"I am not sure I want to be a straight man" you admit to Silverheart. "I guess I feel like, if I don't give myself a name, this might go away. I always used to be queer in my old life..." You are verging on hysterical as you begin to reject your body, wanting your slim, supple, female form back. You were never a warrior type in your old life as a male but always a slightly pudgy, young queer, what some call a "sugar cub." Your first experience at feeling strong and potent was living as a vixen. This male form feels cumbersome, inefficient and wasteful, and its desires seem as tawdry as that which you had fought against so recently.
Silverheart sighs resignedly as you torment yourself. "Well, the healing inside you must start somewhere," she says. The silver-furred feline sets down her tea cup, and to your shock, she pulls her arms from out of the sleeves of the robe, letting it spill down behind her.
"Wait," you say softly, putting your paws up in front of you and blocking parts of your vision. "You don't have to..."
"I know I don't have to," she says sternly, "but am I allowed to?"
For a moment, you stare blankly at her face, which you can still see around your paws. "I...I guess...if you want..."
"Do I require your permission to show my body or to have sexual thoughts?" she says.
You shake your head. "I guess not" you say, in a small voice.
"Would you like to look at my body?" she says. "Not for my sake but for yours. Please, if you would like, be my guest."
You drop your paws, and you take in Silverheart's body. Underneath her robes, the she-cat is a most incredibly well-preserved specimen of a woman...a so-called "milf." Her breasts are plump and full, sagging only a little at the ends from age but evenly so, not unattractively. The age she does show is that of a respected elder. Multiple healed-over stretch-marks show evidence that she must have had her share of offspring, but even those are even and comely on her, just looking like natural stripes over a taut, smooth tummy. You find her not as sexually appealing as Reynard, neither as a tod nor as a vixen, but Silverheart holds her own compared with the average female.
She smiles gently at you, tilting her head. "So what do you think?"
"Very nice," you say timidly.
"Would you like to fuck me?" she says.
"No," you say quickly, realizing before you say it that you are a liar. "Please, no, I would never..."
"'No' for my sake or 'no' for yours?" she asks pointedly. "Be truthful. Tell me, from your heart, if you would enjoy fucking me. Tell me, entirely truthfully, if you would enjoy having my body engage, as that of a fully consenting adult, in sexual intercourse with your body, being that of a fully consenting adult."
Your mind boils away unhappily at this line of questioning, and you are not sure how to handle it. The problem is being asked to answer truthfully, and you don't want to be truthful. Your mind rebelliously invents thousands of fantasies of you fucking her astute and informed brains clear out of her skull. Your mind starts to invent fantasies of you and her both, in turns, tied-up and being teased relentlessly until insane with desire. You are so very ashamed, but yes, you want to fuck her. You want to fuck her so bad. "Yes" you squeak truthfully, believing this will enrage her and cause her to lose respect for you.
"Maybe later" she says smoothly, pulling her robes back up and once again looking across at you, to your relief fully dressed once more. "So what did you just learn?" she asks.
"That there is a difference between what I want to do and what I think I should do," you answer simply, thinking yourself a quick study.
"What else?" she prods.
You have to think about that for a while. "That..." you start to say, thinking that you might somehow think of the answer if you start to give it. "That...I'm not sure."
She reaches into her robes, and she pulls out something that is wrapped in a waxy, papery sort of package, looking similar to those fancy cylindrical packages of butter. As she unfolds it and carefully pulls the wrapper away from its contents, she reveals inside a crumbly-looking plug of what might be some sort of confection, which she starts breaking down with her claws into smaller pieces and separating over the wrapper.
"What's that?" you say.
"I am not sure what I should name it," she says, "but the ingredients include a fairly large quantity of basil seed, sticky rice, barley flour, egg white, and some homemade nutmeg oil I made using clarified butter as the carrier. I am having myself some if you would not terribly mind me eating in front of you. If you feel you are strong enough for solid food, you may have a piece and see how you like it."
"I'll try it," you say hesitantly. You reach for an offered piece, and you put it into your mouth, chewing slowly and letting yourself taste the exotic mixture of flavors. You realize that it is surprisingly good. You imagine that Silverheart must be an accomplished cook to bring together such a bizarre mishmash of ingredients successfully. "It is good," you admit. "I don't know if I've ever tasted anything this good."
She squints as she smiles happily. "Now, you're just humoring an old crone" she says bashfully. "Thank you."
You pause, and you blush a little bit. "You really are quite sexy," you tell her. "I just hope it's okay with you that I feel that way. I appreciate that you are more than just an object, you know. I don't want to be one of those males that..."
"Stuff your apologies up your ass, kid," she growls.
Your eyebrows shoot up with amazement that she would say that, and you almost start to apologize for apologizing. You come close to apologizing for apologizing for apologizing, and at some point in the cycle of feeling successively more apologetic, it deteriorates helplessly into a cloud of wistful entropy. "Talk about division over zero," you mutter, commenting on your own internal struggle for a fitting response.
"I enjoy sex," she says firmly. "I can objectify a man's body just as well as he can objectify mine. I can reduce him to nothing more than a piece of cock-meat that either performs or doesn't, and I can degrade and debase him for failing to keep his erection. I can make a man feel barely more than three inches tall, and I have done so. I have the capacity for being horrifyingly cruel, sometimes even scaring myself. Furthermore, I can reduce a man to being nothing more than a mindless gladiator that kills himself and other men for my own selfish gratification. I have the capacity for evil, and I have done evil willingly for my own selfish reasons."
You fall silent, not knowing what to say to any of this.
"I am not pure," she growls. "Do not ever think that my heart is pure. I am a grandmother and the widow of a husband whom I loved immensely and who gave me four beautiful offspring that now have little families of their own, and the capacity for nurture is what I like most about myself. I can choose to be kind to you. I can also commit murder in cold blood, and I have done so for reasons that you would find to be appalling, although my victims were beneath contempt. I have also been known to make my living as a whore, and I feel not a trace of regret over doing so except in my early days when I was only eleven years old and too immature to really understand my own decision-making." She relaxes a little bit, and then, enunciating very clearly and in a much more gentle voice, she again speaks in the tones of a grandmother, "this old crone can tend to herself. Now, do you realize my lesson?"
You nod numbly as the enormity of it sinks in. "Yes," you say. "I was objectifying you by forgetting that you can also have sexual desire, and I was assuming that only a male could be the active partner. I was assuming that you would break as if you were made of glass if I spoke to you straightforwardly, and if I had not been corrected, I might have ended up treating you as if I could only get into bed with you by callow manipulation instead of just telling you that I wanted to fuck...I guess I'd rather soften that, for my own sake, by saying 'I would like to show you a good time' or something."
She nods approvingly. "Very good, and remember, some females might act offended if you speak with them straightforwardly and openly about sex, behaving as if they felt that such thoughts were too dirty to speak of openly. Don't be intimidated by those hussies. You can be smooth, or you can be coarse. Naturally, a smoother talker gets more action. Some females treat any man that isn't a natural Casanova quite badly, but let me tell you something about those females: their taste in males is really quite poor, and I have not a jot of sympathy for them. It's their idea to only favor only the most superficial and manipulative forms of charm, which constitute the bloody red flag of a sociopath. They would do better with males that are more straightforward and more forthcoming in talking about sex, not being afraid to be told 'no,' since venturing to ask at all implies a willingness to be declined. Some females don't take that aspect into account because they are ignorant, and their partners tend to be abusive."
You nod gratefully, although this is a lot to take in. But yes, she is quite amazingly hot, and while Reynard is even more attractive, she is still too much your teacher for you to ever seriously consider her as a sexual partner. Silverheart, on the other hand, is an elegant older woman and certainly quite incredibly experienced. You really would like to get some action with her later, and you decide to try your luck. You lean up a little bit more on your elbow, and you try to assume a suave sort of tone, knowing you're not fooling anybody but trying anyway. "So how about, once I'm healed," you say, "maybe we could meet somewhere and, you know...see what happens? I don't really have any experience, though."
"You have no idea, kid," she says with a smirk. "I am going to fuck your foxy brains out." She refills your tea, and she puts the remainder of her cake on your bedside after taking one more piece for herself. "Here you go, sweetie."