The Key to his response.

She stared at the key, resting on its hook across the room, unable to reach it, bound by service, and jute. She knew if she could approach the element of freedom, master would scorn her.
She would be bad, and bad is just what she wanted to be. But how, from her current position, she was unable to reach it, she could only, dream about standing, and touching it, perhaps she would knock it off the key hook, the ping on the floor as the key struck the ground; surely master would hear her. He would question her, how did the key get on the ground kitten?

With bashful grin she would reply, I don’t know sir, it simply leapt from the key hook on its own. Sir, would grin upon his approach, her eyes would wince, her soul would erupt.