Murder Becomes Her

Stuck in the world of a noir film, a tigress takes on the role of a femme fatale. Explicit.

"So let me just make sure this is right."

Liz stared blankly. Not only had she never seen this German shepherd before, but he was black and white. No, it wasn't that his fur wasn't colorful. He had no color. But she didn't have time to ruminate on that now, since he seemed to be saying something important.

"At about one in the morning, you walked in on your husband and a..."

He paused while he flipped a page in his gray notebook.

"Short stag with a pot belly talking about a statue. They started arguing before they saw you, and got into a struggle. You rushed in when you heard a gunshot, and saw that your husband had been shot by the stag. Then he fled through the window, and you called us shortly after."

Liz said the best thing that came to mind.

"Yeah, that sounds about right."

"All right then, Missus Bouchard. While you're still here, we're also looking into the possibility that your husband's death might be related to an unsolved heist involving a jade statue from the Museum of Art. Would you know anything about that?"

"I'm sorry, I don't," she said.

"Well, thank you any way. We'll be wrapping up the scene and get out of your way soon enough."

The canine detective nodded to her, flipping his notebook shut and walking over to a blood stain on the carpet to bark at a few junior detectives about collecting evidence.

At least, she figured it was a bloodstain. It was black. But then, everything she looked at seemed to be in black and white. Now she had a bit more time to actually consider it. It wasn't something she was imagining, was it? And it wasn't just the house either. She could see black and white trees outside the window. Everything was grayscale.

Then she looked down at herself, and her body popped out in vibrant color. Orange and black like usual, a normal tiger's coat. Why hadn't the police officer mentioned it? And why was it like that in the first place. And her name wasn't Bouchard, it was Hanson. It didn't help that she didn't recognize where she was at all. She could vaguely pinpoint that it was a study, probably of a very large house, with a fairly old style. Or maybe that was the black and white. But the people looked old-styled too. She didn't know how to explain that.

"Madam?"

The voice snapped her out of her self-reflection. And here was a maid, ripped straight from the same sort of film noir movie the detectives were from. The young gray vixen woman smiled politely at Liz.

"Your breakfast and newspaper, madam. I didn't know if you would still be talking to the detectives. When they're done, should I, um, call about a new carpet?" she asked.

Liz could sense the respect the maid was giving her and it made her uneasy. It wasn't her place to try to correct a maid's behavior though, having never had one. Maybe that was how they were supposed to act.

"Go ahead. I need to sit for a while. I'm still kind of in shock," she half-lied.

Liz picked food off of the tray. The lack of color didn't seem to affect the flavor much, and the bacon was quite good. Ahh, good, a newspaper. Always good for when you don't know when the hell you are. She pulled it out and unfurled it, reading out the date: 1940. Twelfth of August, to be exact. Okay, so she was in the past, and everything was like a movie. She hadn't been doing anything special before; at her computer one minute, giving a statement to a detective the next. Perhaps most worrisome was that she didn't really know what was going on. No generous gift of knowledge, not even a synopsis for her to get a bit oriented.

She didn't quite know what to do with her tray once she was finished, but after setting it to the side, her maid came by and bent down to pick it up.

"Excuse me?" Liz asked.

The maid looked a little surprised, so Liz toned down the politeness.

"I'm feeling a bit weak after all this. Could you take me back to my room?" she asked.

"Of course, madam. This way," the maid said.

The fox put the tray back down, and led Liz by the arm through the magnificent gray-painted rooms, with carpets in intricate patterns of gray and shiny metal baubles and ornaments that could have easily been gold, silver, copper or bronze. Eventually, she was brought up a flight of stairs and to a large, grand bedroom, with a bed that dominated the center and the instruments of the upper-class strewn around. Writing desks, boudoirs, a makeup desk with mirror, a changing screen, and an old-fashioned?wait, scratch that, top-of-the-line rotary phone sitting on the night stand.

Once the maid had left, assured that her employer was okay, Liz hurried over to the full-length mirror beside the changing screen. Bordered in gray-painted wood, she looked into the mirror at, thankfully, her colorful, normal self. So as far as she could tell, everyone was treating her like this Madam Bouchard, even though she was really still herself.. Great, at least there was something she could hold onto there.

Was there something in her eye? She curiously leaned in closer until her breath fogged up on the glass. And then her mind went soft and mushy, melting and stretching with hardly any force.. She could feel something reaching into her and sealing itself in amid her thoughts, bedding down in the squishy, fluffy warmth.

 

The house was dark, lit only faintly by the lights shining in from the high windows. It was faint, dim and hazy, in the deep and silent part of the night where no one wanted to be awake. But she was. And she was moving. Slowly stepping along the soft carpet, consciously avoiding the squeaky floorboards.

And then she saw the crack of light, running out into the hall and splashing up against the wall in a corner of glowing light. Someone else was up. And she knew that it was her husband. She stepped up to the door, raising a hand, looking through the crack. Her knowledge was confirmed: her husband, awake and working at something at his desk while the fire behind him warmed the room.

 

Liz pulled her face back from the mirror with a gasp. What she'd just seen worked its way through her head, bringing up questions she couldn't help but consider. But before her internal monologue got around to asking them, she was distracted by something more pressing. Specifically, pressing against her bra, which her chest was doing quite tightly.

Her shirt was tugged off over her head. She slipped her bra off and dropped it on the ground. She barely filled the smallest adult bras snugly. A top-heavy girl she was not. And here she was looking at?well, she'd never had a reason to get a grasp on the sizes, but she could take a nice big handful and still have some left over. They even jiggled, for fuck's sake. What was she going to do with these?

She would have more than just that to worry about, though. In the midst of squeezing, comparing bra to breast, and conflicted feelings over whether this was neat or worrying, there was a bit of a rumbling down around her waist. This time, she wasn't waiting for her clothes to get tight. At the first sign of the denim getting tighter, the jeans came off, freeing her hips to widen her panties into a distressingly tight thong. That was added to the pile of discarded clothes too, as soon as she squeezed it off..

She had socks and shoes left, and she looked...well, hey. She didn't look that bad, really. Like a better-looking version of her. Being stuck in the noir-40's was far worse than looking cuter than usual. A tiny smile crept onto her lips as she took a look at herself in the mirror once more. A bit more trim, an inch or two taller; really, it was quite nice the way she was looking.

As for clothes, the closet would hopefully provide her with something she could wear. Unfortunately, it did seem like Madam Bouchard was bigger than her in most ways, which meant she had to dig into the back to find old things that might fit. She managed to find a dress long enough to reach most of the way to her heels, as well as a pair of shoes that wouldn't leave her teetering; wearing a dress and sneakers just felt a little odd to her.

She checked herself in the mirror briefly, looking over her flowing dress and low heels. The gray seemed a little odd on her but presumably no one else would notice. As she walked out from behind the screen, the cigarette holder on a nearby dresser made it halfway to her mouth before she stopped. She looked at it, confused for a moment, then slowly laid it down. She had just wanted a quick smoke. She never smoked, never even gave it a shot.

So, it, whatever it was, was doing something to her mind. Fine, she'd just have to keep her wits about her and find a way home soon. It would have been preferable if she'd had something to start looking for. No matter how much she considered her last moments back in her own time, they offered no clue. The best she could do was start looking for a clue here in the past. She was hoping for something like a big red flower standing out amid the gray, but that was probably too idealistic.

Liz wandered through the mansion, moving naturally in a more graceful, flowing gait than before, as if it was something she'd studied and learned. She was finding nothing that might help her get home, or undo what was happening to her. It was just a normal mansion. Just a normal grayscale mansion from the 40's she'd been time warped into. So, you know, normal.

She pieced her way through a rather large reading room, seeing if any of the books might have some kind of information, but while they covered a vast array of topics, nothing she could find spoke to her specific dilemma. She had gotten so used to the quiet atmosphere of the room that she nearly jumped when the phone rang. She set down her book, stood up, and walked over to the desk where the phone was. As if she might hurt something by doing it, she picked up the phone and placed it to her ear.

"Hello, Missus Bouchard?" the voice asked.

Though tinny and harder to hear than she'd expected, she could recognize the voice of the detective she'd talked to that morning.

"I was told to keep you updated on the case, and we've just found the body of a man matching the description you gave of the suspect. I'm about to go and take a look at the scene myself. We'll call again if there are any new developments."

"Of course. Thank you, Detective Adams."

His name was on his badge, right? She'd overheard it before the police had left? Oh, damn. She nearly crumpled into the chair behind her.

 

She pushed open the door, and the lion at the desk looked up at her with a smile. She smiled back.

"Working late, darling?" she asked.

Her hand crept over the back of a leather chair while he leaned back in his own.

"Just getting a few arrangements worked out. In a week we'll be meeting with a buyer who's interested in the statue. Out of the country, of course. We could use a vacation," he said.

"Packing all my things is such a bore though," she said in a mock whine.

"We're going to need an alibi. It could at least be an exciting one," he said.

A rumble of delight was rising from his chest as she approached him, and once he rose up from his desk, it was mere moments before their arms were tightly entwined, his mane ticking her cheeks and chin.

 

She needed to turn Madam Bouchard in. But wait, if she did the right thing, she'd get locked up, and they might think she was trying to hide the jade statue, since she didn't know where it was. Painful as it was for her, she'd have to keep quiet. It wasn't her, of course it wasn't, but no one else would believe that, seeing how they kept believing she was Bouchard.

"Madam? Would you prefer to come to the dining room to eat lunch or would you like me to bring it up to you?"

Liz gulped softly as she raised her head, looking up at the maid standing in the doorway with a polite smile on her face.

"Oh, I'll come and eat downstairs, dear," Liz said.

Her tone was brief and dismissive and came naturally. The seat in the dining room that Liz sat down in was remarkably soft, like she was sitting atop nothing but pure fluff. She ate her way through the salad, finding the vegetables remarkably fresh, ate a little less than daintily the expertly cooked pasta, and could hardly wait to dig into the third course when she first smelled the seasoned chicken breast.

"Thank the chefs for me. It was delicious today," Liz said to one of the servants as they started clearing her plates.

The meal had left her feeling faintly bloated and squeezed inside her dress, so it was time to change into something new. She had a huge closet at her disposal. There was probably a unique outfit for every day in there.

Since she had it in her mind to go for a walk around the grounds, she changed into something that wouldn't blow around quite so much outside; a dress cut closer to her body, and a different pair of shoes. With higher heels, because she wanted to change shoes and there weren't any others as low as the ones she was wearing so it was completely justified.

Even within her dress, her breasts liked to sway from side to side or jiggle around. It was an interesting thing to get used to, reaching around the heavy mounds. Oh, yeah, they were certainly bigger than before. It wasn't like she hadn't noticed the tightening threads during lunch or the way they would rock when she walked up the stairs. And she wasn't so oblivious to have missed the way her ass was bouncing around either. She was getting curvier, no doubt about it, and she still didn't mind, but it was a nice reminder that she needed to fix this and get back home.

Luckily, she was keeping herself together mentally quite well. No real changes so far, though she did still think that she could go for a cigarette. But nothing she'd actually acted on. She bent down in front of the makeup desk, looking through the tubes of lipstick until coming to one marked 'crimson skies'. Well, it looked blackish to her, but it was the best she was getting in this world. Her plump lip was enticingly glossy by the time she was done, and she'd thickened her eyelashes with a bit of mascara. Perfect, now she wouldn't feel naked the way she did without her makeup! Before leaving, she took just a moment to examine her fur more closely. It must have been all the black and white getting to her, because the orange in her fur looked quite a bit less vibrant. Just one more reason to keep looking for a way out.

Liz walked out into the garden behind the mansion, taking steps with measured grace, hips swinging upon the slender pivot of her waist. Looking at it from a different point of view, she was starting to appreciate the appearance of the world, even if she far preferred color. Different things stood out now; light and contour more than color and hue. From the gardens, she wandered around to the front, taking a look at the grand lawn, the road leading up to the mansion, the wrought iron gate, and the police car pulling up to the front door. Hmm.

"Ah, Missus Bouchard! We were coming by on the way back, and I wanted to talk to you in person before it got late," the detective said.

He seemed pleased, so Liz let herself relax and not immediately assume he was here about 'her' involvement.

"Go ahead," Liz said.

"Well, we found a gun that matches the bullet we found at the scene at the deer's home address. Along with a note making reference to a stolen statue, your husband, and someone else, a Mister L. So my theory is, your husband was shot over his involvement in the heist of the statue, maybe to assure a greater piece of the pie for the partners. And then, this Mr. L had the same idea, so he'd get all the money for himself."

"Oh, my. Well, I'm afraid I don't recognize that name at all. But I certainly do hope you can catch that man. It's a shame that my husband was involved with all of that," Liz said.

The detective nodded politely at her.

"I'll let you get on, but do remember to let me know if you find anything."

He slipped back into the police car, which slowly pulled around the loop that the driveway took, then turned out onto the road.

All right, now she had just knowingly lied, which she was sure was worse. Maybe not legally, but for her conscience at least. She needed to get back to the bedroom so she could think about things in private.

She had just barely closed the door behind her when she fell to one knee, hands quickly moving to her head as a headache radiated from her brow.

 

There was a bang. And there was blood. Her husband sunk to the ground. She looked up to see a stag she recognized. He took a few steps away from the door. He was held in the same sort of frozen shock as her. Then it was broken. He bolted for the window. She closed in on him quickly, but not quickly enough.

She only watched the deer dashing away for a second. She pulled herself away. She ran down to the garage where her car sat parked. He wasn't going to be getting away from her.

 

Damn it, she didn't want these! Especially when each one was making it worse for her. She would really rather not know what sorts of things the person whose appearance she was attached to had been doing.

And that's when it hit her. Not a revelation, it was more of an intense aching that set her trying to pull her clothes off as fast as possible. She could feel that her skin was swelling. But the previous times it had just been a curious feeling. Now, it was making her nerves light up like a fireplace, with the hearth sitting right between her legs.

This was bad. She didn't even have to wonder about it, she was sure this was a sign that things were getting worse. Not that she could do much about it. At the moment she could only reactively grope at her shifting form and give the occasional desperate cry. Her breasts were leaving modestly perky behind and becoming rounded, yet insistently pert?thanks went to youth on that one. The strings of an invisible corset drew her waist slimmer. Her ass became softer, more perfectly sculpted to fit atop her increasingly shapely legs.

At last she turned her fingers to their most pressing purpose at the moment, squeezing them between her legs. Her eyes glazed over slightly, small drops of sweat tracing down the tigress's brow. Each rub and thrust of her fingers brought whimpers of delight from her throat. The tight bite on her lip that she held was growing softer; her lip was becoming poutier, more invitingly kissable. Her eyelids were naturally hanging lower, turning a normal look into more of a smoldering gaze.

A cry of pleasure ripped its way from her throat and left an aching feeling. Her fingers were slick with her juices. Her heart was pounding crazily.

"Ohh, god," she sighed.

The sharp cry had affected her vocal cords, pushing her voice into a thicker, more sultry tone. It took work to try to not sound seductive. And though she was no longer in the painful grip of urgent need, she was able to feel the lust still pulsing beneath the surface of her psyche. She was starting to crave excitement more and more. She was starting to crave sex, and she had the tools to get it. She had to resist. This wasn't her. Her body swayed with a gait that bespoke strength. Liz was a dangerous woman when you pushed her to the edge.

She needed to get dressed once more, but she wouldn't be giving into any of the little nagging cravings. She was herself, damn it. Four inch heels, sheer stockings, long velvet dress, diamond earrings and a gemstone pendant. There, perfectly normal attire. Pouting into the mirror, she primped her hair briefly, coaxing the shoulder-length curls to fall just the way she wanted them and making sure that her short bangs were even. There. Good old Liz.

While Liz was heading for the study to take a closer look at the crime scene and compare it to her memories, she was interrupted by the vixen maid. The girl had a nice rack beneath that uniform. And she'd seen those legs, they were pretty nice too.

"Oh dear, I'm sorry. What were you saying?" Liz asked, her voice nearly purring but with powerful force behind the words.

"If you'd like to eat dinner now, madam, it's ready for you," the maid repeated.

"Why yes, that would be divine," Liz said.

She smiled as she followed her maid to the dining room. She watched the hole right around where her tail stuck out of her uniform. Damn it, mind out of the gutter, stay yourself!

Liz sat down at her seat and ate in small bites and measured portions, yet still managed to make her way through course after course. All of those curves couldn't be coming easy, after all. She thought that eating might give pause to her insistent sexual desires, but it just provided more energy for her newly found cravings. At least she was feeling more full than horny by the time the plates were being cleared.

As she rose up, she heard the conversation of two of her servants just behind the door to the kitchen.

"I heard some things, the Madam and her husband talking about...jade something. And then, after the gunshot and the window broke, I saw her car leaving. Do you think I should talk to the police?" the vixen maid asked.

"Don't worry yourself about it too much, I'm sure they've got enough evidence. Unless you think it's really important, I wouldn't worry," another voice told her.

As if there wasn't enough to worry about, Liz nearly fell over as a throbbing pain shot through her.

 

"Take all the god damn money! I don't care, just let me go!"

"But dear, you know you're a witness. And I need to tie up my loose ends," she said.

The gun was pointed right at him. She was stepping closer. He was terrified, seeing the cool, unaffected gaze of the tigress boring right into him.

"Come here," she growled.

She tugged the terrified deer up against her body. He could feel the gun behind his back, changing hands, rubbing against his ribs, reminding him of its presence.

But with inestimable skill, she had lowered herself over his shaft within three seconds of reaching for his pants. He gasped sharply. His hooves scraped slowly against the floor. She was hard and fast, blazingly hot, attacking him with a terrifying fire. Her body pressed against his in all of those delightful ways she knew he loved, and it only scared him more. She could tell he'd never felt more like prey than right now.

And amid the wet, the groaning, the hectic love, her gun went off. He began to slump, and she wrapped her arms around the body. Drops of their fluids dripped from between her legs. She carried him out onto the pier, then watched the body tumble down into the water.

 

Her heart felt more like a tommy gun rattling inside her chest. She couldn't make it up to her room fast enough. She slammed the doors behind her. She pulled off her clothes. And Liz doused herself in cold water, scrubbing and washing with everything she had, until she emerged from the bathroom, still feeling dirty and horrified.

And to her disgust, horny added itself onto that list. She was intensely not in the mood, though, so she simply let her body burn with need. She tossed her towel aside when it grew too tight. Her breasts could no longer stay completely pert, but they still stood with youthful perkiness despite their ever-increasing size and roundness. She might have enjoyed that, but now the nervousness was taking over. What could she do about the maid who'd seen her?

And then it hit her. She rose up from where she'd sat down on the bed, and walked into the closet. She tugged a seductive sleeveless dress up around her shoulders. The neck was cut deep in the front, and a broad, tapered slit showed off her absolutely stunning legs and wide hips beneath that just-right slender waist. Her towering heels curled her legs into even more appealing positions, and turned her walk into a lustful strut. She tugged opera gloves of the same material as the dress up over her hands and forearms.

The more she gave herself over to the femme fatale, the more that it made her excited. Even though she knew she shouldn't be doing it, even though she didn't want to do it, it was her only choice to do what had to be done. It barely felt like her any more as she tossed her long dark curls in the mirror and smoothed out her dress. Her makeup took another fifteen minutes to get just right, and with each added item, she could feel herself losing control. Not just control, her very self. The orange was gone. The contrast of white to gray to black stripes on her fur was strong and striking. What worried her the most was how little she seemed to be able to worry about it. She was fitting right in.

Liz...Elizabeth took the cigarette holder and propped it expertly between her teeth, slipping one of her favorite brands onto the end, and lighting it with a lighter that went down between her breasts for storage. She took a deep drag, held it in, then curled her plump, pouty lip as she let it out in a slow trail. If she wanted to be coyly vulgar, she'd call them cocksucking lips but they were good for so much more.

Liz didn't have much of a chance, especially now that the voice in her head sounded far more like Elizabeth, but she was still holding on. Holding on even as the tigress came upon the vixen maid and tugged her into the study.

The maid's stammering was stopped with a firm kiss, pressed against her, then drawing into her and pulling the will to resist from her. She could see it fade from the maid's eyes, her struggles dissipating.

Elizabeth dropped to her knees in front of the maid. Her dress was tugged aside, her head slipping up beneath it, lips spreading. Liz was surprised at the dexterity of her own tongue. It was like nothing she'd felt before. That it was her own body doing it was even more astounding.

The maid squirmed and thrashed, not in an attempt to get free but in utter delight, eyes glazed over, mouth hanging open and panting heavily. Elizabeth's hands squeezed along the vixen's body as if she was claiming all of it as her own. It grew faster, more drawn-out and desperate, aching and throbbing and crying out until she reached her climax. Trembling, shuddering, barely able to see straight, the vixen's heart was pounding.

The barrel of a gun was pushed up against the underside of her chin.

"I...mada?"

Two deaths happened right then. As the maid crumpled backward onto the desk, Liz curled up into a little ball, then shrank away into complete nothingness. Poor dear, she just couldn't handle herself, Elizabeth mused. She lifted her cigarette holder back to her lips, biting down on the tip before taking a long, slow puff. She might have to do a bit of self-pleasuring after how fun that had been. She let out a purr as she blew a smoke ring toward the vixen's body.

 

After three long rings, the phone was picked up and the sandy-furred wolf cocked his head toward the receiver.

"Cairo police commissioner's office. Can I help you? I'm a little busy."

A ring of smoke hit his cheek and faded into wisps.".

"Yes, actually," the voice on the other end said. “I'm from the Chicago police department, and we have reason to believe that a suspect in a multiple homicide case has fled to Egypt."

Elizabeth's heels clicked on the floor lightly before she draped herself over the wolf. Her arms slid around him, gently tugging at his body. Her breasts were pressing firmly against his chest, threatening to pop straight out of her dress, while her tail had slid up his pants and teased his thighs slowly. All it took was a gaze from her, and his concerns melted away.

"She's a six-foot-tall tigress, quite attractive, and she has a good deal of money. She goes by the name of Elizabeth Bouchard. I know I can't ask you to bring her back to us, but if your officers see someone like that, be on the look out. She's an indiscriminate killer."

Elizabeth deepened her purrs as she slid the comissioner's pants down. She was already grinding and bucking, moving with motions that traveled along her whole body like elegant waves.

"Thank you, detective. If I see anyone like that I'll get right on it," the wolf said. "Yes, goodbye to you too."

Elizabeth smiled widely when he hung up the phone. She pushed him all the way back down onto the ground.

"Oh dear, it looks as if they're onto me," Elizabeth said. "However am I going to get away from you?"

She punctuated her words with thrusts of her body, sending a rush of dizzying delight through him with each motion.

"I think we...can find an...arrangement," the wolf said between heavy pants.

Elizabeth's gloved fingers picked up the cigarette holder; she had room to use it now that she was on top of him, straddling him and thrusting herself down over his cock. With a cooly aloof expression belying the passion beneath, she took a long drag, then blew it out slowly. She thought of where else she might like to visit on her vacation. She was free now, and she couldn't be happier.