for all that, it looked very like any other young starveling of its breed. Its face was peaked and its ribs stood out under the dishevelled fluff of its sides. Its mew was disproportionately piercing and expressive. Strange that anything so small and weak should be the Devil’s Officer, plenipotentiary of such a power. Strange that she should stand trembling and amazed before a little rag-and-bone kitten with absurdly large ears. Its anxious voice besought her, its pale eyes were fixed upon her face. She could not but feel sorry for anything that seemed so defenseless and castaway. Poor little creature, no doubt it missed the Devil, its warm nest in his shaggy flanks, its play with imp companions. Now it had been sent out on its master’s business, sent out too young into the world, like a slavey from an Institution. It had no one to look to now but her, and it implored her help, as she but a little while ago had implored its Master’s.

He was going to kiss my cheek—I knew that. He’s done it a million times before. Skye’s an affectionate little kitten, and we’re friends. So why did I turn my head? And when I realized what I’d done, why didn’t I step back?

These dragons are lovely, but in the way a kitten high on catnip is lovely.

Peaches, the honey-colored spaniel, sat disconsolate, growing weaker with hunger, too stupid to live by craft, too short-legged to live by pursuit of prey. . . .Spot, the children’s mongrel pet, had the luck to find a litter of kittens and kill them, not for fun but for food. . . .Ned, the wire-haired terrier, who had always enjoyed being on his own and was by nature a tramp, managed to get along fairly well. . . .Bridget, the red setter, shivered and trembled, and now and then howled faintly with a howl that was scarcely more than a moan; her gentle spirit found no will to live in a world without master or mistress to love.

Oswyl attempted a smile as well, but it apparently lacked the blond man's magic; he was offered no kitten.

Is that a work of masterful crafting, or some kind of giant mutated mushroom?"—Max

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Take me, Sir. I need you.” He removed his hand from her tit. “Kitten, we’ve talked about this before. You do not tell me what you need. I already know what you need.” “But, Sir, you don’t seem to know that I need it now! Ow!

He stroked me, washed me, spoke to me. “What’s your name?” “Kitten,” I whispered weakly. “And mine?” he tensed beneath my fingers. “Master.

Ready to free your tits, Kitten?” How could he think of that while her pelvic area was vibrating out of control? She shook her head frantically. “No, Sir. I like them tied, thank you.” He chuckled.

the expression of an unhappy kitten treacherously captured, roughly handled, frightened and subjected to all sorts of indignities by children, till, utterly crestfallen, it hides away from them under a chair in the dark, and there must needs at its leisure bristle up, spit, and wash its insulted face with both paws, and long afterwards look angrily at life and nature, and even at the bits saved from the master’s dinner for it by the sympathetic housekeeper?