Yeen! Queen!

The demon's chill bloomed from Anton's freshly feminized nipples into the long-forgotten tissue that resided just beneath. Mounds of soft mammary flesh ballooned under his fingers, and all he could do was look on in shock. Very soon he was cupping the first pair of breasts he'd touched since high school when he'd "gotten lucky" with Amy and discovered he wasn't much into girls after all.

Ashton's tits filled his palms and overflowed them. Every second they continued growing, Ashton's panic grew. Finally, the demon's life went out of them, leaving a heavy set of breasts wobbling proudly on his chest. A pair of thick, onyx nipples stood out from their tawny, tiramisu fur.

Meanwhile, the entity had shifted its attention from his bust to his backside. Here it gathered, spending the mass it had abandoned when it crawled down his throat to round out his ass from a flat male affair to a curvaceous booty. His thighs thickened, filling the space between his legs until they pressed together.

The only article of Ashton's outfit that had yet survived the ravenous green embers was his rugged leather belt, but it would not last long. The chill flooded his pelvis and strained outward, pressing his hips wider. Ashton's belt slowed its spread for a moment before snapping. A lick of emerald flame consumed the strip of studded leather before it hit the ground, and his hips, now free of their constraint, slid apart in one smooth motion.

Looking down, there was no mistaking the female landscape spread before him, even if it was covered in fur. The only out-of-place element was the penis occupying the gap between his legs, and this is exactly where the icy presence headed next.

"No-no-no," Anton sputtered, "not my-"

The creature's icy fingers stroked his shaft from within, coaxing it erect. The surreal handjob persuaded a moan from Ashton's lips, and his hands snapped back to his breasts to massage his hypersensitive, oversized nipples. Pleasure fogged his mind. The context and weight of the situation melted into a blur of bliss.

A flash of icy cold shocked his cock, and it flopped forward lifelessly. Despite being completely limp, it retained its fully-erect size and thickness. It even grew, lengthening, spending the slack of his foreskin until the extra folds disappeared entirely. The skin at the base of his shaft darkened into a deep charcoal, and the angry pink of his cockhead spread downward. The two colors collided three quarters down his shaft and formed a mottled pattern. He reached down and cradled his impressive- but limp- cock. The touch sent a shiver to the tip of his tail. It was as sensitive as ever.

The demon's icy grip clutched his testicles, and there was a sudden yank that sent Ashton to his knees. His balls were too numb from the cold to feel any pain, but a queasy sensation shot into his stomach all the same. The demon yanked again, and Ashton's testes strained against his pelvic floor like two people trying to squeeze through the same door. The pressure grew and grew until it was almost unbearable, and then with an audible poppop! his balls slipped inside. The relief alone was better than any orgasm.

Fluid dribbled from his penis onto his thighs. At first he thought he was pissing himself, but the liquid was white and stringy. It was cum. These were not the spasming, orgasmic jets he was used to but a steady trickle of jizz that pooled on the ground below.

Beneath his swollen, weeping shaft, the empty sack that once cradled his balls remained. Finally free of its lifelong burden, the wrinkled skin relaxed into a smooth pouch of flesh. It then followed the standard course of retirement and grew fat. If watching his fur sprout was like a timelapse of grass growing, this was a shot of peaches ripening on the stem. The sack filled out evenly, hanging lower and plumper than it ever had before. He groped to feel his testes, but all he found was flab as soft as his breasts.

He was left with an impressive, and only slightly inhuman-looking package. Relief washed over him as well as a flash of pride. It was perverse, but who wouldn't be proud to unwrap his towel in the locker room and reveal this banger? Perhaps he would have been more afraid if he weren't so damn horny.

He grasped his altered shaft. The rough pads on his fingertips sent thrills of bliss rocketing up into his lower belly. The entire length of his penis felt as densely wired with nerves as his glans had been, and he made care to stroke himself with a grip that favored the tufts of fur between his pads.

Ashton's mind sought refuge from the incomprehensible situation in an instinct as base as panic itself: lust. He milked brilliant and unfamiliar pleasures from his floppy, throbbing dick, hooting his awful hyenine chuckle all the while. Muscle memory lead his paw to the crude mockery of a glans at the tip of his dick. The trickle of semen had ceased some time ago. Now his urethra, a large opening that dominated the tip of his penis, weeped a clear and viscous fluid that filled the bathroom with the paradoxical scent of feminine sex.

When Ashton came, he came hard. Orgasmic spasms that had their roots deep in his abdomen stole his senses. He did not notice his fingers growing slender, nor his black hair sweeping upwards, or even the plumping of his lips that were, at that moment, parted in an expression of mindless ecstasy. As his climax faded, the awful, invasive chill of the demon's touch vanished with it.

Ashton's half-lidded eyes fluttered open. He shot his gaze around the bathroom, looking for some sign of the demon, but there was only a toilet and a sink with a drippy faucet. Looking at himself, his longer neck offered a strange angle on an unfamiliar landscape: fuzzy breasts, clawed hands, and four-toed feet. He screamed. It wasn't a masculine shout but a true, womanly scream.

"Holy fucking shit!" he eventually managed and immediately clasped his paws over his muzzle. This wasn't the voice he was used to. This one sat comfortably at the top of his tenor range, and from those three panicked words he had a sense of its husky alto timbre.

"I sound like motherfucking Britney Spears!"

The face of a hyena stared back from the mirror with a very human expression of dumbfounded shock plastered across its inky-tipped muzzle. The hair atop its head was styled in a very human-looking bleached undercut. It was more than an animal's head on a humanoid body, the face was. . . girlish? Long and luscious eyelashes flicked with each blink. He lifted his paw to his plump lips in shock, and it came away marked with a red smudge. Lipstick? Underneath, his flesh shined an inhuman black.

Once he noticed the lipstick, the other artificial touches became obvious. Some of his lashes were fake, and the subtle glitter of bronzer sparkled from the fur at the top of his cheekbones. Even the fur itself now felt conditioned, brushed, and pampered.

"I'm. . . cute?" he said, smiling bashfully. Despite the pointed teeth and bonecrushing jaws, the reflection showed a charming and vulnerable smile.

He stepped back and turned this way and that, craning his elongated neck to see his new body from all angles. Other than the bulk of his shoulders and the dick between his legs, his body was a womanly bombshell. The sight sent butterflies loose in his stomach.

"I'm not cute. I'm hot!"

Still, the mannish way his reflection carried itself seemed out of place. He relaxed, set one hand on his hip and winked at the mirror. For a moment, all traces of Ashton in the hyena woman disappeared, and he wasn't looking at a reflection of his altered body but someone else altogether. He dropped the pose with a shudder.

"Okay. Don't panic, Ashton," he muttered. His unfamiliar voice made it feel less like he was talking to himself. "Imagine you're a character in a horror movie. What would people shout at the screen?"

Ashton thought "don't go to the hospital! They'll ship you off to Area 51!" was a strong contender. His mind flooded with visions of scientists in hazmat suits drawing blood and subjecting him to mind-breaking "behavioral tests."

But he couldn't sit in the bathroom forever. He would have to sneak out. If he could find a coat in the green room, something with a big hood to cover his muzzle, then maybe, if he walked all the back roads and avoided street lights, maybe he could make it home before his parents woke up. Then he could plan his next move. But it wouldn't be long before Midnight Alibi finished their set and flooded into the green room. He had to hurry. Ashton carefully cracked the door and peered out. He was so surprised at what he saw, the handle rattled free of his paw and the door swung wide.

It was a green room, but it wasn't the same green room. This one made the other look like a homeless shelter. Instead of a broken-down recliner with gashes in the pleather, there was a pair of elegant, crimson couches with brass rivets. Five large mirrors, each bordered with a dozen bulbs, hung on the wall in front of five makeup stations and five swivel chairs. A Japanese privacy screen painted with cherry-blossoms stood near a series of top-of-the-line wardrobe cases, the sort of which Lady Gaga might have brought on tour. Whoever was prepping in this green room, it certainly wasn't Jarl Slayer.

Ashton shook the shock from his eyes, steeled his nerves, and braved a sprint to the main door, breasts bouncing wildly until he raised an arm to steady them. He latched the deadbolt then pulled a wardrobe in front and locked the wheels. That would buy him some time in case this room's superstar group returned from the stage. He started turning away from the door when a word printed at the top of the wardrobe caught his eye:

DOMENIC

It couldn't be, he thought. Yet sure enough, inside were Deomenic's street clothes, including his signature leather jacket. Ashton's maw dropped open. He checked the other wardrobes with utter fascination. Plaques affixed to each one read:

BRUTALIS

GEOFFREY

DETHEROTH

And finally:

ASH

Seeing his name on this unfamiliar wardrobe chilled him like he'd found his own gravestone. Possessed by a perverse curiosity (and a need to cover himself), Ashton raised a shaking hand to "his" wardrobe and opened it. Inside, there was a single costume, but it wasn't his. These were women's clothes.

"... right." Ashton said, holding up a black satin bra. That was right. He was a woman now. A woman with a dick? The thought dropped rocks into his stomach. For some reason, he found the tits on his chest more terrifying than the fact that he was now some kind of monstrous human-animal hybrid, but he swallowed his panic. There would be time for an identity crisis for when he made it home. For now, he needed to cover himself, and the bra would be a good start.

At least in theory. He examined the garment's straps and clasps like a piece of alien technology. Eventually, he lifted the cups over his breasts, then slipped his arms through the loops. The clasp was like nothing he'd ever seen, and he stretched his arms painfully behind his back to set it. He gave the bra some final adjustments and found it to be a perfect fit. The silky fabric tickled his nipples delightfully, and they grew hard, forming little bumps visible through the cups. The bra stabilized his breasts, but it didn't neutralize the uncanny feeling he got seeing them in the mirror. In fact, the way it lifted his tits made him look even more like something out of a porn site banner ad.

The sight sent blood rushing down into his not-cock, and it lifted in a mockery of an erection that lasted all of two seconds. It was time to hide that beast. He reached into the wardrobe and pulled out a pair of underwear that looked like a lacy men's bikini. He stepped through the leg holes and pulled the elastic waistband over his shapely thighs and round, feminine ass. A pouch in the front cradled his package, but the rest fit much the same as a pair of panties. The small snap in the back confused him until he realized it was meant to fasten over his tail. Another perfect fit. If he could dismiss the bra as off-the-rack luck, he certainly couldn't with the underwear. These were custom made just for him.

Ashton soon discovered that the more women's clothing he wore, the more naked he felt. There was no shirt, so up next was a tiny black leather jacket adorned with shiny chrome studs. The sleeves barely covered his shoulders, the bottom was so short it showed off his belly button, and the zipper was so short it left his bra visible. The tights weren't much better. Nude, his tawny fluff had a way of softening his feminine shapes. The black spandex tights highlighted every curve and crevice of his girlish downstairs. The only part it didn't compress was his package, which it hugged and presented in a bulge that looked very out-of-place on his otherwise feminine figure. There was another pair of snaps for the top of his tail, but they were disguised to look like a dark red, satin bow.

A studded leather bracelet and belt completed the look, and that was it. There were no shoes, and Ashton couldn't imagine what a pair made to fit his paws would look like anyway. He took a moment to look at himself in the full-body mirror. He looked bad-ass and drop-dead sexy, but still very much like a monster. A civilized monster that had a day job and maybe rode the bus, but a monster nonetheless.

"Fuck," Ashton muttered to himself. The unexpected flavor of his voice still sent shivers up his spine.

A loud banging rattled the door, and Ashton nearly leapt out of the clothes he'd spent so long putting on.

"Ash! Are you in there? You alright?" shouted a man he didn't recognize. "I'm coming in!"

Thinking quickly, Ashton lowered his voice and shouted back, "Yeah, give me a minute!"

"Are you okay?" the man asked. "You sound sick."

"I'm fine! Just a second!"

Ashton ran over to the refreshments table, grabbed the polka-dot tablecloth, and yanked it free, sending several bottles of water bouncing across the floor. He threw the tablecloth around his body like a robe, using one fist atop his muzzle to hold the front shut. The makeshift "hood" left a narrow sliver to peek through, and the bottom dragged on the floor, easily long enough to hide his hind paws. After a quick glance in the mirror, he tucked his tail and folded his ears back. He looked like an out-of-season forgot-about-the-halloween-party ghost, but was a serviceable disguise.

"Ash! You gotta get out here! It's time!" called the voice.

Ash pushed the wardrobe away from the door. "Coming!"

The plan was to fling the door open and book it past whoever was waiting on the other side, and it might have worked that person didn't turn out to be a 250 pound wall of muscle. Ashton careened straight into his chest, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Ashton landed on top, muzzle-to-nose with the man. The tablecloth billowed into the air, caught a draft, and blew out of reach.

Ashton expected the man to scream, but the fear on his face was more worry than outright terror.

"Jeeze, Ash, are you okay?" he asked, helping Ashton to his feet. He brushed some dust off of his all-black outfit, readjusted his headset, and pressed a button on its side. "Found her. We're heading out now."

Now Ashton recognized the man as a stagehand, but that didn't explain his reaction. Was there some glamour preventing him from seeing the monster in front of his face? If so, Ashton didn't dare disturb it, and when the stagehand grabbed his paw and began to lead, Ashton followed

This hallway was nothing like the one in Mini's Bar and Jazz Lounge. Ashton's ears swiveled forward as they picked up the sound of a muffled chant. It was distant but powerful, the sort that filled stadiums in the last few seconds of overtime, and it was growing louder. By the time they reached the heavy door at the end of the hall, the words became clear:

"Yeen! Queen! Yeen! Queen! Yeen Queen!"

The stagehand turned Ashton and gave him one last check up and down. "Sounds like they're ready for you."

"Ready for me?" Ashton stammered as the man straightened his revealing leather jacket. "I can't go out there. I don't even know what I am!"

The man snorted. "You are one funny chick, Ash."

Then his face went flat. "Wait a minute, did you forget your customs? You'll go deaf in a second without 'em. Good thing I've got a spare." He reached into his utility belt and produced an eyeglasses case. Inside were a large pair of translucent earplugs. He pinched the tips of Ashton's paddle ears and settled the plugs into their depths with practiced ease, first one ear, then the other. The sounds of the world were plunged underwater. The only thing he could hear was the pulse of the crowd's incessant chant. "Yeen! Queen! Yeen! Queen!"

The man thrust a microphone into Ashton's hand, gave him a thumbs up, and pushed him through the door.

The crowd was indeed on the other side. Beyond a vast, dark stage, its edges marked with glow-in-the-dark gaffer's tape, lay an expanse of writhing, living blackness. Stray cell phone flashes glittered through the mass like countless twinkling stars in a rural sky. A stadium of at least ten thousand people, completely sold out.

A sudden blast of brilliant light dazzled Ashton. He held an arm up to shade his eyes and found himself caught in a yellow spotlight. The crowd's chant dissolved into wordless enthusiasm. They were all looking at him. Twenty thousand eyes focused on his beastly muzzle, generous cleavage, and unnatural bulge. Ashton's heart slammed against his chest. His legs nearly buckled. He groped at the door knob behind him, but it was locked. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. He lifted the microphone to his lips in the hope that he could offer some clumsy, rational-sounding explanation for what the crowd was seeing. His voice was little more than a whisper, but it echoed far and wide.

"I am more than what you see. A demon lives inside of me. With my tail and carnivorous face-"

He froze. Those were not the words he meant to say. The audience shouted in unison to complete the line:

"-I herald the end of the human race!"

A guitar whined a long, low note, and the crowd's ecstatic whooping fought and failed to drown it out. Before it waned, a snare drum exploded to Ashton's left. He jumped. The mighty, rhythmic thud of toms beat through his body, through all their bodies, like a unified heartbeat, and he was glad he'd let the man in black shove those plugs into his ears.

The guitar licked a few mournful notes to mingle with the beat, then broke into a high-pitched flurry that lingered on a note like an anguished scream. Then came the chord, basic but sturdy with a ragged distortion, and with it came the bass, came the rhythm guitar, came the lights.

Ashton gawked at the stage around him. Orange-red flood lights and haze of fog gave the impression that there was a massive fire behind them. Massive, plasterwork bones rose on either side, giving the impression they were nestled in the ribcage of some long-dead giant. Geoffrey beat the drums from a platform rising to his left; Brutalis and Detheroth drove the music from his upper right; and Domenic stood below, seducing the crowd with another tasty, introductory lick.

The sight of his bandmates, his battle-hardened brothers of Metal, prevented Ashton from sliding into sheer panic, but the song they were playing was unfamiliar. The music fell into line for a verse. It was his cue to join in, but he didn't know the words, the melody, or even how to sing with his new voice. The time had come to stop this charade, halt the song, and explain what was happening. But when he raised the mic to his muzzle, lyrics sprang from his lips, and he sang.

Looking in the mirror, I don't recognize my face.