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A bit of nineteenth century kitten play.
This story was brought about by a couple of things: my own fascination with women masquerading as cats, as seen in Risk Vs. Reward, Shelter Pet, and a couple of my Mistress and Charlotte tales when Charlotte engages in a little kitten play. There was also the suggestion of another author, Maonaigh, saying that I should take my fascination with cats and weave it into a story featuring a woman, her girlfriend who enjoys playing the role of a cat, and the Egyptian goddess Bastet.
Well, after letting those ideas steep in my brain for a while, this is what I have come up with. This story takes place in the eighteen-hundreds, when the French colonization effort in Egypt has ended and British involvement is on the rise. My knowledge of Egyptian history is sketchy at best, so please remember this is a work of fiction and not a history lesson.
I hope you enjoy it.
My name is Nigel Carruthers, the Third. I am a famous Egyptologist with many well-lauded publications attached to my name. I am also a woman. How did a woman get saddled with a name like Nigel Carruthers, the Third, you may ask? More on that later.
I employ a secretary, whose name incidentally is Nigella, a much more feminine-sounding derivative, but that is neither here nor there. The very most interesting thing about Nigella, at least to me, is that she sometimes thinks she’s a cat. In fact, we have a little game that we like to play, wherein I will deposit a diamond-studded collar on the bureau, along with a furry little tail that attaches in a manner that—well, let’s just say I’ll leave the details as an exercise for the reader.
Nigella and I are lovers, you see. Did I not mention that? Well, we are. In the evenings that I leave her collar and tail on the bureau, she will discretely slip into the W.C. to complete her feline transformation, all while I am in bed with my notes, pretending to be deeply into my academic studies. She even has this way of putting up her hair that gives the illusion of feline ears atop her head.
On the nights that we play this game, Nigella will wait patiently for me to put my work aside and extinguish the lamp, and then she is upon me. Oh, and I do mean upon me in the literal sense. I never make her wait long, because I do love the experience of her feline persona between the sheets, so to speak. She is quite lovely. She starts out purring and rubbing her cheek against my thigh. It’s all very cat-like, and it helps to let me know where she is in the dark. Sometimes she will sit back on her haunches, silhouetted in the dim light of the moon and lick the inside of her wrists like they are paws. She will then begin to groom herself. She is very thorough.
There are some nights, usually when the moon is quite prominent and there is more than the normal amount of light in our bedchamber, that I am content to lie back and watch as Nigella grooms herself. As I mentioned, she is very thorough, though I don’t recall if I also mentioned that she is completely nude while she is in her cat persona. It is quite a sight to behold, even in silhouette.
Though presently it is day, and Nigella and I are in Egypt, about fifty miles or so from Cairo by train. A dreadful city by all rights, Cairo, too many people in too little space, and camel dung literally everywhere. If it weren’t for the close proximity of Great Pyramids of Giza and the fact that it is the port in which our ship is docked, I would have avoided it at all costs. But such is the life of an Egyptologist.
We are checking into the Hotel Baba Ghanoush in Zagazig, a much more interesting and serene place, situated in the eastern Nile delta. Yes, I realize that Baba Ghanoush is a rather delicious appetizer made with eggplant and tahini, and I don’t know what else. But I didn’t name it—the appetizer or the hotel—and it really has no application to this story, except that ironically, it is a dish not served in the hotel dining room. Though that is neither here nor there, because my dear Nigella and I have come here to study the Egyptian goddess Bastet.
From the outset, I have told you that my name is Nigel Carruthers, the Third, and that I am a famous Egyptologist. I will tell you now that this is only a half truth. I am a famous Egyptologist, with several important works attributed to my name, yes, but my real name is Lucy Carruthers. Nigel is my younger brother who spends most of his time and money playing the part of a raging drunk. I only appropriated his name, because in this day and age it is simply scandalous to think that a woman could be, or would even want to be, a gifted academic rather than devoting her time to more domestic pursuits.
It is probably even more scandalous that a woman should be standing in the lobby of the Hotel Baba Ghanoush, with close-cropped hair, and looking rather smartly attired in a man’s suit. In fact, in this day and age, it could even result in my casino şirketleri being hanged. But I won’t tell if you don’t.
That’s how it is with my brother as well—he doesn’t mention that his sister Lucy is doing all the work that he takes credit for, and I don’t mention that he’s a fraud. We have this arrangement, you see, where he is the public face of Nigel Carruthers, the Third, famous Egyptologist who is rather unable to hold his liquor, while I, on the other hand, am the one producing the marvelously detailed works that get him invited to all the museum galas. I don’t mind so much, because I also have Nigella.
She looks every bit the fitting secretary for a world-famous Egyptologist. Her long, dark hair is piled up in a bun, while a pair of glasses on a slender chain adorns her graceful neck. Her lips are pouty and flushed, much like her breasts that are currently constrained inside her starched white blouse, testing the limits of the buttons. Her legs are clad in lacy dark stockings under that long skirt that hugs the curve of her hips so perfectly.
Ah, but I meander, which is always a danger when the subject of Nigella comes up. As I have said, we are checking into the Hotel Baba Ghanoush in Zagazig, Nigella and I, because this is the ancestral home of Bastet, the Egyptian cat goddess, whose name translates roughly into She of the Ointment Jar. I happen to glance upon Nigella’s rather well-formed backside as I am relating this bit about the ointment jar, and it gives me some ideas for what we might do, Nigella and I, after we take our supper. I will most definitely be unpacking the diamond-studded collar first.
“Monsieur Carruthers, your reputation precedes you.” A fez-capped clerk slides a key across the desk with a crooked-toothed smile. “We have reserved for you the best suite in the house. Ahmed will show you to your room, and someone will be along with your luggage, momentarily.”
I thank the desk clerk, and tip him handsomely in the local currency. Nigel Carruthers, the Third is nothing if not generous. And besides, the exchange rate works out to be shamefully in my favor.
Ahmed turns out to be a boy of no more than ten by my best estimation, and he looks very eager to show us to our room, probably thinking of the tip that will come of it. I smile and turn my head to Nigella. “Come along, darling. Our suite awaits.”
And what a suite it is. Large and airy and on the top floor of the hotel with a charming view of the Nile delta. It is even decorated in the local fashion, with an almost life-sized alabaster statue of Bastet, the Egyptian cat goddess I have come here to study, displayed prominently on one side of the room.
“Nigella, darling, come have a look at this bed.”
No response, but this is not out of the ordinary for Nigella, who tends to be rather shy and reserved. I think it fits well with her cat persona—solitary beasts that seem rather aloof and tend to tolerate humankind only when there is a saucer of milk involved.
“Darling?” I turn my head to see her standing in front of the alabaster statue of Bastet, staring openly. She has unbuttoned the cuffs of her blouse and is busy licking the insides of her wrists. I know what comes next. “Perhaps I should draw the curtain?”
Nigella turns toward me, her head tilted, as if she’s investigating the source of this curious sound—my voice. Though she looks right through me, as if I’m not even in the room, and continues licking her wrists. I notice that she has slipped a few more buttons on her blouse when I hear a knock at the door. The luggage! Damned fine timing.
I open the door just a crack. Staring up at me is the smiling face of Ahmed. Somehow the young boy has managed to transport our trunks up here all by himself. He seems rather proud of his efforts.
“You’re very strong,” I say, pulling a large denomination bank note from my wallet. Ahmed’s face is beaming at the sight of the currency.
“Unfortunately, dear boy, Missus Carruthers has taken rather ill. So if you would be so kind as to leave the luggage in the hall, I’ll see to it from here.”
Ahmed’s once beaming face goes slack. He appears crestfallen.
“You see, I’m afraid it may be contagious. I wouldn’t want you to come into contact with any germs. You do understand germs, don’t you?”
“Yes, Monsieur. Germs. Sick. I understand.”
“Thank you, lad.” I pull another local bank note from my wallet and slip it to the boy through the crack of the door. “Missus Carruthers needs her rest. Will you please see to it that we are not disturbed further this evening?”
There is a gleeful nod from Ahmed as he abandons the luggage in the hall, as instructed, and scampers off. I drag the trunks inside and bolt the door. The first things I unpack are the diamond-studded collar and the tail.
“Nigella, darling. That was Ahmed with the luggage. Charming boy, really.” I look at Nigella who is now kneeling in front of the statue. She is completely nude, and looks absolutely radiant in the orange evening light reflecting casino firmaları off the alabaster Bastet. “Darling? Are you sure you wouldn’t like something to eat first?”
Nigella says nothing, simply licks her wrists and grooms her body, all while staring up at the face of Bastet. I have never seen her quite like this and I am inclined to perch myself on the edge of the bed and enjoy the show, as it were.
Nigella continues grooming herself, leaning so far back that she is now supine on the rug, with her back arched and her thighs spread in the direction of the statue of Bastet. She is purring. Her magnificent chest is flushed and heaving as she continues the grooming ritual that is normally reserved for the dark of the night. But I’m not one to complain, mind you.
Nigella is perhaps the finest example of the female specimen that I have ever set eyes upon, and as I mentioned previously there are many times when I am content to simply observe her actions with no desire to take part myself. This is certainly one of those times—she is absolutely fascinating this evening.
Nigella is arched with only her shoulder blades and her lovely backside in contact with the rug underneath her. Oh, and I suppose the back of her head as well, for her head is thrown back as far as I can imagine that it will go, and it exposes the graceful line of her neck quite nicely. Her knees, yes, her knees are pointing up at the ceiling above, and are spread quite obscenely at the moment. She has started in on grooming the area between her thighs, her mound as she calls it during those times when she’s being a human, and grooming this area often results in her knees being as wide apart as possible.
Her mound is, and always has been, completely devoid of hair. She once confessed that it’s not her doing, and that it has always been this way. I sometimes wonder if it’s part of her cat persona that enjoys the clean feeling of the smooth bare skin. I also often wonder if she takes care of the smoothing on those nights when I hear her up and bumping about, long after I am tucked under the covers. But I have never questioned it, I simply accept that this is the way my Nigella is, and thank my lucky stars that we found each other.
The volume of Nigella’s purring has increased, as has the speed of her grooming. One of her hands will fly over the area between her legs, but only for a few seconds before it is drawn back to her mouth to be slathered with her tongue again. During the tongue slathering, her other hand is busy grooming. It is a very efficient process, and as I have already stated, my Nigella is very thorough.
“Would you like your collar now, darling? I have it unpacked. Perhaps your tail?”
Again, Nigella turns her head toward the sound of my voice, but appears to look right through me. I decide to fetch the items anyway.
When I come back, Nigella arches her back more than I thought possible, and stretches her neck out toward me, as I fasten the collar on her. This movement is the only indication that she even senses my presence in the room.
“I’ll leave you to take care of the tail if that’s alright, darling.”
In the past, she has always emerged from the W.C. fully in character, and I’ve never been privy to the details of what goes on in there when she makes the transformation. But tonight is different. Tonight, she does it in full view of Bastet and me.
Nigella begins with an undulating of her hips, rising and falling from the rug beneath her as if she were in some sort of trance state. And then, in obvious catlike fashion, she starts licking. She’s licking the end of the tail that normally never sees the light of day—licking until it is wet and shining in the fading sunlight. And then her hand disappears, as does the end of the tail. After a brief contortion crosses her face, her hand is back in sight, and she is purring more than ever.
Nigella has rolled over and is on all fours now. She is crawling with her head low, as if stalking some unseen prey. Her movements are graceful, even more so than usual. Her heavy breasts sway as she makes her way over to the statue of Bastet, where she spends the next few minutes rubbing against it with her cheek, and then turning a circle to present her backside to the statue and shaking her tail. This maneuver is repeated several times while I watch in utter fascination.
“Nigella, darling, you’re beautiful.”
Once again, she turns toward the sound of my voice and stares openly. It may be a trick of the fading light, but I could swear that her eyes have changed. My Nigella has always had the most enchanting amber eyes that I have ever seen. Her irises still retain the warm amber color this evening, but there is something decidedly different about the pupils—they have become like vertical slits. Though, as I say, the sun has gotten quite low at this point in the evening and it may have all been a trick of the light.
By this time, Nigella is up on her hind legs. Yes, she is a human and I could simply say legs and still be perfectly güvenilir casino clear in my meaning, but there was something about her feline transformation on this particular evening that has compelled me to use the word hind as a modifier. As Nigella rises up on her hind legs, she uses her hands to paw at the statue as if she were climbing it. But she isn’t exactly climbing so much as embracing.
Nigella has wrapped her hind legs around Bastet’s thigh and is sliding up and down over the smooth alabaster statue, while her forelegs, or arms I should say, encircle the goddess’s neck. Nigella’s head is thrust back as she presses her ample bosom against the stone of the statue. The purring is unimaginably loud at this point, and seems to be resonating in my very skull as this scene unfolds before me.
I am in awe. Nigella’s entire body shudders for a moment, and then she does the strangest thing yet—she climbs down off the statue and curls up onto the rug beneath it. Her eyes are closed and I could swear that she has fallen asleep.
“Nigella? Darling? Are you quite alright?”
I realize it is a bit late to be asking these questions, but as I have said, this is not the first time that my dear Nigella has taken on a feline persona. But I do believe it is the first time I have ever witnessed such a complete transformation. It was an exceedingly long journey for us, getting to Egypt and I decide that perhaps fatigue is the reason behind her rather unique behavior tonight.
She appears dead to the world, but I see that her chest is rising and falling, and I know that she is only asleep.
“Darling, I’m going to pop out and fetch us some dinner. You just rest. I’ll bring you something.”
On my way to the cafe, I run into Ahmed, the small boy of great strength, who delivered our luggage earlier. He asks how he can be of service, and I tell him of my desire for two dinners. When he asks if there is anything else I might require, I pause for a moment and then ask him for a bottle of milk and a bowl. “It’s for Missus Carruthers,” I explain. “It helps her to keep the germs down, you see.”
Ahmed nods and scampers off, while I go back to check on my dear Nigella.
She is still sleeping where I left her by the time I get back, and doesn’t even stir when Ahmed comes knocking on the door later with a room service cart and a wide smile. I see that he has brought the milk, as I had asked, and also makes no move to deliver the cart inside the room—no doubt still fearing the germs I had warned him about previously. I tip him well, of course.
“Nigella, darling,” I whisper. “Ahmed, the charming boy who delivered our luggage, has brought dinner.”
Not a sound other than a light snoring comes from my dearest as she lies on the rug, still curled up and resting her head on her front paws. Hands. Forgive me, I meant to say hands.
“If you would rather, there is also milk. I’ll put some in a bowl for you.”
Now, as I have mentioned earlier, it was a long journey that brought us to the Hotel Baba Ghanoush in Zagazig, and I am starting to feel the effects of the trip myself. So after consuming my dinner, I turn my attention to my poor exhausted Nigella. She still hasn’t moved. I think briefly of waking her in order to tuck her into bed, but then I decide it best not to disturb her too much. I cover her with a blanket and get myself ready to turn in for the night. Before I slip between the sheets, I pour the milk into the bowl and set it on the rug next her.
After such a long day, sleep takes me almost instantly. Though it is not long before I hear a clatter in the night. I spring upright at once and go to the door to investigate. It is still firmly bolted. As I move to check the window, I notice Nigella is no longer where I had left her prior to drifting off. She has moved, and is now curled up under the statue of Bastet. In the sliver of moonlight, a pale shadow of the statue is cast, and it gives the illusion that Bastet is lying beside my dear Nigella—at least in silhouette.
I pick up the blanket that Nigella has discarded in her nocturnal movements, and cover her lovely body to shield her from cold. It is then that I notice the bowl of milk has been completely drained, licked clean one might say, particularly if one had suspicions about one’s secretary turning into a cat.
I shake my head and tell myself that all will be right in the morning, that I will discover the source of this elaborate illusion that is being played upon my senses this evening.
Crawling into bed once again, I pull up the covers. Just as I begin to drift off, I awaken with a start. It’s the clattering noise again. Though this time I can see that it is most definitely Nigella who is the source. She is standing at the foot of the bed, staring at me and licking the inside of her lovely wrists.
“Come to bed, kitty,” I say.
Nigella takes to the bed, down on all fours, moving toward me, stalking me almost. Her heavy breasts sway beneath her in a rhythm that matches her movements. Her front paws—hands, her hands, I remind myself—stretch forward and reach to the top of my thigh. I am sleeping in the nude as I often do, so there is nothing to shield me as Nigella drags her nails sharply over the skin of my leg.
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