Shoplifters Will Be Prostituted

A quick story written as a warm-up. Content warning for rough language and the sort of stuff you'd expect from the title. Explicit.

While the coyote up at the cash register had her nose down in her phone, Kris slipped another two bracelets off the rack and dumped them into her bag. Her bag was one of those big clunky ones—ten percent of why she wore it was because it was trendy, and the other ninety because you could stuff a lot of expensive stuff in there.

Well, as expensive as you could find in Too U, at least.


Spots

A short partial jaguar transformation, as a kind of experiment with non-anthro animal hybrids.

Mia shut the door behind her and tossed the plastic package onto her bed. She wasted no time pulling off her clothes. Her underwear went too, tossed to the side along with her socks. Shaking out her short black hair, she brushed her fingers along her temples, above her pierced ears.

It had finally come.

She tore open the plastic seal and dumped the bag out onto her bed. A pair of leggings and elbow-length gloves spilled onto her sheets. She scooped the nylon up in her hands. The jaguar-print rosettes stretched around her fingers. She was excited; a wide-eyed, dry-mouthed sort of excited.

Mia sat down on the bed and lifted up her left leg. The fabric stretched around her heel and flowed up her calf. Pausing, she wiggled the nylon over her foot until the toes of the leggings met her own toes. Then she stuck her right leg into the leggings, then stood up. The waistband snapped against her hips as she let it go. With a few gentle touches—the layer of nylon made her skin more sensitive—she smoothed the wild pattern across her legs.

The gloves left her fingers bare, but stretched nearly all the way to her elbows. Holding her left arm in front of her, she pulled the left glove tight, then did the same for the right. She wiggled her fingers to adjust the finger holes and brushed off the tops of her thighs.

Her reflection looked back at her from her bedroom mirror. Her tan skin made the jaguar-print glow.

And then it started.

The joints of her toes bubbled and curled back on themselves. The sudden discomfort and shift in her weight tipped her forward, but she caught herself on her bed. Her breaths came shorter and faster. With sharp cricks and snaps, her heels stretched into the air and forced her knees to bend. The tendons in her feet tightened like a guitar being tuned.


Administration (from The Merger)

A corporate takeover includes free mandatory bovinification for all employees. Excerpted from the paid anthology The Merger. Mature.

Stephen sat down at his desk and took a deep breath. The office was hot today, and buzzing with low chatter as people shifted cubicles and rolled their favorite chairs around. He wasn't moving; he wasn't important enough to get shuffled.

Aside from the bustle around him, it was a normal day at the office. His only new email was the one from Mr. Bayer about the merger. That was good, right? It meant he wasn't getting downsized yet. Right? He logged onto the project database and started updating each entry.

And then his chest felt tight. Not like a heart attack, not like something was clutching him, but like the front of his chest was snug against his shirt. It was the same white shirt and blue tie he'd worn a hundred times before, so what was different today? He tugged at the side of the collar and loosened his tie a little bit. A little bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. He looked to his right. Craig was in the cubicle opposite his, earbuds in, working away, unfazed by the warmth.

Craig wasn't worried about his performance review. Craig wasn't worried about some new boss coming in and deciding to fire any employee who'd gotten a bad review.

Stephen got up from his chair and brushed back his short, dark hair. Quick trip to grab some water, that was what he needed. Each step, the pressure pushed against his chest, like it was swinging up and down. He folded his arms across his chest to keep it from bouncing as he walked to the water cooler. Was he gaining weight? He hadn't been eating too well lately.

He reached out to push down the blue lever, then froze. He stared at his black fingernails. When...? How? The water spilled over his cup and he jerked back, leaving a small splash on the ground. His eyes darted from the wet carpet to his hand. His fingernails were larger. Blacker. Thicker. A sudden flush ran across his cheeks and sweat prickled beneath his shirt. He shoved his hand under his armpit to hide it. As he rushed back to his cubicle, he tried to ignore the feeling of his skin stretching and his fingernails growing thicker and bulkier..

Craig still had his head down in his computer when he got back. Stephen plopped down into his seat and spun to the side, so Craig couldn't see him extracting his hand from his armpit. His fingers quivered. He tried to move his pointer and middle fingers independently, but they refused to separate. The thick black nails on both fingers squeezed together, and then with a pop of bone and sinew, his fingers had joined. He wiggled his new, broad finger and the bulky black keratin hoof on top.

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15 December, 2016

The Laidly Wyrm

Did you know there's an English folk song about a knight kissing a dragon? Mature.

The black granite walls of the seaside keep couldn't keep him at bay. Sir Roderick, youngest knight of the Order of the Green Hen, had come to fight the dragon. The dragon's crimes were only those of scaring coastal farmers and carrying off several head of cattle, but to Roderick, this was an opportunity to distinguish himself.

Getting inside the keep was a challenge all its own, but high walls couldn't stop him. A rope tied to his sword, thrown like a spear through a small window, let him scramble up into the guard tower. From there, he picked his way through the wide corridors of the keep. His footsteps echoed against the steady roar of the waves as he sought a path to the courtyard.

Eventually, he found a set of double doors, bolted with a thick iron bar. Sunlight glared through the cracks from the other side. He took a moment to ready himself. He tucked his blonde hair back, slipped his helmet onto his head, and then placed one hand on the hilt of his sword. With the other, he threw back the bolt and pushed open the doors.

In the courtyard, the high walls cast shadows against the thick flagstones. In one corner, the floor had crumbled away entirely, leaving a hole straight down to the rolling sea below. And in the middle of the courtyard was the dragon.

Its powerful, sinuous body stretched out along the stones. It sat like a great regal cat, with its forelegs tucked under its chest and back legs extended. Its scales glistened in the sun; they were a shade of blue richer than a nobleman's coat. A pair of smooth horns curled from its forehead, first sweeping back, then arching forward again in a lazy, serpentine curve. Its yellow eyes fixed on Roderick. Lean muscle rolled beneath its scales as it rose to its feet.

The dragon's voice reverberated through the stone. "At last!" it rumbled. Roderick watched its teeth. They were not like daggers. Daggers were thin and meant for slicing. The dragon's teeth were stout and jagged and meant for tearing meat from limb and armor from knight.

Roderick had practised what he would say the whole way from the nearest town. "Remember the name Sir Roderick, dragon," he said. The tip of his sword traced a line straight to the dragon's head. "Because it's he who'll slay you."

"Wait," the dragon said. It held out a taloned claw as big as Roderick's rib cage. "You're here to slay me? You mean you don't know?"


In Character

A late Halloween story: Morgan pieces together a last-minute costume and really gets into the role. Mature.

It was one in the afternoon on Halloween. Costumes were splayed on the ground, hanging off the hooks, and half-stuffed back into their bags. Morgan wasn't the only person in the store, but the clutter and high shelves left him feeling alone as he searched for a suitable costume. Maybe he shouldn't have waited until the last minute, but he hadn't known that Faye was going to be at the costume party.

All of the good costumes were gone by now. What were left were the things no one wanted to end up in-character as. A cheap gorilla suit listed to one side on its hanger; he'd have a hard time flirting as a literal ape. An angel costume with halo was slowly shedding its foil stars onto the floor; good if he wanted to be a total goody two-shoes. If he was going to be stuck in-character for the night, he wasn't going to settle for a gorilla or an angel or a cop.

Morgan rounded the corner of the aisle and stopped in front of a tall barrel, big enough that he could have sat inside it. A hand-written posterboard sign was taped up behind it. 'Grab Bin!!' it exclaimed, 'Build a unique look from these assorted accessories. Pick out three for $10!'

Maybe he could piece together something Faye would like. Morgan leaned forward over the thick rim and tried to peer into the barrel. He stuck his hand in, grabbed the first thing he felt, and lifted out a pair of shiny black pumps. The shoes had slim heels and chunky soles and a cheap, plasticky-gloss surface. He was not getting stuck in-character as a girl for the night. He tossed the shoes off to the side and bent over to keep searching through the assortment..

Up on his tiptoes with his head in the barrel, Morgan couldn't see the black heels moving.  They quivered, then inched across the floor. Once they were close enough, the black shoes reared back onto their heels, lifting their toes into the air right behind Morgan's feet. In unison, they stomped down on the back of his sneakers. His shoes popped right off his feet and the black plastic heels wriggled their straps up around his black socks.


Mane: For Men

TransCo-branded shampoo turns Riley into a beastly male gnoll. Whoops. Explicit.

Riley had run out of shampoo. This wouldn't normally be a problem, but she didn't have enough time before work to go to the supermarket for her usual shampoo. The gas station on the corner only had travel-size bottles of Mane: For Men.

But even shampoo marketed to insecure teenage boys was better than nothing. Riley closed the bathroom door and kicked off her shoes. She tugged her shirt off over her head and shook out her black curls, then bent over and pushed off her pajama pants. She took a glance at the mirror; no surprises there. Fair skin, average figure, and unremarkably cute.

Riley stepped into the shower stall and swung the door shut. At first, she just let the hot water spray over her scalp. Then she rolled her head, soaking her curls and combing her fingers through them until they fell flat against her cheeks. Once she'd thoroughly rinsed, she reached for the bottle and popped the top.

The shampoo's scent ('Gnollspike', which she'd chosen over the alternative, 'Bristleboar') wasn't as bad as she'd feared. The sweet smell of soap was warmed by spices, but it wasn't overpowered and musky. ...At least, not too musky. If she rinsed it out well enough, she would be fine.

She squeezed a splurt onto her hand and slapped it onto her forehead. She spread it back along her hair, then with both hands, she scrubbed the shampoo into her scalp, working it down through her tangled curls.

The shampoo tingled into her hair follicles, like the pleasant burn of popping a cinnamon hard candy into her mouth. If she let it linger, it started to hurt, but feeling it wash across her scalp was invigorating. She leaned into the spray and closed her eyes. The water rolled down her face and hair, carrying the suds down her body. She flicked her wet hair back and squeezed another squort of shampoo into her hands. She wanted to feel that tingle again.