A Girly Cat

The Algorithm serves the option after you tell it you want something playful and obvious. Black romper, deep neckline, clip-on tail, cat ears, sheer black pantyhose, little paw gloves. You add the gaff, the soft breast forms, makeup, and black heels. The Algorithm answers with one line. High visibility. High approach rate. Proceed.

The night of the party you prepare carefully. Shaving is thorough. The tuck locks your modest cock flat until the front of the romper sits perfectly smooth. The breast forms give the deep neckline a soft curve. Makeup softens your face. The black wig frames it. When you pull the romper on, attach the tail, settle the ears, and slide into the pantyhose and heels, the mirror shows exactly what the costume promised. Sexy. Available. The smooth front hides the small secret completely. Your cock is already half-hard inside the gaff from the sight alone.

The club is loud and packed, a dedicated Halloween costume night with colored lights cutting through fog and bass that vibrates in your chest. You step inside and the slutty cat outfit does immediate work. Eyes find the legs in sheer pantyhose, the short romper, the tail, the ears. You move toward the bar, order something sweet, and try to find a rhythm in the heels.

She finds you first.

Sofia is impossible to miss. Tall, blonde, the Supergirl costume fitted tight across a real chest and narrow waist, the skirt short enough to match the energy of the room, red boots that put her a little above you even in your heels. The cape sits perfect on her shoulders. She stops in front of you, looks the cat costume up and down, and smiles wide.

“Okay, that is unfair,” she says, voice bright over the music. “The tail, the pantyhose, the whole thing. You look too good to be standing here alone. Dance with me.”

It is not really a question. She takes your hand and pulls you onto the floor before you can overthink it. The lights sweep across both of you. She moves close right away, hands on your waist, hips matching the beat. The romper is so short that her fingers rest on bare skin above the pantyhose. Your cock hardens fully inside the gaff at the contact. The modest length presses against the tight fabric with nowhere to go.

“You are really good at this,” she says near your ear, laughing as the tail swings. “Most people in cat costumes just stand there and look cute. You actually move. I like it.”

You dance.

She is giggly and open, laughing every time the tail swings or the ears bounce. She tells you the costume is perfect and that you wear it better than half the girls in the room. You buy the first round. She buys the second. The drinks are strong and sweet. Every time you return to the floor she pulls you closer. Her body is warm and soft against the front of the romper. She does not seem to notice the complete lack of any bulge. Her hands stay on your hips, your lower back, the curve of your ass through the thin fabric. The tail gets tugged more than once for fun. Each tug makes your trapped cock throb.

“These pantyhose are dangerous,” she says, fingers sliding along the sheer fabric on your thigh. “I keep wanting to touch them.” She tugs the tail again. “And this. Best part of the whole outfit. Every time I pull it you make the tiniest face. Adorable.”

Hours pass like that. Dance, drink, dance again. She stays with you the entire time. Other people try to cut in and she waves them off with a grin.

“Nope, she is mine tonight,” she tells one guy who steps too close. Then she turns back to you. “Sorry. I do not share when my dance partner looks this good in cat ears.”

She leans in near your ear, breath warm. “The deep neckline on this romper is doing criminal things. You should be careful wearing something like this. Someone might take you home.”

Your modest cock leaks steadily inside the gaff. The small size makes every brush of her body feel concentrated and urgent. By the time the club starts to thin she is still pressed against you, still giggling, still touching you like the night belongs to the two of you.

She looks at you under the lights, cheeks flushed from dancing and alcohol, and says, “Come home with me. I am not done with the cat yet. I want more of this. More of you. Say yes.”

“Yes,” you answer.

You go.

Her apartment is only a short ride away. The second the door closes she is on you again, kissing you hard, hands already under the romper straps, tugging the cat ears askew.

“God, you taste like those drinks and bad decisions,” she says against your mouth, still giggling. “I like it. Bedroom. Now. I have been thinking about getting this costume off you for the last hour.”

She walks you backward toward the bedroom, still treating the whole thing like the best game of the night. The cape ends up on the floor. The Supergirl skirt follows. She is in the boots, the top, and very little else when she pushes you onto the bed.

“Stay right there,” she says, climbing up after you. “I want to unwrap my present.”

She peels the romper down your shoulders, then further, until the breast forms are free and the gaff is the only thing left covering you. She hooks her fingers in the waistband and pulls it down.

Your modest cock springs free, hard, flushed, smaller than average, the head already wet and shiny.

Sofia freezes.

The bright smile drops off her face in an instant. She stares at the small hard cock for a long second, then at your face, then back down. The giggly energy from the club vanishes.

“You have got to be kidding me.” Her voice is flat and sharp. “You are a guy. I thought you were a girl the entire night. The costume, the way you moved, the smooth front, everything. I brought home a girl in a slutty cat outfit and instead I get this.”

She sits back on her heels, still looking at your cock like it has personally offended her. The anger is quiet but clear.

“You let me touch you all night. You let me tug the tail and put my hands on your ass and dance like that while you had a dick tucked under the romper. What the fuck?”

Your face burns. Your cock stays hard anyway, the modest length twitching under her stare. The sudden shift from soft interest to open irritation only makes the heat in your stomach worse.

She lets out a short, disbelieving breath. “Unbelievable. I was ready to have fun with a cute girl in cat ears. Instead I get a guy with a little dick who spent the whole night letting me think he was soft and female.” She reaches out and pokes the hard shaft with one finger, not gently. “And it is not even a real one. Look at it. Small. Hard. Leaking. You got hard from tricking me.”

You open your mouth. Nothing useful comes out. She shakes her head.

“Do not even try. I am pissed. I do not like being lied to by a costume.” She looks at your cock again and her mouth twists. “But I am also not sending you home yet. You spent all night getting me worked up thinking I was taking a girl home. You can fix some of that.”

She moves up the bed, still in the Supergirl top and boots, and swings a leg over your chest so she is kneeling above your face. She looks down at you with none of the earlier warmth.

“You are going to eat my pussy until I come. That is the least you can do after letting me believe you were a girl for three hours. And you are going to stay hard while you do it so I can look at that little dick and remember exactly how much you misled me.”

She does not wait for an answer. She lowers herself onto your mouth. The taste of her is immediate. You start licking because the tone of her voice leaves no room for anything else. She braces one hand on the headboard and keeps the other free so she can look back over her shoulder at your cock.

“That is it. Use your tongue. You were good at playing soft and feminine all night. Be good at this too.” She grinds down harder. “I cannot believe I was grinding on a guy with a micro dick on the dance floor and did not even know. Every time I pulled that tail you got harder, did you not? Little cock got excited from being treated like a girl.”

Your modest cock throbs against your stomach, untouched and dripping. The mean edge in her voice makes it worse. You keep your mouth working, tongue moving the way she clearly wants. She rides your face with short, focused rolls, the earlier giggles completely gone.

“Look at it,” she says, eyes on your cock. “Still hard. Still so small. It is actually funny how little it is. I thought I was bringing home someone I could actually play with. Instead I get a lying little cat with a clit-sized dick who is only useful on his back with his tongue out.”

She reaches back and wraps her fingers around your cock without looking away from what she is doing on your face. Her grip is firm and almost clinical. She gives it a few short strokes while she keeps grinding on your mouth.

“Even hard it is nothing. I can close my whole hand around it and still have room. You let me believe this was a girl all night. The least this little thing can do is stay hard while I use your mouth and remind myself what a waste the rest of you is.”

The combination of her pussy on your tongue, the tight mean strokes on your modest cock, and the constant sharp comments about the size and the deception push the heat higher. You moan into her. She feels it and laughs once, short and cold.

“Do not get too excited. You are not coming until I say. Maybe not even then. You tricked me. You can stay hard and frustrated while you finish what you started on the dance floor.”

She keeps you there. Her thighs tighten on the sides of your head whenever you slow down. Her hand on your cock stays active, stroking just enough to keep the modest length fully hard and leaking, never enough to let you get close. Every few strokes she gives a dismissive squeeze or a light slap that makes your hips jerk.

“Little liar cock,” she mutters, looking at it while she rides your face. “Got all dressed up in pantyhose and a tail and a deep neckline so girls would think you were soft and available. Then the second the clothes come off it is just this. Small. Hard. Useless for anything except getting laughed at. Keep licking. I am close and you are going to stay right there until I finish.”

You obey. Your jaw aches. Your cock aches more. The meaner tone has not killed the arousal. If anything it has focused it. Every insult about the size and the costume deception makes the small shaft twitch in her hand. She notices and uses it.

“It jumps every time I call it small. Of course it does. That is the only thing this cock is good for. Reacting to the truth while the rest of you stays on your back eating pussy like you should have just been a girl in the first place.”

She comes with a low, controlled sound, grinding hard on your mouth and holding your head in place with both hands while the waves run through her. Her grip on your cock tightens through it, keeping the modest length trapped and throbbing but still not allowing release. When she finally lifts off your face she stays kneeling over your chest and looks down at the wet mess of your mouth and the still-hard, still-leaking cock in her hand.

“Good enough,” she says. Her voice is calmer but the edge is still there. “You fixed a little of it. Not all of it. I am still pissed you let me think you were a girl.” She gives your cock one more firm stroke, then lets go. “You can go. Or you can stay on the floor and keep that little dick hard while I decide if I want anything else from you. Your choice. But if you stay, I am going to keep reminding you how much you misled me and how small the surprise was.”

She climbs off the bed, still in the boots and top, and walks toward the bathroom without looking back. Your cock stays hard against your stomach, shiny and neglected, the modest length pulsing with every heartbeat. The taste of her is still on your tongue. The sharp shift from the soft club version of Sofia to this meaner one sits heavy in your chest and lower.

You stay on the bed because leaving feels impossible while your cock is still in that state. She comes back a few minutes later with a glass of water, looks at the hard little cock still standing against your stomach, and shakes her head once.

“Of course it is still hard. Little thing does not know when to quit. Fine. You can stay a while. But you are going to listen while I talk about how good the cat costume looked and how disappointing the reveal was. And you are going to keep that tiny cock hard the whole time so I can see it while I remind you.”

She sits on the edge of the bed and starts talking. The words are steady and precise. She describes every moment on the dance floor when she thought she was touching a girl. She describes how the smooth front of the romper had convinced her. She describes the exact second the gaff came down and the small hard cock appeared instead. Every sentence is paired with a glance at your modest length, which stays hard under the attention and the continued sharp commentary.

Your cock throbs through all of it. The meaner version of the night has not reduced the arousal. It has simply changed the flavor of it. You stay hard, leaking, and quiet while she tells you exactly how the costume lied and how little the truth measured up.

The Algorithm’s message arrives later, quiet on your phone while she is still talking.

Slutty cat deployment successful. Discovery produced irritation and continued use. Subject remained hard under verbal size focus and forced oral service. Elevated shame-arousal loop confirmed. Data logged.

You lie there in the ruined cat costume pieces, her voice still detailing every moment she thought you were a girl, your modest cock still hard and ignored on your stomach, and feel the entire night settle into something sharper and meaner than the club had promised.