Back Alley Cats

Chapter 3 - Soft as cotton, hard like steel

Chapter 3 – Soft as Cotton, Hard like Steel

Fifty years back, people would do drive in or crowd breakfast joints to get their morning fill. Cards were swiped, credits were taken, cash was spent, and tips were left in cookie jars. Not much has changed really, even if it is already fifty years forward.

Brushing her nails with a file, she sighs heavily. She stops fiddling with her vermillion manicure as she takes a gilded pen to paper, scribbling important notes from the dusty computer.

Yes, there are still computers, but they are very scarce and very expensive. They function only as electronic file storage cabinets, unaccompanied by internet. The web is nothing more than a digital myth, a puff of smoke the fire of which is untraceable, as stated in the book Ruptured Myths.

Technology stopped at Windows. It did not even reach its tenth. The last one was probably Windows 9. Civilization, what’s left of it anyway, still await the birth of yet another Bill Gates, or Steve Jobs.

“Good morning Felicia!” greets a jovial voice.

The brown cat scowls behind the mahogany desk. She swivels her comfy green leather settee to the direction of the fluffy voice, “What’s up Cotton? And no, it is not a good morning,” she bitches like a feline whose milk got spilled.

“Purr … Lighten up now. Surely you find crows-feet and age lines unattractive, hmm?” she muses playfully like a child, which she is.

Felicia rolls her eyes, “Whatever. Here’s your clipboard.”

“Grazie!” she gesticulates like an Italian, which she is.

Cotton leafs through the pages, eyeing important details as she goes through the file line by line.

~~~Back Alley Cats Pub Order Slip~~~

Input Client Specification: soft skin [match]

Service No.: 14601

Wench Name: Cotton

Birth Island: Mallowcliff

Attributes: Silky white bob, doe-eyes, pink pouty lips, cottony-soft skin, petite frame, plump in all the right places; submissive, very soft, gentle, eloquent.

Client Name: Drake Louvencourt

Designation: First Regent

Preference: Top, Dominant, Sadist

Implement(s): Satin blindfold, Satin Handcuffs, Satin riding crop whip, Lace hold ups.

~~~Back Alley Cats Pub Order Slip~~~

A crimson smile lifts her plump cheeks, “Oh, I see that he likes soft skin. I am flattered.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. All men love soft skin. Who would want to f**k a gourd?”

“Seriously, Felicia, you need to chill. Simmer down b***h!” Cotton loses her eloquence.

Felicia’s eyes get bigger, “Whoa, girl … what is wrong with you?” her mouth forms a small O, eyebrows in a furrow. She does not expect Cotton to lose her cool. She is always the shy, meek, adorable kitty cat everyone loves to bed and come home to.

Cotton turns beet red. She feels sorry for going off by a slight tangent, “I apologize. You got me riled up. I’m really sorry, Feli.”

Felicia combs a caramel lock of hair behind her discerning ears. Her mind contemplates the sudden outburst of an Alley Cat she has known to be as soft as cotton, “Hmm-mmm, child … uh-ah, that ain’t gonna fly,” she admonishes with her long Persian cat nails wiggling left to right.

The rabbit conjures a smile to change tack, “Anyway, I have five minutes. I should be going.”

“Damn straight,” Felicia agrees as she resumes filing her Formica-coloured cat nails.

Clutching the clipboard close to her chest, Cotton makes her way towards the Pain Room. It is an area that houses tools they can peruse for their erotic exploits. Her eyes scan the selections, then picks up the Satin blindfold, Satin Handcuffs, and Satin riding crop whip. She looks down and smiles at her already worn Lace hold ups.

“Glad I decided to wear these. If that is not a sign, I don’t know what is.”

Cotton is an optimist, probably because she is new to the trade and has not been worn out by time. Her inexperience did not stop Madame Moreau from taking notice. Moreau took a certain liking towards her. In the words of Lady M, “…she is a fluffy bunny. Men would die to bed her. She will do well in the hunting seasons.”

Gathering what she needs for the session in record time, she walks to unlock the double doors of the Royalty Suite. It is a purple room decorated with darkwood set pieces and a gilt-edged overhead mirror propped to the ceiling. She has been in this special room before with a not-so-special client.

The not-so-special client was a rich drunk with a pot belly and a receding hair line. He wanted to deflower Cotton from behind. Seeing that the man was drunk, and would not likely remember a thing, she took a brass candle holder to his head, knocking him into deep sleep. Lady M praised Cotton for achieving such feat. Not many could stomach the grubby brute for obvious reasons. Little did M know of the mischief Cotton is capable of doing.

The memory makes her smile as she fixes the same candle holder adjacent the implements on the darkwood bedside table. She glances at the Victorian clock atop the double doors. She has one minute.

She plops over the bed in lotus position. Her head slightly c***s to the side. The smell of lavender from the lilac sheets wafts up her nose. It is lovely. Anticipation spikes her blood as she awaits the arrival of Goldenpond’s First Regent.

The double doors swing open to a dapper gent. He has piercing dark eyes below strong brows, a long stemmed nose, a pair of luscious lips, robust hands that brush his dark ebony hair, and a day’s worth of stubble around his jaw. He looks lived-in, but smells like a French patisserie.

“Apologies, I think I am in the wrong room.”

“First Regent Drake Louvencourt is it?”

“Yes. Yes it is I. Are you not too young to be doing this, Miss?” the First Regent poses with his hand doing a very practiced and eloquent flourish to hide the fact that he is nervous about chastising a juvenile Back Alley Cat.

“The name is Cotton,” she c***s her head slightly to the other side, “And no one is ever young or too old in this place.”

“Touché,” he snorts, taken aback by her wit and sharpness. There is something about Cotton that he cannot put a finger on. He finds her compelling and immensely attractive.

The Regent reaches for the double doors behind him and closes them, his eyes not leaving the fluffy little bunny who slumps on the mattress with purple satin sheets.

Cotton is the first to break eye contact. She finds him attractive and sinfully desirable. With a speeding heart, she glides her left pinky over her lips and bites at it to calm her nerves. Her other hand skims the client’s profile to distract herself as she remembers to breathe again, “Your chart says you like satin bondages. I placed them on the bedside table,” she murmurs without looking up at the man who has managed to titillate her from head to toe.

The Regent does not even notice the implements as he is busy eyeing the lovely creature before him. Cotton looks up and slightly furrows her eyebrows, “Is there something wrong, Sir?”

The man snaps from his reverie, “No. Nothing is wrong. I am—”

“Can I call you Drake?” she braves the question to the First Regent no less.

“Um … I guess I can approve of that,” Drake finds himself surprised by his own response. He has never allowed anyone to address him by his first name. Citizens consider him a person of prestige and affluence. He is used to having heads bow before him, until now.

“You are a gentle but brave girl,” he relays with admiration to the bravest Alley Cat he has had the chance to speak to.

“I try to be,” Cotton gesticulates with a heartwarming smile. She is calm now, and at the ready.

“How come I have never met you before?” he asks, completely mystified by Cotton’s disarming features. The fringe of her silky white bob meets arresting doe-eyes, which connects to a cute button nose, then drops to luscious pink pouty lips. She looks absolutely coy, yet beguilingly dangerous, a vision of understated elegance.

“You never asked for me,” she chides with a playful smirk, then pats at the purple tangled sheets beside her, “Come closer. I want to see you.”

With a look of wonder, Drake strides towards the edge of the bed. He walks and instantly feels the urge to touch jump at Cotton and nibble at her rosy supple skin. His steps are slow as he gaits stylishly – a true mark of a polished Regent. He wears a perpetually elegant Regency era cravat inside a midnight blue pompously-collared coat. Slim dark pants pool neatly over his shiny black shoes. And let us not forget the ‘noteworthy’ tent in his pants which makes for a great fashion statement.

Cotton’s eyes can’t help but drop to the vehement bulge, “I see that someone is excited,” she pouts coquettishly as her eyes trace the nub that pushes tightly against the fabric of his crotch.

Drake shifts uncomfortably at the intimation, pushing and tucking in the throbbing salami. He understands that these sessions are necessary, and has gotten used to pounding women in reckless abandon without giving mind to what his heart truly desires. But today is different. For the first time he feels that he wants to defy the laws of the Regency. His heart knows this so.

“I may be on the fence about this proposition, but can we do a Switch? Will you dominate me, please?” Another surprise, even Drake finds himself struggling against the thought, yet he presses on, willing to lay his fate in the hands of a wench. The most beautiful he has ever seen.

She is taken aback, but composes herself immediately, “May I have that on record?” she stipulates for approval.

“Yes please,” he gulps.

She scribbles to strikethrough Drake’s Preference: [Top, Dominant, Sadist] Switch

“Could you sign here, please?” she points at the line to which the Regent has to append his signature. He affixes his signature then hands back the clipboard with trembling hands.

Cotton in turn signs her name on top of his with a cute heart, “There. Done!” she gives a warm smile as inviting as the sunrise itself. Drake cannot help but admire her youth.

She salaciously crooks her finger at Drake, coaxing him to lie astride her in bed. With trembling hands, the Regent skims the edge of the mattress, taking his place beside the lovely rabbit. He plops to his back, elbowing backwards. His body is ever wanting, aching, and needing her to coax love out of him.

She ceremoniously unfurls the fabric of the cravat from his neck, exposing a dusting of hair below the collarbone. Drake is a feral creature of a man, a beast underneath opulent layers of material. His pupils dilate with lust as soft hands unfurl his pompous coat.

Cotton sculpts the back of her hand on his forehead, “Drake, are you sick?”

“Yes I am. Very much.”

Her enthusiasm drops. Doe-eyes reduce in size, revealing long beautiful lashes, “It is not advised to continue if a client is feverish,” she expresses with concern, her hands trailing nervously over his ruffled chest hair.

Drake cups her hands. His heart thumps with the kind of feeling that threatens to transform lust into another four-letter word, “No. I mean … I am …” he hesitates, fearful of rejection. But the look of promise in her eyes grants him the courage. He needs to take a chance, it is now or never. “I’m lovesick,” is his confession.

Cotton’s heart lurches at the words but she does not let it show, “Trust me, Drake. We all are,” she frowns as if understanding his hurt. She shares the same arcane feeling that she knows can get her killed if she so much as responds to it. No Back Alley Cats is to fall in love, unless death is desired according to the Decree.

Their defiance seal their fates as their mouths meld as one. Tongues lap at the sweet nectar of passion, longing, and desire. Their hearts play a dangerous melody between love and lust. Emotions overtake her as she lets thoughts linger. She has a mind not to defy the decree – you do not claim love unless death is desired.

She bolts to sit upright and recount the thought of her emancipation. Death is not freedom at all. It is a parting from all she hopes for. It is an unwelcomed thought indeed, “Drake, I cannot.”

“What d’you mean you can’t?” The crutched words that are enunciated is a shocker. Esteemed members of the council do not slur their words, nor cut them into abbreviated nuances like shoulda, woulda, coulda.

“Did you just say can’t?”

“Yeah. So?” he remarks with pride, his lips forming a deviant smile. Mischief makes him look several years younger.

She pouts, “Is it not a little bit out of character?”

“Is there another soul in this room you see?”

“No. It’s just us …” She understands the connection he is trying to create. He wants more, and she wants it too. They both desire love, but are too stubborn to realize it. Or are they just being careful, for to love is to desire death in this accursed New World.

His eyes become sullen, “Don’t you believe in love at first sight?”

Cotton looks at him with the same longing in her eyes. She feels a tightening in her chest, a reaction that she constantly reminds herself not to entertain. She is again the first to break eye contact. Her gaze drops to the knotted fingers between her knees. The state she is in makes her more beautiful, captivating even. Drake cannot help but admire her.

He lifts her chin as he eyes her anxiously, “Cotton, no one has to know. You have my word.”

She nods, and then picks up where she left off. Drake helps himself up by groveling backwards with his elbows, allowing Cotton to sleeve the coat off his masculine shoulders. He need not place golden chips on them; his toned biceps are an adornment on their own.

He moans at the tension that is tightening in his pants. Being engaged in conversation with her did not make him limp, not even the slightest. An incomprehensible murmur escapes his mouth as Cotton unzips his fly. She then tugs at the hem of his pants to expose well-built legs. His shoes have already come off. He does not even notice this.

“I shall get your implements ready. Please, shrug those off,” she says while pointing at Drake’s cravat and collared coat. He obliges, completely under her tantalizing spell. She turns her back and gives him a moment to ready himself.

Can I really do this? She asks herself as tries to calm her heart. She whisks herself around to see a naked Regent with a throbbing Bishop. All the muscles below her waist tighten at the sight of a beautifully naked man with a well-toned physique. Intense dark pleasure nests to wrestle in her loins. Her immaculate womanhood wets.

Cotton has a very petite frame. And it moves beautifully to scale the bed. She gathers sheets around her knees as she moves in. Her legs straddle Drake. She can feel the heat of his member as it presses hard against the sheer gauze fabric of her undergarments.

“Unnngghh… Cotton, quickly, please?”

She moves with haste at the words, clamping Drake’s wrists with each of the Satin handcuffs, securing them around the poles of the poster bed. He is somewhat immobile, only allowed slight movements by his unchained legs. He writhes desperately beneath her, wanting for her to oscillate and tighten around his scepter.

Cotton brings the Satin blindfold between them. He immediately stops her hands with his, “I want to see you,” he breathes raggedly.

“As you wish,” she concurs then drops the blindfold over the pool of clothes by the side of the bed. Her long fingers untie the pink lace that cinches her corset, allowing space for her bosoms to jut out. She drags the appliqué down and all Drake can do is marvel at the sight of a young girl who looks every bit of a matured woman.

“God, I … I can’t touch them…,” he exasperates in frustration. He somehow regrets doing the Switch, but he knows that being dominated is a nice change. He thrashes around as Cotton elongates each bud between her fingers. The sight of pink plumpness standing to attention is to die for.

She lifts slightly up and adjusts her gossamer panties to allow access. Her doe-eyes gaze at his dilated ones, waiting for his command.

“Wait,” he exclaims under bated breath.

Cotton need not ask him why, she knows. Her expert fingers find their way to her tongue. She laps the sides like a kitty cat. Wet fingers clamp the Regent’s scepter, making it slick and ready for domination. She guides herself slowly onto his erection. His size stretches her, heating her, setting her body on fire. They moan in gratification as they permit their bodies to an afternoon delight.

Her tempo is calculated and slow; a dance of sensual indulgence. She relishes the look of pleasure on Drake’s face as her hands glide over his chest. She rests her fingers at the peaks, flicking to make them hard and sore. All Drake can muster is a stifled moan as he feels himself sated, satisfied, and dominated. He is so hard that if Cotton so much makes a wrong move, his p***s is going to snap.

The rabbit sidles back without ceasing her movement. Her hips continue to gyrate as she wraps her right hand around the Satin riding crop, her left clamped around Drake’s right thigh for support. She trails the implement over his collarbone, sweeping dangerously over his n*****s.

She resolves to grind faster like a helicopter as she feathers quick taps over the trembling Regent’s torso, “Please… God… Cotton, I’m going to explode. Can’t you go any faster? I’m hurting here, aargh.”

Cotton responds by adding two clicks of a tempo to her unforgiving thrusts. Her muscles constrict around Drake like a python, pulling him ever deeper into her venomous depths.

Drake moans both at the pleasure and the few strings of control he has left. With frustration, he brings his legs higher, cradling and rubbing Cotton’s back as she moves about on top of him.

“I don’t know how much longer. I. Am. Very. Close,” he hisses every word with restraint.

Suddenly he sits up, pulling at his cuffs like a furious and rabid dog. They sit nose to nose. The proximity is alluring. His toned flesh against hers is foreboding, “Your mouth,” he grunts. His lips goad hers, causing them to mash fervidly. Sweat douses their bodies as their hips ride a wave of bliss and pleasure. She interlaces her fingers with his and notices callousness in his hands.

“Your hands are not as refined as your tongue, Sire.”

“I happen to do grunt work. Rich people do poor stuff too you know,” he states raggedly as Cotton sinks deeper.

“Oh!” she squeaks.

He gives a look of shock and distress, “Are you hurt? What is it? Tell me what is happening.”

Cotton’s grip tightens around Drake’s shoulders; her face is a look of pleasurable pain, “Oh. Like ‘oh my God, that feels so good’ kind of Oh,” she regards with humor, mollifying his worries.

“Oh, I see. You moaned. That’s great.”

“Can we— can we stop talking, please?”

He nods. So does the throbbing head inside of her.

Drake feels dangerously close. He quickens. He cannot stretch his control longer than he already has, “I am going to come!” he grunts as the electricity crackles and spreads to his every tip.

Cotton nods. She too is close. Her hips pump with tenacity, furiously clamping to rasp his impressive girth, “Oh my God. Drake~!” she screams. The all too familiar tension pushes out of her, breaking her to a million pieces.

“Yes. Yes—” he provokes to which Cotton responds with a downpour, a deluge of hot cream.

With slack fingers, she scoops and gathers the essence between her thighs, “Drake, open your mouth. You need to feed, please.”

He responds by clobbering her fingers, cautious not to chuck even a single drop. Cotton’s eyes glisten at the sight his soul getting sated. Alas, he lives for another day. She beams at the thought of sharing the sunset with him.

His mouth drips with life as he pulls frantically at the restraints, “By the Gods, woman. What have you done to me?”

Cotton still moves about on top of him, aiding him in his release. He follows suit as warmth pulses out of him, coating, glazing, drowning her from within. His body shakes violently, “I am … Aah. God ... I … I’m sorry. I couldn’t control myself,” he apologizes in disjointed breaths.

Cotton rests her head onto his, coaching him to breathe steadily. His body quivers at the aftermath, hands limp and sore from the restraints, “I’m fine Drake. We take pills remember?”

“Jeez. I can’t believe I forgot about that. Why … aargghh …” he isn’t quite done yet. Oh yes.

“Breathe, baby,” she coos as he comes.

“Just … just give me a moment. Oh God…” He recollects his shattered self. His breath steadies. “… how much … how much do you need for a month?” he inquires with eyes that are forlorn.

“Two hundred coins,” she whispers, not understanding his question.

“Consider yourself sold for a lifetime,” he deals without giving it much thought. The words are a transaction it seems. Cotton is taken aback by the abrupt proposal.

The prospect is inviting, but she knows too well that it is the kiss of death. She cannot allow herself such luxury. There is a decree that can stop Drake from pursuing his offer, and she fears that he will fail, leading both of them to suffer the consequence of the impulse. There is no room for love. Not in her world. Not in this New World Order. Not ever.

“I love you, Cotton. Please … please be mine,” he beseeches. His eyes are fraught with anxiety as he awaits her response. His words are laced with desperation, and a strong promise that he will free her from the shackles of slavery.

A look of fear stains her expression, “Drake, you know I cannot. I am bound and scared,” her voice shakes at the thought of exile and death. She is too young to cut her life short she thinks.

“But when will you ever live? I shall make arrangements. I have power. Moreau knows this,” he is very encouraging, “Please, it has been so long. I long for love and a family. Allow me to give you that too,” He is a decrepit soul who wishes to find his spirit. His eyes are riddled with despair as he prepares himself for rejection.

She frees his hands. Immediately, Drake wraps his arms around her body, possessing her, wanting her to be his and his alone. “You don’t have to do this anymore. You can have a life, and a baby … with me. Do you not want that?” He is hopeful that she will say yes. She has to.

“A baby can’t have a baby. I’m still a baby!” she squeals with humor, as if not understanding the emotional turmoil Drake is experiencing.

“How young are you?” he raises an eyebrow.

“I just turned eighteen,” she pouts coquettishly.

“I’m twenty-six. How old did you think I was?” He knows that his looks deceive a lot of people.

“Oh my, I thought you were at least thirty-three.”

“It’s the facial hair, babe,” he grins a devilish smile.

She makes a decision before her mind overshadows her heart, “Okay. Yes.”

Drake’s eyes widen with disbelief, “Yes you agree that I don’t look my age, or is that a yes-yes?” his eyes glistening, his heart swelling and expecting.

“Yes, Drake … I am saying yes to a life with you,” she jeers with happiness.

And so they kiss, ardently. All the emotions that she had to suppress are now finding their way back to her heart. She is heady with affection and love. She slowly retracts from his lips with her eyes closed, “Cotton Louvencourt. I like the sound of that,” she leers with a smile on her face.

“Yeah, I too baby,” he jeers as love blossoms between the two of them like soft cottony balls.

The thrill of young love seizes them as they share another long passionate kiss. Her heart fills with joy at the thought of finding love … her horny, twenty-six year old love.

~~~Session Results | Status Update~~~

Service No.: 14601

Wench Name: Cotton

Session: A+

Result: Customer Satisfied

Status: Rebooked for 50 golden bars.

Update: Released.

Approved and signed, Headmistress Madame Moreau Verseilles

~~~Session Results | Status Update~~~