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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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Archive name: dusty.txt (F/beast, MF, rp, 1st, oral, nc)
Authors name: Ardin Resolute (tuxedosam@angelfire.com)
Story title : Dusty
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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2002. Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
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Dusty (F/beast, MF, rp, 1st, oral, nc)
by Ardin Resolute (tuxedosam@angelfire.com)
***
A girl finds her direction in life through the love of
her cat.
***
Disclaimer: This story is meant for people 18 years and
older. If you are not that old, or it is illegal for you
to be viewing erotica in wherever it is you live, then
don't read it. No cats were harmed in the typing of this
story.
Dedicated to Allison, Donna, Brian and Katharine and to
all the other cat lovers out there, may you all find your
happiness and joy, no matter where it's hidden.
***
"If we truly believe that it is what's inside that counts,
then who are we to judge anybody's love?"
Love. It's something we hear about all the time,
something we're told, something that we all believe in,
not because we know it to be true but because it's just
been so deeply ingrained in us from childhood. It's
something that's so intangible that belief alone has to
be what holds it to us. Love, we're told, is something
metaphysical, something that's not there, in the sense
that it's nothing that can be measured or explained. It's
something that even if we're told it's biological and the
effect of chemical reactions, we still hold our faith in
it.
It's hard sometimes though, to hold that faith. If love
is truly intangible and out of the reaches of physical,
chemical or biological reactions, then it can happen
between anyone, at anytime and it should be beautiful. If
we truly believe this, as we tell our kids, and have them
tell their kids, then why can't girls who aren't lesbians
love another woman? Or men who are straight love other
men? I'd like to believe that they can. Love is something
special and shouldn't be wasted because of race, gender
or even, species. We love who we love.
As a child, I was never really what you'd call "normal".
Far from actually. As a little girl, while others were
off playing with their dolls, or playing dress up, or
running from boys, I was busy getting into things. Not
trouble, per se, more like boxes. Boxes, at least for me
at that point in time, were my life. I could pretend I
was an astronaut exploring deep space, or Superman busily
working in his fortress of solitude. There I could be who
I wanted, whenever I wanted and I felt comfortable.
My parents were rarely home as they both were full time
providers, and my grandmother who watched over me,
although she loved me a lot, did not spend much attention
on me. Which was fine in my book actually as I was
starting to enjoy being alone, being in my world that was
the box. I remember how happy I was when my parents
bought a new refrigerator. That massive box became my
home. I slept in it, I played in it and I damn well
wished that I could live in it. I was alone and I was
happy, until the day my parents came home with another
box, one that was about the size of a shoebox and
contained something other than shoes, something alive.
When I discovered the contents of the box, I almost
cried. Feeling that I was lonely, my parents, in an act
of total love and kindness, not knowing how secure I felt
in my solitude, decided to buy me a pet as a present. It
was a sweet gesture, but I was terrified beyond belief.
Not of the cat of course. I wasn't scared of animals and
this one was only about the size of my dad's palm. I was
scared because of what it meant to my universe, of having
to share it with another, of having to share my personal
space and my life with something else. I was so used to
being alone.
I remembered I cried myself to sleep that night and the
dreams I had woke me sporadically through the night. The
next morning my mom kept me home from school because I
had actually gotten myself sick with distress. The kitty
tried to climb onto my bed but I shooed it off. It looked
almost hurt. I closed my eyes and dreamt of swinging
through the streets of New York as Spiderman.
The cat was named Dusty. Eventually at least. My parents
insisted I name it and it took me two weeks before I
could even bare to consider a name for that monster that
had so fiendishly invaded my life. I don't even know why
I called him Dusty except that it sounded better than
"The Stupid Cat".
At first it wasn't so bad. Dusty wandered the house
curiously and poked his nose into everything while I sat
in the basement with my box. At first. Then he began
nosing around me, poking his head into my daydreams. I
was annoyed to say the least. My imagination was my
world, and it had no place for a cat. Then one day I
found him in my box. I was furious. In my immature rage I
broke his leg. I wish I could say that I felt some
remorse, but at that point, I was too busy thinking of
myself. It was easier.
My parents believed my story that he had fallen down the
stairs and soon he was in a kitty cast. He stayed away
from then on and I didn't mind it one bit. And so our
lives continued on for about a year, with him afraid of
me, and me hating him.
I was 10 when my life fell apart. I skipped home from
school that day. I had just gotten an A on a math test
and I was one happy kid. As I was approaching my house,
all I could think about was whether I would patrol Gotham
in the batmobile or the batwing. It turned out to be
neither.
I had been crying for 5 hours when my parents got home
and explained that they had taken the box outside to
carry some things back into the house with when the wind
picked up and blew it away. They promised me to get me
another one, but I knew it wouldn't be the same. I was
crushed. I spent the days crying and the nights crying
and somehow managed to keep that routine up for a few
days before an event happened that changed my life.
It was 2am when I awoke, vaguely aware of a presence in
my room. Dusty, his well-kept orange fur glinting in the
light off my Flintstone's night-light, nudged me awake
and meowed at me expectantly, ignoring my flailing arms
and excessive use of the word "die". He kept it up until
I finally gave in and got up, thinking that I needed to
feed him or something. It was odd for him to be here at
any rate as he had taken to going or nightly strolls
around the neighborhood.
I was hesitant at first to follow him outside when he
jumped out the window and meowed for me to follow, but
eventually my fear of having my parents woken up by the
noise prompted me to slip on my sandals and join him. It
was exhilarating being in the night air with him, a
feeling of adventure and feel and excitement that just
made me feel alive. And scared out of my wits. But I was
in good hands, or paws, I should say.
Dusty knew all the back alleys, all the secret paths and
roads and eventually we reached our quarry, which was to
say, my box. I couldn't believe it, but there it was. A
bit dirty of course, as it had been outside for a few
days, but it was my box nonetheless. It must've taken me
at least half an hour to drag it back home and by the
time I fell back asleep it was almost 4, but I was
happier than I had ever been. I wanted Dusty to join me
in my bed to celebrate but he ran when I reached for him.
For the first time in my life, I knew what it felt like
to care about hurting somebody. I felt shunned.
I was never one to give up. When I was 6 and I was trying
to ride a bike and kept falling over, despite my mom's
anguished pleas, I continued trying. It took me 45 more
attempts and several cuts and bruises, but at the end of
the day, I had done it. I never gave up on anything. My
mission now was no less important. I had to make it up to
Dusty and tell him how much I wanted him in my life. He
had given me something that I hadn't felt before. He had
cared about me.
As a selfish 10 year old, I never felt cared about by my
parents who were rarely home or my grandmother who never
seemed to talk to me. I realize now that I was stupid,
but I can't change how I was. So everyday I came home and
before my grandmother could do it, I'd feed him.
It took him a while before he would go to the dish if I
was nearby, but slowly it happened. Everyday I would talk
to him, and confide in him, and pet him and (attempt to)
hold him. Gradually his fear fell away and we became
closer. I began to realize how wonderful it was to share
your life with somebody, to share your thoughts, to have
somebody care (or at least make you feel like they
cared).
We became closer and closer until one day, when I was
busy with my homework, a small ball of orange fluff
jumped onto my lap. It was then that I knew it was time.
Dusty was so happy in my box. He danced and jumped and
batted at the cardboard flaps. He rolled around and
bonked his head playfully at the walls. I had never
smiled so much. I wanted to remember this moment, to
preserve it forever, but I didn't know how. My eyes
desperately scanned the room for a camera, or a pencil or
something. The canvas felt soft to the touch.
I knew I wasn't supposed to touch my dad's art supplies
but at that point, I didn't care, I just wanted to
remember the moment. I hadn't painted much in my life,
and I didn't know exactly what to do when I picked up
that brush, but I was driven more on emotion than
thought. And then a miracle started to happen. I didn't
know what I did at the time and I still don't, but I know
that it changed my life. The brush seemed to flow with my
heart, dancing with the playful tunes that were caressing
my inner being.
I watched Dusty and the painting began to grow, almost on
its own, almost organically, almost as if it was a being
unto itself. When I was done I stared at it in amazement.
It wasn't Picasso, but it was beautiful. What experience
I lacked was made up by passion. Skill was replaced with
enduring resolution. My parents were impressed with it
too, and my dad never made a mention of my illegal use of
his supplies.
They encouraged my gift and soon my room was filled with
all sorts of paintings, most of them revolving around my
new best friend, Dusty. My relationship with my parents
also grew stronger with the discovery of my newfound
talent as I began to realize that they truly did love me.
And of course, Dusty was with me every step of the way.
Thirteen can be a frightening age for some. It was for
me. I was already well into the process of becoming a
woman and to say that I was uncomfortable with the
changes in my body was to say that rain was wet. Although
I was maturing sexually, every part of me that was me and
not this stupid body I was stuck in, wanted nothing more
than to be that innocent kid playing in her box.
My friends, what few I had made in elementary school were
also acting differently, dressing up more, talking
differently, thinking about different topics. They didn't
want to run from guys anymore. Quite the contrary
actually, as it seemed like they wanted to run TO them.
My life was quickly changing and the speed at which it
was moving was making my head spin. Eventually I was left
alone again. My friends having realized I was a "weirdo"
and so, by some logic that only made sense to them,
"ditched" me. I wasn't exactly happy that year.
It was hot that summer. Especially in my room. For some
reason that can only be explained by God or a mechanic,
my air conditioner took that time to break down. I
remember lying in bed in my underwear wishing for snow to
fall. It was an effort just to sleep. Sometimes it didn't
seem worth it. Dusty would often come into my room and I
would converse at great length with him.
We'd talk about the weather, and about life, and school,
and my parents, and my friends, or lack of such, and
philosophize about the great mysteries of the universe.
The fact that he didn't talk back didn't bother me one
bit. He was a good listener, and he had his way of
telling me how he felt. It was at that time I began
falling in love with him I think. I wasn't sure at the
time, but now that I think back, I know it was indeed
love. But at that point, I just knew I cared for him a
great deal.
The first lick was like heaven. I hadn't expected it at
all. That night had been the hottest and I had laid in
bed stark naked trying to imagine myself on Hoth fighting
a Wampa. I didn't feel Dusty climb onto my bed and I
didn't see the look of worry in his eyes. It wasn't just
heat that bookmarked that day, but also the fact that I
had actually been given a proverbial slap in the face by
a guy that I liked when he told me I was too ugly. It
wasn't a good day. I felt like crap and with the heat,
I'm sure I was beginning to smell like it too.
I didn't expect Dusty to get between my legs and I didn't
expect him to slowly massage me with his tongue. I didn't
expect the feelings of immense pleasure sweep through me
either. I moaned. His sandpaper tongue dug deeper and the
sensations increased. My breathing quickened, my body
quickly responding to his loving manipulations. His
tongue found my clit and suddenly I was in heaven.
My orgasm, my first orgasm, washed through me like clean
spring water and I bit my pillow to stop screaming out.
He looked up and I thought I saw him smile. I knew then
that our friendship had become something more, and that
he had done what he had done, not out of instinct but out
of something far greater, something that made him more
human than any homosapien I had ever and would ever meet.
We spent almost every night together after that and every
day. I was becoming an expert painter by then and every
day I would turn to him for inspiration and he'd give it
to me, even without doing anything. I once painted 6
pictures of him sleeping. He helped me through so much
during our time together. Besides making me feel like a
real woman every night, he helped me through my day life
as well.
My first day at highschool, my first exam, my first fail,
my first A. Everything I did, it was like he did it too
and felt it too. He loved me. I don't know if animals can
love, but hell if that wasn't the closest one has ever
gotten. Life was heaven for a while. My paintings were
amazing and garnering rave reviews from teachers and
students alike and my confidence level was sky high. I
didn't even blink when I failed my first Calculus test
and instead worked harder at the subject and ended up
with a 90 in the course. I never gave up and Dusty made
me feel worth all the effort. I was in Eden. Then along
came the snake with the apple.
It had started innocently enough. I was sitting in the
hallway by the Music Department one quiet afternoon,
after just about everyone had gone home, painting the
people playing Frisbee in the field just outside the
window when my canvas was knocked over. In anger I looked
up to see what type of horrid criminal had dared to
defile my work when I came face to face with the most
spectacular example of a male human I had ever seen.
Somehow his facial features, although not overly special
by any stretch, pushed all the right buttons in whatever
biological centre it was in my body that governed my
hormonal lust. It was love at first sight.
What happened to the defiant, box-loving superhero at
that moment escapes me, but I felt more like Lois Lane
than Superman and I was loving it, if only because of my
damned hormones. His smile was unreal and I just stood
there staring. His name was Tom. Tom. Tom. Tom. The triad
of letters bounced around my head, the name of a God. He
made a joke. I giggled. He brushed his hand against my
cheek. I blushed. He asked if I was single. I didn't even
think. "Yes."
I began to spend less time at home and I think Dusty
knew, or at least suspected something was up. He would
always look at me strangely when I came home later and
seemed to be able to pick up Tom's scent on me. He still
lay with me though and still would bury his head lovingly
in my mound, but I was beginning to stop him. It wasn't
normal. And now, as my integration into the real world
began, I was starting to worry about my "relationship"
with my cat. I began thinking about it to the point that
it became an obsession.
My biggest fear was becoming a deviant and I began
picking every flaw out of Dusty. Nothing he did was right
and nothing he did was normal. I wanted to deserve Tom, I
wanted to be worthy of his attention. I wanted it so much
I eventually believed it. I loved him. I wanted to love
him.
The day I skipped my art show for Tom's football game was
the day that we became a couple. I was so happy and I
wanted to cry. I was accepted. I began to wonder if my
years of isolation was merely me fleeing from a world
that I didn't want to put in the effort to try to be in.
A better world that I just didn't want to try at, that I
was afraid I'd fail at.
I felt like I had conquered that fear, that I had become
something truly special. We fucked for the first time
that night, in celebration of his win and everything. Tom
never wanted to call it "making love" he said it sounded
too wussy. I didn't climax that night, but he did and it
made me feel special when he did, like I was worth
something to him, that I was useful, special.
When I came home, late as usual, I crawled right into
bed, knocking away a curled up ball of orange fur that
had been sitting so patiently in my bed. But I hadn't
even noticed it. I was normal, I was special, I had found
love.
As my relationship with Tom progressed, I gradually began
to forget about Dusty, scolding him if he needed
affection while I was on the phone. Our long nighttime
interludes had long since been replaced by sleep. He grew
lonely, depressed. When Tom had first come over, Dusty
hissed at him, and instead of feeling safe, I got angry.
Eventually Tom started replacing his customary spot next
to me in bed. It was tough on him.
If I had paid any attention at all back then I would have
noticed him changing. The bounce and energy I had once
loved in him had faded out slowly. He woke up each day
like he was forced to, like his life had no meaning
anymore. But I ignored him, moving from being a girl to a
woman, I forgot about my brief childhood love affair with
my kitten and concentrated on tom. He was everything to
me, and soon my world had no room for Dusty.
And one day the inevitable happened, I woke up and my
companion for the past 6 years was gone. Someone had left
a window open, which had happened often in the past, and
Dusty left. He had never done that before. I was
devastated. We searched all over. We put up posters, made
phone calls, placed ads, but nobody had seen him.
Tom didn't understand why I was so upset over "just a
cat". He didn't understand, how could he? He had never
had anybody so close to him, so loyal, honest. Dusty was
more than a pet, more than a friend and even more than a
lover to me, he had been my soul mate. And I loved him.
Eventually time passed and I graduated from highschool
and moved in with Tom, but my pain didn't fade. With
every day that passed it became harder and harder to get
up, things weren't the same anymore. I buried my thoughts
in anything I could, my studies, my job, Tom. I stopped
painting. Without Dusty as my inspiration, the paintings
just didn't seem to have the same life I used to be able
to breathe into them.
Slowly, the years pasted and I realized my gift had left
me, my paintings seemed so cold, so lifeless. I was
unhappy, but I didn't know what to do. I couldn't leave
him, he was everything that was left in my life,
everything that I had buried my pain in. As time went on
he began getting more irritable. I thought marriage would
solve everything. 3 years after living together, we tied
the knot. The honeymoon was lovely, we went to the
Caribbean, and shared sunsets together, yet still it
wasn't the same. There was something
missing. There had always been something missing.
When we got back, things got steadily worse. We were
slowly falling into debt, and the honeymoon had taken a
significant chunk of our savings out of us. I sold my old
paintings for money but I hadn't made a new one in over 4
years. Worse still, I had dropped out of university. I
just couldn't focus. Tom still had school and I had to
work both days and nights to support us. He began getting
angrier each day. He criticized me, my cooking, my looks,
my art. One night I caught him in bed with another woman.
I was devastated.
He promised me it would never happen again, but somehow I
got the feeling it had already many times. I didn't know
what to do. I wanted to leave him but I couldn't get up
the courage, I felt guilty, I didn't want to hurt him. I
suggested that we should get counseling. He got angrier
than he had ever gotten before. I spent the whole morning
trying to cover up the bruises with makeup.
Then one day I woke up and my world was shattered again.
The picture above our bed, the one I had painted so long
ago of dusty, my first painting, the one that started my
love affair with the arts, was gone. I searched
frantically, reliving my desperate search for my cat all
those years ago, until Tom told me he had sold it, that
it had been worth a lot of money and that it had nothing
but sentimental value. I was crushed. I said that he had
not bothered to sell his autographed football. 5 years
ago he would have apologized, 3 years ago he would have
given a reason, now his fists did the talking.
When he left for school I looked through his stuff and
found out who he had sold it to, and pleaded and begged
to get it back. Eventually the new owner agreed. I bought
my painting back, for twice what it had sold for.
Tom returned that night and found out what I had done. He
was livid. He screamed at me for my selfishness. I told
him we still had enough money for the rent and for food,
and it was my money. He wanted none of it. He hit me
again, hard, then again and again. I was crying. I could
taste my blood from my broken lip. He said he had a long
day and wanted relief. I wasn't up for it. He didn't
care.
He threw me on the bed. I screamed, but he threatened to
hit me again. I shut up. He ripped my pants off and undid
his belt. I protested. His belt buckle hit my forehead. I
shut up again. He held my hands down and got between my
legs. I tried to stop him but he threatened me with his
belt. I closed my eyes and cried inwardly. I braced for
it, and heard a scream. I looked up. He was holding his
bloodied penis in his hands, 3 slash marks deep across
it.
I heard a meow from beside me and saw dusty, my lover, my
protector, my hero, looking at me with concern. His fur
was no longer a shiny orange, he looked bony and
malnourished, and he walked with a limp as if a limb had
been broken and left to heal on it's own, but at that
moment, he was the most beautiful sight in the world. I
felt so many emotions at once grief, guilt, relief,
everything flooded through me at that moment, but only
one stayed, joy.
I got off the bed, changed my clothes and gathered my
things. He screamed at me and swore at me and spat at me.
I didn't care, I felt courage I hadn't felt in a long
time, I felt young again. I left him that night, feeling
scared and excited all at once. I called my mom from a
payphone and took a cab back home.
I finalized the divorce soon after and lost a lot of my
hard earned money to him. I didn't care, I was in love
again. A week later, I was sitting out in the yard like I
had all those years before watching Dusty play in the
flowers, and I suddenly felt a feeling I hadn't in a very
long time. Immediately I got an easel and a brush out and
began painting, and painting, and painting. The brush
felt like a feather in my hand, I didn't have to think, I
just painted. Picture after picture after picture until I
ran out of canvas.
The next day some well to do friends of my parents came
over and were talking to them when they saw my pictures
lying against the wall to dry. They were impressed and
wanted to buy some. Eventually their friends heard about
it.
I sold painting after painting in the coming weeks, and
continued to create. I made more money than I had made in
a year of work living with Tom. And through it all, dusty
was at my side, making me feel loved in a way that only
he could. And every night he was back between my legs,
taking me to greater heights than Tom ever could. Making
me feel complete, whole.
He died many years later, living longer than most cats
were supposed to. I was with him till the end. Holding
him as he gave me one last smile and lick. I thought I
saw the glimmer of something special in his eyes as he
left me, something that said "I love you".
By then I had moved out into my own place, an expensive
apartment which I could now afford with all my success as
an artist. And a week after, I got another kitten, his
name was poof. We didn't get along at first, but I kept
at it, feeding him and caring for him and loving him. And
one night, while I was lying in bed missing dusty, I felt
a familiar presence of fur between my legs. I was in
heaven again.
The End.
Author's Note: Love comes in all shapes, and all sizes.
This story could have happened, depending on your point
of view. Love isn't something that can be proven or felt,
except by those who believe in it and have felt it. If
you don't believe in love being universal and real, then
the above girl was sick, demented and the cat was nuts
too, however, if you do believe that love exists and that
it exists in the soul with no restrictions and no
limitations, be it size, shape, race, gender or species,
then the girl and the cat truly did love each other. I'd
like to think they did.
END
Questions, Comments and Variable Disasters can be sent
to me at: tuxedosam@angelfire.com - Feedback is greatly
appreciated.
My stories are at:
ftp://ftp.asstr.org/pub/Authors/a_resolute/ and the full
series of "The Alien's Gift" by JR Parz and me can be
found at http://www.mcstories.com
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Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of
the hands of children. They should be outside playing
in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 17