Alistair Carlisle didn’t have much to do on this Sunday morning. His husband was off on a business trip across the pond in New York, and he wouldn’t be back until Wednesday. He didn’t have work; being of counsel at Abbott Carlisle Swann, he had reduced hours, and nothing at all on the weekends (which was alright with him; he ran the damn firm for years, he might as well enjoy his early quasi-retirement). At six in the evening he would meet his old friend Jamie for dinner at Selkirk’s, but in the meantime his schedule was clear.

The mature, muscled Delphox was enjoying the quiet morning. After a hearty breakfast of eggs over-easy and crispy bacon, he settled down to read the morning paper. It had been raining for the past few days (not unusual for Scotland), but today the morning was brisk and clear. A cool, pleasant breeze drifted through the stately manor, and Alistair smiled as he unfolded the paper and sat down.

The Delphox’s bright green eyes peered down at the pages through wire-frame reading glasses. (He had tried avoiding them for as long as he was able, a fact that Joseph liked to poke fun at: “Pardon, Mr. Carlisle, but I couldn’t find your son-would you be able to read this over?”) As strains of Ravel played from the record turntable in the corner, Alistair sighed in contentment. There was something to be said for the advancement of technology, but there was nothing quite like a solid, tangible newspaper to-

“Mmmmmmf.”

The Delphox said nothing. He merely sighed, lifting his rear up slightly and looking over his shoulder.

“Is something the matter, Tyler?” he asked, sternly.

The feline was locked, neatly and securely, into a smotherbox. Sized precisely for the average-sized head, it was lined with red velvet to make things more comfortable for both involved (it’s no fun sitting on someone’s face when they keep squirming from the pressure). Tyler’s soft, grey-furred face looked up from the hole allowed for it, his expression not dissimilar to a schoolboy suddenly asked to answer a question he didn’t know in front of the entire class.

“Nothing, Mr. Carlisle,” he said. “I…” He paused before continuing. “I just didn’t take a deep enough breath before you sat down, sir.”

“Take one now, then.” Alistair’s tone was dry and slightly bored; Tyler felt his face grow hot with embarrassment as he took a long, deep breath.

“Are you ready now?” Tyler nodded, insofar as he could nod. “Alright, then.”

With that, the Delphox lowered his hips again, returning to his newspaper and pressing his thick, muscular ass against the cat’s face. Unlike his husband, whose ass was a jiggly, flabby muscle-chub wonder, Alistair’s was more taut, more toned. This wasn’t to say it wasn’t big, of course-far from it. Wrapped up in a tight pair of navy blue briefs, his rump swallowed up Tyler’s face, leaving him to see nothing (or breathe nothing) outside of those cotton-clad cheeks.

With that taken care of, Alistair went back to reading the newspaper, once again treating the feline as little more than a piece of furniture. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Tyler; he was, in truth, quite fond of the young servant boy. Besides, if the grey cat didn’t like being ordered around, dominated, objectified and (on some occasions) fucked into a moaning, incoherent, slutty mess, he was free to leave whenever he wanted. Alistair would provide a warm recommendation to Tyler’s future employers, tactfully leaving out the evenings spent using the feline’s tongue as a sweat rag.

Tyler, meanwhile, wasn’t expected to do anything at the moment but lay still and be a seat cushion; he did this as best he could, but as time elapsed it grew harder and harder. It is, as one might expect, quite difficult to breathe with a toned, six-and-a-half-foot-tall Delphox sitting on your face, and what air he could get was filtered through the warmth of Alistair’s brief-clad ass crack. The Pokemon, as always, kept himself immaculate, so the smell wasn’t bad; still, the repetition of the scent and the omnipresence of that smothering rear made Tyler squirm.

Alistair didn’t pay that any mind. He flipped through the pages, seeing what was new. (Tyler’s lungs started to burn; that was the one minute mark or so, right?) There would be some change in leadership at Beckett Hull; if you asked Alistair, it was a long time coming. (Tyler’s face was bright red from the lack of air; the velvet lining helped the pressure on the back of his head, but not by much) Some fellow stole a car and drove it into Loch Lomond convinced he could drive to America; that’s something you don’t see every day. (Tyler’s face was reddish-purple, now; his head felt like it would pop like a balloon) Oh, there’s a McTaggart exhibition at the gallery in Edinburgh; Joseph might like that. Speaking of-

The rattling of the cuffs that kept Tyler’s hands behind his back caught Alistair’s attention. He lifted up his ass, looking over his shoulder at the gasping, coughing feline beneath him.

“Are you alright?” Alistair asked, a note of genuine concern in his voice. After a few more deep, gasping breaths, Tyler managed to get out an answer.

“Y-yes, Mr.-” He interrupted himself with another wheezing cough. “Yes, Mr. Carlisle.”

The Delphox affectionately patted Tyler’s side. “Stay with me, boy,” he said, a smile on his face. “I don’t think I’m certified for CPR.”

The feline gave a quick giggle before continuing to catch his breath. Alistair waited, patiently, for Tyler to get his air back.

“There we are,” he said. “Shall we continue?”