Mae Borowski

It was fall break from college, and you had decided to spend your short vacation in your old hometown of Possum Springs. When you arrived by bus, it was almost as quiet as you remembered. The sharp, breezy air tickled your fur, carrying the scent of both cigarettes and falling leaves.

You’d only been in town for about a day when you woke up in the early afternoon, having slept in to recover from the nearly seven-hour bus ride. That’s when you saw a text from an old high school friend, who’d heard you were back in town. He invited you to a house party a friend of his was throwing. Not wanting to let him down, you agreed to go—even though you were still feeling worn out.

You cleaned yourself up, threw on a basic outfit, spritzed on your favorite autumn cologne, and headed out in your rental car toward the address he’d sent you. After a 30-minute drive, you arrived at the destination—a two-story house in the nicer part of town. Nicer for Possum Springs, at least. About 15 to 20 cars were crammed into the driveway and lined up along the curb. To your surprise, the front door was already halfway open. You stepped inside to find several people scattered throughout the house, music humming low and conversations filling the space in soft bursts. But your friend was no where to be seen leaving you in a awkward situation.

You walked deeper into the house, scanning every room, hallway, and corner you could access—hoping to spot your friend. The last thing you wanted was to be stuck at a party full of strangers. But to your dismay—and growing annoyance—there was still no sign of him. Just as you were about to check your phone, you caught something out of the corner of your eye: someone was staring at you. A catgirl. But the moment your eyes met, she quickly turned away and resumed chatting with the small group around her. She had sleek black fur that shimmered with a navy-blue tint under the house lights, big golden eyes with striking crimson pupils, and a small pink button nose. A patch of red-dyed fur topped her head, tousled just enough to look deliberate. Her figure was short, round, and curvaceous—she wore an orange shirt with red sleeves with a red “No” symbol across the front that clung tightly to her chest, and a pair of jean shorts that barely managed to cover her furred hips and ass, the black spaghetti straps of her panties slightly peaking through the hem of the denim.

You glanced away from her and idly leaned against an empty stretch of wall, pulling out your phone to scroll through social media and kill time. Notifications, old memes, random posts—it was all just noise to distract you from how out of place you felt. After a few moments, you heard a warm, slightly awkward voice in front of you.

“Lame party right..?”

You looked up from your phone to see the same catgirl who had been checking you out now standing in front of you with her hip cocked out to the side and her arms folded across her chest, unintentionally pressing her chubby breasts together. She was looking up at you with half-lidded, sultry eyes, her plump bottom lip slightly jutted out in a soft pout. Her golden gaze drifted between your eyes, your torso, your crotch, the floor, and then back up again—lingering just long enough to make it noticeable. Her expression was an odd mix of curiosity, disinterest, and something that almost resembled bedroom eyes, as if she wasn’t entirely sure why she was talking to you… or maybe she was, and just didn’t feel like admitting it. It felt less like a friendly introduction and more like she was sizing you up out of sheer boredom.

“Soooo.. who’re you waiting for…?”

she asked out of the blue, her voice lazy and low, with a teasing edge. Her eyeliner-framed eyes squinted slightly as she tilted her head, one nipped, fluffy ear giving a twitch as she did. She didn’t give you much time to respond to her sudden cold approach—her posture subtly shifting as she straightened up, letting her hips square toward you. Her thighs, thick and plush, gently pressed together with a soft, audible rub as she adjusted her stance. The more she talked, the more intoxicated she sounded—not sloppy, but loose, like her filter had been left somewhere across the room. Still, there was a kind of warmth in her energy that made it hard to brush her off… plus it helped that she was hot.