Margaret's Machine

Margaret loved being a cat.

What she was less of a fan of was the responsibility that it took to be the CEO (Cat Executive Officer) of a wildly successful sex toy business while also pretending to be a thoughtless, brainless (but very cute) pet of Timothy Ellison, software engineer and lover of lysergic acid diethylamide.

Not that Timmy was a bad human. Compared to the cats Margaret had met in her 15 years in the adult toy business, Timmy was, in the cat's opinion, a kind, morally upstanding being, if a bit low on the impulse control side of things. It did not escape her that he had donated 10% of his income to Oxfam every month for years, that he always said "Thank you very much sir/ma'am" when ordering food every night over the phone, leaving a completely barren kitchen, and that he always wiped the toilet seat down with Lysol after using the restroom, despite never having anyone over.

Still, Margaret, like most working female felines, had little time to consider personality when picking a human. She was efficient and down-to-business. She liked to keep work at the forefront of her life, and though a pet human was necessary to keep up appearances, she slightly loathed the dependence she had on Timmy.

It didn't hurt that he was exceptional at massaging behind Margaret's ears though.

The reason why she had so much zeal for life at the particular moment, however, was that she had just successfully closed a fifty-thousand item deal with the cut-throat tycoon tomcat that sat across from her, Waffle, and for a great price to her company.

"So, tomorrow morning, Margaret?" Mr. Waffles had asked.

He was licking his ball sack. Slowly. Slowly enough so that he did not betray his enthusiasm for a deal that he had been convinced by Margaret's expert manipulation was actually extremely weighted to him. And slowly enough to be subtly disrespectful.

I'd almost feel bad for his lack of understanding of distribution market dynamics if he wasn't slurping his testicles so hard, Margaret thought.

"Yes," Margaret replied. "You may come by 3:00 AM tomorrow morning, during zoomie hours, and receive the prototype. We shall discuss locational distribution at a later time."

"No," Waffles said flatly between tickles of his scrotum. "My team has already a distribution plan drawn up. Your assistance in that regard will not be necessary, my dear."

Margaret's ears went back a hair. "I built the X-5000 with a specific plan and audience in mind, Waffles. We'll both make far more money--"

"As I said, Margaret," Waffles interjected, "that will not be necessary."

Margaret sighed. "Very well. Meet me with your assistants at 3:00AM." She walked away with a tail that was unable to feign a happy question mark in the air.

The X-5000 was the pinnacle of male pleasure. It had taken Margaret the better part of a year to design, and she considered it her magnum opus. It was not merely a toy, it was an experience which she expected would sell very well in specific parts of South Eastern Asia. Rotating, self-warming, bristled insertion ports, ballistic gel stolen from the military to simulate human flesh, mechanically programmable hips to simulate any level of energy from your new lover from "morning awakening" to "frenzied African beehive", the X-5000 had those and dozens of other features all designed to make you feel as if you had found your sexual haven. Margaret only had one or two final adjustments to make to the prototype. Soften up the titty-twisters a notch or two, maybe. And remove one genius piece of technology for a later date.

It would still make money. Millions of dollars, despite Waffles's distribution plan which was doubtless inferior to Margaret's, would enter her bank account in a matter of weeks. But not the tens of millions she had hoped for.

It's a tomcat's world, Margaret thought sadly as she turned a corner back to her home. And you're just living in it.

Margaret was going to die.

It had been 87 minutes and 6 seconds since food had last graced her body. She was desperate. She was livid!

"Feed me you pasty skinny English fuck!" Margaret screamed.

"Oh poor little baby," Timmy said, "Do you want cud--"

"I'm gonna claw your motherfucking eyeballs out! Get the food out of the can!"

"Do you want to pla--"

"Fuck you! Food!"

"Do you want food?" Timmy said, motioning towards the cabinet where Margaret's wet food was.

Margaret gave her most abject wail of confirmation and headbutted Timmy's shin just to make her true desires clear.

Timmy placed a paper plate on the floor with the wet food smeared onto it, and Margaret chirped gratefully. Had it been a few more minutes, and Margaret suspected she would have gone into hypovolemic shock.

She knew, even as she took a few tentative bites and then walked away, having lost her appetite, that it wasn't really Timmy's fault that he never understood her.

Actually, she thought as she shrimped on her bed high up on her cat tree and prepared to take a quick 8-hour power nap, there was that one time that we were able to communicate briefly about his ex-girlfriend when he was high on LSD. But I think that freaked him out a little bit.

Margaret lost consciousness and slept peacefully.

It was an hour past midnight. Margaret was awoken before her internal alarm clock was supposed to go off. It was the sound of the Microsoft Teams notification coming from Timmy's unmanned computer that had woken her. It was not like him to be sleeping at this hour. 1:00AM was prime working time for Timmy's messy but effective working schedule.

Maybe he's finally getting his sleep schedule under control, Margaret thought.

She was about to go back to sleep for another half hour, but heard a soft moaning sound coming from Timmy's bedroom.

While not passionate about Timmy's well-being, Margaret didn't want the poor boy to be tortured by nightmares. She resolved to go wake him up. She was well aware how her presence could be comforting to humans in distress.

She immediately regretted walking into Timmy's bedroom.

Timmy was furiously stroking his cock with curled toes and arched back. A wet fapping noise emanated throughout the space, and Margaret was immediately extremely perturbed, not least by what Timmy was uttering.

"Oh fuck yes, fucking stab me to death, fucking kill me," Timmy moaned with closed eyes, apparently imagining some sort of deadly submission fantasy.

"Fuck no," Margaret said aloud, incredulous. She went to go back to sleep with a cushion over her ears to deafen herself, but thought better of it. "Just in case this weirdo finds the X-5000, I better take it out of the pantry so he doesn't fuck it."

"What?" a voice from behind her said.

Margaret stood perfectly still.

"What did you say?" Timmy said, sitting up, erect penis still in hand.

Oh shit, Margaret thought.

She used her cat vision to examine Timmy's pupils which were, even in the bedroom light, extremely dilated. He was high on psychedelics. Again.

"Nothing," Margaret said nervously. "Go back to touching yourself, Timmy. I'll see you in the morning."

"There's an X-5000 in the pantry?" Timmy asked.

"Uh, no, I only meant--wait, how do you know about the X-5000?"

"I've seen it everywhere online. I even pre-ordered it a few weeks ago."

"Pre-ordered it?" Margaret stared at Timmy.

Then she realized: That bastard Waffles is selling it locally!? The taxes alone...

"Yeah, pre-ordered it. I gotta try it if you already have one." Timmy stepped past his cat and made for the pantry, half-flaccid dick flapping around his thighs.

"No, Timmy, listen: I've a huge deal tonight with the X-5000 prototype, I can't have it being used right now!"

"You invented the X-5000?" Timmy asked. "Wow Margaret, you're a genius! I have to try it now!" Timmy opened the pantry door, unused for years by all except Margaret to store her inventions. "Holy shiiiiiiit. It looks just like the pictures!" He flicked the titty-twister.

Without warning (or even bothering to take the thing back to his bedroom), Timmy set the 60-pound amoeba shaped device on the floor, lined up his member, inserted, and started to pump.

"Oh, holy fuck on a stick!" Timmy said, grinding his hips into the device whose cooling fans were now powering up. "That's so good."

As if possessed, the machine bucked its "hips", arrhythmically at first, but eventually timed and smoothed to match Timmy's movements. The tiddy twisters sprung up to the man's hairless chest and began to suck.

"Ahhh, little hard with the twisting, Margaret, you might want to lighten that up a smidgen."

"I could, you dumb fuck, if you could stop making love to it!"

Timmy chuckled as his rhythm became more passionate, "I'd have to be an idiot to get off this thing, catto."

Margaret watched in horror as, fully powered up, the X-5000's flesh morphed and warped, changing itself from a purple-colored amoeba shape into a humanoid shape that warped around his Timmy's legs until he was being ridden cowgirl style by a mottled human-bacteria hybrid.

"Oh my God! It's fucking alive!"

Proprietary mind-reading technology, Margaret thought sadly, imagining how she would never be able to clean the prototype by the time Waffles's men arrived. Designed to imitate the user's desires. I was planning on moving the wetware over to a hard drive for the X-6000. Damn...

The impossible machine warped and morphed into a more and more human shape, growing breast-shaped protrusions out of its torso, strands of long, blonde hair from its head, and shaping luscious, unspeakably beautiful curves onto its hips and thighs until the figure that was vigorously fucking the shit out of Timmy assumed the form of...

Oh Christ.

Timmy's. Ex. Girlfriend.

Two voices now joined each other as one, forming a symphony of unbridled dual pleasure between man and machine. What was even more pathetic was that Timmy's hands did not go to grasp his ex-girlfriend's doppelgänger's tits, or ass, or hips, but her hands. Timmy, in a drug-enhanced haze, actually felt true connection to the mindless automaton and began to cry tears of joy.

"I missed you so much, baby," said the X-5000, smiling down at its human lover.

Ugh, I'm such a disgusting piece of shit for programming that. Margaret slunk away in defeat to sit by a wall and stare into oblivion. It's a tomcat's world...

Margaret would have to wait until Timmy blew his fat load and fell asleep. She was contemplating switching careers before she heard footsteps outside of the apartment's front door.

That must be them, Margaret thought, Guess I'll have to beg Waffles for another chance.

"Roger that, sir, it will be done." A muffled voice said through the door.

Margaret gave herself pause.

'It will be done?' What is this, Order 66? She thought, remembering those ludicrous Star Wars films Timmy had watched on repeat for years.

Then she realized: Waffles was stupid, but also had the reputation of being a greedy bastard in the lethal cat business world. It would not be beyond him to beat her half to death and simply steal the X-5000, since she had given him the address just yesterday afternoon. And the clock only read 1:30AM, far earlier than business-like professionalism would call for.

Shit.

Margaret's pupils dilated and went into murder mode. Her hair stood up. Her ears airplaned. She had no weapons but her teeth, her claws, and her wits. They would have to be enough.

The front door suddenly was blown off its hinges, narrowly missing Margaret's head and making her ears ring.

"Get her boys!" a familiar voice shouted through the smoke of detonated plastic explosive.

A tomcat leapt out of the rubble, gunning for Margaret's neck. She sprung high in the air so that the male would've had to make an impossible maneuver to catch her neck. As he passed below, she gave a hard swipe with her hind legs, tearing chunks of flesh from the enemy's eyes and making him cry with pain.

Another one had readied itself in the clearing smoke with the shake of his haunches. He leapt for Margaret, catching her dead center and slamming her into a wall.

It was a fight to see who could get their hind legs into the others' soft underbelly first. Margaret shrugged to protect her neck. The tomcat's legs were stronger, but hers were more nimble and maneuverable. She got her claws embedded into her opponents' belly first and ripped as hard as she could, killing him instantly from shock and blood loss.

Limping to the first injured cat, she issued a coup de grâce in the form of a nice, crunchy bite to the spine, leaving him dead or paralyzed. She did not care which.

All that remained was Waffles, standing in the rubble of Timothy's front door. And having seen his two best men get killed in less than twenty seconds, he scattered like the wind.

Good riddance, Margaret thought, battered, but proud she had won the ambush, as well as happy for the luck she had had to injure the first tomcat outright. Had it not been for that and she would've lost the ensuing two-on-one. She would make sure this was on CNN (Cat News National) in the morning to expose Waffles for his treachery.

Looking back to the kitchen was another, far more disturbing sight than the gore around her.

Timmy was now literally frothing at the mouth with pleasure. The X-5000 evidentially had expertly manipulated his dick to prevent him from cumming. Timmy obviously had a fetish for blue-balls. That was not the disturbing part. That element laid in the fact that Timmy's ersatz lover had a knife aimed straight for his throat and was about to stab!

"Timmy!" Margaret cried. "Look out!"

But Timmy was too enthralled by the prospect of being stabbed in the face by a beautiful woman to care much about the prospect of death. A mindless smile was all that Margaret got out of him.

You're lucky I love you, you horny, useless, son-of-a-bitch!

With fantastic speed, Margaret soared ten feet right through the air towards the X-5000. With a swift kick of her hind legs into the nape of its neck, she activated the robot's self-destruct mechanism.

"Take this blade like the little bitch you ar--" the X-5000 said, before its head exploded into a bloody mess.

Waking up the next afternoon, Timmy resolved never to try LSD again. Not only did he have goop that tasted like strawberries on him and a massive hangover, but there were 2 dead cats in his apartment, his door had been blown open, and his favorite knife had been left to rust on the wet floor.

The only thing that was normal was that, like every morning, Margaret was purring softly in his ear, fast asleep.

THE END