[jayrockin]

Commission for @manakdanak!

[singofmetamorphoses-blog]

Lucky Winners -- Horse TF

requested by @pigboy2012 It can also be found at http://www.furaffinity.net/view/23838287/

----- 

Because it was a sweepstakes award, and no credit card was required to be on file, Andrew expected to spend his week at Ivory League Equestrian Resort in a way he always dreamed about: endless trail rides, lessons in horse jumping and dressage, developing an appetite for fine dining and round-the-clock drinking, and being completely pampered by maids and room service in his very own guest house. The rude awakening came on his final day, when a man in a fitted suit and aviator sunglasses delivered an invoice to his table. The invoice listed two weeks’ worth of fees for services such as equipment rental, lodging, blue label scotch, and required tips and charges for the wait staff and housekeeping. The total at the bottom, printed in bold red ink, was $3,854.26. Andrew could hardly find the words to express his confusion, and his anxiety over such a large price. “I thought my stay was free!” “The award only covers membership costs,” the man said. “Everything outside of horse riding is priced accordingly.” “You should’ve said that from the beginning,” Andrew argued. The man reached into his lapel and removed a slip of paper and unfolded it for Andrew to read. It was the agreement, complete with his signature. Highlighted in yellow was the portion of the agreement that explicitly stated the terms and conditions he’d ignored. Some of the other guests paused their conversations to eavesdrop on Andrew’s situation, eyes narrowed and brows furrowed indignantly. “Well,” Andrew said, slumping in his seat, “I can’t pay this. It’s too much.” The man in the suit gestured to Andrew to follow. Andrew stood, defeated. He was guided to the exit slowly, his gaze shifting between the room of wealthy, respectable people gawking at his misfortune, and the exorbitant debt on the paper he held. It felt like a funeral procession. He was almost to the double doors when a warm, accented voice spoke up. “Excuse me, what’s all this about?” It was Celine, a club member who had been joining Andrew on his rides for the past two weeks. She was also the only person with whom Andrew made friends. While others in the club seemed dismissive and insular, Celine moved from conversation to conversation during the evening’s social events, either listening intently or trying to add her own opinion or insight (only to no avail). When at last she came across Andrew sitting alone at the corner of the bar, arranging his martini olives in a circle, she was relieved to find somebody who actually wanted to talk about horses. “Everybody else is talking about work,” she complained, “or golf, or places they’ve been in the world and people they know. You’re the first person who seems to be really taking this place in!” For Andrew, this friendship became his saving grace. Celine offered to pay off his debt in full on the spot, without any hesitation. Andrew, who hadn’t even recovered fully from the shame of being displayed as a freeloader to the entire clubhouse, was barely able to process the incredible act of kindness. He stuttered with gratitude. “Wow, I mean, thank you but…are you sure? That seems to be so much money for somebody you hardly know.” “Perhaps,” she said, “but for all the time I’ve been here, I’ve come to know you more than anybody else. And I’d hate to see a friend end his vacation on such a bad note.” They sat back down together. Celine ordered a bottle of champagne and a carafe of orange juice for mimosas. After a few glasses, they were talking about horses again and Andrew had put the embarrassing incident out of mind. “I wish this didn’t have to be my last day.” “What do you mean?” Andrew finished the dregs of his drink. “The free two weeks are over.” “If you could, would you stay longer?” Celine was making circles with her finger on the tablecloth. Andrew set his glass down and looked out over the resort’s acres of grass and woods. “I would,” he said, “but if you’re offering an extension on my stay, I’d feel bad for taking it. You’ve bailed me out, and—” “Please, Andrew,” she said. “If anything, you staying longer would be a favor for me. Consider it like, paying you to keep me company, but paying you with accommodations.” She smiled, placed her hand on top of his, and poured another glass. “What do you say?” she asked. He said yes to Celine’s offer, yes to riding the trail that ran along Snake River, and yes to a private dinner later at her place. Andrew knocked on her door at 6 PM and she answered wearing a slim, black cocktail dress and carrying two tumblers of scotch. He looked her up and down, then looked himself up and down: sandals frayed at the strap, khaki shorts, and a plain white polo shirt. “Sorry I didn’t have anything more…formal,” he said. Celine smiled. “Trust me,” she said. If I were concerned about your sense of fashion, I would’ve never talked to you in the first place.” “Really?” She chuckled and handed him a glass of scotch. “I’m only playing with you. Come inside.” Dinner arrived as a meal service, in which a team of waiters rolled out in a van equipped with a ramp to deliver fresh food on a rolling cart. It was, as Andrew noted, the usual excess of a resort as highly praised as this one, but that didn’t stop him from embracing it now, as he had several times during his stay. After dinner, and more scotch, the two sprawled out on the couch, sitting at one another’s feet, talking about nothing in particular and laughing at even less. It was Celine who made a move on Andrew. It was playful, but intimate. She wormed her way next to him, between his side and the couch’s back cushions. She laid her head on his chest and closed her eyes. “Do you want to know a secret?” she asked. “Sure.” “The horses here,” she said, “they’re not that great.” “No?” “I’ve ridden horses around the world. I even have my own horses back home in Chignon. They’re all sturdy, reliable, responsive. Much more so than these horses. I’ve been riding all the horses I can during my time here, but each one is a little…rebellious, I suppose. They have an attitude that trained horses really shouldn’t have. Their attitude reminds me a little of the people who run this place. Reserved, inherently disdainful. It makes me wonder if this place is really treating their horses with the best care.” Andrew reached over and took another swig of his scotch. “Well, in America, there’s a tradition of cutting corners to save money, so it wouldn’t shock me in the least.” “Do you get to ride often?” Andrew shook his head. “It’s too expensive. I only got the week’s stay from an online sweepstakes.” Celine made a pitying sound. “I’d love to be able to show you what it’s like to ride a real horse.” “That’d be nice.” The two sat in silence for a moment, but then Celine sat up and looked at Andrew with a smile. “Do you trust me?” “Where’s this coming from?” “I’d like to give you something. Do you trust me?” “What does that have to do with the gift?” Celine shrugged coyly. “Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. But trust is important, no?” “It is.” “Well?” Andrew tried to read what she was trying to say, but his head was fuzzy from the drink. “Sure,” he said. “I trust you.” She leaned down and gave him a soft kiss on the lips. “How was that? Do you like it?” Andrew nodded. “Yeah.” “I knew you’d like it. And trust is crucial to relationships. Do you understand?” “Are you asking me to...be with you?” “In a way, yes.” She moved down toward the other end of the couch, running her fingers along the inside of his legs. She removed his shorts and socks. When she reached for his shirt, Andrew unclasped the buttons and removed it herself. “Now, since you trust me,” she said, tugging at the waistband of his briefs, “if I were to ask you to lay here and simply enjoy yourself, would you do that for me?” Andrew shifted a little on the couch and nodded. “Good.” There was a sudden sting of pain in his thigh. Andrew winced, but Celine rested her hand on his stomach. “Try not to move or restrict your muscles.” “The hell was that?” Her hand moved away from his leg to reveal a syringe. “Trust is crucial to all relationships. Men and women, men and men, women and women, even man and animal. If the animal doesn’t trust the rider, and the rider the animal, the tension will make the ride unpleasant at best and unpredictable at worst. The animals here—they don’t trust any of their riders.” Andrew scrambled off the couch and raced toward the door, but the injected leg became locked with spasms. His shoulder hit the corner of the hallway wall and sent him crashing into the hardwood floor. “When you told me you didn’t ride very much,” Celine said, stepping over to Andrew and kneeling at his side, “I was overcome with pity. Out of all the people who could afford to ride, here you are. When you speak of horses, it’s beautiful. It’s poetic. I can feel your soul is truly with these animals. Unfortunately, you’ve been constricted to horses who only know these cold, compassionless elitists. I wanted you to experience the true beauty of a rider and a horse. So I decided I wanted to introduce you to the work that I’ve recently been doing as a DNA scientist.” Andrew tried to pull himself across the floor, but soon he was losing his grip, each attempt to claw the floor resulting in a hard, clacking sound that slipped across the surface. He watched as they blackened and curled, and rounded out at the knuckles. Celine took one into her hands and hummed thoughtfully. “No cracks or growth rings in your hooves. Good. I was worried that such a quick shift would affect the health of your new form.” “H-hooves?” “Darling, I know it’s scary, and I’m sorry I couldn’t be more forward about this, but think of it: you’re going to be so strong, fast and elegant. All those beautiful things you said about horses on the first night we met? You’ll get to experience it for yourself. No more wondering. And I’m sure you’re going to be a beautiful colt. Feel this?” When Celine ran her palm from Andrew’s neck to the small of his back, the warm prickling sensation that began to sprout from his shoulders toward his hips that felt incredibly soothing. It filled him with a pleasure that sank into his body and caused him to shiver with delight. “Your coat of fur is beginning to appear,” she said. “It’s a nice, light brown. And it already has a natural shine to it that makes you the most beautiful horse I’ve seen during my time here!” Celine’s words were as soothing, rhythmic, and delicately placed as her touch. “The most beautiful?” he asked. “Do you mean it?” The fur spread along Andrew’s chest and stomach, and soon began to gather at his crotch and buttocks. He was beginning to enjoy himself. Even as his shoulderblades moved into a forward position and invaded the shape and space his humeri, and the bones in his extremities stretched and realigned with new joints, he found respite in Celine’s kisses on his cheek, and the soft noises she made as his ears lengthened to points. They twitched and flicked, tickling against her hand as Celine caressed his newly grown mane. The growth he liked most of all, however, was his tail, which grew in before his midsection began to take the shape of his barrel, and before his thighs expanded to accommodate the weight and size of his rump. As his buttocks expanded and tightened, its thick hairs swept lightly across his anus which, newly exposed, caught the light cool breeze provided by his tail whenever he swished it back and forth. “Last is the bones in your face,” Celine said. “This part is going to be really hard, but I’m here for you. I love you. We’re going to make it through this together, okay?” Andrew’s cries of pain morphed into a shrill whinny as his neck pulled further from his shoulders and thickened, and the skin of his nostrils widened across his forming muzzle. The cracking sounds of his skull inching forward into a new size and shape rang inside Andrew’s head, and deafened him for the duration of the shift, but his sense of smell was increasing. As Celine embraced him and patted his flank, he caught a whiff of her perfume. It was the same perfume from their first night together, when he got far too drunk and had to have Celine cart him off to bed. Her hand at his sides again, he found the strength to endure the pain. When it was finished, Celine stepped in front of Andrew to study him. “My my,” she said, with satisfaction. “The little snip on the end of your muzzle is very cute.” She put her hand to Andrew’s nose and ran it up toward his ears. She stepped over to the side and tilted her head. “And your eyes are a beautiful shade of brown. What an impressive colt you’ve turned out to be.” Celine dressed quickly into her riding outfit and led him outside, where the smell of foliage and freshly-cut grass, carried on the warm summer wind, entered his nose and put him at ease. It was the kind of quiet, meditative moment he had been waiting for this whole time at the resort. He felt truly relaxed. In one light hop, Celine mounted Andrew’s back. She leaned forward and spoke softly. “We’ll take it slow first,” she said. “Get comfortable.” The two of them moved to the trail that connected to the main stables. They passed a few other riders still trying to get as much as they could out of the remaining light of day, who watched bewildered as the horse moved as the rider willed, without saddle or stirrup—only the faintest touch of her fingers on his neck.

[singofmetamorphoses-blog]

Comfort Food

A Rat TF/Weight Gain Story  (Shared from furaffinity)

Claire was not a people-person, which made her mother’s passion parties a biweekly and hourly house-arrest sentence from six to eleven. Not that it was difficult to remain in her room during that time—she had everything she needed: a subscription to several streaming services, a bookshelf of read and unread books, a laptop with internet access, and best of all: her mother, Patricia, who knew and respected her desire for privacy—but knowing a part of her house became less inviting never sat right with her, especially given she was 19, an age when sexually active girls began investing in things like vibrators, dental dams, and lubricants. Just imagining the older women pulling her into the conversation made her red in the face with equal parts embarrassment and an increased heartrate.

Patricia entered only after she knocked, and waited for her daughter to let her in. She appeared in the room with a large plate of catered food for Claire: grapes, crackers, sliced meats, a portion of a large sandwich containing olives, chicken, jalapeno and mustard on a rye loaf; and a generous helping of cheeses. She set the plate along with a glass of wine on the TV tray. Claire looked at her mother with surprise.

“I figured you’re ready to have at least a few glasses if you’d like,” she said. “At least, under my supervision.”

Claire took a sip.

“That one’s called a Malbec,” Patricia said. “It’s the one your aunt Ethel brought over last week when she wanted to talk divorce at me. How is it?”

Claire pursed her lips together. “I think I can get used to it.”

Patricia smiled. “Anything else I can get you?”

“No. Thanks though.”

“No problem.”

Patricia disappeared, leaving Claire to her food and her library copy of Akira on DVD. She took a sip of the wine again, then a bigger drink. Within twenty minutes, the glass—which was already overfilled by her mother—was emptied. Claire was surprised at how quickly she fell into favor with its flavor. She remembered hearing something at school about how tastebuds develop as people age, and wondered if that was the case now.

Whatever it was, she wanted another glass. But if she went out now, she knew she’d be cut off or something by her mom, so she sat and continued to watch the movie, picking at the food on her plate with small bites, starting with the grapes.

Eventually, Claire made her way to the cheese, which she had been avoiding until then. Not that she particularly hated cheese, but she liked very specific kinds of cheeses, and was no good at identifying provolone from brie. Some of them, with their odd colors and flecks of whatever inside the slices, she had no idea about, but Claire generally had a rule for cheeses: the fancier or smellier the cheese, the worse it tasted.

But then she thought about the wine, and maybe her feelings on cheese had changed too. So she began eating. Some of them were brittle and a little too rich. Others were smooth yet a little tasteless. But she found, especially by cleansing her palate with sharp cheddar, she appreciated all their flavors in one way or another.

The movie was nearing its climax: Kaneda was on his way to the sports complex to have the final showdown with Tetsuo, when suddenly there was a movement in Claire’s stomach. She shifted in her seat. It felt enough like digestion to ignore it. Perhaps a little heavier, a more pronounced sound emerging from her stomach, but digestion nonetheless. Then it happened again. This time it felt more like a drop. Was she hungry again already? Claire was puzzled, but didn’t think too much about it other than the fact that it would give her the chance to get more wine and cheese.

Claire paused the movie and prepared herself to meet the regulars: Helena, the single lesbian in her fifties; Regina, the youngest one of the group who usually brings a new friend each meeting; Esme, the dominatrix; Opal, the trans woman with the only laugh loud enough to pierce the walls of Claire’s bedroom; and her mom, of course, who tells Claire about all these people with enthusiasm. Claire slipped into her baggiest sweater, her Orioles baseball cap, and black dust-mask with white, sharp teeth painted on the front. When she was ready, she grabbed the empty glass and plate and headed out.

She walked quickly but quietly, but no amount of stealth could hide her from the company. In order to get from the bedroom to the kitchen, she had to open her very squeaky bedroom door, walk down the hallway and down the stairs that curved around the wall and exposed her to the living room. The kitchen was across the room from there. There was no need to worry about drawing attention to herself. It always seemed that Opal was the one to be on the lookout for Claire, to say hello and wave her arms as if the queen herself had arrived fashionably late to bless her citizens with her grace and presence.

“Claire, hello! How are you?!”

And with that, the whole room turned to look up and greet her. A garbled wave of greetings poured over her like a tidal wave of bullshit social norms. Claire gave them all only a nod as she passed toward the kitchen. She made eye contact with her mother as she passed, and her mother made eye contact with the empty glass and followed in after her.

“I take it you’ve gotten used to it.”

Claire nodded.

Patricia smiled as she finished pouring the glass. “Well, you’re welcome. But please, take it a little slow this time.”

“Okay.”

Claire saw the cheeses and began piling them onto her plate. Her mother asked her about the sandwich, to which Claire responded by placing it back on the serving tray with the rest of the portions. “I don’t really like olives or jalapeno,” she said.

“I thought you ate everything.”

“I do, it’s just…not in the mood I guess.”

“Well, all right, but try not to eat too much cheese. It’s not good for the digestion. Blocks you all up.”

“Thanks for the specifics, mom. Really helps me eat.”

“Anytime.”

Esme called Patricia’s attention, and she returned to the living room. Unsupervised, and with her head starting to buzz faintly from the first serving of alcohol, Claire gracelessly added several more handfuls of cheese onto her plate and moved covertly back up the stairs, shielding her mom’s view of the plate with her body. The moment she closed the door, Claire set the glass and plate down on the tray, sat down on the bed, pressed play on the remote, and hunched over the cheese, eating one piece after another.

There were countless times where Claire, wrapped up in her work or watching her favorite series obsessively, where she’d forget how hungry she was, which would result in eating large helpings all at once. But this felt different. It wasn’t a hunger out of desperation, it was a hunger derived from pleasure. The more cheese she ate, the better it tasted: the nutty, sweet flavor of the gouda, the creamy texture of truffle brie, the tanginess of sheep’s milk in the ombra – all its deliciousness, paired with a second glass of wine, caused her stomach to radiate with a warmth from her contentment.

Claire slipped her sweater over her head and tried to adjust her t-shirt when she noticed two things: First, her shirt seemed shorter. Second, where her belly poked out from beneath the shirt, there was a patch of color surrounding her navel. Curious, she ran a single finger over the spot of gray to discover that it was something like short fur.

Was this what it was like to be drunk? Claire thought. Can you hallucinate from too much wine? Claire knew from television that people sometimes got double vision, but what about this? It felt real to her, and not only that, it felt… good. She ran her whole hand across the fur one way, then the other, feeling the electric tingle when the fur was stroked up, and the soothing relief when it was stroked down.

One of the cheeses was especially fragrant, and only after it had been sitting there awhile, in the heat of the space heater, did it register with Claire. She ate even more pieces, arranging the cheeses by types and eating several slices at once. Her stomach growled louder now, as if it wasn’t just hungry but demanded attention. Something slid up her stomach toward her breasts. Looking down, Claire realized her shirt had given away to more stomach and more fur.

A part of her was worried. What would her mom say? What about university? Was this a disease? If it were, it was definitely an unsightly one – one that would surely have her mocked in school: Belly Hair Claire, she imagined. It wasn’t much worse than her old high school nickname, Death Glare Claire, but she didn’t need one in a new setting. How could she hide this?

Another part of her, as she ate the cheese, head spinning – too much wine? – was feeling light, and happy. The fur crept around to her lower back, and caused her to shiver in delight. It moved to her armpits, then down her forearms. It caressed the inside of her wrists as it moved to the top of her hands and brushed against her knuckles. It was a similar experience feeling the fur spread down her buttocks and her inner thigh. With the fur pressing against her leggings, it felt tight but warm. Her feet were especially ticklish as the fur spread across the tops of her feet and stopped just at the webs of her toes.

Claire decided, since it felt right, or at least good, she would embrace it. The fur, the wine, the cheese. She tried to grab the stem of her wine glass but it fumbled in her grip. She caught it with her other hand and held it at the bottom of the bowl between both. She hardly paid any attention to her hands, swelling and curling into shorter, but certainly stubbier digits. Only after she finished the wine and moved onto the cheese did it register with her. She couldn’t simply pick any of the pieces up with two fingers as she was used to, but instead had to cradle the cheese between both paws. But once she began scooping up larger helpings of cheese to eat at once from her paws, she was back to fully indulging herself, cramming her mouth full of food.

Now, even with the smallest piece of cheese, it seemed Claire’s stomach grew bigger and bigger. Soon it was too tight, and Claire struggled out of her shirt, ripping the fabric at the collar with her claws and tossing it aside. She leaned forward for more cheese and the TV tray almost toppled forward. She adjusted herself, moving from sitting on her knees to her bottom. In that position, she felt the heft of her torso, the weight of herself on her legs. True, more weight meant that she would have to get different clothes, but it also meant there was more skin to be covered with that fantastic feeling of fur. She ran her paws over her breasts, down her stomach again. This was the most fun she had in her room in ages!

But once the cheese had run out once again, the sound of Opal’s laughter through the wall reminded Claire that, if she wanted to continue to eat more cheese, wanted to keep feeling this good, she would have to endure the company of her mom’s passion party. The realization plummeted like an empty cable-less elevator from the top floor of her heart. How could she be seen like this? She looked at herself in the mirror beside her door, held out her hands, her feet, which had also turned pink and clawed. Even being that close to the door, Claire could smell the Gruyère wafting from the kitchen.

Desperate, Claire went to her phone. With her fingers altered into paws, she couldn’t surpass the lock screen. She used her nose instead to dial her mom.

“Yes?”

“Can you bring me up another plate of cheese?”

Claire could hear her mom excuse herself from the festivities. “Can’t you come down and get it yourself?”

“No,” said Claire, “not at the moment.”

“Sweetie,” asked Patricia, “is everything all right.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“Just leave the plate outside, all right?”

“Sure thing.”

Claire’s mood lightened when the plate was delivered. When she managed to open the door, and slide the plate in across the carpet, she began eating with an intensity that felt like an absolutely need.

The laughter grew louder from downstairs. Claire only heard Opal first, but then there were other voices: inflections that suggested normal volume but seemed louder than before. In the mirror, eating from the cheese plate on the floor, Claire watched as her ears grew rounder, pushed out from beneath the hood of the sweater that no longer felt so baggy on her anymore. She felt the cartilage stretch and thin. She listened as she ate. She could hear the whole conversation. The conversation she always assumed was about her and how antisocial she was and how her mom wished she’d get out more.

But she was surprised. It was nothing like that. Opal called her a dear, Helena suggested inviting Claire as a way to communicate openness about sex and sexuality, Regina said she’d love to have anybody closer to her age in all honesty. This was a conversation she wouldn’t have otherwise heard, that nobody would suspect that she was hearing, but it was positive and supportive.

She finished off the cheese, feeling her nose and jaw take the new shape of a snout, and a thick pink tail slip from the waistband of her leggings and thump against the floor, slithering outward as it grew in length. Admiring its sleekness in the mirror and the feeling as it swished against the light bristle of her carpet, she felt loved, and loved herself, and with one last appreciative rub of her stomach below her sweatshirt, she pawed at the handle of her bedroom door and made another appearance.

[reddishmaroon]

cow. COOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW

[tail-blazer]

Horse TF commission.

Opinions?

[blogshirtboy]

I’ve finally made another TF comic! Interludes 5 is 20 pages and contains 3 short comics.

Girl > Dog girl

Guy > Sheep girl

Guy > Skunk girl

Available for $6 June 1st! (One week!)

[kyrio5]

$15 TF Commissions 1

Since Furaffinity is in Read Only mode I’ll just post these here:

Kangaroo Fursona TF for Glitchroo

Dalmation Fursona TF for Thrash

Zangoose Fursuit TF for Altered/Nolife

$15 Whenever Sketches: http://www.furaffinity.net/journal/7584622/ 

[singofmetamorphoses-blog]

Feeling At Home (Cow TF)

As a cyclist with decades of experience on the hills of Glendora's Ridge, Dawson's Saddle, Mt. Baldy, and the other routes within Angeles National Forest, Paul occasionally allowed his self-confidence to overwork his athleticism. As such, when the spout to his camelbak slipped from its place and drained the water bladder in the backpack completely, he shrugged it off. It was only century ride, and with little elevation gain, it was nothing compared to his experience of riding the STP route three years ago with only half a water bottle. Three years! To think he wouldn't be able to do a mere one-hundred miles with no water seemed insulting to his fitness.

But the Wyoming weather was at record highs, and he wanted to prove to somebody he was able to keep an average speed of twenty-five miles an hour for the duration of the ride. His tires began to sound as if they were spinning somewhere far behind the bike, and the road blurred into the horizon. His bike began to veer toward the right side of the road. His attempt to adjust his direction was commanded by weakened elbows; their strength gave out and his chest was the first thing to hit the handlebars. They twisted in his sternum and his body and bike rolled and skidded to a hard stop in the roadside grass.

Paul wasn't badly scratched up, but as he tried to twist his feet out of the clipless pedals, there was a sharp pain along the side of his leg. “Of fucking course,” he cried out. “Of course the first ride after two fucking weeks of waiting for my bike to be shipped out, something like this happens to keep me from riding.”

He ripped his right glove off of his hand with his teeth, and bit down as he twisted more with his leg than his foot. He pulled himself out of the saddle and sat up. He swung his bag from his shoulder and opened up the small pouch. He was able to clean and patch himself up with his emergency kit, but there was no hope for his phone, which had been crushed in the wreckage. He sighed and turned himself toward the road. There were no cars coming now, and in the last half hour, he had only been passed by about thirty vehicles driving in either direction. He pulled his bike up to him and surveyed the damages. A few scratches, but thankfully no cracks or bends in the frame or wheels or the wheels' spokes. Despite his relative luck, he continued to complain about Wyoming: the flat landscape, his bumfuck nowhere town twenty miles from the nearest bumfuck nowhere city. He ranted and raved to himself for so long that he didn't realize the whole hour that had passed with only two vehicles, both of which were commercial rigs that Paul knew wouldn't take him and his bike on board. He only stopped complaining about everything when the heat began to get to him; shut up by the need for any level of sustenance. He began sucking at the grass, stuffing handfuls in his mouth at a time. But his fatigue won him over, and he lay with his helmet over his face, the coolness of the earth against his head lulled him into an easy sleep.

Time passed. Soon the air was cool. Paul wondered if he had been asleep long enough for the sun to go down when suddenly there was the sound of air wheezing through the ventilation slits in his helmet. He removed it from his face to find himself within inches of a dairy cow. Paul winced in surprise at the sight of several dairy cows surrounding him at the barbed-wire fence, which caused them to reel back briefly in unison, but as Paul remained low to the ground, the cows approached once more, their huge bodies shading Paul from the sun.

“Well,” Paul muttered. “This is surprisingly better.”

It took Paul awhile before he could sit up without spooking the animals. When they seemed comfortable, he held its hand to one of their nostrils and stroked its snout.

Paul smiled. His mood turned better for the moment before hunger compounded against his thirst. He tried again with the grass, this time eating it. The water he could get from the grass, however, did little to wash away the slivers of blades that stuck to his throat and the roof of his mouth. For a moment, Paul considered the udder of the nearest dairy cow, but he shook the thought out of his head. It couldn't have been sanitary, and probably tasted awful.

Still, the sun had moved a significant distance down the sky, and for however long Paul had been passed out, there hadn't been a single driver to stop and ask him if he needed help, if there were any drivers coming down this particular road at all! It was only thirty minutes later when Paul bit the bullet and crawled closer to the cow.

His legs were still badly sore, and his struggle to climb beneath the fence and into the field—tearing a small section of his cycling kit—reaffirmed the fact that if nobody was coming, he was either going to have a long walk ahead of him, and needed everything he could get to strengthen his physical state, or was going to be resting here for a long while. He put his fingers to the udder first. Even with the faintest touch, he could feel how taut it was. The cow didn't seem to mind. Why would it, thought Paul. It's a cow; it surely gets milked frequently enough to not be startled.

Paul had known only what he had seen in cartoons, so he wasn't quiet sure how to approach milking. He gave one of the teats a squeeze, which produced only a small dribble. He tried again—still almost nothing. He felt the udder again, pressed gently into it with one hand to see if he could feel the milk inside, then squeezed. There was more success this time, so he continued to squeeze until there was a steady stream with which he could aim the teat and squirt the milk directly into his mouth.

The taste, Paul realized, was way better than he expected. He had himself a mouthful, then another. When he emptied one teat, he crawled over to the next, prodding each part of the udder to help release the milk. Sooner than he could have anticipated, the entire udder was reduced to a flabby heft of flesh; he had consumed all the milk of a single cow.

A churning in his gut followed soon after, and Paul couldn't tell if it was a feeling of nausea, or the fear of throwing up all that milk. He had known what it could do to a person. Was he going to need a doctor? He had no phone. Nobody was coming to help. He crawled back to the fence, but the knot in his gut was overwhelming. He began to salivate. He began spitting but the feeling in his throat didn't cease. The pain in his stomach seemed to swell, and Paul closed his eyes as he doubled over in the grass and began to mutter a last-minute prayer for his suffering.

The swelling grew and grew until suddenly, it stopped. He opened his eyes and looked out toward the horizon. He lifted his head and saw the wind weaving its way toward him through the grass on the small hill. The breeze hit him, and he knew he wasn't imagining things; he felt better.  His stomach, his thirst—even his leg felt better. He turned back to the cows; he still held their complete attention. They followed slowly toward him. He laughed a little, touching their noses as they nuzzled against him. It was only when he turned back that he saw the engorged balloon-like shape, with four smaller thick lumps, pressing tightly against his cycling shorts. He twisted onto his knees, and the movement pulled at the tear he had made earlier on the fence. His cycling shorts snapped at the shoulder straps, and a large udder spilled out from Paul's kit and bounced near his knees, its awkward weight releasing from behind the grip of spandex, pulling Paul to the ground.

Paul tried to stand and run, but the new weight was not supported by his posture. Over and over, he tried to stand, only to fall back on his hands and knees. At last, giving up on trying to be mobile, he wrestled out of the legs of his shorts, turned himself toward the farm in the distance and began moving on all fours. Movement was difficult however, if not for the added weight, but for the grass ticking his low-hanging udder as he shuffled forward. The feeling became too much, felt too good at times, that Paul had to stop himself from the positive feelings he was getting from this mode of movement.

That's when he got another idea. “I'll just drain this damned thing!” and he sat with his udder in front of him on the grass and began running his hands against its sides, toward the teats. He thought of everything else: How angry he was with the coordinators of last year's Tour de France for allowing Chris Froome to compete despite his failure to show up for a drug test, the general distrust of professional cyclists, the heartbreak of somebody like Tony Martin winning a stage one day and crashing into a dropout in the next—anything to keep his mind off of the intense release of pressure in his udder.

But the release in his udder, the pleasurable feeling he received in squeezing his teats for milk, seemed to cause other changes to occur at a much more rapid rate. First was the tail, which came after the first teat was empty. The moment he grabbed onto his second, there was a shiver of anticipation and ecstasy that weaved down his spine and began to push out at its end. Paul only seemed to notice his new tail when it brushed back and forth across his ankles. With one hand still milking, he reached back and peered behind his shoulder, grabbing at the elusive thing to get a better look. while it seemed to leap playfully at his own touch. With each flick of the tail, and each squeeze of his teat, the tingling sensations flared up. Soon it spread across his body, and Paul watched as black and white patches of fur sprouted up from the sleeves his jersey. As it rounded his udder and bristled against it and his inner thigh, and worked to the very end of his toes, the milk began to spurt even more intensely. Paul let out a moan that sounded more like a moo. Pleasurable as it was, it shook Paul from his trance. He focused his attention back to his udder, but just as he grabbed hold of the third tear, both of his hands began to cramp up. The muscles in his palms began locking up with spasms of pain. He tried to work through the sharp jolts until they finally were unable to hold onto his teats any longer. They began to morph: his palm practically folding in and rounding out while his fingers darkened into a black, hardened cloven hoof. His other hand followed suit. Paul tried to squeeze a teat with his hooves, pawing at the udder hopelessly until his feet began to cramp. He only managed to slip out of one shoe before his toes turned to similar hooves, his right shoe bursting through the tongue and laces to make room. From there the changes moved quickest. His legs and arms shifted to accompany the weight that his body was taking on as it widened and elongated.

Paul was almost completely a cow, and with the weight of his udder no longer a problem, he began running for the farm. He was surprised by how well coordinated his previous arms were to running along with his legs. He could feel something in his mind rewiring as his movements became more fluid. Still, he tried calling for help. “Something is happening!” he said. His voice was frail. “Please, call nine-one-oooooone!”

Paul's mouth was again brimming with saliva, and as he tried to call out again, he felt the words culminate into nothing but a low sound as his tongue, now thick and wide, fell over his lips and slapped against his chin. His face followed shortly behind, pressing outward as his nostrils gained an awareness for the chicken coop, the pigpen, and a smell of worn leather and feet. The grass, though turning gray before Paul's eyes, seemed to gain a newer, sharper perfume. Halfway to the barn, there was a murmur of a voice that sounded so clear, but hushed and far. It wasn't until Paul peeked his head into the open barn door that he saw a man in overalls, sitting with his boots off, smacking the burrs from his sock. When the man saw Paul, he stopped and smiled. “Coming to pay me a visit, Sunshine?” He asked.

He slipped into his boots. As he stood, the look on his face became one of puzzlement. “No, not Sunshine.”

He circled Paul, observing the pattern of his spots. “Well, I'll be damned,” he muttered to himself. “This one ain't even mine!”

He looked around, then moved back to the front of the cow. He stroked its snout. “Where did you come from, sweetie?”

Paul didn't understand, but he enjoyed the sound of the man's voice. It was accented and soothing. His hand felt good as it rubbed and patted Paul's side. When the man guided him back toward the pasture, Paul felt he was in safe hands.

After various phone calls to neighboring farms, and tacking posters for a month in town, the farmer decided to take Paul in as his own. Paul, meanwhile, given a stable and free meals, was happy to feel like he was finally adjusting to life in Wyoming.

[watdraws]

Looks like she’s been ratted out.

A bit back BSB took one of my pics and inked/colored it, I did the same with this one.

[cursedconverse]

Cow tf commission complete…NEXT!!! :P but srsly, If you are looking for one, now is the time :)

[tf-warlock]

She couldn’t understand why they told her not to take the old trail. It seemed like it was a much shorter way to get there, and it was cleaned and well kept. Whoever thought it was cursed was just superstitious… It had been a few minuets before she noticed. A few minuets before she could swear the her pants weren’t fitting right any more. She always wore them tight to show off her ass, but this was getting ridiculous. It was like, the further she walked down the old trail the tighter they got, or the larger her ass got. As she thought about it, it actually did seem like her ass was bigger… She grabbed her increasingly voluptuous ass and squeezed it. She grinned at the thought of having a even bigger and sexier ass and broke into a run. She didn’t know what was causing this, but if going further down the trail made it bigger she was all for it. As she ran down the old trail she started to feel strange. Her ears itched, her spine tingled, her pants were badly ripping. She couldn’t place it, but something was off. The changes didn’t seem to be happening to her ass now, just other places. The itch of her ears was gone, but now they felt heavy and everything sounded louder. The strange pulling feeling and itchiness of her spine had stopped, but now something long a ropelike kept slapping her leg, and the itchiness shot straight up the center of her back. She slowed down to a walk as she realized that her ears were now large and flopped to the side of her head. They were covered in brownish gray fur and looked like those of a donkey. Her tail twitch in a nervous manner and she didn’t need to look behind her to know that it too would look like that of a donkey. She bolted back the other way, hoping that the changes would reverse themselves if she traced her footsteps back. There was no magical tingle though, and neither her tail, ears, or ass looked anything like they did when she started this walk.