The Book of Peril (M/M) (Teaser)
This story gives one explanation as to why Tomasz Dusicielski, sociopathic misanthropic fetish photographer cougar, is the way he is. It's also featured in the BDSM anthology "Will of the Alpha 2", edited by Rechan and Lafitte. You can order it from FurPlanet here! http://furplanet.com/shop/item.aspx?itemid=813
The Book of Peril (a teaser)
by H. A. Kirsch
As seen in "Will of the Alpha 2", available from FurPlanet: http://furplanet.com/shop/item.aspx?itemid=813
My name is Tomasz Dusicielski. I was born a human, in Mokotow, just outside of Warsaw in Poland. Terrible things happened to me after we moved to America. My family was deported. I became sick, and the state fixed me.
Now I am a cat.
I am a photographer.
For example: a fox, in my living room. My apartment is my studio. He sat on the leather sofa and looked around like he had made a terrible mistake. He waved his tail around behind him. He curled up forward, clutching his black hands to his chest. He looked so scared.
"You look good like that," I said, and took a picture of him. He whimpered. "Lie down."
Asking someone to pose is only good if you want to see a pose. Maybe good for movie posters, but not sex. Sex is what I photograph most. As soon as the fox began to move, I began to creep around, composing shots as I went and as he leaned back.
I wore fancy leather pants, leather cowboy boots, a leather blazer, and a white dress shirt. No tie. I did not even button the top collar of the shirt. The leather squeaked against leather as I held myself at odd angles, leaning in and twisting and hunkering down and stalking and capturing moments.
I crept closer to the fox and he looked more and more nervous. More ashamed. I took a good close-up of his face, of his pleading golden slit eyes, of his tucked muzzle, of his flattened black ears. When my studio flashes popped, he winced.
"Why not strip for me? Is why fox comes for pictures," I said, and squinted from behind my camera. He whimpered again. "Now to something else," I growled, and put the camera on a tripod. I reached into a coat pocket and took out a pair of black leather riding gloves. You must have very closely fitted leather gloves when riding a horse. I do not ride horses, but I must have leather gloves.
I looked at the fox while I fitted my hands into the leather. I have large hands, I am a big cat, and leather like this was only good while tight. It was impressive.
These gloves. Damascus makes gloves for law enforcement. They once were commissioned by a fetish company, a company that sells leather gloves to gay men, to make a special model. The D650HP, the Patrolman. They are rare now. They are rare for men like me: simple, authoritative, tough, tight, black, leather.
But as I put them on, I saw a crack in his facade. I saw, and heard, his breath catch in a way that was not any kind of terror.
The fox was acting. He had agreed to be my model. He even gave me a portfolio. Very nice and professional.
"I am not in picture, not my face," I said, and took something else out of my pocket. A remote control for the camera. "If you do not take off clothes, I do it." I put the remote control in my mouth so that I could bite on the action button. I composed a shot with the fox looking unsettled on the leather couch, then walked around behind it.
Then I started to manipulate him. He tried to cover himself up - he wore only blue jeans and black dress socks - but I dissuaded him by grabbing him by the mouth from behind.
Picture.
I clutched my gloved hand across his muzzle from around his neck, then slid it down to hold across as if throttling him.
Picture.
With both black, leather-gloved hands.
Picture.
He was a small fox, maybe only five-foot-six, slender, but he had some fight. I could feel his pulse start to race even through the leather. I leaned down further and unzipped his pants. I slipped my hand inside and my fingers slid so easily against his underwear. The fabric was so silky against my gloves.
I started to purr.
All the while, shot, shot, shot, shot. I stood up and pulled his jeans off, and finally! His shame, a pair of red satin panties and black sheer stockings. Why would a fox need black stockings? He closed his eyes and tucked his ears all the way back. It was not fear. It was lust. Arousal. It was how I felt, as I watched him, as I cupped him through the panties.
Then, even more: close-up of the fox's face with his hand covering it, close-up with my hand clutching his jaw, another grasp across the neck, another double throttling. It was only for the camera. I did not squeeze him. The second time, he struggled, but it came with such a groan and his cock throbbed so hard into that glossy red garment. Then I let go and stepped off to the side.
I told him to touch himself and he did, face almost tearful with his mock emotions. He was so hard. Big and hard. Skinny men always have such large cocks.
A shot of his rump. A shot of my gloved hand pulling his panties to the side, to show off his asshole. It quivered at me. I pondered putting my finger in, with a little spit, but hadn't even put it up to my mouth when he shuddered and let out a soft gasp.
"I'm sorry, shit, oh fuck," he hissed, then collapsed over to the side. The groan that followed was one of curt disappointment.
He curled up and I uncurled him with a hard pull. That red satin was stained dark now in front, throbbing as his cock bucked and squirted every few seconds. Glistening ooze pushed into the material and then spread to a wet patch.
He writhed and I let go; his cock slipped up out of its feminine prison and squirted his last shot onto his heaving abdomen, leaving a sticky mat of fur. "Whew. Uh, did I just ruin your photo shoot, dude?" The fox's speaking voice was very different from how he behaved. Deep, and almost stupid. He looked more irritated than concerned.
I looked just as irritated. I always looked irritated. There were very few moments when I did not have a feline scowl on my face. Those were very embarrassing moments. I had my shoulders up, hackles raised. I let my tail droop. "No. You make mess. Lick it from your hand," I chuffed, and quickly grabbed an instant-film camera. As soon as he made a timid gesture to lick semen from his hand, I snapped a picture. "Very good."
"Is there, uh, do I gotta fill out some contract or something?" Lick. Lick.
Yes, the time to ask that is after I take pictures of you, stupid fox.
I found the paperwork, he filled it out, and I sent him on his way. A fox in panties with a case of premature ejaculation? What magazine wants to have that for a spread? A fox in panties was just what I needed, not what some porn magazine or website needed.
I needed it for the hyena.