Felice the Cat (a word painting from Mr. Leppard)

It’s morning again, that special time when I’m sitting with Felice in the half dark, enjoying my coffee and her bare legs, her brief top, and we’re both dazed and untalkative, having been newly banished from the comfortable world of sleep.

The cats are doing their morning thing of alternately lazing on the rug between her chair and my sofa, then leaping up and chasing each other, then slumping down again between us, rolling over, paws in the air, purring, stretching out to full length, licking one another.

We’re very quiet, until she says softly, “I want to be a cat.” It hangs in the air, resigned.

“Eat cat food? Poop in a box of sand?”

“No! Lie around all day. Sleep. Do nothing. Not have to do anything.”

“Oh I see. Nothing?”

“Find a sunbeam to lie in. Gaze out the window. Just sit with nothing to do but let my eyes fall closed.”

She shifts slightly with her mug of tea. Her white top so very white. How do girls stay so clean? I want to touch her bare limbs. I set down my own mug. “You want to be a cat.”

She just nods, on to other things in her head, done with the subject.

“I can see it. I see you as a … Siamese. Go on. Get down on the floor. Front feet first.”

She looks at me with vague sarcasm, out of one lovely eye. Cat-shaped, almost. I drop my hand down near the floor, gently snap my fingers. “Here kittykittykittykittykittykitty.” Not it in the high voice I use for the cats though.

Still looking one-eyed at me she sets down her mug, stretches her two front paws out neatly together, fingers bent. Then she surveys me with both eyes. Neutrally but with interest. A perfect cat look. A long look. Noncommital. Pretending to weigh the advantages and disadvantages.

“Here girl.” Even the cats are watching now, sitting. She slithers off her chair, placing first one hand then the other on the floor. Her eyes never leave my face. One knee down, then the other, with a soft thud. She’s going to use her knees as cat hind feet.

“You should really be on your fingertips and toes, to be a real cat.”

She tries but it’s not going to work, though I like the way it so awkwardly elevates her barely clad ass into the air. She nearly topples over, giggles with frustration, returns to the comfort of her knees.

“That’s a girl. What a good girl for trying. But it feels good down there on the floor doesn’t it. Isn’t life simpler.”

It’s not a question. Her eyes neither confirm nor deny. But they do fix on me with complete single-minded cat intensity. She has that down.

It’s a good ten feet across the rug from her chair to where I am. Very smoothly, deliberately, with almost scary accuracy she plays the feline advancing silently across the floor. There is not a fraction of awkwardness to her movements, the smooth slide of her shoulderblades, the mesmerizing adorable roll of her ass inside the shiny silk shorts, the fixed cat eyes, the look of mixed slavelike determination and utter aloofness.

“Come to me you good girl.” I wriggle my fingers to her, promising scratches. She perks and speeds up almost imperceptibly, and my heart skips a beat or two at my precious Felice, coming when called on hands and knees, barely dressed, almost predatory in a cute way, hair swinging.

She’s a human. That’s the best part. How sweet and electric, when one human makes another do this for him. And she does it. And likes it. The soft warm little nose touches my fingers and she pauses, sniffing, before butting one cheekbone against my knuckles. I turn it into gentle scratches of her ear, which folds over easily, she is so soft and delicate. I gently pull the earlobe, feel its tender perfection. “Do you purr?”

She tries, a raspberry sound, but starts laughing again, hanging her head. I rub the back of her neck, her secret spot. I suggest, “Just humm then. You know, I think we’ve found your alternate identity.”

She hums, getting into it, and nuzzles my knee. I crush her head gently against my bare knee, and the way her cheek deforms makes my cock lengthen instantly, hotly thick and alive down my thigh. There is a catch in my voice as I say, “You make a perfect little pussy. But are you *my* pussycat.”

As my pussycat she can do what she likes of course, so she butts her head between my thighs and climbs with her front paws on the sofa seat cushion, rising into my rubs and caresses and humming more loudly and now lasciviously. I can stroke both her soft cheekbones with my thumbs, stroke her warm shoulders, go underneath her arms into her warm armpits, rub her ribs through the thin cotton top. Wordlessly I take her by the hair at the top of her head and present her with my forearm. Naturally and without hesitation she begins to lick me in small strokes and then longer ones.

“Your tongue is softer than a kitty’s, I can say that. Get in daddy’s lap.”

Her new role has set her free. In this guise human female cravings can find release. Awkwardly she clambers up and gently attacks me, taking over my lap, almost bending my cock under her weight and not caring. She licks my face, smelling of tea, her tongue still hot from it. I take her firmly by the jaw and direct her movements until she is lapping right at my lips. Her humming has become an open-mouthed *ahhhh, ahhhhh?,* rising in inflection at the end as she finds herself becoming more and more aroused.

Never had a cat like this.

When I stroke her tummy she opens her thighs with abandon, fully and shamelessly in heat, giving me as much of her tongue as she is able. Her small teats she thrusts into my hands, each hard nipple making an aimless doodle in my palm as I grasp each young breast in turn. With her pelvis she is now making little invitational thrusts, trying to attract caresses. There is no reason not to slip my fingers inside the waistband of her shorts, find the more delicate elastic of her panties, delve beneath it as well, feel her silky hair there, dive lower, down and down to her underside until my middle fingertip slides into the hottest, slipperiest sensation a man can feel on earth: a pussy aroused and gushing just for him.

“Aren’t we affectionate this morning. Does your cunt need something inside?”

It’s a rhetorical question, as my hand is now nearly cupping her botttom and my fingers deep up in her musculature, feeling the soft-hard walls of her vagina from within, the squishing fluids, the hard, noselike nub of her womb against my fingertip. The muscles at her opening are tense cords for me to push against with my knuckles, making her growl and squirm. Like a surgeon I explore all around her insides, her cock-channel, coming out from time to time to barely touch her as I make squishy tiny loops all around her outer opening where she is most sensitive.

I add another finger and begin thrusting her rhythmically, and she cannot even kiss anymore and just presses her cheek to mine going *huh, huh, huh, huh* in time with the stabs into her. I go faster. She spasms. Her claws dig into my shoulder, my chest. I finish with the most delicate fluttering of fingertip against her erect clit, and she gasps and convulses and thrusts and goes *uuunnnnggghhhhhhhhh!* into my neck, vaginal muscles mechanically locking and unlocking around my fingers, a businesslike spasming pressure designed to milk every drop of fluid out of a dick, if any dick were there, and channel it farther inward.

I hold her stroking her ears while her gasps subside to slower heavy breaths. It will be a while before I want to remove my hand from her shorts; it’s too happy there in all her heat and wet and mess. It is so sublime and fun to kiss and murmur and nuzzle with a girl while your fingers are up her cunt, buried to the hilt in her privates, gently moving and curling and stroking in that hot frictionless world.

“Talk to me kittycat!”

She puts her perfect mouth right up to my ear and says in a little voice, *meow.*

Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/94dmpp/felice_the_cat_a_word_painting_from_mr_leppard