Chapter 7: Kitty

Ryan walked down the street a swoosh in his step. The air around him seemed to ripple and flow in a dreamy haze.

He was still himself, yet not. His body was humanoid but softer, covered in a fine, short coat of medium-brown fur. A slender tail swayed behind him. He wore only a simple black collar with a small silver bell at the hollow of his throat. Every movement made it chime.

He moved through an almost ordinary world—sidewalks, a grocery aisle, the edge of a park—but every man he passed treated him as something to be touched. Large hands settled on his head without asking, scratching behind his ears or under his chin until his eyes half-closed. Strangers stroked down his bare back, cupped the curve of his ass, scratched the base of his tail until a helpless, pleased sound left his throat. Some simply ran a palm along his chest or belly as they walked by, casual and proprietary.

No one spoke to him like a person. They murmured low, approving noises. “Pretty thing.” “Sweet boy.” “Look at you.” The bell chimed with every step and every lean into a stranger’s hand. When a tall man with silvering hair and familiar broad hands paused to scratch under his chin, Ryan’s whole body went pliant, a soft vibration that was almost a purr rising in his chest.

The dream held no embarrassment. This was simply how he moved through the world: naked except for the collar, open to any man’s casual hands.

The pulse of the Track thickened, drawing the scene back into smoke.

Ryan woke to silence.

The sleep-mask speakers had powered down sometime in the early hours. For a moment the quiet felt wrong, almost sharp against his ears. He reached for his phone out of pure habit, thumbs moving before thought fully formed, and opened the Transforming Your Life page.

The familiar forty-five-minute Track was gone.

In its place sat a new file: twenty-five minutes long. The same deep brown-noise foundation remained, but underneath it ran a slow, almost subliminal upbeat pulse—like a distant steady heartbeat mixed with a soft rhythmic lift. When he started it through the cat-ear headphones the calm arrived faster and carried a mild forward momentum, a quiet sense that something should happen next. Within a day the shorter loop had replaced the old Track completely.

Under the new tone, clothing began to feel unnecessary.

Jeans and outer shirts started to seem rough and excessive inside the apartment. Ryan stopped putting them on. Most days he remained in a soft tee and loose boxers, or just the boxers. The change felt practical. Ken never commented. The increased bare skin only made the morning massages and casual touches feel more immediate.

The discomfort followed him to the office.

On the next in-office day the jeans felt abrasive the moment he pulled them on. The button-down sat too stiff; the collar scraped. By mid-morning he was shifting constantly, unable to settle. The new Track played softly through one hidden earbud, but even that could not quiet the restless feeling of the clothes against his skin.

His manager appeared at the edge of his desk just before lunch, expression already tight.

“Ryan. You’re fidgeting so much it’s distracting the whole row. What’s going on?”

“Sorry. I think it’s a reaction to new laundry soap or something. Skin’s just ... irritated.”

She didn’t look convinced. “Your focus has been slipping for weeks. Output’s down. I’m putting you on a performance improvement plan starting today. Go home, get whatever this is sorted, and come back Monday ready to work.”

Ryan packed his laptop with relief that felt too large and took the short walk back to the residential block, the Track humming in his ear and the hated clothes already unbearable again.

He opened the apartment door still wearing them.

Ken stood in the kitchen, fully naked, one hand wrapped around his heavy cock, stroking in slow, deliberate pulls. Pre-cum glistened at the tip and stretched in a clear strand. He looked up when Ryan entered. There was no surprise, no interruption. If anything his expression warmed with quiet pleasure at the unexpected audience. He kept stroking, slower now, putting on a deliberate show—hips tilting, the thick shaft flexing in his grip, eyes steady on Ryan the entire time.

Ryan stopped just inside the door and watched.

Ken’s gaze stayed locked on him. Each slow stroke made the office clothes feel worse. The jeans scraped. The shirt clung and itched. The longer Ken stared and worked himself, the more unbearable the fabric became, until Ryan’s skin crawled with the need to get it off. He toed off his shoes, unbuttoned the shirt, and pushed the jeans down. Left in only his soft undershirt and loose boxers, the air of the apartment finally touched his skin again. The relief was immediate.

The moment Ryan stripped to that last thin layer, Ken’s rhythm changed.

His hand sped up. A low, rough moan rolled out of him. His hips flexed. The heavy cock darkened and swelled, the head flaring glossy and wet. He kept his eyes on Ryan as the climax hit—deep, forceful grunts with every thick rope that striped across his own chest and stomach. He stroked himself through every spurt until the last weak trickle, still staring, still breathing hard.