Sable 2

Chapter 1

I am a writer - luckily a moderately successful one - of what I call 'Romanticised History', which the publishing industry prefers to refer to as 'Faction' - the partial fictionalisation of what otherwise are well documented historical facts. Having majored in both English and British History at university, and always hoping that I would at some time be able to write about the more dramatic episodes from the past, when this type of book became increasingly popular I took to it like a duck to water.

Normally I'm more than happy to write in my own apartment - I have a library of reference books, plus access to the Internet, from which I garner the more obscure details of times past. But once I have a satisfactory first draft of a book, and start on the tedious task of editing and re-writing, I need somewhere where I am cut-off from both phone and visitor interruptions. A couple of years ago I came across a cottage - well not much more than a semi-glorified cabin really - in the mountains a couple of hours drive West of the city, and from time to time I have rented it for a week or so, then work from there.

So when my most recent book had reached the editing stage I rang the agent and made a booking, then drove leisurely up to what I have come to think of as my writer's retreat.

It was late Summer, so I knew there would be few, if any, tourists about, and as the previous weeks had been heavy with not only writing, plus several literary and social engagements, but also a rather bitter row with the guy I'd been dating and screwing in recent months, I was actually looking forward to a few days of relative isolation. And as the cottage was surrounded on three sides by the densely forested bush, and was at least a hundred metres from its nearest neighbour, I could be certain of having that.

I had stopped to eat, and to stock-up on groceries and other essentials, so it was dusk by the time I arrived and then settled myself, and in normal circumstances I would have done no more than shower and take myself off to bed. But for some reason I felt both mentally and physically restless, and given I knew how hazardous the Australian bush can be, I perhaps unwisely, decided to settle my mind by taking a short walk.

There was a reasonably well defined track that I had used on previous visits, and I set off along it - but within twenty or thirty minutes, as it grew progressively darker, I must have missed the turn-off that looped around to take me back to the other side of my cottage. But, equally foolishly, rather than turn and immediately begin retracing my steps, I stumbled on, and only when I found myself pushing through bush that had became increasingly impassable, did I accept that I was in fact - lost!

It was when I did finally turn and was beginning to try to find my way back again that I suddenly found myself falling!

Now, although I didn't know precisely where I was, I did know the area well enough to realise that I had probably tumbled headlong over one of the edges of the escarpment - which were well-weathered sandstone cliffs rearing some three to four hundred metres up from the valley floor. However, miraculously my fall hadn't been straight downward - which would have left my body broken and mangled amongst the valley's gum trees, and given the unlikelihood of any walkers ever coming across it, the bleached and uneaten remnants probably lying there indefinitely.

But although the fall was luckily only a few metres, it was more than enough to both knock the wind out of me, and, given the sudden and excruciating pain coming from one ankle, leaving me sprawling semi-helplessly on some kind of rocky ledge.

By then the gloom had further intensified, making it hard to see exactly what my predicament was, but, by feeling up and around me, I discovered that the ledge was no more than a metre or so wide, and even by using my one good leg to hop upwards I could reach neither the top of the rock-face, nor even find any kind of hand-hold.

I was effectively, totally stranded!

I tried hard not to panic - and knowing it was pointless crying out for any kind of help, I reserved my energy and mentally prepared myself for at the very least, an unwanted and uncomfortable night out under the stars.

Unlike many other wild places, the Australian bush at night is mostly a silent one - with none of the day-time crickets, cicadas and bird-alarms to break it - the only purely nocturnal animals venturing virtually soundlessly about their business. And as that night was dead calm, there was not even the soft 'shushing' sound of an occasional breeze disturbing the eucalypts' topmost branches.

Apart from my overall situation - which, given the remoteness of where the cottage was, was not a very good one - right then the thing that scared me most, was that I might actually fall asleep, and in my slumber, roll straight off the edge of that far too narrow ledge. So I spent the time in various ways; sometimes trying vainly to count the stars that were growing increasingly bright above me, sometimes re-writing those sections of my book that I had come there to fix, sometimes re-phrasing what I had too emotionally shouted at my sometime lover, and sometime just tightly hugging my knees and feeling both cold and utterly miserable.

Two or three hours must have passed in that way, then, although so faint it was barely audible, I thought I heard a movement in the bush above me - then an even fainter 'snuffling' sound. At first I thought it could well be an exploratory possum, but then, with the benefit of the night-vision I had then acquired, I saw a movement - and realised that hanging down over the rock-face, was a short length of rope!

Now at any other time I might well have asked myself - what was someone doing bush-walking at that time of night, and carrying a length of rope with him? But right then I think I would have preferred to confront a raping axe-murderer than facing the prospect of perhaps eventually dying from dehydration. So, lifting myself on to my one good leg, I reached up, grabbed it, and yelled '

Thank you

!'

There was no reply and I found that what I was grasping wasn't just rope, but one that had some sort of covering on it, a soft, furry covering that was quite warm to the touch.

Again I asked myself no questions, just tightened my hands and clung on to it for dear life - my own!

Once again I heard that low 'snuffling' sound, then, wonder of wonders, I began to be hauled bodily upwards.

Chapter 2

Just a few seconds later - although I had not had to use any physical exertion - I lay desperately panting, a couple of metres in from that dreaded cliff-edge.

It took me a few minutes to catch my breath and at least start to calm my nerves and then I turned to thank my rescuer - only to find that what I was staring at was a pair of almost luminous, yellow-green eyes.

It was only the fact that its outline was even blacker than the surrounding darkness that made me realise that what I had been rescued by, was not a man, but a cat! But a truly enormous one - one at least ten times bigger than any ordinary cat could ever possibly be.

For a moment I had visions of going from being a scattered bunch of bones on the valley floor, to a similar state after being little more than some gigantic cat's dinner.

And when the cat moved forward and sniffed me - sniffed my foot - I thought that was exactly what my fate would be. But I couldn't have been more wrong - instead of biting me, the cat crouched low and began to slowly lick me - lick my injured ankle.

Now as any cat-lover will already know, cats do not have tongues like ours - smooth and slippery - theirs is designed to enable them to efficiently lap up water, and are covered with hundreds of tiny rasp-like projections. So when a cat licks you, it tingles your nerve-ends. Of course this cat's tongue was in proportion with the rest of its massive body, and its rasping did more than tingle - but, after a minute or two of licking I got the distinct impression that the pain in the ankle had indeed lessened considerably.

But even once it finished its licking, it was not done with me - stretching itself flat alongside me, it used its great head to try to roll me over on to its back. I think by then I had totally suspended my disbelief that these things were actually happening to me, and given its indications of what it wanted, I merely hauled myself over and lay astride it - burrowing my hands deep into that silky-soft pelt, and taking a firm grip of it.

Once satisfied I was settled, the cat began moving - maybe following my outward trail much as a dog might - gracefully and carefully picking its way between the undergrowth, even finding a path that had fewer low hanging branches.

I had taken a few horse-riding lessons - but only as a very young girl, and never ridden a motor-bike - but I had girl-friends who had done both, and remembered them saying how erotic it could be to have so much power held between their legs. And in spite of the bewildering effect of what had happened, I certainly came to understand precisely what they meant.

The warm softness of its fur, plus the steady movement of its powerful muscles were more than erotic, they were a distinct turn-on - and at any other time I might very well have actually got myself off during that journey.

And although the cat took very little time to get me back to the cottage, I certainly had sufficient time to conjure up all sorts of almost pornographic images...

Having reached up to open the door for us, the cat carried me straight inside, and as it was the room most directly linked to the short hall-way, took us straight into the kitchen. And it was only once we were inside that I realised what it was that had rescued me - a Panther!

A jet black - actually, blue-black - luminously yellow-green eyed, Panther...

Right then it seemed no more incongruous that a panther should be prowling about the Australian mountains, than it did that I should be rescued by it. So I did what I would have done if I had done no more than collect some moth-eaten stray - opened the fridge and poured it a large soup bowl of milk. And, on second thoughts, also took out the barbecued chicken I had bought for myself, and put it down on a plate beside the milk.

The panther sat for a moment, looked up at me with those extraordinarily hypnotic eyes, then set to on what I'd gratefully placed before it; lapping up a little milk, then devouring - albeit remarkably delicately - the entire chicken, and finally, finishing off the rest of the milk.

It was only then that the shock of what I'd experienced began to affect me, and being reasonably confident that the panther would do me no harm, I took a long, hot shower, then, having slipped into a bath-robe, made myself a hot drink - and having made sure the front door was securely propped open, headed off to the bed-room and lay down.

The panther watched my toing and froing, then silently followed me, waiting until I had settled myself then leapt up and crouched on the bottom of the bed - and once again began gently, but raspingly, licking my swollen ankle.

Once I had grown somewhat used to the initial tingling effect I found the panther's licking not only once again reducing the level of pain, but somehow even comforting - and I allowed myself to sink into what I imagine was actually an exhausted semi-consciousness.

It was only some little time later that I realised that while it was still licking me, its tongue was gradually reaching rather further up my leg - over and around the knee, then - as its head nudged the folds of my bath-robe apart - even moving progressively higher.

For a moment I automatically thought to reach down and halt it - but that roguish tongue was definitely temptingly effective, and coupled with the feel of the silky softness of the panther's fur, even slowly arousing. The thoughts I'd had when straddling its powerful back, returned - along with several even more erotic ones.

Its head nudged my legs apart as its tongue moved slowly up along the length of my inner thigh - and then, after a couple of minutes of rapidly rising anticipation I heard myself gasp, as it finally reached my pussy.

I have no way of describing the wondrous thrills the panther gave me with its seemingly unending, rasping licking - if it had been a man I would have happily awarded him the accolade of being the world's most consummate oral-lover.

It took me to heaven knows how many orgasms, each one feeling it had to be the last, but each time my body responded, demanding still one more, until I lay there utterly helpless, little more than a quietly sobbing and moaning, totally pleasure-saturated wreck.

But, if I thought it was finished with me when it eventually lifted its head from down between my legs, I couldn't have been more wrong.

By then I had cast aside all pretence at keeping myself covered and had unfastened and spread open the bath-robe, so the panther was able to place its paws astride me then begin doing to my breasts more of what it had already done to my pussy and clitoris.

Given my breasts have always been remarkably sensitive - sometimes feeling as though there is indeed some direct link between them and my genitals - I quickly felt myself slipping back into that state of utter rapture. But, perhaps the movement was a purely sub-conscious one - when I reached down beneath the panther, enjoying the additional pleasure of combing my fingers through its silky-soft fur, I suddenly remembered one of the strangely remembered facts I'd heard about the males of the cat family.

Unlike any other mammal, their penis is in fact covered with a mass of spiky, keratinous barbs - which some say are used to hold the female in place until the male has completed its ejaculation; others, which apparently seems more likely, suggest these are merely used to stimulate the female into releasing whatever ripened eggs she has in her ovaries.

But the penis I encountered was nothing like that - whilst being undoubtedly larger than those I'd experienced, it felt exactly as any normal man's might; its head silky smooth, and even then wet with the pre-cum that had already leaked from it, and the heavily vein-gnarled shaft, a throbbingly satiny one.

As my fingers skimmed down over it I heard the panther start to give a low, rumbling, presumable satisfied gravelly purr - so as it continued to lickingly stimulate my breasts, I curled my fingers around it and then began slowly stroking up and down it.

Once again I lost track of time; simply wallowing in the luxuriancy of what he was doing to me, and the feel of the increasingly strong tempo of the pulsations I could feel coursing up through his penis.

So it was only when he stopped, then used his head to roll me - roll me over on to my stomach - that I realised that his intentions were to take things between us even further. I admit I had more than a moment's hesitation - not only because the idea of being fucked by a panther was of course automatically quite abhorrent. But perhaps by then the things he had done to me had reduced my normal thinking processes, because although I'd lost track of the number of times I had already climaxed, my body clearly needed something - something that would fill the void that was achingly hungering for a strong and powerful cock inside it.

So I pushed myself up on to all fours, then felt the softness of his fur brushing against my bottom, then that wickedly rousing tongue licking me once again - licking my bottom, licking my anus, even somehow reached beneath me to re-lick my no doubt soppingly dripping pussy.

But, mercifully, that time he didn't re-torment me for too long; and once again I felt his paws moving up alongside me, his warm fur again brushing against me, then the unmistakeable feel of a wetly polished cock-head pushing itself against my pussy-lips.

No doubt the length of time he had spent stimulating me was rewarded - my pussy was not only drenched with a mixture of both his saliva and the juices that had liberally flowed from me - because it took just a relatively small forward thrust to enable it to force its way inside me - then the remaining mass of it both stretched and totally opened me.

Although just holding it had convinced me it was a larger than usual one, it wasn't until I had it inside me that I truly realised just how big it actually was. Yet I took it, took very nearly all of it - and not just took it, but positively revelled in it; in its size, its obvious power, its inherent potency.

He fucked me as perhaps no woman had ever been fucked - long, hard and vigorously, my rising cries of sheer exhilaration probably echoing even down around the valley that had nearly been the death of me. And when I finally felt him approaching the start of his own climax - his cock pistoning even more powerfully, driving itself even deeper inside me - then felt him pumping and erupting truly explosively - I heard myself literally scream.

'Sable!

Sable! SABLE

!'

Chapter 3

When he'd done with me I had obviously finally collapsed insensibly, then slept right through the rest of the night - and when I awoke, around mid-morning, I was filled with a sense of languorous lassitude that only a truly well-fucked woman could know.

Even so my first thought was that I had experienced a strange and unusually vivid dream - and if it hadn't been for the tufts of jet black hair I found caught up in the still wetly creased sheets, then the thoroughly licked clean plates on the kitchen floor, I would of course have put the whole episode down as nothing more than that. But even if I hadn't had those clues, I would still have had to find some explanation for the remaining swollen soreness between my legs, and the almost dissolutely decadent sense of utter fulfilment.

It was then that I allowed myself to recall at least some of the highlights of the previous night - and in doing so, realised that in my final moments of sheer ecstasy I had, quite inadvertently, named my phantom panther-lover.

'Sable.

I whispered it - and it was of course exactly the right name for a creature with his blue-black colouring - and I wondered how he might feel about being called by it.

But that, I realised, depended on whether or not he would return again.

Then I shook myself - what on earth was a mature, sane, hard-working woman like me, doing even imagining I had acquired a panther as a lover, even if he had rescued me from probable certain death? It was just too crazy for words - in fact, if I had seen it in a movie or read it in a book, I would have branded it as little more than the usual tripe that is often dished up to sex and horror crazed teen-agers.

However, I couldn't ignore either the way I was feeling, or the physical reminder of the wondrous time Sable had given with me. So when I eventually headed out I drove to the nearest decent sized supermarket, where I knew there was a large section for fresh fish, and having bought both a fresh and barbecued chicken, also purchased two of the whole snapper they had available - and of course remembered to also buy a fresh supply of milk.

The rest of that day was pretty much a waste, I certainly did none of the writing I had gone up there to do, and other than walking down to the place where I'd stumbled over the cliff - where simply looking down over where I could well have fallen, absolutely terrified me! - I really did little more than think about Sable.

However, I was sufficiently sensible to prepare myself an evening meal, wondering - hopefully - if the smell of my cooking might tempt him from wherever he hid himself during the daylight.

But it was long after night-fall when he did appear; silently, almost stealthily - at first ignoring me and padding straight down the hall-way to where he could no doubt smell the fish and chicken I'd left out for him.