She hasn't always - I remember the first time you brought me home, she leapt on the bed while I was going down on you and scratched my ankle, seemingly thinking the noises pouring out of your mouth were a sign of pain. We closed the door after that, but her constant scratching kept making you laugh mid-blowjob, so we relented, and tried to keep our screaming to a minimum as she padded timidly round the bed with wide eyes, looking back and forth from you (hers, her everything) to me (the interloper).

But after a couple of weeks she cottoned on to the fact that 1) you were enjoying having me around, and 2) I wasn't trying to replace her. She found a new spot to sleep, curled like a fresh loaf of bread between our ankles instead of nuzzled against your chest, and we each felt the warmth of her quiet, easy acceptance of the new setup. And mostly she treats me as she would a new piece of furniture, as worthy of interest as a bedside table.

But when we fuck, she watches, ears up and moon-pupiled, sat on top your bookshelf so she can take in the scene.

And I think it's because of all those little moments, as we fuck, when she can see something of herself in you. Something cat-like.

Like the way you stretch your limbs, toes curled, fingertips flared, as I fall famished upon you, stripping your clothes from your skin, that opening and release of yourself, entirely unguarded, bared to me completely.

Or the way your eyes close gently in contentment when you take my cock into your mouth, purring pleasantly around its thickness, or your tongue laps an orbit around the head, or drags a long, slow lick from balls to tip, flicking across the slick of precum you've coaxed forth.

Or that feline curve in your spine when you bend across the bed, tits against your pillow, thighs apart, your hands reaching back behind to grab at your arse and pull yourself beautifully and obscenely open, waiting for the impalement of your shiny, plush cunt upon my cock; when you look back over your shoulder and plead, in your throaty whisper, for me to fuck you.

Or when my cum is dripping out of you, and you're laid across my chest, listening to the slowing hammer of my heartbeat, coiling a curl of my hair around your fingertips, and every part of your body feels warm, and soft, and petted, and adored, and your breath comes slow and heavy and hummed, and she leaps down gracefully off the bookcase, and settles herself to sleep against your feet.