Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
He pets me so well – all the way up and down – from my slippery cunt, to my belly, tits, chin. He loves to focus on my belly. He gives it a jiggle.
“Look how many treats they’ve been giving you…” he says again.
I haven’t mastered the art of purring, but I’ve got a range of meows down pat. I answer him in cat language, shifting myself towards his touch as any fussed cat would do. I smile as he gives me another tickle under the chin, relaxing into the zone.
I’m Priscilla the pussy, and my pussy wants some action.
“Come on, kitty cat,” he says, and gets to his feet. “Let’s get you some milk.”
I crawl to the kitchen after him, staring up as he gets a bottle from the fridge. I lick my lips with another meow, and scuffle along as he takes it through the living room. Priscilla’s feeding bowls are waiting on the floor. He fills my drinking bowl up with milk right to the top, generous, and I position myself so I’ll be facing him when he drops himself onto the sofa.
He’s watching me with eager eyes as he takes his regular seat, and my eyes fix on his as I lower my face to the bowl. I use slow, long sweeps of my tongue to lap up the milk. So messy, and yummy, but it feels so fucking kinky.
“That’s it, kitty cat, drink up your milk. You must be thirsty.”
The filthy smirk on his face and the way he palms his cock through his trousers makes my clit pulse. I want to be a good pet and lick up every last drop.
It’s sweetly humiliating being Priscilla, on all fours on a guy’s carpet while I lap up milk from a plastic pet bowl. It takes fucking ages to drink like this, with milk getting up my nose and dribbling down my chin, but I manage it. I’m licking the bowl clean by the time I’m done, and User 290’s eyes are still fixed on mine.
Meow, I say, as though I’m hungry for more, but he shakes his head.
“No, kitty, that’s enough. If you’re a good girl, you can have some more with your dinner.”
I look at the empty plastic bowl next to me – the one for my evening meal, and next to that, just a little way along the wall, is my litter tray. Nice and tidy, just waiting to be soiled. That’s one of my favourite parts of this proposal, every single time. Soiling the litter tray while he watches me.
User 290 pats the sofa beside him, and I scurry on over. I know the position he likes me in, and lie down on my back for another fuss, my head in his lap as he smiles down at me.
“Such a beautiful pussy cat,” he says, and resumes with the tickles. “You enjoyed your milk, didn’t you?”
I give a meow, not a nod, sweeping my tongue around my lips as he runs his hand down to my horny slit.
“Maybe you’ll get some special milk later, if you’re really good for your daddy.”
I know User 290’s special milk, and I’m always desperate for it by the time it comes. It won’t be yet though, since he means pet play when he says it. He wants me to act like a cat for him. He’s got pictures of cats all over his living room, and has some cartoon cat magnets on his fridge. The guy is obsessed with them.
It only makes me keener to play the part.
He switches the TV on as though it’s just a normal evening with his cat lying at his side, but I’m feeling more demanding than usual.
My mind is drifting to Reuben when it should be here, and I don’t want that. Reuben thinking is becoming as obsessive to me as cats are to the guy on the sofa. If I don’t watch out, I’ll be putting Reuben Sinclair magnets on my fridge before I know it.
User 290 doesn’t help with distraction. The TV shows he likes are dull as fuck. I don’t want to be watching Gardener’s World when my clit is throbbing, and tonight I can hardly take it. I want User 290 to be petting his kitty cat with all of his attention, not sharing him with closeups of tulips and honeysuckle. I rub my head in his crotch with a meow, and squirm, offering my kitty tits to him.
“Stop it, Priscilla,” he says with a chuckle. “You know I like this programme.”
Yes, he fucking does, and to be fair, it’s not always this bad. Gardening isn’t my bag, no, but I quite often enjoy the chill out, lying on my side with my head on his thigh, whittling away the whiles as he strokes me, but I’m more frustrated this evening. I won’t stop pawing and mewling and stealing his attention from the show.