Ambassador Whiskers' Curriculum of Desire
Copyright© 2025 by Eric Ross
Chapter 6: Cassie and the Art of Presence
Humor Story: Chapter 6: Cassie and the Art of Presence - A cat in a tuxedo becomes an unlikely life coach for a lonely man whose love life has flatlined. Ambassador Whiskers’ Curriculum of Desire is an absurdist erotic journey through humiliation, risk, surrender, and connection—equal parts heat, humor, and hope, with lessons delivered in fur and sarcasm.
Caution: This Humor Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Fiction Humor non-anthro Humiliation Masturbation Geeks Slow Transformation AI Generated
The note was taped to his door when he got home:
Nice toga, 2A. Borrowed my corkscrew? —Cassie
Ren froze, grocery bag in hand. The words arranged themselves like a riddle. He had not borrowed her corkscrew. He did not even know where Cassie’s apartment was located. And yet there it was: her handwriting jaunty, the question mark sharp as a hook.
He read it twice more. Whiskers, lounging on the hallway radiator like a furred gargoyle, yawned and said, “She suspects you of larceny. Excellent. It begins.”
Ren stuffed the note in his pocket and fled inside, heart thumping as though her accusations carried jail time.
He spent the next hour stewing. The debris of the toga still sat in the corner; the yoga mat had not moved from its post against the radiator. He paced between them, muttering. “Why would she think I stole her corkscrew? I don’t even drink wine. Do I look like someone who owns stemware?”
“Yes,” said Whiskers, who had commandeered the couch. “You look exactly like someone who drinks boxed Merlot while reading PDFs about mating strategies.”
Ren glared. “You’re not helping.”
The knock came just as he was imagining scenarios in which he returned the imaginary corkscrew wrapped in apology ribbon. Three taps, light but confident.
He opened the door a cautious inch. Cassie stood there, red corkscrew dangling from her fingers—evidence in plain sight, a smile tilting her mouth. “Caught you,” she said.
“I didn’t—”
“You borrowed it,” she insisted, breezing past him into the apartment as though borders were a formality. “Look, here it is. From my kitchen drawer. Now, in your hand. Which means—” she twirled it once, “—you definitely borrowed it.”
Ren stammered. “But I—”
“You’re welcome.” She dropped it onto his counter, where it landed beside the forlorn instant coffee jar.
He stood helpless, wondering if denial would sound pettier than agreement. Cassie had already wandered deeper into the room, taking in the battlefield toga and the mat with bright-eyed curiosity. “Quite a scene in here. Domestic bliss? Or post-apocalypse chic?”
Ren flushed, gathering the sheet into a ball. “It’s ... complicated.”
“Clearly.” Her gaze snagged on the cat. “And who’s this?”
Ren nearly dropped the toga. “Wait—you can see him?”
Cassie crouched, peering at Whiskers with frank delight. “Of course I can see him. Handsome tuxedo. Tiny bowtie. Radiates judgment. What’s his name?”
Whiskers stood, tail coiling with pomp. “Ambassador Whiskers, at your service.”
Cassie laughed outright. “An ambassador, no less. Perfect. I always wanted diplomatic immunity in the building.”
Ren gaped between them. “You—you can hear him too?”
“Loud and clear,” she said, straightening. “Though I think he’s exaggerating his accent.”
“I never exaggerate,” Whiskers said smoothly. “I embroider.”
Ren dropped the toga onto the couch and rubbed his temples. “This is not normal.”
Cassie plucked the corkscrew from the counter and held it up. “Neither is returning stolen property you never stole, but here we are. Pour me a glass of whatever you’ve got and let’s call it even.”
Ren blinked. “I don’t—”
“Wine,” she prompted. “Don’t tell me you don’t keep a bottle around for emergencies. Or dates.”
His face burned. From the cupboard he retrieved a dusty bottle someone had once given him as a housewarming gift. Cassie uncorked it herself with the “stolen” corkscrew, poured into two mismatched mugs, and raised hers. “To absurd neighbors and their better-dressed cats.”
Whiskers inclined his head, whiskers twitching in satisfaction. “Hear, hear.”
They drank. The wine was terrible, but Cassie didn’t seem to mind. She perched on his counter, legs swinging, eyes bright. “So, Ren—tell me. What’s with the toga?”
He groaned. “You heard about that?”
“I live below you. Sound carries. I heard the elevator drama, the duct tape, the laughter when you came home at dawn. Honestly, I’m impressed. You’ve set a new standard for hallway gossip.”
He covered his face. “I should move.”
“Nonsense.” She sipped. “What you should do is tell me what the hell you’ve been up to. Because from where I’m sitting, you look like someone who’s been through a secret war and came out with more glitter than scars.”
He hesitated. But her tone wasn’t mocking. It was teasing, sure, but threaded with curiosity. With interest.
Whiskers leapt onto the counter between them, tail punctuating the moment. “Confide,” he urged. “Connection requires disclosure.”
Cassie stroked the cat’s head, eyes never leaving Ren. “You heard the Ambassador. Out with it.”
Ren exhaled, the air trembling in his chest. “Here’s the thing, Cassie...”
They talked while Cassie casually straightened the countertop, brushing crumbs into her palm, setting his empty coffee mugs into the sink. The small movements made it easier to speak. Between the clink of dishes and the occasional sarcastic purr, his story began to spill out.
Cassie swirled her mug of wine like it deserved sommelier treatment. “Okay, Ren. You’ve been wandering around like some half-baked myth. A toga here, yoga there. What’s next? Pilgrimage to Costco in chainmail?”
Ren winced. “I’m not doing this on purpose.”
“That makes it better,” she said, grinning. “The best absurdists don’t know they’re absurd. But—” her tone softened—”you look different than you did last month. Less ... ghosty.”
“Ghosty?”
“Yeah.” She gestured with her mug. “Before, you were like one of those apartment-dwellers you only notice when they move out. Cardboard boxes, echoing rooms, no history. But lately, you walk in with duct tape glitter on your collarbone. That’s new.”
Ren fumbled for words. “I’ve ... been learning things.”
Whiskers snorted. “Understatement of the century. The man has farted publicly, survived a toga parade, and been throttled into breathwork. What’s next, sainthood?”
Cassie leaned toward Ren, eyes bright. “So? Spill. What did you actually learn?”
He hesitated. His first instinct was to hide behind jargon, dress it up in evolutionary psychology and theory. But something about Cassie’s gaze—steady, mischievous, not cruel—unraveled the reflex.
“Humiliation,” he admitted. “That was the first one. Like ... realizing you don’t die when you look stupid. That the world keeps going. And then ... risk. Letting yourself be seen, even when it feels like you’re waiting to be torn apart.”
Cassie’s smile tilted, half-teasing, half-proud. “Look at you. Mr. Stoic.”
Ren groaned into his mug. “Don’t mock me.”
“I’m not,” she said gently. “Okay, a little. But only because I’m jealous. Most people don’t learn those things until they’re fifty and writing memoirs about their childhood trauma.”
Whiskers stretched luxuriously along the counter. “Memoirs sell poorly if there are no cats. Remember this.”
Cassie absently scratched behind his ears. “Oh, don’t worry, Ambassador. You’ll get a whole chapter.”
Ren blinked. “You’re both conspiring against me.”
“No,” Cassie said. “We’re conspiring for you. Big difference.”
He stared at his wine, at the red ring it left on the chipped mug. “I don’t know if I can keep ... doing this. It feels like I’m being scraped open every time.”
“That’s connection,” Cassie said, suddenly serious. “You can’t do it with armor on. You can’t do it from behind a screen name.”
Her words landed sharp in his chest. He thought of IronCrown, ChadSlayer, DoomerKid—all the voices he’d trusted to explain why life hurt. For once, they weren’t there. The silence inside his head felt strange.
Whiskers broke it: “Connection is the only antidote to invisibility. One cannot observe and be known simultaneously. One must risk touch.”
Cassie raised her mug. “Cheers to that. Risk touch. Sounds like a band name.”
Ren laughed, startled at himself. “You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not,” she said, setting her mug down. “But it’s not impossible, either. You’ve already started. And you didn’t die.”
The corkscrew winked on the counter, ridiculous and incriminating. He turned it in his hand, a prop in the world’s least convincing crime. “Maybe this is the lesson then. Connection. Not just humiliation or risk or surrender. Actually letting someone in.”
Cassie bumped his shoulder with hers. “You say that like I didn’t just let myself into your apartment.”
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