Back Alley Cats

Chapter 2 - Of catnips and catnaps

Chapter 2 – Of catnips and catnaps

In the eyes of a boatman, Goldenpond Island is rapture; a piece of heaven that has fallen from the sky, yet it houses no angels. Old Victorian structures piece together a picturesque view of the floating city, worthy of the brushstrokes of famous painters from centuries past. Falcons breathe life into the air as they hover the arcane constitutions of the hostelry, the crimson skies their backdrop.

With every row the boatman does with his paddle is a step closer to the Promised Land. He tries his best to cling to what little hope he has, for he does not have much to go on. Within him lies the desire of every man, a cure … a cure that will rid his body of the plague it was born with. To claim the normalcy of the Old World, that is their dream.

He knows his way around every inlet surrounding several islands. Hitherto he has not set foot in any of them. Not for more than a couple days at least. He not so much longs a woman’s touch for he has had many. What he needs is love – to feel the touch of a woman’s heart.

There are days when he had to practically beg for essence from the crestfallen, who just like him are outcasts, spewed by the New World Order for defying the carnalities of the Regency. Well, not that they outright defied the decrees. It is just that they had to be casted off for they do not possess the funding or the resources to maintain such standard of living.

His boat hits the dock, his hands still at the sight of a woman wearing tatters. She gathers drinking water from a dry well. He steps off of his boat, carefully tying it to a rock. He slows his breathing, careful not to scare his prey.

The unsuspecting victim knows of the presence, yet cannot predict precise movements. The scene is one of quiet desperation, much like a hungry lion eyeing a precious solitary deer in the deep forest. The woman shrugs the feeling, blaming it on years of paranoia. She stands slender, frail, not an ounce of fat in her body. A harpist could play the strings in her torso. A doctor would gasp at the protruding bones. She is a hideously beautiful melody waiting to be played.

The boatman inches closer behind the shadows of rocks. Stealth is his comrade, abrupt movements his adversary. His feet glide steadily, carefully treading the path toward the bringer of salvation.

He remains cautious, afraid to startle the only woman he has seen for hours. His arms ache from the required task of rowing to scour nearby islands for a free meal. Now that he has seen one, he gives no mind to letting it go.

Helios is about to set in the horizon. The man feels restless at the thought of darkness. His eyes constrict at the sight of exposed neck, freed by the movement of dark raven hair that slowly hurl like a caress from left to right. He never expected to see beautiful alabaster skin up close. Her beauty strengthens his resolve to ravage her.

Desperation pushes him to react, making him jump his prey from behind the rocks. The beautiful animal thrashes against him, knowing full well what the man needed, what the man craved.

She stills. There is a glint of approval in her dark sultry eyes. She is a leviathan, she is dangerous. A perverted nuance of a smile paints her lips. However strongly her heart feels against the injustice, she has learned to succumb to the normalcy of the situation. It is clear that this is not her first time at the rodeo. This is just one of the many days that this has happened.

Her body rests, but her heart speeds.

“Do it,” she hisses, provoking the grungy feral creature before her.

Years have not been kind to the boatman, yet his face does not show his true age. One can make a diplomat out of him by taking a blade to his tresses and facial hair. He is charming without saying words, and he knows this. Knowing his advances would not be rejected fuels his confidence to hop from one island to another. His air of mystery and handsome looks has aroused many women. It allows him survival from one day to the next; certain that he would not shrivel and die of the New World disease.

The pale woman lifts the hem of her tatters to reveal the junction of her thighs. With rapture, the handsome man eyes the apex between the legs. He shakes heatedly at the prospect of chastising the lovely specimen. And so he drops to his knees, burying his scruffy face against the thin gossamer that is covering the woman’s lady bits. He nuzzles greedily through the fabric, breathing her in.

Lady tatters snakes her fingers into the boatman’s dark hair. Her body flares tumultuously at the feeling of warm desecration. Without respite, he whips her undergarments down, making layers of tattered fabric pool at her feet. His eyes regard her with veneration … he respects her. His hands carefully glide to caress the smooth shins of her legs, as if waiting for her to order his next move.

“Lick,” she compels. A single salacious word which holds so much meaning that it speaks volumes to the man. Her look is tantalizing. Veneration turns to desecration as the man nuzzles her. She tastes of sweet submission and promise as the man’s tongue moves past each heated fold.

Moans of dark pleasure escape her mouth. She enjoys the familiar feeling of abuse from a welcomed stranger. “By the Gods … f**k me, please,” she rasps in desperation.

“I shall,” he whispers against her cavernous haven. With a look of wonder, his face comes into view from between her legs. His lips glisten with essence, evidence that he had his fill. He is blessed to live another day. Hitherto it did not prevent him from engaging her courtesy.

With shaky limbs, she breaks from him and slinks toward the perimeter of the well. She moves to seduce as her hands jerk at the soiled satin ribbon in front of her mourning dress. Her hands clasp tightly around the circumference of the cobble then bends over. The warmth of her chest meets the coldness of rock as she leans forward. With the edge of the well cradling her bosom, she finds her balance and spreads her expectant legs.

The brooding boatman spits to lubricate himself. He positions, presses, and then sinks. His mouth forms into a perfect O, surprised at the tightness of a woman he expects to be loose. Groans of longing and desire claw their way out of his throat. He aches as he appreciates her tight heat.

She screams her pain. The penetration is thick, slick, raw, painful, and well lubricated. His thrusts are painfully slow as if to torture her more. The air is so still that anyone close by can hear the sound of muscles stick, clench, and contract. He moans at the sucking quality of her nether lips. He pretty much knows that a woman such as she will be loose and unsavory, but he is wrong, so wrong that it feels so right. His hands move about in front of her, searching, palming, and groping her breasts with a desperation that he himself is surprised to realize.

“What— what is your name?” her words ride and grate with delight as she gets violated and defiled.

“S-Silas,” he whispers as he sinks deeper against the forceful folds of her contractions.

“Do. You. Have. Children?” she appeals in staccato breaths as the hungry man pounds her.

“Had. Everyone— everyone died,” he manages words between thrusts and shallow breaths.

“Good. Now, f**k me.”

And so he does. Furiously, rabidly, torridly.

She tips her head back then clamps the sides of Silas’ thighs. She has never been used quite like this before. There is a dull ache in her chest that threatens to capture and blanket her heart. What is this I feel is what she asks herself … are we making love?

She decides to trust him with her name, “Callista.”

“Ungh— what?” he seethes through clenched teeth as he rams her. The more he pushes against her, the more he loses portions of himself and his consciousness.

“My name— Aah! Do. Not. Stop,” her chest heaves every word as she receives him inch by inch. And so with insatiable hunger, he obliges. Feverishly, rapidly, hungrily.

Callista feels her release near, gathering and pooling dangerously south in that sheer layer against the folds of her opening. Her hands grip tighter at Silas’ thighs, coaching him to quicken.

“Callista. I am going to come. Is it okay if I do it inside of you?”

“I don’t care. Just please, do not cease your movement.”

Her body shudders as her mounds push a release so strong that if feels like an out-of-body experience. The feeling numbs her, shrouding all sense of thought and reason. She dissolves into pure sensation, lost in a quagmire of pleasure as her muscles thrum, shake, and savor the euphoric strands of a mind-blowing orgasm.

Silas’ engorged organ pokes against the sensation of lustrous silk. It coats him completely from base to tip. He withdraws steadily only to plunge quickly. He has a few more strokes before he breaks. It is a difficult fight as shrapnels of delight shoot up and down his shaft.

He groans as he feels himself near. He knows full well that his body can only take so much before it detonates. He is running out of room to restrain the pressure. It builds too fast, becoming too hard to contain, so he lets his body lose control. He rubs furiously against her back as his fingers twist her n*****s.

Just like Callista, he tips his head back. He bellows as he sensuously fills an estranged woman, the most beautiful animal he has ever seen. His strong arms cling around her desperately as his entirety struggles to claim and possess her. It is clear that he wants her to be his.

“By the Gods—” his mouth slacks against her nape. He struggles with his breaths as he rides out an orgasm that has sapped him of his strength.

“Thank you. You have my gratitude,” are the words he speaks with bated breath.

“And you have my heart,” is her confession, a dire petition of her love for him.

And with those words Silas feels a weight lifted off his shoulders. He has found what he is looking for, “Oh, Callista…”

‘Fftick!’ goes the sound of a sinister Spanking Ruler with tassels from each end.

Her dark mascara eyes are one of revulsion as she trails the ruler down the back of a new recruit, who is down on all fours. The recruit is a defiant child. She has her hair in pigtails, her waist in an embroidered petticoat, and her feet in virgin white lady slippers. Her look goes against the completed palette painted for her by a Goldenpond Artiste.

Trainees are regarded as rough diamonds in need of a good polish. Insubordination in any way, shape, or form during the transformative process is a spit on Madame Moreau’s award-winning cheekbones.

Lady M is in her purple mayhem – mauve dress of silk gauze with iridescent pleats in flossed silk, trimmed with silk net and plum satin, topping everything off with hair in a bouffant and a quiet chignon at the back. Her look is like that of a magnificent eggplant. She sits idly in an Adirondack as her right hand trails the ruler torturously along the depression of the girl’s back. Her cat eyes squint with revulsion. She does not look happy.

“You are blank canvasses, plucked to be painted by men!”

‘Fftick!’

“Ow!” the girl screams.

“Silencio!” M bellows.

‘Fftick!’

“Hmm…” the girl whimpers like an abused stray kitten.

The sound of the serration biting through skin is so sharp, so crisp that all the girl can do is take what she deserves to get.

“You are only to wear a Regency corset, or a tight satin yellow nankeen bustier with skimpy bottoms to match.”

‘Fftick!’

“Camel gossamer shin guards over black incognito heels.”

‘Fftick!’

“And that is all.”

‘Fftick!’ skin bleeds at the last blow Moreau releases.

Backed up in a dark corner of the majestic Alley Cat Emporium is Rosemary. She is a dear friend, and esteemed colleague to Madame Moreau. Rosemary is ten years her junior, yet they are on equal footing in terms of beauty, sophistication, and grace. They were the most celebrated wenches during the height of their prime.

Close to a decade ago, there came a council who decided to replace the then old and retired Madame Marion Theuville. The body decided on a younger prospect, one who is ambitious and unafraid. Rosemary’s intelligence catapulted her in the ranks. However, her rigid sensibilities caused her the golden opportunity.

Her refusal to uphold certain decrees of the New World Order gave her a reputation. They eliminated her from the running. Defiance denied her the chance came the time of crowing the next Madame. With her gone, Moreau rose to the occasion.

M proved herself worthy of all the challenges, accepting everything that was thrown at her with zeal and untamed voracity. Her proclivity paid off. She was crowned Goldenpond Madame during her late thirties. Well, she did kiss and licked ass along the way, but hey, at least she is not on the receiving end of a kinky Spanking Ruler.

This explains why Rosemary, who is in her late twenties, still dons a Regency corset as she crosses her arms in the annals’ dark corner, watching intently at the suffering of a benign recruit.

Despite what had happened, there is no enmity between Moreau and Rosie. M even allows her to wear what she pleases. Thus, she wears her patent leather devil f**k-me boots.

A thought crosses Rosemary’s mind as she caresses her arms. New recruits wear make-up. So, doesn’t that count as embellishment? Won’t that defeat the purpose of being blank canvasses? She decides to keep the wayward thought to herself as she combs an unruly lock of ice blond hair, her devil boots clinking as she retires to her lair.

“We are done here,” Madame Moreau relinquishes. She pulls at her elegant black lace mitts, and then holds out her hand with the ruler for someone to take. A manservant clumsily scuttles his way towards the Madame. He bows in reverence as he carefully takes the ruler from her hand. His eyes are careful not to linger unless he desires M to gouge out his eyes. She pulls again at the lace mitts, fixing a diamante sphere laced around her ring finger.

Black Lace Mitts accent a woman's delicate hands without completely abandoning propriety. Given her stature and nobility as a Madame, it is an obligation to look dignified, despite overseeing an environment that reeks lower-class.

M stands and gestures to another manservant to lead her to the Emerald Room, her nest. She stops midstride, letting go of the manservant’s hand and flips open her mourning fan close to her chin.

“I hope you learned your lesson, child.”

“I did. Thanks, Madame Moreau Verseilles.”