Intemperance Epilogue Volume I
Copyright© 2026 by Al Steiner
Chapter 13: Cockblock
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 13: Cockblock - Intemperance isn’t over yet—we still have lots of loose ends to tie up. Volume I picks up after Book X as Jake, Laura, Celia, Caydee, and the rest of the Kingsley orbit discover that life goes on, whether you’re ready or not. Expect music, love, grief, family, crows, weed, questionable decisions, and all the usual Kingsley antics along with the antics of the surrounding Kingsley orbit.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Polygamy/Polyamory
Kingsley Manor
April 17, 2005
It was just a bit past 3:00 AM. The house was quiet, the Kingsleys and their live-in supporting cast all asleep in their beds.
All except one.
George lay on Caydee’s bed with his head resting between his front paws, his back legs stretched out behind him. His eyes were closed, and to anyone looking at him he would have appeared asleep. But he was not asleep. Not even a little bit.
Caydee lay beside him under the soft coverings, her body still and warm, her breathing slow and steady. He knew her by her scent and by sight, but he also knew her by the sound the others used for her. Caydee. That sound belonged to her. It came up often, in different tones, but always tied to the same human.
She smelled right. No cat scent at all, not even a trace, and that mattered. The absence of it was clear and easy to read. Her voice had been soft from the beginning, low and easy, never sharp, never loud. The first human he had known had used that kind of voice, and it had meant food and hands that did not grab too hard. It had meant something close enough to safety that he had learned to stay near it. Caydee’s voice was like that. He had been drawn to her from the start.
George stayed where he was and listened to her breathing, feeling the gentle rise and fall of the bed beneath him. The rhythm was steady and predictable. Nothing in it suggested movement or change. When he opened his eyes, the room was dark but not empty. There was enough light for him. There was always enough light. The shapes in the room were clear, their edges soft but present, and Caydee was one of those shapes beneath the coverings that carried her scent along with the sharp, clean trace of whatever the humans used in their machines. That smell was everywhere in the house, worked into fabrics and surfaces, not unpleasant, just constant.
He watched her for a few seconds longer, confirming what his body already knew. She was still. She would remain still.
Then he lifted his head.
The house made its quiet sounds around him—small shifts in the walls, faint settling, a distant hum from something he did not understand but had already accepted. Nothing in it suggested movement from the others. No footsteps. No voices. No other cats. That last part still felt strange. No competing scent. No tension in the air. No need to watch for another body moving toward him.
He pushed himself up carefully, keeping his movements controlled so the bed would not shift too much beneath him. Caydee’s breathing did not change. He stepped lightly across the coverings and moved to the edge, pausing there long enough to look back once more. She remained exactly as she had been. That was good.
He dropped to the floor without a sound and held his position after landing, body low, listening again. The room did not react to him. Nothing changed. He moved across the floor toward the open doorway and slipped into the hallway, where the air carried more scent, layered and varied. He paused just beyond the threshold, lifting his head slightly as he sorted through it. Humans, all of them, each distinct. Old traces and newer ones. Food from earlier. A faint hint of outside air that had drifted in and settled. Still no cat. Could there really not be another here?
George moved down the hallway and came to the first doorway. The door was open. He did not need to step inside to know who was there. The scent reached him clearly.
The small one. A little human from a recent litter. The smell was different from the others—sharper, more active, not settled yet. George stopped just outside the doorway and listened. The breathing inside was even, steady, and there was no sudden motion, no fast approach. Still.
He had been in places where small humans lived. They were not to be trusted. They reached without warning. They grabbed whatever they could find. Tails. Fur. Ears. One had bitten him once, a quick, hard clamp that had come out of nowhere. No warning, no pattern he could read. Best to stay clear of them.
But this one was asleep.
No reaching hands. No sudden movement. No grabbing.
George eased into the room, moving slowly at first, letting the scent settle around him. He had not spent much time here the day before. Too many new paths. Too many new smells. This space had been passed over.
It was large. As large as Caydee’s. The small one lay in the bed, mostly hidden under the coverings, only part of his head visible. The breathing continued in that gentle rhythm. No change.
George moved along the edge of the room, keeping distance between himself and the bed. There was a tall fur storage thing against one wall, and beyond it an open space where more coverings and human furs were kept. He had lived with humans enough to know that they didn’t actually have fur of their own except on their heads and between their legs. To keep themselves warm and protected, they would put on furs from other animals instead. This room was where those furs were stored. The air in there held a heavier concentration of the house scent—clean, sharp, worked deep into the fabrics.
He entered that space and looked up. High shelf. Good.
He jumped. It was not a clean jump. He didn’t quite have enough height to make it graceful, but his front claws caught the edge. He pulled himself up without knocking anything over, scrambling the last few inches until he was on the surface.
He stood there for a moment, adjusting, then began a slow inspection. Extra coverings. Extra head rests. A few boxes. No food. No movement. No scent of other animals. Nothing that needed immediate attention.
He paused, then settled briefly, folding his legs beneath him.
This place would work. High. Quiet. Out of reach. A place to disappear if the humans became dangerous in some way.
George lifted his head once more, listening for any change from the bed.
Nothing.
He stored the space away in his memory and remained still for a few seconds longer before deciding to move on.
George moved back into the hallway and continued along it, checking each doorway in turn. The next door was closed. He lowered his head and drew in the air from beneath it. One human, faint and settled. No recent movement. The scent was old. Empty.
He moved to the next door and tested it the same way. Nothing. No fresh scent at all. No heat. No presence. Another unused space.
At the last door he paused longer. He drew the air in slowly, sorting it. Two humans. The pair that moved together. The ones who stopped in the hall and pressed their mouths together, exchanging scent. Their smells mixed more than the others. They were in there now, both still, both quiet.
George lifted his head and turned away.
He went back the way he had come, slipping out of the hallway and into the large room where the humans gathered when they were awake. The air here was heavier, layered with many scents—food, movement, the constant presence of them. This was the center of the house.
He crossed the open floor and looked up to the top of the wooden structure that held their picture box. It was high but there was a path. He had seen the small one climb up there. Not like the others. Not slow. Not careful. Quick, direct, almost right. The small one could climb. Not as good as a cat, but much better than any human he had been acquainted with in his lifetime.
George moved until he was at the bottom of the structure and jumped. The distance was easy. He landed cleanly, turned, and measured the next jump. Higher. Narrower.
He leapt again. His back paws slipped on the edge, but his front claws caught. He pulled himself up, hind legs scrambling for purchase until he was on top without disturbing anything.
He stood still for a moment, adjusting to the height, then began to move along the narrow space, inspecting.
There was a small box with a thin tube rising from it. It carried a sweet scent. Apples. Not fresh, not whole—something changed. He sniffed it once and moved on.
Nearby were small wooden sticks fitted together. They held almost no scent beyond the room itself. Not food. Not worth attention.
He continued until he found a piece of human food. Round. Flat. Dense. The smell was strong and layered, sweet and heavy. A cookie.
He lowered his head and sniffed it carefully. Human food. He did not eat human food. He had tried some once. It had made him sick. His body remembered that clearly. He turned his head away, shunning it. He left it where it was and moved on.
George turned at the edge of the high space and gathered himself. He jumped down in a single motion, landing lightly on the floor below. He held still for a moment after the impact, listening. The room did not change. No movement from the other spaces. No response.
He moved across the open area toward the door that led outside.
The door was closed. Clear. Hard. No give in it at all. He approached it and lifted his head, peering through. Beyond it was the outside surface—long flat planks, still and empty. No movement. No sound. The night air pressed faintly against the barrier, carrying only a thin trace of scent through the edges.
Nothing moved out there now.
Earlier there had been birds. Large ones. Black. They had come close and stayed, not like the small ones that darted and fled. These had stood their ground and made noise—sharp, deliberate sounds. They had called to Caydee while she sat with the wooden box that made noise when she touched it. The sound had carried across the space, steady and patterned. Strange, but not unpleasant.
The birds had used the same sound for Caydee that the humans used. They had called her by it. That was unusual.
Birds were strange.
George had eaten smaller ones before, quick strikes that ended before the bird understood what was happening. These were not like those. They were larger. Heavier. They watched. They moved together. They cooperated with each other. He had learned early that birds like that did not fight alone. They attacked as a mob. They circled. They struck from above and from behind. Beaks and wings, fast and loud, too many at once. Not worth it. He had always given them a strong measure of respect and had never stalked them. They, in turn, had always left him alone.
He remained at the door for a few seconds longer, watching the empty planks, then shifted his attention back to the house.
George walked back through the room, following the stronger trail of food scent into the next space. The air changed as he crossed the threshold. Sharper. Heavier. Many layers of it—meat, oils, sweet things, and the faint clean smell that lived everywhere beneath it. This was where the humans made food.
He moved along the edge of the room, keeping close to the walls, stopping once to test the air near a low surface where bowls and plates had been. Nothing fresh. Nothing left out. The scent was there, but the food was gone.
He lifted his head and looked up.
There was a large cold box against the wall, smooth and tall, with a narrow path along its side where the humans sometimes moved food in and out. Atop it, space. A good space. Quiet. Out of the way.
He stepped onto a lower surface first, then onto another, working his way up in two controlled jumps. The final leap took him to the top of the box. His back paws slipped slightly on landing, but he caught himself and settled without knocking anything loose.
He stood there for a moment, adjusting, letting the new vantage point settle around him.
It was warm up here. Not the soft warmth of a body or a bed, but a steady heat rising from below, spreading across the surface. It seeped into his paws, into his chest when he lowered himself, a constant, even source. He paused, then folded his legs beneath him and let his body settle into it.
Good.
From here he could see much of the room. The surfaces. The paths the humans used. The doorways leading in and out. No movement. No sound beyond the quiet background of the house. No other animals.
He lowered his head slightly, not sleeping, but resting, letting the warmth hold him while he listened.
George stayed on top of the cold box for a while, letting the steady heat soak into him. He rested there with his eyes half closed, listening to the quiet sounds of the house as they passed without meaning.
After a time, he lifted his head and stood. The warmth was good, but there was more of the place to learn.
He stepped to the edge and jumped down in a single motion, landing lightly and holding still for a moment as he always did, listening for any change. Nothing came. The house remained quiet.
He moved on.
George continued through the house, taking each hallway in turn. He moved with more confidence now, his path less cautious, his pauses shorter. He climbed anything that offered height—backs of chairs, narrow ledges, the tops of cabinets where he could reach them. Each new surface gave him another angle, another view. He walked, sniffed, explored, building the shape of the place inside himself.
It was large. Larger than any place he had lived before. The spaces opened into other spaces, the paths branching and reconnecting. There were many places to go. Many places to hide. Many places to rest.
And no other cats.
That absence stayed with him. No competing scent. No tension in the air. No need to watch every movement or guard every approach. No sudden fights. No bodies closing in from more than one direction. No one to take what was his.
Just him. Caydee. The others.
The others were different from one another, but most of them shared one thing. They reached for him in a certain way. Slow. Open. Not grabbing. Not taking. Their hands moved over him, along his back, across his head, down his sides. They made quiet sounds when they did it. He had learned that those sounds meant nothing dangerous.
They liked petting him. He could smell it on them.
He liked it too. There had been little petting in his life since the human who first fed him before. Not like this. Not from many at once. It was simple. Clear. A thing that did not change without warning. When it happened, he stayed. When it stopped, he moved on.
That was enough.
The other drive that had once been there was gone. Taken from him in that place that had smelled wrong, where they held him down and cut part of his body off. That part of him never came back. There would be no fights over females. No roaming for it. That need was gone.
But there were hands. Hands that moved the right way. Hands that knew where to touch.
And there was this place.
George continued his slow patrol, moving from one space to another, letting the map of it settle more firmly into him with each pass.
George eventually worked his way back to the large room where the humans gathered. The air there was familiar now, layered with their scent and the traces of food and movement. It no longer felt like open ground. It felt known.
There were things here meant for him.
A box held small shapes—fish, mice, and other soft forms that carried no life but were made to move like it. They were scattered within reach, waiting.
He had energy.
He had the need to use it.
George stepped toward one of the mice and struck it, sending it flipping into the air. He followed it immediately, catching it between his paws and biting down hard where the neck would be. It did not fight. It did not move on its own. That did not matter. He released it, flicked it upward again, and struck it a second time.
The movements grew sharper. Faster. He began throwing it farther, chasing it across the floor, cutting it off, striking before it could land. The room opened around him and he used it, driving the mouse higher, farther.
One throw sent it onto a table.
George followed without hesitation, jumping up after it and landing hard. His body clipped something as he moved—a tall object that gave off light. It tipped and fell, striking the floor below with a sharp crash.
He did not look.
The mouse was already moving again. He struck it, flipped it, chased it off the table and onto the couch. It bounced once and disappeared behind one of the head rests. George dove after it. The head rest shifted under the force, sliding free and dropping onto the adjacent piece of furniture, where it struck a large object and sent it to the floor with another crash.
That one he heard. He froze. His head turned toward the hallway. His body went still, muscles tight, ready to move if needed. A door opened somewhere in the house.
Footsteps.
George did not move.
The tall human with the brown fur on his head came into the room. His fur was tangled. His eyes were half closed, unfocused.
“What in the name of Genghis Kahn’s personal lube is going on in here?” he demanded.
George did not understand the words, but he understood the tone. The human was upset about something.
He did not sound dangerous.
George had watched this one before. He moved slowly. He did not grab without warning. His hands were good.
George relaxed.
He moved forward, stepping directly into the human’s path, and then let himself fall to his side. From there he rolled onto his back, exposing his belly.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” the human said. “You trash the place and now you want pets?”
George answered with a meow. Cats only used that sound for humans. They did not meow at other cats, or birds, or dogs. It worked.
The human bent at the waist and reached down. His hand found George’s belly and moved across it in the way George liked, steady and firm, not rough, not hesitant.
Good.
George remained where he was, letting it happen, his body loose against the floor.
So far, this place was working.
Maybe something would change when the light came back. Maybe something bad would show itself. That had happened before.
But not now.
Now there were hands.
Jake staggered into the kitchen after his shower, hair still damp, moving like a man who had been up in the middle of the night for reasons he wasn’t entirely thrilled about. The house was no longer quiet. It had shifted into morning mode.
Cap was already up, planted in his booster chair at the dining room table with a coffee cup filled with dry Cheerios in front of him, eating with the focused seriousness of a toddler who had a job to do. Yami sat nearby with a cup of coffee, watching him with the bleariness of someone who had not reached therapeutic caffeine level yet.
“Morning,” Jake muttered as he passed through.
“Good morning,” Yami said.
Cap looked up, brightening immediately. “Da-dee!”
Jake stopped long enough to lean down and kiss him on the forehead. “Hey, Capster,” he said, giving his hair a quick ruffle before moving on.
He stepped into the kitchen.
Westin was at the stove, working a pan with controlled precision. Eggs, ham, peppers—something else in there that Jake couldn’t quite identify at first glance. Then he saw it.
Radish shavings. The man had actually grated a radish and put it in eggs.
“For flavor contrast,” Westin said without turning, as if reading his mind.
Jake stared at the pan for a moment, then back at Westin. “I see.”
“Just so you know,” Westin said, “I’m not amused.”
Jake leaned against the counter, watching the pan for another second. “Why are you not amused?” he asked.
Westin didn’t look at him. “Do you know where I found that animal this morning?”
“You mean George?”
“Of course I mean George,” Westin said. “What other animal resides in this house?”
“I guess he’s the only one inside,” Jake said. “Where did you find him?”
“On top of the refrigerator,” Westin said, finally turning just enough to give him a look. “Sleeping.”
Jake blinked once, then shrugged again. “Okay. If he’s not hurting anything, why shouldn’t he be allowed to sit on top of the refrigerator?”
“He was not sitting,” Westin corrected. “He was sleeping. Fully committed.”
Jake waved that off. “He can sleep on top of the refrigerator as long as he’s not hurting anything.”
Westin turned back to the stove, working the eggs with a little more force than necessary. “I will be filing a complaint with management on this issue.”
Jake snorted. “I am management.”
“That will streamline the process,” Westin said dryly.
Jake pushed himself off the counter slightly. “You chased him away?”
“Yes, I chased him away,” Westin said. “Because I found an animal in my kitchen. On top of my refrigerator. Sleeping.”
Jake considered that for a second. “Why did you have to chase him away if he wasn’t doing anything but sleeping up there?”
Westin stopped moving the pan and looked at him. “Because,” he said slowly, “he was an animal in the kitchen.”
Jake spread his hands. “Who was not hurting anything, right?”
“That,” Westin said, turning back to the stove, “is not the point. Animals do not belong in the kitchen.”
Jake stared at him for a moment longer, then shook his head once and disengaged. “Not having this conversation,” he said. “Take it up with Caydee.”
“You cannot shirk this responsibility!” Westin insisted. “She’ll just appeal to you and you’ll overrule me.”
“That’s the beauty of a benevolent dictatorship, Wes,” he told him. “The system works.”
“You really think you’re master of this house?” Westin asked.
“The ladies let me have that illusion,” he said. “And I’m okay with that. But if you insist I make a decision, then George can be up on top of the refrigerator if he wants to, as long as he’s not hurting or damaging or impeding anything.”
Westin was not pleased with this decision, but he kept his words to himself.
Jake grabbed a cup of coffee, turned, and walked out of the kitchen. The entertainment room was already alive—Cap still working on his Cheerios, Yami keeping a loose eye on him, the TV murmuring something low in the background. George was nowhere to be seen currently.
He dropped onto the couch, took a long pull of coffee, and let the morning settle around him without participating in it. It was already doing its thing—people moving, talking, deciding things for him without deciding anything at all. The house never really stopped. It just changed speed.
He finished his coffee, set the cup aside, and got up.
An hour later, fed and reasonably satisfied, he was at the airport.
He pulled the Avanti from the hangar, the early light catching along the fuselage. Jake moved around it with practiced ease, running through his checks methodically. Fuel, surfaces, tires, control movement—everything in its place, everything behaving the way it was supposed to.
Simple. Predictable.
A hell of a lot simpler than arguing about whether a cat had violated kitchen policy.
Forty-five minutes later, he was on the ground at Whiteman Airport in Los Angeles, the Avanti parked in a transient aircraft spot. Jake secured the plane, crossed the ramp, and headed for the rented hangar where his poor neglected truck lived when not in use. Inside, the F-150 sat exactly as he’d left it, plugged into the trickle charger, waiting out another stretch of standby. He disconnected it, climbed in, and paused for a second before turning the key.
He really needed to get his brother-in-law out here soon. His BIL on Laura’s side, not Celia’s. The one who actually knew what the hell he was doing with engines. Oil changes, fluids, whatever else you were supposed to do to keep a vehicle from quietly plotting its own death. Jake was aware that the truck was overdue for all of it. The truck had not yet complained. That was good enough for now.
He fired it up and left the airport, merging into the slow morning crawl toward Santa Clarita. Traffic behaved. Air traffic had behaved. The whole system, for once, had decided not to screw with him. He rolled into the office parking lot just after nine-thirty.
Early. That didn’t happen often.
He stepped inside and found Barb exactly where she always was—behind the desk, headset on, already deep into a conversation with someone who clearly did not value their own life.
“I don’t care what you read on some fan forum, fuckstick,” Barb was saying, her voice sharp and carrying easily across the lobby. “Jake Kingsley is not selling Matt Tisdale’s Strat to you or to anyone else. He’s not selling it to your cousin, he’s not selling it to your dentist, and he’s definitely not selling it to some random dipshit cold-calling my desk like this is a garage sale.”
A pause. Jake could practically hear the other guy digging himself deeper.
“Oh, you have a ‘lucrative offer,’ do you?” Barb snapped. “From who? The voices in your fucked up head? Because unless one of those voices signs my paycheck, I don’t give a flying fuck what they told you. That guitar is not for sale.”
Another pause.
“A hundred thousand dollars?” Barb repeated, her tone shifting into something dangerously amused. “That’s your fuckin’ offer? Are you low micro-dick? Because you sure as shit ain’t high. You really think a hundred thousand dollars is gonna even get you in the same fuckin’ room as that guitar? Honey, that instrument has seen more stages than you’ve seen showers. It’s had more pussy juice spilled on it than you’ve even sniffed in your pathetic little life. You could bring a briefcase with eight figures in it and Kingsley would still laugh in your face before he stuck it all sideways up your ass until the combo lock is sticking out your goddamn mouth.”
She leaned back slightly in her chair, eyes narrowing.
“No, you listen to me, because I’m only gonna say this once more before I reach through this phone, turn your skeleton inside out, and hang up on you with your own severed hand. There is no price. None. Not for you, not for anyone, not on this planet. So take your little fantasy, fold it up nice and neat, and then spindle and fuckin’ mutilate it. And don’t call this number again unless you’re looking to get righteously skull-fucked with a novelty strap-on dildo. Have a blessed day.”
She stabbed the button and cut the connection, muttering something under her breath that Jake chose not to repeat.
Jake smiled faintly. Perfect timing.
Barb looked up as Jake came through the door, already resetting to baseline like nothing had just happened.
“Hey, boss man.”
“Barb,” Jake said, nodding once. “Good to hear you in such good form. You project KVA philosophy onto our valued customers and detractors quite professionally and articulately. I especially liked the part about skull-fucking with a strap-on dildo.”
“Not just a strap-on dildo,” Barb corrected, holding up a finger. “A novelty strap-on dildo. You know, the kind not actually intended for human consumption.”
Jake considered that for a moment, then smiled faintly. “Adding the word ‘novelty’ really shows your genius. I am impressed. And I used to hang out with Matt fuckin’ Tisdale.”
“All of us are born with our little talents,” Barb said with a shrug. “Mine is my mouth, though not in the same way that Tif’s mouth helped her.” She considered for a moment. “Well ... not entirely anyway.”
“Uh ... yeah,” Jake said after a moment’s thought. “That makes perfect sense.”
“I hear Matt’s sisters are trying to cockblock you.”
“That’s what I hear too,” Jake said. “Pauline in her office?”
“Either that or she’s taking a shit,” Barb said.
Jake thought about that for a second, nodded once, and said, “I think I’ll check her office first.”
Fortunately, Pauline was in her office, which meant Jake did not have to start checking shitters to track her down.
She was dressed for court—or at least for lawyer-on-lawyer combat. Not a dress. Pauline didn’t default to dresses when she wanted to be taken seriously. This was a tailored pantsuit, blouse, and blazer, all of it fitted within an inch of its life. Custom, obviously. There was no off-the-rack bullshit in Pauline Kingsley, Esquire’s wardrobe anymore. Not in this phase of her life.
She had finally figured it out over the last couple of years. She was filthy, stinking rich. Not “comfortable.” Not “doing well.” Rich in a way that didn’t run out unless you actively tried to destroy it with yachts, Caribbean islands, and a Matt Tisdale–level cocaine habit. Since she had no real interest in the cocaine angle, the Caribbean, or floating luxury, she’d settled for making a dent where she could. The house in Pacific Palisades, the top-tier Mercedes, the wardrobe—those were the early results.
“You’re early, bro,” she said, looking up from her desk. “What’s up with that?”
Jake dropped into the chair across from her. “I hit the aviation equivalent of every light turning green on the way here,” he said. “Departure, tailwinds en route, no air traffic on arrival—everything just ... worked. It’ll probably never happen like that again.”