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Backlots

Justin jumped off the schoolbus and headed up the street toward his house. As soon as the bus turned the corner onto Canal Parkway and was out of sight, he veered into the scrub-and-gravel covered patch of land that separated the road from the drainage ditch that ran around the golf course near his mom's house. The ditch had a fence right in the middle of the brackish, foul-smelling water, but where the ditch cornered to run along Canal Parkway a big tangle of mangrove plants grew seven feet high, climbing the fence vertically and covering both sides of the ditch.

Justin and his friends had long ago learned that they could climb over the mangrove trunks protuding from the water. With a pair of bolt cutters Matt had borrowed from his dad's garage they'd cut open the fence and crossed into the golf course with impunity to find golf balls and other stuff. The course had been forbidden territory for years, and he'd been chased off more than once by an old guy with an electric cart and a uniform.

But Justin wasn't there today to sneak into the golf course. He was there for the stash. In a milk crate, covered with a plastic bag, he and his friends had collected a ratty stash of porn: Penthouse, mostly, with a couple of Playboys, and two really old copies of Hustler. There was one really gross magazine, too, something called Puritan, which actually showed people having sex, with close-up pictures and everything. For Justin, there was only one girl in all of them: Hustler, May 1984, the centerfold. A blonde, and the photographer had put a pair of white featherd wings on her back. Her body was lean and shiny, with small breasts and dainty feet. If her face wasn't some model of perfect beauty, Justin didn't care. He got a hard-on just thinking about her. Being able to be alone with his favorite pictures had become Justin's favorite past-time. He had this brief window before his mom expected him home or his friends also made their pilgrimage here. He thought a lot about just stealing the magazine and taking it home with him, but if his mom ever found it she'd throw it out and yell at him and then there would be no more her. No more "Catherine." Tom insisted that they never really used their real names in those magazines, but Justin didn't care.

Justin reached into his jeans and stroked at his cock. The mangrove tangle was big enough Justin would hear anyone coming long before they could make out what he was doing. It felt good in his hands, big and powerful, and he enjoyed stroking it as he flipped through the pages, looking at the girl's pussy and her big, come-fuck-me eyes. She wore big white high-heeled shoes he thought were stupid, but they hardly distracted him at all as he masturbated. He'd done this yesterday, and he would probably do it tomorrow too.

"Wow, you've got a big one."

Justin screamed, flailed backwards and fell against a bent trunk as thick as his thigh. The blow knocked the wind out of him, but his body bent double, lifting his hips into the air to keep his exposed cock of out danger. He turned over onto his back.

A girl was leaning over him. She might have been his age, but the ears and the tail told him not to make any assumptions. He had no idea. "Wha... wha..."

"I could smell you a mile away," she said. She held onto a branch overhead and probed forward with one foot. "Any Bastet in this neighborhood would know what you were doing." Her foot, encased in a strange rubbery moccasin, touched his cock and ran along the length of it. "It smelled pretty good."

"What... what do you want?" Justin said, ashamed when his voice cracked an octave.

"To watch what you were doing," she said. "Go ahead. Finish what you started. I want to see."

Justin shook his head. "No way."

"Why not? You just were." She leaned down. "Are you chicken?"

"No!" He reached under her foot, shoved his cock back into his pants. "It's just... it's supposed to be private."

"I see. Girls aren't supposed to know." She took her foot off his crotch, bent over the magazine he had dropped, picked it up and flipped to the centerfold. To her. "Oh, she's pretty. As pretty as me?"

"No," he said. He didn't know what else to say. He didn't dare say anything else. He rolled over and stood up to face her.

In truth, the catgirl was pretty. Her face was sharp, with a long, hard nose and a definite jaw. She wasn't a full-faced, full-figured Penthouse model, but more like the girls in Hustler: lean, hungry-looking, ready for action. Her body, what he could see of it under her jeans and white, sleeveless T-shirt, was thin but sexy. Justin swallowed hard.

"What's your name?" she said.

"Justin."

"I wanna watch you jerk off, Justin. You were doing it until I said something."

"I... "

"Come on. Chicken."

"I am not!"

"Then do it. Nobody else will find us." She took a deep breath, inhaling through her nostrils. "Trust me on that."

"Okay, okay," he said. He was terrified, but also strangely excited. He couldn't believe a girl wanted to watch him whack it. He had heard that Bastet creatures were weird and did sex differently from everyone else, but he had never thought that he might encounter one of them. Not like this. Not in his wildest fantasies.

Blushing, he reached down into his pants and found his cock. It was hard as he rubbed it. "Take it out," she said. "I wanna see it."

Justin unzipped his fly, reached in and pushed his underwear down underneath his balls. His cock bounced out into the open air. "There. See?"

"Like I said, it's pretty big for such a little guy," she said. Justin felt a flare of annoyance. "Jerk it."

Justin stroked at his cock, his breath coming in little gasps already as the pressure built inside him. Masturbating wasn't fun, it wasn't like dessert or a movie or a trip to the local water park; it was something he had to do, everyday, or he felt something bad might happen. He might explode, or go crazy. The Hustlers and Penthouses only made it a little better, only fed the craziness he felt when he thought about it. Sometimes he did it two, three times a day.

He was staring at the catgirl. She was staring at his crotch. He imagined what she looked like shirtless, pantsless. Did her pussy look any different from an ordinary girls? He imagined it didn't, because he was afraid to imagine if it did. He thought about fucking her. About that forbidden activity that he so desperately wanted. About getting inside her. About penetrating her.

His breathing was wild, the world had dissolved until it was only the catgirl, her eyes wide, her nostrils flared, her own breathing wild as he jerked his cock and suddenly came with a loud groan, jets of his own come flicking out to land on the leaves, a soft patter of wasted rain.

Some had gotten onto his hand. He wiped off as much as he could on the branch behind himself, then finished it on the cuff of his jeans.

The catgirl shook her head as if she were coming out of some kind of trance. She grinned at him, nastily. "That was hot, Justin. Thanks." She turned to leave.

"Wait!" he said. She hestitated. "What's your name? Will you come back?"

She grinned. "My name is Kim. And... maybe I will. Bye!" She leaped through the mangrove, heading for the hole that led to the golf course. He wanted to follow her, but he wasn't that quick or confident. He wondered if he ever would be.