The Perfect Gentleman
A dark little story that's been rattling around in my head.
He always was the perfect gentleman.
For instance, that first night, after we'd talked and laughed and gotten a little bit drunk, we ended up in bed together. I was lying on my stomach and he was on top of me, and he said "Sorry". You see, he'd bitten me by the scruff of my neck, and being a cat my arms had gone like jelly and I'd collapsed and then panicked, and I'd said "What the fuck?" so he said "Sorry, I should've asked before I did that."
Then he nibbled on my ear and put his hand on my waist and told me to tell him if I felt ready, and when I said I felt ready, he put the tip of his cock against my asshole and said, "It's all right kitty, just breathe, just relax, and let me in," but I couldn't, and he noticed, so he said "It's fine if you can't, maybe I went a little too fast, do you want to just cuddle tonight instead?"
So we did, we watched an old movie and cuddled on the couch with his chest warm against my back and he whispered sweet ephemeral comforts to me and I felt safe and warm and wanted.
We didn't have sex again for a while after that. Well, I mean, not anal sex. We did other things, kissing and groping and furtive, tender touches under the sheets.
But he'd always be saying things like "You got such a cute ass" and "D'you wanna try anal again?", so we tried again, and I still couldn't.
And we tried again, and again, and again, and at some point every time I thought about it my mouth would go dry and I'd get a bit dizzy, so I'd do things like say "Oh sorry, I was really hungry at lunch and I ate a lot so I don't think I'm ready right now, maybe we can do something else tonight instead?", but every time I did I felt like I was doing something wrong, like I was ruining a night that could've been really nice if I could just get past this simple, stupid thing. So afterwards, I always tried really hard to be attentive and caring and sucked his dick just the way he liked it.
And things were okay, for a time, even though he was getting more and more frustrated.
Then one night, I don't know if he'd had a bad day at work or if he was just in a mood, but he came home that night and he was meaner and angrier and drunker than he'd ever been.
I'd thought that maybe that night would be the night that I could take him, so I'd gotten myself clean, and made sure we had the good lube on the nightstand. Then, because I'd already gotten everything ready, when he said "Get naked and get on the bed kid," I did. Then I said "I did some reading online and maybe we could try-" but he said "Shut the fuck up" and clamped his jaw around the scruff of my neck.
And being a cat my arms went like jelly and I collapsed, and I said "What the fuck?" but this time he didn't say sorry, this time he lubed me up and pressed right up against me, and he said "You wanna know your problem, kid? Got no fuckin' spine, that's your problem, bet you could take me, just need a little push" and I said "slow down" and then "wait" and then "please stop" but he just pushed and pushed and pushed, past the begging and the crying and the blood, until he was all the way inside me and he let out this lewd, satisfied groan that bubbled up out of his chest and made me feel like a piece of meat.
Then he wrapped one paw around my cock and because I was hard he said "Don't act like you don't love it you little faggot, fucking told you just needed a push is all." And he fucked me, hard and fast and rough and painful, and it hurt so much that the only thing I could do was clutch the sheets in twisted knots and mewl into his hand around my muzzle.
And I came, and I hated the fact that he'd made me come, and he laughed this dark laugh and said "See? Didn't I say you'd like it?" before switching his pace, grinding up against me and breathing those lewd groans into my ear until he came, and when he came in me it didn't make me feel nice like I always thought it would, it made me feel dirty and shitty and used.
That feeling twisted me up inside, twisted me up until I didn't even know what I was thinking. Part of me wanted to yell and punch and run far, far away so I would never ever have to see him again. But another part of me wondered, isn't this your fault? If you had tried harder, if you had pushed yourself just that little bit more, maybe he wouldn't have felt like he needed to push you. And then, that part of me thought, but he did have to push you. And then you did it. And now he doesn't need to push you any more, and things can go back to the way they were before, when he made you feel safe and warm and wanted.
So afterwards, I didn't yell and punch and run far, far away so I would never ever have to see him again. I let him pick me up and carry me to the couch, and I let him put on an old movie, and I let him lick the tears from my face and squeeze me close to him. And when he said "I'm sorry if I hurt you, you know I'd never want to hurt you, my sweet soft shy little kitty, I just thought you needed a push and you did, and you're all fine now, okay? 'Cus I'm here, with you, and nothing's ever gonna hurt you again," I felt safe and warm and wanted, but still a little bit dirty and shitty and used.
And the next day, he bought me flowers and chocolate and a big stuffed plush fish, and he kissed me on the forehead and said I was the most adorable, prettiest, most perfect little kitty he could've ever hoped for. But nothing he said or bought or kissed could clean that little bit of dirty and shitty and used out of me, no matter how badly I wanted it to.
He always was the perfect gentleman, right up until he wasn't.