A Tomcat and a Gentleman

by Tom Frost

Copyright© 2013 by Tom Frost

Sex Story: When you're a shape-shifting tomcat helping a new friend find her way in the world, you'll take all the help you can get. In this installment, I introduce Boy to Ceilidh. They'll either be brilliant for each other or the National Guard will be here shortly.

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   .

While I am undeniably a tomcat in human skin, I like to think I am a gentleman as well. Yes, I sometimes lure NYU coeds into my van with promises of locally-sourced cookies made from organically-grown ingredients. But, too my credit, I do provide said cookies, my guests are all of the age of majority and they have chosen to do what they've been told they shouldn't, which is why I like them. Besides, if all they want to do is talk, all we do is talk. I'm an animal, not a monster.

Over the last few weeks, my resolve to be a gentleman has been sorely tested. I have somehow taken in a runaway Persian kitten who calls herself "Boy." She is a bit of a naif in some ways and a bit of a Tasmanian devil in others. I saved her from a rat three times her size (or rescued the rat from her. The jury is still out.) And since then, she's been my responsibility. Like me, she understands human language and can take human form. As far as I know, we are unique in this way and I'm not going to lose her.

When I first rescued her, she was filthy. I'm still finding twigs, bits of leaf, pennies, and other bits of flotsam that were tangled in her coat the first time she transformed for me. Yesterday, I found a marble. She swear she has no idea where it came from, but it was right on the passenger seat where she'd been sitting.

Having escaped once from a human residence, Boy is determined not to go back to another one. As a result, I've given up a perfectly delightful arrangement at the Bobst library where I could sleep safe from the elements in order to sleep in my van and keep an eye on her. Being a cat, she sleeps completely naked, curled up against me for warmth. Being a cat, I should do the same and, for that matter, fuck her as nature intended.

She's young, but "young" covers a lot of ground in both cats and humans. In human form, Boy looks enough like an NYU coed to pass among them undetected. At least, she looks like someone you might see if a certain men's magazine did a "Women of NYU" edition. So, scratch the "undetected" part. Even if she weren't beautiful, her behavior would attract nearly-constant attention even if only from law-enforcement. As it is, she has the gift all kittens share - that powerful perception-warping field that makes everything she does register to observers as "cute," no matter how predatory or cold-blooded. It's much easier to behave like Lisbeth Salander when you look like Doutzen Kroes.

Her appetites are certainly not stunted. Boy is always ready to eat and does so with a gusto one normally expects only from thirteen year-old boys. As I understand, this causes a certain amount of envy and even animosity towards her from other women. I can only assume she overcomes that initial dislike somehow because I frequently see her leave the park in company, female, male, or indeterminate at range only to return hours later wearing some or all of their clothing. Where I consider myself a bit of a connoisseur of human sexuality, Boy is more of a gourmand and based on the nature of the clothes she brings home and the rate at which her wardrobe is growing, we should be able to costume a production of "Rent" by spring.

Yet no matter where she disappears to during the day and what she does with whom, each night she returns to the van, strips out of whatever clothes she has on, curls around me and falls asleep.

In the weeks since she moved in with me, Boy has shown no particular interest in me as a sexual partner apart from stealing my clothes and the aforementioned naked cuddling. In what may be a supreme irony between the only two known members of a very specialized species, I may simply not be her type. And because I am a gentleman, I do not press the issue.

I wrote the above last night during a low moment in which I was seriously considering putting away my older, more sophisticated persona in favor of returning as Tomov, the devastatingly-handsome blue-haired Russian exchange student. Tomov has many advantages including a piercing, gray-eyed gaze right out of a YA novel and a convenient ability to misunderstand English when it suits him.

This morning, I wake up with a delicate six-fingered hand wrapped around my cock. I do not immediately assume this means the platonic phase of our relationship is now over as I might with a human woman. With Boy, it could be curiosity, a way to make sure she has my attention, or...

"Hungry," she announces.

My eyes fly open. "That is not for eating."

"Sex first," she adds.

All right. That's pretty hard to misinterpret. A complex moral dilemma is resolved through practical application. Having seen Boy worry a purloined sweater into its component parts, I have no doubt she could undo the famed Gordian knot were she to set her mind to it, but she's really more the sort to scale a tapestry, yank down the Sword of Damocles, and slice that bastard in twain.

That I am wasting time and mixing antiquities as badly as that is, I think. a clear sign of a certain delicacy I feel towards describing my own sex life. Despite the fact that I hope to make a living writing sex stories, I feel a certain protectiveness towards the women who have shared this most precious gift with me - what the English call "a bit of rumpy-pumpy." When asking for some particular prurient detail of a tale told to me, the words "let me show you" are simply so beautiful, I don't ever want to risk making someone regret having said them.

Still, any accounting of life with Boy would be woefully incomplete without a description of her approach to sex - rather like Blue Velvet reshot as a cautionary tale about the misuse of compressed oxygen. I would rather risk indelicacy.

Once Boy has made her desires clear, I lift my hips and she slides off the sweatpants I've been wearing to bed. The moment I'm naked, he's on top of me, cowgirl-style. There's no warm-up, but first thing in the morning, I don't need one and seemingly she doesn't either. She rides me like it's both a time trial and a judged Olympic event. That is to say that the sex accelerates right out of the gate, but also gets points for presentation.

It is a glorious sight and one, thanks to the peculiar, almost indestructible nature of that first erection of the day, one I can lay back and enjoy without any immediate urgency. Her human form really is a work of art worthy of a particularly lewd stained-glass window and seeing her with her back arched and head thrown back, golden hair tickling my knees is as close to a religious experience as I will ever get, Bastet willing.

If I haven't mentioned Boy's odd number of digits before (and I know I haven't, ) it's probably a protectiveness thing. Polydactyl cats have a reputation, deserved or not, for fragile health and personality disorders. Anyone who's had the good fortune to spend any time alone with Boy knows that she is robustly, almost terrifyingly healthy. She is also remarkably strong and her thighs grip me like an iron vise, providing you could find an iron vise with that peculiar soft-strong consistency that makes a woman's flesh so infinitely touchable.

I run my hands up those beautiful, powerful legs to her waist. Two cats living together, even shape-shifted, share a certain intimacy that even human lovers rarely experience. From the night she moved in with me, Boy and I have lived in each other's personal space. Without specifically seeking to, I've already touched nearly every inch of her skin. But, it's all new to me now and I run my hands deliberately over those curves, that spine, and those beautiful breasts. Human breasts fascinate me in spite of their numerical paucity and when I reach Boy's, she grips my wrists to keep my hands there for a while. I do not object.

Locked together like that, she rides me with untrammeled enthusiasm and it isn't long before her body shudders with a short series of powerful shudders. As soon as the last one fades, she stops abruptly and makes to climb off of me. I catch her just in time and we roll so that Boy is on her back, pinned under my weight. She gives me a questioning look, but when I rock my hips to indicate that we're not done, wraps her legs around me, locking her ankles just below my phantom tail.

I brace her face in both hands and kiss her as we resume our morning interlude at a slightly less death-defying pace. She kisses back with enthusiasm, wraps her arms around my shoulders and digs her nails in like she's now the one who's afraid I'll run off before things are done. As things progress, a low growl rises in her throat and she breaks the kiss to whimper quietly into the crook of my neck. After the incident in the gym showers, I have impressed upon her the virtue of relative silence. She shudders hard and this time, it brings me over the edge with her. Even afterwards, I lie there, locked inside of her her, kissing her with deliberation and purpose. I've found that there's very little point in trying to modify Boy's behavior with words, but that she learns remarkably quickly through mimicry. Hopefully, this is a teachable moment on the joys of afterplay.

Still, she woke up hungry and, once I have a moment to think about it, I realize that I did too. Eventually, I look down at her. "Breakfast?"

"Tomo Sushi?"

I groan. "Boy, it's eight in the morning. Tomo sushi isn't open yet."

She blinks and looks crestfallen. "No fatty tuna?"

"Later, at lunchtime," I tell her. Boy will eat just about anything - to the point where I think there might a little bit of billy goat in her DNA, but she does occasionally fixate on some of the more expensive options. My sources of income are many and varied, but they are not limitless and I'm going to need to find new ones soon.

Boy wriggles out from under me and starts throwing on clothes. Despite the extensiveness and variety of her wardrobe, I'm never quite sure if Boy is entirely fashion-blind or completely brilliant in her pairings. Today, she chooses a silver-gray tuxedo shirt open over a Che Guevara t-shirt, a black pencil skirt, and Doc Martens. One reason I question her judgment has nothing to do with the outcome, but the speed at which she chooses her clothes and gets them on. I'm still pulling on my pants when she kneels in front of me, fully dressed. "Fish?"

"Do you want to wear something warmer?" I suggest. "It's pretty cold out.

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