The Poem of Ecstacy
I was not always as you see me now. Once I was Fitch Johanson, a rather dashing young man two years shy of twenty. To be perfectly honest, though, such a view might be somewhat biased; I tended to be a smidgen vain about my moustache. It was a good, thick, well-groomed one, rather in shave of a sideways cubic graph -- that is to say, a sideways-stretched ess without the looping-back. At least it would be, once it grew past its current stage of something like sparse, short fur on my upper lip. When last I was myself, so to speak, I was contemplating adding a Lenin-esque beard to the coming facial exhibition.
Not to say, by any means, that I was so vain as to spend every waking moment considering my facial hair -- no indeed! I took, and still take pleasure in far loftier cognitive settings and far finer psychological literature. The pleasure of listening to such masterful euphonies, such divine sounds, as those of the melodious Schubert, the mystical Scriabin, the philosophical, deep Mahler, the nature-adoration of Janacek, and the cold purity of Sibelius, such were my favourites of favourites. Music, the omnipresent language, was my most adored medium though which my thoughts and creativity could flow. For, you see, I wrote stories. It was a much-loved hobby; I was in the midst of a story born of my very SOUL, a tale that never truly left my mind. Call me megalomaniacal if you will, but as the story progressed, I gradually understood that I was less writing a yarn, even an epic, but creating an entire world and reality. I could connect through such means with the self-deifying poems of Scriabin; every piece of art, be it painted, written, or composed, each is a world in itself, thus is the artist a god, in a sense, over his creation; he has the right and ability to wreak havoc on his brainchild, or to raise it to heaven!
But I digress. I loved animals, you see, with the exception of spiders, though (nasty little arachnids!). I especially held two species in high esteem: the ermine, also known as the stoat or the short-tailed weasel, and the European red squirrel, which looks not unlike an American red squirrel with ear-tufts and without the whites around its eyes. I also rather had a soft spot of flying squirrels, but not as strong as the previous creatures. Indeed, it was an obsession, one which grew to strange extremes; seeing as 18 is the age when a man is at his sexual prime, I obviously felt lust. However, what I envisioned was less what you might find arousing: an anthropomorphic (human-like) fat she-ermine or she-squirrel. As I said, not what is considered the norm!
My hero, it ought be mentioned, was and is my father. He always supported me, especially in my search for knowledge, which he urged. Science was like to a breast to me once my mother stopped feeding me milk; I drank of the nectar of astronomy especially fondly, but equally so, at points, of music, volcanology and other disaster-sciences, paleontology (what 8-year-old doesn't find dinosaurs cool?), and mathematics. My dad always learned more of this so he could teach me. There were time when I myself, a mere child, taught him, a wise father, and a professor at that! A genius like him I have never envisioned nor met, and I doubt I ever shall. However, he is no more; he was struck down by a terrible disease, and died mercifully quickly. Much of my energy for doing work faded due to this, though only some years afterwards, and to this day, I struggle to chain back the ravages of procrastination.
Now that I have introduced myself in a nutshell, so to speak, pun intended with squirrel and nutshell, nothing holds me back from my story.
I had a good $60 (Canadian, for I have lived in Toronto, Ontario all my life -- true patriot love forever!) in my wallet, and was seeking a CD, or musical score or book, or something else should I happen upon something that tickled my fancy. I was not rich, despite my weekly $20 allowance, so I was quite selective in what I bought. Then again, I had always been a "real big spender."
I had chanced, this snowy Saturday, to take a little visit to one of the malls along the short Shepherd subway line, hoping that I might have some luck in locating something worthy of my cash. I had not visited this mall before, so I had no reason to suspect one way or the other as to my success in my quest.
As the shops passed by me, I mumbled to myself in disappointment, as I often would. "Clothing stores, the damned lot of 'em! I don't understand it, why's humanity always obsessed with external, um... what's that word... ah! SUPERFICIAL fashion? Why not actually try something more inside, more, uh..." I paused to put my hand to my forehead as find the words I sook. "Heartfelt and soulful."
It was then that I chanced to sight a most curious store. The name hardly deterred me, regardless of its unoriginality; indeed, I at once felt compelled deeply to pay a visit to this place. I, forever out of the public-knowledge circle, had come across its name on a routine search of the internet for transformation pictures, a little pleasure of mine that I strived to keep secret from the population at school (my second year of Grade 12 must not be ruined by such a discovery by the student body!) So, dancing for joy in my head and grinning widely and chucking to myself, I entered Spells R Us though a quaint wooden door. What a fine practice, it made one feel as though the venues were outdoors, a most pleasing feeling!
I looked around at the place. Quite nice, with countless doodads and such, all of which I knew full well would probably turn me into a buxom, bread-for-brains broad-breasted "bimbo."
And, as I had expected, there was an old man at the counter, looking exactly as I had pictured him, a veritable twin of Ibsen's crafty, mischievous rogue, Peer Gynt.
"Ah, I was expecting you, Fitch."
I smiled slyly. "I'm hardly surprised, seeing as the occult -- an undeserving word for incredible abilities beyond science's grasp -- is a powerful weapon in the hands of a wizard."
"Is it always a weapon, though?"
"Weapons are not by definition dangerous, nor pain and trouble-causing, but rather instruments that serve a certain purpose against something, be it a person, beast, or idea."
"But you have not answered my question: is it always a weapon?"
"No," I conceded, shivering in enjoyment of this, not minding that he had betrayed no surprise at my foreknowledge. "Magic encompasses much else, though not being well versed in it, I know nothing of any examples."
Before I continue, let me also note that my mode of speech is something I have conditioned for myself, eliminating profanities and most swearwords from my vocabulary. In addition, while I am not by nature superstitious, and have a strong belief in science, I also know that quantum physics allows room for seemingly paranormal activities, being simple deviation from the natural course of "reality" -- but this is not a physics lecture!
The old man nodded sharply. "Young people these days rarely do."
I thought about bringing up Harry Potter, who I was sure in actuality knew about as much of TRUE magic as I did -- nothing --, but thought better of it. So came a lull in the conversation.
"You love Boneflower, do you not?"
I won't deny that I was startled; I should not have been, knowing his methods, but the directness of the question caught me off guard. He had mentioned one of the characters in my story, a she-ermine who was actually skinned in the first of my stories, but survived somehow until my third. I had rather taken pity on her by the middle of the third book, by which time I had attained a liking of weasels and stoats. This stoatess was quite a character; she had been raped as a child (were she human, a 10-year-old), subsequently became a mercenary upon leaving home, and used free nights "with" various small creatures like her, gleaning whatever information she could get on her quarry. Think of the animals of Redwall, and she slept with vermin. It you don't know of the series, just know that I mean small carnivores from England, save for otters and badgers. She herself would not kill an innocent creature for anything, not even all the riches of the world: she was a loyal weasel, a sad rarity in her world.
I took some moments to formulate a good response. "Yes," I mumbled blushing, "though I fear that were she a human in our world, she'd have a dossier-ful of STDs."
"Hm. What if I were to let you meet her?"
My heart leapt up at the thought as though I'd beheld a rainbow in the sky. "I would be in euphoria!"
"And if I were to let you get to know her... personally."
"I would... euphoria doesn't begin to describe what I'd feel!"
Then I caught myself. I knew what might come of this: I would get my wish, but in some twisted and unexpected way. I had often practiced before such careful specifications in daydreams.
"Er, could she be impermeable to STDs? And be human-sized and- and have the anthropomorphic body already associated with her in her adolescence?"
I knew the answer would surely be no for some of these; yet that was not the case!
"Certainly." He looked at me with interest. "You could make a fine magician with such foresight, you know. But I can see your fascinations lie elsewhere."
He went into the back room. My mind already suspected what he was getting, and was even then formulating plans as to how I would use it.
He came back within moments with a cloth bag -- surely he had anticipated my visit enough to keep the item ready.
"I see you already know what this contains. Simply have someone wear it, and they're her."
I was so excited that I simply blurted out, "How much?" Almost at once, I realized my mistake in interrupting his instructions, and opened my mouth to correct it.
"That will be $60," he said matter-of-factly. Instinct told me that a response was not encouraged.
I was slightly unhappy to part with ALL of my money, save for some negligible coins, but for an opportunity such as this, I was awed that I could buy it for this little.
I couldn't thank him enough. I walked out in, as I had suspected, utter euphoria.
As I neared the gates of the subway, I had calmed enough to realize that I had been far too impulsive, and really ought to have overridden my gut instincts and asked then and there more about my purchase. If put on, was the change reversible? What other effects might occur? What would constitute "putting it on?"
I mentally berated myself for such impulsivity as I headed back to the shop. This was a troublesome habit of mine, to "look before I leapt." Soon I found another reason to blast my stupidity; the store was gone, damn it all, and replaced by a JC Penny's.
"Damn you, JC Penny! Damn you damn you damn you to hell! You damned wench of a store, you freakin' hag of a chain," I exploded.
At once, I punched my forehead for uttering "freakin'". "Don't say slang like that, especially such rude slang! You're above such crude colloquialisms! You've done something incredibly stupid, now live with it."
But, to be honest, I couldn't live with it easily. I scoured the mall for another half-hour for the store, asking around about it, all to no avail.
If this was not aggravating enough, I realized on the way home, regarding a rather pretty adolescent Chinese girl, that I knew no girl well enough to ask her to wear this skin. I hid my face in my hands. "Stupid! Stupid! Oh you imbecile! You dam- you insipid, un, nuh, ignoramus!"
If ever I hated my stutterings, it was when I was in the midst of seeking an insult from my mental dictionary.
So I got off at Lawrence station, bitter and yet euphoric, proud and yet self-despising. I walked a few blocks west and a few more south, into the ravine, that place of my frequenting, the closest place to nature in my neighbourhood; what luck I should live near such a lovely stream as Otter Creek. As I descended the wooden steps to the natural ground level, I felt ever more of an urge to see this wonderful gift. I knew what it was: to give me anything save for it would not be in character for the wizard.
I climbed a little hill a short ways down the riverside path, and took the upper part of the skin out of the bag--for you see, the one who had skinned her, the protagonist of my trilogy, had kept her pelt.
I looked at her; so beautiful, even like this. Her paws felt so smooth on their pads, like a lady's hand; her fur was so perfectly smooth, and her whiskers combed back to be partway hidden in her fur. Even though she was cut off at just under shoulder-height from her torso, I could still see enough beauty to assure me that I would not be disappointed with her lower half.
How right I was... ye gods, how right I was! This, the more lascivious half of her, was beyond what I had envisioned in lusty dreams, more luscious than what I had seen in moments of pleasure. Such finely rounded breasts, and soft belly fur! And, well, as for her nether regions, heh, well, they were quite finely made, hee... let's simply leave it at this: she was wide, not tight, just as I had hoped.
And the seeming best part of her erminity: her tail, that wondrous tail, white like all the rest of her body, but with a jet-black tip. I felt her, and it seemed to my bare hands that this skin emanated warmth as though still living. But such a ridiculous thought! I at once dismissed it.
I put it back too, bringing out the upper part again, smiling with half-open, dreamy eyes as I kissed her. Her lips, not to my surprise, were dry -- as they would naturally be after preservation -- but such pleasure! The thought that I was kissing her, kissing Boneflower, kissing the one I had created and loved, it pleased me beyond anything I knew. It was such rapture; to be honest, my pygmalionism rather aroused me. I embraced her before returning her to the bag.
My confidence was re-affirmed. Even without all the information, I could see that, like I had thought, there were small metal hooks that would clasp together when the skin was put on; surely, the rest was easily left to my imagination. And yet, it was that very imagination that wondered if donning it would make that severing line vanish, entrapping the wearer inside. Regardless of my fantasies, her skin felt so real, so wonderfully soft, so truly hers!
But even to have her lying beside me in bed, of just to hook her together, that would be so wondrous! And, perhaps, to do with her as she had done with so many others in bed... oh heavens! The very thought sent joyous shivers down my spine.
My mother's car wasn't in the driveway, assurance that she was out, so I simply admitted myself with my key. My little brother wasn't there either, it seemed, and thankfully, my mother's boyfriend wasn't either. I am not racist; it was not due to his African history and Jamaican birth I hated him, but because he held a grudge against me, and had no pity, nor care for my rights or anything having to do with me.
I headed up straight away to my room, and at once took her skin out. Laying it one my bed, I shut my eyes in deep, divine ecstasy. "Boneflower! Oh my beloved erminemaid, let me love you!"
I did so. Never before had I attempted to make love to a living (or once living) creature. Think me not a necrophile, but closer to a zoophile, an animal lover, if you must group me so. I rubbed various parts of my body against her lips -- both her facial, and the other pair. She looked so beautiful; more that I had imagined.
As I was at my usual plateau in arousal, from which release would only come after continual excitement, I decided to risk an experiment. First, I tried linking the two halves together; nothing, as I predicted, happened. I am no master of divination - far from it! I am simply quite well versed in using common sense and my own knowledge-banks to predict probable outcomes, a la Sherlock Holmes, my mental hero.
So I went to the dangerous next step: putting myself inside. I well knew the risk: becoming her, becoming Boneflower. But to be honest, I would not mind it vastly, for I knew her to be an honourable spirit, so I as Boneflower would hardly cause trouble should Fitch vanish.
It took some readying for the experience as I pulled on the lower half, and at once was irked to note that the inner female genitals were gone. Grood had kept them, but at some point, they must have been removed.
Hesitantly, I pulled on the head-piece.
I had been expecting a strange sensation to come over me and to gradually transmogrify into a female weasel.
Reality was far more bland. No mysterious change occurred; the skin remained in two parts, merely connected by little hooks. I was still nothing more that a human male in a human-sized ermine-doe's pelt (females of this species are called jills or does).
The snout was mostly limp, since the faces of people tend to be comparatively flat. To be sure, it felt like being in another's skin, but I couldn't fit my limbs properly into her foreshortened ones, so the effect was nothing like what I had hoped. I didn't fit properly, damn it all!
"Have someone other than myself wear it, I s'pose. Drat! Drat it all," I grumbled as I took off the morbid garments. "Where the HELL am I gonna get a- find a girl who'll actually put on this costume?"
I cried out in ire, and kicked my empty garbage can over, and sat down grumpily putting my chin between my hands. Well, this is absolutely great, I thought to myself. Why am I always the outcast? Why do so many other boys my age have lovers, and I remain alone? I continued to prattle on with such woe-betidings.
I have ADHD, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, a bad case of ADD, the same minus "Hyperactivity." This makes me naturally egocentric, forgetful in the short-term, overexcitable, a procrastinator, and a veritable treasure trove of sound effects. Even when I take my medication, the symptoms are never truly gone. Thus do my actions drive away other people. Having been teased since Kindergarten hardly helps; I learned to have fun alone. I had no idea that I would ever WANT to be with others. When such desires came in Grade 10, I found that there was nobody to sate them. I tried expressing them through my stories, but eventually even this did not overtake the urges. After enjoying reading of a character from a book I liked, I spoke with her in spirit, using a higher pitch of my own voice as hers. This too was but a temporary respite, even after trying having imagined coitus with her. So I dragged myself into regarding pornography- but only that of anthropomorphic animals! Never humans! Again, this only worked for a short time. I still needed a girl, about my age, perhaps plump and oriental... and at that time I discovered my love for Boneflower.
As always, with my rage came depression. Having exhausted my adrenaline, I shut my eyes and fell back onto the bunched-up blankets. One of my hands happened to touch Boneflower, reminding me of my latest, most fantastic investment. I pulled her two halves up to me and hooked them together, turned to rest my head on my pillows, draped her across my front and pulled the blankets over her and me.
I hugged her, smiling wistfully. "If only I could bring you to life once more! And yet to take another's life from them is something I could never do!" I sighed. "I love you, but how can I help you without ruining someone else?"
I nuzzled my face against her belly -- so soft, so lovely and soft -- and turned onto my side, thinking of the creature whose remains I held in my arms, drifting slowly, peacefully to rest.
[hr]
Exhausting work, to be sure, but Boneflower thrived in it. Painful at times, but the reward could be more than enough recompensation.
She, a most lovely weasel -- a stoat, an ermine, to be exact -- thought nothing of putting her alluring looks to seemingly crude uses. To be sure, it had been mostly for sating her natural lust of puberty, but she soon discovered a career where her carnal skills would come in useful: mercenary-work. She had struck upon the fact that lovers, even if they are only so for a night's time, tend to loosen more than their belt line; even the most secretive will free their tongues once placated. Thus could she get the dirt on her targets; instead of simply asking for money, she would insist on getting information in exchange for her services. Of course, they had to loosen their tongues before she loosened hers, though for different purposes. Afterward, they would usually relent and tell more, especially with a little massaging.
Thus, it was a perfectly normal evening for Boney when she brought the fox with her to her room inside the local inn. She preferred creatures about her size, but she was flexible by nature, and sometimes the situation called for her to put pain aside for a time. This fox in particular was of importance to her; this was the right hand creature of Ruffscar, the oversized rat Mafioso leading a rather bloody underground society, whose members would reap in money by any means without misgivings for their victims. Already, the situation was beyond the City Council's control; seeing as they were all mice and other rodents and insectivores, their desperation was evident in their calling in their natural predator to assist them. Regardless of the wondrous reward promised her, Boneflower would have taken the job regardless, especially seeing as some of the female victims' bodies were found nude.
The idea of rape, ironically, was the most abhorrent in the free-spirited ermine's mind. Well she remembered her own nightmarish experience with it; a youth shattered into shards that still sliced into her heart now and again. Perhaps the act had devalued the act of love to her, or perhaps her soul demanded her to remember the pain so she could identify with other victims that much more poignantly; whatever the reason, Boneflower would never turn down a job where such a deed was involved. She could not allow other creatures to continue suffering the shameful agony of rape.
Therefore, Boneflower had to repress her fury while dealing with this beast, especially considering that a fox had been the one who had defiled her in the first place, and that this very fox had been sighted in the vicinity of a newly slain victim just hours before; a pitiful ottermaid, her tail shoved into her throat, her four paws tied together, her tears still warm.
"'Ere we are, matey, welcome to me 'umble abode," she grinned.
The fox smirked, and went to peer at a reproduction of an ancient battle scene, with even the sun, in the form of a blond badger, locking swords with the mottled black-and-white ferret of the moon. "I am not without taste, despite what some say. This painting is quite well-known," he mused. "I should hope, someday, to own the original. Once in my youth, I chanced to see it, and have yearned for it ever since. I hear that no artist can ever convincingly reproduce all its fine nuances, and well I know that even the minutest erroneous detail -- such as this mouse's crimson pommel stone, which ought to be sea-blue -- can effectively ruin the effect of the scene."
Boneflower looked at it, tilting her head in slight confusion. "That's funny, I don't remember 'earin' abou' this thing afore now."
The fox winked at her. "Ah, but few females have. It is males alone who can ever hope to realize the glamour and exhilaration of the battlefield, for we have it in our blood. That is why we shall forever be superior to your sex, why you shall ever be beneath us, for you cannot grasp the raw, fiery power of battle-lusting fury. You might scratch and slap -- pah! What is that to a single slash of a rapier, which can as easily cut off the offending limb as it could a loaf of bread?"
Boneflower' could very nearly taste the blood, so tight was she biting her lip. 'Oo does 'e think 'e is, this braggart? I oughta sheathe 'is bluddy sword fer good right 'ere an' now, an' I would if'n 'e wasn't such a blatherer an' 'e didn't know arf o' wot 'e does.
"Hell knows why they bother resisting at all when it is so clear how mightier we males are than they," he chuckled as he removed his tunic. "But enough of that! You said that you wanted information, my dear little whore," he crooned, "and information I have given. If I were you, lovely cream-puff, I would undress before I tear your lovely clothing from your body, and make ready for your master."
She did so, though using the rest of her power to suppress her abhorrence of the beast before her.
The fox locked the door, simultaneously removing his remaining garments and throwing them carelessly to one side.
Boneflower could tell that this experience would be more painful than most jobs. She glanced to be certain her dagger would be within reach and unsheathable, should this vulpine villain try any funny business on her, and yet invisible to him.
She had just turned back to see where he had gone when she felt an incredible pain, and cried out. She had not time to react before a gag was slipped over her mouth and between her jaws.
"I abhor loud noises. I use whatever I can to silence my partners, be it a gag, noose, even their own tail."
Boneflower tightened every muscle in her body in fury and struggled against his tight grasp as he held her from behind in the very position she did not want to be in.
He shook his head. "I should have thought my information would have impacted you more strongly. Pity, you appeared a fine lover when I first saw you."
She groaned as he pulled back harder on the gag and entered her. The cloth cut further into her lips with every stab from below. He, however, made certain to drown her noise out with his own groans.
An idea sprung into her mind as the frequency of his pushes increased. Yes, it would hurt, but it was necessary. She could tell that she would get nothing out of this beast save for his dirty liquids, and perhaps some parting words before he stabbed her upon completion.
She lunged forward, pulling him off balance, and she found herself underneath him in an instant. Within another instant, she had snatched her dagger from its sheath and plunged it into his back. One more instant, and the number of wounds had quadrupled.
The fox was too stunned to do anything beyond release the gag in shock. Boneflower shoved him onto the floor with a roll to her side.
He glowered up at her. "You damned whore, I will be avenged yet! My name is known throughout the city, and once La Casa Nostra finds me, they'll be on you... like flies on a rat..." He gurgled, blood filling his lungs, and let out a long breath, never for one second breaking his hateful glare as he died.
Once she was certain he was well and truly gone, Boneflower picked up the body and dragged it over to the closet, bending it over until it fit enough for the doors to properly close. As for the bloodstain, she simply pushed the bed over it, remarking "Pardon me!" and "The beans 'ere are murder!" as the floor groaned under the shifting weight. This complete, she quietly removed the sullied blankets and replaced them with a spare pair from the corner, throwing the dirty ones along with the gag atop the corpse, then wrapping around it. She could certainly have destroyed the remains -- the fireplace would have worked quite nicely to destroy the offensive bones -- but, like anyone would be in her position, she wanted to have as little as possible to do with her assailant at this moment.
She lay back in bed, wiping her tender regions with a cloth -- heaven forbid that she have anything left of him remaining on herself!
And yet, despite this meticulous cleansing, she could not find a position that suited her for sleeping. Drawn-out minutes became hours, and still she could not rest. Today's experience had unchained many a painful memory of that agonizing day two seasons before.
A gentle little daisy, waving in the breeze, caught the little one's sharp eye. She peered into it, this little sun of the fields. It was such a lovely little flower; she could not, however, bear to pick it. No: let it stay beautiful and alive where it is.
All was peaceful, everything happy. Boneflower lay back at looked up at the clouds, dreaming as would any ten-year-old. All was happy and well.
Such as that last moment of innocence was what I wished to give her; such pure kindness, even if it meant abstaining, was what she deserved.
For at that same moment, another set of eyes watched this scene, ones far less soft, far less delicate. The fox crept up behind her silently, smirking with lust for fresh flesh.
No words could do justice to the infamy of the event, the cruel carnality of the deed. He left no part untouched, no skin unsoiled. I myself, the very creator of the saga, could not fully envision the event; my mental plotline skipped ahead to when her father found her, then him going off and giving the fox his mortal "just desserts."
Boneflower huddled under the covers of her bed, in the cave she and her parents called home. She was too scared to sob, too stunned to move. She just sat, scrunched up, weeping silently. She didn't understand what had happened, except that it hurt, and still hurt, and wasn't hurting any less.
I would have done anything to help her...
And again my mind left the plot as a mere blur. All that I knew was that she left home, and mated again somehow, with a smaller creature than a fox, surely, and found that she liked the feeling. She would have heard of or seen another blameless creature being hurt or killed, and felt some responsibility to help them, and through that, she found the job of mercenary-work. She met a creature she liked, Eroket Nightblade, who went on to become highly renowned as a mercenary and swordsbeast, and even went on a mission with him to destroy a malicious vixen leading a band of obsequious vermin. Once they parted, she discovered that she was bearing Eroket's child; she went on the long journey to her home, and gave birth to her daughter just days from the destination. At this time, she would be in her early twenties were she human.
Then came an entire blank in the plot, ending with her joining the horde of Royskatt, Master of Warlords, or, more likely, being captured en route home to check on her daughter. It was this weasel's policy that none should know of his whereabouts, seeing as he was surrounded by a horde of ten thousand rats, ferrets, foxes, stoats and other weasels, and the odd marten. For certain, she put on a great act to save herself from being killed for knowing too much; her naturally erotic appearance, along with an alluring attitude not only managed to keep her alive, but to steal the heart of Royskatt. His wife, Mustela, was less than pleased about this, but did not want to cause her husband the pain of having to decide between them, and so suffered in silence.
Just when Mustela's patience was reaching the breaking point, Boneflower ran into Grood the Clever, a twelve-year old squirrel who had just lost his home and mother to a fire set by one of the more sadistic foxes of Royskatt's horde. Grood had been taught to believe that all weasels and related creatures were evil, and was less than gentle with Boneflower. They had a scuffle, which quickly resulted in Boneflower being knocked out cold, and Grood quickly skinning her in order to use her pelt as a disguise for sneaking into the horde. Horribly enough, Boneflower woke up just as he finished his bloody work, and managed to cry out a few panicked, agonized words before Grood silenced her with his tail made into a noose, choking the last bits of life out of her.
This last paragraph was the most horribly clear in my mind. I could see his vile operations so vividly, her skull covered with filaments of muscle, her lidless eyes, her morbidly grinning jaws... oh god! Nobody deserves that! The evil of assigning even a character in a story to such a fate tore at me, forcing the same guilt that tormented Grood once he realized what he had done to an undeserving victim, forcing that guilt onto me as well. In desperation, pity, and new-discovered love for her had I sook a means for her to live in my story as well...
[hr]
I awoke with a start from this nightmarish scene. Turning to regard the clock, I saw that I had slept away the remainder of the day. Strange, I considered, that I'd fall asleep so easily in the early afternoon. I rolled back into my previous position, and scratched my shoulder. I lifted my head to scratch at my ear; it felt as though I was covered in hair. As I moved again, I chanced to look at the surface of the bed in the dim light coming though the blinds from next-door and seeping under my door from the hall.
There was hair aplenty there, and amid it hung a white-furred paw. I reached onto my back to see if Boneflower's skin was draped over it. Sure enough, the feeling of her soft fur lay on it. I pulled at it, making ready to brush it off.
"Ow!" It stung as though I had pulled at my own skin.
WHAT?!
I tore off the covers and jumped out of bed, mashing the light switch on with the palm of my hand. With the light, I saw that "paw" would be more proper than "hand." Not that it was formed differently from when last I'd seen it, but rather that it looked as though covered in white, buzz-cut hair. No, you fool! That's FUR!
My body was covered in white fur; this is what first registered on my mind. Next, my jaw and nose had extended into a snout, and my teeth felt strange, interlocking differently than when I had drifted off to sleep, with the canines far longer and the incisors shrunken into tiny toothlets. With a pass of the hand- er, paw, I found that my ears had shifted back on my head and had reshaped and expanded into half-moons, and fine whiskers stuck out from my muzzle. With a further sweep, I felt a long, bony, fur-covered appendage sticking out from the base of my spine.
"I... I'm..." I stuttered, blinking to moisten my wide eyes. "I'm a... an... an-an-an-ah... an ermine!" Euphoria, astronomical joy to unheardof degrees, whirled me about its very Roche limit; any closer, and I would surely break down!
Running my hands down my chest, I shuddered out a breath of divinest passion. I could hear Scriabin's "Prometheus: Poem of Fire" ringing in my ears, with its veritably orgasmic progress towards perfection and oneness. Everything was so right, everything as it should be! I was an ermine with a human mind; both mustelid and hominid, weasel and human!
I let my legs give out beneath me. Save for the facial, epidermal, and caudal changes, the new alterations to my face, skin, and tail, my body was just the same as earlier this afternoon. I was still male, most notably. But the changes had made me into the bridge between human and animal, an "anthropomorphic animal," more commonly known on the 'net as an "anthro."
I looked over to look at my near-counterpart, but Boneflower was not in sight. Looking under the bed, among the covers, even under my pillows, all yielded nothing. Her skin was gone -- or, perhaps had merged with mine. In a highly active imagination, such is neither beyond thought nor belief.
And yet, I wondered, what if this transformation was not yet finished? What if my changes continued?
I decided to take a photo of myself at this point in my change. My silvery camera, still with film inside, sat atop the dresser beside my bed. Pity it doesn't have delayed capture, or whatever you call setting a timer on it to take a picture at a certain time. If I ever got to scan these, they would be quite the attraction amidst my Internet communities! It took more than one picture to capture my whole body. I supposed that arranging them as a mosaic would work.
Replacing the camera, I looked myself over, fondling my tail, rubbing it against my cheek. I must look so cute, I sighed mentally as I lay back on my bed.
It was at that moment that a tingling, fizzling sensation developed around my waist. I looked down, simultaneously feeling my torso stretch, attaining a more musteline physiognomy, a more weasely shape.
This tingling faded only as it arose in my arms and legs, which shrank into the shorter limbs of an ermine, my nails hardening, extending, and darkening into claws.
My word, I truly AM an ermine now! The thought was nectar to my ears. I revelled in the titillations as they departed from my newly altered limbs.
Then began the tinglings I most anticipated and dreaded. My chest prickled around my nipples, the areas rising and inflating like balloons.
I abruptly perceived what the wizard meant in saying, "Simply have someone wear it, and they're her." Clearly, the definition of "wear" was not limited to being inside the skin, as I had thought, but encompassed using her as a cape or robe as well; a sensible inclusion, but overlooked by me. And moreover, he had not mentioned the rate of metamorphosis, another neglected fact. How like him, I mused, to play upon errors in what I prize.
The latest transmutation had bequeathed me with a rather enviable bosom, though hardly grotesquely large. It was a singular display, rather an extension on a male's first taste of his femininity, but in a tangible incarnation, a physical form. And even as I marvelled at it, another, more dubious region of my body perceived the onset of those strange pins and needles. With a note of apprehension, a hint of fear, combined with massive curiosity, I sat up and watched as my groin rearranged itself, the testes shifting inward and upward, the scrotum flattening, the aroused phallus (the, um, "member") shrinking into a tiny, fleshy outgrowth, while urethra slid down the side of the shrinking organ onto the new flatness, another cave breaking off from below it and expanding, and in completion, two ridges ascending to cover these hollows -- thus forming a fine specimen of female genitalia.
With the dwindling of this, the transmogrification halted. I stared for a few seconds at this, my new self, trying to grasp what had taken place and what it meant. Then, with a cough, I let myself fall back onto the bed.
"Whew, good 'eavens, now that wuz sum'thin'!"
I blinked, hearing the new tone and pitch my voice had attained. "Am Oi Fitch or Bownflowah? Oi shure sownd loike Bowney... but Oi'm thinkin' loike Fitch." I quite liked this voice, a fine cockney speech.
Moreover, I felt a dampness between my legs. Looking there, I reminded myself that females attain release far more easily than males. The dripping, parted lips called my mouth to them. I licked at the sweet, rich fluid, sticking my snout inside.
Once I ate my decadent fill, I grabbed a tissue from beside my bed and wiped my face. "Oi don't think Oi'll do tha' f'r a li''le woile now..." I gasped happily, and began re-making the bed, then shoved one of the blankets into a corner.
You have fur now, you won't need as many covers...
I can almost see the dear old man now, that Gyntish magicker, smirking smugly, triumphantly, and chuckling to himself at the outcome of his prank. "Be careful of what you wish for," he might say, or "The fool thinks himself to be wise, but the wise one knows himself to be a fool." Yes, most likely the latter; I always did enjoy it, a nice little way to alternately laugh at myself or console myself after doing something stupid.
The joke, however, is rather on him. While, to be sure, it's odd being Boneflower in body (and who knows? who knows, maybe a little bit in mind too), I no longer need seek the female of my dreams: for I am she.