Shapeshifter - 3. A couch and a plush unicorn

~~~ 5 years ago ~~~

There was a dead, mummified mouse lying next to the steps. I could see its tiny white ribcage poking through the remains of its gray fur. The eye-catching intensity of the small bones' color caught my attention even in the near-total darkness of the cellar. I scooted over, leaving a thin, clean track in the dust covering the floor. A chain lead from my stainless-steel-collar to a massive steel ring fixed to the wall, jingling softly with my movements.

I poked the dead thing with my paw, transfixed by the dryness I felt, the featherweight of the dead creature. It had died down here, and nobody cared enough to remove the corpse. As a little boy, I had never been afraid of dead animals. They had fascinated me, but I hadn't spent another thought on their death. But at 14 years of age, I had come to understand the meaning of death, and the frailty of life all together – even I would die one day. I didn't want to die like that mouse, forgotten and lonely, captive in a dark, dank cellar.

My sarcastic snort stirred up a spider hidden behind the steps, and raised a small cloud of dust. Wishes of a kitten, those thoughts of freedom. I stretched forward, caught the dead mouse between my fangs, and gulped it down without so much as a second thought.

I wasn't hungry – sheer curiosity made me try to eat things like that small corpse, simply to see what would happen. I was a black leopard kitten weighing 130 lb in my cat-form, a far cry from the full-grown 280 lb of agile muscles and deadly teeth I would be one day.

I didn't know my weight when in human form – I hadn't seen my strained, tired boy-face for two years. Instead of the jaded crystal-grey eyes the boy-body had, there were two freaky, silver cat-eyes with almond-shaped irises staring back at me every time I looked into my water bowl.

Boy-body and cat-body, that was what my father called my 'phases'. The boy-body, his 'true son' that he claimed to love so dearly, and the cat-body he held caged in his extended wine cellar during its appearance. The 'hiding game' went on for years of my childhood, until one day I simply hadn't changed back. Hadn't been able to do it, no matter how many times he whipped and starved me, or depraved me of sleep. It had taken six months of torture for him to understand that I couldn't. Only then did he start looking for other methods to get his boy back.

Until he found a cure to 'heal' me, I was to stay in the cellar like a dog on a leash, because he didn't trust me not to munch on his guests, maids, and business partners. And mustn't forget the sluts. I could hear their groans every Friday night through the heating pipes that led from his bedroom to the cellar. Those pipes didn't stop in his bedroom though. They led straight through the wall next to the desk in his study, warming his back in cold winter nights, and making it impossible not to listen in when he was on the phone. I never told him, and he never got the chance to witness it by himself. Luckily, he couldn't be in two places at the same time.

The mouse felt like lead in my stomach, and I learned my lesson from it. I got up and padded away from the wall, deeper into the cellar until the chain stopped me. Then I cowered down and started retching until the dead mouse fell down to the floor again. I was proud of my accomplishment. The last time I had eaten something spoiled, I had tried to sit out the crippling pains in my stomach – after that I had learned how to prevent those pains quickly.

“DeLargo?” a muffled, amphoric and barely audible voice sounded from the heat pipes.

I spun around and trotted over to sit next to the boiler, staring up at the ceiling full of expectation. My father was on the phone again, one of the very meager opportunities for me to have some kind of social contact. He normally didn't linger for long when he brought me food or water, least of all talk to me. In his world, you didn't talk to a big cat chained to your cellar wall, even if it was your son.

A short silence, then he huffed, “Yes,” and seemed to listen to the voice on the other end of the line. I got all giddy with excitement and got up on my hind legs to put my paws against the wall. I needed to hear more, to get higher up so I wouldn't miss anything. Normally, he just yelled at someone, or talked business, but I heard a new nuance in his voice – a calm submission that promised a whole new world of revelations for me.

“Dr. Packard, are you saying that all it takes to heal my son from his-” a short pause to emphasize his distress,“-his sickness is a good dose of diacetylmorphine hydrochloride?” My father's voice was a mixture of outrage, frustration and joy. He nearly yelled in surprise, but quieted down quickly. “If I had known it would be so easy, so stupid, I'd have tried it months ago...” his voice trailed off, followed by a few affirmative grunts and the click-clack of his keyboard.

I settled down again, ears twitching. I didn't know what diacetyl-and-so-on was, but as I understood it, my father had found a cure. I didn't know how to feel about that. Was I happy? Kind of. But it also made me anxious. I didn't know a thing about living as a teenager in a boy-body. The punishments would start all over again, and as a cat I was allowed to dislike that to a point where I wished I could simply stay where and how I was.

In a dark, dank cellar, chained to a wall. Oh, wait.

~*~

I woke up sneezing, trying to get the heavy scent of patchouli out of my nostrils. My head was throbbing somewhat fierce, and the right side of my face felt bloodshot and swollen where Mohawk’s fist had met skin and bones, but at least nothing was broken.

I didn't know where I was, but the smells surrounding me weren't familiar, so I assumed we had left my apartment. Music was playing somewhere behind me, a pretty good recording of The Cramps' 'Faster Pussycat'. I found it to be enormously irritating, but it made me carefully raise my head from the cushion I had been cuddling in my sleep. I would never listen to something like that, and I didn’t have a radio. So where was I if not at home?

I found myself lying on a couch right next to a spartan, battered and old desk that looked like it had been timbered out of fruit crates and pilings, then diligently coated in black and white zebra stripes. The couch itself was covered with a dark gray cotton spreadsheet, and what I had assumed to be a cushion proved to be a big pink plush unicorn with the silliest grin I had ever seen on a stuffed animal. I sat up with a quick jerk that brought stars to my eyes and made me gasp softly. No fast motions with a concussion, I reminded myself as I slowly peeled my eyes open again.

Right behind the couch table and a small coffee table with a stereo set stood a big twin bed with crumpled bedding and a canopy of small bats cut out of foamed rubber. They hung suspended on black yarn of diverse length. I must have stared about thirty seconds before I remembered I had to breathe, the sight was just too tacky to be real. But sure enough, even after blinking and rubbing my eyes the flock of black batman signs still hovered above the sheets.

Dark hardwood floor stretched between bed, couch and something that looked like a wooden banister separating the room from a staircase leading down. A set of three shabby wardrobes covered the wall opposite from me. The only door – which was located on the other side of the desk – smelled distinctly like soap and moist tiles which made me guess 'bathroom'.

Between the wardrobes and the banister, I spotted a huge metal trunk with a digital combination lock, and it made me pause for a second. Nothing in this room seemed to be of any value other than emotional or nostalgic significance, except for that little security vault. I itched to go over there and open it, and before I even realized that I was stark naked, I had already crossed half of the room.

My sense of scenting helped a lot as I crouched down in front of the trunk, leaning forward to suck in the air above it. Gun oil, black powder, the sharp pang of smoothed metal blades and something harsh and chemical I had never smelled before and couldn't identify. A weapons chest I assumed, while my fingers scratched and tapped against the display of the combination lock. I leaned down, pressed my ear against the mechanism, and listened intently to the soft clicking and humming it made when I pressed some of the buttons. I must have been totally consumed by my inspection, because when I suddenly felt something hard and cold pressed against my neck, I nearly jumped head first into the wall behind the trunk.

"You better not play around with that, scrap. Those things tend to explode," Mohawk offered amusedly, tapping the gun against the back of my head. Just like before, he somehow had crept right behind me and pulled a weapon on me, and I hadn’t heard him coming. I felt like a bloody fool.

I slowly rose, swallowing a mouthful of sticky saliva and holding up my hands to keep him from putting a bullet into my head.

"Sorry, I couldn't help it," I muttered when the cold pressure of the gun disappeared. How was I supposed to explain the allure of scent to someone who couldn't even smell the tracks mice had left next to his wardrobes? Then again, how could I have missed the strong aroma of fresh hot coffee right behind me? As soon as I didn't fear for my life anymore, the scent hit me like a sledgehammer.

He hadn't snuck up on me. He had actually brought two cups of coffee, placed them on the coffee table behind me, and then pulled a gun without me noticing him. Jesus, did I feel stupid!

Pushing the gun between his belt and waistband, he grabbed my wrist, snickered at my sheepish look, and pulled me back to the couch resolutely. "Now don't look so sullen. Your fascination was actually cute. But it's just a trunk, and it won't kill you if it gets annoyed, I will. Now sit and drink your coffee like a well-mannered guest is supposed to."

Too baffled to resist, I let him push me down onto the couch and automatically grabbed one of the mugs, already dreading the possibility of unsweetened hot beverage. I was positively surprised when I tasted a good amount of sugar in the first sip I took - he did seem to get me quite fast. Nearly purring, I closed my eyes, savoring the taste as I sipped and swallowed, feeling more alive with every sip.

"You're strange, ya know that?"

I twitched and nearly coughed out the good coffee when he spoke. Had I spaced out again? "I think I have a concussion," I mumbled swallowing hastily, and set the cup down, eyes cast down as I blushed. "And I'm not strange, I just like coffee." And scents, but I didn't say that out loud. He already thought I was nuts anyhow.

"You do realize that you are naked and partially hard down there?" he rasped, a small smile tugging at his kissable, pale lips. I jumped and bumped the coffee table in my haste to cover myself, and he surprised me once again by saving both coffee mugs just in time. Grabbing the unicorn to hide my crotch, I scampered around looking for clothes, and my face got red hot from embarrassment. Jeans, trousers, there had to be something I could put on before I died of shame!

I heard a clicking sound when the coffee-cups were put back on the table, then a piece of black and white colored cloth hit my face. "You won't be able to wear that for long, but since I plan to finish my coffee before I jump you, you can put that on- for now," he said.

My breath hitched, but I didn't respond to his infuriating calmness. Eyes cast down, I simply put down the unicorn and put on the pair of... what in the name of god?

The piece of clothing he had given me was some kind of very tight clad denim jeans that sat low on my hipbones and hugged my ass with a loving grip. I had a hard time closing the zipper and the button, but once I managed that, the trousers literally felt like a very tight second skin, everywhere. Either it was at least one size too small for me, or it was meant to show off my body in a way even I found slutty. It covered my more intimate parts, but the bulge of my cock showed quite nicely through the material. I didn't dare object to his choice of garment though, so I picked up the poor unicorn, put it back on the couch and sat down next to it.

Now that I had at least some piece of clothing on my skin, I immediately started to feel better, calmer, ready to do the one thing I subconsciously hadn't dared to do yet - look into his face. I let my shoulders sag with forced relaxation and in return a pleasant tingle marched through my stomach, rewarding me for my bravery. Then I inhaled deeply and raised my eyes to meet his steely gaze.

Arctic blue. The color of glacial ice. A hint of clouds caught in a tempest. His irises had an unearthly draw to them, never wavering, pupils dilating every so often in time with his heartbeat. Even though his body seemed to be totally at ease, the twitching in his eyes gave his nervousness away, and I felt my own pulse speed up in joy over my discovery. I caught myself leaning forward when I tried to decipher the emotions in his eyes, totally engrossed with their hypnotic qualities.

"Noom."

His voice startled me once more, and I quickly averted my eyes. "Excuse me?" I mumbled, picked up my cup and took another sip. Everything he said seemed to get me off-balance, and I started to feel pretty stupid. At least my vocabulary hadn't decreased to grunting yet, but if he kept confusing me like this it would happen sooner or later.

"That's my name. Noom," he repeated, while his eyes took the grand tour over my body again. The way he ogled me made me tighten up again within seconds.

I shifted around restlessly and finally sought refuge in my own cup of coffee, blinking at the milky-brown surface just to be able to avoid his relentless staring. "That's a pretty exclusive name I guess," I mumbled just to break my own stupor, trying to make conversation. A million questions raced through my head, but for the life of me I wasn't able to voice any of them, let alone form a coherent sentence without being pushed first.

"Tell me why the Mafia wants you dead," he demanded amiably, pursing his lips to take another sip of his coffee. He sounded relaxed and conversational, as if he weren't talking about a plot on my premeditated murder, and it made his question even creepier. My surprise must have shown on my face, because he fired another charismatic, tooth-baring grin at me that made my dick throb in interest.

"You thought I wanted to kill you just because? Do I look like a sociopath who runs around killing jail bait for fun?" he joked.

I quenched the impulse to answer 'yes you do' with another mouthful of coffee. The Mafia, shit. I'd just thought my father had gotten tired of me being a never ending nuisance to him. Then I started to search for my faculty of speech. I remembered his impatience for unanswered questions all too well, and a small part of me was outraged at the thought that maybe he already thought I was stupid or slow in the head.

"I don't know. Maybe they want to weaken my father by killing his offspring?" I offered, keeping my face straight and neutral.

"No, they would have threatened him first, and they would have left some kind of message for him if that was the case," he answered. His glare never wavered, demanding more information.

"Hey, don't look at me like that," I shot back, "the only illicit thing I ever did was buying drugs and paying with sexual favors. The Mafia doesn't do drugs," Well, at least that was what I always read and heard. Somewhere through our verbal exchange, I had stopped fidgeting, but now I clung to my cup instead as if life itself depended on it. My father had at least one thing right about me: I was horrible at social interaction.

The thought of being wanted by the Babylon Mafia scared me shitless. They had first shown up about 50 years ago, a strange and exotic mix of Indian and Asian culture with a very particular interest for human trafficking, smuggling and black marketing. In the last few years, there had been rumors about Mafia members joining the ranks of police and taking over political functions. A dozen people had turned up dead, officials had proudly announced the forming of an anti-corruption squad, and then everything had gotten quiet. Quiet was not good. Quiet meant they had gotten so influential on the city’s highest ranks that no one dared talk about them anymore.

They could make people disappear. They could make me disappear. I just didn't know why they would have any interest in me.

Noom assessed me quietly for a few moments. I felt his gaze travel from my face to my neck, then to my naked, lean chest and further down to my clothed-but-still-in-plain-sight-crotch, before his eyes snapped back to my face, staring at me over the brim of his cup when he took another sip.

"I wanna keep you around for a few days, but I don't want to end where you are now, havin' a bounty on your head and what not. They said ‘kill 'im where he stands,’ and that's what I'd do under normal circumstances." He seemed to want to add something to that, but he didn't, and he stopped staring. It caught my attention.

"So why don't you? If you're a contract killer, you shouldn't mind who you kill," I griped, unable to contain my grief on the thought of someone - anyone - wanting to kill me. I was used to being hated and rejected, even to threats of violence and, of course, being subject to corporal punishment, but nobody had ever tried to kill me, or talked about killing me before.

"I'm not a contract killer," he snapped angrily, wrinkled his nose in disgust and added more calmly, "I'm a mercenary. Usually, I get to hit people until they pay their debts, or blow up something, or deliver packages of dubious origin. I've shot my share of people, mostly armed ones that wanted to shoot me too - until I met ya'. I was ready to blow your brains out when I went into the men's room, but there you were, sucking happily on that darn ugly cock." He drained his cup, swallowing with a contented smile, and continued, "I waited and watched you, and then I started to think. 'Why would the Mafia send a mercenary for a simple kill? He's got no weapons at all.' I told myself, 'maybe they want to set you up.' So when you gave me that kicked-puppy-look I decided to find out more."

Noom stood up and walked over to his battered desk to switch the music. "When I saw your penthouse and learned your name, I got even more suspicious of the whole 'Kill him' story. So I decided to take ya' with me. Have a little fun, you know. Find out if they want to get me arrested."

His sudden chattiness blanched me. I wasn't stupid, and I had heard and seen enough in my life to know that he really meant to kill me at some point if he told me so much about his work. When I had woken up at his place alive and mostly unharmed, I hadn't really believed he would still do it, but the realization how wrong I was about that hit me like a freight train. What was I supposed to do now?

The music changed to another death rock song, and I twitched under the sudden blaring of guitars. I licked my lips, feeling numb and slightly panicky. “So, how do you plan to do that?” I croaked, and I felt the mug shake in my shivering hands. “I mean, how do you plan to find out if they want to get you arrested?” I added hastily. I really didn't want to know what he wanted to do to me, or how he was going to dispose of my dead body.

His grin reminded me of the last view a seal got when a shark moved in for the kill: pearly white and deadly impersonal. “You'll see soon enough,” he said.

I stared down at the swirling milky-brown surface of my coffee and hoped he wouldn't show me too soon, when I suddenly felt his presence next to me. He stood so close that his body heat radiated against my right leg, and I wanted to coil up because I could imagine how he loomed over me, even without looking up. I knew violent people, and that you shouldn't squirm if they were agitated – they didn't like it, not at all. I tried to sit still, become invisible, a piece of furniture, but the heat against my body reminded me of the last time he had been that close. I replayed in my head how exciting and intense his touch had been, how he had made me forget my loneliness, and filled me with burning desire for every inch of his body. I squirmed then in spite of what I knew, closing my eyes for two seconds to get the sudden flare of libido back under control. Then I felt him move again, this time forwards-downwards. His hand appeared in my field of vision grabbing my coffee mug, but I got a feeling that bad things would happen as soon as I let go. I held on to it with trembling fingers.

“Let go,” he growled, and I ducked under his carefully controlled anger, releasing the cup instantly. The day before, I had thought he just got angry pretty quickly, but now I started to get the impression he simply never stopped being filled with a simmering, slow-boiling rage that just erupted very easily. I didn't want to tap into that anger over a mug of coffee, I really didn't.

He put the mug aside and fished for my wrists as I instinctively tried to hug myself. “Don't struggle,” he ordered, and grabbed my arms to wrestle them behind my back.

Did you know that when someone says 'Don't struggle', it's impossible not to?

“Wait! What are you doing?” I gasped as he twisted my arms, forcing me to turn and get up on my knees on the couch. My heart beat like a drum solo, not only because I felt trapped beneath his strong fingers but also because I knew I'd make him angry if I tried to resist his manipulations. Still, I couldn't just give in. I tried to squirm out of his grip, using the angle and my body weight to make it harder for him to maintain his grip around my wrists.

I felt his fingers slip a bit and then he snarled in wordless anger. He pushed my captured wrists against my back to make me lose balance instead of helping me stay upright. It interrupted my weak attempt to break free effectively, and I fell forward with a frightened cry. Without my arms, I would hit my head, or break my nose, and he'd just leave me lying there in pain!

I felt my body tighten in anticipation of the impact and I closed my eyes. I didn't want to watch when my face smashed into the armrest beneath me.

Noom saved me again. Without even loosening his grip, he used my body tension to slow my fall, then he adjusted my body until my face met the soft seat instead of the armrest. No pain. I had expected pain, because it was all I knew. Why had he not hurt me? It bewildered me to an extent where I just lay there, stunned into stillness under his hands.

When I felt him move behind me, I knew he was grabbing for something to tie my arms. It was my last chance to try getting out of his grip, but I simply let it pass by. Why had he stopped my fall? I heard the clarion sound of a zip tie being pulled tight, and I felt it contract around my wrists, but I still didn't move. Why had he saved me? My brain wasn't going to function right until I figured out what intentions Noom had.

Noom grabbed my shoulders to pull me up into a kneeling position, and wrung his arms around me. I felt his warm body pressing against my upper and lower arms, his crotch right there beneath my bound hands, just within reach. It made my breath quicken instantly.

“I need to go out for a few hours, scrap. Since I can't– and won't– trust you, I'll have you tied up like a pretzel,” he whispered, while his fingers massaged my belly.

I didn't want it to feel good, but as before my body refused obedience even though my mind screamed in outrage. I felt my fingers twitch, and oh boy, he felt it too. “Please stop,” I pleaded huskily, but it was of no use.

His fingers tightened against my front when he pulled me back against his crotch, hugging me even tighter. I could feel his hard on pushing against my ass. It strained against the denim that separated us like a starved creature. My traitorous fingers twitched again, this time definitely not because of nerves. They seemed to like the bulge that was presented to them, and started to move on their own accord.

“Want me to help you?” Noom husked against my cheek when he felt my fingers fiddle around with his zipper. He seemed perfectly happy with how things went, and simply kept me where I was. His only courtesy involved nibbling at my earlobe, which didn't help at all.

I made no reply to his impertinent question, mostly because I was very busy fishing for his cock through his opened fly. My fingers shook when they touched the hot, steely, silky pole, and I couldn't help but sigh when I finally succeeded in freeing it. Both of my hands wrapped around it greedily, choking off Noom's soft chuckle and eliciting a low moan from him.

It felt incredibly good to let my hands go wild on him. The sheer feeling of touching him brought back memories of last night, and how perfect it had felt having him inside me, pounding into me with utter abandon. My own cock went on a rampage inside those uncomfortably tight pants, and it made me growl.

“You like my cock, huh?” Noom whispered. One of his hands left my belly, wandered deeper, and rubbed over the bulge in my pants while I jacked him off with needy, hastened movements. When I didn't answer, he grabbed my crotch hard enough to make me moan in both pain and pleasure, and sneered, “When I ask a question, I expect ya to answer, scrap!”

“Yes!” I gasped through clenched teeth before I had time to think it through. His grip loosened instantly.

“Yes what?” he purred, rubbing my pounding crotch again. His hot breath grazed my earlobe and made me shiver while my eyes tried to roll back in pleasure.

“I like your cock very much,” I panted, hands speeding up around the object of our friendly little conversation. The movements and the anticipation made me sweat and breathe heavily, even though I had just started my attentions.

The soft sounds of my zipper being pulled down made me shiver.

“Good boy. I'd like to feel your hot lips suckling me like a hungry calf, but if I let you go down on me now I'll never be able to leave,” he whispered into my ear, rubbing his straining erection against my shaky hands. His fingers snaked their way into my now open fly, and since I had not received any underwear, he didn't have to fight to reach my leaking cock. His hand felt like molten lava on my cock, fingers smooth and silky, but strong and determined all the same when he started stroking me.

“I so wanted to take my time with your hot little body. But here you are, tempting me like a metaphorical snake,” he husked, and I relished the strange softness in his voice and his hands. I was the reason for it, I simply knew that.

“Please,” I gasped, unable to utter more than one word but still managing to put all my desire, lust and need into it. My fingers tightened at the base of his cock, pulling upwards to the bell-end and flicking over the sensitive tip with my thumb, then letting go to start the torture again. My hands were wet with his pre-come and I could feel his balls twitching with delight. His lust turned me on even more, so I didn't protest when his other hand grabbed the seam of my trousers and pulled them down to my knees. I bet he would have gotten them off altogether if they hadn't been stuck underneath my knees.

“Don't beg, scrap. I'd love to fuck you silly right here and now, more so if you beg, but I can't afford to be thinking with my dick as long as I don't know who's behind all this.” He sounded a little bit desperate now, but that didn't slow his hands. While the one still worked my cock, his other hand moved between my legs, stroked my sack for a second and then travelled on into the depths of my crack.

My thighs parted like water when his fingers reached the tight ring of muscles, and I groaned when the tip of his middle finger breached through the defenses of my body. My bound hands lost their rhythm for a few moments and that made him slow down too. Noom was mocking me with his hands and with my own pleasure, and there was nothing I could do about it but give him more of myself and hope to get reimbursed for it.

His finger shoved deeper into me and felt around, shattering any clear thought. “Faster,” his voice commanded, and I obeyed.

My inner cat seemed to be content with it, which did irritate me - I just didn't have enough brain cells left to really think about my situation. Even though my father had abused me for years, he never had been able to break the need for independence ingrained into the brain of every leopard. He still needed to chain me to a wall, and even though I had cowered and whined and tried to sink into the floor whenever his eyes grazed my body, I had always felt the irritation and the need to rip out his throat my cat experienced. But in just about 24 hours with this guy, every cell of my body seemed to be in his possession, even the unnatural bits, and every part of me appeared to be pretty much accepting, if not even happy, with it except for my conscience.

My hands were sticky with his pre-come already. I had to move my whole body to really jerk him off at that point, and he found a new way to motivate me with my own movements. A second finger joined the first, stretching me a bit more, and he felt around again. When he found my prostate, he suddenly held still enough to make me fuck myself on his fingers, and that was where I went wild.

He didn't even have to do anything, just kneel behind me and let me move. And move I did.

I rode his hand, moaning and gasping with the little electric shocks that ran through my nerves every time his fingertips rubbed over my prostate. My own fingers were clasped around his cock tightly, Noom's left hand stroked my cock. We must have looked like a Gordian knot, but I didn't care. It worked.

Somebody moaned, “Oh fuck, oh fuck!” and it took me a few seconds to realize that it was me saying those words. My balls contracted, the soft skin covering the little globes tightened, and I knew I was a goner. All it would take were a few more strokes over my pulsing cock to make me explode, and it would be glorious.

I felt Noom's panting breath against my neck when he leaned forward, and then his lips brushed my neck just below my jaw. “Come for me,” he demanded, and then he bit me.

I tripped over the edge, spewing hot, sticky globs over his hand, the couch and my own thighs. I must have screamed with the intensity of my orgasm, but the next thing I remembered was me lying on the couch and gasping for breath while Noom knelt over my thighs and jacked off like a madman. I heard the wet smacking sound of his working hand and his rough pants, and those noises were enough to get me half hard again. He came with a harsh grunt, his cum hitting my back and my half naked ass like a spray of fiery lava, then he sagged forward and leaned his forehead against my shoulder blades.

“Good boy,” he huffed, patted my ass and got up.

I heard him put on some clothes, then he walked down the stairs and left. The door clicked shut and I closed my eyes. I was tired, tied up, sticky and uncomfortable, but still I had to smile because of the mental purr my inner cat uttered.

My conscience despised the feeling of accomplishment and happiness that roared through me, but it was very much alone.