Ambassador Whiskers' Curriculum of Desire
Copyright© 2025 by Eric Ross
Chapter 5: Marina and the Art of Submission
Humor Story: Chapter 5: Marina and the Art of Submission - Ambassador Whiskers’ Curriculum of Desire (CAT 101): Prerequisite: None. Description: An immersive seminar led by a sardonic tuxedo cat. Students will endure yoga mishaps, toga parties, and late-night encounters to explore the fundamentals of risk, exposure, and surrender. Assessment: entirely practical. Attendance mandatory. Dignity optional.
Caution: This Humor Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Fiction Humor Paranormal non-anthro Humiliation Masturbation Geeks Slow AI Generated
The yoga mat leaned against the radiator, mute as ever, but the toga lay crumpled beside it like battlefield remains. A strip of duct tape clung stubbornly to the sheet’s hem, a silver scar of humiliation. Lawrence tried not to look at either; he hadn’t yet decided if surviving that party had been a victory or just another kind of accident.
Whiskers broke the silence with the gravity of a magistrate. Perched on the arm of the couch, tail draped like a quill, he announced:
“Lesson Three: Surrender.”
Lawrence groaned. “I’m still recovering from Lesson Two.”
“All the better. Weakness makes the body porous. Tonight we pour something new inside.” Whiskers hopped down, prowling toward the door. “Your toga days are over. We require different raiment.”
Half an hour later, Lawrence found himself in the dim back corner of a thrift store that smelled of cedar chips and mothballs, clutching hangers like weapons. Whiskers stalked the aisles with surprising authority, leaping from one rack to another, tail swishing decisively whenever his eye caught a garment.
“Not gray,” the cat barked, batting aside a T-shirt.
“Not baggy,” flicking his paw against a hoodie.
“Not invisible.” A growl. “Never again invisible.”
He vanished behind a rack of jackets, then reappeared dragging a pair of black trousers in his teeth, the fabric supple, almost liquid. He dropped them at Lawrence’s feet with a thump. “Try.”
By the time they were done, Lawrence stood in front of the dressing-room mirror in slim black pants that hugged without apology, a mesh shirt that left his skin breathing in trellis patterns, and boots with just enough heel to force his posture straighter. His reflection startled him—like seeing a stranger emerge from the glass.
The mesh was the worst of it. It didn’t conceal; it offered. His ribs showed through faintly, each inhale mapped by tiny diamonds of transparency. Even the faint slope of his stomach seemed outlined. His collarbones, which he’d never thought about before, now gleamed like something meant to be looked at.
He raised an arm experimentally, watching the lattice of fabric stretch. Every motion revealed him more. He felt flayed, foolish—yet some traitorous nerve beneath the skin thrilled at the exposure.
“I look ridiculous,” he muttered.
“You look alive,” Whiskers corrected, eyes gleaming like coins under the fluorescents. He hopped to the counter, overseeing the purchase with all the pomp of a personal stylist. “A mesh of vulnerability and armor. Perfect.”
Lawrence touched the hem of the shirt again, fingertips grazing the faint seam where transparency ended and fabric began. Every breath seemed visible. Ridiculous, yes. But the pulse in his throat suggested something else: risk.
When the clerk slid the clothes into a bag, she gave Lawrence a once-over, lips twitching in something close to approval. “Don’t waste that shirt staying home,” she said.
Lawrence flushed so hard he nearly dropped the bag.
Whiskers purred, satisfied. “Lesson Three begins when the bassline does. Let us proceed to Sanctuary.”
The club could be heard two blocks away. Basslines thick as thunder rolled down the street, rattling shop windows and making the puddles jitter. Rainbow light leaked out the doorway and onto the sidewalk like an accident with a paint can.
Lawrence hesitated at the entrance, boots squeaking as if announcing his doubt. The mesh shirt prickled against his skin, every breath caught in its little diamond windows. “I’m going to look like an idiot,” he muttered.
“You already do,” Whiskers said cheerfully, sauntering past the line as if velvet rope had been invented for him. “But tonight you will look like a myth as well.”
The bouncer was six feet of glittered muscle and a jaw that could crack coconuts. They gave Lawrence a slow once-over—boots, mesh, panic—and smirked just enough to bruise him. Still, the stamp came down on his hand, and he was waved inside.
The room hit like a weather system. Bass smothered his sternum, lights strobed across haze, and heat rose from the crowd like steam from a boiling pot. Sequins and feathers tangled with harness straps and lace. At the bar, a drag queen with antlers poured vodka like it was holy water.
Lawrence stopped dead in the doorway. His body wanted to shrink into its old blueprint: arms crossed, shoulders hunched, back to the wall. Panic told him he was a clown at the wrong circus.
In the back of his head, one familiar voice slithered through:
IronCrown: Observe, don’t partake. You are their jester.
Lawrence nearly nodded along—old reflex—but Whiskers leapt onto a speaker and glared. “Observe, yes. But also note: you are not the only myth here.”
He looked again.
A man in phoenix wings twirled a partner until feathers brushed the rafters. Two women kissed under the strobe as though they’d invented kissing. Even the antlered bartender looked less like staff and more like a woodland deity distributing shots to mortals.
It was absurd, overwhelming, too much—yet undeniably alive. Nobody here was hiding.
Lawrence swallowed hard. The mesh stuck to his ribs like cling wrap. Boots squeaked on the sticky floor. A stranger brushed past him, leaving glitter on his arm like pollen.
He wanted to laugh, cry, and bolt simultaneously. Instead, he stood there, ridiculous but still upright.
“Lesson Three begins,” Whiskers purred, tail curling in satisfaction.
The bassline rolled through the club like a pulse you could live or die by. Lawrence hovered at the edge of the crowd, unsure what to do with his limbs or the sudden suspicion that his mesh shirt had been a prank played by history.
The room shifted—not louder, but clearer. She moved through it without costume or pageant, only the calm of someone for whom space makes room. Sharp black trousers, jacket open, collarbones catching a little sweat, eyes steady enough to set a metronome. Where Claudia had been fireworks, this was gravity.
She stopped in front of him.
“Dance with me,” she said.
It wasn’t invitation. It was an imperative.
“I ... I don’t know how,” he managed.
“That’s fine,” she replied, a small, patient smile unfolding. “I’ll lead.”
He looked at her—at Marina, as she introduced herself with nothing more than a glance and a name, offered like the edge of a blade—and felt his pulse skip.
In mesh. In boots. In public. God help me, he thought, I look like a nightclub chandelier that lost its bulbs.
And still his hand lifted before he’d decided. Her palm met it—cool, steady—closing like a door that fits its frame. She stepped closer, close enough that he could smell clean skin and a shadow of cedar. Her other hand found his shoulder, a gentle weight that nevertheless reorganized his bones.
“Breathe,” Marina said, not soft, not harsh—simply true.
He obeyed, surprised to find air available. The crowd seemed to tilt around them, noise bending without quite touching her.
From a monitor by the DJ, Whiskers sprawled like a smug gargoyle and purred, “An imperative, at last. Progress.”
Marina drew him a single pace into the thrum—no flourish, no drag, just an undeniable step that told his body: we’re moving now. He stumbled half a syllable; her grip corrected him without comment. The floor received them. The room kept its pulse. And Lawrence—ridiculous, exposed, breathing—did not bolt.
The floor pulsed under them, bass moving through bodies like a second bloodstream. Lights rippled—violet, amber, sea-green—painting her jaw, his ribs, the slick edges of strangers.
Marina’s hand slid from his shoulder down to his wrist, guiding his palm to her waist. Heat radiated through the fabric. Her body’s gravity pulled him closer than thought allowed.
“I don’t know how to do this,” Lawrence whispered, voice cracking against the music.
“You don’t have to,” she said, eyes steady on his. “I lead.”
She drew him forward, hips angling first, then her feet. He followed, boots squeaking, chest stuttering with shallow breath. The mesh across his ribs broadcast every tremor.
“Listen,” she murmured, lips grazing the space near his ear. “Not to your head. To me. To the bass.”
The bass throbbed. Her thigh brushed his. Their steps tangled, then aligned. She shifted her weight, and his body—hesitant, startled—yielded. Yielding held. Yielding worked.
“Good,” she said softly, the syllable sliding against his neck like heat.
Her hand pressed lightly at the small of his back, pulling him closer until his chest brushed her breastbone, sweat making fabric cling to skin. He felt her inhale before he took his own, ribs syncing without permission.
A pivot—her signal a tightening of her grip. He stumbled, and she caught him, her thigh firm against his. A laugh, low and amused, hummed in her throat. “See? You’re already better when you let go.”
He wanted to argue, to retreat, but the bass insisted. Her hips carried him through another turn, her breath shaping the beat more than the music did. His palm slipped against the warmth of her waist, slick with sweat. She didn’t flinch. She pulled him closer.
“You’re leading me into disaster,” he muttered.
“No,” Marina replied, eyes glinting. “I’m leading you out.”
The crowd blurred into a haze of shoulders and glitter. Their bodies became the only rhythm that mattered. Heat built where they touched: thigh to thigh, chest to chest, her palm circling his wrist like a shackle he didn’t mind wearing.
His forehead brushed her temple once—accidental, desperate. She let it linger, just enough for him to taste the salt of her skin. His heart stuttered; the beat steadied it.
On the speaker, Whiskers sprawled with aristocratic boredom, grooming one paw between pronouncements. “Observe: a man discovering that surrender is less fatal than foreplay.”
Marina’s smile curved faintly, though her eyes never left Lawrence’s. She pulled him through another sequence—close, slide, press. He yielded more easily now, the pleasure sharp in its simplicity: follow, trust, let go.
The bass swallowed them whole. His body, clumsy and trembling, no longer fought to command. For the first time, it simply obeyed.
And in obeying, it came alive.
The bass slowed, the beat breaking into a deeper, heavier throb. Bodies around them swayed like tides, pressing close, but Marina carved a pocket of space with nothing more than her stance. She hadn’t raised her voice; she didn’t need to. The air bent around her.
Her palm slid from his waist to his chest, fingers splayed over the mesh, pressing lightly but firmly until he felt the refusal in his knees. He almost buckled.
“Don’t think,” she said, low enough to be mistaken for breath. “Follow.”
Her grip shifted, not guiding this time but commanding. A sharp pivot—her thigh tangled with his, her heel anchoring the floor. He stumbled, and she held him upright with nothing more than the pressure of her hand against his sternum. The crowd blurred into heat and color, irrelevant.
Every muscle wanted to resist. Every nerve screamed retreat. But her eyes—steady, unhurried, impossible to disobey—drew him still.
The mesh betrayed him. Breath flared his ribs, visible, obvious. She smiled faintly, knowing.
“See?” Marina murmured. “Already more honest than you’ve ever been.”
Her fingers trailed down, catching his wrist. She lifted his arm above his head in a rough arc, spinning him once—not gracefully, but enough to make his toga humiliation feel like rehearsal for this. When he swayed off-balance, she caught him again, her hand firm at the back of his neck.