Birthday Blow-Up

Starring Blackshirtboy! A quick birthday story about becoming a real big cat. Explicit.

Happy birthday! Sorry I couldn't be there to blow up your balloons. Hope this makes up for it!

'This?' Was there supposed to be something with the card? I flip it over, check the back, pick up the envelope, peek inside. Nothing. Weird.

That's when I hear the hissing sound. It's in the back of my ears, like the sound of running pipes or a faucet left on. It's the sort of sound you never think much about until it happens when it's not supposed to. It's not coming from the kitchen or from the bathroom. It sounds more like—

I glance down. Just past the collar of my tee shirt, my chest is swelling outward. Each side is barely enough to fill a palm right now, but they're growing so quickly I can actually watch my skin expand.

Oh god damn it. I was going to go out for dinner soon!

Take a deep breath. This is fine, I'm under control. Yeah, I'm growing, but it's slow, just a gradual swell pushing against my shirt. Maybe a little tender, but that's the worst of it. I lift a hand to my chest. I prod at the edge of the swollen mounds; they give way beneath my fingers, as if they're filling up with air. Maybe I can just squeeze them back in, problem solved.

I clap my left hand flat against my chest. The pbbt sound against my ribs makes me flinch. So does the sudden shift of volume. On the left, my hand squeezes my chest flat, but the right side bulges outward in an instant, stretching twice as far as before, letting out a squeaky whine. I gasp. My hand jerks away. Without the pressure keeping it flat, the left side of my chest surges forward, until it's also twice as full and round as it was before.

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.

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.

Your Collar

Your collar's transforming you. Mature.

It's so heavy, so thick, and so large that it's more a belt than a collar. The studded strap is tall enough to reach from the bottom of your ear to your shoulder, and long enough to hang down to your chest. If you could, you'd be able to slip the collar off easily.

But you can't. It's already started.

It's indistinguishable from your own embarrassment at first. Heat on your cheeks, sweat that makes every motion come with a chill, and your stomach curling up into a ball. Your heart beats faster and your breath grows shallow. You can't tell what's your own anxiety and what's the change. You can't wait any longer. You don't want this, but drawing this out forever is even worse.

Your joints lock first. You fall to the ground on your knees, your toes curled back against the ground and your fingers bending inward. You hold onto the collar itself for support and try to straighten your fingers, but the tendons along your arm sear with pain. With a cry of pain, you drop your hand to the floor.

The heat across your body rises. You break out in a fresh sweat, but your chest is dry. Your chest is prickling. You fight with the collar for an easy way to scratch that bristling feeling. It's like a hair brush against your bare skin. You shove your curled fingers under the collar and start scratching, but it barely helps. You're still sweating.

Then a pulse goes through you. It starts between your shoulders and rolls down over your spine, jumping from bone to bone, to the tips of your fingers and toes. The first creak of bone makes you shudder. As your spine is pulled from both ends, it stretches muscle and pulls skin tight. But at the same time, it's a small release. Your joints crack as they settle into their new shape. You curl your back. As each joint pops, the pain of growing bone diffuses into your skin.