Splashdown Remastered and Housecat

The skirt was made from black fabric that barely served to cover her, with a trim that was made from white lace. There was a white half-apron on the skirt's front, similarly decorated with a white ruffle, a facsimile that served no real purpose. Her midriff was bare, exposing her impressive musculature, twin rows of abdominal muscles bulging from beneath her pale skin as if they had been chiseled from marble.

Her thighs were similarly muscled, thick and round in order to support her immense weight, a pair of black garters decorated with red bows struggling to encircle them. A pair of garter belts disappeared beneath her skirt to hold them up, presumably anchored to the lingerie that he knew lay beneath.

Her sizable breasts were suspended in a brassiere made from white lace, with decorative ruffles that extended up her shoulders. A tiny corset that served no purpose other than to titillate rested beneath her boobs, so small that it scarcely reached the top row of her abs. It was black in color and held together with red string.

There were black cuffs on her wrists that stood out against her orange fur, similarly decorated with white frills and sporting gold cufflinks. On her head she wore a ruffled, white headpiece with red bows, perched between her round ears. Around her neck was a black choker, decorated with white lace and held together with a red ribbon. A small, golden bell dangled from it, the kind that one might find on the collar of a pet cat.

Borealans had fur only in specific places, most notably on their digitigrade legs up to their knees, and on their hands and forearms up to the elbow. It sometimes gave the impression that they were wearing furry gloves and socks. Besides the long, fuzzy tail that protruded from beneath her skirt, the rest of her skin was clean. As with most of her kind, she was covered in faded scars, pink claw marks that criss-crossed her exposed skin. They were on her thighs and belly, her chest and upper arms, there were even a few on her face. They were not disfiguring, the Borealan healing factor was impressive and even the deep lacerations incurred during dominance bouts mended quickly, but her body told a story of fights won and lost.

"Y-You're staring," she stammered, McGregor delighting in her embarrassment. She was so massive, impossibly powerful, and yet she looked like a teenage girl wearing her prom dress for the first time. He had eyeballed her dimensions when he had sent off for the custom clothing, and she was practically spilling out of them, especially in the chest area. Her breasts were larger and probably heavier than his damned head, the fabric that contained them so thin and soft that he could make out her nipples through it.

She reached up and tapped the little bell with a curved claw, listening to the ringing sound that it made.

"What is the function of this?"

"It's so that I know where you are."

"This clothing is...purposeless. It does not cover, it does not protect, it doesn't warm me. Is this apron supposed to protect me from dirt? It's too small."

"And how does it make you feel?" McGregor asked, admiring her conspicuously as she rubbed her thighs together and averted her gaze. Her face was beet red, he could have cooked an egg on her cheeks.

"Exposed..."

"Sexy?" He volunteered.

She crossed her arms over her chest, grumbling under her breath. She was doing her best to look aloof, but failing. McGregor could read her like an open book, and he knew arousal when he saw it. Just like that time in the cave, she was putting on an act, feigning disinterest in an attempt to save face. That was one of the things that he enjoyed the most about their strange relationship, tearing down the walls that she liked to put up.

Borealan society was one of inherent power play. Whether they were submitting to an Alpha, or dominating the pack that lived under them, someone was always on top and someone was always on the bottom. Yet despite the obvious sexual component of their pack structure, he wasn't sure that they had ever really explored their sexuality beyond that simple dynamic. They gleaned enjoyment and satisfaction from overpowering a foe, and even in being overpowered, yet McGregor had come across nothing that might indicate a deeper understanding of their own sadomasochistic tendencies during his research.

He had never visited Borealis, and so for all he knew there could be fetish parlors on every street corner, catering to all manner of fantasies and taboos. It didn't seem likely however, and if that was the case, then Zhari was certainly uncommonly naive.

That was about to change, however.

"Now that you're appropriately dressed, you can do the dishes," he said.

Seeming pleased to have something to occupy herself with, she returned to her position in front of the sink, filling it with hot water and dish soap. She began to wash the dirty plates with a sponge, needing no further instruction, which led McGregor to believe that the household chore was common to both species. They must use plates back on the homeworld, and they must wash them after the fact. What else had he been expecting?

He let her work for a few minutes, and then sauntered up behind her, noticing that one of her round ears had swiveled to track him. Their senses were sharper than those of a human, making them very difficult to sneak up on.

He eyed her long tail as it waved idly back and forth, covered in puffy, orange fur that had faded stripes like those of a tiger. He could just make out the barest peek of her black lingerie beneath the short skirt, the movement of her tail lifting the fabric.

He reached out a hand and gripped the appendage by the base, feeling her fur puff up like a surprised cat, her body tensing as she felt his fingers wrap around her tail. He gave it a hard yank, hearing a stifled moan escape her pursed lips, and watching as her trembling thighs pressed together. She would never admit to it, but she loved it when he pulled her tail, or when he massaged her lower back. There must be a nerve cluster there or something, she reacted so strongly to it.

"I didn't say stop," he said, and she took a moment to compose herself before starting on the next dish. Her hands were submerged in the soapy water, so she couldn't do much to ward him off.

He waited for a few moments with her tail resting in his hand, enjoying the tension as she anticipated another tug. He let it drag out, and just when he felt her begin to relax, he gave her fluffy appendage another hard yank. Her head rolled back and her muscles tensed, her claws digging into the edge of the wooden counter top as she gripped it for balance. He heard another stifled grunt that tapered into a low sigh, her legs trembling slightly as she recovered and resumed her task.

Her muscles were like coiled springs, he could practically hear the thoughts that were roiling in her head as she waited for another jolt, fumbling with the plates with trembling hands.

"If you break a plate, you won't get any salted ice cream," he teased.

"Salted ice cream? I want some sal-"

He interrupted her mid-sentence with another tug, watching the muscles that carved a deep channel down her spine tense and flex, her thick thighs squeezing together. He could read her body language like a book, whenever she was aroused she moved her legs, twitching her stubby toes or rubbing her smooth thighs together. She would be soaking her lace panties under that skirt, he could probably get her off right here by slipping a couple of fingers beneath the fabric, but the game was just beginning.

She was trying so hard to concentrate on the dishes, but he knew that all of her attention was consumed by the sensation of his light grip on her tail. Her chest was rising and falling more heavily now, her breath becoming ragged and less regular, as if she was afraid to breathe.

There wasn't very much to wash up, there were only two of them after all, and before long all that was left was the metal pan that McGregor had cooked the turkey in. She had cleaned up most of the grease when they were sat at the table, using her rough, textured tongue to lick it away. Again he waited until she became more relaxed before hitting her with another harsh yank.

This time a distinctly sexual moan escaped her lips, and her legs gave out, her knees buckling as she slid down the side of the counter. She gripped the edge of the sink to save from falling, soap suds sliding down the wooden paneling as she kneeled on the tiled floor. McGregor reached out a hand and delved into her hair, now at chest height to him, scratching her behind the ear with his fingers. She shivered contentedly, her long tail winding across the floor like a furry snake, every movement punctuated by the ringing of the tiny bell that hung from her choker.

"Good girl," he whispered, his tone low and placating.

***

Zhari found herself on the floor, the insubstantial underwear that McGregor had commanded her to wear sticking to her groin as her juices soaked it, little more than a mesh of lace and silk. The clothing had made her feel oddly warm, as if her body was being put on display for her Alpha's pleasure. Why he would tease himself like that rather than just taking what was his escaped her.

The human knew exactly what to do in order to get a reaction from her. The base of her tail ached with a dull, satisfying pleasure from his tugging, and now his fingers were combing through her hair. He tickled her furry ears, his lack of claws making his touch gentle and pleasant, her excitement leaking down her inner thighs as she tried in vain to cover herself with her hopelessly inadequate skirt.

Her heart was pounding in her chest, her mouth was dry, her loins ached with an emptiness that only he could fill. She wanted him desperately, but it was not her decision to make. A subordinate did not make demands of her Alpha, no matter how great her desire.

"Good girl..."

The words cut through her fog of arousal like a hot knife, a strange fluttering sensation rising in her belly. The pack's reason for being, their purpose, was to serve their Alpha. McGregor was pleased with her, she did not know what she had done so right, but he was praising her. There were no other pack members with whom she had to share the attention, she was the sole recipient of his affection, his favorite.

His hand left her hair, and she struggled to her feet, her legs unsteady as she picked up the metal pan and finished cleaning it. She was on edge, awaiting another tug of her tail, another jolt of electrical pleasure shooting up her spine. It never came however, McGregor simply watched her, she could feel his eyes playing up and down her body as she scrubbed.

She finished her task, drying her furry hands on a towel, pressing them tightly together to squeeze out all of the soapy water. She wanted desperately to reach a finger between her thighs, to push aside that flimsy garment and rub until this tension left her, but she knew that McGregor had other ideas. Nothing he did was unintentional, without purpose. He wanted her to feel this way, and so it was her duty to oblige him.

Her face burning, she turned to face him, fumbling with her short skirt as she tried to straighten it. She was so conscious of the strange, alien outfit. It was not necessarily uncomfortable or cold, and yet the fabric was soft and delicate enough to bother her in other ways. The top was too tight, the lacy material brushing against her swollen nipples, teasing her every time she moved. The skirt was revealing, and the bands around her thighs and neck served no purpose other than to titillate. Borealans found no shame in nakedness, as was a common trait in humans. Yet something about being so sparsely clothed, at risk of exposing her sodden panties to him with every step...it filled her with a blend of shame and an almost giddy excitement.

She liked the way that his eyes played across her exposed body, more covetous than when she was simply nude. It was as if revealing so much, while keeping her most intimate anatomy covered, was more pleasing to him. Again it was like he was teasing himself, prolonging his desire rather than taking her as he pleased.

It confused her, but she liked it. She felt almost drunk.

"I'm done," she stated, struggling to keep her voice from wavering. "W-What would you ask of me now?"

The question was risky, it might have been taken as a challenge by a Borealan Alpha, but she was starting to understand that McGregor was different. He lacked that gut reaction to perceived insubordination, the clip around the ear or the claw swipe that she anticipated never came.

She waited with bated breath, hoping against hope that he might just order her to all fours and take her on the kitchen floor. He knew what she wanted, she could see it in his eyes.

"Now we're going to eat some ice cream."

CHAPTER 7: SALTED CARAMEL

Zhari shoveled a large spoonful of the cold dessert into her mouth, her eyes fixed on the screen in front of the couch as two sides of a Medieval battlefield met, horses braying and metal clashing as they fell upon each other. She seemed to be enjoying the ice cream, as well as the movie. McGregor knew that her people weren't too sensitive to sweet tastes, and so he had chosen a salted caramel flavor instead of the usual chocolate or vanilla.

He laughed as she swallowed a hunk that was too large, sticking out her long tongue and screwing her eyes shut.

"You'll give yourself brain freeze, slow down!"

She set the bowl down on the armrest and waved her furry hands, licking her palate like a dog trying to eat peanut butter as he laughed at her.

"It'll stop soon, don't worry. Don't you have refrigeration where you come from?"

"Not like this," she sputtered, the sensation finally abating. "This is really cold!"

"It's ice cream, that's the point."

She returned the spoon to her mouth as soon as she was able, watching as the armored knights in the movie fought one another, banners flapping in the wind as the soldiers battered their foes with shields and flails. Cavalry charged into the fray, horses speared on pikes as their riders swung swords into the crowd below.

"Tell me again what they're fighting over?" She asked, her sharp teeth clicking on her spoon.

"Territory mostly, King Henry is leading the English against the French at Agincourt. The two countries fought for over a hundred years."

"He's their Patriarch?"

"In a way. He's the King, back in those days the right to rule was decided by blood."

"That seems inefficient, what if he was a bad leader?"

"You're right, there were many bad leaders. It wasn't a very good system of government. There was Henry the Eighth, King John, Ivan the Terrible and King Leopold. That system lasted for a significant chunk of our history, however."

"You like history?" She asked, swallowing another mouthful of ice cream. "You know a lot about this stuff."

"I guess I do, yeah. We humans like to share our hobbies with the people that we like."

"And these two factions, they're allies now?"

"Close friends, yeah."

She pondered for a moment as she watched the battle play out, basking in the heat from the holographic fireplace as the digital flames licked at the hearth.

"I don't understand how they can become friends after fighting for so long. They fought for a hundred years, and then they just stopped one day?"

"It's not really that simple," McGregor chuckled, "and the hundred years war was only one of many. All things considered, they probably fought on and off for a thousand years. Countries become allies for various reasons, to unite against a common enemy that threatens them both for example, or because they realize that cooperation is more fruitful than war."

"Like what you said about all of the colonies uniting against the Bugs?"

"Exactly, it's a similar situation."

She looked thoughtful, mulling over what he had said as she sat there with the spoon in her mouth. McGregor could tell what she was thinking.

"You're wondering if the same thing will happen on Borealis," he volunteered, and she nodded. "It's possible, likely even. Borealis hasn't been directly threatened by the Bugs yet, you have no offworld colonies to defend either. While you serve as auxiliaries in the Coalition, I get the impression that the reality of the situation hasn't really hit the homeworld yet. They're still mired in old rivalries that would be made insignificant once they realized the real threat."

"If all of the territories united, we would be unstoppable," she said as she stared into space.

"Not without a fleet you wouldn't. If the Bugs wanted to take Borealis, they could bombard it from orbit and your people wouldn't be able to do a damned thing to stop them. That's why there's a UNN fleet stationed in the system at all times."

"Elysia has a fleet!" Zhari protested.

"Junkers," McGregor laughed, "and your pilots have no training or combat experience. I hate to think what the upkeep is like, don't you land them in the desert because you have no orbital installations?"

She pouted, and he patted her thigh apologetically.

"I'm not trying to put you down, we need you as much as you need us after all. Our Marines used to get torn up by Bugs in close combat before we started using Borealan shock troops."

That seemed to cheer her up, and she finished off her ice cream as she watched the end of the movie, licking the bowl clean with her long tongue.

"Good?" McGregor asked, and she nodded contentedly. Borealans were so easy to please, all it took was a few treats to make them happy. He had bought a gallon of ice cream, and she would probably have eaten the whole thing in one sitting if he wasn't rationing it.

"I've got another treat for you," he said, and her ears perked up.

"What is it?"

"Stay here."

He rose to his feet, walking over to where the mystery box was waiting on the kitchen counter.

***

Zhari kept her eyes forward, remembering that McGregor had ordered her not to look inside the box. The first item that he had brought from it was the costume that she was currently wearing, would it be a different kind of clothing? He had said that he had a treat for her, and the outfit seemed more for his benefit than hers. Was it more food maybe? Her mouth began to water as she imagined new and exciting flavors of ice cream.

She heard him rummaging through the box's contents, and then his footsteps as they transitioned from tile to carpet, McGregor making his way back to the couch. There was some kind of...device in his hand that she didn't recognize. A rubber wire with some kind of ball on the end of it.

She eyed it curiously as he sat down beside her and unraveled the coiled wire, taking the bullet-shaped end between his thumb and forefinger.

"What's that?" She asked.

He reached down and slid a hand between her legs, parting them. She gasped as she felt his fingers trace the glass-smooth skin of inner thigh, her muscles tensing as he roamed higher, tantalizingly close to her loins. She leaned back into the plush cushions, tingling pleasure shooting through her as his questing digits reached the band of lace and fabric that was coiled high on her leg.

He lifted it with a finger, sliding the bullet-shaped device beneath it, and then wrapping the long, flexible wire around it. There was a block on the other end, and he let it hang from her garter, the wire wound tightly enough to prevent it from falling.

Zhari was too aroused to ask questions now, her breath becoming ragged as his hand strayed higher, his fingers sliding beneath her skirt and brushing the fabric of her panties. She shivered, her juices flowing as her arousal mounted, leaking forth to dampen her lace underwear. He pressed his fingers against her loins, the 'squish' audible to her sensitive ears, and perhaps to his too. He brushed her swollen clitoris through the fabric, and she arched her spine as a wave of excitement tore through her.