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From: Tullius <phijaro@virginmedia.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} {ASS} One Catgirl, Slightly Used {Tullius} (MF cons lac furry oral anal magic)
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Date: Fri, 18 Feb 2011 07:10:04 -0500
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Author: Tullius
Title: One Catgirl, Slightly Used
Keywords: MF cons lac furry oral anal magic
Summary: A catgirl shows up on a man's doorstep one weekend. Hilarity
ensues.


One Catgirl, Slightly Used

by Tullius
<tullius@cantshootfs.cjb.net>

Author's Note
Well, this is what you get when you read [1]Catty, [2]My Girl Imogen
and [3]What Girl is This? then have a surprisingly productive couple of
days. (And spend a month or two capitalizing on them, of course.) All
glory to Clovis, Acer and Matt for the inspiration. As always, feedback
is love, concrit is how I learn and flames are garbage.

Copyright
Copyright in this work lies with the author, who can be contacted at
the email address above. Elements of the story "Catty" are used with
the permission of the author. This story is licensed under a
[4]Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported
License.
__________________________________________________________________

--1--

In my defense, I didn't know what the hell was going on, and they were
enormous, OK? It's no excuse, blah yadda diddly, but I just want to
start with that. And having done so, I suppose I ought to let you in on
the secret of just what I'm blathering on about.

Picture the scene, right? I'm... wait, let's go for immediacy, you're sat
in your house, minding your own business, and suddenly you hear noises
at the front door. Grunt of effort, sound of something sliding down the
door, then what seems like a really heavy thump. Repeat that sequence.
Then, Tap-THUMP. Tap-THUMP. Tap-tap-tap... THUMP. Then, plaintively,
"Miaow."

Now, if you're anything like me, that last makes you feel like a total
fool. See, I emigrated to the States partly because of the, ahem,
opportunities it offers for people to make preparations for the idle
Saturday night when they hear funny noises at their front doors. So I'm
standing there in the darkness, out of sight of any windows, Ruger GP
revolver cocked, safety off and loaded with .357 Glasers in my--I'll be
honest--trembling hands, and what do I hear? "Miaow."

Yeah, I felt like an idiot. But then I realized something: it was a
human voice. I wasn't massively overreacting to a cat: there was a
person scrabbling at my door and mewing. If you know of a self-defense
expert who's ever covered this particular scenario in a book, roadshow
or webinar, do please let me know. Until then, all I can do is tell you
what I did: I opened the door.

Dumb, I know. Never mind the fact that the voice sounded female. Jean
Reno could still have been hiding just out of sight with a pair of
boltcutters. I still had the Ruger, but it had fallen to my side
apparently of itself, since this was a situation I just wasn't trained
for. In the event, I was not faced with two enormous goons, but in fact
with two enormous breasts.

I'm putting my cards on the table here. There was, I acknowledge, a
person there. But she was a long way, and I mean a looong way behind
the mammaries in question, so I feel I ought to be forgiven for
noticing them first. They were also making a vigorous and determined
effort to escape from a blouse that was only holding on by one button,
and apparently--although I can only assume this must have been my
adrenaline-addled, and by this point, blood-starved brain talking--each
moving completely independently and of its own volition in the attempt.

I'm a fan of, not to put too fine a point on it, da big boobies, and
these were a truly prodigious example of the, eh, breed. With the
inadequate restraint imposed on them, there was a vast cañon visible to
me, and not a bit of areola. This last was red and swollen in a way
which looked awfully painful, and the whole... mass... was engorged. Now
that I looked, I could see that the blouse, such as it was, had two
distinctly moist patches. This poor girl was clearly lactating, and the
sensitivity involved, it suddenly occurred to me, probably explained
the extremely diverting squirming that was going on. It had apparently
already spread some of the emission over the expanse of boobie-flesh,
which made it all glisten most distractingly in the dim light of the
hallway.

I hope that the men in the audience will now have heard enough of the
context of the whole, um, event to be able to forgive me when I tell
them that I spent at least a good thirty seconds admiring the area of
outstanding natural beauty before a plaintive yowl caused me to look up
at the poor girl's face and notice that there was something distinctly
odd about it.

Ears, for example. They were in entirely the wrong place, from the
human point of view. They emerged out of richly brown hair that was
otherwise remarkable only in that it would clearly be very lovely if it
were not so disheveled, and for that matter had a certain je ne sais
quoi even so, and thrust upward in a distressingly familiar and, well,
triangular way. Her eyebrows were drawn together and her forehead
creased in what I took to be worry, but when she relaxed them the
ears--I can't bring myself to call them her ears--flicked around to point
sideways and a raw chill raked my spine.

Then there were her eyes. Not only were they becomingly large and
luminescently green, they had slit pupils. Most of me felt a sudden
need to go and have a lie down. She suddenly panted and dropped to all
fours, whereupon two things happened: I noticed that she had not hands
and feet, but paws, and simultaneously she moved sinuously--though
shyly, it seemed to me--past me into the house, rubbing her whole flank
against my legs as she went. She looked back at me and pouted, and I
realized I was feeling more pressure of a zip fly against my glans than
is really healthy.

You see, I've not had many girlfriends, but I've persuaded each of the
few that I've had to join me in a little of the old retrocopulation at
least once, though never before explaining that "retrocopulation" means
"doggy style". I don't know why I persist in using the word, really. To
most people it sounds like it ought to involve the missionary position
and a handlebar mustache. Anyway, there's nothing more intensely erotic
to me than a woman presenting me with her upraised rump--even still
skirt-clad, as this one was--especially if she's looking back over her
shoulder at me and clearly wanting... something. After the immediate
spike of arousal had decayed slightly, I noticed that my... new friend...
was visibly trying to get a message across to me with her eyes, and it
wasn't "Take me now, big boy!", or at least, not exactly.

She started looking around the place, moving her head swiftly from one
angle to another then staring intently: I was definitely starting to
see Gabe and Tycho's point about smoldering cheetah temptresses. She
fixed her eyes on the kitchen door and made for it. Seeing her purpose,
I leaped to turn the handle, whereat she gave me a half smile and
another rub against my legs as she passed by. She was already trying to
get her nose or teeth or something through the handles of the cupboards
when I followed her in and said: "What are you looking for?"

She said "Miaow" again, only this time it rhymed with "show" instead of
"cow". She repeated the utterance and I finally got it.

"A bowl?" I asked, and she nodded vigorously.

Curiouser and curiouser, a still relatively sane part of me thought as
I got one out. She apparently understands English, and is doing the
best she can to speak it.

It transpired that, between gestures and vowel sounds, she could be
quite communicative: by spreading her... God help me... forepaws, she was
able to intimate that she wanted (needed?) a bigger bowl, and when I
brought her one she sat back on her haunches for a while before
carefully and slowly saying "My miaoo-wee."

She had to repeat it a couple of times and, eventually, rear up and
strike her chest before I got it.

"Your boobs?" More vigorous nodding. "What about them?"

She thought again for a while, then dropped back onto all fours so that
the organs in question were more than filling my biggest mixing bowl,
and looked at me expectantly.

"You want me to get that button?" I asked, more hopefully than anything
else, and my heart skipped a beat when she nodded in a way that I can
only describe as vehement. I reached out one trembling hand, then
realized the gun was still in the other one. I paused to put the safety
back on before setting it down on the counter-top, then reached out to
find out what a heaven was for. She reared up in a distinctly exciting
fashion to help me get a grip, then equally distractingly squirmed and
whimpered as I wrestled with the straining garment. She half-closed her
eyes, and my palms became distinctly moist, as I determined that the
way to reach my goal was to take a handful of each gorgeous orb and
push them, as gently as I could, together, then manipulate the slack
thus generated in the blouse to get the button undone. She whimpered as
I reached full compression, then, as I let go and the garment came
free, she emitted a ragged sigh of unmistakable relief. For my part, I
held my breath, as the sight of her milk-filled melons falling
pendulously into freedom and jiggling independently as they landed was,
well, breathtaking.

She leaned forward over the bowl again, and I noticed that this time
only one of her tits could be said to have room in it. The other hung
in empty air to the side, and I couldn't tear my eyes away from her
nipple as it got some fresh air; with, as I saw, a drop of milk
constantly clinging to it. I drank in the sight for a while until
another needy mew brought my attention back to her face.

She nodded encouragingly and cast her eyes down to the teat hanging in
the bowl. There was only one possible interpretation of her body
language, but still I couldn't believe my good fortune.

"You want me to... milk you?" I could barely say it, but she nodded and
whimpered with need.

At first, I tried using just one hand. Stupid positioning meant I ended
up spraying her milk out against my palm and thus everywhere but in the
bowl. After that, my hand ended up slip-sliding away every time I tried
to leave a strategic opening around the nipple. She'd shimmied in
evident relief and pleasure at the first squirt, but now she began to
writhe in equally evident frustration. In the end, I found myself
straddling her, resting my weight on her back, reaching my left hand
over her left shoulder and my right in from the side to milk her right
tit into the bowl. With both hands, I was just about able to maintain
purchase on the gigantic--OK, I don't usually call them "jugs", but
given the situation, it really qualifies, don't you think?--while
leaving the nipple free to squirt. All the while she was moaning and
wriggling in near-orgasmic--or maybe actually orgasmic: I must confess
I've always found it hard to tell. She was pretty flushed as it was,
and there were neither bedsheets, nor for that matter, hands for her to
grip them with, which are the signs I usually look for--near-orgasmic
ecstasy, so as you can imagine I found I had about my person an
all-natural implement for purposes somewhere between prying up manhole
covers and opening cans (if you'll pardon the pun) of paint.

I really worry about myself over this next bit, but honesty is the best
policy: I actually found myself slightly disappointed to note that the
tit in my hands shrank as the bowl got about three-quarters full. Her
chest must have looked rather lopsided, but possibly thanks to the fact
that I didn't have much of a vantage point to observe, I had the
presence of mind to fetch my next-biggest mixing bowl ready to slide
into place at the opportune moment, before I moved the first one,
changed hands and started on the other boob. As I got up to fetch the
other bowl, she arched her back and raised her shoulders, still
panting. This also caused me to spot a thong protruding above the
waistline of her skirt, which did nothing to help the whole
all-natural-prybar-situation, I can tell you.

By placing her forepaws together and locking her, um... elbows... she
seemed to have little trouble holding me up during the whole process,
even with all the squirming and stimulation. For the record, I, on the
other hand, got rather tired of holding my arms up, and eventually my
hands did start to cramp up with the constant squeezing motions. I
know, I know, the worlds smallest violin, just for me. All in all, I
acknowledge, I can't really complain. When the wriggling and whatnot
abated and the pressure of the emissions seemed to slacken, I got up
and stretched. I stopped abruptly, though, when to my amazement she
dipped her face almost entirely into the bowl and started lapping up
the milk with a vigor I hadn't thought she could have in her by that
point. This was one more inexplicable event in a whole chain of them:
especially so since I know for a fact that the more run-of-the-mill
kind of cat doesn't actually care for milk, or cream for that matter.
Offer them a choice of milk or water, and they'll choose water unless
they've been raised from kittens on nothing but milk. Anyway, with a
bit of space to think, I decided I couldn't cope with this situation at
all, and went to have that lie-down. On my back, needless to say.

A good half-hour's earnest introspection with the lights turned down
assured me that reason had left the building. If not everything, then
certainly a goodly chunk of what I knew about the world was clearly
wrong, and that was all there was to it. I wrestled with this
conclusion a lot before I eventually had to accept it, and returned to
the kitchen. If I'd found no evidence that she'd ever been there, or
indeed that all my household appliances had been stolen, I'm not sure
if I'd have felt relieved or just all the more confused. Right now I'm
nothing but infinitely glad to be able to say that I walked in on her
just as she was standing up on her hind legs, and doing the best she
could with her forepaws to shimmy out of her skirt. She managed it. As
she stood before me wearing nothing but a black thong, I had trouble
deciding if she was wide-hipped or just wasp-waisted. Either way, the
ratio made me want to drop to my knees and howl at the moon. No doubt
about it, from her neck to her ankles, not counting her forepaws, she
was all woman, and all bombshell.

She continued her habit of surprising me by dropping back to all fours
and burying her nose in the garment she'd just discarded. She reached a
patch where the milk I'd sprayed around as I got the hang of the
milking process had visibly stained the skirt, and, to my astonishment,
picked it up in her teeth and began sucking on the stain. Evidently she
was trying to eke out every drop of the fluid she could. She did her
best with the skirt, then began licking at all the dried patches on her
skin that were within reach, working on her arms (forelegs, whatever),
paws and ending with her incredible bust. I got the impression that
cleaning off her tits after every milking was a habit she'd gotten
into. She looked up as she finished, saw that I'd knelt down to
facilitate my intense fascination with the whole process, and grinned
with a very human amusement in her very feline eyes.

She prowled--there really is no other word for it--over to me, then
flipped over so that the back of her head was resting on my chest. We
both leaned back, I against a cupboard, she against me, and she began
to rub herself sinuously against me, her proud rack pointing resolutely
outward and jiggling madly as she writhed. I'd had a girlfriend in the
past--one of my most fondly remembered, unsurprisingly--who'd been
similarly tactile, but the feeling of the tips of her ears grazing my
chin as I looked down at the curvy, squirmy catgirl in my lap was
something else again. She flipped again, gathering all her limbs
beneath her adroitly, and planted a swift kiss on my lips.

She sat back on her heels, back arched and boobies upthrust, and looked
at me with an amused, indulgent intelligence in her eyes. When I
finally got up that far, she smiled wryly and said "Miaow-oo."

The interpretation was unmistakable. I returned her wryness with
interest in my look and said "You're welcome" in a way that had us both
giggling. Before that moment, I'd had no notion that a cat could
giggle; then again, I couldn't have imagined a cat whose laughter could
make my heart race with the interesting things it did to her naked
titties, either.

Not unreasonably, I feel, I licked my lips, and immediately noticed a
taste sensation that had, I could only assume, been left there by her
kiss. Noticing my not unfavorable reaction, she leaned forward and
offered me the breast I'd made such a mess with earlier. Before I could
give any appreciable answer to the question implicit in her forward
movement and the cock of her head, I found myself with a mouthful of
nipple and titflesh. She pushed insistently, and, acting on my oldest
instincts, I began to suck.

The fluid which almost immediately took up all remaining real estate
available in my mouth was delicious. It tasted almost exactly like
vanilla custard. Come to think of it, it had the slightly golden, but
not excessively yellow color of quality custard too, I recalled. On the
other hand, it was distinctly thinner.

I gulped, almost succumbed to a coughing fit, and she mercifully backed
off, only to present me immediately and as insistently with the other
tit. After a couple more mouthfuls, I finally got her to back off,
though only reluctantly, it seemed.

"Very nice." I said, "But best enjoyed in moderation, I feel."

She quirked her lips slightly and rolled her eyes up and off to the
left. "Opinions vary on that," the look seemed to say.

After a moment, she flipped back over and snuggled back into me. I
found myself wrapping my arms around her tiny waist. She began to purr.
The frequency increased as one of my hands worked its way up her
waist-length hair and found the sensitive spot at the base of her ears.
As I scratched gently, she began to emit little mewing sounds of
pleasure.

"This is nice and all," I ventured, "but I think we might be more
comfortable in bed."

She wriggled against me in token of agreement and gathered her paws
underneath her. I led the way, and periodically she darted past me to
rub herself against my legs as we went. That caused me another moment's
ethological musing: you see, cats aren't exactly showing affection when
they do that. They're mostly just being territorial, scent-marking you
as belonging to them. Which gave me furiously to think...
__________________________________________________________________

--2--

The inexplicable thong-clad catgirl leaped gracefully onto my bed as I
turned on the lamp, landing in a pose that made me feel distinctly
predatory. The soft yellow light put a lambent flare on the toned but
sumptuous curve of her left buttock, while all inside the
tightly-defined kite-shape her thighs tapered up to was the glistening
evidence of her arousal. Even by the forty-watt bulb, I could tell that
that particular area of the thong was absolutely wringing wet.

In a trice, however, she had sprung around in one fluid movement to sit
on her heels, and the becoming yellow glow had an equally arousing
vista to highlight as her ever-amazing boobs took their sweet time
about finding their proper places in this new bodily attitude. Their
liquid frenzy was intensified and prolonged as she started to shimmy
backward on her knees, until her nipples were a blur of motion that was
suddenly stilled as she found enough real estate in front of her to
drop her forepaws down onto the bed, thereby bringing her nose and face
forward to nuzzle at the crotch of my jeans, which I, all unknowingly,
had been bringing into nuzzling range all this time.

She began to caress the denim, and not incidentally the organs beneath,
with increasing vim and increasingly anxious little mewing sounds from
her nose. Heroically, I recovered sufficient presence of mind to
realize that she didn't have thumbs, and with my belt buckle where it
was she had little chance of snagging the zipper in her teeth. I
offered a hand to that frenetically questing face, beginning with the
base of the ears I'd had such good results with in the kitchen, then
reaching down to cup a cute little cheek. The cheek in question, and
indeed the rest of her face, began to caress my hand as ardently,
though slightly less stimulatingly, as it had my crotch, so that I had
the opportunity to undo belt, button and fly; whereat my trousers fell
at once to my ankles and, despite my British upbringing, the vicar did
not immediately sound the doorbell.

My hand at once ceased to hold her attention, and her mouth at once
began to hold my privy member almost in its entirety. I should say at
this point that, well, that isn't as much of a feat for my sexual
partners as it might be for those of some men. To get it into
perspective, let's just say that mine is a dong that can be encompassed
down to pubes-tickling-the-nostrils range, and fill up an
unremarkably-sized mouth without endangering the throat, no matter how
remarkable or indeed fantastic the owner of the mouth. Speaking of
whom, she began pulling back, her cheeks caving in with the incredible
suction, and her tongue darting around in a fashion completely
indescribable.

I'm not just being lazy about that, OK? You try getting a blowjob as
incredible as the one I got that night, while still keeping the
presence of mind to mentally note down the details for future reference
in your memoirs. Anyway, I do remember that she put her whole body into
it, rocking back and forth on her knees the better to get her head
bouncing. I was still having existential problems with the sight of her
ears and eyes, so when her ass started bobbing up and down, looking for
all the world as though it was attempting of its own volition to say
"Hi, how are ya?", I gladly gave it some attention. It was entirely and
engrossingly human.

I do remember the mad thought that crossed my mind in those few
moments--you know the ones, just before orgasm, when the mind takes the
most deucedly irrational turns, and you feel like you could just keep
fucking forever, even as you know you're going to be done in about five
seconds. Those ones. She had just switched to a technique that I got
the impression was one she was particularly proud of: planting an
open-mouthed kiss on one side of the base of the shaft, then running
her mouth up to the tip; a swift drop down to encompass the whole glans
and a loving tickle with her tongue, then up to the tip again and down
the other side, maintaining suction all the while. Needless to say,
after a couple repetitions of that little number, I was about done, and
as I remember thinking, as I threw my head back, "Huh, so it's not just
in porno movies that men do that." Bizarre, I know. I looked down just
in time to see her swallow, then look up at me with the most incredibly
smug expression I've ever seen.

If you're waiting for me to say something like "I guess she got the
cream", then you can just keep on waiting, as far as I'm concerned.

My knees suddenly felt rather rubbery, which she clearly saw, as she
scooted swiftly aside to let me lie flat on my back, looking up and
back at the ceiling. I felt a definite need to look at something
entirely unarousing for a change. This odd species of respite was
short-lived, however, as she startled me by executing an all-limbs leap
which pitched her quite neatly on top of me. If she weren't so amply
endowed, I probably wouldn't even have felt much of an impact.

She shimmied down me delightfully, holding herself up just enough to
give her boobs what I can only describe as wiggle room. They caressed
my entire torso before falling, in what seemed at the time like
destiny, so that they neatly surrounded my dick, which had just woken
back up what with all the stimulation. She squeezed them, and it,
firmly between her arms and began rocking back and forth again.

The motion and compression caused a small but steady trickle of milk to
start flowing, which quickly spread throughout the entire... area. The
lubrication effect was intense, and she somehow kept everything from
slipping, so that it wasn't long before I began to feel very strongly
that I couldn't watch any more. My eyes did their best to roll upwards
and give me a look inside my own skull and I was left with only the
feeling and sound of my member spelunking in and out of its slick
burrow of titflesh. My head rolled around like a radio telescope under
the control of a drunken graduate student and I felt as though a whole
series of explosions was going off from my brainpan on down. Objective
reality records only the one, though it was enough to make a bit of a
mess. When I recovered my senses, I was treated to the sight of her
assiduously cleaning it up with long swipes of her tongue. Whether she
was determined not to waste a drop of milk, or was interested in the
semen itself, I've never got around to asking.

When she finished her fastidious efforts, she made her way back up me
as titillatingly as she had gone, laid her head on my chest and shook
it back and forth, tickling my chin with her ears as she did so. I was
feeling pretty bushed, so I suggested rolling over into the spoon
position by gentle movements in that direction, and she readily
assented, and I fell asleep as every heterosexual man should: with a
hand lightly cupped around a gigantic breast.
__________________________________________________________________

--3--

I awoke in one of those bursts of adrenalin that has you up and
quivering like an arrow that's just struck the target, without really
knowing why. When I'd calmed down, I noticed I was face to nipple with
my sleeping partner, who was standing next to the bed and whimpering
softly. When I thought about it, I saw that her boobs were as red,
swollen and leaking as when we'd first met.

"Again?" I asked. She nodded vigorously.

"OK." I said and led the way to the kitchen.

She knelt down over the bowls as before, and as before I was instantly
stimulated at the sight of her upraised bottom. I started to climb
aboard so I could commence two-handed titty manipulation, when the
aforesaid bottom was suddenly upraised even higher. She'd bucked me
off.

I was nonplussed, but then I noticed that she was shaking her beautiful
ass at me and trying to say something.

"Mee-uh mee."

I looked into her eyes to get the full flavor of the communication, but
I still wasn't getting it. She started repeating "Mee-uh mee." over and
over again in a fashion I can only describe as needy, while wiggling
her butt at me in an increasingly pointed fashion, until I finally had
the eureka moment. She was saying "Fuck me."

Now, this didn't seem to make much sense, but I paid that little heed.
I'm not one to look a gift cat in the titties when she's offering me
her pussy, as the proverb goes.

As I reached out to finally remove the black thong that had so
fetchingly adorned her butt for the all of six hours I'd known her, I
suddenly found that I was nervous. Indeed, my hands were trembling.
She'd pleasured me with her tits, given me a blowjob, of course I'd got
on very intimate terms with her boobs in our earlier milking session;
heck, we'd even slept together, in the literal sense, which I usually
consider one of the most intimate experiences two people can share. I
mean, there's so much trust there. Still, I felt distinctly that we
were taking things to the next level.

When my hands reached her gorgeous hips, however, they at once stopped
not only trembling but wanting to tremble, even as her caboose stopped
writhing in invitation. My baser instincts took over, and I grasped the
thong firmly and drew it straight down to her bended knees.

There was her pussy, naked and sopping before me for the first time.
She was obviously ready. Later I would examine it more closely and
wonder who'd trimmed her pubes into such a cute little chestnut landing
strip, but in the meantime, well, I was ready too. I put my knees on
either side of her calves, which, it turned out, brought me to the
perfect height. My prick sought out her opening and buried its tip
inside as though we were components in a superbly-engineered machine. I
wondered briefly about the issue of protection, then, like many men
before me (most of them fathers), I got caught up in the moment and...
ahem... forged ahead. Let the record reflect that I got away with it.

I took her. That's the only way of saying it. There's something about
that position that brings out the animal in me. My thighs snapped
forward in quick, fierce movements, I grabbed ahold of her hips again,
got into a steady tempo and... I took her. For her part, she mewed and
yowled in what I have no reason to believe was not ecstasy, and seemed
to be making a definite effort to keep her boobies in the bowls.

I fell into a sort of trance. The whole of my experience was the
sensation of taking that beautiful creature, of giving vent to my
desire on the body she'd offered to me. In that moment, there wasn't
even any sense of time, just the dark thalamic joy of satisfying the
fundamental instinct.

My reverie was interrupted when the thoroughly encouraging noises she
was making reached a crescendo. As she came, I heard a liquid sound and
looked down to see her milk spraying at high pressure into the bowls.
This was such a distractingly novel experience that you might say I was
startled into my own orgasm. I hosed down her insides quite thoroughly
(or so I like to think), then suddenly all my joints turned to jelly. I
pulled out and rocked back onto my heels, then shortly flat onto my
backside, with my legs sticking out at awkward angles. Out of
half-closed eyes I watched her begin lapping up her emissions, then I
think I fell briefly to sleep. When I came to again, I had the strength
to say "I hate to do this, but, well, it's one a.m. You'll come to bed
when you're done?"

She looked up, her face covered in milk from her nose down, and nodded
briskly, sending drops flying from her chin which she paused to lick up
before continuing with the bowls. I shook my head and staggered back to
the bedroom.
__________________________________________________________________

--4--

Sunday began in earnest for me with a spot of the old déja vu. At seven
a.m. she woke me the same way that she had at one; the first thing I
remember is being bolt upright and disoriented, and the second thing I
remember is that she was standing by the bed, hopping from paw to paw
and mewing plaintively. I was starting to notice a pattern.

She flinched a little as my arm went across her shoulders. Truth to
tell, it surprised me a bit, too. We both got used to it pretty
quickly, though, and she snuggled in and let me give her help I knew
she didn't need getting to the kitchen.

By mutual consent, I adopted the manual milking position and set to
work. As I was kneading, I found myself examining the side of her head.
Where us boring old human beings have ears, she had... nothing. Most of
the site was hidden by her hair. She misinterpreted my curiosity when I
started probing the area with my nose, which was of course the only
part of me in range and not busy. She started pushing back, caressing
my face with hers. I was feeling pretty affectionate myself at that
point, so I decided to go with it and I dropped a kiss onto her
cheekbone.

She brought her head around in another one of those swift and startling
feline movements I'm not sure I'll ever get used to, and suddenly I was
looking, as best I could, right into her bright eyes. An enigmatic
smile played across her lips as she looked at me, then she bussed me
soundly on the nose and went back to "eyes front", which I took as a
signal to concentrate on the job... oh dear... sorry about this and all... in
hand.

When I was done I rose rather stiffly and John-Wayned it out to the
couch to let my knees recover and my hands stop cramping. Presently she
joined me, using my thigh for a pillow and curling up along the length
of the sofa.

I looked down at her and my sense of astonishment and complete
inability to explain the situation I found myself in returned. It
didn't take the form of existential angst or bewildered frustration
this time, though. No, I just felt like the luckiest sumbitch in the
world.

I started running my hand from the base of her ear all down the silken
hair that covered her flank. She began to undulate slightly, pressing
back against the caress wherever my hand fell. Presently I realized
that she was purring.

We stayed that way for a certain length of time that I'm sure bears no
relation to the way it felt, since for a while there it felt distinctly
as though time had no meaning, but then mundane needs made themselves
felt, and I looked down.

"You want something to eat?" I asked.

She sat up and nodded assent.

In the kitchen I went through the options: she expressed mild interest
in paella, almost none in my pasta bake, and her eyes almost bugged out
of her head when she saw the two rib-eye steaks I had in the freezer. I
was mulling over the choice of accompaniments: baked potato or home
fries, julienned carrots, chiffonaded spinach, when I noticed her total
lack of interest and realized she had something else in common with the
less sexy breeds of cat. Potatoes and veggies for one, then.

I brought the two rare steaks to the table and pulled out a chair in
what struck me at the time as the absolute minimum of gallantry the
situation called for. Of course, I was making an ass of myself. She
hesitated to sit down.

I took my own place and she brightened, then surprised me considerably
by sitting in my lap.

No thumbs, I realized, and pulled her plate towards me. Steadying a
catgirl, holding a steak down with a fork and cutting it up for said
catgirl all at once is a tricky endeavor, let me tell you, but with a
bit of trial and error I managed it, and we grinned at each other over
the tableau we were putting on for any highly theoretical onlooker as I
presented her with each forkful of meat.

She consented to take the seat I'd pulled out for her after we were
done, and watched in drowsy, complacent repletion as I finished my own
repast. Presently, she got up and slinked off to the bedroom in a
leisurely fashion, pausing to kiss my nose along the way. I got up,
paused to watch her make her exit, and went to clean up.

As I was putting things away in the refrigerator, I noticed the butter
lying innocently on the top shelf, and conceived of a wicked notion.

I felt as giddy and naughty as a teenager, but I strolled as
nonchalantly as I possibly could into the bedroom, as if I was in the
habit of walking into random rooms in my house holding a pat of butter.
I found her stretched languidly out on the bed in all her naked glory;
if she was dozing, it didn't stop her looking up straightaway as I came
in the room, nor seeing what I carried and cocking her head to one side
in obvious puzzlement.

I couldn't keep up the whole nonchalance thing any longer, so I grinned
in what I hoped was an irresistibly boyish fashion and uttered a line
which, believe it or not, has actually worked for me in the past.

"You know why they call it butter?"

Don't judge me.

The tilt of her head got even more oblique for about a second before
the penny visibly dropped, and my heart skipped a beat as she nodded
enthusiastically and grinned back at me, her lower lip retreating
behind her front teeth in the cutest little way. In a trice she'd
rolled over, brought up her knees and was offering me her gorgeous ass
to plunder.

I split the butter up between my two hands, then pressed them against
her cheeks to warm it up and soften it. The fact that this meant
spreading it around a bit over those glorious glutes and making them
glisten was merely an opportune side-effect. That's my story, anyway,
and I'm sticking to it.

When it was good and pliable I gathered it together over her butthole
and held it with one palm underneath while I started to gently work it
in with a finger. She bucked a little as my digit penetrated her tight
little ringpiece, but settled down as I started massaging the lubricant
in. As I worked my way up to a thumb, she started pushing back against
it, mewing softly. I took away the hand holding the excess and used it
to get myself ready, and again I worry about myself because I found
that I was regretting the fact that she couldn't do it for me. When I
was hard and slick I added a second thumb, which made her inhale
sharply and give vent to a few high-pitched, staccato whimpers.

I kept up these ministrations until she seemed to have gotten used to
them, then carefully extricated my thumbs and lined up for entry. My
glans pressed against the shiny opening, and for a second I was afraid
I'd taken too long and it had tensed up again, but then she started
pushing too, and all at once I was inside her ass. She was still
pushing, determinedly taking more and more of me, so I let her set the
pace and tried not to wonder where she had clearly gotten experience
with buttsex.

She signaled that I was in about as far as I'd get by stopping and
giving the slightest of shimmies. I took over, pulling back until I was
in danger of slipping out completely, then slowly sinking back in to
the same depth as before. She gave a hungry, guttural little noise--I
probably wasn't silent myself--and I made my bid to get into a rhythm,
slowly increasing the speed of my thrusts until I was surging forward
with smooth, fluid motions I felt like I could keep up forever.

Of course, I was wrong. Oscillating in and out of that incredible hot
constriction brought me inevitably to my peak in what I like to think
of as a creditable length of time, and I couldn't help pushing forward
harder and faster than I previously had as I emptied my balls into her
caboose. In response, she arched her back and gave a loud yowl.

When I'd recovered my senses and my softening member was sliding out
with what seemed like embarrassed haste, I realized how far I'd gone in
that last thrust, and started to mumble contrite syllables. She whipped
around to face me, gathering her paws beneath her like they were a
precision drill team, and showed me that she was far from distressed.
She had a definite Scarlett-O'Hara-the-morning-after look about her,
actually. She leaned in and brought our lips together with precise
targeting, her lithe little tongue making surgical blitzkrieg strikes
which left me utterly defenseless. I returned the kiss with interest,
then rolled back onto my haunches.

"C'mon," I said, "let's go get cleaned up."

As luck would have it, there is a seat in the corner of my shower-bath.
It was designed for the benefit of those who have trouble standing up
for extended periods, but if the designers ever imagined the particular
example of such an individual who is presently glad of it, I expect
they found they had to sit on one themselves, and turn the temperature
down. It turned out to be just the right height for her to rest her
forepaws on, presenting her rump to me yet again, though this time for
cleaning. Afterwards she parked the posterior in question on it and
quirked her lips indulgently at me while I gave her tits more soap and
attention than was strictly necessary. Then she non-verbally maneuvered
me into sitting on it myself, and writhed around slipperily in my lap
for a while before leaning forward so as to wet her hair for me to wash
it. Gently massaging the shampoo into her scalp, and running my hands
all down the prodigious length of her hair was the most sensuous and,
in a funny way, the most intimate experience I'd had in a long while.
The sandalwood smell of the shampoo, the slick softness of her skin,
the beat interference between the sound of the running water and her
contented purring combined to put me in a sort of trance. As I rinsed I
realized my dick had sprung back to tumescent life, though it felt like
it was a thousand miles away. It got a whole heck of a lot closer as
she got up off me, turned around, sank gracefully to her knees and took
it into her mouth in the culmination of a balletic series of movements.

My eyes glazed over and fireworks went off in my brain as she gave me
the most intense blowjob that to this day I've ever had.
__________________________________________________________________

--5--

I worry about what this says about me, but this really is the best
relationship I've ever had. At the risk of going a bit Holly Golightly,
I should make it clear that I haven't given her a name. Partly this is
because she's clearly as intelligent as the next big-titted brunette,
for all that she can't speak, so really I don't feel I have the right
to name her. Mostly, though, there just isn't any need. It's just the
two of us living here, so on the rare occasions when we speak to each
other, we know who's being addressed.

Communication accomplished without language naturally leads to thought
accomplished without language. Having her around, eloquently letting me
know what her needs and feelings are with flicks of her ears or
movements of those great big eyes, or, more excitingly, with a
mesmerizing shimmy, gets my mind to just shut up and let me get on with
living, you know? When you've found the space to let go of all the
preoccupations and worries, and all the ambitions and hopes too, for
that matter, suddenly what needs to be done is just... obvious, and the
rest, you can just let slide.

I've been getting into DIY again lately, dusting off elderly but still
mostly relevant reference books and toolkits I bought when I was still
a student, trying to figure out what kind of things I was going to be
into. Some experiment with drugs and free love, others with household
wiring. It was lucky I did, so it turned out, because my first project
was to lower all the lightswitches about the place, and swap them out
for those big, easy-to-push ones you see in hotels, so they can be
bopped by a nose passing by on all fours.

That's what I've mostly focused on, making sure everything in the house
that can possibly be used without opposable thumbs is fixed up not to
need them.

Oh, all right, all right, I'll quit stalling and get to the
embarrassing bits: if I put out a personal ad that said "Kinda pudgy
middle-aged professional seeks large-breasted mute. Must be willing to
never wear clothes or leave the house", well, I expect I'd shoot myself
the moment I saw it in print. Or, more likely, you know, craigslist.
But, one just shows up on my doorstep and, well, what do I do, throw
her out?

Yes, it's true, ladies and gentlemen, not only is my hovercraft full of
eels, my catgirl is permanently nude. Also, apparently, a house-cat...
girl. You get the idea. I've offered her clothes, before I installed a
push-bar to open the front door I indicated in no uncertain terms my
willingness to open it whenever; I offered to buy her clothes, if,
understandably, it was the style of the ones I had to hand that she
objected to. She displayed a fine and feline disdain for all these
offers. And, of course, lest we forget, she is not only willing, but
positively enthusiastic to be fucked at least once every six hours.
Weep not for me, my brothers and sisters.

We've gotten into a nice little routine on that score, actually. My
proudest achievement in the realm of handicrafts--proudest mostly
because it got the highest praise I could wish for: she reared up and
clapped her forepaws together twice, with a positively Cheshire
bright-eyed grin on her face--my proudest achievement sits at the foot
of our bed. It is a contraption that looks a little like two ottomans,
with about a foot-wide gap between them, joined together by panels at
the sides. It is, I hasten to point out, just a little more
sophisticated.

You've probably guessed what it's for. The cushioned sections on top
support her belly, head and shoulders comfortably (if a bit stickily,
since the material covering the padding is, of necessity, wipe-...
actually, more often lick-clean) while her boobs at their most
prodigious swing free in the gap, and the whole thing serves as a milk
storage tank. Pretty ingenious, if I do say so myself.

When it made its début, as I've said, it was well-received. I tried to
climb aboard, to show how I'd left sufficient space for manual
operations, but she made a nasal sound that was unmistakably "Nuh-uh!"
Apparently she felt I'd earned me some pussy. Who was I to argue?

I paused to savor the feeling of my face buried in her soft brown hair,
and grind my still-clothed pubis against her naked rear, then I dropped
a line of kisses down her neck and dismounted.

I took a moment, as I always do, to caress her pretty little butt and
savor the anticipation of what I was about to do. Believe me, it never
gets old.

Joyously, I pushed forward, losing myself in the sensations to be found
deeper and deeper inside of her. As I bottomed out, I paused again,
this time to savor the sensation of being balls-deep inside the girl I
love. Then I set to with my usual vigor, and ere long the one set of
tanks was emptying itself into the other.

When the post-coital haze had passed, I saw her making adorable efforts
with her tongue to reach the bottom of the reservoir, where a small
amount of milk pooled as the main tanks, which were hidden from view,
overflowed. She looked up at me with puzzled eyes, which brightened
immediately when I pulled back a cover on the back of the contraption
to reveal a large-bore straw.

I forewent the rather diverting sight of her setting to work sucking,
and went to get something from the kitchen. When I got back she was
darting around from one corner of the box to another, staring at it
with eyes narrowed. She looked up at me, and peered from side to side
in acknowledgment of the fact that I was holding something behind my
back. I displayed it: it was the bowl from my ice-cream maker.

I drew back another cover to reveal the faucet that drains the reserve
tank, and filled up the bowl. Before she could bury her face in it, I
picked it up and took it to the kitchen. You may be sure that she was
very determinedly following at the time.

I set the machine going and, by way of explanation, said "For when I'm
late getting back from work."

You see, like I said, we've gotten into a routine. My alarm goes off at
5 a.m., usually superfluously because it tends to be just when I'm
shooting my load into her mouth. I take a quick shower, and get
breakfast started. As at all meals, she snuggles in next to me at the
table in an old garden loveseat I've brought in from storage, and I
alternate between forksful of sausage or Canadian bacon for her, and of
more various fare for me. The morning proceeds in this leisurely
fashion until 6 a.m. sharp, when needs must and we repair to the
bedroom for the morning milking: fucking if I'm up to it, manual
otherwise. I get dressed while she gets stuck in and she gives me a
milky kiss goodbye as I head out to work.

Luckily, I have a fair amount of freedom to set my hours, as long as
I'm working enough of them, so I'm free to leave work at half past
eleven so I can be home in time for the noon milking, and to fix us
both some lunch. Then it's back to the salt mines, but home in time for
6 p.m., obviously; fix dinner, take a nice post-prandial nap, and
putter about doing chores or fixing things up until midnight, then roll
into bed and doze to the sound of slurping, then fall properly asleep
just as she finishes up and comes to snuggle.

Most days, it works pretty well, but after a nasty traffic delay one
lunchtime, I began to give thought to emergency plans. Food's OK:
there's always cold cuts in the fridge, and the door just has to be
pushed in to open it, so in that event she'll make out all right, but
she does inevitably need to be milked and, more importantly to consume
her milk, every day at noon. This is why I built the reserve tank into
the box, and it's why I felt like a total doofus when I finally figured
out how best to store milk long-term. It's just like vanilla custard;
what is made by freezing vanilla custard? Ice cream. What device did I
just happen to have gathering dust at the back of a cupboard? An ice
cream maker. Took me too damn long to figure out, but let it go.

Anyhow, as I watched her intently as she intently watched the beaters
go round, I did start to wonder if it would actually be possible to
keep enough of the stuff in store to make a difference. I resolved to
worry about that after she'd tried the first batch out for taste and
efficacy. Once it was ready I stopped the machine, took the lid off
and, inevitably, once I'd found a spoon I also found her face buried in
the bowl.

For the record, let me just say that a pretty catgirl with brain-freeze
is a tragically adorable sight.

While she was trying to massage her temples with her forepaws, out of
curiosity I tried a spoonful. It was the best ice-cream I'd ever
tasted.
__________________________________________________________________

References

1. http://www.mcstories.com/Catty/index.html
2. http://www.mcstories.com/MyGirlImogen/index.html
3. http://www.mcstories.com/WhatGirlIsThis/index.html
4. http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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