The Cat
by ArcherStories
The Professor moved through the apartment without making a noise. It was a simple spell, but he was aware that the effect was ominous to those who saw it. Thanks to a separate spell, of course, he knew that no one was watching him. He was alone in the apartment of The Cat, the famed cat burglar. She had done a good job--for normal mortal standards--in protecting her identity. Despite her romantic trysts with heroes of the city like The Spider--or was it the Dark Defender? It was so hard to keep track--none of them knew her identity or her location.
Of course, for the Professor such things were child's play. He didn't use the spell to find her, but rather the object she had stolen from him.
He knew that she didn't know who she had stolen from. If she had known that she was stealing from the most accomplished and most dangerous sorcerer in the world, he liked to think that she would have thought twice about it. As it was, she had broken into once of his workshops, stolen a number of pretty--albeit insignificant--artifacts, and escaped into the night.
Under normal circumstances, the Professor might have simply let the theft go. It was done in ignorance. Any of the objects that he cared to have returned, he could simply cast a spell to do so. Frankly, vengeance in his game drew much too much attention. A few missing artifacts here and there was the price of anonymity.
There was, however, the matter of the security camera. She had known where the cameras were in the workshop. She could have easily avoided them. Instead, there was a single moment--a mere 16 frames of footage--where she had emerged from the darkness, a brazen look upon her face, and blown a kiss to the camera. Her form-fitting leather clung to her like it had been painted on, except for her chest where the zipper was undone--apparently intentionally--to reveal her ample cleavage. She wore her silver wig and domino mask, so identification was difficult for mortals, but she had presented herself in a sexually charged demonstration as a calling card. It was meant to be playful, teasing, and arousing.
As much as the Professor hated to admit it, it had triggered something in him.
Maybe it was the brazenness of it. Maybe it was the skill by which she acted, compared to the near senselessness of her display. Maybe it was some sense of petty revenge for the act of stealing. Maybe it was the playfulness of the kiss. But the Professor knew that above all the thing that most intrigued him, the thing that kept him reviewing the security footage long after new details could be revealed by it, was her great tits. The Professor had sparred with gods, cast magic that rewrote the fundamentals of the universe, and had made himself immortal since before this generation was a glint in their ancestor's eyes... but he was still human and the idea of motorboating those fantastic tits was very appealing to him.
So he had taken the trouble of casting the spell to find the missing object. He had performed the magic to ensure that The Cat was gone from her sprawling apartment. Then, he had simply teleported himself inside.
She had security systems in place, but the laser grids didn't perceive him. The cameras didn't record him. The heartbeat sensors detected nothing. All this magic was performed with almost no thought at all from the Professor. They were trivial accomplishments.
As he wandered through the apartment, he took note of the various displays. Priceless artifacts were on display where nobody except The Cat would see them. Surely, she could have retired on the proceeds after selling the treasures on the black market, but she preferred to keep the best for herself. The Professor sensed deep-seeded self esteem issues offset by the collection of material goods, but he wasn't exactly here for a professional diagnosis.
Of course, the Professor could have simply acquired The Cat--mind, body, and even soul if he desired it (most of the time, he didn't. A soul was a severely overrated prize, considerably less useful that one might think). But he had lived a hundred lifetimes and he found the game amplified the reward. He had surveyed the reward, of course. The sixteen frames of it had filled his fantasies for the last night. Now, he had only to play the game to earn it.
The Professor thought about the brazenness once more. She dressed provocatively and with intention. Her body was on display for her entire crime. Surely it wasn't mere exhibitionism. That could have been met through more traditional means. This was weaponization. This was in case she ran across a man in the crime. This was distraction and redirection. A man finding a cat burglar would arrest her. A man finding an alluring woman, however, would be more amiable.
The Professor felt a twinge of anger inside him. Wasn't it the same sort of force that had brought him here? The allure of those fantastic tits had brought him after her with fantasies of sexual glory. For all the magic that he had learned, earned, and strived for, a woman with fantastic tits was given baser magics that warped men around her to her will. She had to see men as dumb, easy to manipulate through sex, and existing primarily for her to play with.
The Professor suddenly knew how to claim his prize. For his pleasure, he could not simply be another man who succumbed to her whims. She had to be shown powers greater than her own. She had to know what it was like to be struck dumb by sexual desire. And only once she was in her deepest, basest need... only then would he take his prize.
The Professor turned to the objects around him. There were works of art, ancient artifacts, and even a few lower-power magical items. Let these be the tools by which he brought her low.
The Professor envisioned one of the books within his library, swirled his hands in an arc, and summoned it to him. It appeared in his hands with a small puff of smoke. He found the proper spells, and began casting them. To the magic-trained eye, there was a faint glow to the priceless artifacts. Normal mortals would detect nothing. He summoned all the lust he had felt over those sixteen frames of camera footage and channeled it into the spells. He took the anger he felt at being manipulated by her sexualization, just like any mere mortal. He didn't hold back on the spells. He added a few twists of his own design.
When he was done, the entire room seemed to glow with magical energy. He thought again about the trophies, on display for her only. They would be the perfect conduit to focus the magic on her only. And when it was all done, she would be his own little trophy--for him only.
Satisfied that his work was done, the Professor teleported out of the apartment and back to his mansion, tightly packed in a pocket universe between 39th Street and 40th Street. He thought about his various interactions with the various so-called Superheroes in their world. Sometimes they caught whiff of his magics and attempted to apply the puny laws of mortals to him. Thanks to his magics, none of them actually recalled fighting and losing to him. He let them go deal with the various perceived threats. They were great maintainers of the world, if annoying at times. This would be the first time that he was actually interacting with them in a more permanent manner.
The Professor took another glance at the sixteen frames of security footage. He admired her exposed chest just once more, then closed the footage. It would be worth the interaction with the outside world for this prize. For now, however, he simply had to wait.
---
The Cat slinked into her apartment, descending through the secret door in the ceiling. She never used the front door, just in case her apartment had been compromised. A small screen near the secret entrance displayed the security updates. No trespassers, no abnormalities. Safe.
The Cat pressed a button on the wall and the apartment lights rose. The various artifacts and art works each had display lighting--self-installed, of course--which lit up brilliantly. There was something magical to her every time this happened. Hundreds of millions of dollars of art, history, and magic, here for her own amusement only. She didn't need the money, of course, and her private collection entertained a part of her that the dollars wouldn't have.
She pressed her hands on the small of her back and stretched. She had held herself between two rafters for almost an hour, while a security guard had worked out a marital dispute on his phone below her. She could have gone longer, of course, but she was still sore. She had been tempted to drop down and simply bat her eyes at the man--based on the conversation she overheard, the man was very agreeable to flirting with those he shouldn't--but it was always safer to simply not be seen.
The Cat stripped, undoing her front zipper down the rest of the way. She peeled the leather back from her skin and dropped it in her bedroom. She put on a nightie--a silkie thing that she had first worn for her super-boy-toy's amusement and then found it was very comfortable--and some underwear.
As she crossed her living room, headed for her bar, she found that the silk material brushed on her nipples in a very specific way. She was reminded of her super-boy-toy's eager tongue greedily devouring her chest. Ordinarily, she had been annoyed at the selfishness he had approached her body with--for a superhero who spent his life in service of others, he was very quick to revert to a juvenile, sex-crazed frat boy when her top came off--but now the thought made her flush.
It had been a while, of course. The Cat's super-boy-toy had found out that she hadn't stopped stealing, as she had promised. In fact, a few items from the super-team-up's lair had found their way into her possession. It had been a big fight, they had broken up, and it had been almost a year since The Cat had felt the eager, greedy tongue on her chest. She hadn't thought that this would be a memory she missed.
Was it cold in here? Her nipples were stiff, amplifying the feel of the silk on them. She shifted the nightie, trying to find the position necessary to stop the feeling. No position was quite right, and to her alarm she found that her underwear was also starting to rub against her in a not-unpleasant way.
Distraction. That's what The Cat needed. She pushed hard, trying to remove the thoughts from her brain, and marched to the bar. She had some of the finest liquors in the world, stolen from some of the most exclusive collections. She selected a fine whiskey, poured herself a glass, and took a long sip. It was delicious, with the aged taste perfected over decades in a barrel. It was one of her favorites, but even the delectable taste couldn't distract her from the awareness of her own body.
The Cat set the glass down, went back to her secret entrance, and found the bag of loot from the evening. It was a comparatively sparse night. Mr. Jackal had wanted Damien Dahmer's ledger, and the Cat had gotten it. She had also gotten several pieces of jewelry from Mrs. Dahmer's collection and an external hard drive that appeared to be full of things that Mr. Dahmer wouldn't want to get out. She had made a plan throughout the robbery on the various ways to get paid. The ledger to Mr. Jackal, of course, who was good about repeat business. The jewelry to her normal fence. And the hard drive for blackmail. Now, however, the plans were a little fuzzier. Which fence? And how did she get in contact for blackmail? And, for that matter, how did Mr. Jackal want the ledger delivered?
The Cat shook her head and took a breath. It had been a long day. The pleasant itching of silk over her body wasn't doing her concentration any favors, either. Why was she so bothered? Had it been that long since she had gotten off? Of course, it had been almost a year since her super-boy-toy. And since then, it had happened so infrequently. Was it... six months? No wonder The Cat was so bothered.
The Cat took an instinctive glance at the windows. They were heavily tinted. Even though the inside was lit and it was dark outside, nobody on the outside should have been able to see her or her collection. Still, before stripping there was always the instinctive check to make sure you weren't being watched.
The Cat slipped off the silk, dropping it on the floor between two priceless busts from the Roman empire. The underwear was quick to follow. She stepped out of them, now naked, with no pesky material to rub against her body. Still, the need had been awoken and would not now be quiet.
For just a moment, The Cat thought about the irony of it all. Normally, she was able to use her tits--did she normally call them that?--to control the men around her. Now, they and her pussy--again, was that the normal word? Did it matter?--were controlling her. For a moment, The Cat thought about how crazy the men who she had teased would be if they knew she was so horny that she just needed to strip down to nothing. She allowed herself a giggle at the thought.
The Cat knew this wasn't normal, but she also knew that she wasn't going to be able to have a clear thought until she got off. Maybe then she could consider what had made her so needy. Until then, thinking clearly had gotten very difficult.
The Cat slipped into her bedroom, collapsed onto the bed, and plunged her fingers into her pussy. She was shocked at how wet it had gotten so quickly. She must have really needed a good dicking. If only she could have been this horny when she had her regular super-boy-toy. As great as her fingers felt already, she could tell that a thick dick inside her would have felt even better.
The Cat allowed herself a soft moan as she played with herself. Waves of pleasure echoed through her flesh with every flick of the finger. Still, as great as it felt, satisfaction was apparently illusive. That was no matter. The Cat, careful to not remove her fingers, scooted across the bed, reached with her free hand to her nightstand, and removed the vibrator from the drawer. She turned it on and replaced her fingers with the sturdier hardware.
"Ooooooh," The Cat purred as she felt the vibration. She was aware that her free hand was now squeezing her own tit, pinching her stiff nipple. It hurt in a very pleasing way. As she increased the intensity on her vibrator, she didn't even try to stop the deep, needy moans from escaping her throat. She knew she sounded like a cheap whore. If she had heard a woman making the noises she made, The Cat would have said the girl was trying too hard to fake it. When she heard them from her own throat, however, she only heard the desperation.
Again, she thought about how hard it would have made so many men to see her like this now. She sunk her teeth into her lower lip, thinking about how many men would love to watch her stuff a vibrator in her pussy, pinch her tits, and moan like a whore. Why did that resonate so deeply within her? Sure, she had her cleavage out for most capers, but she had never gotten so much of a thrill over envisioning men watch her play with herself. Of course, why shouldn't she? What was wrong with it? She was having fun. Why shouldn't they?
The Cat summoned an imaginary audience of men. She envisioned them surrounding her, watching her with the vibrator. She envisioned them taking out their dicks and jerking off over the scene. Why shouldn't they?
Despite the thrill... despite the sexual pleasure... despite the purest ecstasy she had ever felt... she could not send herself over the edge. She continued on and on until eventually she felt a horrifying sensation. The vibrator in her hand stuttered, slowed, and stopped as the battery gave out. The Cat moaned pathetically, trying to use is as a dildo and rub out the illusive orgasm. She knew even as she tried that it was hopeless.
Angry and unsatisfied, The Cat tossed the vibrator onto the floor. She glanced at the clock and found with horror that she had spent an hour and a half playing with herself without satisfaction. She pouted her lips and whimpered, as if she could seduce the orgasm out of her like she seduced men into underestimating her.
The Cat stood, finding that her legs were wobbly. Her arm was numb from the vibration. Her legs were soaked with her own wetness. She staggered out of the bedroom, finding her way back to her bar. She downed the rest of the whiskey, set the glass on the counter, and slumped down to the ground. She realized that her vibrator was dead and not charging. She knew that she should go put it on the charger, but she found that she was unable to rouse herself from the ground. She was weak, her mind was empty, and she needed to get off so badly.
Maybe she should call her super-boy-toy. Maybe he could dick her down good. Let him suck at her titties if he wanted, so long as he stuffed her. Where was her phone? The Cat looked around the room, past the various artifacts, and found that she couldn't remember where she had last put it. Did she even have the right number in there? She didn't know.
The Cat thought about two options. She could sit here and masturbate bitterly--and probably unsuccessfully--all night or she could call someone to dick her down. She moaned bitterly and forced herself back to her feet. She found her phone, resting on a display table that showed four ancient masks from various cultures (rumored to give the wearers magical abilities) and found her super-boy-toy's number. She went to press "call", then hesitated. Could she form words right now? She knew she could moan--she had been doing that all night--but could she speak? She didn't think so. She texted.
"Need to see you." Sent.
She paused, then sent another: "Urgent."
She set the phone back on the table, staring at the open message and waiting for a reply. When the phone dimmed, preparing to sleep, she pressed it again to keep it awake. Come on, she thought, where are you?
A text finally arrived: "Where?"
---
She had dressed again, but in a slightly different outfit. Her special grip boots had been replaced with a tall, spiked heel. The zipper on the front of her costume had been left all the way down. It stopped just above her still-wet pussy. Her tits, allowed greater freedom than normal, were barely contained by the leather outfit. She normally did makeup for her capers, but now it was thick. The lipstick was bright red. She knew she looked like a cheap porno version of herself, but she didn't care. She needed to be fucked.
The Cat arrived at the rooftop long before her super-boy-toy. As she waited, she frequently lost the battle with her own will and slipped her hand down the front of her outfit to play with herself. In the fresh air, outside of her apartment, she felt a little better. Her pussy was still dripping and her hand constantly found its way back to it, but she was at least able to convince herself to pull it out again. Maybe she needed some fresh air all along. Of course, The Cat knew that was a lie. She needed dick. What was taking him so long?
Finally, he arrived. He showed up in his trademark manner on the rooftop, his eyes scanning for potential danger. They saw only The Cat. As soon as his eyes found her, however, she could feel them all over her body.
"Cat?" he said with alarm. "What... what's going on?"
"Thank you for coming," The Cat said, doing her best to make her voice thick and seductive. She slinked towards him, knowing she looked good as she moved. Her tits were threatening to wiggle their way out of the zipper and she wasn't entirely sure that he wasn't catching glimpses of her stiff nipples. Good. Let him see. Let him fantasize about sucking on them. She sure was.
"I needed to see you," The Cat added.
"What's the urgency?" he demanded. The Cat knew he was starting to realize that this wasn't the emergency she may have led him to believe it was.
"Did... did you call me here for a booty call?" he demanded.
"Booty, mouth, or maybe I'll show you why they call me a pussycat," she said with a wink.
"What the hell, Cat?" he snapped. "There are people who need me down there."
"I need you here," the Cat said. "And surely you've earned a little reward." She was now close to him. She pressed her tits against his chest, running her hand across the logo on his suit and letting it continue down lower. "I can be your reward," she purred in his ear. Her hand found that her presentation had taken some effect. He was hard. She stroked it as she looked up into his eyes.
He put out an arm, pushing her back even as he took a step away. "Get a grip, Cat," he said. "There are people that need me down there." He was still offended, Cat knew. He had no problem steaming up a bedroom while people were in need when they were together. This was because of the booty call.
"I'm sorry for being direct," The Cat said, trying again. "I just missed you. And I wanted to show you how special you were. I wanted to... well... I wanted to be a treat for you." She dropped her gaze, doing her best to look like the wounded female. His hero complex was always a great trigger for his horniness. "I guess I overstepped. I thought you would like it."
She could practically see him softening inside and hardening outside. "It's not that, Cat. It's not that I'm not flattered. I am. And frankly, you look... well... you've never looked like more fun."
"I'm a lot more fun over here," The Cat said with a pouty smile. "Come find out."
"It's just that I'm not exactly available anymore," he said.
The Cat's heart dropped. Suddenly, she was aware that the hero complex she had been counting on now worked against her. His misguided sense of self-righteousness was one of the things she had never found a way around. It had led to them breaking up. Now, was it going to be the reason she couldn't get dicked?
The Cat's mind reeled. Who was it? Was it that blonde reporter that he sometimes was involved with? Or was it that redhead he knew since he was young? It was always so hard to keep track.
"I won't tell if you won't," The Cat said. As soon as she said the words, she knew it was a mistake. She could see his back stiffen. She had offended him and that precious righteousness again.
"I..." she started again, but he cut her off.
"Get a grip, Cat," he said. He turned, approaching the edge of the roof. "And don't call me like this again. In fact, just don't call me." He disappeared off the roof and The Cat was alone again. In fact, her best chance for dick has just left her.
"No... no... no..." she muttered. What was she going to do now?
---
The Cat plugged her vibrator into the charger, left it on the nightstand, and staggered back into the artifact room. She slumped down at the base of a priceless vase. Out the tinted window, she could see the sun rising over the city. When had she promised the ledger to Mr. Jackal? Today? Tomorrow? She couldn't remember. And what else did she have to sell? She couldn't remember that either.
She didn't even bother to undress this time. She slipped her hand into the leather, playing with her pussy.
It had been a long, fruitless night. She played with herself for a while, eventually collapsing into unsatisfied sleep beneath the artifacts she had collected.
She dreamt about a man. He was a mysterious, powerful man. He stood above her and she dropped to her knees.
"Submit to me," he commanded, "and I will give you what you need."
"Anything you want," she heard herself promise. "Everything you want. All of me. Forever." Her mind flashed with depraved, vile fantasies. A huge, throbbing cock in her throat, pussy, and ass. A powerful rod smacking her tits and ass. Elaborate costumes, collars, chains, ropes, and so much more. All of it flashed in her mind's eye in a moment and she heard her own voice begging for more.
The man reached down and in his hand he held a large key. She opened her mouth and he inserted it deep inside her.
"Good whore," the man's voice said. He turned the key and suddenly her body exploded in pleasure. It was the greatest orgasm anyone had ever had. It was powerful enough to wake The Cat from her slumber.
She cried out, as if expecting the orgasm to carry into the real life. She let out three sharp yelps before she realized she wasn't actually experiencing an orgasm. It had been a dream. A wonderful, if teasing, dream.
Fully awake, The Cat cradled her legs in her arms. She didn't know what time it was, but the sun was no longer rising. It was probably afternoon. The Cat took a deep breath. Today was a new day. And she was going to get off if it was the last thing she did.
Summoning her conviction, The Cat marched into the bedroom, stripping naked again as she moved. She dropped her leather outfit on the ground, grabbed her vibrator, and paused. She looked down again at the heels on her floor. She had worn them to get her super-boy-toy excited, but now they were exciting her. She put them back on, feeling sexy as she stood in her bedroom in only spiked heels. She listened to her body again, wondering what else would excite her. The answer came freely. She redonned the silver wig and domino mask. She was a fanboy's wet dream, but she felt excited. She was going to need to pull out every stop if she was going to get herself off.
Carrying the vibrator, she marched to her computer room. She normally used the room to plan her capers. It had half a dozen screens and a single turning chair amidst them all. She sat herself on the chair and started searching. Recalling her dream, she went looking for porn.
The Cat knew that porn of her existed. She supposed you don't run with the super-crowd with your tits on display and not have some porn star in Miami pretending to be you. She had never watched any of it, but the memory of her dream was still with her. Depraved, vile things. That's what she needed.
The porn was easy to find, but The Cat knew immediately that it would be too tame. There was a pornstar pretending to be her, gently lowering to her knees and coaxing a cock out of its pants before planting subtle kisses up the shaft. No, she should be forced down onto her knees, her head should be held firm, and the cock should thrust deep into her throat.
She found the dirtiest videos she could, adding words to her searches to get the videos she wanted. "Bondage" and "Submissive" got her closer. Once she wrote out a whole string of words ("Filthy slut begging to be fucked like a worthless whore") before she realized she had forgotten to include her own name on the search. Only one video got close to what she was envisioning. It was titled, "The Cat Is A Cock-Hungry Whore" and showed an actress dressed in her costume strapped to a post, spanked, and fucked in every hole. She pulled it up on three different screens, starting the video in different places. With her other screens, she pulled up multiple of the softer videos. When she was all set, she sat back and could see 10 different versions of herself getting fucked at once.
Only then did she turn on the vibrator. It was amazing. It was almost like that one glorious moment in the dream, watching herself getting sexually devastated in ten different ways all at once. She didn't even pretend to not be a whore, moaning and begging as she watched and vibrated herself. Soon, she was calling out to the videos: "Take it whore! Deeper!", "You call that fucking? Ride it!", "Beg for it, bitch! He's doing you a favor. Beg for more!".
The Cat didn't know when she had gotten out of the chair, but she realized she was kneeling on the ground before the screens, her pussy wrapped around the vibrator as it performed quite admirably. Even as she felt the pleasure--greater pleasure than any sexual experience she had ever had--she knew that orgasm was going to elude her. Desperate, she took the vibrator out of pussy and shoved it into her mouth. She quickly gagged, but held it firm and took it further. The vibrations continued, her whole body quaking from the force coming from her mouth.
She knew that this was where she belonged. This was her natural position. This was right. She also knew what was missing.
It was Him. It was the man. Not just any man, but the one who held that key. She was a filthy whore, but only He could give her the orgasm she so needed. The Cat didn't know if it had always been like that or if that was new--thoughts outside of her dripping pussy didn't stay in her head very long--but was true now. Her mouth watered at the thought of Him. Her pussy quivered. Her whole body trembled.
She removed the vibrator from her mouth, letting it clack onto the ground uselessly. She knew there was one way she was going to get what she needed in every cell of her whore body. That was if He gave it to her.
"Please..." She muttered to the open air. The sounds of whores, recorded as they were fucked, threatened to drown out her voice. "Please sir... I'll do anything... Everything... All of me... Forever..." She didn't know how long she sat there, kneeling on the ground before the porn dedicated to her--the porn that wasn't dirty enough. She simply continued to beg to The Man that wasn't there. Begging him to use her, fuck her, defile her... so long as he gave her release. She continued to beg, even as the videos ended, one by one. She continued as the vibrator that she had never bothered to turn off once again ran out of battery. Only her words, filling the empty room with a desperate prayer for sexual domination to a man that she had never seen before.
It was hours. There was nothing else. Only need. Only sex. Only the whore on her knees. Pure desire.
"Oh kitty?" a voice called out. It was coming from the artifact room.
The Cat stood, hurrying as fast as she could only her spiked heels, to respond. As she entered the artifact room, with the bar at the far end, she saw Him. It was the Professor--how she knew didn't even occur to her. He stood with a bottle of expensive wine and a single glass. Just one. Just for himself. She started across the room, but he lifted one finger and she stopped instantly.
"Hands and knees," he said simply.
The Cat dropped to her hands and knees and began to crawl across the long room towards the Professor. She felt her bare tits sway with each movement.
"Do you know who I am?" he asked, taking a sip of wine as he watched her crawl towards him.
"You are The Professor," she said softly. "You are my Master."
He nodded simply. "Do you know who you are?"
There was a moment's hesitation in her crawl as she tried to process the question. Who was she? She could feel the dripping in her pussy and the watering in her mouth. She could feel herself try to model her body to please him as she crawled. Everything else was beyond her, like trying to remember a dream after waking up. She took the info she had and gave the only answer she could think of.
"I must be your whore," she said.
"That's right," The Professor nodded again and The Cat felt good that she had answered the question right. He continued, "Did you know that you are being punished?"
"No, I didn't," she said. "Was I a bad girl?"
"Yes," the Professor said. "You were a tease. You showed your body, used your sexuality to twist men to your purposes, and then left them unfulfilled. I am punishing you for that."
"Yes Master," The Cat said, her voice a seductive purr. "Punish me."
"You thought that sex made men dumb," the Professor said. "Now you are dumb. You used your body to control them. Now you are controlled by it."
"I am controlled by you," The Cat said.
The Professor smiled softly. "And I control you through that perky little body."
"Yes Master," the cat said. She was close now and The Professor's eyes were fixated on her swaying tits. She hoped he liked them.
"So now I've made you into a cock-hungry whore. A sex-crazed bimbo. A stupid, empty fucktoy."
"Yesssssss," she purred. She had arrived at his feet. She leaned down, kissing his feet and starting to work her way up his pants.
"You are my prize," the Professor said. His voice dropped into a sort of apology. "Of course, I expected the game to last a little longer, but I think I was rather hot and bothered when I cast the spell. I can see I made them very strong."
"Hot and bothered," she repeated dumbly, her lips pressing against the stiffness in his pants.
He reached down, wrapping his hand around her throat. He held her back until her eyes moved from his crotch to his face.
"You are my trophy," he informed her.
"Yes sir," The Cat nodded.
"And if you are a very good girl, maybe I'll give you that orgasm that you've been craving," The Professor said.
The Cat--who had been very focused on looking sexy, being obedient to her Master, and sucking his cock--suddenly remembered that she was desperately in need of an orgasm. "Anything you want... everything you want... all of me... forever," she promised.
He reached down, running a hand through her wig hair. It dropped off her head, falling to the ground. In its place, her own naturally blonde hair had become silver in its place. It was thick and long. If she could have thought, she might have thought that was strange.
The Professor took grip of that hair and angled her face down to his crotch. Her mouth opened wide, even before the cock was out, and her eyes filled with desire. He took IT out and she actually gasped at the site of it. He didn't wait for her to finish gasping. He plunged his cock in.
He was rough. Rougher than the pornos. Rougher than some long-forgotten superhero boy-toy. Rough like someone using their property to their own pleasure. His hands pulled at her hair while keeping her head steady. His cock paid no mind to the gagging noises. The whore simply opened wide and allowed her Master to fuck as deeply as he desired. She felt his hands on her tits, squeezing and pinching and smacking. She felt them on her ass, spanking her like the bad girl she was. She felt them on her throat, choking her. She felt them in her hair, holding her head steady so he could fuck it. She felt it all at the same time. She didn't know how and didn't care. She was simply glad that her Master was talented enough to appreciate all aspects of his whore at once.
Suddenly, without warning, her mouth was full of cum. It was hot and thick, dripping down her throat and chin at the same time. She choked and gagged, trying her best to keep her mouth open as he finished. Finally, as he pulled out, The Cat was able to swallow and break again.
"Good whore," he said.
Instantly, her pussy exploded inside her. Pleasure--body-rocking, mind-leveling, world-ending pleasure--racked her every muscle. She squealed feeling it consume her like a wildfire. There was no riding it, like an orgasm in sex. There was no build-up to it. There was simply the pure truth that her body was out of control under the weight of pleasure.
She screamed and screamed.
Finally, when the white hot heat of orgasm left, The Cat found herself on the floor, catching her breath. Nothing had ever felt like that before. Nothing could ever feel like that again. Unless... unless he could give it again...
Her eyes looked up and she found that her Master, The Professor, was standing by the bar, his cock still out, drinking wine and watching her with amusement.
"Stand and look pretty," he commanded.
The Cat was on her feet immediately. She ran one quick hand through her hair to fix it, prayed her makeup hadn't run too much, and presented herself before her Master. Her tits were perky, full, and on full display.
He stepped forward, squeezing her tits appreciatively. "These are those snares that caught many men. Nearly caught me, too. But now, they're just mine." He looked up at her with a wicked smile. "You are mine."
"Yes, Master," The Cat said.
The Professor looked down again at her tits, gave one a hard slap with an open palm, and smiled. He stepped back and walked out into the artifact room. "I suppose we should make sure you stay that way," The Professor said. He surveyed the items, apparently looking for something. The Cat stood still, presenting herself still to him, and hoping that her tits looked good from afar too.
The Professor opened one of the display cases and removed a necklace. It had massive diamonds and a single, beautiful sapphire. He muttered something and it changed. The diamonds became small studs, sapphire became a small tag, and the whole thing morphed into a black collar. The Professor approached his whore, eyeing her tits hungrily, and then stepped behind her. He held the collar out so she could see.
"Look. It has your name on it," he said. She read it: "Whore".
He fastened the collar around her neck. "As long as you have this on you, you'll remember the lesson you learned in this room."
"Yes Master," The Cat said, standing proudly.
"Now let's get you back home and I'll try out the rest of you."
They seemed to move very quickly, but The Cat wasn't thinking enough to wonder why. All she knew was that suddenly she was in a very large house, with lots of beautiful things. She saw treasures of every kind--paintings, books, artifacts, crowns, and beautiful jewelry. She wondered how Master had collected so very man beautiful things. She also saw other trophies like her, beautiful, well-endowed women. The Professor explained that the whore with big tits and the tiara used to be a princess, until he acquired her. The one with gold bracelets used to be a warrior. The one in stockades in middle of the living room had once been an assassin, sent to kill him. Now, they were all his trophies. And she was among them.
He led her to his bedroom, where he fucked her ass. He had her face buried in the sheets, pushed down by his hand on her neck. He fucked her pussy, while she begged him to be treated like a filthy cum dumpster. He fucked her throat again, seeming to take special interest in this method of degradation. He had her wrap her big tits around his beautiful cock and give him a tit job. When he came, it was all over her smiling face.
Like a good little whore, she always begged for more.
---
After three years, police finally entered the massive penthouse apartment on the top floor of a building. They found treasures that had been missing for years. It didn't take them long to find that this was the lair of The Cat, who hadn't been seen for nearly three years. It was suspected that after being rebuffed by her ex-lover--a superhero himself--she had simply gone off the map and started a new life. No one quite knew where. The Cat was always very good at hiding her tracks.
At around the same time that the police broke the door down, in a pocket universe tucked between 39th street and 40th street, a silver-haired, big titted slut was getting her reward for the day. Her Master, looking down at his own cum on her big, perky tits, muttered, "Good Whore." Her screams of pleasure echoed through the house.
As The Professor settled down to research a new volume of ancient mysticism that he had recently acquired, he took another appreciative look at his trophy. Trophies represent victories, he thought. She represented his victory over her own self. As many men as she had snared with those perfect tits, he was one to turn the power of sex back upon her. For that, he had a trophy.
She was a fitting trophy for such a victory, too.