Contains: Male / Female -> anthro fox transformation. 18+ only.
*****
"You're sure we're all alone? No one's going to interrupt us?" the woman asks, following you into your bedroom.
You shut the door behind you. "I'm sure."
It's nice to see the floor of your room without laundry on it; you should clean more often. Of course it's not every night that you have strangers-- especially strange women-- in your bedroom, but tonight is special, and this woman is strange.
Her name is Shay. You learned that just tonight. She's wearing a black tube top, black lipstick, and a black leather collar with a silver star. Her movements have a nervous energy, like a cat dropped in unfamiliar territory. She glances about, but her eyes always return to you.
"Go sit on the bed," she orders. You sit on the edge, feet on the floor. "Are you ready to turn your fantasies into reality?"
You nod eagerly. Shay has a special gift. You didn't believe her when she first messaged you, but the photographs were too real to be manipulated, and the video. . .
She reaches into her cleavage, retrieves a tiny leather pouch, and, with a flick of her wrist, sends a cloud of lavender powder billowing toward your face. It smells like saffron and alcohol. You go to wipe your face, but your arm doesn't move. You want to ask why, but your jaw is locked. Frozen, all you can do is blink and breathe as the dust dissipates.
Shay waves her hand in front of your face and taps your forehead, confirming your paralysis. She breathes a heavy sigh of relief, and her tense muscles all at once relax. Gazing down at you, her lips hint into a smile.
The timid cat has found a mouse.
"The boy who wanted to become a sexy fox man." Her smile widens. "We are going to have fun tonight, you and I."
The woman surveys your bedroom. She speaks smoothly, savoring every syllable like she's performing a monologue. "You spend a lot of time in here, don't you? It's cozy. Makes me want to get comfortable."
Any anxiety you have about being paralyzed dissolves as she grips her shirt and pulls it up over her smooth stomach. Shay moves slowly, sensually, turning the simple act of disrobing into a strip tease. She sheds her shirt, leaving her bountiful breasts covered only by a minimal, red brassiere. Next she turns around and slides her jeans over her shapely hips, butt bouncing as it's freed from its prison. She kicks off her pants and faces you, lacy panties not quite concealing the smooth, hairless curves of her sex.
"Like what you see?" Shay asks in a sultry voice. "Or would you prefer something a bit more exotic? Something like. . . this?"
Shay turns around and pushes her round bottom toward your face. One dainty hand reaches back to rub her lower back, and then, after a slight pause, you notice movement in her panties. It starts just below the waistband. A small bulge begins to form, twitching and wiggling as it grows. Your stomach jumps as you realize what you're watching. The sight might confuse some people, but you've fantasized about this exact thing a thousand times before.
She's growing a tail.
The nub sprouts quickly, filling and stretching that lacy fabric triangle.The growth snakes up and out, pushing her panties' waistband down under its thickening base. Shay exhales and lets the sinewy length fall between her legs. It stretches toward her knees, little bumps of freshly forming vertebrae stippling the supple skin.
She bends further forward still, palms on the ground, downward dog, raising a foot inches from your face. She stretches and flexes it, and you stare, amazed, as it takes on an inhuman shape. You eagerly anticipate each incoming change: the lengthening of the arch, the thickening of toes, the swelling of pads, the curling of the nails. Every aspect is precisely on-script, and the show ends with you staring at a hairless paw.
The paw is lowered, and you see her other foot has changed to match. Her naked tail sways back and forth, giving glimpses of more movement in your guest's panties. A subtle triangle swells under the silky fabric. The gap between her thighs fills with her freshly plump pussy, and a subtly shadowed divot signals her shifting sex's teardrop shape.
The witch turns to face you. She presses a fingertip against your lips and drags it sensually down your front, bringing it to rest on your jeans and the aching bulge within. She smiles showing pointing teeth as she unbuttons your pants and opens your fly, her forming claws lightly tinkling against the metal zipper. She slides a hand inside, over your underwear, and gives your straining penis a single stroke and a gentle grip before withdrawing.
"I must admit, you aren't what I was picturing when we had those. . . conversations online. You're rather plain-looking. Just a normal everyday guy," she says as she tugs her ears into triangular points. "Luckily, in my line of work, the way you look at the start hardly matters."
With that, she opens her mouth, inserts her fingertips, and hooks them behind her teeth. Then, with a firm and steady pull, she starts to reshape her skull, drawing her jaws forward into the beginnings of a muzzle. Her other hand molds the rest of her head to match, compressing her forehead and widening the bridge of her nose. For a moment, she is hideous, sporting the uncanny in-between face you've seen online, drawn by the artists you tend to avoid. But it's gone the moment she finishes her muzzle. Soon you're staring at a fox's face, albeit a hairless and human-sized one. Her eyes change from brown to greenish-yellow with a single fluttering blink.
Her hands drop to her sides, and she pants, flat tongue peeking from her new maw. "The face is always the hardest part."
Her voice is not so different, less sinusy now that she's opened her nose by molding it into a moist black snout. Her animal face looks surprisingly natural forming words, the way her lips move, the way her emotions come across in the rising and wrinkling of her brow.
Still, she's not quite beautiful, that lady-skinned fox. She has freckles instead of whiskers, a pink blush instead of orange flamboyance, blonde curls instead of a white collar. Without fur, the shapes are as wrong as a hairless cat's.
"Now to finish up."
Shay presses her fingertips to the tip of her nose and drags them up her muzzle, leaving trails of fresh, rust-colored fur in their wake. You don't see it growing; it flows from her fingers fully formed. Delicate filaments near her lips cascade into full fluff around her cheeks. She paints it on like an artist. Her palm is the mop brush, laying down a lustrous coat. Her dark claws are the riggers, pointing fine details like whiskers and trim. Always her hands move with the grain, gracefully petting on a pelt.
It's something like watching a woman shower, you think, seeing her stroke her hands across her body, lathering a layer of fur instead of soap. She props each foot upon the bed and pulls on orange and white fur stockings topped with black toe-tips. Her tail is the last to get its coat. She makes an O with her fingers around its base and slowly draws her hand down its length, long, fluffy fur popping free as she goes.
Hairs poke through the fabric of her undies. She adjusts them, taking an extra moment to touch a curious finger to her altered mound.
"That's better," she says, turning towards your mirror and posing like she's trying on a new dress. "Not bad." She turns and cranes her neck to examine her tail. "Not bad at all."
She's a real-life anthro vixen, formative furry fetish fuel in the flesh. Your heart pounds as she pads across the carpet with sensual, digitigrade steps. You want to touch her, to run your fingers through her fur, to wrap your arms around her and feel her tail flick against your thighs, but you still can't move a muscle. It's a cruelty, to be close enough to reach the woman of your fantasies but unable to move your arms.
She spins slowly. "Now I suit your tastes." She looks at you and licks her lips. "I spent a lot of time looking through your favorites online."
Hearing someone speak about that part of your life in-person makes your skin crawl.
"It was full of people transforming into foxes and wolves. Not a lot of variety. Other species don't quite do it for you? You know, you can get a pair of these on any model."
She reaches behind her back, unclasps her bra, and lowers it from her breasts. Two dark nipples peer out from the fluffy white fur.
"Maybe. . ." she mumbles to herself, cupping her mounds and hefting them gently and dropping them. When they settle, they're ever-so-slightly bigger. It's less than a single cup size difference, but she seems satisfied. "There."
She looks down at you as if waiting for a reaction, then chuckles. "Look at me, almost naked, and you're still fully dressed. Let's fix that."
She bends and tugs off your socks, unceremoniously tossing them over her shoulder. She examines your feet as she brushes the extra lint from them, working a blunt claw-tip between your toes with the skillful efficiency of a tailor preparing a piece of fabric. Next, she sticks her fuzzy fingers down your waistband and pulls at your pants. You want to help her by shifting your weight, but she manages quite well on her own. She tilts your stiff body left and right, pulling your arm here, pushing your shoulder there. She's a master butcher handling a slab of cold meat. It's unsettling being so completely at her mercy.
