Disclaimer:
This story is purely fictitious and not suitable for anyone that is below the legal age in their country to view pornographic material. All characters involved in the story are either the age of eighteen or older, and belong to myself. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred. Reader discretion is advised.
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"Let's write a femdom, cat-girl story, in
first-person."
Uh...
No?
There are other stories we need to work on and complete, first.
"Who cares?"
The fans?
"We're not on the clock. Fuck 'em."
That's... actually a good point, although perhaps a bit harsh. Sorry folks, we
do
just do this for fun, afterall.
"Damn skippy."
So, a femdom focus? First-person perspectives? These aren't things we've explored much. Or, rather,
at all...
Cat-girl stuff sounds fun, though.
"Yeah, not too sure how this one is gonna' go."
Hang on, I'll spin the Wheel.
"Oh, cool. It's about time we got some use out of that."
Let's see here... For a general plot, I've got either: A 'vampire-hypno-romance', or an 'unorthodox-incest-harem'?
"... Yes."
Alrighty then. Bear with us, folks. We've been in an odd mood lately.
"And don't worry, our other shitshows are still in the works."
Please stop calling them that...
-----
Chapter 1:
"Playful Beginnings"
-----
"Are you ready to begin, Blake?" The priest asked in a whisper as he placed a hand on my shoulder, his voice easy to hear among the deafening silence of the church's main hall.
The tall man with a complexion as dark as the long, abyssal vestment draped around him wasn't impatient, nor was his question. The funeral was supposed to have begun half an hour ago, but I suppose Father Wexon already knew that no one else would be arriving. So did I, on some level, but you know what they say about hope: It's wasted on the hopeless.
"Yeah." I said with a nod, looking up at him while I sat on the far-right side of the front, center pew; the only one in attendance to say goodbye to my father, aside from Father Wexon, who apparently had known the man in their youths many decades ago. "Thank you, Father."
Wexon only nodded in response, then turned away from me and towards the elevated podium several yards away. It was instinctual, by nature even, but I couldn't help but examine this strange man of God as he made his way up the wide steps of the altar. He was certainly taller than me by a foot-and-a-half, at least, but that wasn't saying
too
much given that I'm only five-feet-tall. Still, he was a tall individual with short, golden-blonde hair and a five-o'-clock shadow that was just on the border of being a small beard. Wexon also always appeared to have a slouch and an odd disposition about the way he spoke and carried himself in the brief time I've had to study the old man.
He didn't move like a devout priest would, his motions were careless and undisciplined, although his attitude and expressions weren't any less solemn and sincere than my own. Whoever this strange, stumbling man was, I do believe that he was the only other person than myself that had any care left to give for my quiet, reserved father. According to him, the Father owed it to my own that he would be the one to escort him to his final resting place, right beside my mother.
I hadn't ever known her, being only two-years-old when she passed away, so the lack of memories kept me from feeling as cut by her loss as the emotional gash that had been opened three nights ago pained me, when the sound of my father's heart-monitor flatlined in that hospital bedroom. Ever since that moment, I'd been carrying around a chest wound that never seemed to heal, always bleeding me out once I had even the slightest amount of energy to continue onward with my life. That brings us back to Father Wexon, the awkward priest who had bothered to go through the trouble of arranging everything.
It was maybe an hour after the doctor called the time of death when I answered a call from a blocked phone number, my entire being completely numb from the ordeal at the time. Wexon was on the other end, telling me not to worry about a thing, just to arrive at the church at the designated time, and that he would handle the rest. The man was true to his word, it seemed. My father was below the priest's podium in a lengthy, sleek, black casket, the half containing his upper-body closed upon my request. I'd said my goodbyes already; this funeral was for anyone else but me.
But there I sat, the only one there aside from the drunk priest who'd braced himself against the edges of the church's podium to stay upright.
"Thank you for coming." He said, his voice as tired and weary as his expression, looking right at me with cold, dead eyes and an empty smile. "We've gathered here today to mourn the loss of Joe Andersson, one of the most...
humble
men I've ever met." The Father chuckled at that, then looked up and away towards the high ceiling thoughtfully. "I can see that miserable prick up there already, trying to talk to
God
as an equal..."
Father Wexon had a few interesting, yet accurate depictions of the version of my dad that I'd heard in stories from him and Miss Roth during the priest's eulogy. Apparently, he used to be a huge lady's man and womanizer, going after every young piece of ass that caught his eye and hardly ever failed at the task. The versions of my father that I knew, the one before and the one after I left to join the Corps, hardly had any trace of that man left within himself. He was broken yet always still breaking for as long as I can remember, and I returned to a shell of what he once was after four years of absence, finding him trapped in a hospital bed without an ounce of muscle on his gigantic, boney body... I had to stifle down a bit of spite towards Father Wexon for not being there to help out back then, wherever he was at the time, just as I did for everyone else that was absent that day, and every other day prior.
I was the only one who was ever there for my dad.
Although, I'm a rational enough person, and I knew my father better than anyone else. He simply didn't know how to have or keep friends, and always did what he pleased, or rather, was able to do, in his later years. The man was cold, but he had a big heart; Joe Andersson just didn't know how to properly show that to people. His favorite way to express himself was through a crude joke or snide, cocky remark, even when he was dead wrong in a situation or conversation. Despite the fact that his abrasive, overbearing personality pushed everyone else in his life away, I didn't see it as a reason to abandon the only person in this world willing to stick by me.
I shouldn't have left him alone. The time I spent away in the military certainly wasn't worth it. And sitting there, spacing out through the priest's speech, I couldn't help but break down into tears as the mistakes I've made and the regrets that have piled up over time had caused my mind to collapse in on itself in that moment.
I couldn't move; I couldn't breathe; I couldn't feel anything but anguish and sorrow. Leaning over with my elbows dug into my knees and sobbing head in hands, all I wanted at that moment was to be with my asshole of a dad who never said 'thank you', 'you're welcome', or 'I love you', just because he was a proud, overly-sensitive douchebag that was afraid to let anyone get close to him. I just wanted one more moment of arguing with him because of something stupid that either of us said or did; one more moment of us laughing about something that's happening on one of his old, dated television shows; just one more moment of
something
that had to do with us spending time together.
But it wasn't going to happen, not ever again.
My dad was dead, and it wouldn't be long before his body was put into the ground next to a woman who'd left us both behind, long ago.
The priest eventually finished his speech, and requested a brief moment of silence. By then, my tears had run dry once more for the day. I would have loved to say a prayer for my father during that time, but I was too exhausted, too shattered; I hadn't had a good night's sleep for quite some time.
A small semblance of peace came when a thought had crossed my mind, though. This place, the church, and the large graveyard surrounding it, was without a single sound to be heard. It felt as if the world itself had halted entirely to respect my father's passing.
And then, my favorite part of that awful day happened. If I'm being honest, that awkward, disruptive moment may have been the greatest thing that ever happened to me. When some bumbling, young girl burst through the tall, double-doors of the church's main hall and strolled in as if she were the center of its absent patrons' worship.
I was stunned, in complete disbelief, at first. The jarring sound of those old, rickety doors creaking open accompanied by the brisk air that came in from the outside, winter winds; the hasty clicking of heels against a worn, marble surface; the absolute beauty that filled my vision once I found enough strength through curiosity to straighten my body and turn my head.
There she was, in all of her splendor.
The love of my life.
-----
When I opened my eyes, the first emotion that I felt was confusion, but it quickly dissolved into mild fear once the beautiful, wide-eyed face looming over my own spoke.
"Bumbling..."
Izzy said with a smile, her perfect teeth ground together out of what I assumed to be either frustration or embarrassment.
I'd rather that have been a question, whatever she was talking about.
"W-was I talking in my sleep again?" I asked, turning my head over to nuzzle her bare, bubbly thighs as I feigned still being half-asleep. I let out a genuine yawn as I tried to defend my unconscious thoughts with my next words; although, if I'd used
that
word in particular to describe someone, there was only one "sweet" girl that I could've been mumbling about. "I was probably having a dream about Miss Roth. She's always been a clumsy-"
It's too bad that sweet, bumbling girl could see through one of my white-lies like a window wide open, because if not, then maybe I wouldn't have been cut off by her abruptly standing up and having me fall onto the floor with an-
"-Oof!"
"Hrph!"
Izzy huffed, turning away from the couch and walking off towards the kitchen. "Insolence!"
I was still pretty sleepy, so I didn't feel like getting up from off the floor just then. Instead, I just turned over onto my stomach and stretched my arms outwards, one had reached under the couch while the other was below my glass coffee table. Every muscle in my body felt relaxed and rejuvenated, as if I'd just had a full, restful eight-hours of sleep.
For some reason, when Izzy let me use her soft lap as a pillow, the world and its problems just seemed to melt away. I've had a couple of girlfriends in the past that would let me do the same with theirs, but none of them had actually been as comfortable, taken the act as naturally as Izzy did. She would just plop herself down on one end of her couch with that devilishly beautiful smile of hers and pat her thighs, knowing full-well how I loved to spend my evening after a long day's work.
Izzy would settle down, have me lay on my side facing the TV, and delicately trace her finger back and forth along the lining of my ear... Each time, I'd doze right off, and sleep better than I had in so, so many years, even if it was just for an hour or two. She wouldn't ever get up, and would only adjust the positioning of her legs if she felt that I was the one who was uncomfortable.
