The Broken Mirror
The Broken Mirror
by H. A. Kirsch
Copyright 2008
Warning: contains breath control, blood, drugs, and slavic accents.
I lie in bed, unable to control myself any more. I writhe against the sheets, trying to throw my
scent onto them. My tail beats at the smooth fabric. If I was not alone, I would cover my mouth as
a kitten-mrrwl comes out. So hard, so excited, drowsy yet raging with need.
There are gloves on my night-stand, black, leather. Damascus Patrolman, smooth cabretta with a
longer cuff. Damascus makes police gloves, but these are meant for faggots, not officers of the
law. Custom made for some company, for men to wear while they hold their hand over the mouths of
slut-boys, to hold cigars with, to hold whips and paddles and their cocks with. I take them and
slide them on, claws having to poke out small holes, a lot of fiddling to line up correctly,
leather touching leather, smoothing it down. So hard now, wet into my fur. 
I take my dick and think about what I did the weekend before, to some young man I met off the
internet. His hair was cut like a marine, covered in tattoos. He wanted to be beaten, abused, but I
do not like that, those who want it. So I tied him up, left him there for hours until he was
pissing himself, cut him down and told him to fuck off. But thinking of it makes me hotter still,
my gloved fingers start to spread precum around my ghastly dickhead, touching over the nubs there.
I yowl and cover my mouth, holding my muzzle shut, wheezing air. Now I think of something else, a
strong man holding me down, choking me with his glove, penetrating hard, burning pain and pleasure.
He beats my cock, and I scream, as I beat my cock, leather smacking flesh hard, semen erupting all
over my fur, my gloved hand.
I feel filthy now, huff in a deep breath, then look to my gloved hand. White is smeared all over
the smooth, supple leather. I splay the fingers and lick it clean, until there is only light
dampness that I buff away with fur. The urge is gone, and I can think, and I think about what I
will do this weekend for fun.
I am a cat, a cougar. Mountain lion, puma, even panther, it is the same. I do not care for the
name, what is the point? I am Polish, this explains the way I speak, and there are no cougars in
Poland. I come to America to find cougars. No, I came because my family came. I grew sick,
extremely rare to get the disease that leads to hybridization by way of misguided human bullshit.
My parents cannot afford a visa, they are deported. I become a new person under the laws, an
orphaned teenager struggling with myself, then a pervert.
For tonight, I need clothes, sharp and attractive, and leather. All leather. Except for the shirt,
I like those to be fine silk. First, black leather jeans. Straight leg, very fine leather, lambskin
I believe. Lined with smooth leather, a wonderful sensation against the fur as I slide into them,
my cock and balls cradled in the hide. A fine leather belt to keep them on, black and polished, a
simple angular chrome buckle. White dress shirt, silk, unbuttoned down to the middle of chest,  I
hate being collared by only a fucking shirt. A pair of leather cowboy boots, sharp toe, underslung
heel, smooth leather, black. Featureless, no stitching, nothing. They come up almost to my knees,
tricky to put under the pants, so worth it. Those who know will see the shape under the leather,
understand the hidden power of tall boots. A leather blazer, worn open, made of fine black
alligator. Expensive, it costs eight thousand dollars, a sign of status more than fetish. No
gloves, yet; I leave those for when I find someone.
I go to bar for discerning faggots. No tough men in motorcycle leather staring through their cigar
smoke only to talk like prissy queens, no sucking in the corner. Only expensive drinks and
well-dressed idiots. Few hybrids, mostly canines, a table of them playing poker. I wonder if it is
a joke on their part, or a foolish coincidence? The rest are human.
I go to bar and lean over, to order a drink. There is dog there, maybe he is a pitt bull terrier. I
am bad with dogs like this, he is white and hefty and pointy. He is tough, not like rest of
patrons. He sees me, and makes a grin.
"Awww, it's a kitty-cat."
I ignore this.
"Is the kitty going to have some milk?"
Why does this dog give me shit? I turn to hiss. "You want me to have milk?" I turn to the
bartender, who finds this funny. I grab his shirt, pull him over, say things into his ear. He nods,
and fixes drink. It is like milk, a little.. uh, tan is it? Brown. Milk and amaretto. It is
delicious, but.. "There, I have a drink. you can have it," I say, and push the drink to the dog,
and take his. It is a dry martini. "Cats cannot drink milk, ass-hole dog."
This dog does not get angry. There is something to his response. I know there is, I can tell, he
grins at me. Maybe I am stupid and have forgotten something. It is not important. I am interested
in the humans. 
I sit for long while, enjoying... something. I do not have words for it, and it is not my clothes.
They are there, always, always a sensation of being in leather, the cat fur in me never stops
feeling things I have done one hundred times. I do not like crowds of people, unless they are all
trying to do one stupid thing, like get drunk and find warm hole to fuck.
Finally, there, a smug and lonesome human by the bar. Black tousled hair, expensive leather
'scooter' jacket, straight zipped, fitted. Bluejeans, dark indigo, Wranglers that hug the balls and
spread rump apart. I catch a glimpse of boots, motorcycle harness boots under the pants cuffs. The
look is almost hipster. He has earrings, little studs in each. Very tan. Does he see me?
After twenty minutes of him drinking alone, then having small conversation with someone nearby, he
sees me. I catch him looking, he sees my stare and quickly looks away. His head turns, eyes looking
for me again, then away. He is not afraid of the stare, I think. If he was, he would not keep
looking. But who can avoid a stare? Humans cannot, they must look at it even if they hate it. I
have noticed this over time. I cannot tell how humans feel, I only have trained myself to recognize
looks and movements, match them up against what I know. If they are wrong, I am lost. I do not
think I am lost now. He is interested. Maybe it is expensive leather, maybe it is cat with a
martini glass.
Either way, this human is interested in me. I catch him adjusting himself. What a display for a
nice bar like this! I down my drink, wipe it off my muzzle, then get up to go to the bathroom. I am
quick, no dawdling, right into a stall to sit, my tail curling back around the flushing pipes so it
does not drag in the piss and water on the floor. I am not going to shit, I am going to wait. Soon
enough, the door opens, I hear boot heels clunking at the floor. I look down to the gap between
stall panel and tile, I see a boot there, a harness boot, black leather. The human is standing next
to the stall. A zip, then a soft grunt, the wet hiss and trickle into the urinal. The bathroom is
badly designed, I see him there. I see his cock, a nice dick. He has to slide skin back to piss, I
can smell it from behind stall wall. 
He has jeans worn over the boots. He is a little drunk. He has black shirt, some kind of soft
fabric, a little shiny under that jacket. Strong jaw but he is skinny. Maybe he does drugs.
Expensive watch, who needs watch to tell time? I have a phone, I do not need a watch. I do not get
hard watching this human piss, because he is pissing. This is not exciting, it is life, it is not
sex pissing into a urinal. It is life pissing.
I pick up a boot, move it over to very edge of stall, almost to underneath the gap. I am not going
to make him know I want to fuck him. I am doing two things. I am tempting him, and I can see
reflection of him looking in the boot leather. He is looking at it. I am looking at him. I see a
shape, and that is enough to know. He flushes the urinal, then leaves the bathroom. I wait, a long
time, then follow.
He is not in the bar. This makes me mad, I feel it prickle up my neck, I want to hiss and grab my
claws into things. I smell him, traces here and there. I know he was there. I am not careful
sniffing around. I glare at those who glare back, then I leave out the back. I smell his scent that
way, I know he left out the back. I know it. And is he there, standing half-way down the alley,
about to light a cigarette? I barge out of the door, stalk down the alleyway. I am not quiet, my
boots clack and scrape, leather creaks, I huff like animal. He is lifting flame to the cigarette,
then stops. He puts it down, his body shrinks away. Instant fear. It does not matter that I walk on
two legs, I am a cat, I am a predator, and every human sees this.
"I see you in the bar," I say, coming up within three feet of him. I have my shoulders lifted,
hunched forward. I tilt nose down, eyes up. This is not smug, this is doom for the human. He is
getting a fucking erection! Doom for him, but he is so hard. I smell it, see glimpse of it. Sick.
"I see you looking at me."
"What?" He said. "Looking at you?"
I am putting on gloves, a riding pair I keep in my jacket. His lighter gets too hot, he lets go of
it, drops it with a bad word. He looks down. When his head is up, he sees a black-gloved hand
holding expensive metal lighter. I give his cigarette fire. It is not tobacco, it is all lumped and
twisted like a.. I forget the word for this, it is pinched at the ends. "I see you look at my boot,
I see you as you stand there and piss and stop because you get hard, when you look at my boot."
He inhales from the joint, hard. He coughs. "Oh, the bathroom." then inhales again. "Okay, so I was
looking at your boot."
I creep closer. I start to purr. This is not kitten purr, house-cat purr. This is chainsaw, idling
truck. I open my jaw, lick my lips. It makes the sound rattle out of my mouth. He is harder, there
is a spot in his pants, wet and slick. "I know what this means. I know what you want." I put the
lighter back, then reach out to touch him.  But I don't touch him, I put my hand back in my coat.
I watch him watch, there is a note of sadness as my hand disappears. His eyes wanted to see the
leather around my fingers, not my coat. "Why do you come out here to smoke? No one will care in the
bar."
"Dude, it's fucking grass, I can't smoke it in the bar."
"Why do you smoke this?" I ask, moving closer. I turn, back to the wall, so I do not scare him
more. Now we are edging together. He nervously takes more of the drug, coughs, then tosses it out.
"Whaa? I uh, well... you know." he says. He looks stupid. I can see him embarrassed, and yet
numbing with the drug. A shameful smile, humans say shit-eating. It is a grin like a dog who eats
shit, I see the root. I think to touch him, I want to. I want to hold him by the left shoulder,
push him to the wall, get my face close to his. But it will make him too scared. Just as I am about
to speak, he interrupts. His eyes light up, fighting the red glaze. "So ou're that guy. The, uh,
photographer."
This is unusual. No one recognizes me, I am not famous, I am a sick artist. It makes me
uncomfortable. "What do you say?"
"You're that photographer. You were in uh, Underworld last month. You did that scene. The one with
the prisoner cat and the wolf guy? What the hell was that, was he some big black dude?"
"He was black wolf-"
The man shook his head, ran a hand up through his hair. I could see him changing. His fear was now
just sex. "No, I mean, he didn't have any _fur_ or anything."
"He is strange black wolf. So you know what I take pictures of. Do you like these things?" I am in
a situation that I am not often. I am interested in someone, and they know everything about me. I
bleed into my pictures, and he knows smell of my blood.
"They serve me uh, real well," he says. I stare at him. It means nothing, I have to think hard. I
have to find this phrase in my head. It does not come.
"I ask you, do you like what I take pictures of?"
He looks at me as if I am speaking another language. Maybe I am. I am frustrated, it may have been
Polish. "Yeah, dude, I like your fucking pictures. Holy shit, and I'm the one who's stoned. You
want to come back to my place? I have a lot of stuff." Shit-eating again.
I shake my head. "No, you come to my place. Maybe I take picture of you, while I do it."
I do not take him to my home. I take him to studio. I used to live and work in the same apartment,
but now I separate. We do not talk while walking. He says a few things, but I think they are
drugged, and I do not answer. People see us, see him with his cock raging in his fucking pants, me
with my expensive leathers, my tail that lashes and moves and hits them as they go by.  We reach
my studio, it is a loft over old factory. What they do in the factory floor, maybe it is illegal,
maybe it is boring shit. I don't care.  My studio is on good street, not bad street, the entrance
a walk-up. There is no sign, it could be bad, maybe worse, but instead it is nice. A loft, big open
room with open ceiling to pipes and machines. I have drop ceiling in one corner, for lighting.
There is equipment everywhere, lights and things, props, furniture. There is large partition, black
wood with a door. I take him right to that.
Now this other studio. No friendly things, only pain and suffering and maybe pleasure if you are
sick. A dentist's chair, with black leather padding, welded-on hooks. A sawhorse, to cut wood on
and not for fucking, with padding that my friend Jakob made. He is black wolf I speak of. Stocks.
St. Andrew's cross; whipping people. Whipping is for friend of mine, he loves to see it, to do it.
A toilet drained to pipe over a platform, a urinal with similar things. A gas mask, with a hood,
the hose to the urinal. This was for photo shoot last week. Very hard to coordinate, 30 men and
animals to use this one person, made terrible smell. Funnels and more masks, endless masks, an
entire wall of masks and hoods and respirators. I have to have ladder to reach them, like an old
man's library in a movie. Wardrobes with so many things, I cannot list them here without boring you
to shit.
I walk around, my boots clop against the floor. His are dull thunks, mine are sharp clacks. I have
metal studs in the heel, for sound, and it works. Each pound brings his attention back. It is sick.
I do not tell him to go sit in the chair. He just does, it is most comfortable thing in the room. I
do not tie him down yet. His eyes burn so hot now, he will not fight until the end. "What do you
want? Just point to it," I say.
He gets up, wanders across the room. "Anything? Wow."
I sigh. "What do you fucking want? You are too high for this?"
"No, no, I, uh, I..." His mouth hangs open a little. I climb onto the chair.
"I fuck your mouth. Get down, to the floor. I sit, you work."
I get off, and he climbs down, sinking onto the floor. He is at my boots as I sit down, his face
rubs them. It is almost like cat, and I don't like this. It bothers me. But, at the same time, he
loves my boots. I feel them like that when I am home alone, I love them too.
I take out my cock, I am big for cat. It is half human, swollen head, flesh that slips back and
forth, but when I am hard it is always back. There are bumps, I think they are spines if I was a
real cat, around the head. It looks strange to me, disgusting, I do not really like to see it. But
this human does, he loves to see it. He moves up and starts to rub on my cock like my boot, it is
disgusting, but it is good, I purr and swat at his head. He stops.
"No, ass, you suck me, don't just touch it," I hiss.
Humans smell like shit and acid and chemicals and talk like idiots and do all kinds of things, but
their mouths, I cannot say this in English, there are no words. Maybe this man is prostitute, but I
have not paid him, he sucks like one. Eager and hard, loud and sick slurps and cracks of air past
spit. It is not enough, I grab him and yank him down, he gags and chokes, hands pull at my pants,
groping like blind cub. If he throws up, asshole, I will kill him. He does not throw up, he just
gags and chokes, over and over, body heaving and fighting as I pump his head up and down. So good,
so good.
It is horrible when I come, I never do this in other homes, only my own, alone because it is so
loud. It is a scream, blood-curdling, howling and spitting. I come so hard, so hard, and I let go
because I cannot see, it is so hard. He backs away and slumps down, and gags, and I watch as white
pumps up and over his lip, a splat to the floor. He then slaps a hand to mouth, swallows.
"Unh. Sorry man, I ain't, I uh, I don't, you know, I don't do that usually. Like I gag a lot."
I ignore his display of retching semen. Whatever, he is dumb human, he cannot swallow, I do not
care. "Take off your clothes, you can have anything here, for now. It is mine, I let you use it." I
ponder setting up my camera. Then I think. This human, whose name I didn't even know, was not a
model. I did not want to profit from him. I do not even want to keep picture for use by myself.
 He takes off his clothes, too stoned to do strip-tease. He reaches for his boots, then pauses. I
stare at him, and he pulls hand back. "You do not answer me, so I answer for you."
I give him what I want. The wall of masks. I want to see his face, his eyes, his sweaty black hair,
so it is not a military gas mask or a hood. I want to take things from him, so it will not be a
tiny medical air mask. I find the thing I want. It is a flight mask from army jet, maybe it is
russian, I do not care. I paint away anything on it, it is only black, there are still wires from
the front.  A rubber mask, with locking head-strap, there is padlock on it. There is air hose as
well, with special valve, to let air go both ways, or one way. The outlet, with more valve, to
allow air or block it. I turn, holding the mask, and the human fidgets in the chair. I bring it to
his face, fit the cup to his mouth and nose. His eyes are terrified, bloodshot. He breathes hard
into the mask, loud huffs, a grunt, a groan of sick need. I know this need, it is my need too.
I lock the straps around his head, then I fit his wrists to straps at the arms of the chair. He
struggles, but it is to test, his cock tenses as he finds that I am no idiot and he cannot escape.
I do not want this human. I want his reactions. He is meat and skin. I think of all the things
there are about him that I do and don't want, and my own feelings, I pick the words and leave them
in my head, to say later, when he will listen. Now, he would hear nothing, his head pounds with
drugs. I think of that, then I think that he will get what he wants until he is sick. I bend down,
find his pants. I take his wallet out. He sees me and starts, pulling at the chair. "I don't know
who you are," I say. "I am Tomasz Dusic."
"That means, it means to strangle, right?" He says, into the mask, valves slapping shut after his
words. I have made this valve special, with springs, so it makes a loud slap when it closes.  I
want to hiss at what he says. He knows even that, he knows I steal my name from Polish, he
researches things. Did he wait for me at the club? Did he stalk me? No one stalks me, I am a cat. I
bristle under the leather, lash my tail hard enough that it will thump at chair.
I say nothing in response. I pull his pants over, I crouch by the chair and face away. I push my
gloved fingers into the pockets, they come out with another joint. I fit it into the end of the
air-hose, glove leather sealing. He tries to breathe, then grunts as he can barely do it. I know he
is getting harder. I would be hard if I could barely breathe. I find my lighter, flick it. The hose
twitches as he realizes, perhaps? Maybe he can see what I do, around shoulder or something. I light
the cigarette, and human gasps and pulls hard at air. He exhales hard, and I look over shoulder to
see. He does it again, then coughs, smoke spraying from air-vents. I do not like drugs, I do not do
them, but I like to see them ruin other people. He is a machine, blowing smoke, a train going
deeper into black woods, where the tracks end.
 I do not let go of the hose, and he heaves and strains, shaking the chair. "You want to have
drugs, I give you drugs," I say. The joint is about to burn my fingers, and I pull it away, crush
it as I stand. He breathes hard, inhaling clean air, exploding with a cough.
I wait. It is much more than in the alley, and I can see the changes come. Skin darkens, eye whites
creep over with blood fire, a strange thing as his balls loosen and droop lower, his breaths come
hard and heavy. I touch my gloved hand to the mask, his eyes watching, crossing as they see black
leather against black rubber. Now I am getting a little hard again. I feel down the hose, to the
end, watch his body move, hips lift. I do not give him what he wants, he slumps back down.
"You know what I take pictures of, moments of life. I do not take life, it is boring, to see
someone die. I see this once, it was boring, that is how I know. I want to see moments of life in
you. These moments I choose." I start to go through toys. What toy for him? I do not decide, and
bind his ankles to the chair instead. Then, a belt to keep him from flexing too far. His cock is
wet, from piss-hole down over foreskin, his shaft. It is nice cock, bigger than mine, it is maybe
ten inches. Very big. Maybe he does movies. The head is deep purple, swollen and glistens, the skin
almost covers it, the crown bulges it out. I like this cock.
I decide on a toy. I find it, a custom thing, hard to make. It is a sheath, for balls and cock, but
a sound as well. You know a sound, it is for... I remember, it is for curing some disease from
fucking, where your pisshole closes up and you die, I suppose. This one is not metal, it is not
medical tool.
This sound is a tube to let out piss and cum, but the tube is inside of sheath, stiff silicone or
something, featureless and smooth. Human does not know this about sound, he just sees latex, eyes
begging. I bring it to him, fit it to his cock, begin to slide the tube inside. I take it off, pour
in silicone lube. I begin again, careful to push tube into cock-flesh. He is no stranger to this,
there is no scream, only a groan, the flex of muscles, squeak of straps holding him down. He is so
hard inside the sheath, the latex too small, compressing rubber to flesh to sound. I touch the
sheath, a bare claw stroking along it, the underside, between lumps at the head. I claw around the
piss-hole, stirring the sound. He howls and mewls, jerking chair, more slime oozing from it. It is
no longer cock, it is almost as if it is part of a machine. It is fascinating, and I regard it for
some time.
I go and find more things. This is what he wants, it is what I want too. This is mutual
satisfaction for now. I find another hose for gas-mask, then another, then a rubber thing. It is a
bag, a safety valve for air, a restriction hole for effect. More things, a bottle, cotton. I wet
one with other, the poppers fumes for loosening everything that is sick human. I come back, touch
at his mask, stroke the outlet holes. Tail lashing again, thump-thump-thump at the chair. I am
happy, excited cat now.
I switch the outlet air off, his breath huffing out just in time to have me twitch the other valve,
air sucking down the hose. The special valve is strong, it makes loud stuttering noise. His eyes
look at me. I hold up the cotton to the end of the air hose, he inhales, I take it away and he
huffs it out. I attach the other hose. He starts to redden, the drug flushing him, widening
arteries. His head rolls, hips jerking up at the belt, sheathed and penetrated cock moves. I touch
cock, he howls into the mask, mumbles something. It is good something.
This time, I take hose and wind it around his neck, the extra section leaving coils at his neck
from collar to chin. I insert hose under bulged part from the joint, then give him more of the
poppers from the cotton. As he exhales, I screw on the rubber bag. His breath huffs through the
orifice, puffing the rubber up. I screw on the safety cap. He sees this and groans again, the bag
collapsing and swelling. Then, he puffs out hard, straining it. I release air and fumes from the
safety hole, then cap it again. He inhales hard, and rubber slaps up to itself, a wet slurp coming
through it. Do you know how this sounds? Farting suck through the tube, slap of the bag, rubbered
uh, huffing air into it.
Human groans again, body shifting, arms pulling at straps. More fresh air to the bag, the flutter
as it swells and slaps shut. Human is not there. He is an animal now, desperate for air, helpless
with lust from the head-rush, words eaten by his own drug. It is hard not to look at the masked
face, the panicked and distant eyes, but the bag, I love to see that, inflating with life,
deflating as life goes back. He will see me staring like a house-cat, or a zoo animal, at his
situation. I creep up onto him, and I rub my face against the bag. It is hot with breath, squirming
against my face. I gently take it into my mouth, I want to carry it away for some reason, I have to
make myself let go and climb down.
I grasp at his sheathed cock, tug the latex, pulling foreskin back and forth, jostling and
thrusting sound-tube. He cries out, body lurching. I stroke just latex, teasing him.  He is
breathing harder, rapidly to hyperventilate. Then, the barks, a whuff of air bringing a haahh!,
then cough, then gasping and snorting. Shock again, another cry. He barks loudly now, like a dog,
thrashes his head, tries to beat the mask away from his face, body starting to thrash and jolt
almost as if he convulses. He screams, howling like a dying animal, and I think I may come in my
pants from this, but I cannot, I cannot yet. I jerk his cock, beat on it, slap and punch and yank
and thumb at the head, forcing sound in deep. Another scream, filling the bag, and semen erupts
out, spraying his chest despite the tube. I unscrew the bag, human gasps in air and is making
strange sounds. I then lean down to lick at his spurting, black-rubber dick. He gasps into the
mask, heaving his chest with air. Oh, is he crying? Sobbing?  No, just a reflex. In moments, his
cock sags, seed drooling. I lick it clean, and he mumbles into the mask. First person I do this do,
cried for ten minutes. Like baby. This human, he does not cry, he enjoys it. Somehow, I do not like
this.
I take him off chair, let him move if he likes. I turn and move towards the wall of masks, cock
still hard. I inspect the rubber coverings, I see in one shiny eye-plate that human is standing,
touching his sheathed cock. He cries and chatters his teeth, stimulating himself too much. There is
something about him that irritates me, more and more, beyond humanity. It has not appeared yet. I
see he is looking at masks. I know which mask he is looking at, that is the irritating thing. It is
the cat-mask. Full-head hood, gas mask, with jowls of cat, furrowed brow, ears. I wear it when in
my own photographs, not to hide me, but because I want to see my face like that when in pictures.
If I am a cat, I will be all cats, not Tomasz Dusic.
I do not put it on. I just wait. Human leans on the chair, pulling at his latexed cock, precum
dribbling out onto fingers. He is hard again. Then, he speaks. "Oh man, I wanna be a cat."
"What do you say?" I turn my head over my shoulder.
"I  said, I wanna be a cat. Oh god, I'd love it, having all that fur to be petted, tail to wave
around. I could hear everything, rub my whiskers on someone's boot..."
That is it. That is what irritates me. The anger inside me is so sharp, it is a blade that cuts
with no pain. He does not see it. He sees the stare of an animal. He touches himself across his
sweaty chest, then giggles, confused by the drugs. "Hahah, mew," he says. He says the word, a
sound.
He sees the stare for what it is, as I approach and slowly turn my head to the side, eyes still on
him. He has seen this, maybe he has cats who play, or who eat birds outside. He moves from the
chair, backs up. "Mew?"
I do not think human is smart. Smart human would know the cougar can jump ten meters. I jump. With
boots, not so far, less traction, but I fly at him and hit chest to chest, and crash him to his
back. His head hits, a thump. I wonder if I have killed him? He stops moving, staring at me. Then
his chest heaves, wheezes of air. Only have knocked wind from him. He fights with no warning,
beating at my face. It hurts, one fist before I seize that hand, another fist to shoulder before I
seize that one. I finally get off him and he scrambles up, runs past. Idiot human, he is running
into wall! Right into the masks, colliding and grasping, then into corner, then spinning and into
wardrobe. I block him, he grabs at things, holds up useless object. A rubber shirt. I rush him 
backwards onto chair again, he holds up shirt to struggle with me, I push it to his face. This is
interesting, and I like to watch the rubber fit against skin, compress it. He heaves air out, a
rude sound like gas as it flaps rubber. Then he inhales, the material sticking to his teeth. I rub
my face against the suffocating rubber, lick rough tongue at his lips and teeth. He does not bite,
he is human, he is choking for air, kicking and thrashing.
I back off to give him air, and he swats at me. I swat back. It is not even thought in head at
first, but there is a trail of thoughts leading to it. I hit his face one way, with claws. They
sick out from gloves, did I say this? They do, it is hard and annoying, I do not like claws, except
now. Hit one way, then the other way. He stops fighting, hands frozen. Red welts line his cheeks,
lines towards mouth, three each. Pinky-claw did not fit. Deeper red, deeper, the lines are growing
jagged. Oh, oh, I have hurt the poor human. I do not feel that as concern, just a fact. He is a
toy, I play with toys. I am sadist, if he was mouse I would throw him around until there was no
more twitching. I am not that strong. 
He does not feel this pain, he mumbles. "Whathefuck?" He touches his face, smears the blood around,
looks at his hands. He sees dark red. He wipes them on his chest, there is the red. I watch his
face, the skin turns pale, uneven, sick. "What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck!" he says,
until he is shrieking. He tries to swing at me and I leap back. He is terrified, thrashing at me.
He kicks me, one is between the legs. I scream, and he claps his hands to his ears, smearing blood
there. If there was glass in dungeon, it would break.
Human runs, and I crush him chest to floor, body sliding a few feet on hard tile. I am near toys, I
sit on his back and grab some. A leather arm-sac, which I get on him after several minutes.  He is
gasping, struggling, bleeding on floor. It is not lethal, but the face is so sensitive, tender. I
find metal bar with cuffs, secure his legs. And, finally, object to humiliate him. A dish. I put it
on floor in front of his face.
"You want to be cat? Now you are cat," I say, and get off him. I start to jerk off, come soon,
yowling and hissing. White seed spills into the dish. "You are cat, and this is milk for cat. For
the kitten." I grab his hair, show him the dish. He does not want it. "Why do you not want this,
kitten? You mewed, cried for it!" I show him again. He still does not want it. I push his face into
it, he yells and cries, sobbing, wet eyes and a nasty heaving sound. It is now blood-milk. "Milk is
for kittens! Drink!" I am loud, very loud, shrill. I do not realize this until sound echoes back
into ears after split-second.
He drinks. Wet laps of his tongue, the wrong way, he is stupid human, tongue curls forward to drip
the seed instead of bring it up. Then he kisses it, sucks the dish, wet slurps. I see him swallow.
His skin is cold, wet with sweat. I think of this, it is familiar. I do not know medicine, but he
is in shock. He does not bleed enough for it. I think harder, why is he in shock. Oh, the drugs
perhaps. I will solve this maybe.
As he licks it up, I penetrate him from behind. He does not stop licking. He is loose, muscles
clinging on but like wet plastic, not tight rubber. "Idiot, you want to be cat? You want to be cat?
I am cat, I do not want to be one! I am cat because of human mistakes! Stupid bull-shit! I am born
human, I am smart. But I am torn from family by your government, I get sick from your disease, I
get twisted to monster-cat by your doctors, I get abandoned to adoption, I rage with feelings you
never understand, and now, you want to be cat? You want to be like me? Now you have whiskers, drink
from bowls, you are cat!" I am hitting him, fucking, pounding him, boots scrape the floor, the
smack of leather on skin.
I am coming, it is not from talking, I am thrusting hard, violating him, and it is so good. It
satisfies me, a long yowl as I seed him, then pull back. He falls over, breathing fast, eyes dull.
There is bad thing coming. I pull him to his feet, he barely moves except as I pull.
I find something, take it from drawers, a tube. I take his clothes, put them in grocery bag, lead
outside. He is zombie now, sweating and bloody, eyes staring. No one sees, it is dark, there is
vacant lot.  There is bum in a box by the building, maybe.
I throw human into tall grass,  he falls. I take him again, right there, nothing better to do. I
do not care if anyone sees, they are drunk or stupid or think they are dead people. Satisfied
again, his asshole dribbling semen, I solve his problem. He is dying, he is terrified and
chemically broken. I have injection thing. I am big cat, but I am allergic to bees, so I have
Epi-Pen. It will make the heart pound fast, send blood around again, close up his fucking arteries
or something. I stab it into his ass, it injects him, he groans and doesn't move yet. Then I stand
and leave.
I do not want to sleep. It is night now, dusk is past into black. Human does not follow me. Maybe
he will forget what happened. It is sticky night, warmer than the day, some weather past while I
was playing. He will not die in the plants.
My needs are dull, and I feel empty inside. The world is outside, happening around me, and no
current runs through my brain. It is the best time. I walk down the streets of the city, staring at
people. I see myself in the mirror, and for fraction of second, I see another cat. I smell nothing,
so I do not worry. Then I see myself and turn away.
I need food, I have to eat, I am starving. Sex is gone now, it is like I am bored, it is when your
house-cat stops playing with its felt mouse and just leaves to wash its cunt or whatever. I go to
favorite place, Midori Sushi. Midori is mellon, and green, I think, I do not know Japanese. It is
all green in there, strange and, uh, is word eccentric? They know me, chefs greet as I come in. I
fill out a little card, give it to them, have seat by window.
I buzz in my pocket. It is phone, I take it out. "Hello, Tomasz."
"You gave Jerry a hard time at the bar." Voice is gruff, it is canine, there is no lilt or
anything.
"Aahh, Jakob, why are you calling me?"
"Because I can see you across the street. You gave Jerry a hard time at the bar. He says you gave
him some shit about milk."
Jerry. Who is Jerry. The bar. Is that the human? No. Milk, shit, it is the dog. "Oh, I do not know
him."
"Yes you do. Whatever. I'm coming in with you."
In few minutes, there is strange wolf. He is naked from waist up, black skin, no fur except a
little hair like human. Fur on head is short. He wears sunglasses, expensive and angular, but they
are some computer thing he has. He has Sam Browne belt, duty belt, leather breeches, tall
square-toe boots. Everyone stares at him. He is Shenaus, a very long story. He stops at the bar,
the chefs make some cone roll thing with fried whatever in it, he picks up food to bring to me.
"You left some guy in the lot," he says, handing me tray of sushi. Sashimi, one of each. Expensive,
it is like sixty dollars. Wolf gnaws at his thing. It is like dog with toy. I want to smile, or
throw up, or both. Instead, I eat piece of fish by bending down, picking it up in my mouth.
"Did he die?"
"No, he was wandering around, mumbling stuff. He put his pants on and left. What the hell did you
do to him? He looked like a rape victim." Jakob was cop, or military, or something. Now, he is...
he does things for money. I have money, so he does things for me.
"I claw him, I am sorry. Am I in trouble?"
"No. I'm not going to tell anyone. He probably won't. He probably won't even remember what happened
to him. You want to tell me what happened to him?"
I hiss. "He is stupid human, he wants to be cat."
"He wants to be a cat?"
"No, he wanted to be cat. He does not any more."
And that is the night, I could tell you more but it would be boring, maybe. I leave you with my
sushi, I am eating it, I enjoy it. Cats love fish, it smells, so they eat it.
I can see my reflection in the mirror. I look angry, there is some fish in my teeth, I hiss at
myself. Fucking cat. Jakob makes a laugh while he eats his strange rolled thing. I look away, and
now we are two people, having late dinner.
Like a cat playing with his felt mouse, or with a human, I am now bored, and I stop talking to you.