FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

One fateful night, a fly was caught in the spider's web.

"Is this the intruder?" CEO Marianne Duval asked.

Her furred personal assistant nodded, adjusting her glasses. She tapped her clawtips on her PDA. "It is, ma'am. We caught her on the grounds, outside the administration annex. The chaps from Intel positively identified her as the B-lister, ah, 'Dieselpunk.'"

Dieselpunk snarled on command. "Lemme out of this fucking thing! Lemme out! Y-you- you corporate ghoul!"

The spider was a supervillainous Furfrou anthro. The fly was a small-time human heroine. A tomboy blessed with super-strength and durability, with Latin heritage and an empty resume. She worked on cars, she was a punk; therefore, Dieselpunk. This was one of her first jobs, scouting out the spider's web and bringing the webweaver to justice.

Needless to say, the fly had no business being there. This was going to be her last job.

"My my," Duval cooed. A polite grin touched at her snout. A snooty grin, one might say. The poodle Pokemon fanned herself, taking in Dieselpunk's little details with an upturned nose. "Charming, but I've definitely heard that one before, Miss Punk."

The punk was suspended in hair. Fur, to be more precise. She was encapsulated in a capture ball of fluffy fur, rendered immobile and patently harmless in an eight foot diameter sphere of curls tougher than diamond. Only gloved hands, booted feet, and a grease-stained, freckle-spotted, button-nosed face poked out of the surface. They were craters on a virtual planetoid of cream curls. Dieselpunk wriggled them for a semblance of control, but the pressure pushing down on her limbs was too great.

Duval made sure of that. After all, that was her fur. A Furfrou's fur was strong, and that was before supervillainy and conditioning factored into the equation. It was her superpower. On top of being expertly trimmed, washed, luxurized and treated for runway glamor, it was a deadly weapon. A malleable tool capable of crushing Duval's enemies when her cunning failed. She didn't stoop so low often, but anyone who was anyone knew about her trump card, and rightfully feared it.

It was apparent the heroine didn't do her homework. A full detail of security goons were waiting in the wings, handling adhesive launchers. A dozen total. They took up positions around her bulky prison, red dot sights trained. Their purpose was to intimidate.

Not that it deterred Dieselpunk from trying, yet again, to get out. "Nnnnnnngh! Hrrrghhhhhh!"

"Should I-?" the assistant started to ask.

"Shhshhshsh," Duval hushed. This was her favorite part.

It went on for another minute. Dieselpunk squeezed her hands, curled her feet, fought the pressure squeezing her body into hangman formation. She tapped into her super-strength, spinning up a diesel engine whine muffled by pounds of dog fur, until it hit its highest rev, and promptly died. She gasped, blinked in shock. "Whuh... whuh'd you...?"

Duval drew a sanitized wipe from her purse and dabbed sweat off the human's brow. Her cheeks turned crimson with rage. "What'd you do to me?! W-why can't I break out of this?!"

"Do behave," Duval chastised. She wadded up the wipe and tossed it in the chief of security's garbage bin. "Or else you're never getting down from there."

"I'll do whatever the heck I want to," Dieselpunk sneered. She raised her voice. "ESPECIALLY MISBEHAVING."

Duval was unphased. "Let's turn you down for a moment, shall we?"

Dieselpunk opened her throat to bellow a defiant screed at the anthro woman, but just as she was ready to scream, her vocal chords clenched. Instead of yelling, she squeaked inaudibly. "?!?!"

Molten anger fizzled. Her head tilted and hands bent in, reflexively trying to feel her throat. The only sound she could make was a mewl. The righteous fury in her face melted away, until she was left mortified and red in the face, the color of embarrassment. It was a subtly different color than rage; arguably more vulnerable.

Her foe made a satisfied noise in the back of her throat. "I find using your inside voice is key to diplomacy," Duval said thoughtfully. "With this being a hostage situation, yelling won't do you any good, now will it?"

Dieselpunk grimaced. She tightened her thin lips up and said nothing.

Duval chuckled from deep in her chest. "Allow me to explain how things are going to work now."

She gestured for the assistant's PDA. The assistant, whose name tag read 'Simone Duchamps - Skitty - Branch C Department Secretary,' passed it over. Duval scanned through it while Dieselpunk composed her fractious self as best she could.

"Dieselpunk," Duval began, indulging the gravitas of her voice. "Also known as Ashley Rodrieguez De Silva. Please, don't deny it, we know who you are. Let's dispense with the identity games for now. Twenty four years old, female, human, native of McAllen, Texas. A Rio Grande girl, hm~ Associate's degree in automotive technology, two years apprenticeship, the usual fetters, and five years of experience working in the superhero business. Ah, my goodness, you're a rare one~!"

The cheer sent a chill through Ashley's body. Not just because Marianne Duval knew the details of her life so thoroughly she could count them on opera-gloved fingertips. The number of human superheroes in the business was vanishingly low, and the number of Pokemon heroes - and villains - in her line of work much higher. Duval calling attention to it turned over anxious thoughts.

Duval saw it play on Ashley's face, and drank in the shame. It tasted good. "Now, it seems you're unacquainted with me, or else you wouldn't have fallen for such an obvious trap. Mademoiselle Duval, Marianne Duval, head of Duval Wellness Incorporated - your handlers probably called me Milady. Is that right?"

Ashley nodded helplessly. The fur prison around her neck made rustling sounds.

"Splendid!" Duval tittered. "Mhmhm~ I'm not sure what you expected, stepping onto my property with the intent to steal industry secrets, but I shall tell you the truth adroitly; you are out of your league."

Ashley frowned as hard as she could. Duval took it as a compliment.

She ran her hands down a voluptuous, dark-skinned body, across the imported silk qipao that hugged her hips and through tufts of her own fur peeking through seam holes and buttons. It was hard to tell which was the finer material, but under fluorescent lights, the fushia in her dress sparkled with cruel opulence.

"My fur is quite special, you see. The moment the trap went off, you may recall, hairs went flying into the air. Those hairs were mine. They budded onto you, then informed me of your untimely visit, and I felt it pertinent to neutralize you. I control the volume, density, pressure, counter pressure, tensile strength and buoyancy, all at the flick of a wrist. All I needed was one follicle - but do you want to know the most insidious thing?"

She puckered glossy pink lips. Her tone turned husky and low. "When my fur smothers people, it takes control of their body. Clumsily at first, of course, but with time, it's almost totalizing. To say nothing of the mind..."

Now that got a reaction. Ashley rolled her shoulders and snorted, communicating her anger through a speech embargo, mouthing a dogged reply Duval guessed was along the lines of 'you can't break me' or 'that's impossible,' or something else equally defiant.

It was cute, but not, well, productive. If anything in the papers was true about the Mademoiselle, it would have to be her get-to-the-pointedness. Duval didn't intend to let this little temper tantrum go on too long. The day's itinerary was rudely interrupted for Ashley's sake; might as well make the most of it.

Duval sauntered up to Ashley's head, breaking her personal space bubble. Ashley fumed on mute, gnashing her teeth as a last-ditch effort to do something - bite the rich poodle's pointy nose, maybe, or spit in her face.

Duval held a finger to her snout. She tilted her head quixotically. The furry band on her wrist bounced as she considered her prisoner's fate. "Have you ever had a day spa treatment, darling?"

Ashley stopped. She found her voice somewhere small and lonely. "N... no?"

And then winced. It was pitifully soft. The kind of voice that belonged to a bookish recordkeeper, someone who had the chance to talk to a coworker once a month, if they were lucky. Enunciation was better, but the will to get it out weighed heavy on her tongue. It tasted hoarse, and gentle, and totally detached from the rowdy color it had a minute ago.

There was a lilt to it too. Duval let her explore.

"Listen h-here," Ashley tried, "I don't know what you plan to do to me, but it won't w... work. I am a B-grade super. You can't keep me locked away..."

Her cheeks burned, trying to force some volume into her tone, but no dice. She could barely get it above a whisper.

Duval overpowered her without trying. "Now darling - you haven't even heard our pitch. May I politely suggest coming with our fine boys in security to the luxury deck?"

Ashley huffed. Not that she could stop them, but she wouldn't give Duval the satisfaction of a yes in any form. "You won't win."

"I don't intend to 'win,' Ashley," Duval said. She peered deep into the girl's blue eyes, reaching through to the soul underneath. For the first time, Ashley felt truly naked under her aegis. "Superheroism is such a petty little game. Winning, losing, living to fight another day - for what? Tawdry ideals? A community college degree? You put grease marks on your cheek, for what? Justice?"

She brandished another sanitary wipe like a weapon. Ashley winced, but couldn't stop her from cleaning away the oily smudges on her cheeks.

"Facepaint can't hide a cry for help, darling," she murmured. And then, out loud: "Get her rolling. Give her a good rinse and start the treatment. I will join you shortly."

For whatever reason, that stabbed deep. Ashley flushed pale. She stammered convulsively, bottlenecked by her new voice. She wanted to tell her off, to list all the ways the mistress was wrong about her character.

But as goons closed in, and the ball of fur began to roll, Ashley couldn't shake the feeling that Duval was right, somehow. That she'd seen through bluster, a front put on to protect her peace of mind. Insecurity crept into the margins; a weakness of spirit that didn't feel like mind control. It surely was. This weakness wasn't natural. Ashley fought it off with hopeful mantras.

"I can beat this..." she muttered in librarian softness. "I cuh- can beat this. This is no sweat. She's lying. She's not that powerful. I-I-I'm a superhero..."

Anything she could say to fight this growing feeling of powerlessness.

They rolled Ashley across several buildings. Her perspective was shot, with the world spinning round and round, but she pulled herself together enough to perceive the difference in floor textures through the fur. Tile, then hardwood, then concrete, the taste of morning dew on the grass, then tile again. Gravel pebbles, caught up along the way, irritated and scratched their way through. They were using double doors to push her along, which was humiliating in its own way.

Every once in a while, the staff stopped to 'deliver' her between buildings. They had the nerve to refer to her by her civilian name.

"I-it's Dieselpunk!" she whispered in protest, "Dieselpunk!" but evidently too quietly. She couldn't get a reaction out of them, hide or hair. Calling their names didn't work either, since she had the fidelity and volume of a Pichu. Ashley was persistent - if only to keep reminding herself that she was a superhero, and not a twenty-something in way over her head.

The goons transporting her were nominally faceless. They were individually distinguishable, sure, but there was precious little variation between the many masseuses and managers and maids handling Ashley. The same aesthetics, the same chestnut, professionally straight hair, the same dutiful, snooty personality. If it wasn't for odd quirk, Ashley swore they could have been stamped out like license plates.

Considering how loyal they were to the workplace, to a supervillain like Duval, Ashley ruled out health benefits as a motivational tool. She did something to these people.

Before Ashley could work out what that meant for her, they rolled her into a new building. The crunching gravel of the sidewalk gave way to a marble smoothness with grooves. They put her upright, and, while sorting out her dizziness, Ashley took in dimensions. This was a roman style bath. An open air space, long as a football field, that separated itself into smaller alcoves and chambers, built for purpose. No expense was spared. The sheer detail made Ashley dizzy. Vaulted walls, silver faucets, shower heads, depressions in the floor, drains every few feet and too many tools to count. Manicure files on the same shelves as clipping shears. Pumice stones stacked next to sponges. Exfoliants and shampoos mingling with conditioning treatments and hair oils.

And worst of all, mirrors. Ashley frowned at her reflection. "... w-what the hell are you looking at?"

Her reflection said nothing, which was comforting. Being trapped in a ball was not a pleasant experience, and it was disheartening to see herself reduced in this state. She was saved from contemplation by squeaking noises. She craned her head to see the goons attaching a hose to a faucet marked 'VOLUME TREATMENT.'

Ashley paled. "Guys. Um. I-I... mmmhhI'm still trapped. Y-you have to let me go. Can't just- Guh... guys...?!"

It was no use. They turned the spigot handle. A sudsy, foaming fluid started dribbling out of the hose, followed by the whine of water pressure and a sudden drop in her gut. Ashley turned up her palms, tried desperately to shove her body out of the way. But the ball refused to budge, and before she knew it, they were spraying her down.

"Noooo, stop...!"

There was warmth blooming everywhere - everywhere except around her eyes. They were spreading the chemical mix all through the trap, for reasons Ashley didn't understand. The stuff was soaking through her chest, down through her arms and body. Drenching her, pouring through. She wriggled as much as she could in the furry curls, and found the bindings beginning to loosen up...!

"That's genius... they're going to let me out...!"

At the same time, she could feel the layer between her costume and the furball trap eroding away. Which was lunacy - her suit was designed to withstand incredibly high temperatures. If the job called for it, she could wade through molten steel. But under the stress of warm bath water and- she sniffed- lavender-scented degreaser, her costume's vulcanized rubber was rotting away, burning holes on contact. The suit pieces lost integrity quickly, until her skin was exposed to rushes of foamy water.

Warm, tingly water.

Ashley tensed, expecting scalding heat, but all that came to her was a kiss on her right arm, where the suit was finally dissolving away. Through steam, she saw goopy pieces of glove material falling off her arm.

She bit her lip, but couldn't stop herself from shuddering out a gasp. "Nnnaaahhh... That's good..."

Somewhere behind her, the goons hooked up another hose. Ashley felt a second rush of water hit her on the side, and the same playback of sensations, melting rubber and a kiss of warmth forthcoming. She let out a groan. Underneath it, she felt the prison slack up - or rather, lose its hold over her. The pressure keeping her shoulders locked up softened, and the tension binding arms and legs in a star formation faltered, until she could move again. When the hoses moved down to her legs and started spraying fabric off in chunks, her hips no longer buckled. She was sliding back down to her feet, regaining balance.

This was the chance she was looking for. Ashley could ambush her captors and make a run for it! Only...

Ashley couldn't focus on escape. Her mind went straight to relaxation.

"This is criminal," she moaned under her breath. "What the hhhell is this..."

What should have been a humiliating public bath was anything but. Sprays from opposite ends of the room distracted her, doused fires inside her, made her skin ripple and glow under all the attention. She lost track of what was and wasn't being sprayed, basking in the rush of water hitting her costume and kissing her with heat. The fur trap was the best part. As it dampened, it didn't lose its volume, instead trapping the heat so well that Ashley couldn't feel the distinction between her body and the cozy sealant surrounding it. It was all heat, like she'd plunged straight into the best bath of her life.

She was soon sopping wet, and grinning like a dork. "Please, hit that spot right- yeaaaahh, there..."

Were they washing her through the Mademoiselle's fur? What an absurd thing. Superheroines should have been made of sterner things. She'd been crushed under multi-ton trucks before, plummeted through the atmosphere, took beatings from mutants and demons, but this is the first time she'd ever felt so vulnerable. How embarrassing.

But not even Dieselpunk had the resolve to resist a good bath bomb. Certainly not Ashley. She may have castigated herself, but the woman stopped thinking about escaping a while ago, and the only thing actively on her mind was getting that comfortable heat into every nook and cranny.

The madame's fur finally started shrinking. Laden down with water, the ball bent around her frame, losing its ductility until she could waddle, and then walk, and then bend her arms around the front of the bulk. With this newfound freedom, she pivoted on her feet, clumsily following the streams. "Y-you missed a spot..." she lied, hoping they'd spray her in the stomach again. "Awwww, yeaaah~"

The warm glow bubbled up to her head. Her eyes fluttered, and she couldn't help but lid her little blue irises. The glow was settling in behind them, lulling her off her feet. She was about ready to surrender, settle in for a ditzy spell....

When suddenly, the hoses stopped.

Ashley blinked in a stupor. When her eyes opened up again, bleary and dumb, the blue was turning a telling shade of orange. "What? W-what happened?"

Ashley looked around. The techs on either side of the bath were shutting off the water. Apparently, they had washed her costume off, along with all the debris she'd managed to roll up with her into the bathhouse. It clumped around her naked feet in piles, rubber slag and dirt swallowed up with suds. She couldn't remember why she wanted it to stop...

Right. Right, she was trying to outlast Duval's tricks. That's what she was trying to do. The bath rinsed out her head, along with the rest of her, so it was hard to remember what she was fighting for. Justice. Bringing her to justice. Getting revenge...

The tingling feeling subsided, the last left in her corneas. Ashley rubbed it out as she got her bearings, inadvertently aiding the process along until the windows to her soul were blatantly inhuman.

There were a couple giggles from the techs. Ashley stared at them, confused. She didn't know why they were giggling - until she saw bright orange and hazel glinting at her through the steam, and connected the dots.

"... oh, no. No, those aren't mine..."

She waddled up to the mirror, fighting soggy water weight, and tilted down to see them herself, gazing intently. Indeed - the jewels set in her head weren't sapphires anymore. They were amber. A rich, deep orange with a black rectangle shape set in the middle like a demented gemstone. The lids had a black trim to them, a subtle oval shape. They seemed perfectly integrated - mundane, like she'd always had them and was just now discovering a part of herself. Some Pokemon had strange pupils like these, some non-human creatures...

As soon as Ashley remembered the name, it snuck out of her mouth. "Wooloo.... "

She raced to cover her mouth, but the damage was done. "I-I've got Wooloo eyes..." Ashley stammered quietly.

The revelation should have been ego-destroying. Instead, it left her a little unsurprised. The way she said it was uttered with such a lack of enthusiasm - not her fault, but the fact of the matter was, it didn't feel disturbing saying it out loud. Maybe it was confidence. Ashley wanted to believe that, try to quash the contented feeling that didn't sit right in her noggin. Maybe she needed another bath to clear her head...

She scowled. No, that'd just make it worse. Focus!

She looked down at herself and turned around, checking her reflection. She could make out her body now - trapped under several layers of curly fur, but still, the contours were visible, and she could move enough to feel the muscular frame underneath. It vaguely looked like a human body, but comical. The 'limbs' the soaking wet fur trap afforded her were too big. The paunch down the front was too wide, and the butt was massive. It was an effort to move anywhere, to lift arms and legs or bend at more than a tilt.

Some of that was due to what she guessed was water weight - but that didn't square. Damp fur didn't weigh this much. Normally, Ashley was so fit, her body felt weightless most of the time, but this was the first time she'd felt so... heavy, laden down from every direction. She chalked it up to Duval. The spell, or mutation or whatever, was hanging on, putting her at a handicap. She'd be back to full strength once this wore off...

Or at the very least, not having to stop and take a breath every couple paces.

The other problem was mobility. The fur had collected in layers around her thighs and under her armpits. This meant she couldn't run or jog without feeling the fur down her legs rubbing together. To say nothing of the arms, which currently lacked the dexterity to manhandle someone or throw a punch.

Ashley tried to shadowbox the mirror. She regretted it immediately. Three slow punches into it, and fatigue started burning up her arms. She wheezed, falling back onto a bench nearby.

"Point given... the mademoiselle, she made a fine straightjacket..." Ashley huffed, clutching the prison's belly. "... wait. Gosh, why did I say that? I-I meant that b... bitch Duval..."

Sounding out the word bitch was never this hard. Growing up with her papi on the border, she learned how to cuss like a proper pendejo. Now, she could hardly put any feeling into it. When did she sound so conservative and demure?

A presence entered the baths. The hair, or maybe the fur, on the back of Ashley's neck tingled. She heard platform heels on marble, before she heard Duval's sultry voice.

"Good morning, Ashley~," the Furfrou woman cooed. "How was your bath? I hope the technicians weren't too rough on you."

Ashley staggered up to her feet. She hit the wall. A slow pivot, and she found Duval standing behind her. The woman had changed out of formal wear and into something more appropriate for an afternoon of aesthetic delights. She had on a two-piece bikini, made seemingly of fuchsia spirals, and heels to give herself more stature. Other than that, her black skin was bare, and her hair was tied back in an easy to grab ponytail.

Ashley found the bitter strength to smirk back. "Are you a fool?"

"You sound like less of one," Duval sneered.

"Be quiet," Ashley mumbled. "I-I- no, shut up. Yeah... w-what I meant was, are you stupid?"

"As I said, much less fool, much more cultured."

"You did this to me," Ashley insisted, pointing at Duval. "But now, I'm sssstarting to think you're arrogant."

Duval quirked an eyebrow. The tension in the air started to bubble, thick with steam and forced animosity. "Do tell. What am I so arrogant about?"

Ashley approached her. She hoped the threat display would make the poodle back away. Menace her into making a mistake. Or you know, elicit some sort of fear, possibly? No, no the waddle wasn't menacing at all. By the time she was supposed to be looming over the mademoiselle, Ashley was stuck halfway, awkward and lame in her fat straightjacket, blushing furiously.

Duval snickered. "... was that an attempt to intimidate me?"

"B-be silent..." Ashley muttered, and did not amend. "Look, the point is you only slowed me down. You let your guard down."

"Did I?"

"Mmmh," Ashley nodded, projecting confidence she wasn't sure she had. "You know why heroes don't wear capes?"

"Why, dear?"

"Same reason why girls don't wear ponytails-"

She threw her hands forward. Duval stepped slowly out of the way.

The weight of the straightjacket dragged Ashley forward until she was stumbling. She caught her balance before tumbling over. "What?"

"You seem to have missed me, dear," Duval cooed, fluttering her fingers.

Ashley spun around - or, well, waddled around. She snarled, and tried charging again, but was even less successful. The weight carried with her frame and put her off-kilter, waving helplessly in the air as she tried to right herself.

And there was her foe, just out of reach. "So desperate... they say behaviors become more extreme the closer they are to extinction."

Ashley gulped air. She didn't expect to be this tired. The suit was sitting on her back, clinging to her arms and legs. She pitched forward, hands on the straightjacket's knees. "R-really? That sounds like... villain garbage..."

"Instead of fighting me, darling, you should try something different. You're so conditioned to do the meatheaded thing, running straight into danger, but to be quite honest, you're not a good fit for it anymore."

That set Ashley off. She summoned the strength she had left and thumped towards Duval to strangle her outright.

Duval didn't flinch. She didn't even move. Ashley stopped short of grabbing her pencil-thin neck, if only because she couldn't get her hands to come together. There was so much fur between them, so much artificial flab, the effort was... too... much!

Ashley struggled. Throughout, Duval beamed up at her, inches from her nose. Green eyes peering into despairing amber. The techs weren't bothering to intervene. They didn't even see Ashley as a threat anymore - just the boss playing with her food.

"Let's settle the matter," Duval said calmly. "By other means. Please, be a good girl and have a seat."

The words echoed in Ashley's head. They seemed to soak into her bones. Before she realized what was happening, she plopped backward on a bath bench, exhausted and panting for breath. How much of this was Duval's superpowers? How much of it was her own limits? No matter how hard she fought, she couldn't even get a crumb of success. Defeat, after defeat, after humiliating defeat...

Duval stepped lightly. Her footfalls echoed loud enough to monopolize sound in the bathhouse. It was all Ashley could hear. Dainty, black hands cupped around the woman's cheeks. The touch of her fingertips could turn a woman to stone.

Their noses met. Ashley swallowed. Hot breaths melted the ice protecting her frigid sense of self.

"We are going to give you a makeover. The forms have already been filed. Your employers have already been notified. Ashley De Silva is going off the grid, and in her place... well, you can pick your name, dear. But you're going to be someone very special, no matter what."

Ashley shuddered a breath. "I'm already-"

"Shhhhshshshsh," Duval said, instantly shutting it down. "You're just another superhero. A market already saturated with copycats, sociopaths and glory hounding idiots. We can agree on that, can't we? There's too many of them walking around. They've drilled ideas into your head. Myopic mantras that only appeal to the vapid, insipid lot... but you're not insipid, are you?"

Ashley slowly shook her head. Despite herself, she was reluctantly starting to agree.

"The world is far more complicated than good girls and bad girls," Duval sang, worming her words between Ashley's ears. "Perhaps... after you see what I can do for you, you can see that..."

Her fingertip traced along Ashley's lips, before she stepped back, and let the damage sink in. Ashley licked, aroused and unable to think. Resistance bared in her head, a one word whimper, over and over again. But so did an urge to see where this was going.

"If you change me too much, and I don't approve, I reserve the right to... t-to ask to change back," she said carefully. This weird speech pattern had its benefits; she could negotiate now.

Duval templed her hands and smiled agreeably. "I can abide by that. Though, once you see what I have in store for you, you'll never want to go back."

Ashley doubted that severely. But as Duval beamed, convictions waivered. The eyes were unnerving, and the suit must be doing something subdermal to her, but truth be told it wasn't all that unattractive. The body shape had... some appeal. And she trusted Duval, inexplicably. She'd been forthright, direct, even kind - despite trapping her, and subjecting to an admittedly pretty amazing bath.

Surely, Duval couldn't be all bad. Right?

And if she was... did it matter?

A few minutes later, the mademoiselle's employees came up to Ashley. Her 'spot' was apparently ready.

She glanced shyly over to Duval. Duval nodded. The assistants - for they weren't goons anymore - offered their hands, and Ashley took them tentatively. It was embarrassing, having to walk like this, but their touch was reassuring. They put their hands on the straightjacket's waist, which sent a sent sensitive jolt to Ashley's waist underneath.

Was she really that ticklish?

The space hollowed out for her was a boxy alcove in the north corner of the bathhouse. It was claustrophobic, compared to the rest of the cavernous space. Like a sauna, or a standing bathtub. Several carts were rolled in, stocked with goodies. Mostly the same paraphernalia dotted around the building stacked in one place, with a focus on conditioner, multiple types of trimming scissors, no less than five blow dryers, and another faucet-hose contraption.

Ashley's heart fluttered a little bit. There was more bath time? But then she remembered herself and tried to look a little more dignified.

What sealed it was a stainless steel wine cart by the opposite wall. On it was a bottle of Chianti - Ashley figured that out before she 'knew' what she was looking at - but more importantly, it was set next to a pyramid of pastries.

Her mouth watered. "Did... did one of you guys leave your food in here...?"

What a ridiculous question. Everything else in the alcove was specifically meant for her. Why else would they reserve a bottle of imported wine and several pounds of chocolate croissants? She felt obliged to be indignant about it.

But then her stomach made an impolite noise.

"It's all for you, darling," Duval said. She stepped around Ashley's side, and for the second time today, made her self-conscious. "You deserve a treat. There's even Ghirardelli cocoa at the bottom..."

Ashley bit her lip. The assistants were streaming past her. She felt too ponderously big to stop them, despite ostensibly being a trim tomboy latina under so many pounds of fur. She was starting to think that was a lie. "That's going to make me fat..." she ended up saying.

Mademoiselle Duval paced to the rolling cart, turned and grinned up at her guest. "Implying you aren't already."

Trepidation shot through Ashley like a bullet. Her sheep eyes went wide.

"Come now," Duval said, "Eat! Enjoy yourself! Boys, don't dilly dally, she's still wet. Dry her off please. I shall handle the mud treatment and haircut myself."

Ashley was at a loss for words. She stammered. "B-b-but this is your fur, is it not?" And hated herself for how stilted it came out.

Duval didn't answer. The gears to Ashley's doom were turning. The assistants were getting ready, and Duval was sorting out tools. It left Ashley's heart heavy with questions. What did she mean by that, 'implying you aren't already?' She couldn't have put on weight, right? That was impossible.

Her belly gurgled again. A tense sensation drew up inside. A pang of hunger harder than she'd ever felt in the Pecos valley. Ashley groaned uncomfortably.

She should oppose chocolates from supervillains on principle. She really should. But temptation burrowed deep, and Ashley was starting to make excuses. Maybe just one. One for blood sugar, then two if you're still hungry. You're not fat, she told herself, just stressed out.

So went the first eclair.

As she chewed, Duval brandished a little brush and a bowl of dark-looking goop. "Pause for a moment," she said, "We must soften up your pores."

Ashley reluctantly agreed. Without thinking, she tilted forward to make the mademoiselle's work easier, looking expectant.

The mademoiselle laughed. "So obedient, my word~"

"For now," Ashley grumbled. "This is all conditional, you understand?"

"Of course, of course. The young lady doth protest too much..."

The application was a gentle experience. Brush hairs tickled her cheeks, leaving stripes of cold as they went. The mademoiselle was painting her, applying layers over her skin that tickled with raindrop tingling seconds later. The tip followed along the contours of her face - across the bridge of her nose, down the sides of her nostrils, along her brow, shadowing the eyelids, all the way to the edge of her hairline. It was relieving to feel she still had some hair after everything that happened, but a spectre of dread reminded her that it hadn't changed yet.

Once it was over, Duval stepped back. Ashley was more aware of her face than she'd ever been. Through vibrating nerves, its shape, its silhouette was clear in her mind.

She needed another eclair to handle this. The mademoiselle retrieved a fluted glass out of the central compartment, then popped the cork on the Chianti bottle. By sheer coincidence, Ashley was parched.

"This isn't... tampered with, is it?" Ashley chanced.

"What would you do if it was?" Duval countered, and that was that. She offered a full glass, and Ashley trembled to take it. She could bend her arms just enough to put the glass to her lips and sip. The sweet, deep flavour hit the sweet, deep chocolate, and for a heady moment, Ashley couldn't speak. Her cheeks were full of indulgence.

They didn't shrink back when she swallowed. What's more - Ashley felt the front of her face gently pressing out. Her nose was lightly tilted and, come to think of it, the shape running down her nose was a little wider.

She needed another- well, you get the idea.

Mechanical whines started up behind her. Ashley flinched, until she remembered there were blow dryers in the room. She shuffled, expectant and existentially worried, but effectively drugged out of the worst anxieties. Once the individual air flows started hitting the fur, the worry fell away, just like it did in the bath.

"Haaaaaaaaaahhh~" Ashley moaned without shame. "H-how do you do it? How does this feel so good..."

Duval didn't answer that. "Put your hand out please. Dominant first."

Ashley obeyed, dropping her right in the palm. There wasn't much in her head right now except the motor skill neurons and a cloud of vague, unfocused bliss. Not even a shred of resistance, not when blowers were driving up the small of the straightjacket's back and cooking through it. It was a hair too hot on the surface, but this was fine - a little sensory overload never hurt anyone. A bright, hot shower felt just as good once you got used to it.

She wanted another eclair. Once she had it between teeth she swore had swollen in the time since she last felt them, she handled a glass of wine, and downed it thoughtlessly.

The act was forgettable, unimportant. More excuses bubbled up. Wanting more wasn't a sin, was it? Err, not a bad thing. Nobody else was eating it. It's not like she'd be any more or less poisoned if she resisted. Besides, the heat fanning around her shoulders, down her arms, across her butt, it needed a compliment. The sultry chocolate filling her center, catalyzing into a cozy cocktail, conducted heat even better than fur. She felt herself reaching the same heaven she did in the bath, back when she had a costume.

Only this time, she was expanding. Growing under the surface. The fur coat was somehow converting all the water and heat into layers of lipids, connecting it to her dermal layers and sheathing her in hide.

There was a creaking sound. Then another. Ashley felt aftershocks in her belly, the tightness of skin beginning to stretch. Her heart began to race.

Duval ran the brush up her hand, painting more of the gunk. Over knuckles, through the folds, plastering over the burn scars she earned from the one time she was working on papi's car battery. Working through pain was her core, her ethos, the thing that made Ashley herself...

The memory spread like a smear when Duval got to it, and in moments, it was gone. Ashley blinked, confused, wondering what she was thinking about that made her feel so sad. She decided it wasn't worth the trouble.

The mademoiselle offered her hand back. The nails were swelling. Fore and middle finger, ring and pinky, were stuck together. All the blemishes were gone, plastered over with uniform mud. The unfortunate implications of these discoveries were muted; the aesthetic value was, conversely, quite vivid.

"Wow..." Ashley murmured, turning her hand over and over. The first question she thought to ask was: "Can I eat with this on?"

Duval tittered, and nodded. "Other hand please~"

Ashley's smile stretched. She dug through the pyramid until she found a bar of dark chocolate at the bottom, and stuffed it in her ballooning, coal-colored cheeks. Her neck rolls pressed under the wool as she ate.

Time distended like her gut. The treatment wasn't quick, and it certainly wasn't careless. The process by which Duval's assistants were tending to her fur- her prison, was meticulous. There was a lot of it to dry, more to straighten. She missed the iron curlers when she walked in. They took out combs and drove it through the curls, inexplicably tugging at the hide underneath- no, the skin. The combs scooped through, collected enough, and a press of the curler sent a shiver up her neck.

Ashley shimmied. They did it again. And again. The color was changing, turning to the eggshell off-white of wool. Through the beautimous fibers, bulging like cotton bolls, she saw darkness where human pink should've been. She sucked in air, as nervousness turned into quiet anticipation.

Why was she so excited?

"Dear? Dear, are you still there?"

Ashley came back to the moment. The transformation was too exhilarating to stay focused. Her lip had split in the meantime, and there was precious little humanity left in priggish jowls. "Wooo? A-a-ah, what?"

Duval showed her her hands. They were identical. Two pudgy, three-fingered appendages, ending in thick, cloven nails. Duval tilted her own digits down, to show how perfectly spotless they were together.

Ashley brimmed with joy. "Gosh... oh my goodness, they're puh-" Perfect. That's what she meant to say. She had the forethought not to let it all go, puffing her cheeks out instead, but Duval saw it on her face. There was no hiding what she meant. "... good, I suppose."

"I do good work," said Duval, "for conservative sheep such as yourself."

Ashley flushed. She didn't know if her cheeks could still blush or not, but her face was hot.

Duval continued. "There seems little need for a manicure, so let's take care of your feet, while I give you a good trim. How does that sound?"

"Great~" Ashley bleated, with a backwash of bitterness at herself. She could at least try not to enjoy this.

"George, Wilco, bring us a bench. Let the large one take a load off."

Ashley flustered, but Duval wasn't exactly wrong. She just plopped down when the bench was moved in, and let the feeling of fat rolls wash over her.

All this time, being rolled around, getting washed down, moving through virtual quicksand, she labored under the delusion that the body underneath it all was still the same one she walked in with. The same street punk-strong frame that won boxing tourneys, kicked ass and reappropriated names. That ship was sinking into a mire of cocoa-wine. Clutching the bulging front, letting the assistants blow her shedding undercoat, she was disabused of illusions quickly. There must have been a formula to this - the water, mixing with the food, or the soapy mixture soaking into her skin and causing some delayed reaction, but the individual elements of process mattered less than the result.

There wasn't a single toned strip of muscle left inside. Only blobular tissue, and fatigue, and a creamy aura in the center that was getting bigger, swelling out of her old self. The fur had turned into a cocoon, incubating this new life until it was ripe. That promised to take a while. There was a lot of fur to fill, after all.

And all the time in the world to think about her new identity.

Minutes turned into hours. The sheep pokemon dug into the bowl until she ran out of chocolate. She drank until the bottle was empty. Duval and company began snipping at loose ends and curly knots that formed after the dry. She didn't care to count their progress. Some of them were painting her feet with that delightful mud. She was drunk, thinking about the hooves that would come out of that. Not drunk on the wine, thankfully, just buzzed and swimming in her brain juice.

The bench creaked after some time. She guessed there must have been four hundred pounds or so of weight on it.

Piles of wool collected on the floor. They turned out smaller than she expected.

What did she want to call herself anyway? The sheep dug through the imparted personality, looking for something respectful and reserved. Ashley was a little too base. But maybe Myrtle fit? Margot was classy. Oh, but Johanna commanded respect, like Marianne did, without coming off too brash.

She smiled. Johanna it was, then.

It wasn't long after that when the team finished up their trimming with chunker and blender scissors. She could sense the treatment coming to an end, and while she was disappointed, it wasn't with how she looked. Johanna peered down at herself, across her snout at the bulges of wool and the titanic flab underneath, at the hooved hands and feet.

A wiggle startled her a little bit. Oh, she had a tail. Someone modeled it for her, how delightful.

She looked for the mademoiselle among assistants cleaning up, and found her making calls. Johanna waited patiently until she was finished, then fit her hands into her wooly lap to look presentable.

Duval opened her mouth to congratulate her, but then an assistant interrupted. "Ma'am. She may need these if she's due for book-keeping."

He handed his boss a small case. A case for glasses.

Johanna's sheepy ears shot up. "Are those... for me?" She murmured in her characteristically small voice. It was a part of her now, like the rest of her body.

Duval closed her eyes in gratitude, and nodded. She offered it. Johanna thumbed the lock with her hoof, and found red, horn-rimmed glasses inside.

A normal woman couldn't pull off a stylishly frumpy set of spectacles, not without looking a decade too old. But an orvine Pokemon with a figure as wide as Johanna? She was reasonably sure. She took them delicately out of the felt-lined case and set them on the bridge of her snout. The legs clasped behind her ears, and all was well.

"I trust you're satisfied?" Mademoiselle Duval asked.

Johanna nodded, unable to stop smiling. "Yesss. Thank you very much. I never thought I could feel so... ah... mmmh, comfortable, I suppose."

"Would you be interested in a job offer at this point? Or would you like to indulge in 'superheroism' some more?"

The thought made Johanna bleat disdainfully. "Bweh. I'm not fit for it. All your hard work might go to waste, anyhow."

Duval fit her chin in her hand. "So you want to be my Wooloo?"

Her Wooloo. What a delectable promise. Ashley didn't need to think of an answer. "Of course I do, Mademoiselle. Anything for you."

And she meant it. Anything, any gratitude for the person who made her so happy.

Duval made a show of thinking. "Well... you definitely have the intellect, the taste... definitely the moral fiber... how would you like to join our book-keeping division?"

Interest bloomed. A lattice of memories cascaded, shoving mechanic's school to the corner. Five years and seven certifications in accounting properly took their place. "I-I can do that..." Johanna said bashfully. "What would you like me to do?"

Duval came close. She coaxed Johanna's hands away and settled neatly on flabby thighs. Johanna held her breath. Duval's hand came up, and touched down her dimpling cheek. "I have a number of off-shore accounts with needs, darling. I'm going to be honest with you - we don't intend to pay more than we must to the tax man. That money deserves to go to more day spa treatments and new facilities, and we can't have that all lost to the margins. Can you... you know, do a little magic with the books for us? I'm sure it'll only take a little bit of trouble. You'll be graciously compensated. High six figures, plus whatever you can skin off the top. And if anyone finds out, then you're protected. We have the finest lawyers on the planet, and lobbyists in our pockets..."

"In our pockets?" Johanna asked softly. The implications of this 'little bit of trouble' were, of course, tax fraud, but who didn't get their feet wet in that kind of thing? The only thing that mattered was Duval's affection.

Duval drew a husky breath. "Yesss," she sighed. "Ours. So long as you're with me, you'll be safe, and cared for. Forever."

Forever. Forever...

Mademoiselle Duval tilted Johanna's sheepy snout in and took her tribute in a long, passionate kiss.

Dieselpunk was dead. Time of death: 4:23pm. Ashley voluntarily relinquished her superpowers to the mundane pleasure of being fat, happy, and rich. Marianne Duval made her money back on this venture and then some - for she had a loyal employee that would die for her, if it meant spa days and wool treatments, fancy dinners and long makeout sessions.

She had many partners just like her. Many tools. Each as valuable as the last.

Duval wrapped them all around her fingers and wore them like jewelry, because that's exactly what they were.

Accessories to her vast, corruptive ego.