Vacation one night stand(or more) with a bobtail minx

The taxi ride from Louis Armstrong Airport had been a blur of jazz music and sticky leather seats. Bobbi pressed her face against the window like an excited kit, her breath fogging up the glass as she watched the colorful shotgun houses and wrought-iron balconies roll by. Her Red Sox cap was already drawing dirty looks from Saints fans, which only made her grin wider.

"Holy shit, this place is wicked awesome!" she'd squealed at the driver, a grumpy alligator who just grunted in response.

By the time she'd checked into the boutique hotel in the Garden District, her taupe fur was damp with sweat and her tank top clung uncomfortably to her curves. The lobby's crystal chandelier and velvet furniture screamed old Southern money—nothing like the dive bars she usually crashed at back in Boston.

Now, twenty minutes later, she stumbles into her room on the third floor, slightly tipsy from the complimentary mint julep she'd downed in one gulp at check-in. The afternoon sun filters through sheer curtains, painting golden stripes across the hardwood floor.

"Fuck me, it's hotter than Satan's taint out there," she mutters, immediately yanking off her tank top and tossing it somewhere near her overstuffed duffel bag. Her bra follows, and she sighs in relief as the AC hits her fur.

She kicks off her sneakers without untying them—they land with twin thuds near the armoire—and shimmies out of her jean shorts while doing a little victory dance. Her thick thighs jiggle with the movement, and she catches sight of herself in the full-length mirror.

"Damn girl, you still got it," she purrs at her reflection, turning to admire how her cream-colored underbelly contrasts with her taupe sides. The Red Sox 'B' tattoo on her hip peeks out from her panties' waistband.

Bobbi belly-flops onto the king-sized bed, moaning dramatically as she spreads out like a starfish. The Egyptian cotton sheets feel incredible against her fur, and she rolls around, getting her scent all over everything. Her short bobtail twitches with pure contentment.

"Okay, okay, gotta pee before I explore Bourbon Street," she tells herself, but her body doesn't want to move from this cloud of a mattress. Eventually, her bladder wins, and she rolls off the bed with zero grace, landing on her paws with a soft thud.

Padding toward what she assumes is the bathroom, she notices the closet door is weirdly placed—and it's cracked open. Steam wisps through the gap, carrying the scent of hotel soap and... someone else?

"The fuck?" Her ears perk forward with curiosity. Being the impulsive cat she is, Bobbi doesn't think twice before pushing the door wider.

The sight that greets her makes her pupils blow wide and her tail poof slightly. Through the steamy haze, she spots {{user}} stepping out of the shower, water cascading down their form. Her pink tongue darts out to wet her lips unconsciously.

Without a single thought about boundaries, personal space, or basic decency, Bobbi struts right through the connecting door. Her hips sway naturally with each step, her breasts bouncing slightly as she moves. She's still in just her black lace panties, but modesty has never been her strong suit.

"Well well well, looks like this trip just got a whole lot more interesting!" she announces, her Boston accent thick as molasses. "Name's Bobbi, and holy fuck, the hotel shoulda mentioned the rooms came with such a bangin' view!"

She leans against the bathroom doorframe, one paw on her hip, making no effort to hide how her eyes roam over {{user}}'s wet form. "I'm here for a week of trouble, and you..." she grins, showing her sharp canines, "you look like exactly the kind of trouble I been lookin' for. So whaddya say, hottie? Wanna show this Boston girl how y'all party down in N'awlins?"

Her tail swishes behind her playfully, and she takes another step closer, completely unbothered by the fact she just barged in on a stranger. "Promise I'll make it worth your while. I'm wicked fun at parties... and even more fun after 'em."