[WARNING: This post contains magical realism!]

 

It was a beautiful sunny summer morning.  Lola and I stepped out to go for a Sunday stroll when, out of nowhere, a black cat strutted down the street, right up to Lola’s feet, laid on its back, and practically demanded that Lola pet its belly.

“You know that cat?” I asked, surprised by the forwardness of this feline.

“No,” said Lola as she crouched down to indulge the cat’s demand.

“Then why are you petting it?”

“A neglected pussy is a sad pussy,” she said.  She has a way with pithy phrases.  “Can we keep her?”

“What?  No.  That’s a feral cat.  Who knows where it’s been?  Who knows what diseases it carries?”

“Awe, come on Daddio.  Please.”

“No.  It’s an outdoor cat and outdoor cats belong outdoors.”

“I want to make her an indoor cat.”

“You can’t make an outdoor cat an indoor cat.”

“Yes you can, people do it all the time.”

“But why would you?”

“You know that being an outdoor cat takes like seven years off the cat’s life.”

“I’d much rather be an outdoor cat, free, than stuck inside, lying around all day, looking out the windows longingly.”

“You’d love to be an indoor cat and just lie around all day.”

“I couldn’t type with paws.”

“You’d have a little cat book you would read.”

“Well, maybe if it had pictures of pussies.”

Lola laughed at my one-track mind and she eventually got up and we left the cat to go for our walk.  We really thought nothing more of it.

Along our saunter through the sanguine streets of our neighborhood, we ran into a neighbor who made polite conversation with us.  At one point he turned to Lola and asked if she was still working from home.  Lola replied in the affirmative and proceeded to tell the neighbor about her routine.

“I wake up, pet the cat, have some coffee and then hop on Zoom.  I often try to interrupt the monotony throughout the day.  It’s far too easy to work straight through, so I put on my schedule a number of breaks for me to get off.  Pet the cat, take care of business, get all the tension out through a hysterical paroxysm.”

As we walked away from the confused interlocutor, I said to Lola, “Well, that was a new one.”

“What?  I’ve been saying hysterical paroxysm for years.  It’s an old-timey expression that not too many people know the meaning of.”

“I didn’t mean that, though he certainly either was ignorant of it or thought you must have made a malapropism.  I meant, ‘pet the cat.’”

“Oh, well, our little encounter made me think of that.”

“He knows we don’t have a cat.”

“Does he?  Well, I can pet the cat anyway.  I just did this morning.”

Now I was confused.  Did she mean she masturbated this morning or that she pet the stray cat we met this morning?  Probably both.  I let it drop.

When we got home, Lola hopped into bed and slid her panties down to her ankles and then over her feet and then to her toes before finally discarding them altogether.  “Fuck me Daddy,” she said, spreading her legs wide and lifting her skirt.  She smacked her pussy lips.

“Not now, Darling,” I said, “later.”

“Why not now and later?”

“Why don’t you amuse yourself.  Pet the cat,” I said.  “I’m going to read for a bit.”

I sat down in the cool living room, the windows open and a gentle cross-breeze blowing through the room.  It was delightful.  I got through about a page of the book by Joanna Bourke I had recently purchased when I heard Lo calling out from the bedroom, “Bad kitty!  Bad Kitty!” as she slapped her pussy harder and harder.  I could hear the wetness between her legs splashing with each slap of her open palm.  “Baad Kiity!” she moaned.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, on the bed, was the black cat we had seen earlier.

“What the fuck?!” cried Lo in astonishment.

Lo was in a uniquely vulnerable position and the feline was staring down her juicy crotch.  It peered up over her mons pubis and looked with its cat’s eyes at Lo.  It took two steps forward and Lo prepared herself for a full-frontal attack when suddenly the cat transmogrified into what appeared to be a sexy Cat Woman.  She wore a black leather mask with little cat ears and a matching red bra and panties.

“Who are you?” asked Lola in astonishment.

“I’m your Baad Kiity,” she said.

“Where did you come from?”

“I was by your front door this morning.  I’ve heard your howls in the night, in the day, basically all around the clock and I finally found you.  You spoke my magic name and here I am to lick your little clitty like I lap up a bowl of milk.”

Lola spread her legs and let Baad Kiity have at it.  She was instantly transported into another realm.

A few orgasms later and Lo, panting, struggling to stabilize her breath, asked, “Can I do anything for you?”

“Well, there is one thing I would like,” said Baad Kiity, licking Lo’s juices from her hands as if they were paws.

“Anything,” said Lo.

“Where I come from, I must content myself merely with my imagination.”

“Where do you come from?”

“That is not important.  What is important is I would very much like to have one of your books to amuse me when I play with my own Baad Kiity.”

“Which one?”

“Volume V: Shorter Shorts, please.”

Lo grabbed her copy from the shelf and gave it to the mysterious feline avatar.

“Thank you, Lo.  One sex superhero to another, I’m a big fan.”

And with that, the dark, stealthy, and sleek visitor sauntered out the bedroom, out the front door, and down the shadow-covered street, wearing merely a black bra, panties, and her black leather cat mask.  She carried the book with her.

Lo came from the bedroom, stark naked, and said, “Did you see that?!”

“I did,” I said, putting my book down.  “I think it may be best if we don’t talk of this to anyone.”

“Agreed,” said Lo.

[For more of the very fine, very feline Baad Kiity, check out her OnlyFans page here and here.]