Consequences
The sphinx cat looked down at his blood stained suit and heaved a sigh of exasperation, flexing his leather clad fingers stiffly before wiping them on the shirt of his victim, tied securely to a chair before him.
"I'm going to ask you one more time: Who are you working for, and what have you already told them?"
The canine of indeterminate breed grinned through broken teeth and let a laugh bubble up from his throat.
That grin was quickly removed by a swift fist cracking against his lower jaw, which was quickly followed by a meaty thud and the clatter of wood on concrete as the chair and its occupant toppled over. The feline let his prisoner lay like that for a moment, and even kicked him squarely in the ribs before hauling the seat back into an upright position.
"Do you know, you filthy mutt, why I am called 'The Barber'," the cat inquired with a distinctly business-like air.
"Because you're bald," the canine attempted to quip, though the effect was entirely lost with the slur broken teeth, a near-bisected-by-bite tongue, and a mouthful of blood, which was spat on the sphinx's shoes.
With narrowed green eyes, the cat opened his suit jacket and extracted an ebony-scaled straight razor, which he opened with practiced speed, the high-carbon steel flashing brightly under the dim lights.
'No' was the last word the mutt ever heard before a paw knotted in his hair and shoved his head back as the blade carved a wide arc in his flesh, rending both arteries and opening his trachea.
Moments later, the cat was sliding into the plush, white leather interior of his meticulously clean, black 1964 Lincoln Continental. The old behemoth roared to life with little hesitation, masking the 'whoosh' of a large pool of accelerant igniting. Smoke only just began pouring from the upper windows of the empty warehouse as the cat pulled away with a low, dignified rumble.
*************************
"Midas!" The cat roared as he slammed the door to the lush penthouse in which they both resided, storming into the kitchen where he could hear the scrawny borzoi moving around. He grabbed the lanky dog by his swept back ear and hauled him into the living room, throwing him face-first into the luxurious couch.
"Owowowowow! Hey, what the hell?!"
"You made me ruin my suit! You are fully aware that once blood sets in, you can't get it out, aren't you?"
"Jesus, Arty, you know some peroxide gets blood out, right?"
A resounding slap met the dog's narrow cheek before the cat crossed his arms over his chest, now covered in a black cashmere turtleneck with the sleeves pushed half was up his forearms. Tattooed fingers drummed on his bicep, the cross of his arms framing the thick gold Cuban link necklace the circled the collar of his sweater loosely.
"Do you honestly think a little peroxide is going to keep a crime lab from finding blood evidence on my clothes if I ever get picked up? And what have I told you about calling me anything but 'Artemis' or 'Mister Kenzie'?"
Luminous green eyes narrowed dangerously as the dog rubbed his stinging cheek.
"Christ, Art. What was that suit, two grand? Just buy another!"
Artemis glowered and shoved Midas back down to the cushions, which he'd risen from, forcing his cheek into the upholstery as a clawed set of fingers dug under the slender canid's belt, yanking the waist of his slacks and his boxers down, exposing his ass.
"I said," the cat intoned coldly. "You will call me 'Mister Kenzie'." Each word of his title was punctuated with a brutal spank, causing the borzoi to cry out.
"You can't treat me like this! I'm a grown man! I'll tell my father about this, and he'll fire you!" Midas whined loudly.
"I'll buy you a new fucking suit!"
"First," another swat bounced off of the dog's upturned ass. "You father is paying me to treat you like this. He thinks some discipline is in order. And second," another ringing slap echoed around the well-appointed living room.
"That isn't the point. I had to get rid of an informant that_you_ spoke to about our organization. My suit is just a casualty of your absolute ineptitude and inability to keep you're damn mouth shut."
Before Midas could say another word, his long, sloping muzzle was pressed into a pillow, effectively silencing him as the cat lifted the hem of his shirt to his mouth, holding it up to expose the taut, lightly fuzzed fur of his belly, and the eyes tattooed on the inside of each pelvic arch. He shoved down his slacks, still glowering at the hound below him as he freed his member from its cloth confines.
Once his slacks hit the floor, Artemis rudely yanked Midas' head from between the couch cushions and held out one paw, palm up.
"Spit."
"Fuck you!"
"Spit, or isn't going to be very much more unpleasant."
"Just go get the lube!"
"You think this is about fun?"
"Well, we're going to fuck, aren-"
The borzoi was cut off when three of Artemis' fingers were shoved unceremoniously into his incessantly running mouth. The tip of the longest nudged be back of the bratty dog's throat, forcing him to gag, and making his salivary glands produce a thicker, more slick secretion.
"No. I'm going to fuck you, and you're going to shut up."
The order for silence went unheeded, until the dog was shoved back into the sofa once more, though this time it was on his back. The cat's dry paw clamped firmly over the end of his muzzle, holding it closed and pressing Midas' nose shut, cutting off his breathing as the saliva on the other paw was languidly smeared onto the feline's shaft. Despite the pup's panicked thrashing. Artemis took his time, watching the thick drool drip from his member in long, clinging ropes before he positioned it under Midas' tail.
The moment he shoved inside was the moment the feline let the dog breathe, but only for as long as it took his paw to wrap around the slender hound's neck as the cat shoved him back into the cushions and he slammed his barely-lubricated shaft into the dog. A quick, brutal rhythm was set from the start. It wasn't the most pleasant for the feline, but this wasn't about pleasure; it was about dominance. For some reason or another, that was the only thing dogs seemed to understand. Honestly, Midas was a good lay, but those experiences typically required things like lubricant and silk rope. This, while still vaguely pleasurable, was a pure and simple hate-fuck, meant to show Midas who was in charge.
The longer it went, the better it got: the writhing, gasping body under him, the slowly growing pleasure building as Artemis' shaft began leaking pre, lubricating the tight passage that he had been sheathed in more often than he cared to admit, sometimes for the same reason as tonight, some for the shear fun of it.
Periodically, the cat's fingers left the canine's neck, letting the dog gasp before another brutal slap landed on his cheek, making him whine pathetically, despite the erection that bounced against the silk shirt concealing his flat belly. There was a rapidly growing stain where Midas' tip met the fabric as Artemis abused his prostate.
It was obvious that the spoiled little mongrel was close to his end, and with a savage smirk, Artemis yanked his shaft free. One paw encircled his girth, and the other flexed against Midas' neck once more, cutting off circulation as the cat jerked himself off briskly before he grunted and came, painting the dog's shirt from hem to breast pocket with thick ropes of semen. Gush after gush of the rich fluid splattered across the hound's button-down, his seed quickly soaking into the fine fabric.
Panting softly, the cat stepped back, wiping his sticky paw on Midas' shirt before grabbing it by the collar and yanking it harshly with the tearing of seams and the popping of buttons so he could wipe his sticky shaft clean with it before letting the now loose textile fall back against the brat's writhing form, which bucked and curled in on itself when the feline slapped him again.
"Artemis," the borzoi panted. "I didn't get to cum."
"And?"
"And you ruined my shirt."
"And you ruined my suit. Go buy another one."
"But this one is my favorite," he whimpered.
"A shame, isn't it? Perhaps you should consider that the next time you think about make me ruin my own clothes."
"Are you at least going to let me finish? You know I can't by myself," Midas whined pathetically.
"That is not my concern. Go get yourself cleaned up, you little slut."
With that, the cat tugged up his slacks, buttoned them, and fastened his belt. He pushed his sleeves up his arms once again and settled down in a large, plush chair, picking up the book he'd set on the side table the evening before.
"And finish whatever you were doing in the kitchen. I smell something burning."
Slipping on his reading glasses, Artemis opened the book at his marked page, and began to read.