Redder Than Gold

A wolf enjoys his Argentinian vacation once the music turns him into a colorful vixen. Mature.

He put his feet on the dance floor and the trumpets flared against the beat.

 

Roland had stumbled through his second day in Buenos Aires with half-remembered high school Spanish and the clothes that he'd taken in his carry-on bag.

 

The percussion stomped along and he lifted his feet. He drew deeper into the crowd.

 

Roland had spent the entire day on his feet between trying to walk to museums and trying to get his lost suitcase back from the airport.

 

There were people dancing all around him now. He couldn't turn back.

 

Roland had needed something to put his mind at ease. The receptionist at his hotel had suggested where he could find the nightlife.

 

The music and the crowd were tight and pressing but for the first time since he got here, he was smiling.

 

Roland had stopped at the first club he found. Inside it had been busy and warmly loud with the sound of voices underneath the pounding Latin-flavored house music. He had slipped over to the bar, then retreated to suck at a margarita through a straw.

 

'You only have as much fun as you let yourself have,' one of his friends had once said.

 

Roland would have sat in the corner, finished his drink, and gone back to his room. But a dizzy rush of confidence and optimism had pushed him from his seat, across the club, and up onto the dance floor.

 

 

So there he was now, bobbing to the music. His long, dark hair flicked from side to side as he moved. He would have dressed better, but without his luggage, all he had was a pair of slender red denim slacks and a v-neck tee shirt and brown loafers. Even if he was down to his last set of clothes, the slim, white-furred wolf had a sense of style.

Now that he was in the dance floor crowd, it was easier to follow the motions. The mass of people itself swayed back and forth. He rocked his hips, imitating someone else.

A cute jaguar shouted something in Spanish at him—'balla come mego?' No, wait, it was 'baila' so that was tú form imperative—!

The jaguar's hands were on his back and she was squeezing him tightly. She pulled him into a swaying dance with her. Her black hair shimmered and there was a smile on her plump lips and her silver earrings sparkled as they moved in unison.

"Ah... Hola," Roland said, pushing his shocked expression into a friendly smile.

The jaguar just giggled softly, gave him a tight hug, and planted a kiss on his lips. She was warm and her body was slender and her breasts were perky and he leaned against her—and then she was gone. She slipped off into the crowd and left Roland with his heart beating hard enough to compete with the pounding music.

"Hey! Come, uh, venga aqui," he called after her, trying to follow where she went.

His loafers clicked against the floor in a way they hadn't before. The soles were thickening and the heels in particular were climbing upwards. But though his growing heels were slowly pushing him higher, he stayed at a solid six feet. While his shoes grew taller, he grew shorter to match.

Strings and drums and trumpets blended together into a sound both hectic and exciting. The tips of Roland's white ears turned dark, as if black ink was seeping down through his fur.

Roland stopped to catch his breath and search for the jaguar, but he couldn't see her any more. He could only see the mass of people all dancing and... Mm, this was a good song, he thought to himself. He pushed his hair back from his face by dragging his paws through it while rolling and rocking his hips.

The thin strands of his hair grew darker and thicker and heavier, turning from dusty graphite to smooth obsidian. His hair shimmered and flicked behind him and the tips started to curl. He pulled his hands out of his hair, but the thick, sticky darkness of his hair clung to them, turning the fur on his paws black.

The dark color of his shoes seeped upward. It flowed from what were now two-inch heels up into his feet, then up along his calves, darkening his fur to the same shade as the tips of his ears and his forearms.

Dancing had never felt quite so good before. It had been fun, sure, but he'd never felt this much lust for the mixture of song and movement that was dancing. He felt almost giddily drunk with the thrill of just moving his body.

Then Roland spotted the jaguar again, flitting through an open space not far away. He slid sideways, squeezing his thicker hips through tight spaces and curling his longer, fluffier tail around his waist to get through. He pushed himself through to where the jaguar had been, but she was gone by the time he got there.

Roland then found out why the crowd was more sparse here. He was standing only about ten feet from a big speaker that visibly vibrated with the beat.

The drums struck out a fast rhythm and the pulse hit his chest like a small shock wave and reverberated against his lungs. A surprised but pleased look crossed Roland's face. He arched into the music. The beats came hard and quick and steady and crashed against his chest, each beat a tiny burst of pleasure. Why did his chest feel so tender? He didn't want to answer the question, he just wanted to enjoy the feeling.

Each beat rippled across his body, each pulsing against his chest, each shaking the delicately small breasts and tingling against his sensitive nipples. The tip of the V of his v-neck shirt sunk lower, showing off more white chest fur. An effeminate gasp left his lips as the heavy bass beat pushed a pair of tender, overflowing handfuls from his chest.

Roland's legs wobbled and his new breasts wobbled too as he stumbled away from the speaker. The volume had made his ears ache, as much as he enjoyed feeling the beat against his body. He felt a little giddy, a little dizzy. His train of thought fizzled out. It was difficult to concentrate with that fantastic music playing.

His growing smile showed off the plump, glistening red curve of his lips. He was bumped from side to side as he moved through the crowd, but he was getting more used to shaking his hips and wiggling his ass as he moved anyway.

"Hey!" he said, spotting the glimmer of the jaguar's earrings and sliding up next to her. "That was a great kiss," he told her. He moved close enough to her that his chest, slowly shifting beneath his plunging neckline, rested against hers.

He didn't notice that he was speaking in Spanish. He did notice that his accent was terrible, but who could blame him? She'd grown up speaking Spanish as a second language, of course it wouldn't sound as good.

Wait, did he just call himself 'she'? Why did she call herself... Why would 'she' be wrong? Her name was Rosalita, that's what it said on her passport back at the hotel, right?

The jaguar giggled softly, leaning up because the half-wolf's heels lifted her nearly four inches off the ground, and gave her another kiss on the lips.

"Hope you're having fun," the jaguar said, then disappeared again with a glimmer of her earrings.

Rosalita looked around her and cursed softly. The strange, pretty girl had gotten away again.

Ooh, she loved this song!

She threw her arms up into the air, twisting her hips and her shoulders in circles in time to the beat. The tips of her hair tickled the back of her calves as they bounced back and forth. Her tail lashed behind her and a ring of black seeped around the tip. Her tail was much thicker than a wolf's—she was half-fox, after all.

Her pants were no longer denim, instead much more skintight and wrapped around her thicker ass and her wider hips. The more she moved in her dance, the more luscious and thick and womanly her curves became. The glimmering black fabric swelled tantalizingly in the reds and blues of the lights flashing across the club.

She bounced on her heels, though she had to be careful with those heels on the dance floor. But she had the poise to pull them off, and damn, did they make her legs look good.

And as she bounced, so did her chest, breasts rippling with the aftershock and nearly slipping right out of her top. The middle of the neckline reached down to the bottom of her chest, showing thick, white-furred cleavage covered by nothing but the thin, sleek fabric hanging off of her shoulders. In the back, her top plunged down even deeper, reaching almost to the base of her tail. She loved to show off her fur. Right? Yeah, that was right.

A paw rested on Rosalita's ass and squeezed lightly. She spun herself toward that paw and into the arms of a tall panther. She looked up at him, a smirk on her thickening red lips. She draped her arms around his neck and pulled him with her, moving forward and back, her hips lightly pressed against his in a quick series of steps. She let him go and he stumbled to catch his footing and she laughed. These men could try, but it would take someone fast on their feet to match her.

As she turned away, her thick, curly hair flicked and bounced in a dark, silky tumble that fell all the way down her back to her knees. She had tucked into her hair a flower with yellow-rimmed petals surrounding an explosion of red that stretched from the center.

The reddish color bled from the flower into her fur. Her snowy white forehead turned red, and like oozing paint, it seeped down along her muzzle, down over her face. Red crept up her ears and down her arms, darkening her fur all the way to where the black markings had emerged.

Rosalita thought some more and realized it wasn't her father who had been a wolf, but her grandfather—no, her great-grandfather. The red fur poured over everything but her chest and belly, down to the black border at her shins, up to the dark ring around her tail, leaving a white tip. A wolf? In her family? She was a fox as far back as anyone could tell—just look at her red coat.

Her breasts bounded cheerfully with each step she took in her heels. She was getting more looks, which was always good. Minute by minute, her chest grew heavier, more suited to the stunningly curvaceous body she was sporting, wiggling more with every motion she made.

Her dress allowed a glimpse at the sides of her breasts, with its deep neck running almost to her bellybutton and thin straps hanging over her shoulders. The back plunged down around the underside of her tail. What had been jeans had joined with her top, and now they were a red dress with an asymmetric hem that hung down low over one leg, and on the other leg, gave her admirers a glimpse of black lace panties.

Rosalita tossed her hair with a smile, letting her jewelry jingle along to the music. A pair of golden bracelets glittered around each wrist, and a pair of golden hoops bounced in her ears.

The dance floor soon learned how voracious Rosalita was. She had danced with, and left out of breath and grinning, a total of nine men and three women by the time she breezed over to the bar, eager for a drink. She threw herself onto the bar, arms folded beneath her breasts and squeezing them forward. She stood high enough on her tiptoes that even her six-inch heels were off the ground. She looked mouth-watering from every angle.

She purred at the bartender for a drink and got a large glass of wine for the low price of batting her dusky, eye-shadowed eyes. Everything she spoke came out in smooth, gently lustful Spanish, in a tone that was just sweet enough to hint at innuendo.

Rosalita was on vacation, all right—a vacation from her job as a dancer. A week off to just enjoy her city and party was what she needed. She didn't speak a word of English, but why would that matter to her? She'd never been to America.

She left the wine glass on the bar. Her heels clicked quickly, her body swaying in measured steps as she walked toward the dance floor, ready to dive back in.

 

Roland rubbed his eyes as he sat in the airport. It was the last day of his vacation. He'd had to get up early. Had he been out partying last night? He couldn't remember. To be fair, he couldn't remember anything about yesterday, or the day before that, or really anything after getting upset over his late luggage and heading out to hit a club on the second day.

...had he really been black-out drunk for that long? He wasn't that sort of guy.

His camera was just about full with pictures, but they weren't much help in figuring out what had happened. After his pictures from the first two days, there were a bunch of pictures of some vixen, most of them taken in clubs with her arm around someone new each time. He had to admit, she was stunning—no matter what she wore, her breasts seemed to strain her clothes. From the few full-body pictures he saw he could tell she had an amazing figure. Her bright green eyes and dark makeup demanded that he gaze into them and get lost in her beauty.

But there was no clue who she was. One photo looked like it was taken in his hotel room, but really, it could have been any room in the hotel. No number, not even a name. Maybe her camera had gotten mixed up with his or...or what? He couldn't explain what had happened.

At least he felt fantastic. More limber, too, though didn't know why. He put his feet up on top of his suitcase and leaned back in the seat to wait for his flight to board. He stuck a pair of earbuds into his ears and cranked up the Latin club music on his MP3 player. For some reason, it had really grown on him.