Cat-Taming

Erotic short. The arena master takes a new charge for a test drive.

Rated E, 2.6k, cis M/trans M. The master of the arena, Charon, tries on a new warrior for size — a mute catboy called Kytes, and a delightfully slutty one at that. Oral, vaginal, anal, tail-tugging and tail play, a bit of banter and chatter too.

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“Aren’t you a pretty kitty?” Charon asks, and the lad looks at him with mild interest as he’s brought in, his head tilting as the enforcers undo his cuffs. “You know why you’re here, right? Gotta work off your crimes here in the arena, win some bouts. Unless you’d rather take one of the royal dungeon cells?”

The lad shrugs, looking interestedly at the enforcers retreating from his either side before he looks to Charon. He’s tall for a catboy, slim and muscular, dark tabby in his colouring with a black nose and large green-yellow eyes, the whiskers coming out of his cheeks and sprouting out from his ears and eyebrows are starkly white and contrasting the shades of grey that mark his face.

He’s not wearing much, but it’s not like Charon’s guys stripped him down — he’s the sort that barely wears fucking anything to make sure he can jump and stretch and tangle himself in knots as much as he pleases without any fabric holding him back. He’s only wearing a leather kilt that belts around his waist, offering a tiny semblance of modesty, but only a semblance. Evidently he’d gotten pissed off at the weight on his tail and stripped out one or two of the kilt’s pleats at the back, and where his tail comes out and flicks freely, you can also see the cheeks of his furry little ass.

“Kytes, they say your name is,” he says, looking up from the papers Arnion had given him. “You’re some kinda mercenary, and you don’t talk. Apparently you were brawling in her majesty’s square.”

Kytes shrugs his shoulders, and Charon’s lips twitch, looking over his chest, his muscular shoulders, at the way his arms seem to be at a slightly different angle than wolfman’s might be, and a little longer too — makes it easier for him to run on all fours or fall from a height and use those creepy little flaps around his armpits and haunches better. Also unlike a wolfman, or unlike a gnoll or most other mercenaries Charon’s seen pass through this place or in the city streets, he sees no patches or cuts through Kytes’ layer of fur all over where he’s been scarred.

A good sign for Charon’s coffers, that is.

“The fuck were you brawling over? Someone tug on your tail?”

Kytes nods very seriously, and Charon laughs, spreading his knees apart and leaning forward on his couch. “C’mere,” he says, and Kytes approaches, his bare paws making no noise at all as he pads across the floor.

Kytes does, sidling over — his gaze roves over the contents of Charon’s office, his furniture, his desk. Apparently the paperwork — not to mention the pouches of gold there — don’t interest him much. Arnion had said the word on him was that he didn’t do the mercenary work for the gold, that he did it for the fight and the fun of it all.

Charon reaches out and traces the underside of Kytes’ throat, the backs of his knuckles tracing over where the layered grey stripes come out from the patch of white that runs from his throat down to his breast, stopping about halfway down his ribs. The whole of his body is covered in soft fur, and it’s a little longer here, around his neck and up at his cheeks, than it is on most of his body. Charon’s knuckles sink right into it, and he can feel the warmth of his body — it’s hidden by how thick his fur’s grown, but as his hand slides up higher he can feel the evidence of the only scars his body apparently has, the ones on the underside of his chin where they’d reached in and paralysed the muscles in his tongue when he was still a kit.

Religious types. Charon’s never been a fan.

Kytes evidently doesn’t mind being touched, and Arnion had said that he’d gone along pretty happily with serving out his sentence in the arena instead of being cooped up in a jail cell. If seduction in captivity troubles him any, he makes no indication of it.

Gripping Charon about the wrist with both claw-tipped hands — although Charon supposes he’s restrained enough to keep them retracted — and drags his hand harder against his throat. Charon chuckles, digging his fingers in and giving a good scratch, and Kytes’ eyelids close, a loud rumbling purr coming out from the throat under Charon’s hand.

His legs spread too, and he clambers into Charon’s lap, his hands resting on Charon’s shoulder, his breast pressed right forward for Charon to rub his bearded chin against, the better to feel that purr and not just hear it in his ears.

“You’re here to fight in my arena, kid, not just warm my dick,” Charon tells him, and Kytes’ eyes open, his eyebrows furrowing slightly, his eyes staying half-lidded. He’s a smug little bitch and that’s no mistake, knows he’s a pretty one and likes to take what he likes, and Charon has no problem with that. The claws are out, and Charon’s grateful for the fact he’s wearing the padded leather jacket he tends to wear for an extra bit of armour when he might have a meeting going badly, but he can feel the dig of Kytes’ claws into his shoulders before they retract again, kneading. “You understand that?”

Kytes huffs out a noise and leans back, rolling his black slit eyes, then brings a finger up to his temple and flicks it up toward the ceiling.

“You understand,” Charon repeats. “And you sign, huh?”

Kytes shrugs.

“Yeah, I see,” Charon says dryly, and puts the hand not still scratching and squeezing at the underside of the catboy’s throat to his lower back, sliding his thumb down his spine and toward the base of his tail. “If you feel like it.”

Kytes’ purr becomes a little growlier, and he spreads his knees wider, rubbing back into Charon’s hand, and Charon takes his tail loosely in hand and grasps it as he strokes down the length of it, careful not to pull on the joints in it. Kytes leans forward and licks a stripe up the side of Charon’s neck, his tongue wet and warm and rough, and Charon laughs again, unhooks the fastenings at the back of his kilt and drops it aside.

“Round you go, boy,” Charon tells him, gripping him around the waist to hold him steady and pulling his desk closer with his toe, nearer to the sofa. Kytes lays his elbows down on the desktop and spreads his legs, his tail in the air to give Charon a good view of him, the pink furl of his little asshole and the even pinker shine of his cunt, wet with slick and greedy for something inside it. Charon licks his thumb and spreads the lightly-furred flesh around his cunt with his other hand, then traces the lines of his lips and watches for the arch of the younger man’s back, listens to his groan of pleasure.

“You a slut when you’re not brawling or serving out sentences?” Charon asks as he keeps stroking his thumb very delicately, very carefully, up and down the open line of Kytes’ slit, feeling the juices there stick to his thumb, feeling the little flutter of his muscles, feeling the quiver of his dangerously muscular thighs.

He wouldn’t need to have learned any sign languages at all to understand the gesture Kytes gives him over his shoulder, and he responds by delivering a spank to the fat globe of one of his cheeks, making him grunt and flick his tail, then kick back at Charon with one of his back paws.

“Now now, slut,” Charon says demonstratively. “No need to be a brat as well — I can add to your sentence if you’re too misbehaved, I hope you fucking know.” He doesn’t give the lad chance to sign any backchat or kick him again — he leans in and buries his tongue in Kytes’ pussy and delves inside, and Kytes’ yowl is a harsh and gasping thing, his thighs spreading wider apart to invite Charon inside.

Charon tonguefucks him as leisurely as he feels like, pressing his tongue forward and in and then dragging at the inside of the lad’s walls, feeling the flutter and shift of the muscles inside him, feeling the softness of his fur against the side of his cheeks, tickling against his beard.

The lad is grumbling out eager, trilling noises as he presses greedily back into Charon’s face, and he keens breathlessly when Charon swipes lower and sucks his tiny little clit into his mouth, flicking against it. It’s a tiny little bud of a thing — even cats like this one without a cunt never rarely have particularly big cocks.

He’s wet as anything, the slick dripping from him and getting the fur on inside of his thighs damp.

Charon leans in his seat, unbuckling his belt and then standing up, delving into the other man and wetting his fingers, slicking his cock with it. It’s no trouble at all, getting himself wet all over with it, and he smirks down between Kytes’ legs.

“You want it?” he asks, and Kytes gives him a savage look over his shoulder, his lips drawn slightly back to show the snarl of his pretty little sharp teeth, his whiskers pulling back.

“’Course you do,” Charon rumbles, and teases the younger man with the head of his prick, feeling the silken slide of his wet, open lips — fuck, but it’d be nice to feel the grip of him around his cock instead of just around his tongue and his fingers, feel how tight he is, how wet, how greedy he is for it. “But there’s no sense putting kits in you and taking you out of the arena before you’ve had a chance to work your sentence off, is there?”

He watches the twitch and jump of Kytes’ ears, sees his head tilt just slightly, and then turn around to start looking at him again — that’s when Charon grips his cock in hand and lines himself up, against his ass instead of his cunt, and sinks inside.

There’s resistance, of course, his ass a good deal fucking tighter than his pussy is, but for all it must hurt a little bit, it’s a sweet enough pain that the little slattern spreads his thighs even wider, his tail standing up straight against Charon’s chest with the tip of it curling about his throat as though to tug him closer. Kytes is yowling like a demon, and as he thrusts his hips forward, Charon grips him by the base of his tail to pull him right to the root, scratching at the base of his spine as he does, and Kytes writhes and spreads his limbs out as best he can, greedy to get Charon deeper into him.

He’s a tall fella, and the desk isn’t too high — it’s not difficult to bear down as he fucks inside the lad, press against his cunt from the other side, and Kytes moans and shudders, takes in eager little gasps of noise.

“See we don’t fit you with a chastity belt, keep you from getting yourself pregnant,” Charon says. “Though I hear you don’t even need a fucking lockpick, claws like you have — maybe I’ll just make sure all the attendants you have are either cockless or castrated.”

The lad lets out a low noise of complaint, grumbling wordlessly, and the tip of his tail whips across Charon’s cheek surprisingly hard, making him laugh.

“Non-negotiable,” he says, and grips Kytes’ tail to give himself the leverage to fuck him as hard as he dares, making the desk creak underneath them, making the little pouches of coin from the bookies and touts clink and shift against one another, making the papers flutter.

Fuck, but it’s sublime inside him — Charon doesn’t make a habit of fucking the competitors regularly, lets himself have a taste but doesn’t make a whole meal of them. There’s no sense regularly bringing them up from the arena quarters to his office, dealing with the potential escape or something like it, and he doesn’t like to go down there himself, but it might be worth it for this.

Hells, it might be worth it to have one of the mages do a fucking contraceptive charm regardless of the fact that arena competitors aren’t meant to be charmed or enchanted in any way at all, and then he can feel this lad’s pussy as well as his ass.

It’s a deliciously tight squeeze, dragging at his prick as Charon drives into him again and again, feels the wetness of his open cunt wet his bollocks, feels the flutter of his tail — and better still, sees how stiff he’s going, how eager he is, how full of want.

Charon doesn’t bother holding off too much, enjoys himself at the speed he pleases, and this kid is such a perfect little slut it doesn’t take much to bring him over — Charon reaches under him to play with his clit, and it makes him kick and writhe and shout out yowling sounds as he comes, and fuck, his ass was tight before, but now it squeezes like a vice around him, makes him groan himself as he chases forward, chases the edge and gets himself over it.

He can feel his cock jerking inside the tight channel it’s buried in, feeling his bollocks draw up tight, and he comes inside the pretty little thing’s ass and groans as he does so, holding his tail between his cheek and his shoulder, feeling it curling up against the side of his face again.

“Cockless and castrated attendants only,” he says again after they’ve rested together for a few moments, and then he pulls back and slides out, wiping himself off with a cloth and admiring how open he’s left the little prick, even as the muscle tries to close back up.

“Yes, sir, I’ll make a note of it,” says Arnion, who is standing at the door to the side of the room. Charon has only just noticed him — by the way that Kytes stands slowly up, laying his hands flat on the desktop and stretching out his spine, arching his back, he’d noticed him minutes ago, and is completely unsurprised by his arrival. “Want me to make any notes on his… condition?”

“Tight and a good ride,” Charon declares, clapping his hand against Kytes’ arse again, and Kytes huffs out a laugh and kicks back at him, then gets to his feet and goes to pick up his kilt, belting it around his waist. More seriously, Charon adds, “He doesn’t speak, but he can sign if he wants to. Corporal punishment is nothing for this one, same as most cats. Starve him of good food if he misbehaves, or a belt to keep him touching himself.”

Kytes gives him a baleful look, though he’s a slut through and through — as he passes Arnion to go into the corridor, he curls his tail flirtatiously against the side of the other man’s thigh. Arnion jumps, blinking a few times, his cheeks turning pink as he looks after the young man’s retreat.

“Boys,” he calls after Kytes after a moment’s pause, clearing his throat when his voice cracks. “Take him down to the cells.”

“I like him,” Charon says.

“I see that, sir,” says Arnion, scratching the back of his neck. “We’ll, ah, take him through the usual drills, and test his capability. Ready for your three o’clock with the quartermaster?”

“I suppose it’ll leave us with about half the coin as we’ve got on this fucking desk left,” says Charon.

“Less than, sir,” says Arnion, with more wry humour than genuine compassion, and Charon huffs out a laugh and puts his softening cock away.