“What was that?” Angie asked when they awoke hours later from post-coital slumber.
Maybe if her alarm hadn’t taken the shape of 25 pounds of black cat sitting on her chest, she would have had the ability to play it cool.
Alas, this question came after the shriek that had scared the cat back out of the bedroom.
Shen’s muffled laugh emitted from her pillow, her face smashed against the cushion, her short hair thoroughly mussed.
Angie could see the soft curve of her back, smooth except for the two swollen lumps on the inside of her shoulder blades from where her wings emerged.
Shen had abandoned her last pair right outside her apartment building, apparently unconcerned that any of her neighbors would stumble upon them.
Shen turned her head far enough from the pillow to answer, “That, my dear, was your first run-in with fuck dust.”
“Suitable name,” Angie said, recalling the horror she had experienced at the purple stuff dashing itself against her face moments before all reason melted away into horniness.
She deplumed a lone feather from her thigh and flicked it onto the floor. “Heh. Thought you would be the last person to have a cat.”
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