[40F4A] Tigress's Night

The cock is thicker than I'm used to, harder than my husband's gets these days, pulsing hot, reeking of musk and sweat from being swaddled in expensive silk underwear and thousand dollar dress slacks. I turn my eyes up to the man, whose name I don't know and don't care to know, and bare my teeth in a welcoming hiss, showing him the ceramic fangs capped over my incisors. He gulps nervously, but his erection only pulses more hotly. All he sees is a tigress's face, a tigress's inhuman eyes, the jade-gold lenses concealing any comforting thoughts that might gleam in my natural irises. Gently I slide my black-painted lips over the swollen head of his cock, feel his whole body tense as he slides into the wet, willing heat of my mouth -- swirling my tongue over his shaft, gliding my paw-painted hands over his bare ass, letting the long black claws plastered over my nails rake his tingling flesh.

Two o'clock in the afternoon, three hours before I usually leave the office, and I'm on the phone with my husband. "Got to work late again, babe. We're about to close on this office park. Forget the commission, if this goes through they might make me a full partner!" I hear the note of concern in his voice -- I've had a lot of late nights in the last few weeks, stretching long past midnight and always right before the weekend -- but I don't really care. I'm already dripping expectantly into my panties, shifting from one foot to the other in excitement, heart already pounding at what's in store for me...

All around me are the sounds of sex, of primal lust, of women painted as feral embodiments of desire and wealthy men enjoying them. We're not whores. It's more sacred than that. Purer. Something inside us, ready to be unleashed, finally given form. I curl my claws into my patron's ass a little harder and his hands fumble for the teased up mane of my red hair, the tufted portions designed to look like ears. My striped back writhes sinuously, muscles flexing under my painted skin. The stripes disappear under the tiny black silk g-string that provides me my only bit of modesty. Others, further along in their ... studies ... sport lush tails planted deep between their cheeks, wearing nothing at all but scraps of jewelry: an anklet here, a collar there. Soon I hope to earn a tail, a collar, a bracelet. My lensed eyes flash at my patron's, capturing them, hypnotising him for a moment, a moment where it is only him and the tiger-woman, alone in the world, his cock pulsing hotly in my mouth as I bob my painted face up and down, faster, suckling, feeling him quiver with a release that will erupt any moment.

By three p.m. I've arrived at the place -- the clubhouse, I suppose, for lack of a better word. It's located in one of the richest parts of town, ten stories of sumptuous apartments and offices and boardrooms and galleries ... and cellars and subbasements beyond counting, appointed to look like cages, gilded and lovely; spartan and drear and promising punishment; everything in between. I find myself stripped bare, work clothes carefully stored in a locker as I am adorned only in the black silk g-string, then laid down on a massage table as the artists -- they are more than mere attendants -- begin to work on me with their brushes and paints. I don't know what the paint is made of -- it doesn't smear or run or even wash off without a special ointment -- but its smell is heavenly, darkly alluring, addicting somehow. I breathe shallowly, falling into a sort of trance as they dye and adorn me, shifting me from woman to tigress. Already I have soaked through the g-string in anticipation. Wordlessly they sponge me clean, but it does nothing to douse the building heat as the stripes and tiger pattern consume me.

He cums with a ferocious, desperate sound, clutching the back of my head fiercely enough to force my black-dyed nose into his tuft of musky pubic hair -- earning a hard enough rake from my claws to draw blood on his ass. When I first arrived here, I would have thought such a reaction would draw punishment, but that isn't the case. The more authentic -- the more instinctive -- the reaction, the better a creature I am. The proof is in his orgasm -- thick jets of hot cum flooding my mouth, making me gasp, pulling back, his cockhead brushing over my lips as he continues to spurt his seed, white ropes of it splashing my painted face, dripping down my chin. I settle back on my heels, keeping my lensed eyes on his as I slowly and salaciously lick the hot seed from my face, from the backs of my hands. Gradually he releases his grip, shuddering. Still hard, stroking more pleasantly at my mane. "Incredible," he whispers, eyes crawling over my striped body, his nostrils flaring at the obvious scent of my arousal. "I don't suppose you'd ... want to go into the lounge?" Ah, the lounge ... a truly rich area where far more occurs than the simple dances and teases and oral sex that happens here.

But I can't say yes. My g-string says otherwise. "You know better," I whisper to him, my voice a convincing growl. He nods with a rueful smile, made all the more hungry as he watches me prowl off on all fours, my striped ass swaying pertly, a deep and hungry and desperately unfulfilled ache throbbing under the drenched black silk.

I don't know what made him notice me. I look good for my age, I think, and people always seem surprised when I tell them I have a son who's about to finish his first year of college and a daughter in her last year of high school, but it was more than that. He saw something in me -- something needful and hungry and prowling, something leashed and caged and aching to be set free. He only asked me to visit this place -- to look and see if it was something I wanted to be part of. I left the club that night trembling all over, my mouth numb with fresh cum from three different men, their seed burning in my belly, traces of tigress paint still clinging to my temples. Maybe I never had a chance.

I'm checking myself out in the mirror -- it's later than the last time I was here, and I wonder if my husband will be awake, waiting when I arrive home. The man who recruited me stops into the dressing room, catching my eye -- smirking in the mirror at me, my heart pounding. Teasingly he slides his fingers along my spine, making me arch yearningly, feeling his touch through the thin rayon of my work blouse.

"You've earned your tail, for next time," he murmurs.

Kinklist: https://i.imgur.com/bCvsabV.png