The Crooked Hook squatted at the edge of the quay, a miserable, ramshackle pile of warped, grey boards that once were whitewashed, but that was gods knew how long ago. Left to the withering touch of the salt air, the paint was peeling in thick strips from the rotting wood, while a sign swayed from a worm-eaten post, like that of a gallows, displaying the crudely painted hook which gave the tavern its moniker. Nestled between a chandler’s shop and a ropemaker, the rundown watering hole was at all times infested with the sort of disreputable scum who washed in with the turbulent surf. Seated among the wobbling tables, sailors and dock workers alike hunkered over their mugs of thin, sour ale, voices kept low as eyes would inevitably dart to the shadows. Hands reached for knives, casually fingering the smooth hilts of yellowed ivory or bone, wood polished from ready use, ready for the first glint of steel to shimmer in the glimmering light which barely glowed brighter than the small circle which ran about the guttering tallow candles like a broken egg yolk. 

The murmur of hushed, guttural voices would be the only melody in the Crooked Hook and that was how old Occham liked it. The former seacat, his fur bearing many a puckered scar, scooped up another mug and began to wipe down the pewter with a much soiled rag. Satisfied, he placed the empty mug down on the crooked bar and turned a watchful eye on the maid seated before him. 

“Braxton,” he spoke in a rumble. “I ain’t payin’ ye to sit yer ass.”

The barmaid, a young cat with fur the color of smoke, turned a pair of eyes like glimmering emeralds on the older feline. “Then you should have gotten me a uniform with a longer skirt.” The young cat tugged at the short hem of a skirt of brown wool which did little to conceal the ripe swell of a pair of firm, yet supple cheeks. “Uncle, why do I have to wear this?”

“I ain’t hearin’ Matilda complaining,” the old cat gruffly replied. He indicated with a scruffy chin the plump figure of a cat with fur the color of spun gold.

“Matilda is also a woman,” Braxton grumbled.

A cat of middle years, Matilda glided through the weaving forest of limbs and chairs, her tray balanced above her head. Her bosom swayed, breasts pendulous, daring to leap free of the much begrimed, white blouse. Her rounded belly was held back by a black dirndl of worn felt, while her wide, motherly hips were swaddled by a sash of red silk which glimmered softly in the light of a passing candle. Her hips rolled as she moved, her buttocks rising and falling with a peculiar rhythm that, despite her years, still caught the eye of many a weary sailor. The young cat turned away from the scene, lip curled in disgust. 

“I don’t get it,” Braxton said. 

“Aye, and ye never will with that attitude,” said Occham. “Look at ye, bosoms like cannonballs and yet ye waste them letting them flop on me bar. Go out there and woo some patrons.”

Braxton sat up, his chest blossoming from the confines of his blouse. Swollen breasts which strained the thin fabric, their nipples just beginning to bud as the young cat looked his uncle in the eye and heaved himself up from the bar.

“Alright,” Braxton muttered. “But, I don’t have to like it.”

“Didn’t ask ye too,” replied Occham. 

Braxton cursed under his breath, standing up from the narrow stool on which he sat. His gaze would turn from the shadowy silhouettes, the fleeting form of Matilda, down to the luscious, full swell of a pair of breasts that no male cat should have ever possessed. Why was he cursed like this, he would wonder? His lips pressed into a thin line, Braxton curled one arm over his swollen chest, as if to hide his peculiar features. 

“Now quit that,” barked his uncle. Occham slapped the dirty rag on the bar and glared at the young cat. “I told ye to quit moping and put those beauties to work. Now, go serve the next gaggle who comes through that door.”

“Yes, uncle,” muttered Braxton.

The front door of the Crooked Hook swung open on rusted hinges. The squeal of metal screaming through the stale air to draw every eye on the four cats who stood framed in the open portal. Tendrils of the nightly fog which crept from the slate grey sea drifted between their legs, cloying fingers groping at the warped floor boards, bringing with them the oppressive stench of rotten fish and the odor of the stagnant waters which lapped at the stone walls of the quay. That they were sailors was no surprise to any who came to the Crooked Hook. Dangerous, wild-eyed cats with fur etched with the jagged scars of hook and knife. One tabby glared with a single bloodshot eye, the other lost years ago, now covered by a leather patch, and stomped across the threshold. Hobnailed boots crashed down on the creaking boards, upsetting the vermin which crawled through the moldering straw used by old Occham to mop up the spilled ale and less savory fluids which often came when rowdy sailors got too drunk. 

Behind the cat with one eye came three more, tall, broad shouldered felines, calloused by wind and sun. All but the last cat, who still bore the fresh face of youth on his white and orange features. His keen eyes glittered bright blue, taking in the shadowy gloom which pervaded every inch of the tavern. 

“Aye, Calvin,” called one of the sailors. “Get over here, lad and have a seat.”

Calvin gave a start and turned to find the other three had sat down around a lone table not far from the bar. They hunched over the wobbled edge, perched like gargoyles, eyes gleaming in the darkness as they waited for the last of their party to take a seat. 

“So’s this your first sail?” grunted a big tabby with a notch taken from his right ear. He claimed it was in a knife fight, but Calvin suspected the oaf had only gotten drunk one night and clipped it himself. 

“Aye,” replied the fresh faced sailor. “First time around the world as they say.”

“Be a bit of a sail, that’s for sure,” said the big one eyed cat. “Be a long time before you see a pretty face.”

“Speak for yerself, Bram,” remarked a third. “Be worse lookin’ at yer mug the entire time.”

This brought a round of guffaws from the three cats, leaving Calvin to shrink back on the roughly carved chair. 

“Aye, but where is the doxy with our ale?” Bram whirled in his seat and shouted at Occham, “Old cat, ale! We be dyin’ of thirst over here.”

Occham coughed in reply and waved at Braxton. “Go, lad. Get to it.”

His face blooming crimson, the grey cat took up a tray of slopping mugs and made for the table. The sailor’s eyes glowed like hot coals, glittering as they fell upon the ripe orbs which swelled so deliciously from the bosom of Braxton. He was tall, his belly firm and flat, with hips that were shapely in their alluring boxiness which came from his male form. Beneath the short skirt his manhood was encased in a tight, leather thong, which did little to conceal the fullness of his supple, round ass. The sailors were motionless, watching the lissome way in which the cat’s legs glided with a dancer’s grace across the creaking floorboards, his sandaled feet not making a single board shiver, such was the ease in which Braxton moved. Calvin was entranced, never had the young sailor witnessed such beauty. 

“Aye, and what do we have here?” remarked Bram. 

Braxton was leaning over the table, a pewter mug clutched in one hand. His heaving breasts sagged over the tablet top, their nipples grazing the rough wood, scraping the scarred table with the faint rasp of worn cloth. His tail curled behind him, revealing the roundness of his rump, which the lusty cat did not hesitate to claim with a resounding slap. Braxton gave a yelp, leaping upwards to send the bitter ale streaming from his fingers, splattering Calvin in foam which seeped into the thin vest which he wore over a simple, wool shirt. The young sailor nearly toppled from his seat as he leapt up, arms akimbo.

Braxton was mortified. Dropping the empty mug with a clatter upon the floor, the grey cat brought his fingers to his mouth, his face flushing ochre. “Oh, what did I do?” he whimpered at the young sailor now drenched in his uncle’s watery beer. “I-I’m sorry, I can’t believe I did that.” His fingers drummed on the tray he clasped to his wobbling chest. 

“It’s fine,” replied Calvin. “I happen to like the smell of rancid ale.” His gaze met that of Braxton, and he felt the first bloom of heat fill his cheeks. “Um, really, it’s nothing to apologize for.”

“Such a feisty one, this is,” said Bram. “Aye, missy, would ye care to spend a last night on shore with an old sailor? A sweet thing like you shouldn’t have to bed alone.”

“I would not,” cried Braxton, making the four cats sit back with astonishment. He stood rigid, eyes blazing, his heaving chest rising and falling as his fur began to bristle. “I-I am not some doxy for you to take over your shoulder,” he squawked. 

Bram squinted through the guttering light of the candle, seeing Braxton fully for the first time. His gaze wandered from the swell of the cat’s chest, down to the bulge which strained below the hem of the short skirt. 

“This maid be something else,” said Bram. “Be no maid at all, I be thinking.”

“That’s right,” said Braxton. “I’m not, is that a problem?”

The grey cat’s body trembled, his face blossoming with the red heat which grew from his neck. Every finger was tightened into a fist, his claws pricking the flesh of his palm. The four cats’ eyes were on him, the strange feline with breasts to make a painted whore weep in jealousy. Why did he agree to this, he wondered? But, Calvin was enraptured by the strange cat. His wandering eyes fell from the trembling lips, glistening black and wet, plump as dark cherries, down the plunging neckline to nestle into the quivering bosom. He longed then to thrust his clawed fingers deep into that trembling ravine, to feel the soft, wobbling flesh filling his palms. He quested the flat stomach, finding the bulge of the swollen orbs straining against the thin leather of the Braxton’s undergarments. The sleek thighs demanded his touch, calling for him to submit, but he could not. Not yet, not with the others still watching. The young sailor brought his mug to his lips, sipping the warm ale, allowing the bitter taste to splash across his tongue. He reeked of spilled beer, his shirt and vest soaked, but he would not protest, not when this vision of beauty stood before him. 

“Occham, what is this?” shouted Bram. “What kind of creatures are ye allowing in here?”

From the bar Occham replied in a guttural rumble, “Me sister’s boy. Now be nice, Bram.”

“Ach,” hissed the one-eyed cat. “Be needin’ some better company than this one.”

Braxton’s eyes glittered with a barely contained rage. Tears glimmered crystalline at the edges of those luminous emeralds, threatening to burst at any moment. It took all that he had to not lay a fist into the gruff sailor’s face. 

“V-Very well,” Braxton stammered. “I-I’ll go fetch another round, while you four work on these.”

He turned, his shoulder’s quaking, not daring to let the sailors see the trickle of salty tears which ran down his grey cheeks. Calvin ached to see the young cat walking away, yet delighted in the firm sway of his rump, the cheeks peeking out beneath the hem of his skirt. The cat plopped down on a stool and leaned one elbow on the bar, looking miserable. Calvin placed his mug on the table, unable to take his eyes from the mysterious feline. 

“Aye, Calvin,” said another of the group, an old sailor by the name of Steng. “Be watching that one a little close.”

“I-I’m sorry?” Calvin sputtered. 

The older cat sat back, crossing arms that were thick as tree trunks and crossed with scars. “I said ye be watching that maid close, boy.”

“That maid is not a maid,” said Bram with a sour expression creasing his face. “Not unless I be a two-headed shark.”

This brought a round of chuckles from the gruff sailors, except for Calvin. The ghostly grey visage of Braxton returned, his expression one of grim resolve as he sat another mug before Calvin. 

“For the one I spilled on you,” he said in a voice that was barely a whisper.

Calvin began to speak, to offer his thanks, when another bellowed, “Aye, and what about the rest of us, lad? Brains be in yer tits?”

Grinding his fangs together, Braxton mumbled something in reply and skulked back to the bar, leaving Calvin to watch the young barmaid retreat from their table. 

“Aye, this hovel be wearing on me.” Bram placed his third mug on the table and called for more ale. “And not from that dour chap with the melons stuffed down his shirt.”

Plump Matilda, her hips swaying, materialized at his side. Scarcely had the fat cat placed the frothing ale on the table, Bram had his burly arm around her waist. The she-cat gave a squeal, her arms around Bram’s thick neck as the sailor lifted her from the floor and just as effortlessly, tossed her over his shoulder. 

“Oh, you,” she giggled. “My, such a lusty brute you are, sailor.”

“Aye, me,” said Bram. “And I be claiming his wench. See you lads on the morrow.”

The big cat strode from the bar, the laughing Matilda over his shoulder, disappearing into the fog. The remaining pair each nodded and pushed themselves from the table. 

“Since Bram has his fun, we’ll be going to the Jade Heron. You coming, Calvin?”

Not the most luxurious of brothels, but the Jade Heron catered to the needs of many a poor seacat. Calvin placed his mug down and shook his head. 

“I don’t think so,” he replied. 

“Say now,” said one sailor. “I’ve got a good one.” He winked at the other two. “Why not one of us bed down that new maid of Occham’s?”

“The lad with the tits to set a sea cow to shame?” laughed the other. “Aye, now that’s a laugh, there. But, I ain’t the one to do it.”

“Aye, I can agree to that,” said the first. “But, it would make for a good laugh.”

Calvin sat alone, watching the other two slip out into the night. His ears suddenly swiveled, hearing the faint rustle of a skirt passing behind him. He turned in his seat to lay eyes fully on a pair of grey globes which filled his vision. Braxton was bending over, scooping up the mug he had dropped earlier before placing it on the table. In his other hand, he held a broom. This, the young, grey cat took up and proceeded to sweep up the wet straw. Vermin scattered in his wake, fleeing from the waning light of the few remaining candles. Calvin could not look away, seeing the rigid jaw, the firmness of the chin. The tight muscles of a slender throat, plunging into the deep cleft of a collarbone which was like a chalice made to hold the heady wine of his kisses. His cock began to stir, straining against his breeches as he watched the way the grey cat would glide so casually around the emptied common room. So enthralled was he by Braxton, that Calvin had not even been aware that the other patrons had long ago made their stumbling sojourn back out into the fog strewn alleys.

“Tavern is closing,” said a richly deep tenor. “You should be catching up with your friends.”

“My friends?” Calvin felt the heat rising in his cheeks. “Um, but I.. Uh…”

He saw that Braxton was looking at him, the grey cat leaning on the broom. The ripeness of his manhood thrust itself from below the hem of his skirt, plump as a pair of juicy plums, churning fat with the potent brew which frothed likewise within the aching balls of Calvin. The young sailor licked his lips. His tongue felt bloated, as if it had grown two sizes within his jaws. 

Braxton’s green eyes narrowed. Seeing the way this young sailor was watching him, he said, “See something you like?”

This made Calvin give a start. The young sailor shifted in his seat, stumbling from the chair like a drunk, though he had barely downed one ale the entire night. “I-I, that is…” He did not know what to say. He made to move, his foot catching on the leg of the chair, sending it toppling to the floor with a crash. 

“And breaking the furniture,” said Braxton. “Wonderful.” He turned from Calvin to resume his sweeping. A tight frown curling his mouth down. 

Calvin gulped, bracing himself on the table. Summoning his flagging courage, he said, “I was wondering if I could… could…”

“Could tumble the strange barmaid?” Braxton finished for him. He leaned the broom against a nearby table and placed his hands on his slim, shapely hips. “Look good and long, sailor.” He thrust out his chest, the buttons fighting nobly to hold back the tide of flesh which surged at his blouse. “See them? Like them? Good, now get out.”

“Just a moment, nephew,” came the voice of Occham. “Seems the lad is quite taken by you. Why not have a go, lord knows you could use it.”

The color drained from Braxton’s face. The cat whirled on the old barkeep, fury seeping into a voice made shrill. “U-Uncle, you cannot be serious.”

“I be,” said Occham. “Time you grew up, lad.” His lips curled into a wry grin. “Make a proper woman of ye.”

“I-I’m not, I mean, I’m not a woman,” screeched Braxton. “I, um…” He turned a glance back at Calvin. The young sailor was tall and lean, with broad shoulders and strong, ropy arms. Powerful fingers tipped a pair of strong hands, hands which Braxton found himself imagining running along his body, exploring the heaving mounds of his breasts. The young cat gnawed his lower lip, eyes darting first to Calvin, then to Occham and back again. Finally, with a sigh, he said, “Very well, I have a small room down the hall. We can retire there.” 

Calvin’s heart leapt into his throat. His blood rushed in his ears, drowning out all other noise with the roar of the ocean. His head pounded and he could not bring himself to move from where he stood. 

“You coming, sailor?” 

The call of Braxton was like that of a siren and Calvin could only pray that he was not headed for any sharp rocks as he dashed into the gloomy mouth of a narrow doorway in pursuit of the busty male. The floor was of the same rotten lumber as the common room, heavy with the scent of the pervasive seaside damp and mildew. Cobwebs clung to the beams above him, gossamer threads floating ghostly in the low light of the silvery moon which streamed through a pair of lead lined panes.Through the shimmering luminescence, he caught the glimmer of grey, like that of smoke fading into the gloom. Braxton, his body ethereal, swam through the oppressive darkness, melting into an open doorway through which Calvin entered. The small room, barely bigger than a closet, held only a slim, rickety bed, big enough to comfortably hold one. The threadbare blankets which covered a lumpy, straw stuffed mattress were once blue, maybe green, but time and dirt had reduced them to a pale grey in color, while a pillow of old feathers sat at the roughly carved headboard. Aside from this, there was a small table by the bed. A lantern was lit, its wobbling orange flame casting its gleam across the features of Braxton as he stood with arms crossed beneath his breasts. A wooden chest completed the ensemble, no other furnishings adorned the dismal chamber, not even a mirror. 

“This is it,” said Braxton. “Not much to look at.” 

A small, grimy window sat above the bed, threads of moonlight filtering through the lead lined pane to set the cat’s fur to shimmer. Calvin stepped into the room, his hands at his side. 

“Well?” asked Braxton. “Are you going to make a move or should I?”

This was humiliating, Braxton thought. Maybe, if he was lucky, the young sailor would come to his senses and turn around and leave. Instead, Calvin’s ears swiveled up. The sailor fumbled for the knob of the door, closing it behind him. When he looked back, Braxton was facing away from him. His back was left bare by the sloping neckline of his blouse. Calvin’s hands shook, his fingers reaching out to graze the cat’s shoulder. Braxton shivered, the muscles of his back dancing beneath this flesh, enticing Calvin to glide down the curve of his spine. The sailor’s fingertips rustled in Braxton’s fur, making the cat moan faintly from pursed lips. 

“O-Oh,” he found himself groaning. “Oh, that is nice. But is that the best you have, sailor?”

Emboldened, Calvin placed both hands on Braxton’s hips, clutching the shivering maid hard. Braxton let out a gasp, feeling the rigidness of Calvin’s throbbing manhood pulsating against his rump. His heart began to hammer, knowing what was to come, yet he could not, not yet. He swallowed back against the tightness in his throat, his chest rising as he took a breath. Calvin’s hot lips were nestling his neck, rising up the delicate curve of his chin. 

“N-Now hold on,” Braxton protested. “I-I didn’t really mean for you to--Mmm…”

The mouth of the orange and white sailor cat met Braxton’s lips with a kiss to steal the very breath from the barmaid’s lungs. Braxton’s claws grasped at the firm hands of Calvin, but he could not find the strength to peel those hard, strong fingers from his inviting hips. His cock stirred beneath the thin leather of his underwear, demanding to be free, while the pulsing orbs of his manhood did grow fat with the seed which would weep opalescent from his glimmering tip. Braxton’s nostrils flared, puffing rapidly to make his belly heave as he sucked in the stale air, thick with the scent of damp and mildew. Calvin’s tongue darted from between his fangs, sliding along the even white teeth of his lover, seeking entry into Braxton’s warm, wet mouth. The plush, ebon pillows that were his lips parted, his jaws opening, and the sailor was quick to leap between the gleaming fangs, to explore the hungering mouth which desired him so. 

The pink, questing tongue of Calvin slid along Braxton’s tongue, slithering down his throat, only to curl upwards, caressing the palate of the moaning barmaid. But, the young grey male was not to be a mere wilting flower in the arms of this roughed seat cat. His own tongue did pounce now, twirling around Calvin’s like a serpent. Braxton’s fingers clutched at Calvin’s hands, his heart racing. The strength, raw and primal, which flowed in those firm hands made the young cat’s body grow hot, his flower blooming between his full, round buttocks, slick and ready with the fragrant nectar of desire. Heat bloomed in Braxton’s cheeks, sweat making his blouse cling to his breasts, his nipples thrusting up from the thin material to tempt the wandering fingers of his lover. 

Calvin tore his mouth from the swollen lips of Braxton, leaving the cat to pant desperately as the sailor plunged, seeking the curve of the grey cat’s delicate throat. His lips glided down the slope of Braxton’s neck, feeling the tension of those taut, strong tendons which raised themselves like steel cables beneath the tender flesh. Lower, he fell, to fill the font of Braxton’s collarbone with his kisses, the wine of his love overflowing to pour down between the quivering mounds of the young cat’s heaving breasts. His fingers slid down from the cat’s hip, slipping beneath the hem of his skirt to lay claim to a sleek, smoky thigh. Braxton uttered a mewling whimper, his body all but surrendering to the ministrations of Calvin. The barmaid tumbled back, pressing against the broad chest of the sailor, enthralled by the hardness he felt beneath the still sodden shirt. Calvin’s mouth quested back up, grazing the supple ear of Braxton. His breath, hot and wet, bore the stench of ale, the pungent odor an elixir to make the grey cat’s head swim. 

“Mmm, say I never got your name,” Braxton moaned as fingers slid down his inner thigh. 

His muscles swam beneath Calvin’s touch, his cock straining hard against the leather thong which was creaking with the exertion of holding back his swelling erection. Calvin’s breeches too, did scream as his manhood sought to leap free, eager to plunge between the ripe, bare cheeks which hid just below the thin brown wool. 

“It’s Calvin,” the sailor whispered. 

“Calvin.” Braxton said the name aloud, tasting it on his tongue, letting it roll around his gums. “I think I like that name.”

“And you are Braxton, I believe,” replied the sailor. His lips nuzzled the grey cat’s ear. “I like that name as well.”

His tongue slid along the furry lobe, Braxton’s body quivering, his thighs opening as Calvin’s hand now slid up, gliding along the sleek flesh to trace the bulge which swelled within the leather undergarments. His fingers found the string, knotted tight lest the grey cat’s manhood should spill free. 

“We sailors are good with knots, you know,” he chuckled and with a quick pluck, pulled the string loose. 

Down fell the hateful garment to lay between Braxton’s feet. The barmaid’s cock leapt free, a pillar of throbbing ebony which glistened with the shimmering bead of his weeping desire. His balls, like ripened plums, dangled between his thighs, churning with the need to be taken. Calvin cupped the furred scrotum, squeezing gently, making Braxton whimper in his arms. His hand then traveled upward, one finger running up the erect shaft. The grey cat trembled, his nipples aching, so rigid had those supple buds become. Never had he felt this way before. He grasped at Calvin’s hand, desperation lending the young cat a feverish sort of strength. With all of his trembling might, he brought that hand to his breast, slipping those hard fingers beneath the plunging neckline of his blouse so that Calvin did cup the fullness of his swollen breast. 

The sailor gave a start as his hand was filled with warm, jiggling flesh. The softness of Braxton’s breast, the smoothness of his fur, he was compelled to dig his clawed fingers into the yielding flesh, to circle the bumpy areola which ringed the erect nub of Braxton’s nipple. Gently, he flicked the hardened bud, punching and twisting so that Braxton did groan and cry out. One leg raised itself from the floor, the sandal which clung to that slender foot falling with a slap upon the boards as Braxton placed a knee on the creaking mattress. His ass spread beneath his skirt, bared now to the sailor. The heat, the raw scent of musk and sweat played in the nostrils of Calvin. He licked his lips, his throat suddenly becoming tight. He found himself reaching for Braxton’s firm rump, caressing the roundness, the muscles taut and strong as he descended down the back of the cat’s thigh. Braxton leaned towards the bed, his palm’s spreading across the blanket as he pushed back, his buttocks rubbing against the swollen rod that was Calvin’s rigid penis. 

“O-Oh,” moaned Calvin. “Oh, Braxton.”

“Mmm, are you going to make me wait all night?” asked the grey cat.

Taut, round flesh ballooned in his palms. The rasp of Braxtons fur rustled against the rough fabric of his breeches which strained to hold back the throbbing pole which yearned to leap free.

“Thought this was what you wanted?”

He did want it. From the moment he laid eyes on the barmaid, Calvin had wanted this and he was going to claim it.