Brushstroke

Sure, get your face painted like a tiger at the weird renaissance fair booth. What could go wrong? Explicit.

Stepping into the face-painting tent felt like stepping into another world. Perhaps that should have been a warning sign. The tapestried walls of the tent caught the sun, which illuminated their ornate wheels and intricate knots and meanders in silhouette, and bathed the small tent in bronze light. When the tent flap closed behind me, the noise of the fair became muffled and distant.

Sitting on a stool, behind a podium with 'Face Painting' stencilled on it in blackletter, was a woman in a flowing dress, which might have been purple, but the amber light transformed it into satin black. Her braided hair rolled down her back, to the laces of her leather corset. Leaning on her podium with one elbow, she held between her fingers a small crystal ball. She seemed more interested in it than in me, and she wasn't very interested in it.

"Hi," I said, to break the quiet. "You do face painting?"

Briefly, she glanced at me, then back down. "Hold on," she said, and sat up slightly. With a wave of a finger, a gleaming light flickered into the crystal ball. "Hmm. You came to the fair alone, didn't you?"

I made a shy, shrugging laugh. "Yeah, I guess so."

The glow from her crystal ball lit her arched eyebrows. "You want a more exciting life," she said.

That was fair to say of anyone at a renaissance fair. The way she said it was uneasily accurate, though, like she'd plucked the unrealized thought right from my mind. I nodded quietly.

"And you want me to paint your face...like a fairy," she said, with a lazy wave of her hand meant to be dramatic. "Right?"

A moment's silence passed as I came back to reality. "Um, actually no. I was thinking some kind of animal?"

With a a sigh, an eye-roll, and a snap of her fingers, the crystal ball vanished. "That's a lesson for you. Never buy from fortune tellers." She shook her head, then her eyes focused on me again. She stood from the stool and leaned over the podium. "So. What manner of beast does the fair lady wish to be? I've done panthers, griffins, leucrotta..."

I said, "A tiger would be cool."

Sync

Two strangers become linked during a procedure to transfer their minds into synthetic bodies. Explicit.

Based on a picture drawn by Proxer.

Two days ago, I sold myself off. I should feel worse about going synth. I feel bad that I don't feel worse. I didn't have to. Technically, I had a choice. I could have let myself get evicted, go squat in some alleyway under those sodium piss-lights, and tell myself I wasn't compromising my humanity.

Instead, I tapped a blue checkbox that says 'I have read and agree to the Terms of Transfer' and scheduled an appointment: tonight, at the nearest Adelpha office.

The skyscrapers downtown eat up the amber glow from the night sky. They bounce it back and forth between their windowpanes, speckled with light from the offices of everyone working late. Down on the sidewalks, the street lights pour blue-white glare over me, washed with corporate colors every time I pass a ten-foot illuminated logo.

A helmet-faced, gunmetal gray security synth stops me outside the Adelpha office and runs my credentials. I end up staring into the polyglas door while I wait—it's slicker than water and I can see my reflection in it. I try my best to look tough. If this is the last chance I get to see myself, I want to savor it.

After about half a minute, the synth steps to the side. The door parts and slides open. With a brief gesture, the synth says, "The waiting room is straight down the hall."

The interior of the office is so sleek and rounded that I feel like an intruder. The polished white floor refuses to let my sneakers leave footprints. At the end, the hall opens into a lobby, with white chairs along two adjacent walls and a few tablet readers tastefully arranged on a table between them. There's one other person there. He's about my age, and judging by his worn-down clothes and scuffed shoes, he's in the same boat as me.

The Stream

A livestreamer crowd-sources her own transformation into a cougar anthro. Explicit.

I've streamed like twice before. This time, I'm trying to go big. I've got my desk lamp pitched up as high as it'll go, aimed right at my face. Even though I'm doing the just-rolled-out-of-bed, tee-shirt-and-panties look, I brushed my hair and put on just enough makeup to look like I'm not wearing any.

Last time, I made like sixty bucks in donations. This time, I'm gonna break two hundred.

I open up the streaming client. There's the empty chat room on the side, there's the empty donation log on the bottom, and in the video preview window, there I am. I've got that blank, computer-screen look in my eyes. I tip the webcam up just a little, so it's not cutting off the top of my head, then tuck a stray bit of bangs behind my ear. I mouse over 'start streaming', then click.

Every time you start, there's this pinch, like someone just closed a bag clip against the back of your neck. Still haven't gotten used to that. I reach back and rub that spot. Already there's a couple of viewers on the chat list, though, so I straighten up and smile at the camera.

"Hey, guys."

Each chat message comes in with a tapping sound.

sup

you got a theme for this stream?

I shrug and lean back into my swivel chair. "Nothing much, just relaxing. And yeah, let's make it..." I click the 'theme' dropdown and scroll down till one of them catches my eye. "...Feline."

$20 – Feline pops up in the donation log a couple seconds later.

A shiver runs up the back of my spine. The hair on my neck stands on end, and I can bet that it's thicker, too. The chill feeling dissipates when it hits my scalp, but then I feel it sliding across my ears. When I reach up to touch them, I can feel the fuzz of fur growing along the rims, and the little pointed tips at the top.

"Woah. First time doing species stuff," I say, with a small laugh. There's four people in the chat now, which isn't bad. Last time I topped out at six.

Spiked

A reality-warping collar turns an office worker into a tough hyena porn star, and changes those around him in pornographic ways. Explicit.

It starts while I'm washing my hands in the bathroom. I look down at the sink, then back up at the mirror, and instead of my tie, I'm wearing a collar.

As collars go, it's not even very work-appropriate.

The band is thick black leather, about an inch and a half tall, studded with round, half-inch steel spikes. It's big enough that I can slip my fist between the collar and my neck and still have wiggle room. There's a clasp in the back. I spin it around so it's facing front, and try to pull it open. It doesn't budge.

All right, fine, I'll just pull the collar up over my head instead. I slide the back up my neck and try to squeeze the front over my chin. Even though it's a loose fit, it's not loose enough to slide off. I keep trying for a good minute, until my neck's pink from the collar rubbing against it. My ears are hot and my face is flushed, too. I let go and it clunks down against my shoulders and collarbone.

If I can't take it off and I can't pull it off, maybe I can cut it off. I've got scissors back at my cubicle. I crack open the bathroom door and peek down the hall before I leave. I don't feel like trying to explain why I'm wearing an oversized punk collar in the middle of the office.

The coast is clear, so I slip down the hall, turn the corner, and see my boss, Tricia, coming my way. She's the sort of person who likes gray suits because 'they're neutral colors' and cares about timesheets and dress codes.

Maybe she won't notice the collar if she doesn't look too closely. I step to the side to slip by Tricia and give her a shy smile.

She smiles back, doesn't even glance at my neck, and says, "Hi, Spike."

I'm already past her, but I stop and pause. Was 'Spike' a dig at the collar? But if she saw it, she would have told me to take it off. I turn back toward her. "Um, what?"

"I was just saying hello," she says with a friendly shrug.

"Yeah, but my name's not Spike."

Tricia frowns lightly, then lifts an eyebrow. "Oh. All right, Mister Ryder," she says with more than a little sarcasm, then turns the corner and walks off toward her office.

My name's not Ryder either.

The Spa

What could be more soothing than being turned into a big, fluffy snow leopard? After all, cats are very good at relaxing. Explicit.

The receptionist swings the door open, then steps to the side with a gentle smile. "You'll be right through here," she says. "You'll want to take off your clothes. You can use the towel to cover up."

I've never had a massage before. Never been to a spa before either, but I got that gift certificate, and the way work's been lately, a full-day relaxation treatment is hard to pass up. I give the receptionist a shy grin. "Is that...should I take off my underwear too?"

She's probably gotten that question a ton. She shrugs and says, "Up to you, sir. Just lie down and ring the bell when you're ready."

I step into the room. She swings the door shut behind me. It's not a large room, but it's spacious. A thickly padded massage table sits in the middle, with plenty of room to move around it. The walls and cabinets are a deep, peaceful red. There's speakers in the corners playing a soft loop of natural white noise, wind rustling through leaves, birds chirruping, that sort of thing

There's a changing screen in the corner, so I step behind it and peel off my clothes. I want to be polite, so I fold up my shirt and pants and set them on the stool behind the screen. Then, after a bit of debate, I take off my underwear too, and tuck it between my other clothes. Before I step out again, I tug down the towel that's hung over the screen and wrap it around my waist.

I hop up onto the table, sit down with my legs over the side, and glance down at the brass bell sitting next to the headrest. Ringing a bell to make someone come feels weirdly posh, but if that's this spa's thing, I don't want to make it awkward. I pick up the bell and give it a loud ring.

A considerate couple of seconds later, the door swings open, and in come two women with short, dark hair and burgundy scrubs. "Hello, sir," says the more confident-looking of the two. "We'll be your masseuses today. If you would, please lie down on your back."

"Sure," I say. I turn around on the table, scoot in toward the center, then stretch out until the back of my head rests against the donut cushion at the top.

"Is this your first time getting a massage?" she asks.

"That obvious?" I say.

Not A Cow

Chris is not a cow, but everyone around him disagrees on that point, and so does his udder. Explicit.

Chris was not a cow.

But a droplet of milk seeped through Chris's shirt. There was a needle-sting jolt as it leaked out of him, then rolled down his chest. It left a small, off-white stain in its trail. By the time he'd lifted his hands from the keyboard and sat up in his chair, the wet patch had cooled. His nipple was stiff.

Chris was also not turning into a cow.

Which meant he had to explain why the milk he'd just leaked wasn't actually milk. Maybe he'd drooled on himself? Maybe pipe in the ceiling was leaking? Maybe he was actually just sweating?

At the very least, he could prove he wasn't lactating. Watch. With one hand, he prodded the dry side of his chest. See, he—

A small grunt died in the back of his throat. Just the warmth and pressure of his fingers through his shirt was enough to kickstart something in his chest.

His hands gripped the desk and he bit back a whine. The sting was back, and at his other nipple this time. A few drops rolled through his shirt, wobbled fatly, and then fell onto his desk. Plip-plip. It hurt, but it was the sort of pain that would be worse if he fought it. It was the sort of pain that relieved aching tightness.

He exhaled and looked down. Twin stains ran down his chest, with his swollen nipples poking against his shirt at the top of each. The wet fabric felt even rougher than when it was dry.

He needed to get home and fix this. He'd go to a hospital if he had to. He wasn't a cow, and he wasn't going to be a cow.