That's IT!

I recently had drinks with the pretty secretary from the 13th floor. The one who causes my ears to go all red whenever I walk in front of her desk.

In probably-futile anticipation of her coming back to my nest, I had hidden my little critter in a closet, with four chains holding him by the iron collar around his neck. I also made him a duct-tape ball gag. All in all, he seemed happy enough (I've learned that gargoyles like iron collars and sticky things in their mouths).

Drinks went well. My desperation for physical contact with a non-slime-spewing creature (well... at least a TASTY-slime-spewing creature. *blush*) didn't shine through too much. I hope. Probably. I'm sure she didn't notice my nervous tick, which usually consists of an elaborate choreography of crotch-adjustment and nostril-clearing.

After her dainty quaffing of light beers and multicoloured shots (colours that, quite stunningly, matched those found in her neck tattoo), we jauntily trotted towards my domicile, only occasionally stopping at trash bins in order for her to dry heave whilst I gallantly held her from falling unconscious into the snowbanks.

...then, our deliciously high spirits and budding desire were ripped from our synchronously beating hearts.

When I opened the front door, I realised that I had never seen my gargoyle in close quarters with an unamputated woman. He apparently could smell femaleness through the closet door and this caused him to become somewhat unsettled. After ripping the chains from the walls (I must remember to give the brand of cheap drywall screws to the young lady. She'll want to include their manufacturer in her legal attempts to recuperate the medical expenses), he lunged at her midsection, set his claws into her lower back and began a hyperventilation-like inspection of her... scents; his dangling chains smashing onto her shins and toes.

Fortune was smiling upon me though, as I had a flash of instant intuition and unbelted my pants, using the leather strap as an improvised flogging implement. After a few dozens blows to his upper back, he slowly released his grip of my belle and clunked to the floor, enraptured. I told her to leave quickly as I kept him in this state of blissful masochism, and she (quite brilliantly. Her superior genetics would've made her a great baby-oven) grasped that this was her best opportunity to avoid dismemberment.

...I will always remember the look on her face when she saw the little slobberer coming towards her. Her stunning green eyes unimpeded by their usual cranial apertures. *sigh*

Three weeks later, I heard through the office rumour-spinning network that she had left the company. Many hypotheses were propounded as to why, but she left no details and, most upsettingly, no forwarding address.

I've since had a cage made for the little spittle-gusher. One-inch steel bars. Completely enclosed with diamond plate.

...for the next time I bring a girl home. I'll also have gained a few new moves with the belt, which is all good.