The Pitch

A pitch for an advertisement for Cougr-Lite cigarettes. They'll bring out the cougar in anyone. Mature.

The cloakroom doors swing shut behind him. It's the most important party of the year, and he's young, strapping, and anxious to the point of shivering. He watches the door as he draws a handkerchief from his pocket and drags it across his brow. His nervous breathing fills the room. He tugs at his tie for air.

"You look like you could use a light."

He didn't think there was anyone in the room. He turns, startled, then freezes as he drinks her in. She's a lioness with a heavy gaze and a black velvet dress. Her hips are ready to tear free from her clothes. The way she's perched on her heels, she's ready to pounce. With her hair tucked behind her ears, long and straight, she wouldn't even spoil her hairdo if she did. Some part of him enjoys how intimidating she is, all curves and confidence and sly experience.

"Oh, that's fine, miss," he says, searching for words while his heart hammers. "I've got my own matches."

Her lips glisten, a patronizing smile. "No, not ‘a light'. A Cougr-Lite." She pushes the cigarette pack into his hands. He looks down at the silhouetted cougar, the fine lettering, the silver trim. He raises his head to speak, but she's already at the door.

"Whenever I need a bit more pride," the lioness says, "I reach for a Cougr-Lite."

With a flick of her tail, she slides her magnificent body out of the cloakroom. It's just him and the box of Cougr-Lites. Beyond the door, there's the buzz of conversation. He needs to be out there, but without his courage, that door might as well be a wall.

The Treasury of the Sphinx

An Egyptologist and her partner discover a vast store of riches, then become its guardians. Mature.

To my esteemed colleagues, Victoria began. It was the third draft of her letter asking for more time and funding, and she still sounded desperate. Cambridge wanted another Tutankhamun, but all that the workers had uncovered was sand and stone.

"Ma'am? One of the boys thinks he may have found something."

William stood under the tent flap, surrounded by the glare of the desert sun. Victoria squinted up at her fellow archaeologist like he was a mirage. Then her blue eyes widened.

Victoria slapped on her hat and stuffed her feet into her boots and was still twisting her hair back into a ponytail as she followed William across the camp.

The young Egyptian man still clung to his pickaxe. He beamed brightly, standing next to the apple-sized hole into some deeper darkness behind the rock. William lifted his lantern to the hole. There was a flash of something beyond, but the hole was too small to see through properly.

In her best Arabic, Victoria asked the young man for the pickaxe.

Your Collar

Your collar's transforming you. Mature.

It's so heavy, so thick, and so large that it's more a belt than a collar. The studded strap is tall enough to reach from the bottom of your ear to your shoulder, and long enough to hang down to your chest. If you could, you'd be able to slip the collar off easily.

But you can't. It's already started.

It's indistinguishable from your own embarrassment at first. Heat on your cheeks, sweat that makes every motion come with a chill, and your stomach curling up into a ball. Your heart beats faster and your breath grows shallow. You can't tell what's your own anxiety and what's the change. You can't wait any longer. You don't want this, but drawing this out forever is even worse.

Your joints lock first. You fall to the ground on your knees, your toes curled back against the ground and your fingers bending inward. You hold onto the collar itself for support and try to straighten your fingers, but the tendons along your arm sear with pain. With a cry of pain, you drop your hand to the floor.

The heat across your body rises. You break out in a fresh sweat, but your chest is dry. Your chest is prickling. You fight with the collar for an easy way to scratch that bristling feeling. It's like a hair brush against your bare skin. You shove your curled fingers under the collar and start scratching, but it barely helps. You're still sweating.

Then a pulse goes through you. It starts between your shoulders and rolls down over your spine, jumping from bone to bone, to the tips of your fingers and toes. The first creak of bone makes you shudder. As your spine is pulled from both ends, it stretches muscle and pulls skin tight. But at the same time, it's a small release. Your joints crack as they settle into their new shape. You curl your back. As each joint pops, the pain of growing bone diffuses into your skin.

Striped Success

A TransCo subsidiary motel chain turns a young woman into a confident business-skunk. Explicit. A young woman staying at a hotel before a business conference turns into a confident, professional skunk-girl. Explicit.

It was the end of her New York-to-Chicago car drive. Tori just wanted to fall asleep, but every hotel near the conference center was booked up tight, and the closest hotel she'd been able to find on short notice was the one-star Come On Inn. Carrying her suit for the conference tomorrow and her backpack, she stepped into her room. It smelled like cigarette smoke. They didn't have any non-smoking; she'd asked.

'Welcome to the Come On Inn, a TransCo subsidiary!' a typo-laden note on the bedside stand began. Tori sat on the edge of the bed and read the note between groggy blinks. It offered her to 'Please make use of the complementary hair freshener.' She looked back at the stand, where a small, blank, white box sat. She popped it open, tore open the plastic wrap, and pulled out the cone-shaped air freshener.

It gave off a pleasantly clean scent, cool and almost floral. It was refreshing after the dry, tarry smell of cigarette smoke. She set the freshener down by the floor AC unit and turned the fan up to high. The fresh smell rolled through the air, starting to permeate the room. While the room freshened itself up, she grabbed the bag with her toothpaste and toothbrush from her pack.

Tori watched herself in the bathroom mirror as she brushed her teeth. She looked worn down and strung out from the car ride. Her face was bleary, eyes baggy, brown hair mussed from being pushed up against the headrest for hours on end. In her casual clothes, she looked even more young and scrawny than usual. And here she was, only a junior associate, about to represent her whole company tomorrow.

Something about her face didn't seem entirely right. Tori squinted into the mirror and pressed a finger to her nose. The skin on the tip was darkened and purple. The whole thing seemed oddly swollen, the tip broader and more bulbous. She sniffed, but didn't smell anything out of place. She tapped on the tip of her nose, then squeezed both fingers around it, trying to see if it was tender, but no. She tried rubbing at the bottom, but the color didn't come off. She twisted her mouth to one side, then the other. It looked kind of like a little snout.

Suits You

A bull buys a swimsuit that turns him into a cow, though he's less put out by that than you might expect. Explicit.

Beau tapped his hoof-fingers on the counter, waiting while the clerk rummaged through the back room. Every minute spent shopping for a swimsuit was another minute he wasn't spending at the pool, getting appreciated for his hard-earned body. The shaggy-haired Highland bull was in the market for a new swimsuit because his old one just couldn't stand up to the strength of his squats.

The winged human came back from the back, holding a folded-up piece of black, satiny fabric. With a flick of her hands, she unfurled it theatrically, holding up the black one-piece. It was almost like a singlet--no, more like a woman's one-piece swimsuit. In fact, that seemed to be exactly what it was: low neckline, coming to a point in the crotch, showing off the hips.

"That's a girl's swimsuit," Beau said. He folded his arms on top of his thick chest, then spared a hand to swipe the overgrown bangs out of his eyes.

Beach Buff Blues

A trio of police officers on break at the beach find a bottle of sunblock that causes growth, arousal, and aggression. Explicit.

Caitlyn plucked a warm bottle of suntan lotion from the sand and shook it. It glorped heartily back at her.

"Hey, Sarge!" she called out to Jefferson. He was a short distance away, laying out a blue towel in the shade of a beach umbrella.

"We're off duty, Caitlyn," he reminded her. Caitlyn and Jefferson, and Brianna, who was getting the cooler from the car, worked together at the precinct. Even despite Jefferson's natural small stature and mild nature, being a mouse, he was partnered up with the two girls to keep them in line. Today, though, they were just friends hanging out on the beach.

Caitlyn corrected herself. "Whoops, sorry. Hey, Jeffy, check it out!" She held up the bottle of suntan lotion and shook it in his direction. "Free sunscreen!"