Back Alley Cats

Chapter 5 - Kid on a tight leash

Chapter 5 – Kid on a tight leash

Innocence is bliss they say. Yet it proves otherwise for those who have waited long and hard to rid themselves of it. There is nothing more unsettling than the concept of not knowing. It looms over your head. Annoying you, prickling your scalp, provoking your thoughts, making your teeth chatter. Oh, the luscious torment of innocence. Having inner plight with one’s temptations is the worst. And when curiosity hits, it hits hard. And as I like to say, curiosity kills, guts, and murders the cat.

Fifty years back, carnalities like debasement and harlotry appear to be distasteful. Luckily, majority of today’s migrants no longer live in that era. They have embraced the New World Order with open arms, and open legs.

Sadly, there are still those who are unwilling, and would rather be left as residues of the Rupture. They refuse to embrace what is necessary. I pity them. Their claim on innocence is nothing more than a fleeting nuance of a dream.

In this New World, the first monthlies mark the beginning of duty, and the end of purity. Once a girl experiences her first menstruation and shows the proper inclination, she is forever marked. It is a painful milestone yes, but a necessary one at that. Unfortunately to some, the transition may prove … jarring. It often renders those who are unprepared tattered and bruised for life. It is a sad, sad notion indeed. It’s scary.

Girls who are brandished are plucked from homes, away from their families, to ready themselves for womanhood. Surreptitiously, they enter a cycle in an island that is three clicks away from where they are born. One click in measurement equals the distance of one island to the next. Two is, well, you get the idea. It is pretty far from where they come from.

Lucky is one particular cat that won’t have to go through such phase, because it is here in the BAC pub where she was born.

“Hey girl, whatcha doin’?” the Nubian cat asks with a giddiness that is very uncharacteristic.

Without averting gaze from the computer, Felicia rolls her eyes, “What does it look like I’m doing?” she glowers as her long Formica cat nails furiously input details from sheets of parchment.

The blackout from yesterday is a nuisance. She now has to type in all the service numbers and their corresponding particulars on a spreadsheet. The Madame brought in an extra set of hands to help her. Those hands happened to be Cocoa’s, the Nubian cat and speed demon typer.

The Nubian gives a knowing grin as she playfully skates her nails over the mahogany desk. Apparently she can afford herself some downtime, for she kept her end of the bargain by finishing half the work in half the time Felicia’s taking.

Poor Felicia, a secretary cat like her dislikes power interruptions, and she has a good reason to. Though on a different note, she gives no mind to passing out into complete darkness as long as the culprit is a pint of deviled ginger ale. The infamous concoction is a Goldenpond specialty, a demonic alcohol drink mix. It contains roughly twelve shots, or the equivalent to a water bottle in hard liquor. It can down a rhino in a matter of seconds. Typically, one order is suitable for one to three people, but Felicia is no ordinary person. She was a Back Alley Cat, and a feisty one at that.

“Need my hands?” Cocoa offers, showing off her cerulean manicure worthy of the Nubian Goddesses of the Niles. A rare find this woman is. She is one of very few who have lived to tell the tale of a land that once existed. Her ancestors hail from Nubia, a region along the Nile River, north of Sudan, south of Egypt. It is a kingdom of silver, gold, onyx, and coral-colored glass, all of which have now disintegrated into dust when the world got Ruptured.

Cocoa leans over the desk and eyes Felicia speculatively, “You know, if you were careful, you would be Moreau right about now,” She chides with words that are meant to provoke sadness. The Nubian cat may not wield a sword or a grand pistol, but gossip is definitely her weapon.

Felicia rolls her eyes so far the back of her head that it almost looks like an exorcism, “Hah-hah … so funny. Just keep working on your skits, Cocoa,” she mocks to counterpoint the wench.

Cocoa writes comedy sketches in her spare time. Her works are usually showcased in the Howling Room, where all the cachinnations happen. She is a hit to boatmen and Royal Guards alike. It is rumored that her talent with making people laugh comes from a very lonely and dark place, a place where innocence used to reside.

Felicia smirks and quietly giggles at the prompt on her computer, “Hey, Nubi, you have an open number,” she manages to stifle an embarrassing bout of laughter. She hands the Nubian royalty her clipboard that details the consignment.

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

Input Client Specification: cat eyes [match]

Service No.: 14833

Wench Name: Cocoa

Birth Island: Redapple

Attributes: Pixie cut, piercing cerulean cat eyes, subtle joker lips, wind tunnel face, and russet skin, toned and voluptuous, Nubian Goddess worthy of the Pharaohs; confident, brash, arrogant.

PROVISO: Inexperienced and docile client. Prudence is encouraged.

Client Name: Uri Trimoulet

Designation: Regency Student, first-class

Preference: Bottom, Submissive, Masochist

Implement(s): undefined.

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

Cocoa’s eyes squint with pure repulsion, “Are you kidding me?”

“Don’t look at me. I’m just a lowly secretary cat, meow …” Felicia purrs and claws with her paws up like a kitty cat. She is adorable when she acts like this.

The words ‘Bottom, Submissive, Masochist’ throws Cocoa off her game. This is a first in her many years of BAC pub servitude. She has never had a bottom before. She is now in her early thirties, yet her genes afford her not to look a day over twenty-five.

She, Moreau, and Rosemary share a little bit of history together. They were the toast of Goldenpond during their prime. Though, there wasn’t much talk about the Nubian princess.

M dominated the middle-age bracket. The young and preppie ones were consigned to Rosemary. Then everything else in between was left with Cocoa. And just like her consignments, she is always in the middle of it all. Her placement granted her access to information from both age groups. Like I said, she may not wield a sword or a pistol, but gossip is definitely her weapon.

Distance grew between Cocoa and Lady M when it came down to crowning Madame Marion Theuville’s successor. The friendship turned to aloofness when Moreau got called for the role. Despite what had happened, and with the years behind them, Cocoa has learned to pocket the memory and not delve too deep into it.

She and Rosemary remained good friends though. It probably has to do with closeness of age, for they only have a five-year gap in between.

The Nubian cat breaks from her daydream as a heavy sigh escapes her mouth. She never had to endure an order for an inexperienced and docile client, let alone have the implements section undefined. This case is a humorous enigma.

“Ha-ha. Very funny indeed … Just keep your panties up, you old wench. I’ll make this quick. Then maybe, just maybe, we can do something about your legs,” Cocoa scoffs and cackles.

Sadness is what is registered in Felicia’s eyes. The unbidden words are a spear to her heart. She shrugs it off and goes back to finishing what she started, typing away her hands into oblivion.

Cocoa slinks her way toward the Pain Room. Her eyes search the casings for an implement that will match the client’s undefined preference.

A minute passes. Nothing comes to mind.

Two minutes pass. And she is stumped.

Inexperienced and docile, the words occupy her mind as her hands skim the shelves for an appropriate implement.

Another minute passes.

She is beyond bemused.

“I heard you were funny,” a voice breaks the sublime silence.

Her baffled state turns to one of shock as she ogles the kid from top to bottom: clipped brown hair, generous forehead, bushy eyebrows, deep-set eyes, straight plump nose, thin lips, youthful complexion. He is a juvenile specimen under an old microscope.

Her eyes do their own Client Review of his clothes: beaded embroidered velvet blue cape swathed over creamy hot pants, skinny legs tucked into Men’s Regency knee-length socks, connecting to cute little early Regency sandals. The boy is clearly a minor inside grown-up clothes, “You’re not supposed to be here!” she squeals, surprised.

“Ha-ha! You are a hoot,” The young man teases, “They were right. You’re funny, hah!” he adds.

The Nubian arches her left brow, “You heard?” she spit the words like venom from her tongue.

“Yeah. Haven’t you heard? There is no thick wall that rumor cannot rupture,” he states his double negative sentence in an eloquent flourish, like the true scholar that he absolutely is.

Cocoa gives thought to what the boy said. She is never a hot topic. Her nature resents it for she is always at the receiving end of the rumor mill, not the other way around. The thought does not settle well in her stomach, and for the first time she feels like she is being laughed at. She feels like a joke.

The young man purses his lips and furrows his brows, “Hey. Um, did I say something to offend you?”

“No. I am fine, kid,” her mouth speaks yet her attention is on a Tantric Binding Love Hog-tie. Finally, she finds a suitable implement, very PG-13, “You left the implements section of your profile undefined. Why is that?” she solicits as her hands pull and tug at the clever contraption.

The boy shrugs, “Like I stated, I don’t have much experience. It’s just now that I thought, hey, why not go there and see for myself. So, here I am. In the flesh,” he gesticulates in frolic.

Cocoa grins and extends her hand, “Okay then, follow me, Uri.”

They gait hand in hand towards the Rosetta Lounge, an intimate subsection across the Emerald Room. Esteemed clients often crowd this cavernous vicinity to have a smoke, or a glass of Chartreuse wine doused with Elixir Végétal de la Grande-Chartreuse.

Elixir Végétal de la Grande is a strong tonic that potently combines the base of well over a hundred and thirty medicinal and aromatic plants and flowers. It has the kick of a libidinous mustang to say the least. At the moment, no one is going to enjoy such concoction because Cocoa booked the lounge to herself. Her cerulean eyes survey the room. It is clearly empty. Not a putrid soul. The privacy makes her smile.

“Um, how are we going to do this, Miss?” Uri scratches his head as he breathes in the residual aroma from the smoking bongs. His wary eyes regard the Old Victorian lounge design of the Rosetta: masterfully embroidered filigree walls, stunning Victorian Rose sofas, gilt-edged moss-colored dressing screens, and a limit of three miniature lamp shades accenting the round wooden tables that sit very low, close to the creamy Persian carpeting. All of these dimmed with ambient lighting by the coiled halogen fixtures. The whole vibe of the Rosetta is one of cozy opulence, a seductively romantic and insidious overture.

“The name is Cocoa, my dear,” she whispers salaciously.

Unfazed by her lasciviousness, the boy braves a question, “Hey, you write comedy, correct?”

“Yes, I write comedy,” she affirms, baffled by Uri’s lack of virility. He is very young indeed.

“What kind of comedy?” he presses onwards and upwards.

“I am writing a sitcom. Here, sit and come,” The last word is a scandalous invective. The boy giggles, clearly understanding what the salacious tirade means.

“Do you have another joke?” he wheedles for more entertainment.

She holds both ends of the implement and makes a crackling sound, like that of a leather belt against soft skin, “Have you met my dog?”

“No … I don’t think I have,” he treads carefully, waiting for the punch line.

“His name is Pat,” she pouts like a coquette.

“Oh, Pat … Pat the Dog. Oh! Wait a minute, ha-ha! Pat the Dog. That’s rich, ha-ha!” His laughter is contagious. It resonates like the sound of a youngling getting tickled to submission along the outskirts and back alleys of Goldenpond.

“How young are you, Uri?” she probes carefully.

“I just turned eighteen,” he beams ever so proudly.

“Hmm … I see,” she ponders. He is innocent indeed.

“If you don’t visit pubs, how have you managed to live this long without shriveling or dying?”

Uri rubs the back of his neck, “My cousin is a Regency Esquire. He gets around. His connections supply me with um, you know, essence,” he explains with the last word stated rather coyly.

“I see. Now, drape yourself over that Victorian Rose Carved Sofa,” she points with her long cerulean nails, “As for your other question, which I think you have forgotten,” she remarks impatiently, “I shall be in complete control using this Tantric Binding Love Hog-tie,” she relinquishes while holding the two latches of the four-corner leather implement.

A Tantric Binding Love Hog-tie is a spread of four binders. Two wrap around the wrists and the other two around the ankles. All four binders intersect in the middle. The chains that tie them all together are very short, making the hog-tie one of the most effective implements for restraint. One may choose to bind wrists to ankles in front or behind back. Basically, it is kinky suspenders that restrain the extremities from limbering up. In the words of Lady M, “this is our kinky version of the crucifixion, minus the crying women, the blood, and the gore.”

Uri hesitates, feeling faint all of a sudden. Probably has to do with the residual cloud of smoke from the just-used smoking bongs. He shakes his head, realizing Cocoa’s advances. Obediently, and with trembling hands, he sits himself over the Victorian Rose sofa.

Cocoa climbs him and insidiously ruffles his hair with her long fingers. She gives him a mesmeric gaze, lashes fluttering leisurely like butterflies. He feels a stirring in his underbelly. Her proximity causes the boy’s breath to hitch in his throat. His innocence melts and gives way to a thickening in his pants, an unbidden sensation that he welcomes.

“Um,” he gulps, “You’re Cocoa, right? I mean your name is. I mean…” he stammers, clearly smitten by the Nubian cat.

Her hands playfully toy with the lapel of his cape, “Yes. Say my name. Again,” she commands.

“Cocoa,” he whispers.

“Louder,” she hisses close to his ears. Her voice is a soft caress that makes Uri tighten and harden.

“Cocoa,” he squeaks.

“Not loud enough,” Her hands aggressively unfurl the boy’s cape, exposing skin. Long, hard, cerulean nails tug and squeeze at the boy’s virgin n*****s, “Ow! Oh my God! Cocoa!” he barks.

“You found your tongue, little boy.”

The Nubian cat dismounts, and then takes her position behind one of the dress screens. She performs a sensual striptease, showing off sections of skin past the gilded edge of the folders. She calculates her movements, showing only the necessary amount of flesh to set off the boy’s testosterone.

Without his butt leaving the sofa, Uri does the same with his clothes, frenetically. His young blood spikes at the sight of delectable brown skin. He likes Cocoa’s coloration. There is something about russet skin that turns him on. Probably has to do with the contrast of his skin against hers.

With agitation, he undresses himself, pulling and tugging at layers of material in a clumsy manner. He curses inwardly, fuming at the prickling sensation of having his erection graze the fabric of his hot pants, “Help me … Please…” he whines like a recalcitrant child.

Cocoa obliges. She reveals her russet hourglass figure. It renders Uri motionless.

The cat crawls her way by the knees toward the boy’s parted legs. Her heated palms rest over each of his thighs, feeling skin for skin, “Uri, are you cut?” she purrs like a kitten.

“No Ma’am. I mean … No, Cocoa, I’m uncut. Is, is that a problem?” he stutters.

Her joker lips grin, “Not a problem. Not even the slightest,” A plump shaft juts out in front of her face as she strips the boy of his safety net. There is nothing that can protect him now. “Impressive, you have the size of a thirty year old,” she acclaims with delight.

The praise causes Uri to flare up. His skin turns beet red, “Thanks. I’m growing aren’t I?” he asks sheepishly like he needs the affirmation. And rightfully so, young bloods need motivation.

“Yes. Yes you are,” she murmurs as her right hand wrings him from bush to tip. Her other unwrapping the boy’s bulbous mushroom.

Uri convulses at the touch. His eyes cross and his toes curl as his bell end protrudes past the skin, “Aaahh. Why does this feel so good? Oh, Jesus,” he rasps like a virgin.

“Jesus ain’t around to save you from this, boy. So just sit back, and relax.”

Without warning, she envelops him in her mouth like a wet hug. The young man squirms as Cocoa ravages his manhood. He fists his hands into her short hair then pushes himself in. Their hands do quick work, exploring each other’s weaknesses as mouths sensate.

Uri does not have long. He cries as Cocoa abruptly pulls with a popping sound.

“Stop whining,” she growls with saliva dripping from the sides of her mouth.

Uri is out of breath from the assault, “I’m— I’m … sorry,” he sounds scared.

Cocoa laughs. She finds him amusing and surprisingly fertile. He furrows his eyebrows as if not understanding the delight he is giving her, “What is it? What is so funny?”

“Nothing. You are such a sweet boy. Big and delicious too,” The young man flares up yet again. His body is in complete rapture. He finds the Nubian beguiling. Cocoa’s joker lips return, “Bow before me and put your arms between your legs,” Uri obliges under her prevailing dominance.

He suspends his arms between legs. Cocoa kneels before him to fasten his extremities onto each cuff of the leather hog-tie to secure him in place. His wrists are bound to his ankles in front. She nudges him onto the carpet, leaving him curled and helpless like an accordion.

Uri’s heart thrums an erratic beat. His eyes are a mix of fear and reverence as he anticipates what the cat has in store for him. He is leaking from the tip. He is excited, evidently.

“Cocoa? What am I doing here?”

“Hush. Just enjoy the show, baby.”

The thrill of not knowing makes him pant like a dog over the Persian carpeting. Cocoa is in full control now and well beyond the boy’s reach. She plops over the sofa where Uri sat. Her tongue flicks out, lapping the sides of her hands like a naughty kitty cat. With a cheeky grin, her one hand roams and explores her own body, fingers twisting and turning. She is teasing him, clearly.

“What the!? Cocoa! No!!” He whimpers and whines as his body spasms over the carpeted floor.

Cocoa’s hands threaten once more. Her expert fingers fellate herself darkly, going round and round her four walls. The Nubian moans heatedly against her own touch as she flakes herself. “Oh my God, Uri … tell me you want this,” she taunts, pleasuring herself.

Uri trembles at the sight, “Cocoa, could you help me here, please,” he begs as his slit cries another creamy tear. The view of Cocoa sensate herself is too much to bear.

The titillation rips her apart as flames scorch her body like wildfire. The pleasure erupts, threatening to consume everything in its path. She gasps as the feeling reverberates through her body like a rapturous melody, “Come here,” she pulls at Uri’s restraints, effectively tugging the whole of him between her legs. He hunches in front of her, wanting to bury his face in her quim. “Eat me. Eat all of me,” she slams Uri’s face into her wet cavern. The boy snakes his tongue out fervidly to fellate her indecency.

“Uri. You f*****g bastard!” Cocoa screams as she moistens against his mouth. The young man laps at her gift, swallowing compulsively and indulgently. She screams as her release drowns her vision. She quickly pushes Uri to his back, and then brings both hands to jerk his Mr. Happy.

“Oh no. Oh God. Oh Jesus. Oh Cocoa. Oh!” His lungs heave the disjointed sentence like he is dying. His eyes roll in the back of his head at the feeling of a very violent and creamy discharge.

“That’s a good boy,” she brushes his sweaty face, amused at her most juvenile client to date.

“Oh no. Oh God. Oh yes. Wow. Now I understand why uncle comes here often. Jesus Christ,” Uri wheezes out of breath.

“I can take both of you in one session. I’ll make it worth your while,” Cocoa haggles conspiratorially. She knows a boy such as he will be worth her while. She can smell early retirement. Oh she does.

Uri is having difficulty breathing, but nods nonetheless, “Oh God yes. Count me in. Oh Jesus I can’t breathe. Ohm, Cocoa, can you help me with homework sometime?”

She slightly arches an eyebrow. Now it is her turn to look as if she did not understand, “What kind?” She hates studying.

“Chemistry,” Uri gulps.

Cocoa did not know jack about Chemistry, but she knows that she and Uri seem to have it the moment they met, “I look forward to it,” she swallows her pride. His innocence is her golden ticket out of Goldenpond.

There is no law in Physics that can explain the chemistry between two people. You just have to succumb to it, and allow the chemicals to flow.

“Gran, I have homework,” the child proclaims.

“Oh? What about dearie?” the woman encourages as she rocks in her resplendent Adirondack.

The girl scrunches her face as if the next words are an enigma, “Muscle control. What is it?”

“Oh dear, that is something best explained when experienced. Do not trouble yourself, my child. You shall learn soon enough,” She shifts to stand, “Here, take Felicity’s hand. The two of you should go to the Emporium and peruse some of the volumes we have available,” The woman gestures to the secretary cat sitting idly behind the desk.

The girl turns on her heels and gives a heartwarming smile, “Here, Felicia, let me help you.”

The secretary cat nods and accepts her aid. Tiny footsteps go round the desk to help the disabled cat. The girl tilts Felicia’s wheelies then maneuvers her outside of her confines, “When are you going to tell me the story about your legs, Felicia?”

Unbidden words invade Felicity’s mind as the young girl trolleys her toward the Emporium.

You know, if you were careful, you would be Moreau right about now.

Then maybe, just maybe, we can do something about your legs.

If you were careful, you would be…

…do something about your legs.

If you were, you would be…

If you were Moreau.

Your legs.

“You okay Felicity?” asks the girl.

“Yes. I am.” Felicia responds curtly.

Innocence is hardly ever blissful, especially in a world of need and endless regret.