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~From the Desk of Mordecai Crossbell~

Legacy is everything and it is nothing. Legacy gives one power at birth, the kind of power that comes with generations of hard-working men who cut out a bit of society for their own goals and ambitions to make something of themselves. Their sons, their progeny, benefit from that hard work, but that is all they get in this world. Being graced with good blood can only take one so far in life. Yes, one can get by on the frills of family honor, loyalty, and fear, but you do not make something of yourself. You end up risking the loss of something that your forebears cultivated. You have become the weak branch of the family tree, and like any good gardener, society will prune you and your line should you let that weakness fester.

My name, my dear prisoner, is Mordecai Decimus Crossbell the IV. We are the caracals that have stood by the Kings and Queens of England. It is my family that have served as governors abroad in territories dear to the empire, and it is we who push industry forward, dragging behind us a society who would rather kneel in the mud and pray to God -- as if a spectre of imagination could do anything to lift the weak and the invalid out of destitution when good work, focus, and drive will suffice and with only your own merits. That victory is yours alone, you are your own God. The Crossbell line has shepherded this country, this empire, into modernity and we will always do so with a smile at the front and a claw in your back should you decide to cross us.

I admit that I may sound melodramatic, my prisoner, but it is the truth in such trying times. My family is known, publicly, to be humble where reporters are visible but ruthless behind closed doors. Why would I not permit you my true self on these pages? The best experiences are those unvarnished by inept platitudes.

You may be wondering why I am not referring to you by name or species? Do not wonder. You are not worthy of such titles. You are my prisoner. You are stuck in this story and you will read it to the end merely because I know that insatiable curiosity is the driving force of anyone daring to read this journal I have left behind. So let me tell you about what you want to know, about the subject that has driven you to this journal.

Me.

The Crossbell family is an old one. We were once royal knights who have served the King admirably. It is through this generational devotion to the crown that we have amassed power, wealth, and favors. While my grandfather was happy to pull the strings from afar, my father, and by extension me, has worked hard to make industry a bedrock of English dominance in the world. In a few decades we have modernized our fleets, trains, and communication. You will be hard pressed to find a train engine that does not have my family seal on its side, or a telegraph machine that is not a Crossbell model. As such we have our finger on the pulse of this country. When we want something, Parliament listens. When the Queen holds special functions, we are always given an invitation. I have personally sat with world leaders and even the Queen herself. She even calls me by my first name. She is my Godmother, after all.

I suppose the thing that really moved my own story along was when I found out about that Reporter from the Press -- James or something. He had sent various letters and requests to my office, and my own home, asking for an interview. He said he wanted to discuss my father and he had questions that he claimed only I could answer.

My father is long dead. We did not get along. Crossbell fathers and sons rarely see eye-to-eye for their lives spent together. Ambition and pride are trained into us from a young age, and being subordinate to another man, even your own sire, is infuriating. I oft saw my father as the obstacle in my way rather than a conduit for things like love and happiness. Yes, we played the part well in public -- I was the good cub, the dutiful son. I publicly gave up my career as a chemist and a doctor to take over the family business. Not that I really wanted to be either of those things, but it demonstrated things to the world I wanted them to see. One was I could learn with grace and speed. The second was that I was willing to throw it all away for the sake of family. My happiness came second to what the Crossbell line needed. Ha.

Manufactured humility is a bitter but necessary pill to swallow. In that moment I showed everyone who could take power from my family that I was dedicated and willing to give up even an honorable career in medicine to pursue the family trade. In reality, this was just to give me more control over the company so my father could work on more of his projects. I suppose a Crossbell man is owed his just reward as he approaches the end of his life. My father died two years later.

This reporter's requests went unanswered. I did not bother with the rabble of reporters. I did not speak to them; they were spoken to. But this particular one -- he was insistent. I found out what he was, a sharply dressed tiger of brilliant orange and snowy white fur. Tigers were more and more common these days in England. I guess one family had enough of a pedigree that their whelp could write for a reputable paper.

This reporter would hound me as often as he could. He would wait outside the businesses I went to, my home, my meetings. I never had a bodyguard handle him -- one does not lower himself to that -- but he was growing to be an annoyance. Still, I ignored him. If he kept pushing me I could have him fired from his job. I was thinking about it that evening when I heard a thump down a corridor in my home.

I had been writing letters, memos, correspondence for meetings this week and the next in my study. The sound had come from the left most corridor. Odd. That had once been my father's "wing" so to speak. He had his own library, bedrooms, washrooms, and other various things he liked in that part of the home. I hated going down there as a boy. It was his domain. It was where I was always told I needed to be better than I was. When he died I had closed the rooms and not set foot down that passage. The cleaning ladies did a fine job sweeping the floor, polishing the wood, and changing the candles, but they knew I avoided that part of my home.

Another thump.

Someone was in my home. Very well. A Crossbell is not a weak man. I had trained long hours with personal trainers to make sure I was as fit as a soldier. The curse of the nobility was a sedentary existence. Walking to the wall on the far corner I picked up the black lacquered cane sitting there in its holder. My grandfather's. The shaft was heavy, the head made of a pristine metal of a growling caracal, its teeth still sharp as daggers.

With determination I walked down the corridor, breezing by the closed doors and walking with the grace only a feline would have; I could step without making a sound. I knew these floors well, of where the boards would squeak if I stepped incorrectly.

I soon saw the door at the end, my father's sealed study, was ajar. A growl began to rise up deep in my throat, an angry feeling boiling in my blood. As much as I hated this part of the house, it was mine. Who dare think themselves such an equal that they could break into my home and go through my things? The absurdity of it was enough to almost make me chuckle.

I stepped over to the door and peered through the crack. There, standing in front of what seemed to be a recess -- Did the room have a recess like that before? -- was that infuriating journalist. I let the growl out and opened the door with a shove so hard it rocked against the wall.

The reporter turned, eyes wide, his notepad in his hand and dropping. His paws lifted up and he began to talk: "My Lord, wait, I --"

"THIEF!" I slammed the head of my cane right into his gut. I watched with an odd satisfaction as the cat bent over, holding himself.

"Mongrel!" I said aloud, shifting my hand up the length of the cane and holding it now with both ends, the head like a mace's head. I bought it up high, slamming into the cat's face so hard I swore I heard a crunch. Blood sprayed up as the tiger rocked backwards, stumbling into my father's old desk.

"You will regret ever becoming a bother to me," I said through closed, gritted teeth. I slammed the head of the cane into the side of his face, then the other, moving with quick and fast jerks. It was enough to knock the reporter out. I watched, again with the odd satisfaction, as he slumped down to the floor, blood trickling down his muzzle and nose.

I breathed deeply, looking first at the recess. It was a small closet. Inside was...well, things I would come to appreciate about my father later. At the time it made no sense. A black cloak. A mask. A hat. And two metal gauntlets of sharp, black claws. Was this the outfit of...?

I heard a groan and turned to look at the downed reporter. I stepped over and tilted my head. The logical thing would have been to call the constable, but whatever was in the closet was not something good, I assumed. And if the tiger woke up, he would tell someone. Who knew what it really was? No. I could not let this reporter go.

I found myself staring at the blood soaking into the man's shirt. The way he twitched a little, his head lolled to the side. The discoloration of the bruise already forming on his face. He was in pain, you could tell by his breathing, but my breathing was rough and hard, as if I were still fighting.

What...What was this? I kept panting, dropping the cane as I stared down at this wounded tiger. I watched him breathe and bleed. I had hurt him. Then why...why was I reacting this way?

I had my answer as I shifted away to look at the wall again. Pleasure shot up my spine like a rocket. I groaned audibly, a loss of control if only for a moment. I had felt the world start to lurch away from me and I grasped the wall nearest me and my downed prisoner.

I had an erection.

I was not one to ignore the calls of the flesh, but I had not felt this...kindled, since I was a teenager, where the slightest change in the wind would get me ready for carnal desires. But now I looked at the downed journalist and my breathing kept picking up. I was about to step away when my mind kept replaying the moment in my head. I was unable to stop watching myself inflicting pain on this man.

I gasped and gripped my claws into the wooden post as it happened. I felt my testicles clench up slowly, my erection becoming hard as iron. With a hot flush of embarrassment and a new kind of pleasure, I released my seed right then and there, still clothed and covered in tiny flecks of blood.

My body rocked, feeling an endless rush of orgasm. It felt like I had been holding back a dam of seed for years and now, with the last barrier down, I was releasing everything that had been held back. I do not know for how long it lasted, but it was the most pleasure I had ever felt in my life.

Panting and opening my eyes, still hot from the orgasm, I could feel my own seed trickling down my shaft. Bliss gave way to clarity as I reached down to my groin to readjust myself, betting on my clothing soaking up any mess I may have caused, not that it was terribly important. Finally I crouched down next to the journalist, grinning.

"Well, my little prisoner, I think you and I should have a nice, long discussion."