by Trainmaster
I'm so horny. I can't make up my mind who I should make love to, my brother Eric, or Millie's husband, Stan. Maybe it doesn't matter—I could sleep with them both right now and still not get enough. My breasts ache with longing for them. My nipples are stiff with anticipation. The fur on my back quivers.
It doesn't help to have them both standing there, looking me over hungrily with their eyes. I can see the lust in their faces and it just makes me even hotter. I'm beautiful and I know they know it. And yet, neither makes a move toward me.
Damn, I'm ready to cry. I want to scream at them "Take me, take me, you blind fools, before my raging female hormones make me crazy. Someone make love to me right this instant."
Stan, at least, I can understand. Millie's here, too, so he's probably nervous about what she'll say. I'm sure it's fine with her—after all, I've sat in his lap many times as he ran his loving hands over my soft body. If I could talk, I'd reassure him it's all right to concede his love to me. He's done it before, chatting at length in that baby-talk way he enjoys so much.
But Eric, I've lived with him all my life, what's he waiting for. I always thought he loved his only brother. All he has to do is reach out … and I'll be in his arms in a flash. I wish I could beg him for a sign of recognition. What's different now, that we can't share the same appreciation of life to the fullest as before? What ever happened to brotherly love?
Millie, too. I would take Millie in a minute, grabbing her in my arms and planting my tongue firmly in her luscious mouth. How many times have I licked her fingers? How many nights has she cuddled with me? Why isn't she showing me the same passion she's demonstrated night after night. I'd respond in a totally new way that would thrill her to her well-trimmed thatch.
This whole emotional cycle is so irrational. I'm not a crier, I'm not—I'm not. So why does this uncontrollable urge for sex make me want to bury my head in my paws and really wail? It's not my fault.
And since I … ummm … found myself, can I collect the reward? What do I need with money, when family is so near? I'm so sorry I ran away. I love these people—just in a different way than before. Why am I so horny?
+ + + + +
I saw a handful of homemade flyers posted on the mailbox post the same day I saw the cat in our backyard. "Missing cat," it said. "Reward for information." I took one to see if I could help.
There was a photocopied image of a tabby-tiger cat, proclaimed as "Bootsie" for the sock-shaped white mark above it's eyes. "Runaway missing since Thursday," the paragraph said. "Especially loved domestic shorthair. Answers to Bootsie. Family willing to pay reward for information leading to beloved pet's return."
The address indicated the owners were neighbors from just around the corner, but I didn't much know them, other than they were a young couple—she was very pretty and he was ruggedly handsome—like the pair in "Life in the Fast Lane."
I retrieved the mail and walked back home, sorting Eric's from mine and bills from what was obviously junk. One letter was marked Urgent and had an impressive government-sounding return address, so I stuck it under my arm. I walked around the side of the house we rent together, thinking to put the junk straight into the garbage can.
There in the back was a cat—washing its paws on the grass and watching me with narrowed eyes. I was struck immediately by the white sock-shaped mark in white fur which went from the cat's eyebrow line up to the top of its head. It must surely have been Bootsie.
Something about the cat concerned me. It was not the immobility as much as the way it would gingerly put down a front paw, pick up the other and lick it clean, and put it down again—repeating from paw to paw to paw. Typical cat.
It looked at me, as though waiting for me to ask its purpose in my yard. Cats are so intentional. Before Eric moved in, I had a kitten and he was the most penetrating interrogator I've ever known. He could peel me like an onion with just a look of his intense little eyes. But Eric's allergic to cats, so my furry confidant had to go.
This cat had that same intense stare, with furrowed brow, it watched my every move—as though sending telepathic messages. I felt that it wanted me to come to it, to ask its business, but knew if I did, it would ignore my question. The more we stared into each other's eyes, the stronger the feeling.
Dropping the junk mail into the can, I started across the wet lawn. The grass made a squishing sound under my jogging shoes and I could smell … I'm not sure what. Perhaps a hint of fertilizer, though we hadn't applied any this spring. Last year's residue perhaps, carried up by the unaccustomed dampness—I didn't know. It wasn't unpleasant, just odd.
Bootsie—the white mark clearly showed this was the neighbor's cat—waited patiently without moving more than the ubiquitous front paws. As I proceeded, I spoke to it in a low soothing voice, assuring it that I was coming to help and that its owners were certain to be happy it was found.
It occurred to me that I didn't know what gender it was. The flyer hadn't said, and I couldn't tell by looking at it. Bootsie was such a non-specific name that it could have been either a male or female.
+ + + + +
Look at Stan, watching me through squinted eyes. He's sure something is different about me but not what it is. Maybe he can tell that he's making me sweat under my shirt and all this fur, though I'm actually a little chilly. Maybe he can see my nipples sticking out through the fabric. I wonder if I'm sending the message clearly that I need—really, desperately want—him? Does he know I've already undressed him with my eyes?
Now, Millie, she's just happy to see me. I can tell when she has a motive and when she's genuinely concerned about me. This is one of the later times. I understand why she posted the reward. I don't believe she's detected my lust for her yet. I hope there will be plenty of time to explore her body in more detail—she's been so kind to me and I desperately need to return the passion.
And my brother, the picture of confusion, scratching his head as though stumped by an odd memory. Though we grew up together, he doesn't seem to know me. I can sense his uncertainty, he knows the shirt I'm wearing but not the form. He doesn't see how I ache for his seed. I realize only now that he's been so close for all these years and I never considered him as a bed partner.
It's funny how everything has changed. A lifetime ago, a week, a day, Stan and Millie would have been unknown neighbors, I would have remained Eric's chaste twin, if minutes older, brother, and Bootsie—why, Bootsie would have sat washing her paws in the cool dew of the new-fertilized lawn.
But for the trick of a few minutes separation, but for the magic of coincidences, there would be no anguish, no desperation, no need to find solace in the arms of these three who know not how they've been irretrievably intertwined in my existence. Three total strangers—and I need each of them to satisfy my deep sexual burnings. Damn, I'm so freaking horny!
+ + + + +
As I approached the cat with the white sock mark on its head, I realized I was still carrying the mail with me. With a pang of regret, I tossed the envelopes away, hoping them would land someplace dry enough not to obliterate the word Urgent stamped in red.
It's funny how, as you are about to do something incredibly stupid, the most rational thoughts flash through your head—too late to stop you. My mind flashed a full-out STOP, but my body ignored the warning and kept moving on auto-pilot.
As the cat let me slide my hand around and under it, I had a sudden flash of inspiration—the smell wasn't fertilizer. Where the cat sat, it was a strongly chemical odor, and it stung my nose.
As the cat let me lift it off the grass, I noticed the dampness wasn't dew as I'd assumed. It was a thin coating of ooze and it was all over the cat's paws and fur. No wonder the poor thing hadn't moved, it knew the danger it was in.
Still on auto-pilot, clutching the cat in one arm, with the mail in the other hand, I turned back toward the house. My foot slipped on the slick grass and I was suddenly tumbling backward. I remember thinking I ought to release the cat to its own defense, but my hand wouldn't let go.
I'm not sure the cat knew what was happening. If so, it didn't struggle at all. We dropped in slow, very slow, motion into a crouch and then I bounced on my shoulder and found myself rolling over. The cat was underneath me as my head struck the grass, and I'm sure—as I passed out—that I fell heavily on the poor animal.
+ + + + +
Stan's figured it out. I can see the calculations start in his eyes. He knows who I am and he's become aware of the sexual pheromones I must be pumping out by the truckload. He put his hand in his pocket and I can see the outline of his stiffening malehood as he fingers it through the fabric. Good, maybe he's about to satisfy my shameful craving.
I don't think Eric understands yet. That's good, too. If he waits longer, then Stan can meet my need and Eric will catch up. I'd rather take them in sequence than simultaneously. That's my brother, always one drumbeat behind the rest of the dancers. Gotta love him, though, when he figures it out, he's always head of the class. I expect the same treatment as all his lady friends.
And where does Millie reckon in this ménage-a-trois? I guess she's the odd woman out. She knows who I am and sees what I've become, but she's still blinded by her love for the old me. Not to worry, though, I have plans for her, this gorgeous master of mine, once Stan finishes his way with me.
+ + + + +
Light trickled slowly back into my consciousness. For a moment, I was bewildered, not sure where I was. I could feel the cold, damp grass beneath and the ache of my shoulder and head where I'd landed so hard.
It took longer to remember I was in the back yard—and longer yet, to understand that I'd taken a nasty fall after slipping on the slick grass. I snapped my eyes open. Sure enough, there was the house, and the sky above, and the turf at almost eye-level.
I inventoried what I could sense through the pain. Body—intact, except for the sore shoulder. Head—likewise. Tail—okay. Paws—beside me. Ears—working. Heart—racing a little but otherwise fine. Breasts—sticky from the ooze.
Wait a minute! Breasts? Tail? Paws? This was all wrong. This had to be a nightmare. I was still unconscious—I had to be. What other explanation could there be. I closed my eyes, as the pain in my head flared.
And there was a cat somewhere around here. It had been under me—where was it now? I couldn't get a reading. But something, some sense of intuition, made my whiskers twitch. Without thinking, I instinctively rubbed my muzzle with a paw, then licked the paw clean.
Shit! That did it. I had to get up, had to go in and look at myself. If everything I felt was all wrong, perhaps the mirror would bring my world back to rightness.
+ + + + +
Eric and me … Eric and I … I never understood which was correct. I'm not so good with stuff like words. Two peas from a single pod. Identical twins, yet so different. He the intellectual, always reading, always studying, and always oblivious to the financial trouble he was in. I the active one, always playing football, baseball, motorcycles.
Yet I grew up knowing the value of the money left behind when our parents divorced and dad died in Vietnam. Eric drifted through liberal arts college, majoring in history—what in hell do you do for a living with a history degree? I went to technical school and learned to be a computer repairman.
When Mom died, the landlord asked if we would continue to rent it. Eric didn't even know we could do that. I was glad for the continuity. We stayed, finished college and tech school, and I got a job fixing computers. Eric volunteers at the library and the homeless shelter, reading stories to the youngest and oldest—but he says he's too shy to read to anyone our age. Neither of us had any success with dating, so we just gave up.
I saved up what I could of the legacy and what I make, so we'll never have to worry. We're not rich by any means, but there's a cushion in annuities that will protect us if something ever happens.
+ + + + +
Look at Eric, with his stupid grin. He's suddenly figured out what I am, under this thin layer of gray-tier fur. He sees my breasts, sees my nipples poking out so hard in hungry anticipation. I see his tongue lick his lips, and know he's not even aware of the silly motion. His eyes strip me of the hair, lay bare my skin—I see him drop his gaze to my loins. Surprise, dear brother , this isn't what you expected, is it?
Stan's more subtle. He's married and knows what a woman looks like. He's had his way with Millie, I can see that in his eyes. I don't think he expected her cat to ever look so good, but now that it's happened, he's judging his options. He'll play his cards carefully, so he keeps Millie but gets me, too. I just wish he'd hurry.
Millie's still a cipher. She's the one who senses the pheromones I'm throwing off. She's the one who know how a woman feels like crying when the man … men … in her life are too dense to listen to their feelings. But she's the one who lost the cat—and she plainly recognizes the marking on my forehead. She's confused. How vulnerable and adorable that makes her.
I'd be happy with any of them. Hell, right know I'd be happy jumping the mailman's bones. But he's gone—besides he delivered that letter.
+ + + + +
Shit, I forgot about the damned letter. It's still out in the backyard. The return address was from the United States Environmental Protection Agency in Washington, D.C. On the outside, it was stamped in official-looking red ink: "Urgent! Resident open immediately! Contains instructions for evacuating known hazardous waste site!"
I knew our neighborhood was built around a former toxic dumping site, but we'd been reassured cleanup had been thorough. The state sent a man out several times a year and he took readings, walking around our back yard with a probe he poked into the ground, and recording the results on a clipboard. They never told us his findings, so I assumed we were safe.
Eric read a book on cleaning up dumps. He told me they dig up all the soil, truck it away, and bury it in safe places where there are no people. Then, they bring in clean soil and plant a lot of exotic plants that put a lot of nutrients back into the ground. I always wondered where they bury the bad soil—and where they find the good soil. Won't they run out of soil sometime?
One time, the man from the state made us come downtown and have some blood tests done at the federal building. I was there before, when I was called for jury duty but didn't have to serve. I remember being interviewed by some lawyers and then they said I was excused. They never said why, and they also never explained us what results they got from our blood tests.
The landlord also told us, one time when he delivered some bushes that put out bright yellow flowers, that he was in court fighting to stop them from stealing his property. He said they were stealing it but I think the toxic stuff had something to do with it. The bushes were huge now, great jungles of dark green leaves and yellow flowers—but the yellow was never the same two years in a row.
And the houses on either side were empty. The folks had moved away and we never saw any "For Sale" signs posted. No new folks moved in, so we were all alone. If Eric and I … ummm … Eric and me … had liked to party, it would have been great not to have nosy neighbors. But we're such quiet guys that we never had any parties, just Eric reading his library books and me playing computer games.
+ + + + +
It's so warm out that I'm getting sleepy. Well, I'm still … you know … horny—but I want to lay down and close my eyes, too. My fur itches and I can't help but lick it to sooth the sensations. And to smooth it where it's been ruffled by walking and standing, and … being stared at.
If one of them doesn't do something soon, I'm going to have to make a choice and risk hurting the feelings of the others. I want sex—and I want it now—so I can go lay down in the sunshine and get my afternoon snooze.
I though it was going to be Eric. He took a step forward and I almost leapt into his arms. But then he scratched his nose and stepped back again. Made me scratch my ears—and I realized they're pointed and sit way high on the sides of my head. Don't know why it didn't dawn on me that's how I'd look, just didn't. And my whiskers itch, too, but I can quell that by rubbing them with my paws.
Well, see, they're not hands, though I have kind of long fingers. But when I stretch them, the fur comes along too and bunches up between the joints and stuff, so they don't look long. And there are think pads of soft flesh where I never had pads before. And the claws—I could hurt somebody if I ever got mad. They must be an inch long and curved. And sharp … I guess I'll have to find something to scratch to keep them sharp. Fortunately, I've always had a very even temperament, not like Stan's penchant for blowing his stack and screaming at Millie, and kicking at me if I don't go hide.
I don't know why I said that. I never knew them before today. But it seems like I have memories from when I was a kitten and they brought me home from the box at the grocery store. I was so cute, used to chase my tail and bat at string they'd dangle for me. I feel like I'm being torn in two, remembering my life as a boy with mom and Eric, and dad before Vietnam—and my life as a kitten with Stan and Millie. She used to cuddle me while she petted me and tell me what a pretty little girl I was. I used to purr for her.
+ + + + +
My gawd, I'm purring. Not only am I horny, I'm making stupid motor sounds out of my throat. How maudlin can this get? I wish they'd get it over. If I could, I'd yell "Come and get me. Chow time, boys, the brothel is open."
Stan's hands keep twitching. They've been twitching since he rang the doorbell, with Millie at his side. I had Eric call them before my voice disappeared completely, and tell them he found Bootsie. I made him promise not to say how she was, but ask them to come get her. The telephone number was on the flyer, laying with the mail on the dried-out afternoon lawn.
Millie's squinted at him several times. I guess she knows what I look like, too. I hate being the one to come between them, but I don't think I'm the first … for either. I remember she stayed out lots of nights in a row with her girlie friends, and Stan sometimes came home drunk with lipstick on his collar. I know they both have experience at making a woman feel really good.
Eric, now, he's the naïve one. Come on, brother, I'm your wettest dream come true, in the flesh … umm … in the fur. Look at these great big breasts, you always told me you thought you were a breast man. They're just waiting for a strong pair of hands. And look at the "V" of white fur pointing like an arrow at my pubes. I didn't ask for such a blatant advertisement of what I am now, but if it helps—the door's open, come on in.
If you do the deed first, there won't be any excuse to break up a marriage, I hope. Mille and Stan can get on with their own lives. I'll have you all to myself. But I want Stan, too. He's always looked so virile, parading around in his boxers, even though I was too cat-brained to recognize it before.
Oh, my. What if I'm a nymphomaniac—can't get enough sex? What if I need several men to keep me happy? But then, how would I know? They spayed me when I was a kitten, and none of the neighborhood tomcats ever cared about me.
And Millie—why do I want Millie, too? I'd love to swap spit with her—feel her gentle breasts under the caress of my paws, her nipples under my tongue. There's a lot left of the boy in me, the sex-starved, playboy-crazed, adolescent male human—more than I ever realized. Maybe it's not too late.
+ + + + +
I'll just stretch here, bend at my waist and show a lot of leg. Wow, that feels absolutely refreshing. Makes my claws come out and in and out. Anyone for a game of string chase? This purr is driving me mad—it's so loud. And I can't seem to stop it, any more than I can stop my tail from swishing in annoyance at the trio just watching me. Stop watching … and do something. I'm horny!
[fin]