It’s silly, but that’s kind of why it works. It’s not because of all the connotations of you being pet-like, no matter how many times I call you ‘Kitten’ and slip a hand through your hair to scritch behind your ears. It’s not even the fact that it’s a collar, that even though it’s made of lace and cloth, it slips around your neck with just as much finality, feels just as much like home.
No, it’s the vague absurdity of it all, of me telling you to wear it (or better yet slipping it around your neck myself), and then having you jingle jangle around the room for the rest of the evening. Better in company, where you become a sort of reverse leper, someone to avert your eyes to rather than from. There goes that pretty little submissive thing, and would you just look at the way she sways, every lovely little curve on that lovely little body moving with a purpose that’s entirely his. Mine.
It doesn’t even matter whether you get embarrassed about it, whether the blush comes to your cheeks and you try to move a little smoother, cut down the jingles to a minimum. I’d love it if you did, and love it if all that simultaneously made you squirm. But just to slip a little absurd into something that would otherwise be vanilla is enough for me. It’s enough to mark you, visibly and audibly, without having to lay a finger on you. I’m a possessive creature, after all, and I do so enjoy you being mine.