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The Collared Kitty Cook

They insist my name is Clawdia, and that I was born to serve the Glutton Empire. But I still know better, despite all I've been through. My name is Dia, and I'm really a human girl.

Still, I find it harder and harder to remember. I think...it's been a few weeks since those horrible Gluttons transformed me. I can't remember what I was doing when they burst into my home, but I remember them stripping me bare. I remember they force-fed me something, but not how it tasted. All I remember is that I was most certainly _not_born with pink fur or a tail, and that the creature in the mirror is a complete stranger.

Still, they persist, seeking to poison my mind with their lies. Every second of every night, I hear the same message over a speaker in my cell. "You are Clawdia, a high-ranked chef in the Glutton army. You have always dreamed of serving King Gorge. You are being punished for sparing the Rebel Chefs. Only true remorse for your crime will set you free."

I can do nothing to lessen my torment, neither cover my ears nor scream to drown it out. My mouth is covered in caramel, too hard to be pulled off without ripping off my lips, but soft enough to stick a straw in to force-feed me so I can't mercifully starve. I'm completely stuck to a hard metal surface on the wall, hardened caramel woven into my fur and hair. I'm stuck in a spread-eagle shape, displayed like a naughty painting. Because it's also in my hair, my head is forced to point directly forward. I'm forced to look at a one-way mirror, where I can do nothing but see how helpless I look, tormented by the knowledge there are people on the other side of the glass who can see me.

Like a fool, I first thought that even with the very real possibility of rape on a daily basis, this would be the worst they'd throw at me.

Every day, I'd be awakened when someone I couldn't see heated the platform I was stuck to, melting the caramel that bound me, dropping me to the floor. At that point, two guys would drag me to my feet, making some stupid joke about cats landing on their feet, before dragging me to the prison courtyard to clean me off. They'd do this by joking about licking it off, leading to a very painful gang-bang, before painfully spraying me down with a power washer. Sometimes, they'd be nice enough to just use the power washer, but I'd always be made a bitch in front of the inmate population.

After my fur was clean, they cleansed me from within. They forced me to lift my leg like an animal, pissing on the ground. I had no choice: if I accidentally wet myself anywhere else, they'd take a riding crop my pussy. I made that mistake once, and they taught me never to do it again, warning me that if I did it two more times, they'd make me wear a diaper. Once I relieved myself, they gave me an enema. This humiliating treatment ensured I'd never require a trip to a bathroom, to be allowed even a moment's peace.

Now thoroughly emptied, I'd get dragged before some "doctor". She'd give me an evaluation of some kind, to determine whether I could be released. My gag would stay in place, so I had to write down my answers. If I wrote too slow, or gave a bad answer, the session would end. How many times have I tried to give her the answers she wanted to hear? Maybe the whole exercise is just one more form of torture, meant to give me a glimmer of hope before it's taken from me.

Afterwards, I'd be forced to crawl through the halls on my hands and knees, with four guards surrounding me with cattle prods. If I went too fast, the bastards in front would taze me in the back of my hands; too slow, and the guys behind would zap my ass cheeks. And all the while, the prisoners would torment me with vicious catcalls. I had to stare forward and show no emotion, desperately focusing on the ground before me. If I showed any reaction, they would press until I cried.

Eventually, I'd make it to the mess hall. They pressed a metal straw through my gag and past my lips, before dragging me before a food bowl on the ground. I had to stick my face into the bowl and suck the contents through the straw. It tasted nasty, but I had to drink it all; I was never given enough to sate my hunger, but it was enough to stop me from starving. Maybe they wanted to keep me thin, or they didn't want me to produce enough waste to warrant more enemas.

My breakfast done, I'd be once again forced to crawl before inmates, this time to the exercise yard. There, I'd be forced into metal stocks, with heavy metal springs that were bolted to the ground. They'd then insert a long dildo in my anus, and forced to do squats until they were satisfied. I had to go low enough so the dildo touched the ground, or they'd whip me. Once they had enough fun punishing my legs and knees, they forced me to do pull-ups, whipping me whenever I failed to get my chin past the top, or if my strength gave out and I let go.

Assuming I completed their "exercise" fast enough, they made me crawl back to the mess hall and slurp up another bowl of slop for lunch. Otherwise, I'd go straight to my next torment: the stripper pole. My muscles already sore from everything they did to me, I was now expected to perform a sultry pole dance for the people tormenting me. The very idea made me sick, but of course I had no choice. The longer I could entertain them with my dance, the more it would cut into their eventual gang-bang.

So, I danced. I swung my hips, wiggled my tush, ran my hands over my breasts, gave several erotic moans through my gag, all for the sake of my captors. They'd spray various cooking oils on me, order me to finger myself, and even make me beg for their cocks in pantomime. All the while, I knew it was being shown to the other inmates. I didn't even need them to tell me about the hidden cameras: I knew they were the type of people to twist the knife like that.

Eventually they'd drag me off the stage and fuck me, but only until dinner time, so it was important to stall them as long as possible. Of course, dinner's when they leave me alone to eat, leaving me helpless before the raging boners of the inmate population. I remember many times where I didn't even get a drop of dinner.

And after that, and getting cleaned inside and out, I'd be brought back to my cell. This, sadly, was the highlight of the entire day: while I'm secured to the wall with all my parts showing, I was in too awkward a position for people to really do anything. Maybe grope me or finger my pussy, but that was pretty much it. So, I welcomed it as they poured caramel on the platform and pressed me onto it, sealing me tight. Once I was secure, they'd tease me a little more, and then leave me with nothing but my reflection to stare at, and that constant hypnotic mantra.

And then my day would end. My position was very painful and made it very difficult to fall asleep, but I'd somehow manage it. And during these moments of rest, I could take comfort in one thing: that I was truly at my lowest point. One day, my mind would break, and I wouldn't care anymore. I only hoped that it would come mercifully soon.

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But it seemed fate had other plans. One day my restraints melted, but no guards came in. I sat up and waited for a minute, before the door opened. But to my shock, it wasn't a guard at all. It was Chef Jack of all people! He didn't even need to introduce himself; I knew that chiseled chest, that beautiful face anywhere.

Of course, I naturally assumed it was just a dream. I mean, why would a Rebel Chef of his caliber deal with a used-up slut like me? But I had no objections to even a few minutes of comfort, so I sat quietly and let him do as he pleased. But since this wasn't actually a sexy dream, he didn't start ravishing me in the middle of Glutton-guarded compound. Instead, he scooped me up in his arms and carried me out of there, having set bombs to stage a prison escape before meeting me to cover our escape.

Once we got to his transforming cart, he gave me a shirt and pants to wear. The very idea that I'd wear clothes again was beyond my dreams by that point, which is when I realized how real this was. I put them on and he drove me to safety, as I put my arms around him for support. My god, I felt hot being so close to him. I know he didn't rescue me just to have his wicked way with me, but at that point I wouldn't mind if he did.

Our escape eventually took us to a boat ride. He had a private yacht to take us away from the deep Glutton territory we were in. He showed me a shower I could use to wash all that caramel away. He started to leave me alone to do it, but I grabbed his arm and indicated I would greatly appreciate his help. It took him very little convincing to agree.

To my shame, when he tried to melt my gag away, I indicated for him not to. I don't know the exact point when it happened, but I came to associate gags with sex. Even now, I can't have sex without an effective gag. He was very understanding, and he made sure not to remove my gag until we gave each other a complete physical.

After he talked me into removing my gag, we got to talking. He had two kids - a boy named Chase, and a girl named Kayla - but his wife died in an attack by Gluttons while they were babes. He also helped me piece together my memory. I thankfully didn't need to be reminded that my name was Dia, but he did remind me that I was a rocket scientist. With all that happened to me, I forgot that my pets - a bat, a monkey, a bear, and a fox - were also transformed with the same dark magic I was. They were Gorge's Big Four! With this knowledge, he figured that if my curse could be dispelled, so could all of Gorge's magic.

This was a process that would take around two and a half years, but that was just fine with me. After a trip to a dentist and several doctors, where they determined I was perfectly healthy (for a half-cat cursed being), Jack brought me into his home. He had such wonderful kids. Chase was a chip off the old block, hoping to become a great Rebel Chef like his daddy, and Kayla was such a smart girl. They barely batted an eye when they saw me, and quickly accepted my presence. After a few months, Kayla even called me "mom" for the first time!

A few months after that, a partial cure was developed for the curse. I could briefly return to my normal form with enough concentration, which was fine for my everyday life, but not for any who'd submitted to Gorge's brainwashing. The next stage of my cure meant I didn't have to strain to maintain my human form, but I'd slip back to my catty self if I got overly-excited (read: horny). As I said, it was around two and a half years where a cure was found and all of Gorge's magic was purged from my body.

Ah, but you probably don't want to hear about that. If I only miss one thing about my cat form, it's how sensitive I was, though that was only really practical in the bedroom. Plus, since the girl in the mirror was still a stranger in my mind, I was able to get turned on by my own reflection. Oh, Jack was very good with his hands, as you'd expect from such a master chef. But it was when he played rough with me that really turned me on.

Like I said earlier, I couldn't really get into it unless I was gagged, and that took some experimenting. I liked the sensation of having my mouth glued shut, but he pointed out the choking hazards involved, and the frequent trips to the dentist I'd need to clean off all the residue on my teeth.

Tape was another option, since it practically sealed my mouth the same way. However, it pulled at my fur whenever I inevitably needed to take it off. That's not an issue now, of course, but it wasn't practical back when I was a cat.

We also experimented with him covering my mouth. He still does that sometimes. One of our favorite games is that he drags me in front of a dress mirror, covering my mouth with one hand and fingering my pussy with the other, while he either pounds my ass or I give him a handjob. It was even hotter when I was a cat, and I saw the image of a cute girl and my husband getting it on. The problem is that we liked to experiment with different positions, and many weren't practical while he had at least one hand covering my mouth.

We also tried a ball-gag, but it didn't really work. Don't get me wrong, we both loved how I looked in a ball-gag, but I quickly worked out it was the sensation of covering my mouth and lips that got me going the most.

We eventually settled on a leather gag. I was doubtful when I saw it, partly due to how my head was shaped, but I was amazed how perfectly it pressed against lips. When I started mumbling in excitement, he got horny enough to practically throw me onto the bed. He pinned my arms to my sides as I dramatically struggled, my breasts heaving as I made my muffled cries. We were both so horny that moment it fueled us for hours.

We also came up with a new game called Prison Bitch, where we pretend he's my guard back at the prison. We always wait until the kids are gone for the day, because we play around the whole house, while I wear nothing but my leather gag. He spanks me, crops me, insults me, makes me eat out of a bowl, and sometimes even gives me an enema in the backyard! For the latter, he's even cruel enough to place a bag over my head, making me afraid there's an audience. But unlike the prison, my darling Jack always makes sure I cum after every stunt.

By the time the kids came home, he'll have cuffed me to the shower-head and doused me with cold water for an hour, pretending I wasn't there. I'd have to stay perfectly quiet so I wasn't discovered, which was a heavy task: in between the freezing water and the vibrators he taped in place, he had a full length mirror I couldn't help but stare at, to see myself so compromised!

Finally, he'd put me to bed. Specifically, a vacuum bed. I assumed the same spread stance I did when I was stuck to the wall, and I moaned with joy as I felt myself completely immobilized. There were holes for my eyes, nose, and pussy. But I'd never fall asleep alone. He would always curl up next to me, and I'd feel perfectly safe. As unrepentant a slut as I was, it was those quiet times when he simply held me that I cherished the most.

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The day I received my cure was confusing, to say the least. Strangely, I can only say in retrospect it was one of the happiest days of my life. A spell was created to separate me from my curse, but it seemed to have a strange reaction to the cures I tried. I indeed became fully human, but a strange energy left my body, creating a copy of myself in the cat form.

She was as horrified as I was, fully convinced that she was the real Dia. And frankly, after being out of my real skin for so long, I still can't swear with any certainty that I'm any more real than she is. Fortunately, darling Jack was able to take her hand and swear he had enough love for both of us. In a single stroke, he made us both feel safe.

She accepted the name Clawdia to avoid confusion, and she started living with us. All things considered, Chase and Kayla took the fact they now had two mothers very well. It worked strangely well, as we were able to get things done more efficiently than a single mother could.

And, being who we were, we fucked like beasts on a daily basis.

We loved "usurping" each other. We took turns enslaving each other, taunting the other about how we were going to steal the family, and end by fucking Jack in front of the other. When I was on the giving end, I loved seeing sexy Clawdia squirming, moaning and crying as I took control; on the receiving end, I loved my helpless feeling as Clawdia fucked my husband, sneering at me all the while.

Since we were both the same, we knew each other's sensitive spots by heart. I loved making my furry counterpart squeal, arching her back and crying for more; I loved when she did the same to me, looking at me with that smug smirk as she dominated me utterly. But it was always best when we performed in front of Jack. He would judge one of us the winner: if I won, I'd hold Clawdia down while he "raped" her. We'd then bind her and make her watch us fuck. The second fuck was always better then the first, with both partners fueled by the muffled pleas of the helpless loser.

But something that will always get us wet? This writing. I wrote this all in a nondescript book I keep on my desk, and it doesn't have a lock. My precious son or daughter, or even a nosy house guest might open this and learn what a huge pervert I am. We live in a small village: one moment, I could be wearing the most conservative dress and shopping in the market, and a few seconds later I could be exposed as the biggest slut who ever lived. The very idea tortures me more erotically than vibrating panties.

Whoever reads this? Just know that you got two willing sluts you can blackmail. Have fun!

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Wow, I really drag my feet when it comes to making these. I actually conceived of this more than a year ago, when I saw a picture of Bagi the monster of mighty nature, wherein she was glued to the wall and gagged in the same manner as Clawdia at the beginning.