Ollie Makes a Match

My name is Oliver, more often Ollie, sometimes just "Oll". I didn't name myself because that's the thing about names. No one and nothing names itself. You have to wait for a Namer to give you a name.

My Namer is Miss Rhonda McIntire. She adopted me when I was just a wee kitten, only a bundle of orange stripes with one white foot (for luck). She and I live at 47 Lark Meadow Lane, in a comfortable little house that backs onto the open space. The tall birches that border our backyard are the boundary to the wilder park beyond. I'm a big old tomcat now and I patrol the block against interlopers and prey.

I don't recall a time before the Lark Meadow house, other than as a jumble of other kittens and a vague sense of Mama cat. That was long ago: I am ten now and in the prime of my life.

Rhonda--"Ronnie" to her friends--is in the prime of her life too. I know she wishes for a mate and maybe to produce a litter of her own. I know that humans are different than we cats: not for her being held by the scruff of the neck and mated by a passing male. Instead, we've both endured her progression of insufficient options. Dog people, anti-social people, not returning your call people, poorly opinionated or poorly read people.

The most recent almost made the grade, until I caught him texting with another woman. I peed in his shoes after that, and he got the message.

Still, it bothers me. I want Ronnie to be happy, the way she makes me happy--always there with tasty food, fresh water, a clean box, a warm lap, that one comfy chair in the sun in the living room.

I think I've finally found him, but it's going to be tricky. Neither of them know it, but they're perfect for one another.

He is John St. James and he lives with his current family at number 45 Lark Meadow Lane. He is a hard worker, good father to his two sons, and is friendly to cats.

His wife, Cynthia, represents a problem to John and Ronnie getting together. But she really shouldn't: she doesn't love him and she shows this daily by her actions.

For example, one particular day, John left for work at 7:30, taking the boys off to school with him. As soon as they were gone, Cynthia went into her bathroom and cleaned herself up, primped, fussed, and put on a tracksuit. She is not a runner. She likes the athletic lines of the outfit and the easy access it provides: zip, zip, and off it flies. She poured herself a fizzy drink at sat down to await her date.

He's right on time, pulling up in his red Corvette. He's a powerful looking man, with wide biceps and thick shoulders. He shaves his head and whitens his smile. His cologne stinks, as if he wallowed in cat pee. I don't hate him, because he is the tool of my matchmaking and because he is kind. I don't see what he sees in Cynthia, though.

She goes to meet him, knowing he's arrived by the ballistic barking of her noxious little freak of a dog. He has a million cutesy names, but John and I call him Mr. Piddles for his propensity for "accidents". John is a good Namer: it's one of his qualifying qualities.

Car Guy goes into the house with Cynthia. Today is a nice day, so they go through the house to the back yard.

"I've missed you so much," Cynthia is telling him as they emerge. "What you do to me, I need it bad!"

"It's only been a couple of days, honey, but I like your enthusiasm. Don't you worry about your husband? Your neighbors? We should probably meet somewhere else."

"I don't care. They're not home now or they won't say anything. Besides, I like it when you take me in the big king bed or out here where anyone might see," she replied. Her hands were running up and down Car Guy's muscles. "I need your cum in me."

"We've talked about that before," he said, starting to kiss her. The tracksuit's top zipper is tiny in his massive paws. The flexible cloth bursts open as he assists gravity with the tab. Cynthia's ample bosom, round and ripe, is revealed, in all of its artificial glory. "I don't want any accidents with you. We're just having some fun. Don't you care what would happen to your family if we got in trouble?"

"This is what lawyers are for. Besides, we're not trying to get in trouble, just having a little fun. A tiny amount of risk just makes the whole thing more exciting." Their mouths pressed together again while his huge hands tried to warm her obviously cold nipples.

She ground her body against him. His hands wandered, diving inside the athletic pants to grab her ass. Her hands wandered, tugging at his pants. She did have a tight, muscular body. The merest pooching of her belly spoke of carrying John's two children, otherwise her midriff was toned and sculpted. Her limbs were long, lean, and carefully tanned. Her blond hair and dusky lips were designed to delight. The bolt on breasts were the only distraction.

Although Car Guy was not distracted by them. His physique was built, his upper body an inverted triangle of muscle and sinew. His narrow hips sported powerful buns that tapered into thick powerful thighs. He was an exceptional specimen, with one exception. No number of sit-ups and lifts will bulk up that muscle. That was slightly below average, although I'm told it is what you do with it? I couldn't say. It's different for us.

Whatever his inadequacy in dimensions, Cynthia was completely besotted by what was going on. He guided her back and reclined her on a chaise lounge. The white padding took their combined weight as she willingly drew her knees upward and out. Her heels and toes hooked behind those impeccable glutes. Drawing him in, the two of them did the mating dance. The metal of the lounge squeaked its displeasure at the sustained workout but was drowned out by his breathy huffs of effort and, especially, by her exhortations.

"Oh! Baby! Deeper, baby, deeper! Put your big tool in mommy! Give me your hot love cream! Breed my tight little hole! Plug me up with your dirty bastard spawn!" she urged, a moaning recitation of wicked deeds partly meant to urge him on and partly meant to leave no doubt in any audience that she was being thoroughly and willingly thumped.

He only lasted a minute before grunting out his arrival, his hands gripping her wide birthing hips the better to empty his hot cream into her belly. He seemed to shake her to ensure every drop was wrung out and carefully deposited onto her waiting depths.

Then there were various tidyings and promises and smooches before he gathered himself up and was readying to retreat to the car. I groomed my right front paw while trying to think of a way to reveal Cynthia's sordid coupling with this man. John had only just departed. There was no hope of delaying a departure. There didn't seem to be anything to grab of his that would be revealing. I was going to have to think about it.

Car Guy fired up his car and sped off. I sat watching Mr. Piddles and Cynthia sitting in their back yard. She still had a flushed face and the remnants of her disloyalty were dripping out onto the cushion. It was time to stalk birds and think about it more.

The afternoon brought a second example of Cynthia's unworthiness. This time it was her gardener. He was a short dark Peruvian guy, skinny and spare. Next to Car Guy he would have looked like a rawhide chew toy. His gardening style was "mow and blow"--run over the grass with the mower and mop up the sidewalks with the leaf blower--but Cynthia put an extra "blow" into the equation. Unlike Car Guy, Señor Jardin put all his growth one place: his rake was thick and long. Cynthia was prepared. There was a bit of lawn furniture with a drawer. Inside she'd secreted a box of prophylactics probably intended for use with whales or pachyderms. "Can't be too careful," she intoned as she rolled it on before pulling him where only one other man had been today.

He gave her garden much more attention than John's lawn received. He raked and edged and furrowed and tilled her for most of an hour before seeding her beds (or at least trying to, given the sheath). Then she tipped him a Ben Franklin, slapped him on the butt, and headed in to make herself presentable.

The kids came home toward the middling part of the afternoon, when the sun is just beginning to slant a bit, to a freshly showered mom who had no time for them. Instead, they boiled out of the house and went to play in the neighborhood, where they played with their toy cars, zipping up and down the "highway" of the street curb.

I went over to greet them. It's always good to get a scratch behind the ear or the base of the tail; and it's good to make nice with John's brood. Perhaps some angle would present itself for insinuating Ronnie deeper into John's life? It was also an opportunity to taunt Mr. Piddles, who was not permitted to run loose in front of the house. Showing him cat butt and territory marking the kids with head butts was guaranteed to dissolve his tiny mind.

Oddly, an opportunity to tip John off to the daytime theatre at his house did present itself. Nosing around the compost heap, in case of a good rodent murder opportunity, I found the leavings from Señor Jardin's visit. The used condom, instead of being taken away or somehow secreted, had been stuffed in with some of the lawn waste. Hmm...

I took the offensive thing up carefully in my jaws and hid it in the backyard for later.

When John came home, I made sure to greet him. Just one brush against his leg in the driveway before retreating home--a reminder of where Ronnie lived and what nice people we were. John went up the driveway in the last glimmerings of twilight to find dinner on the table. No one had waited on him, though he was home at a normal hour. I could see the exhaustion in his posture as he dropped his work case and computer by the door, and the sarcasm from Cynthia as he greeted her.

I went in to have dinner with Ronnie. She was glad to see me, and I got a nice can of food while she sipped a glass of wine. There was some bustle tonight, which meant probably a visitor. He turned up around seven.

It was Eric. He'd been to our house before and he was... well, okay. He tolerated me fine and he was polite. He made okay chit-chat and usually he had an early curfew, leaving Rhonda decidedly dissatisfied. It would be a night of self-care for her, if previous 'dates' were any measure.

For a moment, I was disappointed, in that he seemed to Get the Picture for a change. I got booted out so as not to be underfoot while things got steamy. Or at least, steamier.

I crept over to John's yard to see what was up. It was a nice enough evening, warm with only a little breeze. You could see some stars, between the swaying beech trees. John was lying in the lounge where his wife had spent most of the day being ravished nursing a glass of whisky. I could hear the ice cubes tinkling. I hid under the hydrangea (note to self: watch for owls), watching.

Cynthia came out not too much later to nag him. "Go put your sons to bed. I've had them all day. You do nothing around here. I do so much to keep this family together." All these lies made my fur stand up.

But John loves his kids and didn't mind going in to read them stories and see that teeth were brushed. It wasn't long, though, before he returned. Somewhere he had shed the button-down Oxford work shirt in favor of a favored old t-shirt. He picked up his cocktail again and sat on the lounger with a semi-contented exhale.

About that time, our front door opened and disgorged Eric. Apparently, the mating hadn't gone well after all. His car started and our porch light went off. I'd have to go in soon.

Before that, though, a wicked thought entered my mind. I got the used condom from where I'd stashed it and started to play with it. I batted it into the yard, pretended to stalk it. Then batted it further.

John watched me playing, at first unaware of the cat toy's nature.

"Whatcha' got there, Oll?" he asked. Cynthia wasn't yet paying attention. I batted it over by him, then sprang up on the low container where his wife was hiding the box of condoms. John looked at the item, then glanced at me. We made eye contact, then I looked back at the "toy". He looked back at the item and looked at Cynthia.

"Huh. Kids fooling around in the neighborhood again. Better check that gate latch," he said. But I could see a germ of doubt there. I pawed a bit at the hiding spot. There was no way I could open it, but maybe I could trigger some curiosity.

Cynthia was having none of it. "Shoo! You nasty beast!" She came hissing at me, fully aware of the hidden treasure. I sprang free and showed her my tail, flag flying, as I strolled away, daring her to chase me. She didn't take the bait. I gave John one last look back. He had a thoughtful look.

Rhonda was not happy when I got home.

"Oh Oll. Whatever are we going to do? I only seem to meet guys who have some sort of chastity pledge or who hate commitment. They don't want a family or children and, if you mention the possibility even once, they never want to scratch mama's itch after, for fear I'm trying to trap them. At least you like me." I jumped up in her lap and we spent some quality time.

The next day must have been a weekend. Instead of hurried crepuscular activity (showers and dressing and bolted breakfasts before zooming off in cars to work) the day opened languid and late. Once morning ablutions were taken care of, I went to find a shady spot from which to contemplate my next moves.

I could see into John and Cynthia's bedroom and it was clear that, once again, she was resisting his mating advances. Gentle neck rubs were rebuffed, soft kisses went unreturned, hugs produced shrugs until, finally, she got up, ostensibly to relieve herself, but mostly to don additional garment layers and go out in search of her own breakfast.

John spent a bit longer under the warmth of the covers. I stared in, wondering how I could communicate: "hey, dummy, right next door is a waiting female who would return your embraces with enthusiasm, not spurn you."

Eventually, he did arise and pulled on a bathrobe. Instead of going into the house, he came out the slider onto the patio. The lounger is in the shade in the morning, and he went over to sit on it. Birdsong greeted him.

I strolled over and made my presence known.

"Hey, Oll," he rumbles. "Not catching any mice this morning?" I've brought him gifts once or twice, just to show my respect. "Mrah," I reply. I rubbed the lounger once and was rewarded with a head scratch. That reminds me of the hiding place.

I head over to the little stand and scratch at the opening I know is there. I can't open it: it's meant for human paws. But I can rattle it a bit. I think it is supposed to be decorative rather than functional. John wonders why I'm playing with it, which is my intention. Perhaps something has come loose and needs tightening? He's constantly doing little maintenance chores like that, staying ahead. It doesn't take much nudging for him to find Cynthia's stash: condoms, lube, and a strange device that neither of us recognize. John's face screws up. He looks over at me.

"Thanks, Ollie. I didn't know this was here." He closed the fake drawer, but not all the way, as if to leave a message. Then he sat for a while, quietly, on the lounger, not saying anything.

Ronnie came out into our backyard. Oh! This is a chance. I look over at John and meow, then take some steps towards Ronnie. Look, meow, step. C'mon, John, see what's going on here, man. She's right here. What you need. Ronnie and John look at each other and smile. I trot a few steps towards her and look back to see if he's catching on. He looks bashful and starts to get up--but it's to go inside. I can tell he checked Ronnie out, though, just a bit. At least he appreciated her curves. It's... sigh... a step.

Not much else happened that day, except that I caught a gopher. It took me some time: diggers require patience. My pounce was perfect, though. Very satisfying.

A man with a large dog stopped by to see Ronnie. The dog, a grizzled older dog, probably some sort of Belgian herding breed, sat in the car making nose prints on the window while this guy went into the house to chat with Ronnie. He'd been over before and, indeed, she'd been to his place a few times, coming home smelling of the pooch in question (but not so much of the man).

I don't speak dog, so I'm not sure what his wuffs meant. I'm told by the indoor Siamese that lives at number 17, that Dog isn't terribly hard to learn. "Ninety percent of it is some mutation of the same theme: 'am I a good boy?' 'who is a good boy?' 'I am a good boy' 'I was not a good boy' and so forth." So, I haven't really bothered. But at least this dog is a proper dog, not like that Mr. Piddles. I'll keep my distance, thank you, since he is a huge beast, but not a useless one. I can tell that this one knows the claws are sharp and that chasing won't be permitted. I keep one eye on him, just in case, but can turn my attention to other things.

Eventually, the man comes out and he and the dog depart.

A couple of days like that and it's back to morning routines. Ronnie off to work, John and the kids off to work and school.

I go into the backyard to see what's up. Cynthia is arranging things, nudging and fiddling. Apparently, she expects company and probably intimate company at that. She's wearing a housecoat, but it's over a bit of tinsel and embroidery meant for the boudoir. I recognize the scent she's wearing and the hint of female desire under it. Her scent is a little off today, as if something has changed. Mr. Piddles is already enthroned on a chair alertly following her every move with his beady bulging eyes.

Car Guy drives up. I can hear his vehicle blocks away. He heads up to the door and is admitted without ringing the bell. There's halting conversation inside. I move over to observe through the family room slider.

"It's been too long, baby, I've missed you," she's telling him. "I just need you so much."

They kiss, tongues dueling. Her hands are on his bulked up shoulders and she's rubbing up against him. I think her plan was to lure him outside, but they are getting to carried away where they're at. He roughly pushes the housecoat off, to reveal the spaghetti worn beneath, hot red and barely there. She sinks down to pull at his pants.

He's stepping out of them as her lipstick makes its first ring around his stiffening meat. His arousal presents no difficulties for her lips and tongue, the little instrument ready to be played in just a few heartbeats. She pleases his piccolo for a few moments before he drags her up onto the loveseat. Her children watch cartoons there in the morning, but now she's putting it to its formal use. She draws her thong aside while guiding his munchkin tool into her.

"Ahh..." they both sigh as he burrows into her.

"That's it, honey, pound my hole with your babymaker. Paint my baby's room," she implores.

"We don't need to be making that mistake," he whispers, "we're just having fun, right?"

"Oh, honey, it's too late. You already bred me. Your big powerful seed has already sprouted. This pussy is yours now. Take it and mark it!" she replies. Her meaning is clear and I can see the consternation across his face, only to be replaced with a 'what the heck, if the deed's already done...'

He grabs her with his powerful hands and slams his body into her, thinking now only of his own pleasure. This seems to set her off: she wants to be used like a toy, like a thing. He shoots his load into her, pulls himself free, and wipes the mess off on her discarded coverup.

"So, you're pregnant? Mine?" he asks.

"Yes, baby. I took a test. It can't be anyone else's. I don't let anyone cum in me, 'cept you. Isn't it exciting? You're going to be a daddy."

"You're crazy, bitch," he replied. "This was just some fun we were having, on the quiet. On the side, you know. My wife and your husband staying none the wiser. What are you thinking is going to happen?"