“Let’s take the rest of the afternoon off,” Artemis said. “Camp here tonight and start fresh in the morning.”
I nodded, eyes veering back to Kitten as he languidly twirled on the pole with his face angled toward the ceiling and his head thrown back in rapture.
“I’ll take first watch,” I announced to the group and headed back outdoors.
Outside, I chose the slanted lid of a dumpster that was partially shaded by a mossy tree as my place to roost. There, I rolled a couple of cigarettes, my senses alert for any presence other than our own. I thought about Kitten’s advances that morning and all the others he’d made in the past few days. It was getting harder to resist him, especially when he was so obviously interested and rubbing on me like a ram in rut.
We should probably stop sleeping together, but I liked having him close—we never knew when Rabids or raiders might attack. And the few times I’d woken up from a nightmare, his familiar presence and smell had calmed me enough that I’d been able to drift back to sleep.
I was getting soft in my old age.
But what would happen when we reached the city? Maybe I could convince him to come with us to Promised Land—if the place even existed. There were so many unknowns. This would be a really bad time to start something with him. And was it even me that he wanted, or did I just fill the protector role for him? He was probably confusing his reliance on me for romantic feelings. Adrenaline was a powerful aphrodisiac. And as far as him waking up hard every morning, well, that was just biology.
Yes, it’d be best to cut that shit out, pronto.
Committed to this new course of action, I finished my smoke, then climbed down from the dumpster and took another stroll around the perimeter of the building. I heard music coming from inside, which meant they must have gotten the radio working again. That was good. Hopefully they were having fun and burning off some steam.
An hour or so later, Artemis found me perched like a gargoyle on the dumpster, long before my shift was due to end.
“What’s up?” I asked, primed for danger.
“I want you to know, I had nothing to do with this.”
“With what?”
“Your presence is requested inside. I’ll take over from here,” she said. I gave her a look. She gave me a look, then jerked her thumb toward the building. “Go on. Give the birthday boy what he wants.”
I tramped indoors where Macon greeted me, shirtless, wearing a boat captain’s hat and red pantyhose tied messily around his neck. The sloppy grin on his face told me that he’d clearly been hitting the sauce.
“Welcome, sir,” he said with a little bow. “You look like a gentleman of both status and means. May I interest you in a private dance?”
“A what?” I asked. He grabbed my arm and dragged me toward one of the back rooms. Once there he shoved me onto a ripped vinyl couch and flicked on a couple of flashlights that had been set up around the room.
“We really can’t afford to waste batteries like this,” I reminded him.
“Shut up and drink this.” He handed me a bottle of—I’m not even sure what it was–but it was the color of concentrated piss and tasted like several liquors mixed together, nasty but probably wouldn’t kill me. The last thing he did before leaving was turn on the radio. “Enjoy the show,” he said and shut the door behind him.
“What the fuck is going on?” I said aloud to the empty room, which was when I noticed a movement from the curtain in the corner of the room. From behind it, a hand emerged. The hand wore a black, netted glove with the fingertips cut out. The hand made a claw.
“Meow,” the voice said.
“Kitten?” I asked.
He emerged from behind the curtain and did a little turn. And Christ Almighty, he must have been trying to kill me because he was wearing the tightest pink booty shorts I’d ever seen, so tight they crawled up the crack of his ass and molded like a second skin around his little bubble butt. “Pink Pony” was scrawled across his pert cheeks, and his cock and balls were wrapped up like candy in the pink Lycra. Instead of a shirt, he was wearing a sheer bikini triangle top which did nothing to hide his little brown nips. On his head were black cat ears and at the base of his spine, a fluffy tail that he swished back and forth like a feather boa as he approached. The final touch was a pink satin ribbon tied around his neck. He was the prettiest package I’d ever seen, and my dick was so hard that it hurt as he climbed the small circular platform, still wearing the hand-me-down high tops that he’d told me belonged to his brother. Gracefully, he grabbed hold of the pole overhead, hooked one knee around the metal and began to twirl.
Honestly, he could have just stood there in his cute little cat outfit, and it would have been mind-blowing enough, but the birthday boy was taking no prisoners. He rolled his hips in time with the music while his lithe arms supported him from above, then wrapped both legs around the pole and leaned back, one arm flung wide to let his momentum carry him in a graceful spin. He rose up and grabbed the pole with both hands, then thrust with his pelvis. Slowly, sensually, he grinded against the pole like it was a big, randy dick, his body coiling like a serpent, limbs wrapped around the metal as if it were a lover. I’d never wanted to be a stripper pole as much as I did right then.
I took another gulp of the burning mystery liquor, adjusted my throbbing erection, and resolved to sit back and enjoy the show. Kitten finished one song, and then started another. He was built lean and compact like a gymnast with a natural athleticism that showed with the way he was able to support his weight using the strength of his arms and his core. Occasionally, he’d glance over at me with a shy smile, but otherwise, he was entranced by the music, a natural performer, in love with his body and the movements the music inspired.
I was so fucked.
When a commercial came on the radio, he dismounted, climbed down from the podium, and sauntered my way. The shorts were more like a bikini now, hiked up high on his thighs and tented in front by his erection. His eyes were blazing with heat and lust, his unruly hair a mane around his flushed face, and I wouldn’t have been surprised in the least if he’d thrown back his head and roared.
“Did you like my dance?” he asked, as he climbed onto my lap and fit his knees squarely on either side of my hips, not bothering to wait for an invitation.
“Yes,” I rasped, unable to articulate anything beyond that. I sounded like I was dying, a hooked fish in its final throes, as a strange paralysis came over me that was part liquor, part uncontrollable lust.
“And my outfit?” He laid his tail across my lap, then grabbed hold of my hand, which had been gripping the torn vinyl for dear life, and laid it on top of the tail. I stroked the soft, synthetic fur, my eyes devouring every inch of his tawny skin, taking in the pointed black ears, the ribbon encircling his throat. His nipples were hard, little peaks surrounded by dark areolas that were clearly visible through the mesh top.
