Toon Jooce: Now in Cow!

A couple try out a cow-themed toon transformation drink pulled off the shelves for being a little too potent. Explicit.

The can of Toon Jooce looked exactly like it had in the commercials: flat, bounded by an outline, and subtly unsteady, like some cosmic animator had rotoscoped itinto Andrew’s hand. He could feel its roundness but the only visual cues distinguishing it from a cardboard cutout were the soft-shaded shadows beneath his fingers. The black-and-white cow-print pattern on the label didn’t even move if he turned the can from side to side.

Miranda stood at the foot of the bed, a smile on her lips and an eager gleam behind her glasses. She lifted her eyebrows expectantly when he looked back up at her. “Well?” she asked.

“Weren’t these like, pulled off the shelves?” he asked.

Of course he’d been interested when Toon Jooce came out, billed as the first commercially-available toon transformation drinkable. The inherent volatility of toon matter made it difficult to provide the kind of safe, reversible changes most consumer-grade transformation triggers offered. It had only been on the market for two weeks before a few high-profile cases of unintentional permanence had forced the manufacturer to recall the entire stock.

Miranda just shrugged. “The gas station I bought it from must not have heard the news. But I know you’ve got a thing for cow girls…” She plucked the can from Andrew’s hand and held it between two of her fingers. “So when I saw this on the shelf, it made me think of you.”

It was hard for Andrew to say no to the idea of fooling around with a bouncy cartoon cow-girl version of his girlfriend, but the knot of anxiety deep in his belly made it almost as hard to say yes. “That’s super cool of you, it’s just…you know people have gotten stuck using that stuff, right?”

Miranda sat down on the side of the bed and wrapped an arm around his back to reassure him. “I saw those stories too—it only happened because they got too into it. As long as I keep cool and don’t lose my head, I’ll be fine.” She leaned against him and lowered her voice to a playfully conspiratorial whisper. “Besides, I’m not doing this just for you.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll make sure you don’t get too crazy, all right?”

Miranda smiled. “Deal.” Taking the can with her, she hopped off the bed and found a spot on the floor with plenty of open space on all sides. “Got your lasso ready, cowboy?”

Andrew shared a mutual snicker with her as he scooted up to the edge of the bed. He had some idea of what to expect thanks to videos online, but had never seen it this up close and personal.

With a dramatic gesture, Miranda popped open the tab on the Toon Jooce. A few black-and-white toon bubbles fizzled up into the air and poped. Under her breath she counted down, “Three, two, one,” then lifted the can to her lips and tipped her head back in one smooth motion, drinking it all down in several big gulps.

After she swallowed, there was a moment of silence, heavy with expectation. Miranda gave the can a thoughtful look. “Hmm,” she mused, “pretty good, actually. Kinda like caramel cream, but more cream—mmmrrp!” Mid-sentence, a deep burp rumbled its way up her throat. She covered her mouth to stifle the sound, but only succeeded in redirecting the pressure. With an exaggerated thwump like the sound of a foley artist punching a big soft pillow, her chest surged outward so quickly that it split the front of her shirt clean open. Taut, tawny-yellow cartoon muscle thrust itself outward in two jutting swells, shoving her nipples, now thick and glossy green, down and to either side. Despite their jiggling roundness, they were decidedly no longer breasts. They were pecs.

Twisted Wish-ters

Kotep poofs two of their friends into a couple of useless stoner genies. Mature.

Above a sea of lotus columns, an impossible number of stars swirled in the purple of the night sky. Below the columns, Rush and Tama followed close at Kotep’s heels. They both guessed that getting lost in the jackal-god’s home was an invitation to get hit by some ironic curse or another.

"This is the hypostyle hall," Kotep said with a sweep of their hand, looking back over their shoulder. "It's where I do festivals, parties, strip clubs—that kind of thing."

Tama was only sort-of listening, but she nodded along. "Sick."

"So how do you fit all this into one pyramid?" asked Rush.

Kotep did their best not to sigh out loud. "This is a temple, not a pyramid. Pyramids are for dead people."

"Wait," Tama said, "You're not dead? I thought you were a mummy or something."

"I'm a god."

Rush asked, "Aren't mummies kinda gods though?"

Kotep didn't bother answering that. Instead, they led their two guests onward, past braziers filled with golden flame spilling light across the open hall, and into a smaller, cozier room, lit by oil lamps that filled the air with fragrance. Several couches surrounded a table spread with grapes and candied dates, roast vegetables and morsels of meat stuck through with ankh-shaped skewers, and sitting in the middle of it all, a tall silver hookah.

One Last Summer

Two friends, soon to leave for college, become cow girls and grow closer to one another. Explicit.

I learned I was gay the same day I turned into a cow girl.

Sam and I both wanted to go to the mall, so she drove us there in the used Subaru her parents got her for graduation. We were both restless. It was our last summer: stuck between the end of high school and the start of college, trying not to count the days and months until we'd both be moving into our dorms.

Even the mall felt ready to change. They still hadn't fixed the floor tile that clinks when you step on it, or the one duct-taped on the corner because it'd broken off, but it was already drifting away from the place we knew. A cheaper clothes store had moved into where the Old Navy had been. The bookstore where we'd spent days and days working our way through the manga shelf had been replaced by a branch of the local library.

"That's probably why they went out of business. If we'd actually bought books..." Sam said.

I said, "No one bought books. And then they were like, 'we're basically a library, let's make it official'."

We wandered up the first floor and down the second. Eventually, we started doing the thing where we'd point at ads as we passed and try to imitate whatever goofy grin the person had. It felt normal enough, but in the back of my head, Sam was playing soccer in her new school colors and hanging up posters she'd bought with me in her dorm room and laughing with new friends whose faces I'd pulled from TV shows. Would we even want to hang out when we came home for break? I knew we would change as people, but I didn't know how.

And I definitely wasn't expecting to get changed into a cow.

Good Girls Get Milked

A quick escapist VR cowification sketch. Mature.

It's one of those days that stretched on way longer than it should have, from rushing out in the early morning to driving back under an unpleasantly gray sky, bundled up in a coat I'm sick of wearing, after staying late for a job I'm sick of having. By the time I finally get home, it's dark. I manage to get off my shoes and coat and stick some frozen chicken in the oven, but after that, I'm spent.

Still in my shirt and slacks, I slump down onto the futon and just sort of hang there and stare at the ceiling. I stare over at my TV. I stare down at my VR set. It's been a week or two since I've used it—just too busy. But I need it, even if I feel like I'm not too far from passing out.  The metal contacts in the strap settle against my neck as I slip the goggles on. I lay down, and flip the switch.

There's a half-second of nothing, then the sensory drivers click on, and suddenly I'm standing. Then, chunk by chunk, the grass loads in under my feet, and the sky rolls blue and bright above me, and a light wind brushes over my shoulders, carrying the scent of hay and warm dust.

I take a breath, then exhale so deeply I feel like I'm deflating. I flop down onto the ground. It's soft underneath me, and the blades of grass are cool and slick under my fingers. As I sit up, I realize I didn't even get my socks off. I bend down, tug them off by the toes, and pitch them over toward the nearby tree.

Bull and Cow

A couple do a whole toon TF schtick, except their toonselves are the opposite gender. Wild! Explicit.

Anna had a few moments while she pulled her shirt over her head to say, "There's something you should—," but that was as far as she got. Taylor kissed her again, then she wrapped her arms around his bare back and pulled him down onto the bed with her.

Their third date was going well.

They were both still in their socks, fumbling one-handed with their respective jeans, eager and anxious and a little shivery. Taylor rolled onto his side while Anna lifted her ass off the sheets and started kicking off her pants.

Cocking her head toward Taylor, Anna said, "I should tell you before we—mmh." Before she could finish, their lips met again. Anna leaned against Taylor, her hand resting on the middle of his chest, feeling the heat of his body and his quick pulse. With her eyes closed, it was as if there was nothing but the presence of his body, pressed against hers, firm and nervous with energy.

Then she fell on her back again, with Taylor's hands sinking into the bed on either side of her shoulders and his thighs straddling her. Her feet shuffled against the sheets. One of her socks was still on. Taylor lifted his head and gave her a sheepish grin. "Sorry. Just excited," he said.

While the two of them held back for a moment, their bodies weren't interested in waiting. His hips pressed against hers, grinding his boxers against her panties.

With one hand splayed against the bed and her chest heaving lightly, Anna panted, "Same." After a few moments, she had enough breath to add, "Just wanted to tell you, I'm...part cow."

Taylor laughed and leaned back, putting more weight on his knees. "Like a toon?" he asked.

"Yeah. My grandpa was a bull. Is—" She swallowed and arched her hips. "Is that all right?"

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.