This is the first installment of the Cat and Mouse trilogy. If you like this story, look for The Naming of Cats and Maneki Neko for more cat and mouse.

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The mouse peered around the corner, wondering how to best get a peek at the morsel of food without leaving the safety of the shadows. It was a trap, of course. In this house, food was not just left out for the taking. Behind every easy treat lay a snare, a string, a latch and a coiled spring, or – worst of all – the cat, waiting, waiting, patient as death, for a mouse like him to come along.

The mouse inched forward, until just the tip of his nose showed beyond the corner of the wall. Whatever the bait was, it smelled heavenly, like cinnamon and sugar and fresh bread. The mouse’s stomach grumbled, and he pressed a hand against the bare skin just above the waist of his drooping jeans, trying to make it stop. All his stealth would amount to nothing if the cat could hear his hunger.

Mastering his trepidation, the mouse crept forward another step. He could see the whole dining room now. It was small and intimate, and empty. His eyes on the door at the far side of the room, the mouse tiptoed out from his hiding place, hugging the wall as he made his way further into the room.

The lovely aroma grew stronger in his nostrils with every step he took, and finally he could no longer resist looking to see what smelled so good. Tearing his gaze from the doorway, he focused on the table. He saw a setting for one, a plate, a bowl, and a steaming mug. From the smell, the mug contained coffee, fresh and hot; he couldn’t see what was in the bowl, but on the plate ... oh, on the plate sat a positively gorgeous pastry, striped with cinnamon, sparkling with sugar and glaze. The mouse closed his eyes, longing to get closer.

But closer was dangerous. He had been in this house long enough to know what happened to mice who dared venture out into the open, carpeted spaces of the house. Some were quick, and got their tummies filled, but most weren’t, and those mice were inevitably ... pounced upon.

He pressed himself against the cold plaster, his brain in a whirl of indecision. Could the cat do any worse to him than the past few days of slow starvation had?

Very likely, said the small voice in the mouse’s head. But that voice was drowned completely by the next growl from his stomach.

The mouse looked around again, listened carefully. Just a few steps would take him to the plate, then he could snatch up the roll and scurry back to the safety of the wall as quick as any mouse ever scurried.

Drawing a deep breath, he moved, darting toward the table. He stretched his hand out toward the plate—

A hand clapped around his wrist, jerking him to a halt.

“Gotcha,” said the cat.

The mouse froze.

The cat’s breath was warm on his ear, its voice curled through the air like the smoke from its cigarettes. “You’re a cautious one, aren’t you? But I knew you’d come out, eventually.”

The mouse shivered as the cat ran his hand up the mouse’s bare arm, over his shoulder and down his back. The silky fabric of the cat’s sleeve glided across the mouse’s naked skin, leaving a trail of gooseflesh behind.

“So thin,” mourned the cat. “Why didn’t you come out sooner?” The cat punctuated its question with a nip at the mouse’s shoulder, and the mouse let out a tiny squeak as his answer.

“Come on,” said the cat. “Come sit down and eat. You must be starving.” Oh, the cat’s voice was nice. Low and deep, and if it had a smell, it would smell like the coffee on the table.

The cat’s fingers stroked over the mouse’s back, soothing, reassuring. “Come on. It’s okay.”

The cat’s fingers ran down from the mouse’s shoulder to curl around his wrist. With the lightest of tugs, the cat guided the mouse toward one of the chairs. “Are you cold? You’re not wearing anything but jeans. I’ll get you a sweater, or a blanket...”

The cat kept talking, but the mouse didn’t hear. The smell of coffee and cinnamon was overwhelming his senses, and the promise of food after so long without made him feel a bit faint. He watched the steam rise from the mug, drifting into the rays of sunlight from the window. The motes in the sunlight sparkled like the sugar on the cinnamon bun. Dancing dust motes, rising steam, sparkling, sparkling...

... The carpet was plush and rough under the mouse’s skin when he crumpled onto it.

###

He was lying in a bed. No, he wasn’t just lying in it, the bed was positively cradling him in soft cotton sheets and down pillows. Breathing in without opening his eyes, he recognized the scent of the cat, the lingering fragrance of spice and sandalwood from its cologne. But he couldn’t tell whether he was smelling the cat in the linens or if the cat was actually in the room. He hoped it was the former, because the mouse realized he was naked under the covers. The cat had taken the last of his clothes.

The mouse at last blinked his eyes open to see strands of his own dark hair cutting lines across his vision.

A hand shadowed his face, then the strands were brushed aside. “You’re an idiot, you know,” said the cat, leaning down to look at him. “You never should have gone so long without eating. Why did you do that to yourself?”

But the mouse had been eating, just not very much. He only ate what he could sneak at night, when the cat was asleep.

The mouse watched the cat, hypnotized by its green eyes, by the play of afternoon sunlight on its long, golden mane.

His mouth twisted into a moue of dismay as the mouse remained silent. “Davey?” the cat prompted. “Answer me.”

Davey?

Oh, yes. That had been his name, long ago, before he had become a mouse. The cat still insisted upon using it, if only to differentiate him from the other mice.

Davey. The mouse tried to remember that old life, the days of foster homes and street gangs, but couldn’t. It seemed so long ago...

The cat gazed at him a moment longer, then sighed. “Sit up a little.”

The cat slid strong hands beneath the mouse’s shoulders and maneuvered him up, shoving an extra pillow behind him to support him. The cat’s pajamas were silky soft on his skin, and the mouse could feel the outlines of the lithe body beneath the thin fabric. So warm. The mouse caught himself wanting to rest against that warmth, just for a moment, and shuddered at his own lack of judgment.

Settling himself on the edge of the bed, the cat held a glass of apple juice to the mouse’s lips. The mouse obediently sipped.

“Here,” the cat said, pressing a pill into the mouse’s mouth. “It’s a vitamin. Swallow it.”

A vitamin. The mouse wanted to laugh at the cat’s casual lie. But fighting would do no good; the mouse knew that. If the cat wanted him to sleep, the mouse would sleep. He drank more juice from the glass, forcing the large pill down his tight throat.

“Good. Now,” said the cat, soft and soothing. “Eat.”

The cat held out a plate, bearing a piece of plain toast. It wasn’t as pretty as the cinnamon bun had been, but it would be better for the mouse’s stomach. He took the toast in slender, pale fingers and nibbled at it, never taking his eyes from the cat.

The cat watched him eat, watched his hands, watched his mouth. Hungry. The cat was always hungry. Always ready to pounce and play. The mouse could see the faint glow in the cat’s eyes that signaled these few minutes of peace would soon be over. Soon the cat would tire of its game, of playing nice. Soon the cat would no longer fear it would lose one of its playthings to starvation.

There were other playthings, of course, other mice scurrying around the cat’s house, which was as large and convoluted as a medieval castle. They hid, even now, in the shadows and corners, under the beds, in the closets. Even now, some other mouse was drinking lukewarm coffee and licking sticky sugar from its fingers, safe in the knowledge that the cat was in here with the Davey-mouse. When the cat started playing with him, drawing squeals and screams from his throat, the other mice would huddle in their favorite safe-places and shiver, and be glad it wasn’t them.

The mouse knew these things, because usually it was him, stealing abandoned bait after another mouse had been caught, or hiding in a corner, listening to another mouse whimper and yowl in this room.

The Davey-mouse was very good at hiding. The cat had never caught him before.

The mouse lingered over the last of the toast. He had made it last as long as he could, and the cat had never hurried him or taken it away. The cat, in fact, had barely moved, entranced as it was by watching the mouse eat. But, finally, the last bite went into his mouth.

The cat watched him chew, watched him swallow. “Lick your fingers. Get all the crumbs.”

The mouse did as he was told, his tongue flickering out to lave his fingertips, one at a time.

The cat moved, and the mouse tensed, but the cat only reached over to the nightstand for the glass of juice. “Drink the rest,” it said.

The mouse took the glass in his hands and tilted it up to drink. It was sweet and good after the dry toast, and left a pleasing tartness on the back of his tongue. When the last drop was gone, the cat took the glass from him and set it back on the nightstand with a tiny clink.

“Do you feel better now?” the cat asked.

The mouse nodded.

Looking at him, the cat gave him a rueful smile. “Your eyes are so wide, little mouse,” it said. “Are you afraid?”

The mouse nodded, suppressing the urge to whimper.

“Say it.” The cat leaned close, as if to hear better.

“Yes,” the mouse whispered. “I’m afraid.”

The cat purred and bent its mouth to the mouse’s ear, its lips brushing like a feather against the mouse’s skin. “You should be.”

The mouse shivered and closed his eyes.

“You’ve been hiding for a long time, haven’t you?” the cat asked. Its mouth moved down the mouse’s neck in tiny, brief licks. “I see you, you know. Darting from room to room when you think no one is near. At night, when you think you’re alone, eating from my pantry with the other mice, all of you scattering at the slightest sound.” The cat sighed, his breath hot against the mouse’s throat. “I’ve watched you, my little Davey-mouse...”

Teeth scraped the mouse’s skin, and the mouse’s body went rigid. Images filled the mouse’s mind, memories of other mice crawling back from a night in the cat’s bedroom, bleeding and bruised and exhausted. They never wanted to talk about what the cat had done to them. Never.

The cat’s teeth lifted from his throat. “I’ve wanted to play with you for such a long time,” it whispered. “I didn’t mean to let you hide for so long, and get so thin. But you’re still the prettiest of my mice, aren’t you? My prize.”

The mouse swallowed.

Silky golden hair trailed over the mouse’s jaw as the cat moved its head level with Davey’s. Full lips pressed against his, a velvet-soft and slow caress that had nothing to do with teeth or blood. The mouse felt an odd sensation in his limbs and realized he was relaxing beneath the cat’s kiss. It was... quite nice, actually.

The cat’s tongue swept out and parted the mouse’s lips, stroking inside. Maybe this was how the cinnamon bun would have tasted, thought the mouse – a dizzying rush of sweetness in his mouth, then a lovely, trickling warmth filling his belly, spreading downward.

The cat shifted, lifting his mouth from the mouse’s long enough to draw back the covers. The mouse felt a moment’s exposure, but then the cat slid its body over him; the silk of its pajamas flowed over the mouse like liquid, and suddenly he was warm again.

“So pretty,” the cat whispered and bent to resume kissing him. “I’m looking forward to watching your face.”

The mouse squeezed his eyes shut at that.

The cat rose up on all fours. “Unbutton my shirt.”

Licking his lips, tasting the cat on his tongue, the mouse lifted trembling hands up toward the buttons. They frustrated him, the small, slippery things, and the silk fluttered and flowed through his fingers. The cat was patient, though, always patient. Its green eyes watched the mouse from within the frame of its golden hair, a languid half-smile its only expression.

“Good,” the cat murmured as its shirt fell open. It knelt back on its heels, shrugging its shoulders to let the shirt slip down them. The mouse felt the cool brush of the fabric over his legs, then the shirt slid away and down to the floor.

But the mouse wasn’t paying the least bit of attention to the shirt. His eyes were locked on the cat, the cat and its stunning hunter’s body, elegantly muscled, its skin bronzed as if it lived in endless sunlight. The word beautiful drifted through the mouse’s mind.

“Now,” said the cat, gazing down at the mouse. “I want you to reach up behind you and grip the headboard.”

The command made the mouse’s heart jump in his chest, but he obeyed. He would gain nothing by making the cat repeat an order. He stretched his arms up over his head and reached for the brass rails. They were cool and smooth in his grip, and he clung to the thought of how solid they were, rather than how helpless he felt without his hands available to him.

“Good. Don’t let go. If you let go, I’ll punish you, then I’ll tie you down.”

The mouse nodded his understanding.

The cat lifted his hand, stretching it out to hover about a foot above the mouse’s eyes. The mouse followed the movement, his eyes on the long fingers. The nails were longer than any the mouse had ever seen. Then he saw that they weren’t just long nails, they were claws, thick and filed to wicked points. How had the mouse not noticed those before?

The hand lowered, until the pads of the cat’s fingers touched the mouse’s lips. The cat pressed a little, just enough to grind the mouse’s lips against his teeth, then stroked downward. Over the mouse’s chin the soft fingertips gently drifted, down his throat. Then, at the mouse’s collarbone, they paused. Lifted. Moved back to the mouse’s lips and began again.

Four times, five, the cat gently stroked over that small patch of the mouse’s body. The mouse lost count, lulled by the monotonous motion. Lips, chin, throat, collarbone, pause, lift. Again.

Lips, chin, throat, collarbone, pause, lift.

Then the fingers pressed down, onto the mouse’s sternum and ribs. The fingers arced, the tips rolled up—

— claws —

It was all the mouse could do not to let go of the headboard when needle-sharp points trailed down over his chest and belly. Gasping softly, gripping the rails, the mouse instinctively glanced downward to check for blood. There was none; but four slender red welts marked the path of the cat’s fingers.

As badly as the prick and sting had startled the mouse, it didn’t hurt, not really. The pain was sharp but fleeting, disappearing almost as soon as his nerve endings registered it. It was a breath away from being pleasant, like a backscratch.

The mouse realized the cat was watching him intently. When he met the green eyes, the cat’s fingers lifted from where they had paused, just below his navel, and started again at his lips. Fingertips down the throat; claws at the collarbone...

The mouse closed his eyes at the sudden change from soft to sharp; his mouth opened as his breath came quicker.

“You’re such a good mouse,” the cat whispered. He lifted his other hand and laid it beside the first. The claws pressed harder this time, digging into the mouse’s skin. Eight needles, eight stiletto blades raked down his chest.

The mouse squirmed and held onto the brass. That wasn’t almost-pleasure any more; that hurt.

Low on the mouse’s belly, the cat lifted its hands. The next pass was fingertips only, tracing over the same fiery welts the claws had just carved.

Too much – the gentle brush of fingers was too much on the freshly scraped skin. A whimper escaped the mouse’s lips before he could stop it.

The cat made a sound that the mouse feared was disapproval, and he braced himself for punishment. When none came, he opened his eyes to find the cat staring at him with a look of primal, animal hunger. “Good mouse,” it whispered.

The claws dragged down his body again, then again fingertips soothed over the scrapes, then... only one claw. One, merciless claw dragged from the hollow of the mouse’s throat all the way down to the top of his groin. It stung, burned the whole way down, and a muffled keening rose in the mouse’s throat. He wanted so badly to let go of the headboard, to roll away from the pain and jump from the bed. But he didn’t dare. His knuckles turned white; his body quivered like a plucked bowstring, but he didn’t let go.

There was blood this time, a thin red thread of it down his body.

He felt the cat move, felt its weight shift, and when it purred, the sound was close to the mouse’s ear. It didn’t linger there, though; it put its tongue into the hollow of the mouse’s throat then licked downward, following the red thread.

Then it lifted its head, pursed its lips and blew, cool and soft, along the throbbing, wet path.

The mouse sagged as his brain reacted to the stimulus, draining him, relaxing him. The cat smiled, and the mouse realized he was gazing at the cat with pleading in his eyes, his lips parted like a wanton.

He wanted more. The burning claws hurt, but then it felt... oh. So good.

Again, he thought. Do it again. He forced his lips together and gripped the headboard to stop himself from saying it aloud.

“Spread your legs,” the cat ordered.

After only a heartbeat’s hesitation, the mouse obeyed. Fingertips rested lightly on the inside of his thigh, and the mouse bit his lip. It was going to hurt badly, on the sensitive skin there. But...

...but....

...Yes.

The claws made him whimper, louder this time, and turn his head into his arm as if to seek shelter there. Sweat danced on his skin, dampening the small hairs at his forehead, and he breathed hard. But then came the soothing fingertips, then came the tongue, the cool breath....

“Close your eyes, mouse. Don’t open them, or I’ll punish you.”

The mouse did as he was told, instantly.

How could a single claw, a single tongue, be everywhere at once? The pain came from every direction, slashing across his body – his stomach, his leg, the inside of his arm, his side, his hip, his ankle. The mouse could restrain his voice no longer, he cried out as the claw dug ever deeper, as the mouth licked, then even sucked and bit at the wounds.

A finger rested on his nipple, giving the mouse a split second of warning before pain arced down his spine, followed by the lap of the velvet tongue, the pull of rough suction.

Fire shot through him, his cock grew hard with a sudden swell of lust. He wanted to let go of the headboard, not to escape, but to bury his fingers in that golden mane and clutch the cat’s head to his chest. When the cat tore at the other nipple, then sucked hard, the mouse arched off the bed and moaned

“So pretty,” the cat said again, its voice ragged. “Turn over. You can let go to do it.”

The mouse responded instantly. The smooth sheets stung his scratches, and he could feel sweat and blood seeping into the cotton. But then the claws went to work on his spine, over his buttocks, down the backs of his thighs, and he could think of nothing else but the pain and the rising pleasure.

The cat’s fingers dug abruptly into the mouse’s hips, holding them still, the promise of cruelty in their grip. “Stop that,” it snapped.

The mouse froze, suddenly aware he had been grinding himself against the mattress, seeking friction for his aching cock.

“Do that again, and I’ll make you beg me to kill you,” the cat said, its voice icy with rage. “Right now, you have my permission only to cry out when you need to. Nothing else.”

The mouse remained motionless, too afraid of the cat to even respond to his order. But the cat seemed satisfied with his display of obedience, for the sharp fingers gradually loosened their hold. Eight pinpoints of fire burned on the mouse’s hips, as a reminder.

The cat turned vindictive after that. The words gentle and soft dissolved out of the mouse’s language, never to return. The cat’s nails raked fire and blood down the mouse’s skin; its lips and tongue were savage in their caresses.

By the time the cat yanked the mouse’s hands away from the headboard and rolled him back over, the mouse’s throat was growing dry and hoarse from screaming.

More nails on his chest and belly, then –

-- everything stopped. The whole world arrested its motion, not a molecule of air moved.

The cat had the mouse’s cock in its hands, one set of fingers wrapped around the shaft, the other cradling his testicles. For a long moment, the only sound was breathing – the mouse’s quick and shallow, the cat’s deep and sighing in aroused delight.

“Spread your legs, mouse.” The cat’s voice broke through the stillness like a brick through a window.

The mouse dared not hesitate. He slid his legs over the sticky cotton sheets as far apart as he could get them.

The fingers around his cock loosened, move to rest on his inner thigh. But the fingertips resting against the wrinkled skin of his sac... tightened.

It didn’t hurt yet, but the mouse knew only too well what the cat might do next, the heights of agony to which the cat could take him. It filled him with an anticipation that the mouse could not honestly say was fear.

Soon enough, though, the imagined pain became real. The pressure stopped increasing, but the cat’s fingertips dug inward until those damned claws, like shards of glass, were burrowing into the tender flesh. The mouse opened his mouth to cry out as the pain began to burn.

But what had begun as the germ of a scream in his throat flowered into a moan of delight. The cat was licking at the head of his cock, tiny, flickering strokes of his tongue. It was just enough to feel good, just enough to keep the sharp edge of the pain at bay, but not enough by any means, not... enough.

The mouse moaned and writhed on the bed, moving as much as he dared, all the while entertaining dreams of letting go of the headboard, taking handfuls of the cat’s hair and shoving his cock into the cat’s mouth as far as it would go.

Over and over, the claws tightened, the pain arced, the mouth took in just a tiny bit more.

Then suddenly, it was gone. Everything – tongue, lips, claws. The mouse felt the bed shift, felt cold air where the cat’s warm body had been next to his. He opened his eyes to find the cat had stripped completely, baring a long, thick erection that made the mouse want to run away, made him want to grind his hips against the sheets again.

Strong hands jerked his wrists away from the headboard, and before he could figure out what the cat wanted, his body had been flipped over. The cat climbed back onto the bed and, sliding his hands under the mouse’s stomach, lifted him onto all fours. The mouse gasped in surprise as those hands slid over his hips, then cupped his buttocks and spread them. The needle points of claws dug into the smooth skin where the cat was gripping too hard, but then something soft and warm and wet laved at his anus. Around the sensitive rim, inside the hole, the cat’s tongue stroked and swirled.

The desperate sounds coming out of the mouse’s mouth could only be described as mewling. The tongue paused and the mouse heard the cat’s low snickers behind him. “A kitten now, are you?”

The mouse could only pant in response. The cat moved again, reaching for a tube on the nightstand. Whatever it was doing, it was doing to itself, for the mouse remained untouched, straining and tense, for several moments.

Then hands roamed up his sides, over his shoulder blades and back down. Something hard and hot and slick pressed at his opening. “This is going to hurt, pretty mouse.”

The mouse had no time even to draw a breath before the cat rammed its cock into him, filling his body with blazing pain. A scream tore from his throat and he jerked instinctively, trying to get away. But hands gripped him at one hip and one shoulder, and the cock kept pushing in.

“Take it, pretty mouse,” the cat gasped. “Oh, tight little mouse.”

Pain was a film of red behind the mouse’s eyes. His ass was full and stretched, and still the cat shoved himself deeper. Finally, the cat stilled. The hands held him, but not mercilessly; the warmth on his backside was the cat’s body, flush against his.

The mouse drew in sharp, sobbing breaths until he realized the pain was leveling off.

“Good mouse,” the cat whispered, stroking the mouse’s back. “See, you took it all. I’ll give you something nice, for being so good.”

The kindness in the cat’s voice felt like a kiss, and the mouse sighed in relief. His arms shook so badly they were barely holding him up, but the cat was strong and wouldn’t let him fall. The cat’s hands stroked his sweating skin; one of them slid beneath him and wrapped around his softened cock, gentle and slow.

At first the mouse’s discomfort was still too much for the cat’s hand to make any difference. But the cat had clever fingers, and the mouse was at last beginning to grow accustomed to the feeling of the cat inside him. Gradually, the mouse roused to the cat’s patient attentions. He lifted his head a little, his breath coming in soft, easy gasps.

“That’s it,” the cat whispered. “That feels better, doesn’t it?”

And the cat began to move. The rigid fullness inside the mouse slid out a little, then back in. The mouse stopped breathing, waiting for the pain to flare again, but it didn’t. The cat’s hand kept stroking, his hips kept moving back and forth, in and out, longer and longer, until—

“Oh!” Pleasure ignited inside him and the mouse arched back against the cat’s body. That, that, do that again...

The cat’s chest rumbled with laughter, and it moved again, just as it had before. Its cock slid against something inside the mouse that felt wonderfully good, and the mouse cried out again.

Suddenly the cat’s cock wasn’t a battering intruder, it was ... exactly what the mouse wanted. When the cat pulled away and thrust back in, the mouse threw his head back and moaned welcome.

For a few moments, the mouse lost himself in the rhythm of the cat’s fucking, feeling only the delicious slide and impact of its pounding thrusts. Then the cat’s hands moved on his body, lifting and pulling him up, until the mouse found himself sitting on the cat’s thighs.

Oh. The mouse liked that. He used his legs to raise himself; the cat pulled him back down, ramming upward with his hips. The mouse’s head fell back as pleasure rose in him, and he could hear the cat’s panting breath in his ear. But it wasn’t quite... enough. The cat’s earlier torments had spoiled him for stimulus, made him crave more, need more.

“Please,” the mouse murmured, too lost in his desires to be shocked at his daring. “Make me hurt...”

The cat groaned, and its claws dragged obligingly over the skin of the mouse’s chest and belly. Thin threads of fire wove into the mouse’s ecstasy, sharpening and magnifying, until it all became a slow explosion of sensation. Orgasm fountained out of him and the cat lost control, his cock plunging deep and hard, pumping heat into the mouse’s shuddering body.

The cat at last slowed its frantic movements; the mouse at last grew limp and loose. Too long without food, too much expended energy, sent a wave of blackness crashing over the mouse. He felt himself fall forward into the cat’s arms, then knew nothing more.

##

When he woke, he was clean. He was wearing silk pajama bottoms and lying on fresh sheets.

The sun was setting, bathing the room in pink and gold.

The mouse was sore, everywhere. His skin tingled and stung, and looking down, he saw a map of scratches, cuts and welts over his chest, belly, even his arms. They looked as if they had been cared for, though; he caught the glisten of antibiotic ointment on the worst of them.

Beneath the soreness and strain, he was deeply, fully relaxed. His brain drifted on a pleasant fog of tiredness, his limbs languid and light. Going right back to sleep sounded like the best notion he’d ever thought of.

Then he remembered the cat. Where was the cat?

He shot up like a rocket, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and sliding off in one motion.

He promptly collapsed, dragged down by an undertow of dizziness. Something kept him from hitting the floor, though, and after a heartbeat of confusion, he realized the cat had caught him.

“Not so fast, little mouse.”

The mouse’s hands scrabbled for balance, his fingers clutching the weave of the cat’s sweater. He could feel hard muscle beneath the cashmere, could smell spicy cologne on the cat’s skin. The sensations triggered powerful memories from earlier, filling him with a strange mix of longing and dread.

The cat hoisted the mouse back to his feet, then supported him with one strong arm around his waist. With the other hand, he brushed damp hair from the mouse’s eyes, and regarded him with a frown.

“How do you expect to scurry and hide if you can’t even stand?” the cat scolded.

The mouse looked into the green eyes and couldn’t think of an answer. Mesmerizing, those eyes.

Then the cat was kissing him, and a different kind of dizziness enveloped him. His body was pulled against the cat’s, and no amount of rich softness could keep the sweater from scratching at his wounds. A hand smoothed over his shoulder, fingernails trailing ever so lightly down his arm.

The mouse shuddered, shocked at the tide of desire that rose in him. He pulled away from the cat’s kiss, his eyes wide. He wanted away from there, wanted to curl up in his favorite safe-place in the second-floor linen closet, among the freshly washed sheets and seldom-used blankets. He wanted the muffled darkness around him, the clean, dry smells that would chase away the memories of sweat and blood and come. Cool silence to erase the echo of his pleas and his mewling cries.

The cat held him around the waist, immobilizing him. A smirk twisted its lips. “Frightened of yourself now, are you? Want to run away, little mouse?”

The mouse swallowed, then nodded. “Please,” he whispered.

The cat studied him for a long, silent moment.

“Scurry on, then,” it said, its voice flat. “But I warn you, pretty mouse, your hungers will be harder to control now, and food isn’t the only bait that tempts you anymore, is it? One day, I’ll catch you loitering outside my door, lured by the promise of things you want, things that no one but I can give you.”

Sunset light glowed on its hair, in its green eyes, in its curving smile as it lowered its head to kiss Davey again. He let his head fall back, let his mouth open beneath the cat’s; he moaned as the cat’s warm tongue caressed his.

Then it was over, and the cat was smiling down at him again. “I’ll catch you again, Davey-mouse. I’ll make you hurt and want and scream again. I promise you that.”

The mouse licked his lips, and shivered.

Suddenly, the mouse found himself released, alone and swaying on his feet. While he stared in surprise, the cat turned its back on him, walking toward the window.

After a moment’s hesitation, the mouse darted out the door. Back into the shadows he ran, to hide as best he could from his own hungers, and all the traps that lay waiting, yet to be sprung.