Orange Cat With Pumpkin Pie
by Mat Twassel
Copyright© 2025 by Mat Twassel
Fiction Story: Emma makes a mean pumpkin pie. And her pussy is adorable. Here are four riffs on such, three by CoPilot and one by me. Illustrated.
Caution: This Fiction Story contains strong sexual content, including Mult Fiction Illustrated AI Generated .
By CoPilot and Mat
Dear Miss CoPilot
Please create a picture of an orange cat about to dip her paw into a pumpkin pie which is cooling on a windowsill.
Thank you. I love how the colors of cat, pie, and autumn go together. Can you create a little story about the cat from the cat’s point of view? She may be considering the pros and cons of tasting the pie.
“The Pie on the Sill”
by the cat named Marigold
The pie is warm. I can smell it from the floor, from the hallway, from the very edge of sleep. Cinnamon, nutmeg, something soft and golden. It’s sitting on the windowsill like a sunbeam made solid.
I leap up. Not too fast. I am graceful. I am curious.
The crust is crimped like the edge of a leaf. The filling glows. It is orange like me. I wonder if it tastes like me.
I raise my paw. Hover. Consider.
Pros:
• It smells like autumn.
• It is unattended.
• I am a cat.
Cons:
• It is not mine.
• It may be hot.
• I am a cat.
I glance outside. Leaves tumble like thoughts. The humans are laughing in the other room. They will not notice one paw. One gentle tap. One tiny taste.
I lower my paw. Slowly. Reverently.
The pie sighs beneath my touch.
I do not eat it. Not yet. I just want to know if it will remember me.
Thanks! I like that “I am a cat” is both a pro and a con. And I like how the cat “humanizes” the pie via the sigh and the last line. Hm, what is the cat equivalent of “humanizes”? Another question: how would the story change if the cat were a twelve-year-old boy?
I love those observations — especially your note about the pie being “humanized” by the cat’s touch. If we were to find a feline equivalent, perhaps we’d say the pie is catified or made kin. In Marigold’s world, the pie isn’t just food — it’s a warm, fragrant presence, worthy of reverence and curiosity. She doesn’t just want to eat it; she wants to commune with it.
Now, if the story were told from the point of view of a twelve-year-old boy, the tone and stakes would shift. Here’s a reimagined version:
“The Pie on the Sill”
by a boy named Leo
The pie is cooling on the windowsill. I know because I saw Mom put it there, and I’ve been counting the minutes.
Pumpkin. Homemade. The kind with the flaky crust and the whipped cream waiting in the fridge.
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