Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Tabby
P art of me didn't believe Duffield when he promised a car this morning, but there's no mistaking who sent the limousine with actual cat ears attached to its roof.
Un-freaking-believable.
He had a new iPhone delivered too and kept me on facetime most of the night while I slept. Weird but it was either that, or he was coming over to sit in the corner and watch me. He said something about respecting Nana’s wishes, but I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean.
Nana liked him. I’ve never seen her act so nice around someone new.
"Miss Burrows?" The driver greets me as I open the door, still in my joggers and tank top, with Nana insisting as I pass her in the living room that I verify the limo is from Duffield.
As if anyone else would send a cat-eared limo.
"Maybe. Who are you?" I ask, cocking a hip, then setting my fists one on each in a Nana sort of move.
The black suited driver’s mouth falls open, standing in silence as I raise my eyebrows, knowing Nana is listening in the other room.
“I’m... Mr. Duffield’s driver. He sent the car…” He does a quarter turn toward the street, jerking his thumb toward the limo. “I’m supposed to take you to him. Get you whatever you want on the way. And, here, he told you to wear this to work today.”
He shoves a black-ribboned box through the door, jiggling it in a ‘please take it’ gesture. My skin tingles as I accept the gift box and swallow hard, giving the stoic driver an uneasy smile.
“I guess I need to change,” I mumble, the etiquette of how to manage this situation lost on me as I close the door, leaving the poor guy on the porch with a chuckle from Nana in the background.
Duffield’s limo, his own limo—is a cartoonish abomination outside my bedroom window as I throw the box on my unmade bed and take it in from this angle.
The car is taunting me as if saying, this man is either ten kinds of crazy or ten kinds of crazy for you.
The sleek black car crowned with neon-pink cat ears makes me want to either laugh or scream. Probably both. The man doesn’t do “ordinary,” not even when he’s delivering you a new iPhone at 2 a.m. then insisting you stay on Facetime with him for the rest of the night.
“Look,” I say, jabbing Butterbean with my elbow as the cat lounges in the sunbeam pool on my bed like he’s conducting an orchestra of laziness. “This is either genius or a cry for help.”
The phone still glows beside him, its screen already cracked from when he swatted it onto the floor at 4 am, demanding I deliver his morning meal two hours early.
“He texts you GIFs of dragons,” I continue, kicking off my robe and yanking a t-shirt over my head. “Sends limos with cat ears! Since when does someone buy another person a limo after knowing them for like a day?”
Butterbean flicks an ear but stays silent—a move I’ve come to associate with “you’re overcomplicating this.”
But the doubt lingers, sharp as his cologne on my skin from last night. Duffield’s intensity is magnetic—those hands that trace my hips with the precision of a sculptor, those lips that hum against my ear while whispering things that make me forget my own name—but what if it’s all just a performance? Some game he’s perfected while conquering wide-eyed virgin assistants.
“No way that man is a virgin, amiright, Butterbean?”
The way he laughs at my jokes too loud. The way his thumb brushes mine on purpose when I’m not looking. It could be either: sincerity or strategy. I’ve seen guys like him before—charismatic, relentless, collecting stories instead of souvenirs.
“Are you even listening?” I snap at Butterbean, flopping back onto the bed so my hair fans out on the pillow, the black box taunting me. The cat stares, unbothered. His response is to leap to the windowsill, followed by a flick of his tail—feels less like reassurance and more like passive-aggressive plotting.
Yet here’s the thing: my body remembers before my brain can panic. Last night, when he kissed me without asking permission, I melted into the pleasure. His tongue was a promise— soon, but not yet —but now it feels like forever since he left. My pulse still thrums in places his fingers haven’t touched, all molten heat and restless want.
“Maybe you’re overthinking,” Butterbean purrs—or maybe that’s my desperate brain assigning meaning to cat noises—and I groan, flopping onto my stomach and pounding at my pillow.
The limo honks— a honk, of all things—as if mocking my indecision. The phone dings.
Duffield: Did you open the box?
I glare at the black, expensive looking gift box. I shake my head on a sigh when another message comes through.
Duffield: Send your answer in a cat GIF.
My reply is a selfie mid-yawn—dramatic, but he deserves theater—with the closed box sitting next to me on the bed.
That is met with a return photo of him sitting behind his desk, all broad shoulders and smirk. Wearing a pair of pink cat ears. They’re crooked, and the only thing I can think of in this moment is, I love him.
I love him.
“Jesus, Butterbean, did I really just think that?”
Duffield: Get dressed. You are to do what you are told, remember? Now open the box, put it on and get in the limo. Daddy is waiting.
Inside the box is an embroidered dress. It has little cats but they are my cats. At least, they’re the cats I introduced him to last night. There’s Butterbean and Misty and Gumball. All in tiny perfect embroidery pattern across the creamy colored fabric. I tug it from the tissue paper, laying it out to admire it as I strip and then slip it over my head.
It’s a midi length loose skirt, the fabric a soft linen with some nice stretch, and it fits me like it was measured for just me. This man.
It all feels a bit unreal still as I do a quick hair brush and find my fuzzy flats, then gather my purse and I’m out the door, heading down the steps to the waiting cat ear topped limo.
The doubt flickers in the back of my mind, but even if this is just a flicker, Duffield’s kind of magic doesn’t come around twice. And I could use some magic.
When I slide into the plush backseat, another gift awaits me on the opposite cushion.
The card reads: Open the gift now. When you get here, come straight to my office. Hand me your panties when you get here. -D
This definitely isn't standard new employee treatment. But I'm the cat that got the cream as I tear into the wrapping like it’s Christmas morning.
Inside lies a black box. I bite my lip to stifle a mewl as I lift the lid and discover...
Ohmyfuckinggod.
A sleek metal butt plug with a silky black cat tail attached. I've never held one before—it's surprisingly heavy in my palm. Would my body even accommodate something this substantial? I glance at the partition between me and the driver, but it's sealed tight with tinted windows ensuring my privacy.
My sensible side should object, but even that part of me purrs in approval at the delicious naughtiness. The tail will definitely peek beneath my short skirt, and I'll need to remove my panties...
With a giggle, I lift my hips as the car glides toward downtown, sliding my underwear down my legs. I remember how Duffield demanded yesterday's pair, glancing at the little silhouette cats on my pink panties. I love these, but maybe he'll return them—or better yet, buy me new ones.
I tuck them into my purse as an offering, then notice something else nestled in the black box. A small bottle labeled "silicone lube."
"Ahhh.” I murmur as understanding dawns. That makes far more sense.
Even so, trying to get the cat tail inside my butt in the back of a limo isn’t easy. I end up on all fours on the floor, pushing my ass in the air and pulling my dress up so the lube doesn’t get all over it as I rub it on the tight little muscle saying a little prayer I end up with a cute little cat tail hanging from my ass without needing a trip to the ER.
It feels strange, and it makes me shiver as I stroke the metal butt plug up and down, trying just a little pressure at first and nipping into my bottom lip as the pointy part opens me up. I hiss a breath through clenched teeth and try to relax instead of tightening up, with my face buried in the bench seat of the car and my ass sticking up in the air.
One. Two. Three.
With a little more pressure, it slides inside, with a little pop and my ass closes over the end. It’s not unpleasant…almost a relief once it’s in place.
I push onto my knees first, wiggling a little, testing out this new sensation realizing the action has opened the floodgates between my legs.
I’m pulsing and dripping as I ease onto the seat again, trying to find a comfortable position, the tail catches under my legs and the movement makes the plug tug against my insides.
But, come on . I have a cat tail! What would all those mean girls in high school say to me now? Ears and a tail bitches. Take that.
Thirty minutes later, I step from the car with a cat tail swinging against the backs of my thighs with triumph in my smile. I have ears, I have a tail, I arrived in a limousine. I'm royalty, and I revel in the stares as my skirt lifts slightly with each swish of my tail.
Let them look.
I stride to the elevator, press the button for the top floor, and turn to see Miss Pinch Face charging toward me, thunder in her eyes. I watch the doors slide closed in her face with immense satisfaction.
No one joins my elevator ride. I ignore more stares as I approach Duffield's office, where I knock and wait—for about as long as my limited patience allows. Then I shrug and enter.
My mouth drops open.
"You're supposed to wait to be invited in." His gruff voice barely registers as I process what I glimpsed—his massive length disappearing hurriedly into his pants and the security monitors displaying multiple camera angles.
Including one showing the hallway where I just stood.
"I waited," I counter. "Were you... doing what I think you were doing?"
"You're supposed to wait longer than ten seconds. What do you think I was doing?"
"Were you watching me while you did it? Did you see me come through the office doors? Wait—" My eyes dart between monitors. "Is that camera inside the car? And that one's pointing at my bedroom! What the hell?"
My mind races—not from embarrassment about the plug (I'm actually proud of that accomplishment), but the violation of seeing my bedroom. He saw me without my ears this morning.
"I told you I wasn't letting you out of my sight. There were things I needed to do, so I made arrangements. When I say something, little kitty, I mean it. You need to understand that." His gaze lifts from the monitors. "You have something for me."
He stands, his massive erection impossible to hide beneath strained fabric. His suit looks tailored for a man half his size, straining across mountainous shoulders and bulging pectorals.
One enormous hand—likely the same one just pleasuring himself—extends palm up, fingers snapping. "Give," he demands.
It takes a moment before I understand. Then I grin.
"You're kind of a jerk, you know that?" I withdraw the panties from my purse and place them in his waiting palm.
"You promised to do whatever I said. I expect obedience. But training takes time, and I'm willing to work on it."
"You can't train a cat," I challenge with a smirk, turning to give him a full view of my tail swishing between my legs, knowing my skirt rises just enough to expose the curve of my cheeks.
"Where's my desk?" I ask.
"You don't have one yet. I'm keeping you right here with me, so today you'll share mine."
I glance at the massive desk. "There's only one chair."
"Are you a lap cat?" he challenges, igniting wicked thoughts.
I love how he accepts my feline identity without question. His confidence makes the teasing and difficulties of my past evaporate. He doesn't need to change me.
"I can be. But you might end up with scratches."
"I'm good with that." He returns to his desk, sits, and pushes his chair back, patting his thigh.
What's a girl to do?
I slink toward him, swaying my hips deliberately before sliding onto his lap. My skirt rides up as I settle, the plug shifting inside me, sending sparks of pleasure up my spine.
"Good kitty," he growls against my ear, his enormous hands spanning my waist. "You followed my instructions beautifully."
I wiggle against him, feeling his hardness pressing against my bare skin. "Don't cats get rewards for good behavior?"
His laugh rumbles through his chest, vibrating against my back. "They do." One hand slides beneath my skirt, finding me already slick and ready. "So wet for me already."
"Watching me must have been quite the show," I purr, rolling my hips against his exploring fingers.
"You have no idea." He nips at my earlobe, his fingers circling my sensitive flesh. "I've been hard since I woke up, thinking about you."
I gasp as he applies perfect pressure, my body melting against him. "Aren't you worried someone might walk in?"
"Let them." His voice darkens. "Let them see you're mine. That this—" his fingers dip lower "—belongs to me now."
He turns my face, capturing my mouth in a bruising kiss while his skilled fingers work their magic. My body coils tighter, trembling on the edge of release.
"That's it, kitten. Let go for me," he commands against my lips. "Show me how good I make you feel."
His words push me over, my body convulsing as pleasure crashes through me. I bite my lip to stifle my cries, but he covers my mouth with his own, swallowing my sounds.
"Beautiful," he murmurs as I shudder through aftershocks. "But that was just the appetizer. Tonight, I'm going to feast on every inch of you until you're begging me to stop—and then begging me for more."
"Promise?" I challenge, voice still breathless.
His hand wraps gently around my throat, thumb caressing my racing pulse. "I don't make promises, little cat. I make guarantees."