by A. J. Roman
“Don’t ask me, Dick. I don’t write this stuff. I’m just laying the ground work for you. There is one more piece of the jigsaw to put in place though and then I think we could have a winning campaign,” said Cat.
“And what’s that?” asked Dick.
“We have to do something about our main rival. Just leave it to me Dick; Cat’ll sort it out for you.”
***
For this engagement it was important she wasn’t recognised as Catherine Perrault, Richard Whittington’s political adviser, so she would have to forego her trademark black. She opened up her wardrobe to weigh up her options. She could be tabby, tortoise shell or even ginger. Cat felt happiest as tabby. She put on a mottled brown and beige latex cat-suit with a tail, donned a sleek chestnut wig, pulled on a pair of knee length brown boots and, finally, covered her outfit with a smart camel-hair overcoat. She slipped a cat mask into its pocket. She was pleased with the look. It made a bit of a change to be tabby.
Now she was ready to stalk her victim. Toby Osbourne was the Tory Party candidate for mayor of London. He was a married man, his attractive wife and perfect children frequently being brought out to pose with him in campaign photographs, and renowned for taking a strong moral stance on issues such as family values. Significantly for Cat, he had also issued statements saying stray cats in London were a nuisance and should be put down. Well, she’d have to do something about that!
He had a lead in the polls and Cat needed to do something whilst there was time to narrow the gap. Damage Toby Osbourne and where would unhappy Tory voters, disgusted by his salacious behaviour and hypocrisy, go? - to a nice clean-living independent candidate...Richard Whittington. Someone who was a bit of country bumpkin but remained untainted by the corruption of the political establishment would be the natural choice for disgruntled Tory voters.
With the help of a little bribe to the doorman, she sneaked her way into Boodle’s, the exclusive Mayfair club, which she knew Toby Osbourne and other Conservative politicians frequented. She knew he arranged secret trysts with call girls there. None of them had spilt the beans on his illicit affairs and weird sex, but Cat was about to change that. There were rooms at the club members could book for overnight stays in town. Cat had already reserved one of these and fixed it up with a hidden video camera.
Now all she needed to do was trap the rat. She peeked through the glass panelled door into the bar and saw him nestled in a luxurious leather chair cradling a double brandy in his hands. It was imperative she wasn’t seen with him until precisely the right moment, so she waited patiently. She silently padded up and down the corridors of the club, darting behind pillars to hide from any of its members as she waited for Toby Osbourne to emerge from the bar. Then she would pounce.
She was in luck. He came out of the lounge alone and she would have time to accost him in the corridor. She slipped the cat mask on. It was there for disguise but she also knew it would appeal to his particular style of perversion. She waited for him, a leather boot and a sliver of brown latex peeking out from under the expensive coat as she leaned against a pillar, her green eyes fixed on his. Oh yes, his interest was aroused. As he passed she moved forward to block his path and surreptitiously ran her hand up his thigh, pawing at his crotch.
“You’re not going are you? You don’t have to leave yet, there’s a room booked for you,” Cat purred in husky tones. “Don’t worry it’s all paid for. It’s a treat from a friend, one of your old Etonian chums, who knows how you like a good time.”
“Oh, jolly nice,” he exclaimed, eyeing her with lust, “just the thought of jape I’d expect from an old school chum!”
Cat took his hand and led the way. She smiled. Richard Whittington was lucky; she really was the best rat catcher going.
Once Cat got him into the room, the rat was in her trap. In cat mask, ears and tail and dressed in her kinky brown latex, now unzipped to expose her eager cunt, she pounced on his naked body. They romped on the bed whilst the video cameras ran silently, secretly recording every perverted moment. Cat pawed at his balls and cock to make him hard. She bit his nipples with her sharp teeth. She clawed at him with her long fingernails leaving trails of red marks all over his body. She licked his cock and balls all over with her remarkable tongue, launching him into paroxysms of sexual pleasure. She tied him to bed, spanked him and whipped him and then penetrated his arse with a tabby coloured strap-on. He groaned and yelped and screamed as he experienced the night of his life with this sexy cat-woman.
Poor mouse, he was totally oblivious of the price he was about to pay for his perverted liaison with Cat... and him a family man too!
***
“Cat have you seen the headlines in the London Evening News today. Just come and take a look at this.”
“No, Dick. What can it possibly be?” she mewed innocently.
She looked at the headlines; Toby’s encounter with Tabby! Witty, she liked it. The photo was a bit blurred but you could clearly see her in the cat costume crouched over an obviously naked politician. And the article inside, Tory candidate in perverted feline sex romp, was just as incriminating. Although they obviously couldn’t run with anything too explicit, the pictures were sensational and left little to the imagination. And the piece also referred to the video containing disgusting sexual acts passed anonymously to the London Evening News.
“God, Cat, do you know what this means? This will completely discredit Toby Osbourne. He was in the lead in the polls; it throws the election wide open.”
“Oh, you don’t say,” spat Cat.
And it got even better. With Cat’s debauched encounter with Toby Osbourne in the public domain, call girls came forward to tell their stories of perverted sex romps with the mayoral candidate. The Conservative Party disowned him immediately and his support dissolved to nothing until soon after the sordid revelations came out he was forced to withdraw his candidacy. There were a lot of votes up for grabs.
***
It was now the week before the election and Cat was advising Dick on his key note speech, which was going to be televised and broadcast all over London. The Conservative candidate having been removed as a consequence of the sex scandal, Richard Whittington was a serious contender running neck and neck in the polls with several other candidates.
“Now Dick, there’s still something missing,” explained Cat. “You need to have an emotional appeal to capture the voters. Something they can really connect with...so I’ve made one or two changes to your speech tonight.”
Dick was on stage for his key-note address as it rolled in front of him on the autocue. He reached the section of the speech he had most reservations about. But who was he to mistrust Cat’s judgement now? He plunged on.
“And I want a London safe for our cats to live in, a place where they can prowl freely at day or night. In my first year of office I propose to set up a new helpline to help re-unite lost cats with their owners and to build a new home for stray cats in Battersea, next to the dogs home.”
Dick thought this was a strange election pledge but Cat insisted it go into the speech and convinced him it could make all the difference in marking him out from the other candidates. Her instincts had been right up to now, so all he could do was agree to it.
Londoners everywhere were glued to their television sets for the big speeches from the candidates. They nodded their approval at Richard Whittington’s new policy announcements. Comments were passed all over the capital: “Yes, it’s about time the council thought more about our pets,” or, “What a refreshing stance for a politician to take. I’m definitely going to vote for him,” and, “Well, he can’t be all bad if he likes cats, can he?”
On the eve of the election Richard Whittington had just won the cat-lovers’ vote...and there were over three million households with cats in London!
***
“Now we’re going straight over
to join our political correspondent, Nicholas Benson. This is an absolutely sensational result isn’t it Nick?”
“Thank you Sophie. Yes, this is incredible. Independent candidate, Richard Whittington, has just been declared the new mayor of London. You’re right, this is amazing Sophie. Just a year ago he was an unknown local politician in a rural backwater and now he’s the most powerful politician in the biggest city in the country. I’m here with Richard Whittington’s political strategist and campaign manager, Catherine Perrault. Thanks for coming to speak to us, Cat. It’s claimed you are the architect behind this incredible victory. Can you tell me, what has been the secret of your success?”
“Ah, but Nick, that would be telling wouldn’t it? You’ll have to come up and see me some time and I’ll show you...meeeow.”
She nonchalantly slithered away, leaving the television camera focused on a close up of her perfectly proportioned back-side wiggling into the distance and the BBC’s political editor open-mouthed.
***
It had been a good day. Cat had overseen the signing of the contract for the new cats home and she was pleased with her work. Having achieved her ambitions of a London safe for cats, maybe she should adopt another cause now. Yes, perhaps cats could do something to help London’s homeless people? It would be satisfying to do something else worthwhile with her new found power and her absolute control over Richard Whittington, the new mayor of London. The debt he owed her was enormous and he would never be allowed to forget it.
It was night time in City Hall and she’d shape-shifted back into a black cat. Having been adopted as the building’s official cat, she was frequently offered treats such as slivers of smoked salmon for tea and gold top milk with extra thick cream to wash them down. She’d be ready for a snooze soon but right now she padded the corridors of the offices as if she owned them, which of course she did!
Goldilocks and the Three Bears, Redux
John Bauer
Goldilocks, an adult woman, finds intimacy with men barely satisfying. Then a witch casts a spell, she gets lost in a storm, and her re-told tale bears a different outcome.
Once upon a time, a woman of middle age and low morals lived in Tragendorf, a small village situated deep in the Brown Forest of Prussia in 1837. Ill-tempered, strong-boned, one hundred kilograms and almost two meters tall, she could better most men at hunting, timbering, farming hard soils, and drinking, if the truth be known. In winter times, she worked as a black-smith full-time, but reduced her hours during spring and summer.
She’d married and been widowed five times, burying each husband, each older than the last. Heart attacks, the villagers whispered. None could keep pace with her sexual appetite which matched her girth --as large as the prodigious brown bears which frequented the forest. Never one for much mourning and heeding even less the sanctity of marriage, the widowed adulterous would soon stalk for male prey.
In today’s vernacular, she was a “man-eating cougar”. Our husbands were all doomed, wives murmured, but no one spoke their gossipy misgivings to her face - none wanted to bear her bearish wrath. Wives locked their doors for fear of her barging in and raping an unsuspecting mate. If she believed her fleshly desires could be met...well she was too muscular to argue with or fight off. As a woman, she’d never been satisfied, often mumbling to herself, she’d been cursed for being cavernous in her nether region.
Her sleeveless yellow house dress fell to just above her knees; its color matched her wavy flaxen hair. Distinctive from other women, she wore leather boots which covered her calves; these never were removed, inside or out, nor during intimate encounters. She believed if she kept her feet warm, the rest of her would maintain a body temperature which was “just right”.
Over the years, the true story of “Goldilocks and the Three Bears” has been perverted by childish mutations. Letters and other written documents were recently found in the attic of a Wolfgang Haftmeister which recorded his great-great-great grandmother’s dealings with this light-haired, fair-skinned she-devil.
One winter afternoon, Goldilocks sought male companionship. She mistakenly entered and took mostly by force, but partially by seduction, the husband of the local village witch - Hexe Hilda Haftmeister. She’d been absent her premises while rummaging for eye of newt and tongue of squirrel in the nearby woods.
“Frau Goldilocks. Get off my husband before you crush him,” Hilda commanded in a scratchy voice, typical of sorcerers of the period. She had walked in on the two while Goldilocks was rocking back and forth on his pelvis.
“You can have him for what good he might do you,” she answered, “He wasn’t worth the effort.” She hopped off and straightened her dress. (She never wore undergarments because the plus-size women’s store was several hundred kilometers distant).
“How dare you say anything bad about my poor Johan,” she went to the bed and comforted her worn spouse. He labored breathing; his chest cavity indented; and he appeared to be in no small amount of pain.
“I’ll shoe a horse of yours free of charge for his effort,” Goldilocks said, “I’m many bad things but not a thief nor a moocher.”
“You’ll do no such thing. We need none of your charity. I make a good living teaching witch craft, grades kinder to six, though lately the Lutherans have started complaining.”
“You want more freedom? Journey to the United States. I understand Salem, Massachusetts would welcome you with open arms,” Goldilocks shot back, throwing on her black bear-skinned over coat.
“You’re a mean, shrew of a woman, Frau Goldilocks, you are. My Johan will be the last man you ever have carnal relations with.” Hilda Haftmeister, aka Hilda the Hexe, placed a curse on Goldilocks but she didn’t heed its message.
“I’m shaking in my leather boots,” Goldilocks ridiculed, “Was that a threat or a promise.”
“Neither you selfish brute of a woman.”
“You’re a hexe and you’re calling me names? Like the pot calling the kettle black. Put that in your cauldron and boil it.” With those words, Goldilocks opened the door and trudged out into a heavy winter snow storm. She hadn’t planned on this weather. The village meteorologist had predicted milder temperatures. As always, as tough as she was mean, she’d make the best of increasingly inclement weather.
Curtains of white flakes disoriented her sense of direction. She found herself lost, cold, but unafraid. She labored onward in the blizzard until she eyed in the distance a log cabin with smoke spewing from its chimney. She reached its welcome door and shoved it open with her shoulder. Thanks to a dwindling fire, the house was warm and appeared to be absent any inhabitants for now.
She walked to the fireplace and placed her hands over it, warming them. She removed her bearskin coat and threw it over a chair. It appeared the fire would be in need of more wood soon. She wondered whether the home’s inhabitants had left to fetch some. She threw the remaining logs in the fireplace and watched its flames rise and dance.
She smelled pungent odor of meat and followed her nose to the dining room where three plates of bratwurst and sauerkraut had been set on the table. She chomped on one piece of meat - it was too hot; the second piece was too cold; the third piece tasted “just right”...and she sucked on it awhile before swallowing it whole.
She was thirsty and three beer mugs had been poured and set at each plate. Her tongue lapped at one - it was too warm. The second one was a tad cooler but still inadequate. The third beer she sampled tasted nice and cold-”just right” and she chugged it down, suds and all.
It had been a long day. After the meal and dark beer, she decided to look for a place to nap. She found three beds in separate rooms. The first one was too small and soft for her. The second one too large and hard. She stretched comfortably in the third bed as it was “just right” and she fell fast asleep.
Soon after she was deep into dreaming of her next sexual encounter,
three brown bears entered, carrying cords of wood in their arms and slung to their backs. Papa Fritz and his two sons, Kleister the eldest and Weister the youngest. They had departed earlier, as Goldilocks had guessed, and returned with plenty of wood for the fire. When they arrived, they noted how the few logs they had left were magically burnt; the fire had almost extinguished itself for lack of fuel. Their first priority was getting it to flame bright. In no time it roared again.
Papa Fritz noticed the black bear-skinned jacket flung over one chair. “Looks like we’ve had company, jungen.” He despised black bears for one very personal reason - his wife, Zelda, ran off with a black bear from Alsace-Lorraine.
“I’ll say Papa,” Kleister said, “Come quick into the dining room.”
They stood in front of their dining room table, hands in the pockets of their overalls, bewildered at whomever had consumed their food and drafts.
“I knew we should have eaten first, and then searched for the logs,” Kleister said.
“We tried to collect wood at dusk, but didn’t figure the snow storm,” Weister said.
“We need to hire another “weather- bear” - the one the tribe has now never gets any forecasts correct,” Kleister said.
“Let’s discuss that subject another time. Someone ate some of my sausage and drank some of my beer,” Weister said.
“Someone chewed on some of my bratwurst and tasted some of my beer,” Kleister said.
“Well, jungen, someone ate my whole wiener and swallowed all of my suds,” Papa Fritz said. He then put his finger to his lips. They could hear someone snoring away. The three tip-pawed over to each bedroom.
“Someone’s been sleeping in my bed,” Kleister said.
