Transformation

by | Dec 24, 2005 | Story

Me? Oh, I’ve always known. I mean, not that I knew what it meant, but I’ve felt this way since I was a child. It wasn’t something that came out of nowhere, you know? But yes. When I went to high school, that was when I really had problems. I remember hiding in the girls’ bathroom and mewing for hours, just crying out because nobody could understand me—and I mean, how could they? I didn’t even understand myself back then.

I was an only child, you see? So there was no one to compare myself to. I didn’t realize that it was weird to sleep on the floor with the cats, or to feel more natural on all fours than on two legs. I didn’t understand these feelings inside of me. Kids in school used to make fun of me, so I tended to spend a lot of time on the Internet. That’s where I met other people like me. It was like stepping into a new world.

My parents… well, of course they don’t approve. They blamed themselves. I’m told most do. But you know, it’s not anything they could have prevented, right? I mean, this is what I’ve always felt inside of me. Even when I didn’t know what an anthro was, I had leanings. We all do.

The ears were first, yeah. It’s a good place to test and see how the genetic manipulation will work with the implants. The eyes were pure surgery, actually. We don’t even need feline DNA to mimic the slits. Later on I might get the gene manipulation to help with night vision, but it’s expensive, you know?

The tail is my next priority. It’s a big operation and it’ll take a lot of time to recover, but it’s something you can really feel. With that new nerve technology they’ve got now, I’ll actually be able to manipulate it, if I follow doctors’ orders after the surgery. I’ll need gene therapy on and off for the rest of my life, but just imagine the feeling.

Just imagine, for a second, that you’ve felt wrong your entire life—that your own body betrays you. Picture yourself as a pretty girl who has boys asking her out but cries herself to sleep every night because she can’t understand why she wants to lick herself clean. Pretend you’ve been told your entire life that what you are, what you feel, is wrong. Then imagine the freedom of finally being able to express yourself.

I know what I call that. I call it a miracle.

Cyber

by | Dec 17, 2005 | Story | 0 comments

“So what you’re saying is that—”

“What I’m saying is that I want you to look at me when you speak!” Christie scowled at her husband. It was an argument they’d had at least a dozen times in the six months they’d been married.

“That’s what webcams are for.” Joel was stiff and tense, as he always was when talking in person.

“No. That is not the same.” Christie flung her arms out wide. “We spent two years in a long-distance relationship, Joel! Is it too much to ask that you talk to me every once in a while, not the words I write on your computer screen?”

“Christie… can’t we… calm down and talk about this like… civilized people?” Joel’s words always came after a delay in which he hesitated, going over them mentally, trying to make sure they were worded correctly before letting his wife see them.

“You mean talk about it over instant messenger!”

“No, no, I just mean—”

“You do! Don’t deny it, Joel Eric Stevenson. You don’t… you don’t love my body!” Christie used her Patented Wife’s Secret Weapon: the pouty trembling lip that threatened tears.

“No!” Joel was aghast. “Baby, no. I love your body. I could look at it all day…”

“On a computer screen! I want you to touch me, Joel! I want you, not some USB dildo! The Boyfriend Buddy was fine when we were just dating, but a wife deserves more! Don’t we have a marriage?”

Joel hastily crossed the room, awkwardly putting his hands on his wife’s shoulders and squeezing them. “Of course we have a marriage, sweetie,” he told her big brown doe-like eyes.

Christie sniffled artfully. “Really?”

“Really,” Joel promised her.

“Then how about you prove it to me, you big strong man, you?” Christie smirked, her eyes glittering with mischief, and slid her hand suggestively around Joel’s waist. Her husband’s eyes lit up.

“Great! I’ll go log on!”

Christie smacked her hand to her forehead. This was obviously going to take some work.

Personal Taste

by | Dec 13, 2005 | Story

“I’d like one Sephiroth, please.”

The voice of the timid, mousy-haired girl in front of the counter matched her appearance. Maggie sighed as she looked up from her paper. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Ah, no. Was I supposed to?” The shy girl looked uncomfortable and wrung her hands.

“For most of ‘em, no, but Sephiroth is one of our most popular models. We’ve got ten of them operational, and you still need to book a week in advance.” Maggie shook her head. “So sorry, kid, no can do. You need some suggestions? I’ve got the Final Fantasy section of the catalog here,” she offered, pulling out a well-worn and dog-eared magazine that held some of the brothel’s most popular products.

“Oh, no thank you,” said the girl, blushing. “I can pick another one on my own.” She chewed her lip for a moment, then spoke up again timidly. “Do you have, ah, a Spike?”

“Spiegel? You’re in luck, kid. He’s very popular too, but one of our regulars cancelled today. I’ll get him set up in a room for you.” Maggie tapped some numbers into her computer. “Need anything else? Lube, toys, handcuffs, lingerie?”

The girl’s face turned even redder. “Oh… oh, no thank you. I don’t need anything like that. But, ah…” She bit her lip again. “Could I also have… a Vicious?”

Maggie squinted down at the girl over the counter. “A Spike and a Vicious?” She eyed the girl’s slender frame. “They’re both pretty big, sweetheart. Are you sure you want them both on the same day? You might be sore afterwards.”

“Oh, no! No, not like that.” The girl’s eyes widened. “I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t want to… to have them both,” she explained. “I just want them… ah… together.” A small, anticipatory smile spread over her pink lips.

Maggie’s eyebrows rose up into her bangs. It seemed she’d overestimated this girl’s naïveté. “Yaoi fan, huh?” The girl blushed and nodded, grinning wider, and Maggie backspaced over the information on her screen. “You should’ve said something. You’ll need a special chip for that. Those subroutines don’t come standard.”

Maggie reached over into the drawer and pulled out two chips wrapped in plastic, handing them across the counter to the girl. “You just give those to the handler when you get to the room and she’ll install them, okay?”

“Okay,” the girl repeated, nodding. She handed over her credit card and Maggie swiped it through.

“You’re all set, sweetheart,” Maggie told the girl, handing back the card. “You have fun now, you hear?”

The girl’s eyes positively sparkled with anticipation. “Oh, don’t worry. I will.”

Street Smarts

by | Dec 10, 2005 | Story | 0 comments

“Open this door. Right now. I mean it! Open the damn door!” Herbert kicked the car door in frustration. “Honey, will you please tell the car to open the door?” he asked through clenched teeth.

Herbert’s wife, Alice, peered up at him through the driver’s side glass from her seat on the passenger’s side. “I don’t think she will, darling,” she told her husband. “I think she’s upset about something.”

“She? This is not a she. This is my car. I bought and paid for it. Its purpose is to take me where I want to go, not get us lost in the middle of nowhere and then refuse to let me back in!”

“Step away from the car.” The mechanical female voice somehow managed to sound annoyed even through its programmed sugary sweetness.

“Honey, can’t you at least try to empathize with her?” Alice pleaded. “I think she’s trying to tell us something.”

“I don’t care what the car is trying to tell us!” Herbert shouted, thoroughly exasperated. “The only thing I want my car to tell me is which direction I am driving and what the weather is!”

“Caution! Your oil is low,” the car told him caustically. Alice pouted from inside.

“Herbert, we bought a smart car for a reason. She has feelings too. Maybe you aren’t taking care of her properly,” Alice said pointedly.

“I’ve gone in for all the scheduled maintenance,” Herbert protested, wondering why he felt on the defensive against both his wife and his car.

“Warning! A seatbelt is undone,” the car seemed to growl, and Alice crossed her slim arms across her chest.

“See, Herbert? She is trying to tell us that she feels unsafe. It’s not right of you to ignore her concerns.”

“Concerns?” Herbert nearly exploded, but with clenched fists, he managed to calm down. Deep breaths, he told himself. Deep breaths. “All right,” he said at last, through clenched teeth. “All right. Car. If I promise to bring you in to the dealer as soon as we get home for a check-up and hot wax, will you please open this door?”

The car rumbled suspiciously. “And an oil change,” Alice prompted.

“And an oil change,” Herbert agreed, trying very hard not to scream.
The car hesitated for a moment more, then grudgingly unlocked the driver’s side door. Herbert stomped in and closed it, settling into his seat with a disgruntled air.

“There, sweetie. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Alice cooed. Herbert couldn’t tell whether she was talking to him or his car.

“Damn it,” Herbert muttered to himself as he started the car. “That’s it. To hell with cars. Next midlife crisis, I’m buying a dog.”

Devotion

by | Dec 4, 2005 | Story | 0 comments

The cloister, in the grand tradition of all ancient edifices like it, is cold. It is by necessity metallic, unlike its predecessors, but as if to make up for this failing, its cold is that of the utter desolation of space. To walk inside, I must wear a full survival suit, though gravity is maintained for the sake of the visitors. It does not impact the nuns in the least.

The cloister is composed of only three rooms. The foyer contains the airlocks, used by visitors and maintenance workers alike, as well as official dignitaries from the church. It is also the house of the cloister’s huge crucifix, depicting Our Savior in his moment of sacrifice. To the left is the control room, accessible only to those who come to maintain the station’s mechanical systems. Directly below the crucifix is the door that leads to the chamber of the nuns.

They hang on the walls suspended, preserved, each encapsulated in the soft blue glow of her life support pod. They are frozen in time, heartbeats only once a year, in perfect homage to He who drew them here. There are no novices in the cloister. The cold, silent hall is the pinnacle of a nun’s creed: from the moment she arrives with her vocation, she is inducted into perpetual solitude, perpetual suffering. Only His true brides, those who intend to spend eternity as His handmaids by eschewing all worldly ties, wish to enter here.

I stare at the faces of the nuns, high above, each illuminated by the humble glow of their chambers. Their faces are similar but unique, each contorted in a different stage of silent ecstasy. Some are worn and caved in. The tissue-rotting microbes have done their slow work over decades or in some cases centuries, blessing the nuns with the sweet scourge of His sacrifice, extended over millennia. These are the faces, drooping and unrecognizable as they might be, that hold the most joy.

They are strong. They are meek. They are beautiful. They are modest. They are filled with conviction. They are eternal.

They are Woman. I am mere flesh.