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The Way of the Cat

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I am waiting, once again, for him.  Always waiting, it seems.  

Business, darling...forgive me, I'll be with you shortly.

Patience, darling...business that must be tended to.  I'll make it up to you, I promise.

Important business, my dear...it's taking a bit longer than anticipated.  Go on ahead without me and I'll join you when I'm finished.

I never ask about this business of his.  I'm expected to do many things - look pretty when he wants to look at me, keep him company when he doesn't want to be alone, decorate his arm when he's seen in public, keep my mouth shut and my legs open.  Don't ask questions.  Don't complain. And always, always, look the other way.

I do my job, though in truth it's more than just a job to me.  I do love him, maybe more than I should, given what he is.  Since I know what he is, what does that make me?

A gangster's moll?  A villain's consort?  Or just the kept woman of a wealthy businessman?

Whatever I am in the eyes of the world, I know what I am tonight in the eyes of my lover.  And he will tell me, in heated whispers, when he finally arrives.

 

He sends his private jet to deliver me to his suite in Paris.  He is wrapping up business in London and will meet me there later.  The hotel caters to me like I'm royalty, making sure I have everything my heart desires, obeying his standing order to see to it that I am comfortable until his arrival.  I know he will be late, as he always is, so I eat dinner alone in the suite and retire to bed early.  He likes me to be well rested when he comes to me.

 

He finally lets himself into the suite and I watch as he enters.  His suit is impeccable, as always; perfectly tailored, finely crafted, expensive and lovely.  His shoes are highly polished, shining, the way they are regardless of what business  he's been tending to.  He never seems to get dirty.  I lay in the bed admiring the way he moves as he removes his coat and tie, awestruck as always by his effortlessly elegant beauty. Even in the dim light seeping in from the hallway, his blue eyes glow.  I feel a familiar warmth growing between my legs as he turns to hang his jacket and I see his broad back rippling beneath his tailored shirt.

I shift in the bed and he turns to me, an indulgent smile parting his lips.  "Darling, it's late - you should be sleeping."  He comes to the bed and sits on the edge, stroking the back of one long finger up and down my arm.  "Did I wake you?"

I shake my head, moving to sit up.  His eyes shift slowly down to my breasts.  "I was waiting for you," I whisper.

His smile becomes warm, loving, as he leans in to kiss me gently.

"Such a good girl," he murmurs against my lips.

I can smell the cat on him.  So that's where he's been.  He does love his jaguar...his baby, his other darling, the other woman in his life.  He pets her the way he pets me, with affection and indulgence.  I know he's been with her first tonight, but rather than jealousy, I feel relief that whatever business  required her presence is over.  He is mine now, for the rest of the night.

We share him, she and I.  Fortunately for me, she takes care of the dirty work, leaving the aftercare to me.

 

He showers while I lay in the dark, waiting for him.  He is washing her scent off so that he can be marked with mine.  My need for him grows and intensifies as I listen to him preparing for bed, and by the time he slips silently under the sheets beside me, I am ready to be taken by him.

He pulls me to him with undeniable force, not enough to hurt me, but enough to let me know I belong to him.  I can feel his arousal against my thigh and I shiver with want when its hard heat touches me.  

"Were you a good girl while Daddy was working?"

He is kissing me with hot, fevered lips, his strong fingers gripping my upper arms tightly as his mouth moves over my skin.  I sigh and murmur "Yes, sir", knowing it's what he wants to hear.  He prides himself on my being a good girl.  Me and her both.  I know he has asked her this same question tonight, stroking her the same way he is stroking me, praising her the way he will praise me later.  I imagine her purring under his hand and wonder if the big cat arouses him, if he comes to me afterwards because he needs a relief that he can't get from her.

His hand has moved between my legs now and he is stroking me in the way that is only for me.  His voice has dropped to a harsh whisper and his words are carefully chosen to prepare me for him - as always, he finds me wet and ready, but he still plays and teases, driving me to such intense arousal with his long, skilled fingers that I am soon arching and begging.  He loves it when I beg.  All powerful men do, it strokes their ego the same way their hands stroke your body.  Power must be fed.  

"Open  your legs for me," he orders as he turns me onto my back on the silken sheets.  I do as I'm told, as I always do.  My legs spread and he moves over me, his head lowering to my chest, sucking a dark wet mark on my silk chemise over my nipple.  He likes the way silk feels in his mouth, so he rarely undresses me in bed.  His hands glide over me and I obey his every command.

His cock is hard and heavy and the weight of it against the soft sensitive flesh between my thighs is at once exciting and frightening.  He rarely hurts me with it, but upon entry there is always a fierce, burning sting as he stretches me open, and I dread it with a kind of anticipation that makes my knees shake.  I always want him, I want the sting, I want him to ease it with delicious friction that brings a new sting of its own.  He pushes into me and my breath catches against his ear, my body stiffening, my inner muscles clenching up on him in that way that always makes him gasp.

"That's it baby,"  he whispers breathlessly, biting the soft place where my neck meets my shoulder.  "Purr for Daddy little kitten."

He pulls my knees up on either side of his hips and thrusts so hard into me that the bed slams into the wall.  I don't scream...I never scream, no matter how hard he fucks me.  He likes soft quiet moans, ladylike and polite, or else he silences me by putting me on my knees and filling my mouth so that I have no choice but to remember my manners.  His own are always impeccable, even in the throes of passion.  But sometimes, every great once in a while when he's had a particularly satisfying victory,  when business has gone especially well, he demands something a little less well mannered.

I wonder if tonight will be one of those times.

His fingers are stroking me, so skilled and nimble, pushing just hard enough to bring me to the brink several times before easing off to let me glide back down;  maddeningly erotic touches and lascivious rubs as his thick cock pushes in and out, in and out, speeding up and slowing down so that we both stay deliciously close to the edge without falling over it.  I hold tightly to him and let him lead me where he wants me to go, obedient as always, his good little kitten.

And then when he has had enough of me, he finishes us.  I swallow my screams so that they come out as soft whimpers, letting my orgasm rush over me in cascading waves of intense pleasure until I'm trembling beneath him, my body shaking, my breathing labored, soft sobs dying in my throat while he shudders under the weight of his own climax on top of me.  He is holding my arms above my head with his free hand and I feel an aching sting where he has sucked hard on my neck, bruising me with his teeth.  He has always enjoyed marking me.

When he has stilled, he pulls out of me and moves to my side, gathering me against him, settling me so that my head rests on his chest and my body nestles into his side.  His breathing slows and he exhales deeply.  

"Goodnight, little kitten," he whispers in the dark.

 

I lay awake for a while, listening to the soft cadence of his breathing and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.  When I know he is deep enough asleep that my movement won't wake him, I slip from the bed and slink quietly to the bathroom.  He doesn't like for me to wash up after we make love, but his come trickling out of me is uncomfortable and keeping me awake.  As I pass the dressing area I brush against the pants he laid across the armchair and something falls out of the pocket.  

It is a black silk bowtie.  He had entered the room wearing a tweed necktie.  I pick it up and notice it feels sticky.  Blood.

I put it back in the pocket of his pants and as I'm doing so, I smell the scent of the jaguar again.  His clothes are covered in it.  

I hear him stirring in his sleep, and hurriedly return to the bed.  He wakes as I am settling back into his side.

"Everything alright, kitten?" he asks in that smooth, bourbony baritone.

I nod and turn my face up to him.  He watches me for a long moment, and in that instant I wonder which way this is going to go.  It's not the first time I've found evidence of his business activities.  It's also not the first time I've been caught doing so.

A slow grin turns up the corners of his lips and his hand comes up to my neck, his long, strong fingers circling my throat.  He squeezes gently, just hard enough to affect my breathing without causing any real distress.  

He likes to save that for later.