Free Cat

1.

As the sun sets, Marta pours another glass of wine and fans herself as the spaghetti boils on her stove. It's the middle of October, and by all rights, it should be chilly outside, but Autumn has been timid as of late, letting some of Summer's heat linger like stragglers at a party. She wipes sweat from her brow and is reaching for a can of tomato sauce when Marta hears the chirp of her mobile phone, announcing that she has a new text message.

"It's Howard," She thinks. "He's canceling on me... Again."

She takes her phone and flips it screen down, not bothering to read whatever bullshit excuse he has this time. Anger and disappointment twist like crooked vines inside of her, and suddenly Marta doesn't want to think about her flimsy Boyfriend. Instead, she gulps down her second glass of wine and is preparing to pour herself a third, when she hears the doorbell.

She peers suspiciously down the hall at her front door. It is mostly glass, and she can see out into her front the yard, only there isn't anyone there; no dark figures like in horror movies, no black-eyed children, and certainly no Howard.

Marta turns off the stove and shuffles quietly to her front door, where she presses her head to the glass and looks all around her porch. She closes her eyes and is momentarily distracted by the cool touch of the glass on her forehead before opening them again. Her porch is empty, but just beyond the steps leading down out into her trim yard, there appears to be a box, or crate, or a chest, or something.

Marta opens the glass door, and a quiet night breeze surprises her. It blows her long dark hair into a bramble just behind her shoulders before she steps out onto her porch.

Outside, there is a smell that greets her. It isn't the sort of harsh musk that reams her nose, but a light scent that tickles her senses. It's a warm smell and, without really knowing why, she thinks it's oddly feline.

It turns out it isn't a crate in her yard. Instead, Marta sees a double-walled box, one of those big ones twice the size of a footlocker. From the porch, she can read the note stapled to the front that simply read, "Free cat."

Inside the crate, she hears something move.

"Hello?" it seems silly to speak to a cat, but to Marta, whatever is in the box seems too big to be a cat. She takes a step closer, curious enough to try and peer inside, but not wanting to get too close. Then the thing in the box began to stir, like a waking animal.

Now, she takes a step back and watches as two hands appear on either side. Then, pulling itself up slowly, the thing stood.

It was a man, painted up and down in shaggy browns and eggshell white stripes to look like a cat. He looks at her curiously beneath a cheap dollar store cat's mask before stretching up to the Autumn sky. He even stretched like a cat.

Marta looks him up and down and feels dregs of fear drain from her. He was naked except for the mask, and she thought the paint job was good, probably airbrushed on. Then her eyes drifted to his thick cock, which drooped sleepily between his legs.

"Oh my." The two words are lubricated with wine and slip between her lips almost too low to hear, but the man in the cat mask catches it. He stops stretching and steps out of the box and onto her porch. Marta catches a glint of silver around his neck. "A collar?" She says aloud. "Kinky!"

She reaches out and reads the name engraved on the small plate. "Shakey?" She looks at her, and beneath his cat's mask, his eyes glow marigold. "What kind of name is Shakey for a cat?"

She expects him to speak, or maybe even shrug. Instead, he stands quietly. Marta shrugs before reaching a hand out to touch his chest. Some part of her expects to push right through him as if Shakey the cat is a dream or a wine-induced delusion. Some part of her expects a flash, a puff of smoke, and then he's gone. But there is no flash. There is no smoke. When her fingertips land on warm flesh, Marta exhales hot excitement and feels her tongue dance in her mouth.

2.

"Did Howard put you up to this?"

Shakey looks at her as if Marta is speaking another language, and after a moment of silence, she waves a dismissive hand at him. "Oh, fine. Keep your secrets. I had spaghetti on, let me just take care of it."

She leads him inside, shuts the door, and eyes him as she undoes the top two buttons of her blouse. She hears him purrs deep in the back of his throat before Marta brushes by him, trailing her fingers over his chest. Then it hits her. She sniffs the air and realizing that it is his scent she smelled on the porch.

"Follow me," she commands through a flirty smile.

In the kitchen, Marta wonders if Shakey is hungry and feels a pinch of guilt. "Should I offer him something to eat?" She thinks before another voice answers inside of her. "No, let him work up an appetite."

She drains the pot of spaghetti, feeling Shakey's eyes all over her. Sweat rolls down her back and between her breast, and she tries to convince herself it's from the steam rising off of the water.

When the labor is finished, Marta eyes the bottle of wine and debates on whether she should indulge in another glass. But before she can arrive at an answer, she feels Shakey's body press up against her, his hips almost pinning her against the counter. For a moment, she wonders if his body paint will rub off on her clothes, then decides in a huff that she doesn't care all that much.

Marta breathes out her nose, flaring her nostrils before as a hand wraps around her waist and curls down the front of her blouse. She peers down and watches Shakey's hand rub the length of her pussy through the thin polyester of her slacks. The feeling is exquisite! She recalls Howard's clumsy fumbling below her waist and how he seemed uncertain and exploratory. In contrast, Shakey seems to know exactly to rub where the rubbing is best.

"Maybe Howard didn't put him up to this." In her sober mind, this thought might have frightened her, but the wine in her belly has taken the express elevator to her head and convinced Marta to roll the dice.

She can feel his cock stirring against her ass as if awakening from a slumber. In a moment, it is as hard as steel and Martha startles as if it is a current running through her body. With his hand massaging her upfront, and his cock stiff against her back, if she was in danger, it certainly didn't feel like it.

At last, after teasing her for what felt like hours, Shakey reaches down and unbuttons her slack. They slide down her legs and puddle at her feet. Marta steps out of them before spreading her legs in an invitation. The idea of his thick shaft reaching deep into her makes Marta's heart race in anticipation, and she can't help but arch her back and push against him affectionately.

"Alright, Shakey," She felt his cock nestle between her ass cheeks, and shivered. "Show me what you have." Marta felt the head of his cock rub up and down her pussy lips, smearing her lust around her inner thighs.

He struggled to get it inside of her, and Marta realized that he was too tall, so she raises up onto her tiptoes and leans forward against the counter. A moment later, he's sliding into her, and she feels Shakey's cock fill her from wall to wall.

Howard had felt good, but as a man quickly appropriating his fifties, maintaining an erection had been more of a chore for both of them. She didn't fault, especially since his mouth had proved to be useful, but sometimes Marta just wanted straight cock, with no chaser.

She catches his scent again, although the steam and the smell of spaghetti have somewhat muddled it, she can smell his excitement as Shakey's grip tightens on her shoulder. The idea of fucking a masked stranger comes to her, and as Marta breathes out her greasy black fears, she breaths in the rough slate thrill of it.

He bucks into her under the florescent light in the kitchen, and to Marta's surprise, she cums. The rush of it blindsides her, but she welcomes it with trembling thighs. It wasn't a whopper of an orgasm, she usually didn't even get off just on penetration alone, but this climax felt as good as it did peculiar.

The weird thing was, she'd cum earlier today. This morning, before work, she'd decided a little self-love would be a great start to her day. Now, as Shakey's cock slows like a big rig coming to a halt, Marta thinks just how different the two orgasms had felt.

Before she could put any real thought to it, Marta feels Skakey pull his cock free of her clenching pussy, and gasps. A groan of protest rises out of her, but her feline isn't having any of it. He slaps his cock of her ass, with a meaty thwack, glossy with Marta's nectar. Marta jumps a little in her skin, not because of any pain; instead, the shock of it hits her, striking her quiet and leaving her to wonder if it will leave a mark.

No man has ever marked her body. Not a bruise or a handprint. She's never even had a hickey. She's never had any strong feelings one way or another about anyone leaving marks, but Marta would be lying if she said she didn't want Skakey to leave her a little something.

Still thinking about her odd orgasm, Marta leads Shakey by the cock up the stairs, but before they are halfway up, he whirls her around by the shoulder and pins her against the far wall. Her head strikes a framed picture, and her lips part as it tumbles to the ground. Thank god for carpeted stairs.

"Oh Gawd," the exaltation pulls at her lungs like a ripcord as he lifts her by the thighs, fanning them open like book covers, and slides into her.

Their sex is slow and steady pounding, and Marta both loves and hates the pause, like a heartbeat, between each thrust before he drives into her with the gentleness of a brawler's fist. She peers up and sees the mural of a dozen or so pictures tremble with every thrust as if Shakey is trying to fuck her through the wall.

She thinks, "He'll fuck my hips into powder." She thinks, "He'll bring the whole house down." As if to punctuate this thought, family portraits and holiday pictures begin to clamor down all around them.

They are passion and chaos, like two teenagers fucking their way into exhaustion. When was the last time she fucked with this much vigor or enthusiasm? For that matter, when was the last time she had anything other than routine sex? The sort of sex that came with a familiar cadence of you do this to me, one-two. I do this to you, three-four. Marta can't remember, and even if she could, the fact that he's lifted her up has her feeling small and dainty, despite what the insipid scale in the bathroom tells her.

She can hear just how wet she is every time Shakey drives into her, and the sound serves reminders her that she's still got it. Lately, Marta's been a little dry; the juices just haven't been flowing like they used to. With menopause on the horizon, not to mention Howard not being the most ideal lover, arousal has been a bit of a hit and miss situation. Tonight, however, her cat-masked guest has her dripping from her clit to asshole, and she is loving it!

Something flickers behind them, and Marta is pulled momentarily from her haze only to catch the excited swoosh of...

"Is that a tail?" She wonders, and on the heels of that question, another one sprouts up. "Did he have a tail before?" Shakey's cock makes it hard to concentrate and leaves her mind in a wash of brilliant marigold. Her voice is high and breathless, and It takes Marta a moment to realize he is carrying her up the stairs, step by step, with his cock stubbornly still inside of her.

He only stops when Marta reaches for his mask. Her mouth yearns for his, and she desperately wants to kiss him, But Shakey leans away from her hand. When they are at the foot of her bed and tosses her, and Marta's eyes go from smoldering and relaxed to the wide-eyed panic of a woman who's just taken the first plunge on a roller-coaster ride. She lands softly and lets out a shock of laughter before Shakey falls on her. She reaches for his mask again, but this time Shakey catches her by the wrist and flips Marta on her back.

He grips her hips in a white-knuckled frenzy, and Marta moans in anticipation as he slowly floods her for the third time. His cock seems to tests her limits, stretching her open to almost painful splendor. The question of just how much more she can take is a fleeting one, and fly's by like the blur of a telephone pole when she's redlining it in her Porsche.

Shakey purrs deep in the back of his throat. The sound only serves to lull Marta deeper into his seduction, and she allows her hand to creep down past the silk threads of her trim bush, to work her clit. Their sex starts as a slow trot that quickly becomes an amble, before finally becoming an all-out mad dash.

He goes on like a marathon runner before feeling first herself galloping toward another climax. She can feel something different in Shakey, too, the way his body is moving without grace or ceremony. "He's close." She thinks. "He better not cum before me."

Marta rubs faster, trying to beat him to the finish line. She swirls fingers around her clit until, something like a parachute open inside of her. Her breathing roughens to something akin to a heavy smoker's before Marta has to bite down on the sheets.

His hips don't falter, and for a moment, she wishes he'd pump the breaks if only because the sensation is so good, it is almost unbearable. Her knees tremble, and tears pickle the corners of her eyes as she feels herself gush sweet nectar onto Shakey's cock. Her orgasm ravages her, and Marta screams face down into her mattress. It is only then that the big cat pulls out of her.

She feels his body begin to tremble and smiles, finally understanding his name. Shakey roars as he shoots hot strings of cum onto Marta, painting her bare ass with what feels like a bucket load. For a moment, Marta feels hooks of disgust dig into her, for she has never let any man humiliate her with his seed. But there is satisfaction too. His cum is plenty, and she likens it to just how aroused he was, aroused because of her.

When he finally exhausts himself, Shakey collapses onto Marta, and then both roll over onto the bed in a loose lover embrace. A part of her wants to clean up. Her ass is smeared in cum, and she's sure the bedsheets are soiled too. But, the adrenaline is starting to fade, and she can already tell she's going to be sore tomorrow. A part of her isn't sure she wants to fall asleep with this strange masked man in her house, then there is the smell again, his feline scent she first smelled when she stepped out on the porch. It's heavy in the air, and she hales deeply, letting it fill her lungs and calm her soul.

Shakey's tale flips lazily behind him, and Marta has time to wonder if it's real or not before sleep is tapping on her shoulder. Just before she drops off, she reaches for Shakey's mask.

3.

There are no dreams, only this omnipresent sensation of calmness. Marta hasn't felt this calm in over twelve years. Not after ushering a company back from the brink of bankruptcy back into that black. Not After burying a husband three years ago. And certainly not after throwing herself back into dating. It's been a rough ride for her.

She wakes to someone calling her name and shaking her. When she finally grumbles and opens her eyes, Howard is sitting on the edge of her bed with a thin smile on his face.

"There you are," He starts. "Rough night last night?"

She sits up and scurries away from him like a frightened kitten. As she does, her hands falls on the cheap plastic cat mask. "Whoa," he says and holds his hands up as if surrendering. "It's just me. It's alright?"

Distantly Marta registers how amazing her body feels. She isn't sore, or raw, and doesn't seem to have any aches. Hell, she isn't even hungover. Right now, the only thing Marta is, is confused, perhaps a little scared, and maybe a little embarrassed.

"What are you doing here?" There is an accusation in her voice, as sharp of a knife's edge.

"Didn't you get my text last night?" She doesn't answer, and Howard furrows his brow. "The flight got delayed, and I had to spend the night at the damn airport."

Guilt clusters in Marta's chest as she holds up the mask and recalls everything that happened last night.

"Is that for your new friend?" Howard asks, and Marta's eyes grow so wide, they threaten to spill out of her sockets as. "Hey, don't sweat it, he was meowing like crazy when I came in, so I poured him some milk."

She stares at Howard, trying to piece everything together. When she finally gives up, Marta sighs and lets out a nervous little chuckle. She decides that whatever conversation they need to have will happen downstairs over coffee. She gets out of bed, still in her blouse for the night before and nothing else.

"Where is he?" Howard, who is busy taking in her naked crotch, doesn't answer. "Howard?" she calls curtly, which brings Howard back to his senses in a snap.

"He's uh... He's downstairs in the kitchen."

Marta fetches a robe and makes her way downstairs, with Howard tailing behind. "Listen," he says as they make their way into the kitchen. "I'm sorry about the flight. But I didn't have a choice."

Marta stops short in the kitchen doorway, and Howard collides into her, ceasing his jabber. Instead, he watches Marta stands with her hands clutching her rob as she watched a golden brown cat with white stripes lap at a saucer of milk.

She'd expected Shakey to be sitting at the counter. She'd expected a man with his mask off, and for Howard to break into some sort of 'this was my plan all along' speech. What she didn't expect was an actual cat.

As if hearing her thoughts, the cat looks up from the saucer and flicks its tail playfully. Then, it meows at her, and there is some odd familiarity to it.

"Marta? Marta!" She feels numb and barely notices Howard shaking her. "Are you alright? What's gotten into you?"