Shouldn't Oughta Wake Him Up... Yet...
Previous - this entry written on October 08, 2002 at 4:34 am - Next


Just a hint of arousal beginning to trickle down through me, warming my tummy, sending lightning-fast pulses to my cock, body shivering... it always begins like this, with the hesitation at first outweighing the lust. I know I should stop. I know I should change the subject, think of something else.

I know I shouldn't do this.

And yet each time, I find my fingers skittering over one velvet-clad leg, the sharpened nail of my fourth finger scratching at the fabric, tearing new holes in it. I go through more leggings that way.

Higher, my hand moves higher, thumb curling in to rub lightly along the tender flesh between my sex and my upper thigh. One of the joys of tight clothing, all that sensative skin is just underneath, so easily teased. You'd think someone in my position wouldn't feel the need to be teased but I do. It heightens the sensations so much.

Teased, then. Teased, scratched, scraped, rubbed, stroked, pick a verb, they all apply by the time my hands have finished their work. I know how velvet feels when it's stretched tight over heated, pulsing flesh. I know the way it tastes. My pet knows, too... I think that if it were left to the little darling, I'd go naked or wear silks, satins, anything that doesn't cover lips with fuzz and tickle an exploring tongue quite so badly.

This isn't for his pleasure, though. That comes other nights, when I'm feeling kind and gentle, when I know he needs relief. Tonight, I need.

He's curled up against the far wall, wrapped in that scrap of blanket he treasures, not really awake. I watched him drift into slumber earlier, and I think that's what started this train of thought. He yawned, that tantalizing mouth gaping wide, little pink tongue flicking out for a moment, and those huge innocent eyes blinking up at me sleepily before he rolled up in his blanket and settled in to sleep.

That mouth. That delicate body, well-muscled but not obviously so, his slender frame and pale, soft skin balancing quite well with the fur-covered pawgloves. They match his hair. It took me quite a long time to find fur that matched it exactly, but it was well worth it. He's got a pair of slippers as well, designed with leather soles cut in the shape of pawprints. I still remember the smile on his face when I let him wear them out in the snow and he realized he was leaving catprints behind when he walked on hands and feet.

A precarious position, certainly... but it leaves his arse raised, exposed, the slender fur tail I had made for him artfully attached with the fleshtone harness, leaving his body bare. It cost far too much for the mechanism that makes the tail flick and curl on its own, and it goes through batteries at a ridiculous rate. Still, for such a sweet little showpiece, it was worth the price.

Tail... paws... ears... and that little red leather collar that sets off the green of the catseye contacts he wears... priceless.

I don't use him to satisfy my lust often, it just seems wrong, now that he's so far along the path I chose for him. Bestiality was never my thing. But when he is without the ears and tail, only the pawgloves and catseyes showing any hint of animalism, it's impossible not to see him as what he truly is: a graceful, pleasing slaveboy.

My slaveboy.

I can feel my cock twitching against my fingers with that thought, hard enough now to begin to tent the material that tries to cover it. Almost... almost, the pleasure I know the boy could give me is worth the tears he would shed, after. Almost, I can forget that he hates the taste of me in his mouth, hates the way I can make him moan with pleasure even while he feels as if he's being split in two, hates the knowledge that once again I am filling him, using him. When I first claimed him, he would often beg without the slightest warning or reason, out of the blue, pleading with me to keep him as a pet, as an animal... not as a cheap little slut.

Of course, that might have been because his first day in my posession began with a rape fierce enough to leave him so cried-out that he had no tears left, and ended with him chained in the small room where I let the whores sleep, his naked, sweat-streaked body pressed against countless others in the darkness, unable to regain even a trace of his pride and dignity that night.

The memory of his face when I led him out of that room and offered him a choice, offered to dehumanize him, to make him into a beast... or to let him stay in that room... that memory pushes me over the edge, and my voice is nearly a growl as I call his name, waking him from his peaceful sleep into what is, for him, a nightmare.

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