My Chestnut
The room was brimming. Voices, beeps, whirs. The sound of commerce.
"Number 529," said the booming voice. "Young, healthy. A bit thin. A bend two-thirds of the way to the tail-tip. Nips taken out of the ears. Honey-brown fur. Male. Has been certified at pleasure level C. Timid, submissive ... "
Lumba pressed her paw on the "buy" button. She wanted better than such a specimen, but she only had so much money. She had to be realistic. Besides, this one ... this one had a look in his eyes. A soft, sensitive look. She longed to have that, to have such delicate emotion. To hold it, physically, in her paws. To have it love her.
"Sold," said the auctioneer.
The cat smiled as her new mouse was led off the platform. Trembling. A thick rope around his neck.
Ever since the accident, things had been different. Felines were now the dominant species, but at a price. Ninety-five percent of the remaining population ... was female. Most births produced females, as well. Consequently, the remaining males had to be guarded and rationed. Breeding lotteries were held. But most female cats could not hold out for such slim hopes. Something had to be done.
The accident also affected other species. Like the mice. Oddly, though, (or fortunately, depending on one's position), the mice were dealt an opposite blow: their females had been inflicted, nearly died off. Save for a few. And very few gave births to females. Only enough to keep the species slowly alive. The mice were in a tougher spot, then, than the cats. The cats, as a result, had no problem dominating them. Despite the fact that the mice were still more numerous. They weren't used as food, though. Rather, toys. Sex toys.
Most, if not all, female felines purchased a male mouse from market. Only problem was that mice had prey-like instincts. They often died of fright during the act. Or, often, received a bashing, breaking their bones. Killing them. The female cats were ravenous. They bred wildly. They wanted it. Not rough sex, necessarily. Rather ... extremely playful, vigorous sex. And without a supply of feline males, banging boy mice ... was the remedy.
Often, the act descended into an unplanned game of predator/prey. Instinct. Adrenaline. Fur. Matted and grasping paws, squeaks. Growls. A glorious, primitive wanting. The mice had accepted their fate. Most of them. They burned with silent resentment, but were too addicted to the pleasure they were getting to revolt. If they rebelled, they had no females, had ... no society. The arrangement, much as they would rail otherwise, suited them. It suited everyone. And most were happy with it. Outwardly.
Anyway, Lumba's last mouse had died on her. She hadn't meant for it to happen. Well, one never did. Simply, in the throes of her wet, pulsating orgasm, she had howled and panted and shuddered, reflexively digging her claws deep into the mouse's sides. Saliva dripping from her tongue to his nose. The mouse trembled at her claws, and she had dug deeper, and he had whimpered pitifully. Pleasured and pained. When Lumba had regained her bearings and logic ... she unclenched her paws to find them dripping in blood. Mouse hairs swimming in the red.
Poor thing. Her claws had pierced his sides and stomach, had squeezed the life from him. Literally. But at least ... at least he had gone gloriously. She had felt bad, seeing his limp, bedraggled form. He looked so innocent, looked so ... cute. She could almost eat him up, had been her thought. And, well, she was a cat, and he was fresh kill, so ... she did.
And, of course, that was fine. It was completely legal for a cat to kill a mouse. One, nowadays, didn't actually hurt them (as there weren't enough female mice to breed the males and bring them to maturity fast enough). The mice had to be cared for. Traded. But ... accidents happened.
"This one's mine," Lumba said, running her claws with a cling-cling-cling across the vertical bars of the mouse's cage. He was in there to ensure he didn't escape. Not that he, or any of the mice, could go anywhere. But their prey instinct occasionally prompted them to flee.
"529?" asked the female guard.
Lumba nodded, showing her the transaction.
"He's a quiet one," the guard said. "Most of them at least talk amongst themselves. Most of them smile." Pause. "This one hasn't even squeaked. He looks ... like he's simmering."
"They taste best at a simmer," Lumba breathed, licking her lips. "I'll have him squeaking by the time I'm done with him." It was a whispered promise. A mission.
The guard chuckled, winking. "Good luck." She opened the cage with a clang, putting the rope (still around the mouse's neck) into Lumba's paws.
When they reached home (Lumba's home), the cat bolted the door. The lock was high enough so that the mouse couldn't reach it. Even if he tried.
"I had to save," Lumba said slowly, cheekily, bobbing up and down on her foot-paws, "A month and a half to buy a new mouse. To buy you." She sighed heavily, let out a laughing huff. "I have no spending money now." Pause. She tilted her head. The mouse was shaking.
She took his paws. "Don't," she whispered. Tender. Commanding. "Don't shake." She saw his throat bob as he swallowed. Lumba sighed and rubbed her forehead. "Every mouse I buy, I love," she told him. "You will be no different. You are," she stressed, "No different."
"You don't even know me," the mouse whispered. Hollow. Speaking for the first time. "You don't know ... "
"But I want to," the cat said earnestly. "You're not here to be abused. You're not here for manual labor." Pause. Smile. "Well ... no, that's not labor." She tilted her head. "Have you had any ... other masters?"
He flushed. "Two," he whispered.
"And?"
"They chewed on my ears. And ... and my tail."
She squinted at the bend in his tail, and at the little triangular bits missing from his large mouse ears. It was clear the mouse was ashamed of his battered, furry body. Of those permanent scars. But he was a very handsome, youthful mouse. Strong. She told him so.
He said nothing to this.
"Why did they sell you back for auction?"
Silence.
"Why?" She wanted an answer.
"I didn't squeak hard enough ... when ... when she was on me. I didn't make enough noises. She didn't like me being quiet when I bred. It made her think she wasn't performing right. The other ... " He shrugged. Wasn't going to talk about it.
"You're young, so you never knew your mother. You don't know who your father is. You, like all mice, are an orphan," the cat noted.
He nodded. Such a description was devastating to hear, even if it were the truth.
"Such is the way of things," Lumba whispered, sympathetic. She brushed a paw through his whiskers, running a claw through the fur on his cheek. She sat on the couch, pulling him up to her, beside her.
The mouse tensed.
"Don't tense," the cat ordered. "Don't. I want you loose. I want you ... " She licked her lips. "Wriggling," she whispered.
The mouse swallowed.
"I haven't been speared by a male ... in six weeks," she breathed. That's when her last mouse had ... expired.
He nodded. "I think you ... mentioned that."
"I want our sex to be primal and wild, mouse. I want to sweat and drip and whimper and shake. I want it to be utterly physical, utterly real. I want to know that I'm alive. I want to explode. To cry." She was breathing harder. Horny beyond civility. And she suddenly realized she didn't know the mouse's name. "What's your name?" she swallowed. She needed to know what it was so she could call it out between waves of pleasure.
"I don't ... don't have one."
"What?"
"I'm 529. Before that, the last time, I was 1123."
"No, no, that ... that won't do." Pause. "You need a name."
The mouse eyed the window. The blue sky. The open. They were near the countryside. Oh, the countryside.
"Don't look out the window," the cat ordered.
The mouse looked back to her.
"Chestnut. That's a good name." Pause. Smile. "You can be my little Chestnut," she whispered, betraying a very vulnerable femininity. A yearning. She, like him, like every other living creature, only wanted to let her guard down. Only wanted to ... to be.
The mouse blushed, feeling that maybe, maybe this feline wasn't like the others. Maybe.
She lapped her rough tongue through his head-fur, causing it to stick up. He self-consciously smoothed it back into place with his paws.
"I'm," Chestnut whispered. "I'm hungry. Please, can ... they didn't feed me at the auction."
"You can eat me, then. You don't need food." The cat, in the fur, bare, beautiful, sleek, laid back on the couch, raising and spreading her legs.
"No, I really need ... food. And water."
"You'll sow your seed in me until you're panting dry," she told him. It was not a request. "After we're done, I'll let you feast. I'll cook you ... grilled cheese." She smiled. "And we can have milk and chips and cookies."
His stomach growled. He felt faint.
"Come on," she urged, her furry legs still spread. Inviting. Warm. Soft. Natural.
Chestnut swallowed, eyes on that furry, loose pussy of the cat's. Warm, sensitive folds. Bare. Exposed. He stared at it, heart pounding. He wanted to slowly put his paws on it. But he shook his head.
"Chestnut," Lumba said, trying to be patient.
The mouse had a blank, trapped look on his face. The cat growled and dug a paw into the naked mouse's back, shoving him forward. Hard. Slapping his muzzle and face into her furry folds. He squirmed. She held him down. He thrashed for breath, and she let him go.
Chestnut gasped and trembled. Nose filled with her scent now. Swimming in it. Fluid on his lips and nose, droplets on his twitching whiskers.
"Chestnut," she told him, twisting, now on top of him, pinning him down on the cushions. "I don't mess around. I want you. I want you in me. I love mice," she breathed hotly. Into his face. He flinched. "You will be intimate with me, and you will like it. I will not mistreat you, but ... you will perform your duty."
"I want to be ... free."
"Free? Free from what? To do what?" she questioned.
"I don't know," he whimpered. "How can I? I've been a slave all my life."
"No. No, you were a slave. You're not a slave with me."
Feeling a primal survival instinct well inside of him, the mouse spat, "Get off of me."
"One thinks you harbor a hidden hatred," she cooed into his ear. "That's dangerous," she whispered.
"If you had your fur used so callously, if you had your most intimate and delicate act of expression stolen from you to satiate greedy appetites, if you had ... "
"I would love it," she finished for him, shutting him up. "Society is how it is, mouse. History happened. Bemoaning ... will not change," she said, nibbling on his ear. "Anything." She breathed into his ears. "You will never get a female mouse. I will never get a male cat. You're an outcast. I'm lonely. So are you."
"We all are," he whispered darkly. "And you can breed me 'til I bleed, and you'll still be lonely."
"All you have is me," she told him.
"You don't know me," he repeated.
"Chestnut, I am wanting, am trying," she stressed, "To be kind. Just breed me! Bang me. Suckle me. Just love me," she begged.
"You can't," he said, still squirming, "Buy love."
"Oh, but you can. Maybe cheap love, but that's still love. It still counts." She was not liking how the mice was worming into her mind. "And I bought your love. I own it. You can't withhold it from me."
"You're desperate," he hissed.
She squeezed him. He yelped. "Love me," she hissed back, eyes watering. Shaking with rage and sadness. "Please," she whispered.
Chestnut squirmed, got free, and bolted. She pounced, tackling him. They tumbled into the coffee table, knocking over a vase of flowers. It shattered.
The cat wrapped her paws on the mouse's sheath. Yanking. Not gently. Not hard enough to damage him, but ...
Chestnut pushed at her with his paws, feeling his sheath being worked fast and furious. She was trying to get him erect. He shook the thoughts out of his head, but it was no use. She was succeeding. And quickly. His arousal was evident. His body was betraying his mind.
"You're hurting me," he cried.
She slowed drastically, flushed. "Oh. Oh, I'm sorry." She put her forehead to his, closing her eyes. Breathing him in. "Are you okay?"
Chester gulped, trapped. A bit dizzy.
Lumba was down on him in a second. Her mouth on his sheath, lips running up and down the fur, teeth scraping.
"Oh," the mouse breathed, squirming. He felt his head pounding. He had hit it on the side of the table when he'd been pounced. He closed his eyes, not struggling. She could bite his mouse-hood off, and ... he was in a most helpless situation. He clenched his teeth as his cock slid free of its sheath, to the back of the cat's carnivorous throat.
A growl came from the back of her throat. Tongue lapping.
Chestnut winced. "Don't ... your tongue," he whimpered. A cat's tongue being rough, each lick was scraping him. It sort of hurt. Even as his cock filled harder with blood, the scraping hurt his delicate skin. "Please ... "
She heeded to his pleas, removing her mouth. Panting. "Anyway ... I got you ready."
"For what?" he asked, blood pounding beneath his fur, heart speeding.
Quick as lightning, with an inherited, feline grace, Lumba was flat on her back, legs raised and spread, pussy exposed. Her paws snatched the mouse into the air, expertly pointing him and shoving him down, his cock hitting her pussy's opening like an arrow hitting a bull's-eye. Glorious accuracy. Heavenly.
The mouse gasped at the sudden grasping thrust. The cat pulled him in and out, the mouse in her paws like a fur and blood rag doll.
"Oh, oh ... " The cat arched her back. "Oh, this is what I've wanted. Oh, this is what I've wanted. Oh, your ... oh, my Chestnut," she purred, pumping the panting mouse in and out of her body.
The frantic, wild speed of the act ... made the mouse dizzy. He couldn't resist. And couldn't think straight. His ears were burning, flushed from the tips with blood. Swivelling. His balls slapping against her, making a soft thudding sound. His chest heaved, tail twitching. Her pussy was big. His cock dug deep into her each time she drug him to her, getting lost in mucous and muscle, loose, wet warmth. A sensitive tunnel squeezing his sensitive length.
The cat pinned the mouse to the floor, and she straddled him, and she bounced up and down, muscles in thighs and lower legs flexing, standing out. Foot-paws digging into the carpet. She bounced, bounced, bounced on her mouse. Hard. Every time she slammed down, she speared to him. To his hilt. Each thrust down, her sweat and fluid-dripping, ginger-colored, furry hips and groin would crush the breath out of him, pushing down on his groin and belly. The mouse would exhale sharply, with a squeak, gasping as she rose up again. Wide-eyed, watering.
"Oh. Oh, yes. That's ... that's it. That's it." Her paws went to his ears, paw-pads rubbing round the edges, hips still bouncing hard. She tugged at the ears, gingerly.
The mouse began, on male instinct, humping back into her.
Good. Good, the cat realized. I have him. She grinned. I have him now ... she rolled away, his cock slipping out, bobbing around a bit.
"What ... what?" he asked, dripping wet. Dazed. Wanting. Heaving. On all fours. "Why did you stop?"
"I want you to take me. I want you to want me. I want you to come to me ... unforced. Submit," she told him.
The mouse could see the lure. Her body.
"Go ahead, then," she breathed. Hot. Drooling. Desperately, desperately needing to be finished. The mouse desperately wanting to finish her. "Turn away, if you want. Resist." And she spread her wet legs wider, making purring, moaning sounds, running her paws through the carpet. A stray ray of light that bounced through the window made her pussy glow. Her fur soft, paws limp now, tail swishing like a snake on the floor.
The mouse broke. He broke. Hating himself, Chestnut was jabbing back into her. Crying for want. Within seconds, pounding, pounding. Humping. Squeaking. Minutes. Minutes, until he spurt his seed into her, squeaking weakly, sagging against her belly and breasts. Mouthing her breasts. Drained and pleasured.
The cat screamed and purred upon reaching her own orgasm, dripping wet. As if she'd had the greatest relief in her life.
When it was all done, the cat cradled him. "Oh, my Chestnut, you ... oh," she said, and she kissed him on the nose. "Now, let's have a meal. And then we can shower, and then ... " She purred into his ear.
The mouse nodded obediently. Resigned. Oh, it had felt good, but ... but he longed for the act to be a spiritual, transcendent one. A thing of freedom. And it never had been. For he was a clockwork mouse, a breeding toy. This was not enough. But he was snared, and he couldn't get out. The pleasure was ... but even so, he knew it wasn't enough. Maybe some clear joy would come for him, on some distant train. Maybe he could stow away on it. But he was not hearing it coming again. Not yet. Maybe not ever. He was ... so confused. He held his aching, aching head.
"What are you thinking about, my Chestnut?" the cat asked, making him a grilled cheese.
The messy, tired mouse stared blankly at the table. Nose sniffing, tongue salivating at the smell of the food. "I don't know," he whispered, pained.
The cat patted his head. "That's a good mouse."