Taming the Wildcat

This is a draft of a section in Chapter 8 of "Invalid Item" . Please read and review.

Hannah's inner predator is growing restless, and she has taken refuge by locking herself in the restroom of a fuel station. She is desperate to diffuse the time bomb of her Wildcat, but she knows of only one way to satisfy her urges.



         She stepped back from the mirror and stared again at her swollen nipples. Masturbation was another diversion she had used to attempt to thwart the Wildcat’s urges. No matter how hard she tried, her inner beast was never fooled into thinking that her own fingers could provide the same pleasures as the meat and blood of another living being. But the act could usually provide enough satisfaction to defer the inevitable for a night. Slowly, gently, she dragged her fingertips across the supple skin of her torso, over the ridges of her ribcage, sensing the expansion and contraction of the structure with each breath. Her touch slid upward, drifted past her breasts—a tease for what awaited them—and traced the lines of her collarbone and shoulders. She wrapped one hand around her throat, and scraped the nails of the other up the side of her neck and into her calico hair. She thought about David, his large, powerful hands, and how they held her. She dreamt of his touch, his scent, his taste.

         Her shoulder blades bumped against the smooth, tiled wall behind her. The surface was cold and hard, impersonal, unsensual. But the extraordinary warmth of her body quickly conducted into the wall, warming to her touch just as a lover would. Soon its temperature matched that of her naked skin, and she barely felt it at all. She tightened the grasp of her throat, and lowered the other slender hand down over her eyes. She imagined being eaten alive by her Wildcat, slicing away the meat of her throat, closing around her face until the sweet mercy of death spared her the torturous pain that would follow. She knew well how terrible a death it was, even more painful than the one she had already endured. But somehow, in the darkest corner of her conflicted mind, it was truly her ultimate fantasy.

         She released the hand from her throat and reached for the light switch. Plunged into darkness, she removed the mask from her face. It was so black in the windowless restroom that she could not see her own hand before her. It reminded her of her first moments of consciousness after reanimation, the sensation of floating through empty space filled with nothing but impenetrable cold. Except now, her body was warm, and growing warmer by the second.

         Blindly now, she touched both hands to the base of her neck, and slid them simultaneously down to caress the mounds that adorned her chest. They were petite by any standard—at least, when she was in her human form—but she never ceased to be amazed by the power they held. Inasmuch as her fangs were her favorite amongst her body’s many weapons, her breasts were the part of her where she enjoyed pleasure the most. They were a connection between her two minds, a place both she and the Wildcat found warmth and happiness and magic. She touched them softly, as one holds priceless crystal, simultaneously cautious of their fragility and awed by their smoothness and shape.

         The first touch of her fingertips to her nipples revealed that they were still just as massively swollen as they had been when she laid her eyes upon them in the mirror. Hannah’s breasts were different from those carried by human woman; her body had been designed never to naturally give birth to young. When she became the Wildcat, those petite mounds transformed into full-fledged tits, engorged with warm milk manufactured from within her body. That milk was intended not for a newborn, but for a lover, sustenance while his body produced an endless stream of seed to awash her cavernous womb. Thus the equipment used for the delivery of the milk—Hannah’s scarlet cherry nipples—were enormous, indeed adult-sized. Both bodies would consume the other’s product, feeding off one another, theoretically allowing a continuous exchange of pleasure for days on end. In truth, there was no telling to what lengths Hannah’s transformed body would go to achieve its ultimate satisfaction. Only a handful of times had she made love to an individual who was even capable of surviving her inner beast. She dreamt of David as she touched herself, whispering soft, incoherent wishes for all the possibilities he offered.

         Her lips parted, her glorious fangs slid through only far enough to expose the tips. She relinquished her beautiful touch and raised her fingertips to the instruments of death. She felt the hollow tips, the smooth surface, the sublime sensations that her contact produced. The pads of a pair of index fingers—one long ago scarred, the other virgin and new—contacted the point of the needles. She could almost feel the blood circulating beneath her soft skin.

         Then she stopped. Hannah released a breath, and glanced around. A sliver of light drifted in beneath the restroom door, flickering now and again from customers passing by outside. She knew the bliss that she could give herself by slicing open her fingers and painting her lovely nipples red, and she also knew that it would leave her body quivering and unconscious. Someone would find her like that, she knew, and she would probably wake up in a hospital again. In custody. A frustrated growl rumbled up from deep within. She cursed herself for having left all of her money back at the thrift shop. She could have found a cheap hotel room, barricaded herself inside, and fucked herself properly.

         She slid one hand down past her chin, over her throat, across her collarbone and onto the soft topography of her breast. Her fingertips closed around the nipple, and her breath and thoughts were once more stolen. She moved the other hand even more slowly, taking time to detect every one of the folds and contours in her skin. Those fingers traveled farther than their opposites, gliding past the warmth of her breast and the ever-stronger rhythm of her artificial heart. They retraced their paths over her ribs, and dipped briefly, one by one, into her navel. The palm of that hand crested the mound of her hip, and the middle finger lead the way through the fold of skin just around front. The other fingers followed, as fingers always do, until they were ensconced in warm calico. The middle continued, unabashedly, until it rested in the crevice between two searing folds of flesh. It slowly curled inward, reaching inside Hannah’s body, sliding past moistened muscle throbbing with the pleasure of intrusion. Another finger followed, and then the other two. She spread the lips of the enormous opening wide, flattening them against her fur, and danced her fearless fingertips across the pulsing flesh within. Her other lips, those used in polite company, spread into a wide grin. Hannah’s opening was indeed enormous, and she loved every acre of it.

         The skin of her back vibrated as she slid downward along the wall, squeaking against the smooth surface. As she lowered she spread her legs wide, releasing the confinement of her thighs and allowing her lips to open even further. She continued until her buttocks contacted the floor below. It was cold, covered in grit and slime and God-only-knows-what-else-the-floor-of-a-public-restroom-is-covered-with. It disgusted her so much that all of her lips spread even wider.

         Hannah slowly drew her legs apart, straightening them along the floor, and then lifted them both up over her head in a triumphant “V” until her toes touched the wall behind her. Her middle finger flicked the hardened nub of flesh beneath its nail, sparking her body with what she inwardly referred to as human pleasure. To a human woman, that little object was the source of life’s greatest physical pleasure, but to Hannah it was comically vestigial. To continue to play with it until achieving a human orgasm would be a waste of time. The beast within her would only be insulted by such an amateurish display of sexual performance. No, the true source of the Wildcat’s pleasure lay much, much deeper within her body.

         The articulations of bone and muscle required for Hannah to pleasure herself to the fullest extent which she was able would have given any ballet dancer a great deal of envy. Since the act of inserting her entire forearm into her own vaginal cavity required her to curl herself into something resembling the fetal position, doing so inherently curved her spine and, consequently, the vagina that ran up its entire length. The swelling flesh of her beast’s inner sanctum consumed her hand as she probed deeper, rewarding the penetration with the feeling of the softest velvet covering muscles powerful enough to crush the bones that invaded them. For all the effort required—at full depth, Hannah always rested the back of her head into the corner of one knee—it was physically impossible for her to reach the very end of her dark passageway. But the touch of her fingertips to a place so far removed from the outside world could still rock her tiny body with more pleasure than any human could ever possibly imagine.

         Her hand quickly grew numb in its tight confinement. Soon, her only sensation of the penetration was that carried to her by the Wildcat’s brain itself, the dense bundle of nerves that ensconced that dark passageway. Every wrinkle of every fingerprint on every finger ignited a unique inferno within Hannah’s body, illuminating each of the billions of pathways that linked her two separate minds. The pleasure reached every extremity of her body, from the toes straining against the massive force of joy to the mouth that gaped wide to draw in the oxygen necessary to drive her powerful engine of pleasure. The convulsions strained her muscles against her already painful contortions, until every limb shuddered with magnificent pain. At the moment of climax, Hannah turned her head around backwards, unhinged her jaw, and closed her teeth around the tightened muscle of her thigh. Her fangs extended and just penetrated the skin. In that moment of explosive ecstasy, Hannah wished she could eat herself right into nothingness.

         The orgasm lasted for three minutes. She could have gone much longer, but as contorted as her body was, her lungs were simply unable to draw in enough oxygen to sustain consciousness any more. Desperate to release the pain of her pleasure, Hannah squirmed and wriggled to draw her arm from the grasp of her burning passage. The velveteen muscles fought every inch of the way, peristalsis playing tug-of-war with her shoulder and triceps. At last, with shaking fingertips wrinkled with moisture, she withdrew from the opening and unfolded herself onto the cold, filthy floor. She lay there for longer than the orgasm had persisted, shaking all over, still rocked by aftershocks of the pleasure her delicate fingers had delivered. Her lungs swelled with air, themselves oversized to produce the deafening roar of the Wildcat. But now they merely drew in oxygen, the wonderfully sweet gas that surged into her blood and filled her body with the warmth of life.