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The following story is fictional, and does not depict any actual celebrities or controversies, ongoing or past. But if you've seen Jeeves and Wooster, read it in Wooster's voice. Or Benedict Cumberbatch's.

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Bob Hope Memorial Studio Los Angeles Thursday, April 31st

When I pulled up to the studio, I was sitting in the back seat of an SUV, staring morosely at my phone.

Some weeks it doesn't pay to get out of bed. Well, it does pay, but you know what I mean. I think most of you know about the hashtag. In the eyes of the world, or at least the world that uses hashtags, which is a considerable portion, my account was well into the red.

I had been quite unable to stop checking it, like a condemned man in his cell staring out the window at the scaffold.

But with air-conditioning.

When we arrived at the studio for this session, I was in a foul mood. Stormclouds hung over my head, and I advanced with furrowed brow.

Needless to say, we crept in through the back door, like we were trying to rifle the silver. I was guarded by a flying wedge of black-clad bruisers, who escorted me to the door of my room and then largely pottered off, presumably to secure the studio.

When a fellow's been battered about by the old slings and arrows all week, he just wants to repair to the green room and press a gin and tonic to the proverbial fevered brow.

The damnable thing of it all is that I was completely innocent. The girl made some quite scandalous accusations, but I never met her! In fact, at the time the alleged event allegedly occurred, I was sitting at home, drinking a late-night tea. Even took a call. If I went to court, it would all come out.

There wasn't much chance she wanted to go to court. No, she wanted a settlement. Or perhaps just revenge. I really couldn't say. Fans can be crazy sometimes; one walked up to a chap I know and handed him a sex toy once.

Now, you can understand, one wants to strike back. one wants to proclaim one's innocence from the rooftops. One wants to give her the ol' broadsides, what? But my publicist and solicitor both sat me down and told me, quite sternly, that would be a tactical error. No, the best battle plan would be to make a statement at the time and place of my choosing.

Which is why I was here.

I hadn't swotted so hard since public school.

I entered the room. Unfortunately, there was no iced mixer waiting to slide down my throat. Just a box. A present, really, tied up with a neat little bow.

I eyed it with disfavor.

You may wonder at my reluctance. Recall my situation. Over the course of this little affair, I had been hounded. My online presence defaced, hate mail sent to my home, and strangers yelling at me in, thingummy. Starbucks.

I believe the last such incident was up to a quarter-million views.

So when a chap enters the room and finds a package waiting, he has a right to be suspicious.

Well, it must be a gift from the studio, right? I shook it to test, and it meows.

Meows?

There were no airholes-

When I tore it open, I found the most lovely grey kitten. The color of the sky over London when it's-well, most of the time, really.

Now, I'm rather more of a dog person. Many was the hour in my youth I spent roaming the reaches the family estate in rubber boots with a floppy-eared hound at my heel, shotgun nestled in the crook of my elbow, rain dripping down my neck.

Nonetheless I am not entirely averse to the odd moggie or two, and this seemed like a charming specimen of his genus.

Or is it order? I could never remember which was which, in school.

The wee, tim'rous beastie seemed quite agreeable when I tickled it under the chin. I picked him up and placed him on the vanity, where he promptly started playing with the nail polish.

I don't know why people are always leaving nail polish in these rooms. Is there some sort of fund, to make sure guests are adequately supplied with Red All About It? Are there commercials with C-List actors looking very serious? "For just 13 pence a day, you can provide an actor with a bottle of Black on Black."

Yes, cents, sorry.

Oh, I used to date a makeup artist.

I got closer and closer to him, until we were almost touching. It was the eyes, you see. Those lovely green eyes.

I don't recall staring. I do recall when it put its hand on my mouth and pulled it open, like someone opening a clam, or plastic packaging. Just with less swearing and blood.

I don't know how it fit its head in. My mouth isn't that big.

I don't...I don't recall swallowing.

Now, as you might imagine, a kitten does a number on the old pipes, so I was a bit poleaxed for a bit. I sank back into my chair.

No, it wasn't very filling.

At this juncture, there came a rapping, rapping at my chamber door. It proved to be some manner of intern. With a headset and glasses and everything. Quite fetching. And she had fetched my gin and tonic.

I felt quite warm and benevolent before my drink, and I felt warm and benevolent after. I smiled in a warm and benevolent manner.

"Now, Jane - can I call you Jane?"

"That's not my...s-sure."

I laid a kindly hand on her shoulder. "Would you like to sit on my lap, Jane?"

She gave me this sort of goggle-eyed look, like a fish surprised that it's found itself on a platter.

"I-I really shouldn't."

"Oh, you don't believe those beastly stories, do you?"

"I...I really shouldn't."

"I understand."

She crossed the room.

"It's not allowed."

"Quite all right."

She reached for the knob.

"Completely unprofessional."

"Indeed."

She opened the door.

"Against regulations."

"I understand completely. Well, off with you, then!"

She vacillated in the portal, like th' cat in th' experiment. Both in and out at the same time.

Then she closed the door.

By the time she reached me, she had lost her headset somewhere. That was quite all right, seeing as some bounder had unzipped my trousers. She pulled up her skirt, I pulled down my pants, she lost her undergarments, I shifted my boxers. It was like dance routine. With sex in the offing.

Yes, I know that describes a lot of dance routines. I've been to a nightclub.

Oh, what? Yes, a bit of reverse psychology. I wanted her to say she came to me of her own free will, that I did nothing at all to impede or influence her. Unless you count my smell.

You like it? It's called Chat Gris. Yes, grey cat, strange coincidence.

She sat down facing away from me, and I, being a gentleman, began to attend to milady's needs.

At some point I realized her breasts were fuller than they had been at the start of our little romp. Also, there were more of them, lower down. Most chap would be somewhat discombobulated by bosoms sprouting like chickweeds, but the more the merrier, I always say.

But the extraordinary, the truly extraordinary thing was how the same was happening to me, and I failed to notice! You'd think that growing three pairs of breasts would make a chap's ears perk up, but I was so, ah, focused that I completely missed it.

Initially. I mean, there's only so much other business a man can attend to before he looks down and goes "what's all this, then?"

And then I looked down and went "what's all this, then?"

Now, while I was inspecting the new, let's call them installments, other parts of me were changing as well. The old toad-in-the-hole had somehow become spiked. The intern was starting to sound more and more like an animal, and I was briefly worried about disturbing someone in the other rooms. She grew quite vocal when I gave her the ol' reach-around.

What?

Right, yes, I forgot. At some point, she grew a penis, right above the old Beef Wellington. Didn't seem to mind, so I pressed on. It was spiked, like mine. When I took matters well in hand, so to speak, it looked like the climax of our little program.

So there I was, holding her cock with one hand, her breast with the other, dick up her cunt, and biting the back of her neck to show dominance, when I suddenly realize my mouth is full of hair.

Fur, to be precise. Dark grey fur. It's spreading over her neck, her shoulders, and her legs. She also has a pair of cute little ears. This is when I began to discern a pattern. I look in the mirror, and sure enough, I have the fur, I have the ears, albeit in a lighter shade of grey, just like that cat I mentioned.

Due to a lapse in attention, I squeezed a tad too hard, and the intern kind of shuddered, like a shopping cart with one bad wheel. Her discharge landed in a rather conspicuous spot, near the door, which presented a problem. There were no tissues nearby, and unless I used the sofa cushions or clothing-

Ah, you've spotted it. I used the intern. I asked her to lick it up. It gave me an excellent view of her tail popping out. I had just reached down and discovered my new vagina - quite diverting, those, I should've had one installed earlier - when the door opened.

Bally girl forgot to lock it. But as they say, sometimes an opportunity is is just a problem in disguise.

Or perhaps it was the other way around.

In the doorway was the chap who does makeup. He stared at the situation, confusion and doubt writ plain on his face. The intern and I made haste to reassure him that our intentions were quite benevolent, and quickly won him over to our way of thinking. Quite an amenable fellow, once you got to know him.

Not so much 'fellow', strictly speaking, anymore.

Well, that's about the space of it, really. We rested for a while, reverted to our human forms, and the chap did my makeup while I waited for the stage call. Another intern. No time to get to know her.

Yes, it is quite an extraordinary story. And it really happened.

No, I'm serious! Just let me...see?

Yes, it's a standard male chest now, but...keep watching, aaaand there! There you are! Three pairs of great big stonking tits. There goes my waist, and - are you getting my ears, camera chap?

Well, of course, I can't show you my tail just yet. Not on a daytime show. Sorry ladies - and some gentlemen - I'll just have to disappoint you.

Oh, because I needed time to let my...scent permeate the audience, let you all get a good snootful. About the length of the story I just told, in fact.

No, it's quite true! Think about it! You, ladies, you've been sitting a few feet away from me at this table, looking into my eyes, breathing my air. And not one of you has had the slightest desire to call security. Isn't that a tad odd? Do you get much men growing Bristols on daytime television?

Aren't any of you ladies, or the audience, curious about what happened to the intern and makeup chap? Jane? How they just left the tale without so much as a by-your-leave?

Well, obviously, I told her to lock all the doors. If my smell hasn't reached you yet, well, we'll be with you shortly.

As for the makeup chap, he's attending to the other guests. I'm sure they'll be along shortly.

Now, just let me get these bally clothes off.

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Cat Chat

In the style of PG Wodehouse. Except transformation porn. 2017 Nequ CC By-SA-NC Fan stories/fanart welcome.

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PS: The sex toy on stage thing is true, and it happened to Michael Rosenbaum. It was some nutjob Smallville yaoi fangirl, I assume.

PREVIOUSLY: I try to imitate Chuck Pala-Paulo- the Fight Club guy. And 50 Shades, with much less success.