A cat inherits an old Southern manor, which comes complete with a friendly ghost who wants to dress him up. Explicit.
Trees whirred by in a green haze. The gentle undulations of the guardrail blurred into a wriggling wave. He had been on the road for a few hours now, but the exit was coming up soon.
'Dear Sir: It is with great sadness that I write to you today, to inform you of the death of Emmaline Beauregard, your great-aunt.'
Circ never heard of a great-aunt in the family. And he didn't know that he had any family in Georgia in the first place. In fact, he had assumed the first letter was a prank, or that the mail had delivered it to the wrong person despite both the letter and envelope bearing his name.
'Her will stipulates that the bulk of her estate is to be given to her youngest blood relative of legal standing. As you are the one to whom these conditions apply, we ask for an opportunity to speak with you, at your earliest convenience.'
He still didn't pay much attention to the second letter, beyond curiously googling the name 'Emmaline Beauregard' and coming up with close to nothing. He first took real notice when the third letter had arrived, attached to the hand of a lawyer who had come to talk with him.
"She willed to you her whole house, and all of the furniture in it, along with the savings in her bank account, which come out to half a million dollars. Rounded a bit, of course, and before estate tax. She did request that you come and visit the house before it legally becomes yours, though stipulations like those can be contested..."
Why wouldn't he want to see it? He'd put in for next Monday off, so he had a three-day weekend to check out the house. A whole house, all his. And all of that money. It was an exciting prospect, to say the least.
'Rosewood Hall is a plantation house in Macon, Bibb County, that dates back to 1822, when it was constructed on the order of war veteran Jeremiah Halifax. In 1841, it was bought by an enterprising plantation owner Vincent De LaBassie. After the death of his daughter in 1879, it was sold to fund the LaBassie business in California, and has been owned by the Beauregard family since then.'
And now it was his, was what he'd thought after reading the Georgia Historical Society's page on the house. He was thinking that same thought again now. He turned off on Exit 26. The highway shrunk down to a smaller road. He couldn't spend time thinking about how he'd gotten here any longer; he had to follow his driving directions.
The yellow finish of the house was slightly worn in the corners. Where it had been painted white, there were bits of gray, hints of dirt and dust that showed the house hadn't been cleaned as much as it could have. But it stood all the same, tall and regal over the large lawns surrounding it, looking out with an ingrained Antebellum formality. This was a house where a crying young belle would wave goodbye to her sweetheart called off to fight in the war.
The cat climbing out of the car was neither belle nor soldier, though. To say he was skinny was mildly insulting; he didn't have any excess weight on him, he might say. His cocoa brown fur melted into his messy head of dark brown hair. Hanging off of his thin shoulders was a hoodie that was just baggy enough to be nice and comfortable, and his pants were a gray pair of jeans.
"Holy crap," Circ said.
It was only now sinking in that this was real. This house before him was a thing, and he had it, and it was his. The key that he was pulling from the envelope was his too, as was the porch he was walking up, and the lock that he was opening.
A small prayer of thanks slipped out with his breath. His hand met a switch beside the front door, and with a click, the lights in the chandelier came on. He had worried that he would get to the house and discover everything was stuck two hundred years in the past. But no, it seems his great-aunt had put in some modern amenities.
The big entrance hall stretched out over two floors, with a pair of staircases leading up to the second floor, and doors opening into the other rooms in the front of the house, while halls led back to the back rooms. The hardwood floors, the flowing floral designs of the molding and trim, and the big paintings—even with the modernizations, this was a house that had a finely aged sensibility.
From two different angles, Circ was being watched by portraits. One was a proud-looking wolf in a waistcoat seated on top of a white horse, while the other was a matronly polar bear, her arms folded across her lap and her face gently serene. The first had a brass plaque that said 'Vincent De LaBassie', and the second read 'Estelle Buchard-De LaBassie'.
He left the husband and wife (as far as he could tell) and began to poke through the other rooms. Most of them seemed to he in a fairly intact state. The parlor was set up as if someone might be expecting guests. The dining room had a tablecloth draped over the table, and nearly twenty chairs around the table itself.
Circ's feet stopped as he heard a creak. He waited a moment, raising his eyes toward the ceiling, where he thought he had heard the creak coming from. He moved his weight on and off his forward foot, just to be sure, and no sound came out. He waited again.
As he stood still, there were more creaks, a small series of them, like footsteps.
Was someone in here? It could be someone from the lawyer's office, maybe. But there hadn't been any other cars along the drive up to the front of the mansion. His mind ran toward the worst possibilities immediately. Robbers? Looters? Circ's heart began to pound. This was his house now, and he'd have to deal with it.
As he mounted the stairs to the second floor, his mind wavered between rushing in and catching them by surprise, or announcing his presence. The latter would, hopefully, either scare them off or get the person to reveal who they were.
"Hello?" he called out, as the latter won. "Is someone there?"
There was a soft squeak that nearly made him jump. The door to one of the rooms moved slightly. His eyes were wide, and his heart had jumped up into his throat. His tongue dryly traveled across his lips. He took the handle. He whipped the door open. He was met with a spring breeze.
An open window. Of course. Big scaredy cat Circ, freaked out by the wind. He left the door open behind him as he walked to the window and slid it closed.
The room he was in now was a bedroom—obviously, the four-poster bed spoke to that. While he wasn't an expert on the style of houses like this, he guessed that this was a girl's room, or possibly a young woman's. The decor was lighter and colorful. He was cheating a little on his deduction, though. He could see a yellow dress with white frills and little satin bows laid out on a dresser.
"Why he-llo theah," a voice said in his ear.
It was soft and sweet, syrupy and thick with a Southern accent. And also completely devoid of any body or mouth. He felt his clothes bunch up, as if someone was grabbing at his sweatshirt, and instinctively grabbed at the hem to hold onto it.
"Hey!" he shouted, because what else could you say to a disembodied voice?
"Aren't you just gonna look delicious," the voice said again, now in his other ear.
His sweatshirt came off over his head, nearly taking his shirt with it. He didn't even have time to tug his shirt back down before that was pulled away, too.
Circ was pushed backwards by the ghostly force, until his back was against the wall of the room. Looking down at the carpet, he could see indented pawprints in front of him, soon joined by a pair of knee prints. His belt was floating up in front of him, the components becoming unfastened. When he tried to grab onto the belt, it tugged away from him. His pants and underwear both were pushed down around his ankles.
"Stop, please!" he cried.
Circ grasped at the air, but his fingers gripped nothing. The ghost was only tangible when it wanted to be.
"Y'all hold still nah," the voice said to him.
The dress sitting on the dresser fluttered up like a breeze had caught it. But then it billowed out, as if someone was inside. The dress drifted toward Circ. He turned and stumbled toward the door. His pants were caught up in his shoes. By the time he'd kicked the shoes off, white ruffles were descending down over his head.
His arms shot up to push off the dress, but the fabric was pushing down with enough force that his arms were simply forced through the holes for the arms. Despite his fighting and struggling, the frilly yellow dress settled down around him, hanging low across his flat chest, the straps draped around his forearms, as they were designed to. The layers underneath the dress's skirt made it billow out, swaying and bouncing as he moved.
"I'll go! I'm leaving! You can haunt this place all you want!" Circ called out over his shoulder.
He grabbed the door and pulled it open. There was a long hall before him. He took off as fast as his feet could take him. And, unfamiliar with running in a dress, he tripped and fell hard on his face.
While laying on the rug, holding his nose in pain, he felt soft fabric wrapping around his feet. He wasn't wearing socks—but pulling the dress aside, he could see the sheer white stockings tugging themselves up his legs.
"No, get off!" he said.
He tried to grab at the stockings, but they clung so tightly to his legs that he couldn't get his claws underneath the edges. And then, something even worse happened. His stockinged legs moved on their own, pushing him up onto his feet, and beginning to lead him back to the bedroom, as if he was a prisoner in the clothes he was wearing.
"You know it ain't nice to go runnin' out on a lady like that," the voice said.
Now he could put the voice to a face; a wispy, barely translucent face. He could make out deep blue eyes and dark lips and a black nose, and that was about it.
"I'm sorry for trespassing, I didn't realize!" he said through his gasping breaths.
"Aw hun, it ain't no thing! I'm glad to have someone around. Legs up!" the ghostly face told him.
His legs moved on their own, plopping him back onto the feather bed with both feet kicked up. A pair of silk panties slipped around his ankles and started climbing upwards.
"But why are you doing this to me?" he asked.
Circ squirmed as the panties crawled up his thighs then settled around his hips. The fabric cupped his package quite tightly. Tightly enough that the young cat was feeling hot. Was he getting hard? He could feel tingling against the skin of his stiffening shaft.
He looked up from his groin to look in front of him, and was struck by the clearer image: a white-furred bear, eyes sparkling at him, cheeks dusted with freckles, breasts squeezed into a tight, wispy dress, and yet, still not opaque.
"Don't you wanna look proper?"
Circ's mouth swung wordlessly. His eyes went unfocused. In a faint drawl, he said, "Yeah, I wanna look proper."
"For starters, girls don't have big things stickin' outta their dresses," she said.
A paw in a ghostly silk glove gripped his groin. It was as if she was feeling and weighing him in her hand.
"But, please, I'm a guy--" he began to say.
She squeezed gently, making his voice cut off in a squeak. His lips trembled slightly. His tongue touched the roof of his mouth, then his teeth, then curled. He didn't want to. But it was true. But... In the midst of his mental dispute, the words slipped out.
"A gal can't have a big dick sticking out of her dress," he said, and immediately regretted saying it.
Circ was shrinking in her hands. He could feel it, she could feel it, and he liked it. He couldn't have a big bulge in his dress. It was so improper.
The soft panties slid gently around his changing groin as balls and shaft both slowly vanished into nothingness. For a moment, he was completely smooth. And then, she could feel the panties hugging her small mound.
Circ opened her mouth to protest what had just happened. Instead, she got a white chocolate truffle stuffed between her lips. She bit down, and started to purr softly as she chewed. No, this was bad! She wasn't a girl, and she shouldn't be wearing frilly dresses! But the truffle was really good. Really really good. And the cute bear in front of her was holding another for when she was done with this one.
Circ's fur started to fade uniformly across his body. The warm brown grew lighter, yellower, a dark tawny shade. Then warmer, more golden, while his fur itself became silkier, as if carefully cared for every day.
"May I have another?" she asked, a small blush on her face.
Circ purred in delight as she was given another truffle to eat. This had to be her last. She'd finish and get up and walk out and not let this ghost do anything more to her.
Circ was gaining weight with each treat that the ghost fed her. It was going to all of the right places—padding out her slender hips, rounding out her thin ass, and starting to put a bit of jiggle onto her chest.
"See hun, you gotta keep your hair brushed every day nah, hundred strokes if ya wanna count," the bear said.
She sat behind Circ and dragged the brush through her hair. Each stroke tamed her hair's unruliness and brought an inch or two of hair pouring from her scalp.
Another truffle went into Circ's mouth. Her tail batted back and forth happily. Her growing bosom was slowly pulling the dress across her chest. Each of her nipples were stiffening at the sensation. With every breath she could feel the growing weight of those mounds against her chest. Her wider hips served to push out the fluff of her dress even further.
"I want to be a boy again," Circ managed to say.
Her voice was clear, but her tone wavered. Her voice was higher, sweeter, much different from the way that her old voice sounded.
"Sounds like someone's askin' for another treat," the ghost cooed.
It chilled Circ how her own voice was growing closer to the bear's sweet drawl.
"No, I'm not! I don't want any of this and you made me...unnh..."
Circ's eyes clouded over as the bear dangled a white chocolate-dipped strawberry in front of Circ's shortening nose. Her tongue extended as her mouth hung open, but the strawberry remained just out of reach.
"If ya eat this, then you hafta put on makeup."
A pained whimper left Circ's lips. But she still leaned forward, closed her mouth around the strawberry, and ate it. She licked the juice and crumbs off of her softer, plumper lips.
Circ was near crying as she sat in front of the mirror, but the way her eyes shimmered as they watered, it was only making her more infuriatingly cute. Her muzzle was shorter, her cheeks plumper, and her ears rounder. She was becoming a bear. She could see the light golden fur she now sported. She was nothing like her old self.
"Just follow me an' you'll be pretty in no time," the bear cooed.
Her hand covered Circ's, and she guided her along the application of eyeliner and mascara, blush and eyeshadow, until Circ's eyes had the same bright, inviting cuteness and her lips the same vibrant and plump look as her own.
"I wanna go and...and you aren't lettin' me!" Circ sobbed softly.
Another truffle was pushed into her mouth to keep her quiet. The neckline of her dress dragged down lower by the expanding flesh of her breasts. By now, her dress would fan out behind her wonderfully thanks to her soft ass. In fact, she was growing quite soft all over, with even a soft plump stomach that pushed against her dress.
"I got what you need right heah!" the bear said.
She held a corset in her hands, golden-yellow with white trim, and quite slender too. Circ let out a faint whimper in her soft, feminine voice. She rose to her feet and began to mince toward the door, wide-eyed, swinging her hips. She was tugged back when she was inches from the doorknob. The corset was wrapped loosely around her waist, and the ghost had her hands on the laces.
"My stahs and garters, ain't you a wild one!"
Circ cringed as the first row of laces were tightened, tugging in her waist snugly and squeezing both up and down.
"Let me go right nah!" Circ said.
She only heard giggling from behind her as more rows were laced up. The neckline of the dress was forced lower by the swelling of her breasts. Her thighs grew warm, almost excited at the feeling of her hips swelling out into a darling hourglass figure. Her fur had drained to a pure, snowy white.
"You ain't done yet hun," the bear cooed, tugging roughly.
In a sudden jolt, Circ was thinking of lace and fine dresses, and how it would be so lovely to find a nice gentleman caller and how she needed to dress well if she wanted suitors. She knew that all of it was alien to her own mind, and yet, it was so compelling. So thick and sweet and girly that she wanted to be like that, at the same time as she feared losing herself to it.
"Oh please miss beah, Ah don't want any a' this!"
Circ's drawl was clearly thickening, and nothing she could do would stop it. She could feel the ghost's foot pressed against her back, pushing while she pulled on the laces, hard.
The laces were tied back into a ribbon. They gently snapped against her back as the ghost let go. A soft squeak slipped from the young polar bear's lips. The bear who was Circ...Circ? C-something. C...Colleen? Colette!
Colette batted her eyelashes a few times, then rubbed her hand gently along her ivory-white hair. She looked so darling in her corset, but her look wasn't complete. In delicate steps, she walked to the dresser. She busied herself with tying up the yellow ribbons into her long hair.
"Oh mah, what was Ah doin'?" Colette asked no one in particular.
Her thighs were still burning from the pleasure that the ghost had forced her to feel. One paw drifted down between her legs. A warm giggle left her lips and she bit her tongue. She pulled her hand away quickly, though.
Ignoring the heat between her thighs for now, she continued to perfect her image. She needed her lace gloves, which she tugged on over her hands, and her shoes, which her dainty feet slipped into easily. A necklace with a big gem set right in the middle nestled around her neck, gently drawing the eye toward her deep cleavage.
As she sat in front of the mirror, pouting and batting her eyes, instead of her reflection, she saw a terrified-looking brown cat, pounding on the glass, screaming muffled things to her.
"Y'all got plenty to learn about Southern hospitality, darlin'," she told the reflection, then pouted coyly. "Ah was always inside a' you, after all. And now you ain't in control, and you hafta live with that," she said, adding a playful giggle.
Colette set down her tray of strawberries, which she'd been snacking on voraciously while thinking about what to do with her 'problem'. The one between her legs. A proper belle shouldn't have to tend to herself as much as she did.
A little sparkle caught in the corner of her eye and she blushed and giggled simultaneously. She had an idea. Two gloved fingers plucked the fluffy fan from between her expansive breasts, flipping it open. She started to fan herself.
She picked up the phone next to the couch, and dialed a number she pulled out of a very quickly fading memory. That boorish little cat that kept complaining seemed to get softer and quieter each time she...well it wasn't a proper thing for a girl like her to say but every time she orgasmed. But he could still be a little useful while he was still hanging around.
"Whah hel-lo darlin'! Ah was just callin' ta let y'all know that your friend's cordially invitin' you to a dinner party. Yeah, Circ, that's the one! He asked me ta call cause he's indisposed," she said, giggling girlishly.
"Don't y'all worry one little bit, he's gonna pay for the whole thing. You just get on down here real quick nah, y'hear?"
Colette bit her lip eagerly. By tomorrow morning, she was going to have company. She needed to go up to her room and make sure she had enough dresses for the cat's friend. He might not want to wear them at first but she was sure that her fashion sense would grow on him.
Wiggling her hips with every step, a blissful smile tugging the corners of her plump cheeks, the bear belle climbed up the stairs of her plantation house, and sashayed down the hall. She couldn't feel more at home anywhere else. This was her home; she hadn't abandoned it even after she'd died, and she wasn't going to abandon it now that she was alive again.