My Name is Kitten
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From Crimestopper To Kitten free porn video
From Crimestopper To Kitten by Throne
Carlton Clare checked himself in the full length mirror. His trim
athletic figure was in tiptop shape. He brushed back the distinctive
curlicue of black hair that habitually fell across his forehead and
smiled at his reflection. He was ready to suit up and begin another
night of stopping crime as the crime-stopper, Night Cat. He was in the
special hidden room he called The Cat Den, below his sprawling palatial
mansion, Clare Manor. It was nice being a millionaire, especially
because it meant he had so much money. Carlton slipped into his clinging
tights, made from a custom blend of nylon and other materials. The dark
outfit clung to his lithe limbs and taut torso. He sat to pull on his
boots with their special gripping soles and heels, which enabled him to
climb much like the feline his dark costume made him resemble. Next came
the gloves, through which he could easily feel everything he touched.
Last was the half-mask, covering the top of his head and masking his
eyes, with two triangular ears where a cat's ears would be. He struck a
few poses in front of the mirror and decided he was ready to fight crime
in his capacity as a well known crimefighter. On his way to the Cat-
Mobile he grabbed his All-Purpose Belt, with its many compartments that
held vials and tubes and slender containers, all filled with substances
that aided him in combatting felons, finks and costumed miscreants.
Among that last group was his nemesis, The Mocker. In his mind, Clare
mentally pictured the villain's pale face, slicked back blond hair, and
selection of garish suits that he chose to adorn his long-limbed, slim,
rangy physique. There were ones with wide stripes, others featuring
large checks, and some covered in gaudy splatter-patterns, all of them in
loud colors that were offensive to Clare's refined tastes, the sensitive
preferences of a millionaire, which he was. Let Mocker beware, Night Cat
said to himself silently, for Justice was about to prowl the streets of
Gothic City.
Sliding sleekly into his Cat-Mobile, the material of his costume moving
in a frictionless way across the smooth seat, he turned on the engine
which responded with a throaty roar. Night Cat drove out of his
underground garage and into the deep woods surrounding stately Clare
Manor. He raced along back roads and into the dark, foreboding, menacing
streets of the city. Pulling into a shadowy, dim, night-cloaked alley,
he parked his vehicle and scrambled up a fire escape to the rooftop.
From that vantage point he observed the rear entrance of a building that
housed both a jewelry store and a novelty shop. The combination of
precious stones and inexpensive gag items would be irresistible to The
Mocker. In fact, Night Cat had recently spotted hoods casing the joint
only the night before, and the bright unfashionable hats worn by those
mugs marked them as henchmen of none other than The Mocker. Now it was
time to spring the trap, if indeed that master criminal himself appeared
and walked into this snare which could very well lead to his capture.
Sure enough, a van pulled up and out tumbled three clowns, The Mocker's
trademark minions, followed by their leader. On this dark, moonless,
forbidding night he was garbed in an especially tasteless suit, with a
checkerboard pattern in a rainbow of colors. As one of the clownishly
attired hoods worked to bypass the rear door's security system, Night Cat
slinked silently from his perch to crouch in shadow between two
dumpsters. There was a stinky smell, perfect to accompany the foul deeds
being perpetuated so nearby. Unannounced, like a lighter shadow detaching
itself from the deeper ones, Night Cat flowed from his hiding place and
rushed at the criminals. He felled one with his familiar paw-swipe blow.
WHAP! Another toppled to his feline fisticuffs. BOP! The third was
disabled by a cat kick. KICK! All that remained was to disable The
Mocker, bind him, and transport the fashion victim to Archie Asylum,
where he could be rehabilitated into a clean-cut, properly dressed, non-
mocking member of society. That was assuming he didn't escape, as
inmates so often did.
"Ha!" Night Cat laughed, exuding confidence. "I have you now, The
Mocker." He hesitated and then corrected, "Or just 'Mocker'. Either
way, I have you."
"Really? Or do I have you?" The Mocker laughed his annoying nasal
laugh, high-pitched to the point of being ear-piercing and disorienting
and not nice.
Night Cat reeled back from the audio assault, at the same time snatching
earplugs from his All-Purpose Belt and plugging them into his ears. Or
at least he tried to. His mask got in the way. He had been meaning to
make a mask modification to avoid that specific problem but hadn't gotten
around to it as he had been dealing with The Wriggler, The Pelican and
his greatest female foe, Sex Bomb, aka Firecracker, aka Libido Explosion.
The shrieking sound brought him to his knees. He really should have done
something about that mask/earplug issue. As Night Cat knelt in the
alley, aware of how unclean the asphalt under him was, The Mocker began
to alternate hissed, whispered, sibilant words with his sounds of
maniacal mirth.
"You can't resist my commands, Alley Cat. Bwa, ha, ha! You have to
obey. Haw, haw, haw. Resistance is futile. Whoa, ho, ho, ho."
The nylon-clad night-fighter succumbed to those seductive words. He was
dimly aware of being told something about who he really was, rather than
the villain-vanquisher he saw himself as. His identity as Night Cat was
being erased and replacing it was a very different persona named...
Kitty? The trio of harlequin henchmen (actually, what they wore was a
mix of harlequin and traditional clown, with a hint of the august clown)
were rapidly recovering and getting to their feet. They loaded the
helpless hero into the van and proceeded with their twin robberies, after
which they fled, chuckling and self-congratulating while fleeing.
Night Cat returned to consciousness like someone ascending from a great
depth underwater. As he broke the metaphorical surface, he blinked.
Where was his mask? When he felt for it his fingers instead encountered
a mass of tight curls atop his head. He tugged at them but they were
somehow attached to his scalp. He was lying down. On a bed. In a
bedroom.
"Well hello there," came the voice of The Mocker, followed by the man
himself as he entered the room. Now he was dressed in loose, baggy,
relaxed-fit pajamas with wide, red and white, circus stripes, with a
matching stocking cap on his distinctive blond, backcombed hair, above
his pasty face. "How is my little Kitten this morning?"
"I... I'm not..." Why was Night Cat's voice so high and soft? And why
did the name Kitten sound correct? He knew who he actually was, monied
millionaire Carlton Clare, but it was as if his true self had been
subverted, absorbed and virtually eliminated by his new identity. He was
looking out from inside a person named Kitten. The irony of going from
Cat to Kitten was not lost on him. "How am I? I'm... fine." He smiled
and fluttered his eyes. "And how are you... Mock-Mock?"
"Oh, you are such a minx with those nicknames."
"Mmmm. And I have another one." Cat patted a spot alongside where he
lay. "Sit yourself down so I can reach your Mock-Stick."
The pajama-wearing purloiner placed himself there and, as if with a will
of its own, Cat's hand settled on his thigh. Against his will, the hero
slid his fingers -- why did he have painted nails? -- through the fly and
felt around. He located and freed a penis of enviable length and girth.
With a few stroked he had the pale member standing up proudly. Cat
tossed off the sheet he was under and rolled onto his side. Wait. Why
was he wearing a filmy, short, pink nighty? And why did he have breast
forms stuck to his chest? He tugged at the lifelike, prominent-nipple
bearing, shapely boobs but found they were unremovable. He gaped at
Mocker, who smiled back genially.
"Um," the pale prince of perfidy said, raising his yellow-bordering-on-
white eyebrows. "I think you were starting to do something down there."
Cat looked at the upright organ, a drop of clear fluid already formed on
it's tip. Unfamiliar forces, internal voices, and phantom commands made
him lean down and cap the knob with his mouth, giving it a spirited suck
while squeezing and relaxing his hand on the shaft. Oh my. This was NOT
his usual behavior. He was a heterosexual hero. A role model. A
celebrity. Not a feminized cocksucker. And yet it was the latter
description that he currently fit as he bobbed his head up and down on
that impressive pole, simultaneously working his tongue every-which-way.
"That's my sweet little wifey," Mocker cooed. "Always so eager to give
me a morning blowjob. Ah."
Unable to resist the silent orders imprinted on his mind, hardwired into
his brain, and buried deep in his sex drive, he mouthed that muscle-of-
love with unrestrained enthusiasm. He buried his nose in the platinum
prong-collar and, with the long manhood fully swallowed, managed to flick
the adjoined scrotum with the end of his tongue. It felt so natural, so
satisfying, so... fulfilling. He was married to The Mocker and his daily
task was to please his oh-so-manly husband in every way a feminine,
female dame could. He backed off the slick stick, recaptured the head
between his pliant lips, and jerked off the stalk until salty warm cream
jetted out and filled his accommodating mouth. He greedily gulped it
down and milked out the final drops. His tongue was coated with slime
and to him it was like ambrosia. He reluctantly released the softening
schlong and hugged Mocker around his waist, remembering that Kitten was
supposed to stay down low after she'd just had a mouthful of spunk.
"So," Mocker said as she reverently tucked his spent cock back into the
PJs. "You've had your breakfast. Now how about cooking mine? I know
you're no genius but I think you can handle a simple job like bacon and
eggs."
When they got to the kitchen, Kitten following her spouse dutifully, the
loot from last night's robbery -- had it been that recent or had more
time passed? -- was on the kitchen table. There were valuable bracelets
and rings and necklaces, alongside cheap gags like goofy plastic teeth,
rubber noses, and supersized sunglasses. Kitten tittered. Her man had
such a fun attitude when he committed crimes. She went to the
refrigerator to find ingredients and then to the stove to cook. As she
smoothed down her sexy nightie she saw that she was pink and smooth all
over, with not a trace of body hair. Well, that was right for a girl
like her. Right? Right! When she felt around inside the front of her
panties -- bikini cut! -- to learn if she was hairless down there as
well, her fingers didn't encounter even a single strand, but what they
did discover was startling.
Cat's eyes opened wide, even as he mechanically continued preparing a
meal for his captor. What was between his legs was a chastity device, a
very small one into which his proud male member had been compressed. A
tiny padlock assured the cock cage could not be removed without access to
the key. OMG. The Mocker had used his sinister laugh, somehow
amplified, perhaps by a device stolen from Stellar Labs, where thefts
were as common as escapes from Archie Asylum, to take over Night Cat's
mind and transform him into a willing wife and salacious sex slave named
Kitten. Cat. Kitten. Connection. And both of them, heroic hero and
lusty lady, had just given a BJ that would make a whore blush. Good
grief.
From his seat at the breakfast table, Mocker said, "You look delightful,
darling. I'm so glad that you're my loving bride. Always prepared to
cater to my every need, whether it be gustatory or lust-a-tory."
Kitten laughed dutifully as the strained wordplay. Cat cringed inwardly
at the role he was being compelled to play. Holy mind-trickery. Was he
totally, utterly and inescapably trapped in this unwanted persona?
"Of course you realize," Mocker said as if reading his mind, "you're
absolutely trapped in that unwanted persona."
"Yes, my love," Kitten answered meekly. He fought not to say it but
couldn't keep from adding, "And loving it."
"Oh dear. My mind-molding is working even better than I anticipated.
Maybe you had a bit of the girl in you all along, just waiting to get
out. I mean, that skin-tight costume really showed off your bulge and
butt. I know it caught my eye. Heck, I've been having nasty fantasies
about you for years. All that tiresome back and forth, capturing me and
sending me to Archie Asylum, the predictable escapes, and then the next
round. But it all led up to this warm domestic scene, so it was worth
every minute." He held up a long pale finger. "Oh, and not too much
salt on my eggs. I'm cutting down my sodium intake."
"Yes, sweetness," Kitten answered obediently.
She was already thinking of their next bedroom encounter. Cat was
dreading it but Kitten was raring to go again. Maybe she could even
seduce her lover-man into doing more. Going all the way. Deflowering
her. Violating her virginity. Ravaging her rosebud. Banging her
bullseye. Penetrating her pucker. Screwing her up the butt, for gosh
sakes. Cat fought back against the unthinkable awfulness of such an
event. He couldn't allow himself to be taken from behind. To have his
backdoor entered. To let Mocker go in the out door. And so on. Except
that the more he resisted, the more he wanted and needed and craved it.
Oh no. The Mocker's improbably effective hypnosis/mind-control/mental
manipulation obviously involved turning the brainwave energy from Cat's
emotional upset into fuel for Kitten's dreams of runaway recreational
ravishment. Holy alliteration.
Kitten served Mocker his breakfast, accompanied by a mug of steaming
coffee, with a little cream and a lot of sugar, just the way he liked it.
How did she know how he took his java? As she bent over to stir his
coffee for him, he pawed her bottom and stroked the insides of her
thighs. It was like lighting a fire in her libido. Cat was definitely
losing the battle to regain control. He marshalled all his considerable
self control and strained to assert his true self. Nope. Didn't work.
Not even close. Sheesh, what a revolting predicament he was in. He
wriggled his rear against Mocker's questing hand and was delighted when
the master of mayhem (as he was sometimes known) ran a fingertip
suggestively between his buns, pausing in the middle to deliver a poke
full of promise to the clenching, tingling, unfulfilled orifice.
"We'll get to your buttonhole a bit later," he assured her. "But right
now I want another cup of coffee and a sticky bun." He saw her hopeful
look and clarified, "Not YOUR sticky buns, you horny hottie. One from
that white box on the counter." He sighed. "It's going to be a job
keeping up with your appetites, but I'm willing to make the effort.
That's the kind of dedicated mate I am."
"Thank you, lover," she cooed devotedly. "I'm such a lucky girl."
NO, NO, NO. This couldn't be happening, Cat told himself. He didn't
want to spend the rest of his life in lingerie, minidresses and body
stockings. Or nakedly nude. Mocker liked Kitten to be nude around the
house. He couldn't flounce around the kitchen in nothing but a short
apron, bring Mocker snacks while wearing only his cock-lock, and play
hostess to his nefarious friends -- the likes of Wanton Woman, Two-Dick,
Fear Master, and Doctor Doomful -- No, wait. Doomful was from another
universe -- at backyard gatherings while barely dressed in a black
bikini, cat ears and whiskers, and an inserted tail attached to an
uncomfortably large butt plug, possibly lubed with hot sauce. Yet that
was his fate if he couldn't summon all of his mental prowess and blast
back and... No. It wasn't happening. Forget that. Mocker had made his
male mind impotent.
"Oh," the naughty nabob of nastiness stated as he got up, "I almost
forgot to tell you. I had everything arranged in advance to take over
the fortune you owned when you were still wealthy playboy Carlton Clare.
I just need you to sign some legal documents so I can go ahead with it.
Soon you'll be penniless, totally dependent on me for everything.
Especially for the lascivious loving I've programmed you to be endlessly
addicted to. And then I'll perform a simple, non-invasive procedure on
the muscles of your writing hand so you won't even be able to sign your
old signature. After that we'll get busy on giving you a new face. I
see a smaller nose and much larger lips. Big puffy ones that are good
for you-know-what. Just leave all the details to me. I've also planted
the conviction in your mind that you can't think straight beyond simple
meal preparation and complicated sexual hijinks. It's the Bimbo Brain
Treatment. You'll never be Night Cat again, but you'll never forget that
you once were. It'll be a wonderful life."
*********
(Holy rambling sentences! Wasn't that silly? Special thanks to all the
reviewers who left comments on my most recent stories, and those who went
back and left kind words on some earlier efforts. First-time reviewers
are always welcome, like Michelle, who was so generous with her
compliments.)
Rowan
- 05.04.2020
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