*** Glow ***
The living room lit up bright orange. The glow flooded through the cottage's back windows as if the forest had burst into flame, and then, everything went dark again. It couldn't have been lightning – it had been silent and drawn out. I hurried out to the back step, but all I could see was the dark outline of pine boughs swaying lethargically in the evening breeze.
Because of the isolation out here, the possibility of fire always concerned me. The closest fire station was at Elk Lake, about half an hour away, and the phone service was sporadic. I rushed back inside to grab a coat and flashlight and then headed out to investigate. I hustled up the backyard slope towards the path in the forest. Clods of clay under the sparse, dry savannah that I like to call a lawn crunched under my boots. All around me, the wind-tossed trees huffed their long murmurs of nightly gossip. They certainly had something to talk about tonight.
I usually spent weekends out at the cottage to enjoy the quiet. As a divorced, middle-aged man with no relatives living near me, I savoured my solitude. Being in the city, surrounded by people and families, meant being constantly reminded of what was missing in my life. Being here in the seclusion of the backwoods meant returning to a natural state of detached peacefulness. I cohabited with the trees and birds and squirrels, but we kept our distance and owed nothing to each other.
Passing the wood shed, I noticed that its door was ajar. Animals were forever sneaking in there and making a mess. I peered into the dark interior but heard nothing. Shoving the door shut, I prepared to continue up to the ridgeline, but then I heard the log pile shift. I opened the door again and shone the flashlight inside. Suddenly, a small figure in a black jumpsuit and motorcycle helmet reared back from the beam, kicking logs into a minor avalanche onto the hut floor.
The motorcycle rider cowered on top of the pile in the back corner. He looked like a dirt biker, and I wondered if he had just totalled his bike over the ridge and stumbled down here in a daze. It must have been a helluva crash for the fireball to have lit up the cottage like that.
I crouched beside the wood pile to appear less menacing and held out my hand. The rider scuttled nervously on top of the logs. Then, after a while, he became still. I could see his chest moving as he breathed. He must really have been shaken up.
"Are you hurt?" I asked but got no reply. "Are you injured? Did you bang up your bike?" Still nothing.
Judging from the small five-foot frame, I figured that it was just a kid. The jumpsuit appeared to be made of thick leather or vinyl, although it didn't have the padded areas that you usually see on a dirt bike outfit. The helmet had a sleek shape, probably for aerodynamics, and the face shield was tinted so that I couldn't see inside.
"Let me take you to the cottage so I can help you." Like a moron, I started speaking loudly and slowly as if that would help him understand me better. But something worked, because he held his gloved hand out to me.
I hooked my arms under him and stood up. He was surprisingly light – definitely a kid. Maybe a girl. Whoever it was, he or she relented to my custody and hooked his or her arms around my neck.
As I carried the rider back down the slope, I could have sworn that, through the helmet, I could hear a raspy mumbling sound, like a low growling or heavy purring. I hoped that he didn't have a punctured lung or blocked airway. And something else puzzled me. There seemed to be a roll of material running up the rider's back. I could feel its soft bulge press into my arm. I wondered if it was just the zipper, but it felt too thick to be that.
At the cottage, I lowered the rider gently onto the living room couch. Then, kneeling beside him, I searched under the helmet for a chin strap, but before I could find it, he reached up and pressed a button. With a whiff of expelling air and the whir of a small motor, the neck drape retracted up and the helmet cracked open – pretty impressive. I lifted it off.
Well, it was definitely a girl, perhaps in her late teens, and a really beautiful one at that. The skin on her face was soft and unblemished. She had high cheekbones, a small mouth and large round eyes. Well, they looked round, but they also ... Oh my goodness! The pupils had vertical slits like a cat's eyes.
Then she shook her full head of auburn hair, and ... Yikes! ... poking up was a pair of tall, pointed ears – like a cat's. They had to be part of a costume. I reached my hand over. No, they were definitely real. She rubbed her head into my hand and meowed. Cripes! Was this a cat? A cat person?
She unzipped her jumpsuit to her stomach, allowing her small perky breasts to push apart the unfastened zipper and reveal a soft, innocent cleavage. She had normal pink skin on her chest – beautifully soft, flawless skin – but in her cleavage and down her centerline, there was a thin trail of downy, auburn mane.
She meowed again and pointed to one of her ears. If she were asking me a question, I didn't have a clue what she wanted. She reached into the front pocket of her suit and pulled out a small spongy object, like an earplug. She pushed it into one of my ears, then she meowed at me again. The earplug beeped, and I thought I heard the word 'interrogative'.
"Meow hur-r-r-r meow meow hur-r-r-r," she repeated.
"Beep. Interrogative. Second person subject. Imprisonment. Assistance. First person object," sounded in my head, but in her voice this time.
"Meow hur-r-r-r meow meow hur-r-r-r," she growled again.
"Beep. Are you capturing me or helping me?" There was a small time lag, but this time, it had really seemed like she had said the words herself.
"I'm helping you. Are you hurt?" I replied.
She smiled in relief and threw her arms around me, nuzzling her head under my chin. Her hair slid softly across my neck as she rubbed. The edge of her ear tickled in behind. I leaned back and almost pulled her off the couch.
"Who are you?" I asked. "What are you?"
"My name is Leosa." The beeping had stopped, and now, except for the out-of-sync movement of her lips, it seemed like she was speaking directly to me in English. She turned her head towards me, her nose almost touching mine. "What is your name?"
"Harvey."
"Har-r-r-r-r-vey," she purred and then laughed. "That's a funny name to say. Leosa greets Har-r-r-r-vey." She licked across my mouth, rasping it with the little barbs on her tongue. She licked again and then again. Then she penetrated my lips with her tongue and explored my mouth. I was stunned, but by reflex, I licked back.
She reared back. "Your tongue is so soft!" she exclaimed. "Greet me again, Harvey."
I licked her mouth again, causing her to squeal. "Your tongue is wonderful. So slippery. It's like a little snail. I like greeting you," she said, smiling.
*** Ritual ***
She hugged me and then stood up. "I'm sorry. I haven't removed my enviro-suit yet," she said. "You must think me very rude." Her thick hair fell down her back past her shoulder blades.
She peeled the suit off her shoulders, allowing her two little teardrop breasts to spring free. Struggling to pull the suit off her arms, she wriggled, causing her breasts to jostle with her effort. Finally, she had the suit down to her waist. From my kneeling position, I stared at her in amazement. Her arms and the sides of her body were covered in a fine tan-coloured fur that was mottled with black spots.
"What are you waiting for?" she asked, pushing on the suit gathered at her waist.
"What do you mean?"
"You don't wear clothes inside, do you?" Bending forward, she slipped the suit down to her ankles and pulled it off her legs. Her breasts drooped under her chest. Whipping up behind her, a long, fuzzy, black tail curved and arched seemingly under her control. The mottled fur covered most of her body except for her face, neck, chest, groin and rear. It was as if she were wearing a one-piece, flesh swimsuit over a cat's body.
"Well, yeah," I replied.
