Here's one that's a little different for you. My pre-publication research seems to indicate that you have to be a girl with a vivid imagination and maybe a cat to enjoy it. Proceed cautiously...
She was a cat. Oh, not all of the time of course. Most of the day she pretended that she was a little girl, hiding her real self from the world at large. Her name was Nalia; at least that's what the man called her. She was a well-behaved kitten, the kind who would sit in his warm lap and purr for hours. He sometimes brought her a saucer of cold cream which she would lick up daintily. He would scratch that special place just behind her ears and say ludicrous things like, "Good kitty," and "Pretty kitty."
The comments were only ludicrous because she knew the truth. Her real name was Bathsheba. She was a proud and vicious warrior, cunning and sly. The teeth of a tiger had nothing on Bathsheba's sharp fangs. She could run faster than the wind, and woe be unto those who opposed her, for her claws were sharp. She was convinced that her man knew nothing of her real nature, and she was haughty with her unshared truths.
She twitched her nose; a Morse code signal to those who knew how to read it. Catlike she crawled slowly towards me on all fours, the flexing of her muscles plainly visible underneath her bare skin. It always drove me mad with desire to see her like this. Somehow her feline nature accented her nakedness. A shimmer of sweat covered her body, and I watched intoxicated as the muscles in her thigh rippled with her sensual movements.
I was never sure which kitty I would see. One time she would be the rough and ready lioness who took what she wanted with wild recklessness. She was perfectly capable of treating me as she would a wild gazelle, fresh meat! dragged down by her powerful jaws. The next time I might see the kitten – soft and playful, mewing with abandon in her pleasures, lost in delight and rolling on her back as her tummy was petted just so...
Bathsheba crawled towards the man, playing and teasing as cats are wont to do when their prey is hopelessly trapped. This person wasn't so tough. He wasn't so big. Why, with a swipe of her mighty claws he would be torn asunder, and his demise would be her due. She thought that perhaps, afterward, she might bathe herself. Even ferocious cats had pride, and cleaning herself after inflicting such horror would show all who witnessed that she cared not one fig for the hideous results of her true nature.
It wouldn't do to show the jungle her true self and not give the same consideration to her prey. Even if he was soon to be gone, he should be taught a lesson in the ways of the predatory feline. She would tease him, impress him with her power as she pretended that she might yet let him live. Bathsheba sat on her haunches a few feet in front of him, pretending boredom as she began to lick her paw.
It always drove me crazy when she did that. She licked the back of her wrist, her tongue glistening and wet as she bathed herself. Occasionally she would rub her paw over the top of her head as if she was washing behind her ears. As she licked her shoulder she looked at me from under her bangs, bobbing her head and pretending to be uncaring about whether I'm watching her. As if I could be doing anything else.
She was so sensual – like was a wild animal who may give you the pleasure of her company for a while, but would always keep a part of herself locked inside so that she could withdraw her attentions and her body on her own terms. She paused for a moment to sniff the air, and I suppressed the urge to jump to the floor and ravish her there. Good things come to those who wait, I thought...
Bathsheba paused, her point made. See? Her prey was paralyzed by her very presence, unable to even entertain thoughts of fleeing while in such close proximity to the bringer of his doom. She put her front paws to the hard ground and walked slowly towards him, her head hung low. Bathsheba kept her eyes focused on his, alert to the possibility that he might yet develop enough audacity to flee her terrible wrath. But he sat still, resigned to his fate as she drew close.
She was enjoying herself. She could smell the fear on her victim, and she found it bracing. She drank it up as she would her saucer of cream. But how to toy with him further? Bathsheba gave it some thought, and then had an idea. She would mark him as her own before she devoured him. The man would be quite torn between hope and resignation if he thought that she was only going to tease him and then leave instead of conforming to her true nature. Slowly, firmly, she rubbed her cheek on his leg, smearing her scent on him.
She rubbed her cheek on my bare leg, her hair tickling me as I gazed down at her. How could such a simple thing be so wildly sensual? My eyes drank in the sight of her on her hands and knees as she caressed me, totally absorbed in what she was doing. Her tiny waist swelled to her perfect hips, and I wanted nothing more than to jump behind her and plant myself inside her. My dick knew this too, because it was angry and red, dripping with the precursor of the fluids that might soon be spurted into her. I was so ready for her that I couldn't help myself as my lust threatened to overtake me and I began trembling...
...with fear, which is as it should be. The man's terror at the proximity of such a fierce predator had him shaking. Bathsheba knew that he would not move, believing that to do so would only hasten his horrible end. Satisfied that she had instilled the maximum amount of horror in her victim, she began to contemplate the choices for their final dance together – razor sharp claws or her powerful and mighty teeth? After a moment's consideration, she chose claws.
Bathsheba began to sharpen her claws on the man's chair, spreading them wide as she scratched the rough fabric. The man can wait – she wanted the deadly weapons on her paws to be as pointed as possible, the better to work their lethal magic.
She curled her fingers under, making her tiny hands into cat's paws, and began to stroke the side of my chair – sharpening her claws no doubt. She was a wild animal, inured to the violence that her living brought others. Her feral nature was asserting itself, and my mouth watered at her nearness. God, how I wanted her...
But what's this? The hint of a familiar scent drifted past her nostrils, and she stopped sharpening her claws as she struggled to identify it. Her head tipped to one side as she analyzed the new information. The smell was so out of place that it took her a moment, but then she recognized the odor and she was puzzled. The man was in heat.
Bathsheba was confused. This could not be. The man was terrified, paralyzed with fear, unable to offer even the slightest resistance to her feline appetites. There should be no ardor in him now, only the terror that arrives side-by-side with the coming of the mighty cat. Perplexed by this apparent mystery, her feline inquisitiveness asserted itself – after all, it isn't only tiny housecats who succumb to their curiosities.
