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The crisp white shirt slid smoothly over the black fur, leaving top button open I smiled at the full-length mirror. In the mirror I saw a handsome young panther smiling back. Well that just proves the old adage about a book and its cover... considering I was female and all.

I'm Jessie by the way, my life has not always been sunshine and roses, but I try to make the best of it. I live in a large city, it's somewhere in the world, but there really is no need to say where exactly; It could be anywhere and it could be anytime, but it must be sometime in your future. Life is decent, but the same problems that you can think of, well, they still exist.

For one, being from the countryside I grew up with very conservative parents and I dread the day where I have to tell them my big secret (cue ominous music);

I am L-E-S-B-I-A-N

Shocker, I know, but wait it gets better, I am also a hopeless panther; the four big (cats) are supposed to be tough, but me, I'm 5'3" and I couldn't fight my way out of a wet paper bag to save myself. Not that I can't fight, mind you, but I get jumpy just watching my own shadow. Both my parents are beautiful jaguars, with cream coloured under fur and black dots; they are both part of the national guard, the volunteer fire brigade and they go hiking, real adrenalin junkies. Me, I want to curl up in front of the fireplace and get pampered.

So it's no surprise that I get mistaken for an ordinary cat and that really is fine by me, considering that I really don't like to fight. And fighting is common enough, at least among furs, but most of us know to stop once we've asserted dominance; there are still laws and we are civilised. It's not that we are animals, mind you, but there might just have been a little too much of something in the syringe; or maybe it's just Mother Nature's bitchiness coming back with a vengeance.

That animal part can once in a while screw us royally, we can walk around for years and not have the slightest desire to do anything; but then that stupid wolf next door just looks at you funny and all hell breaks loose. Lucky for everyone, humans can't trigger this.

Now, back to why being a housecat is just better for me; the trigger mentioned works on type, big predator startles slightly smaller predator and bang, a fight. A practical example; cougar accidently gets too close to a wolf before being noticed, wolf responds with an all out attack. But being a real and proper apex predator I have no 'natural' enemies, so I have the cougar role; but because I look like a small housecat wolf just thinks 'oh never mind.'

That just brings around a story from high school, sigh; it was the first gym class and our teacher hadn't assigned anyone to carry the equipment back, since I'm nice (and the teacher was a rather pretty female wolf) I offered to help. She clearly hadn't seen me as more than a housecat; because when I smiled (jaguars are the only cats that kill by biting through the skull) she jumped forty feet back and looked like there was an army of hunters howling for her blood.

Again, no natural enemies mean that everyone else is just prey; so the pretty teacher just thought that she was on the menu. Well I can't really blame her; I jumped from tiny predator not worth mentioning, to being the one that thinks food chain is a type of restaurant franchise. Again as everyone learns in elementary school, our animal genes sometimes gives us a little too much of natures instincts. That should be enough; I still need to get dressed.

A nice black jacket, from my local second hand store slid over my arms; when I bought the suit, I took it to a tailor to have it fitted properly (something that's quite cheap actually). Now the sharp lines complimented my body; I have a short but muscular build, I do not however look like a bodybuilder. I do however lack terribly in the chest area, if they were any smaller I wouldn't even need my sports bra.

Now if you are wondering, I'm not a cross-dressing lesbian panther; it's just that I can't pull of the whole dress and high heels look, at least in my mind. For my day-to-day I wear loose pants and t-shirt in a style most (i.e. my mother) would call lazy tomboy when being polite.

As for why I am now dressed as a male, we have to look at fur sexuality. Sexual orientation is not as clear cut for furs as it is for humans. While there is some hidden component that make us prefer male or female partnership; since all furs live in reasonable security, without a need to hunt, dominate and protect territory, all those instincts just trigger horny instead.

So it's not that I am dressing like a male; it's more like I'm hiding the fact that I am female. And there is reason to hide it; I refer to my appearance, I'm small, so all the big males (and that would be anyone who has graduated middle school) see me as easy prey. It has something to do with domination, no sane male would ever attempt to flirt with a 6'4" lioness after they have received a brush off (simple fear of death at work here); but 5'3" housecat, only mouse-boys fear death from that and they are still taller than me, so they aren't that scared.

And since I'm a lesbian, I'd rather not spent all night fending off willing males; when I can spend the time searching for willing females. So with my male deterrent armour on, I can focus on the details; and for male fashion the details are all that matter. So where the hell did I put my watch, it's an heirloom from my grandfather and very expensive, so I'd rather not lose it (it's also my only piece of jewellery).

Now where did I put it, oh there beside the dresser must have fallen down. The watch is worth more than everything else combined; in the shoebox my landlord mockingly insists, is in fact an apartment. Furs have different priorities than humans when it comes to home design; we don't really need a living room or a huge bedroom (close walls and tight spaces mean security), but the kitchen needs to be big enough to service an army and depending on species, the bathroom can be anywhere from gargantuan to colossal.

In my apartment the solution had been to demolish the wall between the living room and the kitchen, this at least meant that I can make decent food. Fur eat a lot, for a college student like me that fear exercise like the plague, anything less than 7 pounds of food daily would be a diet (humans eat 4.5 pounds).

So for good measure I'll grab a bite to eat before heading out. I am primarily a carnivore so a lot of my diet consists of meat; to me sandwich means two steaks with a slice of toast in the middle. But that is not on the menu tonight, I don't have much to snack on in the fridge; that pound of leftover lasagna from lunch will do just fine. The microwave oven is one of the greatest inventions ever, it heats leftovers in minutes and the spinning food is just so hypnotic to look at.

"Look, the food is spinning, round and round and round..."

The 'ding' from the microwave takes me out of the trance. Well think about it, its food and it's moving; the predator instincts in me just go into overdrive for that sort of thing. The food is still too hot for my sensitive cat tongue, but the smell is just too good to handle. Furs have sensitive noses, not quite on par with animals but still way better than that of humans; we use scent to communicate our basic emotions like horny, fear, anger and horny (did I remember to say horny?).

It is of course possible to detect more subtle things like gender and age (well cub or adult at least); but in cities and even suburbia, everything gets mixed together and the finer points get obfuscated. This is why I can still pass for a male, since it would require others to get within a few inches of me in a suitable environment; males just can't be bothered to drag me outside and stand downwind just to confirm whether or not I am male (though they might want to drag me outside to fight over a pretty girl).

After I lick my plate clean, I put it in the near full dishwasher; well there is another brilliant invention, a bit of detergent, the push a button and an hour later everything is sparkly clean (fact: cats are lazy). Now I just need a proper pair of shoes to go with the suit, this is another important bit since furs don't have feet but paws. Like human feet they are brilliant on the beach or in the forest, but endless miles pavement and broken glass will tear them into bloody ragged stumps. Also important here is one of the few major differences between males and females, female paws have a slimmer and more delicate form (I would also say cuter, but that is biased).

Now these black leather sneakers from the second hand store are quite nice, they couldn't have been more than a few weeks old when I bought them. Shoelaces fun to chase as a kitten; and a test in patience when you're older. Furs have three variants for hands; there is the classic hand but with extra fur; then there is the classic paw; and then there is the modern hybrid, too much paw to call it a hand and too much hand to call it a paw. That is what I and about half the furs in the world are stuck with; we can easily write with a pencil, but we just don't have the dexterity for chopsticks and shoelaces (think of ski gloves).

I grabbed my ID card and tucked it into my jacket; there really isn't a need for keys and wallet anymore. Instead we have the all purpose ID card. They replace everything else; the security is based on a PIN/Iris/Token combination, and it only requires two of them present for most uses. I closed the front door behind and waved the card over the lock, a light chime and a red light indicated that the door is locked.

Trotting down the stair I nearly ran into Mrs. Weatherly; she is a pleasant 107 year old fox fur with a bad hip and I always greet her when we meet. I turned my head to see her handling a ton of grocery bags and fishing for her keys while trying to maintain balance.

I approached "Mrs. Weatherly please let me hold the bags for you."

"Jessie dear girl, thank you if you could help me with these." The old sly fox replied and handed me six grocery bags, then she quickly unlocked the door and stepped inside.

I stepped inside her apartment; its layout is mirrored to mine. It has a lot of the gentle feeling that comes with age; though it kept some modern lines and while there are plenty of knick-knacks, there was no feeling of clutter. I headed straight for the kitchen and put down the bags on the counter.

And I swear, I could hear Mrs. Weatherly whisper "If I was just ten years younger... or had a new hip... *slurp*"

Fur biology 101, after puberty furs no longer age like humans; there is some greying after 60 and just like humans there is sagging in the chest and buttocks. But a 107 year old fox would look pretty much like a 17 year old fox. So if wasn't for the knowledge that Mrs. Weatherly is five times older than me and just loves pulling my leg, I might be very tempted to take her up on it.

So I took the only safe approach, pretending I didn't hear a thing and walked out the door waving goodbye. I'm not really a fan of casual sex; if the mood is right and I've had a sufficient quantity of liquor, making out and groping with new acquaintances is all good fun (I know this fun game with ice cubes), but any further is not really my thing. It's not that I'm a romantic saving myself for the right one; but sex is, to me at least, extremely intimate and personal, and I rarely find someone can show myself to in that way.

Tonight I was hoping to find some of the kissing and groping fun; but it would have to wait until I reached my destination and had dealt with the business part of the trip. As a college student, money is not easy to come by and a friend had told me that this place might just hire someone with my unique talents.

Well to explain, in order to save my miserable hide and make sure my parents didn't realise I am a lesbian; I did the only sensible thing and joined the army right out of high school. I always had a knack for language and by the time I graduated high school, I could speak quite a few fluently. This, of course, meant that my skills were in high demand in one of the sandboxes where our army was trying and failing to prevent genocide. So after six weeks of basic, I was told to report with army intelligence for a weekend crash course in field ops.

The next twenty months was a hard introduction into practical counter-insurgency; now mind you I was nothing more than a civilian that could only tell which way to point the barrel, training hadn't reached the point where you actually squeeze the trigger. And there I was neck deep in manure and no trenching tool in sight; more scared than kitten in the dog pen.

Not that it was all that dangerous; besides the occasional mortar shelling, sniper fire, roadside bombs, ambushes, and suicide attacks. For the most part I was a glorified secretary with security clearance, in reasonable safety behind a desk. But there were times when I had to leave my lovely desk and go outside the front gates; I certainly came close to pissing myself several times.

Basic had only taught us two things; how to not shoot yourself; and hit the ground at light speed when the bullets start flying, then look for the sergeant with the most stripes on his shoulder and follow his lead. And after twenty months I can proudly say I'm a qualified marksman capable of hitting the broadside of a ship at 25 yards.

The bus came to a stop right in front of me; public transport has been infinitely improved over the last century. The new virtual intelligence drivers are always on time; the improved coverage and low price is making the car obsolete for the day-to-day commute. With a low hiss the doors swung open and I stepped inside the gently heated bus, now payment is handled with iris scan or ID card, nothing more than a glance at the camera is necessary to confirm identity; a soft chime and a small green light told me that my payment had been processed.

I took a seat in the middle of the empty bus near the window; as I looked outside into the blackness of the chilly autumn evening, all I could see was a handsome panther in a suit staring back. Military life might be hard work; but the army does reward its most diligent worker drones. I was lucky, got a free ride through college; others, not so much, they got a pension.

Tonight was at the behest of one my few (surviving) friends from those days; staff sergeant Dmitry, the biggest fur I have ever seen. He had been part of a convoy that I was attached to; then a roadside bomb and an ambush had changed it from a convoy to a few survivors. After that I bought him a beer and we became fast friends; the rest is, as they say, history.

I hadn't seen him since he ended his tour, that day with the convoy he swore it was time to quit; he had a wife and a kid at home. I never really knew what happened to him, until a few days ago when I ran into him at the hardware store (posters don't magically float on walls, yet). He was there with his wife and kid, looking so goofy happy I almost didn't recognise him; as it turned out his wife got a job offer in another part of the country, so they were there to buy more boxes.

It was nice to see him this happy; he had been a close friend and quite supportive during the more nerve-wracking situations. We talked a lot; he told me that if I was interested he could give his old boss a call, some security gig twice a week. It was a nightclub called 'Gravity' a predominantly fur establishment. I had been there before, when I started college. It was a nice place, dancing mixed with stripping, very fun.

Next day I got a call from Sean, he was second-in-command of security, and if I was half as good as Dmitry claimed I was already hired. We had agreed that I would go to the club Friday; he would be on break at nine. And he would be working the door before that, so if I showed up early we could greet each other there.

The bus stopped and the doors opened, I had arrived at one of the transit hubs in the city; from here you could catch several busses, trams, trains, and metro lines. For now all I had to do was make my way over to the inner-city metro line, then it would be a sixteen minute ride to the station closest to my, hopefully, new workplace.

It was a little too early for the nightclub crowd to head out; and not quite time for the dinner crowd to head home. This meant that the hub was humming with activity, but there weren't a lot of people around. This made it all the easier to reach the platform. I walked down the stairs and looked at the display; it showed that I had just missed the metro, crap. It's never funny to miss your train, even if they run at two minute intervals.

But I could make the best of it, there was a vending machine on the platform; and I bought a can of iced coffee. Before I could open the can; I spotted a group of cubs, the type that are out to make trouble. After giving some lurid remarks to a bunny girl (well she is around mid-thirties, so girl is a stretch here), they started looking for someone to fight.

As stated being taken for a small male housecat usually prevented fights, but right here we have the very type of people who would see it as an open invitation to attack. Well this little Puddy Tat has a big surprise for the troublemakers. Jaguars have some very big and powerful canines; they are designed to bite through the skull of any prey, even cows and horses. So a can of iced coffee, well it's easier to pull the tab, no problem; and the dramatic effect, priceless.

The dramatic effect is in two parts. First, showing canines tells them that I'm capable off, and willing to maul them with all the ferocity of a true apex predator. Second, the can severed as a stand-in for their skulls, just to remind them what these fangs truly were meant to do.

Here we go; open wide, pull back the lips so they can have clear view, bite down through the can. The screech from the metal rang out on the platform; several of the passengers and the group of teenagers covered their ears. The effect was undeniable though; dark stains formed on pants of the group leader (a large ox fur), and with precision that would make synchronized swimmers envious, they turned and fled platform at mach speed.

I extracted my tooth from the top of the can; then I slowly enjoyed the content, this had been an easy victory but they will regroup and come back for more. I tossed the can into the recycle bin and stepped in to metro that had just arrived.