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This John Leslie masterpiece slinks into your VHS player like a predator in the rain-slicked night. Selena Steele? Bloody hell, she's the emerald-eyed queen of this neon jungle, her curves a weapon of mass seduction, turning every shag into a clawing ritual of feral bliss. The cat people backstory purrs with pack mentality vibes – underlings challenging the alpha bitch's iron rule, all unfolding in these voyeuristic public conquests where the tribe watches, transfixed, cocks throbbing in the shadows. It's raw, rhythmic, entrancing stuff, the music and editing grooving like a heartbeat on steroids, building inexorably to those shuddering climaxes. Cinematography's a knockout: storm-lashed lighting that gleams off sweat-slicked skin, tight framing on writhing limbs and heaving tits, production design nailing that steel-and-neon grit without a duff shot. Yield to it, lads – this one's a savage, satisfying pounce. Pure animal poetry.