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Contents:
• Pass The Parcel
• Werebun
• Performance Review
• Kitshon Cooking
• Mating Press
• Family
• Jump
• Secret
• My Turn
• Mommy
• Stray

Pass The Parcel

A party without music is no party at all, but nobody is listening to the song playing on the radio. Instead, they are waiting for the break in the sound.

It’s a game called Pass the Parcel. You take a present wrapped up in many layers, and pass it along to the sound of the music; when the music stops, you take off a single layer of wrapping, and the game repeats. Whoever is holding the present when the last layer is removed keeps the gift.

It’s an old tradition in Pamela’s homeland, and Pamela — wrapped in layers of lace and ribbon that conceal preciously little but just enough at the same time — is the one who is being unwrapped.

She’s short and light for as busty as she is, and she enjoys being passed from person to person. She enjoys the feeling of hands upon her, of the little squeezes she permits to her breasts, her thighs, and her ass. She lounges, the centre of attention, sprawling out on every lap with a giggle that sounds tipsy even though she has had nothing to drink; the atmosphere, the anticipation, is enough.

The music halts. The last strip of cloth restraining her breasts is pulled away, and the lucky winner take the opportunity to roughly squeeze her hard nipples. She growls appreciatively, deep in her belly.

“So,” he rumbles from behind her. “When the game is over, what does the winner get?”

“Well, he goes first, duh,” she says, and wriggles her behind in his lap to show exactly what she means. “And he goes raw. And then… when he’s finished, he passes me along. It’s not a party until everybody gets a present.”

That’s what she’s here for. To be passed from man to man, to choke, to swallow, to take two or three at a time and groan as she stretches to accommodate. To drown in the heat and the scent. To be lusted after, to sate and be sated. To please and be pleased.

“And what do you get?” he asks her, squeezing her tits more tightly.

“Me?” She giggles coquettishly, and plucks a condom from the ribbons covering her ass and pussy. She tears the packet, blows air into it, and lets it out. “I get to keep the balloons.”

He laughs. “Slut.”

“Mmhm. Now pass me along. I’m sure someone will pass me back later.”

He seems reluctant to hand her off, and she likes that. In an hour, she will have her nose pressed against his nutsack, his cock lodged deep in her throat, held in the air as he and his best friend spitroast her. The winner’s cum will be dribbling slowly out of her pussy and asshole, and she will invite him, in the breaks between, to refill her when it is gone.

When she wakes, she will take a photograph of her ‘balloon collection’, overflowing from the punch bowl — to use as cover art for her next set of party invites.

Werebun

“Well, now. This is embarrassing.”

On any other day, it would be a charming, coquettish giggle. But today, there is a worrying bassy timbre that underlays Jane’s voice. Not quite a snarl, but more than halfway to a rumble.

Jane is usually taller than him. But today her shoulders almost brush against the ceiling beams, and she has to stoop slightly to fit in the storeroom. It gives her a kind of animalistic hunch that sends a shiver down his spine. Her clothes, or what is left of them, are hanging off in ropes; he sees creamy white flesh, bare breasts, the dark heavy nipples of a mother.

“I, uh. Should have knocked,” he says.

“You should have,” she agrees, and seizes his shirt. Her hand seems almost as big as his chest.

“Should I be concerned?” he asks. “Are you feeling okay? Do you, um, need medical attention? Ma’am?”

“Oh, don’t worry, dear. Some of us are just a little bigger than our bones,” she says. “The moon brings it out in me… But I really would have preferred you not to see me like this. Even an old lady like me has to pay attention to her image.”

She lifts him, and he feels like a doll in her clutches. A heavy, beastly musk fills his lungs, and despite the situation, his lower body eagerly responds.

“Now, Ivan, honey. How might I persuade you to keep quiet about this?”

He feels like he could lose an arm in the gap of her cleavage. His tail begins to wag.

“Um… Sexual favours?” he asks, giving what he hopes is a charming grin.

“Hmhm. Well, I prefer it to the alternative.”

A satisfied smile settles on her face, and she snatches the belt from his trousers. Half the waistband comes with it. What’s left falls to the ground without any further prompting; his cock, already throbbing, is bared for her inspection. She holds him up a little higher to examine it; he feels her press her nose against the shaft for just a split second.

“Mmm. We’ll do it this way,” she decides, and sets him down. With a single hand on his shoulder, she forces him to his knees, and then onto his back. She lifts her foot; the soles of her feet are as long as his arms, and he can almost see his reflection in the sheen of her powder blue nail polish. “I might get too excited otherwise.”

She grinds her foot against his cock. He can’t move; he is powerless against the warmth and the pressure. Sometimes she even deftly slides his cock between her big toe and the next, mercilessly wringing him out. When the orgasm hits, he ejaculates so hard he covers his own chest with his seed.

“Okay, Ivan. Not a word about this to anybody,” she winks.

She takes one long finger, and draws it down his stomach before licking it.

She needn’t worry. He’s never been quite so speechless before.

Performance Review

“Sit down, Ivan.”

Nadezhda is wearing a business suit, cut in blood red, with tapered shoulders that don’t particularly flatter her. She is also, in very related news, wearing a frown; though she’s the head of her own company and does the work well, she doesn’t care much for the trappings it forces upon her.

Ivan sits. They chat for a while about his experience on the job, how the first six months have been, where he sees himself in three years. Standard office talk, delivered without much passion and received without much interest. Then, she leans forward.

“Incidentally, Ivan, I gather you’ve been fucking my secretary.”

He leans back and composes himself. It takes a moment.

“Masha, you mean? Is there a rule that says I can’t?”

“In my office.”

He doesn’t have a smart response for that one.

“On my desk.”

Or that one, either.

“During company time.”

He feels a sudden, desperate need for a cigarette. It’s traditional to give a man one last smoke before he faces the firing squad.

“You, um. You gather well,” he says, his lips dry.

“Masha reports to me about many things, Ivan. Now. Would you please repeat your job title to me?”

“Security and property management officer, ma’am.”

“I thought so. Not ‘rent boy’.”

He winces. No response there, either.

“Ivan.” Nadezhda’s expression is stern, but there is some kindness in her eyes. “Masha is an important part of this company. Vital, even. I would find it easier to replace myself than I would her.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But she’s also a dear friend. I don’t mind if you two are involved romantically, but make sure you treat her right, and make sure you’re considerate about the time and place in which you do it.”

He nods sheepishly; he feels like he’s being scolded by his mother.

“And for the love of all that’s holy, clean the desk properly. The next person I took into the office could smell what you’d been up to. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Nadezhda leans back, satisfied. The air is quiet for a moment.

“Incidentally, ma’am…”

“Yes?”

“I gather you’ve been fucking my childhood friend.”

Her frown returns.

“In your office.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“On your desk.”

Another moment’s pause.

“During company time.”

“And how would you know about that?” she asks.

“Sasha told me. She doesn’t see any reason to be ashamed about it.”

“And neither do I,” Nadezhda replies smartly. “One of the perks of being the owner of the company is that if I decide my time is best spent fucking somebody in my office, nobody can tell me otherwise.” She taps one finger on her desk. “Are we done here?”

“We might be,” he shrugs. “I just thought… Well. Her favourite flowers are in season right now. Do you know what they are?”

She gives him a hard, appraising look.

“Maybe we can come to an understanding,” she says at last. “But seriously. Leave my damn desk alone.”

Kitshon Cooking

“So, what did you think, huh?” Samantha asks.

Ivan stretches out, and rests his hands on his stomach. He ate a lot, but he honestly can’t tell if he’s full to bursting or still has room for more. All he knows is that he has the urge to curl up to sleep while his body figures it out.

“I was… surprised.” His digestive system is monopolising most of his energy, so his brain takes a while to catch up. “I didn’t think you’d really make us Kitshon-style cooking.”

Samantha grins smugly and folds her arms, which has the side effect of pushing up her chest. It might be intentional. It might not. “I said I would, didn’t I? I learned it from some of the international students at the university.”

Ivan hums. Although he can’t quite imagine Samantha as a professor, she’s got a rare talent for breaking down the walls that separate different races. She’s less of a reliable big sister type than she thinks she is, but there’s absolutely a certain charisma to her floppy ears and her absolute earnestness in the pursuit of learning. She even speaks multiple languages, which Ivan knows his sister finds extremely attractive.

(He knows this because every time he and his sister cross paths, she subjects him to a long and passionate explanation of how cute ‘my Sammy’ is, with elaboration on the finer points of said cuteness. As somebody who’s known Samantha since he was a child, Ivan agrees with most of what she says but would sometimes rather skip the lecture).

"But wow, the way your eyes went wide when you took the first bite! I didn’t make it that spicy, you know?”

He grumbles a little as she teases him. Spicy food isn’t his forte; the recipes of their home country are warming, soothing, and not spicy at all. Even a little spice is more than enough for him.

“I’ll get the dishes,” he says, getting up.

“You don’t have to. I can do it.”

“You cooked.” He turns the tap; the air smells of dish soap. Apple-scented.

“Oh, right.” Samantha pauses for a moment, her tail wagging slowly. “You always used to clean the dishes back home, too.”

“Mm. Mom and Autumn would have planted me in the field and used me as a scarecrow if I didn’t.”

Samantha’s eyes glaze over slightly; she is looking through her memories, too treasured to be clouded. “You always used to have to stand on a box to reach the sink.”

“I wasn’t that short,” he grimaced. He’d been a late bloomer in his youth, then sprung up in the course of only a summer.

“You were. You were short, and cute, and you always tried to use big words when you didn’t really understand them. Now you’re, like, an actual guy, with muscles and a broad back and stuff.” She sighs; there are a lot of emotions in it. “What the heck happened?”

“Life,” he says, at length. “I guess.”

Mating Press

There is a world of difference between ‘small’ and ‘fragile’.

Ivan knows that. He was short himself, once upon a time, and even now there are days that make him feel very tiny indeed.

But nothing drives the lesson home more than Masha.

Nobody would call Masha a large woman, in any respect. She’s not petite, per se; she has the soft, rounded physique that dreams are made of, despite all her attempts to whittle away her subtle curves in the gym. All the exercise does is make sure there is a pleasant resistance after your fingers sink into the skin, like a ripe fruit. ‘Succulent’ is the word he always feels describes her best, although he’d never say it to her face.

But she’s not exactly built tall or broad, and that surprises him, because he adores women that are and somehow Masha has still managed to supersede the vast majority of them in attractiveness. She is apparently too cute for petty things like individual preferences to get in the way.

But cute or not, she’s a capable woman who knows what she wants, and doesn’t need to be handled as if she’s made of glass. Whatever he can dish out, she can take it. He’s confident in that.

Those, roughly speaking, are the last thoughts that run through his mind as he picks her up and pins her to Nadezhda’s desk. She’s been teasing him all day, and nearly dragged him here by the tie; the boss doesn’t use her office, so somebody should — or so she said. She’s an enthralling speaker, especially when one of her breasts is already spilling from her shirt. So enthralling that his belt appeared in her hands without him even realising she took it.

Her hands steal under his clothes, and her fingers rake gently down his back. He gently but insistently spreads her legs, and tears a hole in her pantyhose. She takes his cock in one hand and guides him to her entrance, the other arm wrapped around his neck. He takes the opportunity to lean in further and nip at her shoulder with his teeth.

“Give it to me deep.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

He lifts her legs up further and climbs atop the desk himself, before pinning her under his body. From here, he can give her his full weight with every thrust. She can take it. He knows that.

“If you want to use a rubber, put it on now,” he growls.

She spreads her legs greedily, locking them around him. “Nope. I wanna roll the dice.”

The desk creaks and wobbles as he pounds her, each stroke as long and full as he can make it, diving deep for her womb. Her tongue lolls sloppily from her mouth, and he tangles it with his own.

It will be a while before they remember there is a security camera in the corner — and realise how close they came to conceiving a child on film.

Family

“Hey, l’il bro. I’m going to be crashing here for a couple weeks, okay? Also, would it kill you to get a sofa? I can’t believe you only own one chair.”

That’s how his sister greets him as he walks into his apartment. He shakes his head wryly and grabs a beer from the fridge before he speaks. He notices that there are already two beers missing. The Sister Tax is in full effect.

“It’s fine. I didn’t give you a key for you not to use it,” he says, cracking the bottle open. “And it’d be pretty hard to lug a sofa up here.”

Autumn laughs — a quick bark, but softer than Ivan’s own. “Not like that’d stop you, you workout freak. I got you a housewarming gift, by the way.”

She gestures to a potted plant on his kitchen counter. It looks like the kind that eats small animals while nobody’s looking. Very exotic. Something to talk about with all the women he can no longer bring back to his apartment, because — as Autumn is very keen to remind him — they are family, and what’s his is hers and vice versa. Not always vice versa. But sometimes.

Does he find his sister’s talent for stealing other people’s girlfriends annoying? He supposes so. But that’s what siblings are for; they’re people you can freely show off your annoying habits to, because they’ve seen them all anyway. With Autumn, there is no veneer he must keep up. He can be comfortable in his own skin, whether that’s good or bad.

“You need bedding or anything?” he asks.

“C’mon. You know I’ve got bedroll in my pack. You should do that as well, y’know. Girls love it. Really sells the explorer vibe.”

He shakes his head wryly and sips his beer. The gods built Autumn strong, and she uses that hearty body to see the world (and its women). In an age gone by she would have been a sailor, with a girl in every port. Nowadays the earth is as dangerous as the sea, and she finds adventure wherever she goes. He worries about her, but only a little; she can take what the world can throw at her.

“Have you seen Sam yet? I’m surprised you’re not crashing with her,” he says.

“Oh, we crashed alright,” Autumn says smugly. “But she’s kinda out of condition, so it’s best if I stay somewhere else while she gets in shape. It sucks. I kinda like her when she’s a bit chubby, but she can’t quite keep up with me like that.”

“I believe that’s what they call a first world problem.”

“What about you, bro? Any girlfriends you want to tell me about?”

He pauses. A gallery of women pass through his mind.

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Aw.”

“But here’s a little brotherly advice: don’t fuck Sonya. She’s crazy.”

Autumn grins. “How crazy are we talking?”

“Too crazy.”

They share beers into the night. There truly is nothing quite like family.

Jump

When Catherine asks you to jump, you jump. You don’t even ask how high; she’ll let you know when you’re finished. What matters is that you take action, and you do it quickly.

“Hands out,” she barks.

He obliges, holding his hands out in front of him with his palms upturned. Never questioning. Just waiting. She pulls them, adjusts them as she sees fit, and then, in a motion so smooth he’ll see it in his dreams for nights to come, unbuttons her shirt to let her breasts spill into his hands.

He would be lying if his entire body didn’t stiffen on pure instinct.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” she asks, arching an eyebrow. “You don’t know how to squeeze a woman’s tits? What did they even teach you in basic training?”

“I just wasn’t sure I had permission, ma’am.”

“You don’t. I’ll re-evaluate whether you do or not based on how you perform. Earn it, and it will granted to you,” she says loftily.

“Seems a little unfair, ma’am.”

“That’s why they call women the unfair sex. You’ve got your orders. Get to it.”

So he kneads. He squeezes. As far as breasts go, they’re some of the better ones he’s had the pleasure of fondling; she has hard, taut nipples with large areolae, and her breasts are wonderfully firm considering her age. She takes care of herself, and he can tell.

He goes further, figuring she’ll stop him if she cares, and lifts her breasts up to lap against the undersides with his tongue. The tang and the scent of her sweat overwhelms him.

“Nice initiative,” she purrs. “Knew you were good for something. Here. Rub this in.”

She shifts her chest out of his hands — he misses it already — and squeezes a tube of cream onto his palms. It’s a soft violet colour, and smells faintly floral.

“What is it?” he asks, as he begins to run his palms over her chest. Her reaction is much sharper this time.

“Treatment. I’ve got magical talent, but I don’t cast. I get buildups. The cream helps it. Don’t know how. Ask the magic nerds.”

“You can’t apply it yourself?”

“Why should I? I’m a woman of quality. Men fall over themselves to touch my tits.”

Needless to say, he doesn’t disagree.

“Does it make you sensitive?”

She doesn’t say anything, but scowls at him. Then she reaches for his waistband and jerks his pants down, underwear and all.

“Um—”

“Hands out.”

She squeezes another tube of cream out onto his palms. Then, she sits down in her chair, legs crossed, her nipples still bare and erect for the world to see.

“Now. Stroke your cock for me, Ivan. You can find out yourself if it makes you more sensitive or not.” She grins, and then, as an afterthought: “And say my name when you cum.”

He doesn’t know how he keeps getting into these situations.

What he does know is this:

When Catherine says jump, you jump.

Secret

Ivan has a secret.

His secret is Masha, and Masha also has a secret, but her secret is that she’s two inches tall and currently riding around in his trouser pocket. He keeps worrying that if he sits down the wrong way, she’ll be crushed by the pressure between his leg and the fabric — but considering the way she giggles and squeals, that seems to be part of the appeal for her.

Her diminished size does not seem to have diminished her energy in the slightest, but it does seem to have shrunk her inhibitions. He wonders if she’s like this when she’s drunk. It’s a brand new discovery for him. A brand new face to a woman he sees every day.

Another new discovery is that the fabric separating his pocket from his junk is actually rather thin. Thin enough that, with determination, a certain little woman can press herself against it.

He doesn’t think she has enough leverage to stroke him off like that, but dear gods, she is trying, and apparently having the time of her life with it. Mostly he’s trying to ignore the fact that she’s fondling him while he talks to female colleagues.

“You doing okay in there?” he asks, after an exhausting conversation with a foxgirl from R&D.

She pops her head out of his pocket, a dreamy expression on her face. “It’s musky,” she declares, and retreats. Wonderful.

She quietens down for a while after that. Apparently drunk enough on his scent to fall still. He’s ashamed to admit it, but he’s been lulled into a false sense of security by the time he stops by Tanya’s workshop.

There are two brand new discoveries Ivan has yet to make.

The first is that there is now a new hole in his pocket — something he becomes acutely aware of when a certain someone wriggles her way into his boxers. He can feel her leaving tiny wet kisses on the underside of his nuts.

“You okay, dude?” Tanya asks him, a wrench in hand.

“Just, uh, seasonal stuff,” he lies.

The second discovery Ivan is about to make is that button-up flies are a dangerous thing — and surprisingly easy to open from the inside.

He feels things shifting, but is powerless to stop it. Suddenly, there is a cool breeze against his stiffening manhood. All he can do is hope Tanya doesn’t notice.

“Seasonal stuff, huh? Riiiight.” She grins, her eyes locked to his crotch; her animal instincts have caught him straight away. “Nice cock, dude. Sure you should be showing it off like that?”

He searches for an excuse, but her fingers close around him before he can.

“Well, don’t mind if I do,” she says, unzipping her jumpsuit with her free hand. “Sorry ‘bout the sweat. Seasonal thing.”

He can almost hear Masha cackling as she slides down his trouser leg and makes her escape. But the tiny secretary will have to wait.

As of right now, he has bigger problems.

My Turn

Ivan is generally a perceptive man.

But there are some things in life that narrow your focus. Tanya grinding her pussy insistently against his tongue is one of those.

But Tanya’s pussy, though rich and flavourful and important in its own way, has a way of distracting him from what really matters.

And at this moment, what really matters is that Tanya has left one of her machines running in her eagerness to suck his cock.

He isn’t sure what that machine does. Neither is Tanya. Mostly, it seems to do nothing. But Masha — who is tiny, watching and giggling as Tanya’s juices run down Ivan’s chin — happens to be standing directly in front of it.

It emits a low hum that nobody is paying attention to. The scenery of the room changes.

By the time Tanya finally lets his cock pop free from the depths of her throat and gasps hungrily for air, Masha is two inches tall.

When she hits her first orgasm and speckles his face with her squirt, Masha is four inches tall.

When she slides onto her crawler, legs spread, guiding the tip of his cock into her, Masha is one foot tall.

As she rocks, her tits slapping as she fiercely bucks her hips against his, Masha has grown to two feet.

As she locks her legs around his hips and hisses at him to come inside, Masha is half as tall as she is.

By the time she lets him go, quivering, his seed spilling out of her, Masha is almost back to her regular height.

As she plays with her pussy, scooping up his semen with her fingers and forcing it deeper into herself, Masha is already taller than both of them.

It is around the time when she rolls over onto her stomach, spreads herself shamelessly and starts begging for anal, that Masha — ten foot tall, her clothes rapidly straining and failing to contain her — cups Ivan’s balls with a hand large enough to crush them in a single twitch.

“Nu-uh.” Her voice is deeper than usual, tinged with an unearthly sweetness. A wonderful alto. “My turn.”

Tanya, still dazed from the rush and the heat, flips back over and watches as Masha — her tits spilling out of her jacket onto Ivan’s back and shoulders, the sharp tips of her nipples painfully red — takes Ivan’s cock in a single hand, enveloping it entirely. She waits, almost patiently, as Ivan begins to buck his hips, gives himself to the motion. She watches his face as Masha whispers — in a whisper deep enough to hear in her bones — that he is a good boy, that he’s doing well.

She doesn’t even flinch when he finally ejaculates on her face.

“I’m taking him back to my office,” Masha says, and picks him up by the collar.

Tanya watches them go, still stunned. Eventually, the words turn over in her head as she licks cum off her fingers.

“Wow, dude. Good for you, I guess.”

Mommy

He has dreams about Nadezhda’s hips.

Mostly, he has dreams about the weight of them. She’s a big woman — not in the sense that she’s chubby, because she’s got better defined abs than he does, but in the sense that she is just built to a bigger floor plan. Whatever a normal woman is, Nadezhda is the next size up.

She’s not usually rough during sex. It’s just not her style. She’s actually one of the gentler lovers he’s known, for better or for worse. But that moment — that moment where she takes him, lets the full weight of her hips slam down against him — that’s what really drives him wild about her. The power. The loss, however mild, of control.

But un(?)fortunately, it seems she’s quite aware of it.

She pauses, her hips high, the tip of him just pressed gently against her sex. The hammer held high above the anvil. He can’t fight the small whine that escapes from his throat, even as he runs his thumbs over her taut, muscular stomach.

“I want something,” she says, deliberately.

“Is it cock?” he asks, hopefully.

She frowns slightly. Some women like it when he’s sassy in bed, but Nadezhda is a more serious sort. He notices that she is looking anywhere but at his face.

“…It’s embarrassing.”

He’s not sure what she’s so embarrassed about. He knows the taste and scent of her pussy. He’s seen her rubbing his cum between her fingers. Once you go that far, what more is there to hide? But unless he does something, her hips will stay exactly where they are. Right now, that’s than he can bear.

“Your wish is my command.”

She looks down at him. Then away. Far away. To the ceiling. Her face flushes, just a little.

When she speaks again, it is a mutter. More timid and vulnerable than he’s used to from such a powerful woman. “I want you to call me ‘Mommy’.”

He rolls his thumb across her abs one more time. Smiles softly.

“Yes, Mommy.”

The hammer falls, with more force and weight than he has ever felt from her before.

There is a long moment where both of them are still. Reeling from the shock of the impact. Then, slowly, she lifts her hips. It is a long, sumptuous motion; his cock glistens as it is freed from her body. She leaves in just the hint of the tip, enough to align herself — and then presses him down with her hands on his shoulders, pinning him with all her formidable weight.

“Again,” she rumbles.

It is a second or two more before he regains enough breath to speak.

“Yes, Mommy.”

The hammer strikes again, and harder. He sees stars. The timbers of the bed beneath them creak ominously.

“Again.”

He’s not sure what’s going to break first, him or the bed. But he knows he’ll dream of this later. Nadezhda’s hips are heavy — but the smouldering look on her face is heavier still.

Stray

“You know, you remind me of a stray cat,” Sonya tells him.

Last night, he let her sleep over — for a given definition of ‘sleep’, anyway. She was her usual self — teasing, aggressively sexual, and slightly unhinged. A chaotic mess, but a hot one.

This morning, she is slow. Lucid. Almost graceful in the way she moves, the way she speaks. Perhaps this is her resting state, when her hungers have been sated and the frantic energy has left her. It’s a surprise, but one he is very much enjoying.

That said, there is exactly one cat in this room and it isn’t him, so he’s not quite sure how lucid she actually is.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

Normally she would cackle and refuse to answer. But as she gently arranges his tie for him, she inclines her head in thought.

“I was just thinking I should buy you a collar,” she replies.

“You’re going to have to explain that a bit.”

“Hm.” She brushes her palm against his chin. It is a soft, affectionate gesture, and one he leans into by instinct. He feels something deep inside himself relax as she strokes his cheekbones with her thumb. “What I mean is, I can’t really stop you from seeing other women.”

He has the decency to look away. He’s not sure how his life ever got to this point, but she’s right. It feels like there would be a small war in town if he ever decided monogamy was his true calling.

“So, you’re like a stray cat. You slip in through people’s cat flaps, and spend every night in a different house. A little nomad.” She scratches his chin lightly, as to make her point.

“…Sorry,” he apologises. She is his girlfriend, and just because she’s usually a little crazy, it doesn’t mean she should have to share.

“Mm. It’s just the way you are. We can’t change that. That’s why I was thinking of a collar.”

He raises an eyebrow. “To show who my owner is?”

She giggles. It’s a far cry from her usual cackle.

“To show that you’re not actually a stray. So that people know that, wherever you might spend the night tonight, you have a home, and a warm bed waiting for you when you find your way back.” She goes back to adjusting his tie, and draws it into a loose knot. It feels more comfortable than when he does it himself. “If I got you one, would you wear it?”

He pauses. “I’d… definitely think about it.”

“Then I’ll think about getting you one. If I remember, anyway.” She seems a little wistful as she says that, and he’s not sure how to comfort her. Or whether she actually needs to be comforted in the first place.

They share coffee before he leaves, and the stimulant seems to bring her closer to her usual self. He saw a different face to her this morning.

He hopes he sees it again.