The Merger

A paid anthology of corporate bovine transformation. Explicit.

"TO: Erica Vale
RE: RE: Change in management
I'm having a problem right now. My hand just turned into a hoof and this is going to sevfcvb"

The Merger is an anthology of corporate bovine transformation, coming in at nearly 22,000 words of TF shenanigans. It's got cow TF, male-to-female TF, lactation, cowtaur TF, bimbo TF, bull TF, and collie TF. (And that's not even mentioning the lactation and breeding.)

Buy it now through Paypal for $5! Comes as a PDF and EPUB.

If you'd like to get a taste of just how milky it is, you can read an excerpt from the first chapter right here.

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.

After Hours

Working late at the office, a young man catches a bit of contagiously garish fashion. Mature.

Mitchell had one arm in his jacket when his boss stepped into his cubicle with an apologetic smile on his face and a thick folder in his hand.

"Hey, Mitch. Can you work late today?" Andy asked.

Mitchell searched for an excuse and came up with nothing. "I guess so, yeah," he said with a small sigh. He hung his jacket on the back of his seat.

"Great. Julie was going to put in these reports, but she took off." Andy hefted the folder. "Said she was taking sick leave. Anyway, just make sure they're all in."

Andy tapped the folder against Mitchell's chest. Paff. A cloud of glitter puffed against his button-down shirt. He pursed his lips and leaned away from the flecks of sparkle.

"Sorry, that stuff's all over her desk. Maybe she's got a glitter cold." Andy grinned at his own joke, then stepped back into the hall. "Right. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah, see you," Mitchell said. The glitter clung to his shirt. He put the folder down and blew the sparkles off as best he could. Then he slumped down into his seat. His computer said it was three minutes past five. All he wanted was to go home so he could lie down and pretend he didn't have work tomorrow. Maybe if he hurried he could be out of the office by six.

Professional

An office employee catches the bimboification bug, turning him into an ideal secretary for his boss. Explicit.

With a pile of forms in hand to take back to Legal, Tristan stepped into the hall and nearly bumped right into a woman tearing down toward the elevators as fast as her towering high heels could carry her. He staggered back against the wall as she gasped out "Sorry!" over her shoulder.

Tristan stared after her as she clicked down the hall. Her garishly bright purple leopard-print dress barely restrained her overtly sexual figure. Tristan didn't want to be rude, but at the very least, that outfit was unbelievably unprofessional. What did she think she was doing, coming into an office building looking like that?

He shook his head and followed the hall down to the elevators. By the time he reached them, the woman was gone and the elevator was ticking down toward the lower floors. He leaned in close and hit the up button.

Tristan watched his own reflection in the mirrored elevator doors. He had a short-trimmed head of dark hair, a boyish look, and a polite, almost apologetic smile. He sagged underneath the weight of the stack of papers as he shifted them from one arm to another. He worked in Legal, but he wasn't a lawyer, not even a paralegal. Just a clerk, which meant he took care of all the menial tasks that the people with law degrees were too busy to do.

The elevator doors rolled open and Tristan stepped inside, hitting the button for the nineteenth floor. As the doors slid shut, he wiggled his fingers and brushed them together. The woman in the ridiculous outfit had grazed them as she ran by. Sliding the forms over to his other arm, he was able to let go of the stack and hold his hand up in front of him.

Somehow, two of his nails—pointer and middle finger—had grown. A pair of smooth, white slivers stuck out beyond his fingertips, shaped and rounded as if they'd been manicured. Had he somehow...forgotten to cut two of his fingernails? He would have noticed at some point, surely.

Print Error

Contagiously gaudy fashion takes over an office worker's clothes and body. Mature.

There was purple in the corner of his eye. Alex paused, fingers resting on top of his keyboard. The white noise of the office receded and all he could hear was his own breath. He pulled his glasses off and turned them over. On the right side, they were thin steel rims. On the left, they were plastic, purple, and speckled with black spots. In the middle, where they met, the bridge swelled from metal into plastic.

The yelp caught in his throat. He flung the glasses across his desk and glanced quickly around his cubicle. No one had seen him. With two tissues as a buffer, he picked up the glasses by the good side of the frame and tossed them in his trash can.

He told himself that it was just his glasses, that it hadn't had time to spread. His hands fumbled with the top button on his shirt. He just needed a little air, he told himself. His shirt only clung to his skin because he was sweating a bit. He unbuttoned another button and took in a deep breath. Calm down, you're just anxious.

Alex pushed himself back into his work, trying to put his glasses out of his mind. It was fine. They were the only clothes of his that had gotten infected. He reached beneath his shirt and rubbed along his shoulder and collarbone. Something hugged his chest, softer than the usual firm cotton of his shirts. He glanced down, and caught beneath the white an outline of something purple.

It wasn't just his glasses.