Comfort Zone

"Uh oh!" she sings as she pulls your other ankle straight. "It looks like someone's catching on. Don't worry, little one, I'm not going to hurt you." She gathers your toes into another pair of bundles and repeats whatever she did to your first foot on the other. When she finally frees the digits, you wiggle them wildly and hear more clicking and clacking.

The stranger crawls off the bed and circles back to your face. She pouts and pets your head.

"There there," she coos, "It's going to be okay. I'm just changing up the script a little. I mean, you just watched me transform into a fox, do you really want to see the same thing again? Don't worry, I won't get too crazy. I'll keep your new body nice and vanilla; I'm just going to add a strawberry swirl."

Your outright panic dissolves into a cocktail of other emotions. Anger mingles with uncertainty and anxiety, and still, annoyingly ever-present beneath all these feelings, is arousal. You can't help it. You can't explain it. But despite the stress of the situation, your penis is still standing rock-hard between your legs.

The vixen pulls up a chair and sits facing you. "Admit it, you're curious. You want to know what you're becoming. You want to know how far I'll take it, which barriers I'll break." She lifts your dominant hand into her lap and starts to rub her magic into its delicate bones. Out of the corner of your eye you see them shifting shape, contorting like clay as she massages them into some new, unknown form.

"Don't you remember the original thrill of it?" she continues. "The thought of being trapped in a foreign body, that it was out of your control. The rush of being seen that way by your friends and family, not recognizing yourself in the mirror... The thrill of it! Where did it go? Why have you settled into a tired, familiar fantasy?"

She joins your softened digits in pairs until your hand is home to two fat fingers and a thumb. "I've always liked this design," she muses. "It's a good balance between total uselessness and boring convenience." She rolls the tips of your fattened fingers between her own, causing them to darken and harden. She rubs the details away, small things like fingernails and fingerprints, until all that remains beyond your top knuckles are simple, brown wedges. Hooves?

You hate hooves!

You move your now-free fingers and watch the alien digits curl and click together. What can you do with these? How will you type? How will you get dressed? Will you still be able to masturbate? You scold your mind for turning to sex, but you can't help but imagine the mechanics of it. Wrapping your thickened fingers around your dick. . . How would it feel?

The fox-witch squints at her work. "Hmm. . . Considering today's about breaking boundaries, let's take it a step further." She returns to your fingertips, this time rubbing another knuckle-length of humanity away, melding it with the hooflets until each finger is equal parts hoof and flesh. Your heart pounds as she steals convenience away from another unknown set of activities. Now you can hardly move them at all without making that damn clicking sound.

She places your changed hand back onto the bed and lifts the other. "I bet you have a good idea of what you're becoming," she says as she molds your off-hand into a matching, useless shape, "so let's do your face next." She finishes hoofing you, stands up, and walks out of view. "One second! I'll be right back."

Now would be the chance to escape, if only you could move your body. And by the time she frees your arms and legs, it'll be too late. The only path to freedom leads in the opposite direction of your humanity, through the witch's traitorous fingers.

The vixen returns with a handheld mirror and places it face-down on your desk. "No peeking just yet!" she teases, returning to the chair. She centers herself with a few deep breaths, cracks her knuckles, and raises her hands to your face, grinning like the Grinch.

Your eyes widen at the thought of losing your most recognizable feature. You were ready to swap it for a fox's muzzle, but that's not going to happen. What creature are you becoming?

"I call this 'the point of no return.' Are you ready?"

You are not, but she proceeds. She opens your mouth and sticks her fingers inside, hooking them behind your teeth, just as she did to herself. That dreaded electric tingle worms its way through your jawbone, and she pulls, tugging your mouth into the beginnings of a muzzle. She pushes padded fingertips into your nose for extra purchase, permanently expanding your nostrils as she needs.

You cross your eyes and watch as your mouth and nose stretch impossibly into view. Once your face is long enough, her fingertips flutter about making adjustments, squaring out your teeth, smoothing away your chin, widening your mouth. She slides her thumb along your long upper lip, and it stretches until it droops over your lower one. She cradles your tongue, and it explodes in size, becoming a hefty, meaty mass that hangs limply from your maw.

Frantic stroking coaxes your nose to start swelling. You see it expanding like a balloon, growing wider, rounder, beyond understated, beyond elegant, beyond fitting. It caps the end of your snout proudly, with hefty heaving nostrils and a flat top. She spreads its boxy shape up your muzzle between your eyes, pushing them apart. She brushes away your human hair as though it was never truly connected to your scalp. Then, with a flurry of tiny touches, pressure here, rubbing there, she polishes the proportions of your new, furless animal head.

The witch collapses back into her seat, panting. You try shaking your head, but your neck's still frozen, and speech is likewise still impossible. Running your massive tongue over your nose rewards you with the salty taste of snot and a scraped snout. Its texture is brutally rough. The vixen fetches the mirror and holds it up to your face.

"Well? What do you think?" she asks as if she'd just given you a haircut.

Staring back at you from the mirror is the unmistakable face of a common cow. A hairless cow. Its mouth drops open in shock. Your mouth. You're a cow.

You hate cows!

"Tadaa! Some of my best work, I think. I'll admit it's a far cry from a slender, sexy, cunning fox, but who doesn't love a big, goofy, docile, cow? Well I suppose you're more of a minotaur for the time being."

A hairless minotaur without horns, you think as the witch tilts the mirror to better show the angles of your face. You glare at her, your frown and furrowed brow coming across nicely on your bestial features.

"Now now," she chuckles, lowering the mirror. "I'm not done yet. I'll pull the look together, you'll see." She lowers your arm and lovingly caresses your oversized head. "No one likes a raging bull," she coos and licks a vulpine kiss onto your cheek. The touch calms you down somewhat. You do love foxes.

"You've been such a good boy," she continues, hands stroking down your neck and across your body. "I think it's time to give you a reward." Her finger traces a trail down your spine, past your tail, across your asshole and taint. One of her soft hands cups your balls, and your breath catches. Your soft, forgotten maleness throbs as blood fills it once again.

"Let's get you into a more comfortable position."

She pushes you over sideways, and you land with a bounce on the softness of your bed. "Sorry. I've always wanted to go cow-tipping." The world spins as she repositions you into a half-sitting position at the head of the bed. She stuffs a few pillows behind your back and relaxes your legs and arms.

Now you can see the rest of your changes. Between your legs, stretching halfway to your hoof-feet, is your hefty, naked tail. Your balls are resting on it, and each twitch jostles them. That little detail drives home just how far from human you've become, how unfamiliar you are with your new body, how vulnerable you are. The thought is terrifying, and yet your penis is still erect.

The vixen witch drops to all fours and stalks toward your exposed privates with a predatory look in her eye. She practically pounces on your dick, wrapping her fingers around it and starting to stroke. As much as you want to hate it, her touch is bliss. She seems to know how to please you better than you do yourself, and the fact that she's a real life anthro vixen makes it all the better. She keeps her claws and paw pads away from your sensitive flesh, but her fur, that lucious, angora fur, caresses you. You lift your tail and slide it up between her hanging breasts. They're as luxuriously soft and warm as you imagined. She moans at the touch.

Her fluffy tail raises high into the air as she ducks her head between your legs and adds her tongue to the equation. She starts with a long, slow lick across your balls, shifting them atop your tail. Her teasing tongue multiplies the pleasure flowing from each stroke of your shaft, but you want more. Using your tail, you push her chin upwards, and she complies. Her hand holds steady around the base of your penis while she eagerly laps the exposed length. You clutch the bedspread in your clumsy three-fingered hands as your hooves curl in bliss with a click.

An unexpected touch against your tailhole catches your attention, and, peering past your boxy bovine muzzle, you see the vixen pushing a paw under your tail. Her textured pad traces circles over the wrinkled muscle, and you clench reflexively. A creeping heat sprouts from her fingertip and buries itself into your sphincter. Realizing what's happening, you gasp. She wraps her narrow lips around your dick as if to calm you as she continues.

You wonder what exactly a cow's asshole looks like as yours begins swell. It twitches in time with your pulse. Each straining spasm pauses its growth momentarily, but when it relaxes you feel it puffing up, permanently pressing up against your tail and cheeks as it expands into the inelegant, obscene orifice of a livestock animal. You clench again, and it's so big that secondary vibrations echo in its flesh.

The heat of the witch's magic fades, but her touch remains. She teases your tailhole's supple swollenness as her head bobs up and down your dick. Lost in the moment, you allow yourself to enjoy the strange and sensual stimulation. The sensations are entirely alien, and your steak of a tongue lolls from the side of your muzzle as you revel in ecstasy.

You feel your orgasm approaching, and with it, an unexpected tingle in your shaft-- unexpected, but not unpleasant. She's going to change your dick as you cum, and that thought sends you over the edge. Your cock strains and swells and spurts jets of cum into her throat. She gives a surprised squeak but stays and sucks and swallows. Her magic mingles with your climax, sensations fizzing and firing like fireworks, ascending and transcending anything you've experienced before.

You can tell your penis is changing in her mouth, but the details are lost in your unnaturally extended orgasm. Her hand retreats from your shaft and cups your balls. Her lips draw closer until they're kissing the skin of your crotch. Her tongue envelops your length, milking the umpteenth spurt of salty cum from it. Each loving lick feels more intense than the last, more encompassing. You've lost count of the seconds you've been cumming, and still your climax continues. Through the haze, you notice that her sucking has become a lapping. When you open your eyes you see tongue flicking against the smooth skin of your crotch, and there's not a cock in sight.

Anxiety mingles with your arousal. Your orgasm subsides, but another, different sort or orgasm follows right behind. Despite your dick's disappearance, each brush of the vixen's tongue sends a shock of pleasure firing down your legs. She withdraws her head and you see what's left of your precious manhood, an angry pink button of flesh, disappear into a puffy vertical crease.

Your balls hang just below, still tensing with each pulse of your climax. To your horror, she cups them next, fondling them with her magic touch. She presses them against your groin, gently at first but then harder. Instead of pain, the increasing pressure is accompanied by pleasure. Each testicle lights up with the heat as they're pushed into your body with a pair of jolting thuds. You trace their tingling path through your stomach as the organs that used to be your testicles take on a new role deep inside of you.

The vixen laps at your sagging scrotal skin, and it tightens away, sinking into a continuation of the feminine slit that holds your penis-turned-clit. Her eager tongue pushes between your freshly-formed folds, and the once dull touch begins to feel quite pleasant. You're completely at her mercy as her seeking muscle probes deeper and deeper inside of you. Your forming passage, your new vagina, grips her probing tongue with virgin muscles. You're soon so deep that she has to open her maw wide around your crotch in order to fill you completely.

Her electric magic blooms into your belly as a new organ grows. Your uterus. The thought that you now possess a womb, that you're now a fully functional female, drives you over the edge to another quaking climax.

The witch gives your new pussy a final parting lick and slumps back, breathing heavily and leaving you exhausted, breathless, and fully spent. Your mind is so shattered by the overwhelming orgasms that it's a moment before you begin to consider the ramifications of what's just happened to you. She turned your penis into a pussy. You close your eyes and open them, but it's still staring back at you from between your legs, a neat, classic human vulva.

You hate gender shifting!

The vixen giggles. "Don't you give me those angry eyes, girl. I saw the moment you realized what was happening, and you still came twice after that!"

You blush, the pink no doubt visible on your human-skin cheeks. You feel so exposed sitting in front of her, legs spread, pussy out in the open. It doesn't help that the vixen is looking you up and down like she's at a strip club, or perhaps a cattle auction.

"I'm tempted to leave you like this. Maybe grow you horns, bulk up your muscles, give you that hulking, male minotaur build. You could stuff a packer into your pants each morning before heading out, keep that pussy of yours our little secret. I'd get off on that. And then there'd be that one awkward moment in each of your romantic relationships where you'd have to reveal yourself. . ."

You imagination races to consider the ramifications of living a life with that kind of secret. Will you wear panties instead of boxers? Will you pee sitting down? It awakens a hoard of butterflies in your belly. Anxiety, embarrassment, and arousal, three emotions you'd expect to be as unmixable as oil and water, swirl into a surprisingly sexy emulsion. No, you tell yourself, don't enjoy this! She betrayed you, took control of your body, made you into a goofy cow, and stole away your masculinity! You wonder if you're truly female, will you start having periods? Will you have to buy tampons?

"We love those awkward little moments don't we?" the vixen accuses sensually, "the ones that reinforce your new form? I know a way to give you more of them."

She sits on your lap, straddling your legs. The way she's positioned, you'd be fucking her if you still had a penis. Instead, you feel her warm sex against a now-bare patch of skin above your own womanhood.

She lowers your head until your bovine chin is resting between your pecs. Her generous downy breasts brush up against your shirt and fill your field of view. She slides her dangerous hands up beneath your tee and rubs your chest, a brief shimmer of magic on her touch as she wipes your hairs away. Her pads linger on your nipples.

"Such cute, masculine nipples you have," she says, pinching them playfully. "But you're a fully-functioning female now, and these are going to have a real job to do one day. You need nipples that can work."

Your heart beats at your chest like it's trying to knock her hands away, but it's no use. Your nipples are subsumed by a tingle that throbs in time with your pulse. They swell, protruding against her touch, areola gaining territory on your chest. She withdraws her hands from under your shirt and pulls it tight against your chest. The outline of your pecs against the fabric is the same, but now they're tented by a pair of unmistakably feminine, erect, no-bra-on-a-cold-day nipples.

"That's more like it. Now you've got something to suck and flick. You could still hide them with a sweater, though, and I don't want to give you another secret," she says, sliding her hands under your shirt once again. "I wanna give you something that you can't hide."

She palms your pecs and smiles sadistically as a toasty glow floods your chest. Your miniscule mammary glands surge to life with a bubbly vibration as tens of thousands of dormant cells are suddenly urged to reproduce, splitting, swelling, and splitting again. The outline of the vixen's paws lift against your shirt as breasts bulge under them. Your breasts. They inflate with a tickling buzz, rising on either side of your bovine snout. Bigger, bigger, when will they stop? Your budding boobs grow heavy on your chest. Each breath shifts their wobbling weight more than the last. They reach a size that seems reasonable, and still her groping fingers linger, pouring energy, lifting higher.

Finally, she pulls her paws away. You groan inwardly at the sight of your chest. Straining against your shirt are the alluring curves of a woman's breasts. Not a petite woman, or a slight woman, or an athletic woman, but a fully-developed, larger-than-average woman. You're almost relieved. It could have been worse.

"No hiding these babies," the vixen nods. "They really suit you. Not too big, not too small. . . If I was making you into a normal woman, I'd call them the perfect size." A sly smile creeps across her muzzle. "But we're not making you a normal woman. You're a cow. We can't risk anyone calling your boobs 'small' or 'average.'"

To your horror, she slides her paws under your top again. The pins-and-needles magic pulses though your tits, and they expand once again. Leaning back as you are, their bulk starts to squish under their own growing weight. They push forward, but also to the sides, curves extending past your ribs. Your nipples, as they're pulled away from each other, rub against the stretched cotton of your shirt and spark their own erotic tingles to compete with the vixen's magic. She focuses her fingers on the fleshy nibs, kneading, pinching and plucking them. They swell as they harden, but even after they're fully erect they continue to grow. She's making you into a freak!

She pulls her hands away and tugs your shirt down. Your breasts fill it so completely that it hardly reaches your belly-button anymore.

"Wanna see?" she asks.

You're anxious but perversely curious. She pulls your shirt up, lifting your tits until they pop free and drop with a sensual wobble. Intellectually, you note that while they're large, they're not absurdly unnatural looking. Emotionally, seeing them attached to your chest, they look absolutely gigantic. They're perfectly shaped, natural breasts, capped with prominent, meaty nipples that are a size or two larger than most maternal women's.

"You should be able to shop in most stores," the vixen muses. "I could tell you exactly what size you are, but I think I'd rather have you figure it out yourself. I can see you now, sneaking into a dressing room with a fistfull of bras, all different sizes. . ."

She lifts your arms up and pulls your shirt up over your head, bending your big ears uncomfortably. "You should invest in tops with a plunging neckline. Probably a lot easier to get over this head of yours, and you can give the guys something to look at."