Red Revision
The writer pushed the door shut behind him as he walked into his apartment. He flippantly discarded his tie and tag, articles necessary for his day-to-day job. Now, though, he was free of it and thus allowed to pretend that writing was his primary profession and the other mundane one merely a means to an end.
It was an acknowledged lie. The truth was he would never make a clean cent off his works and he knew why. As an artist, he, of course, had many great doubts on his skill and talent. However, such uncertainty was not why he would never be published. He could write well enough and some sympathetic souls even told him so, sometimes. The reason was a singular fixation that kept him from the creation of accepted art.
He sighed and kicked off his shoes, leaving them at his apartment door. It was a habit born from childhood and it was silly, really, because his mother and the world at large would never see the messes he would make here. Still, it was easier to abide with tradition than deviate too much and contribute to what could easily become a tumultuous life.
His shoes stowed, the writer smiled, an expression that immediately fell into a frown when his glasses fell down his nose. Scowling, he pushed them back up and then blinked, suddenly mystified.
There it was, a single thought slowly taking hold. It had pushed incessantly at his mind while at work, but he had managed to fend it off until he could ponder it fully, elsewhere. After all, it was an abnormal thought, one that could only be fully examined in a space safe from reality. Then again, it was not just a thought either; it was an odd obsession that had again, as it had before, wedged itself into his mind. There would only be one way to rid himself of it. He would have to write it out and be done with it for the time being.
Even as he made his way further into his home, the writer knew this was a lie. Obsessions could not be driven out and did not simply die. This obsession was stronger than most and puzzlingly so. Was its strength derived from its unknown origins? Did its persistence prey on his crass creativity? There was no way to know. Past ponderings had led nowhere and current conversations with others proved pointless. How could he explain the crimson connection if he did not fully understand it himself? It was concerned with change and, very fittingly, evolved from episode to episode though there was some reasonable recursion.
The writer arrived at his study. He winced when the door creaked upon opening. He meant to oil it, something he always neglected to do even if he did visit this room nearly everyday. He might have left and done so now had this obsession not driven him into the room.
He stooped upon entering, the ceiling a little lower than his current height. Inside the room was a small desk with a single drawer upon which rested a computer and its essential accessories. There was a wooden chair, too. He pulled it out from under the desk and sat, staring into the computer's monitor.
The screen showed its screensaver, a first person perspective of the viewer wandering through a maze whose walls were made up of red bricks, the floor grey and tiled. Whoever was truly navigating the maze was terrifically terrible at it, turning into dead ends and pointless areas they had explored before whenever they got the opportunity. The writer watched the screensaver, vaguely wondering whether there was something to be learned from the meandering maze and its obtuse explorer.
The writer's watch was abruptly ended with a sudden sound, the clacking of claws upon the keyboard. He blinked and looked down, but there was nothing there and his hands were in his lap. He shrugged and hunched forward, one hand grabbing and wiggling the mouse while his other positioned itself along the keyboard. In an instant, the screensaver was banished and he was greeted by his blue desktop and the small assortment of icons upon it. He immediately opened a new document and moved his other hand to aid in typing when he realized he just did not know what to write. He stared at the blank document and sighed. The obsession pressed, but there was nothing there, just a disconnect between mind and fingers.
The writer scowled, his gaze turning away from the document and to the other icons at the bottom of the screen. He clicked one and immediately closed it. There had been a couple of hundred messages on the IRC since he had left from work and he was not in the right mindset to sift through them all and understand the intricacies of interactions. A visit to his instant messenger showed that a recognizable ratty rodent had messaged him in an attempt to spark a conversation, one he could not rightfully return at present much as he would like to talk to a friend. Sighing, he closed the messenger too. He could not converse with false men, racketeering raccoons, sordid saints, or seductive succubi at the moment. He needed to write, to relieve the gnawing at his mind. Unfortunately, he could not accomplish that at the moment. He needed something to shape his thoughts, to get the wheels of his manic mind turning. Staring at the screen in search of words would prove fruitless. He would need to walk before he wrote.
The writer left the study, leaving the creaking door behind him open. He donned his jacket and shoes he had shed only a few minutes ago, before departing his apartment and setting off into the city.
Through his walk, the writer found the city singularly silent and sleepy. For that, he was grateful. The merchants who offered objects modern, Mythical, or mystical were closed, the First Light Hotel had no vacancy, the posters for Raymond Rodger's latest blockbuster action-adventure flick had been torn down, and many restaurants doors were closed, the season's cold disallowing patrons to enjoy the outdoors. It was truly perfect. The only others that stalked the streets were like him, or so he supposed; that is, entrenched within the fractured fiction of their minds.
Shortly, the writer came upon a bridge. As was his custom during these walks, he looked over the edge of the bridge and peered into the moonlit waters. He saw the reflection of his silhouette and the bridge below, before there was a flash of red and a shimmer of scales where he was meant to be, and then his mirror peer was once more his. He squinted at the reflection and searched the waters for what must have been his imagination. He shook his head and turned away, wincing as his stomach rumbled. He was close to figuring what he might write, but he could not write at all if hunger was upon his mind, one of the few factors that could push away the obsession, if only momentarily.
The writer walked back to his apartment, his mind still working all the while. He was even closer now. The problem was repetition. Reasonable recursion was one thing, but an uncreative copy was another. He had written this so many times already; how could he do it again? There were only so many words in the world and only so many ways to write about lusty lizard ladies.
He entered his apartment and kept his shoes on this time. Something told him he might need another post dinner walk, either closer to the water or as far away from it as he could be.
Whatever the case, he walked towards the refrigerator and opened it. Suddenly the lights in his kitchen flickered off though his fridge still cast its bright yellow glow. He looked quizzically towards his kitchen light, intent on closing the fridge and seeing what was the matter when he saw the shape of the shadow the lone light cast. The silhouette's tail twitched, its tongue flickering, shadowy snout opening up into a sardonic smile. The writer tilted his head, then the lights were on again and the shadow was gone. He took a deep breath and shook his head. He gathered his meager meal from the fridge and wondered what it meant that his mania was made material. Was he on the edge of sanity or revelation?
He ate slowly and surely, his mind working faster than his mouth. The taste and texture of his food hardly registered. Instead, pressing thoughts, one after the other, piled up and pressured his mind. He sifted through thoughts while he mildly picked at his beans. Most of the ideas were useless, but a few were essential. They were sensations and sayings, options and obstacles, characters, choices, and, most importantly, changes. Somehow they all came together, not so neat, not so orderly, but well enough to write. There was just one aspect missing: names. The writer chuckled. There was a certain magic to names. Luckily, he might need only one, maybe two, as often was the case with these sort of stories.
Before he could begin on the name game, there was an eerie, familiar creak followed by a click of claws. The writer stood and pushed his food away, his stomach satiated even if his mind was not. He raced towards his study and found the door curiously closed. It was no matter. The hinges creaked again when he flung it open and stepped inside. The room was empty of course, why wouldn't it be? No, that wasn't right either. There was something else in this room: his obsession.
He took a seat and looked to the monitor. The maze was there again and the explorer, him he supposed, was having no more success. The view turned and twisted as the explorer went all the wrong ways, rounding corners and twisting turns, forever in pursuit of her; her red sinuous tail the only part of her he ever saw because she was always one step ahead of him, one step--
He shook his head and wiggled the mouse, dispelling the screensaver. Now, the document stared back at him, the whiteness of its blank page inviting him to fully fill it. He was about to begin when he saw a notification in a tab he had neglected to close. He had received mail to his more dubious address. Excitement welled up as he saw whom it was from and what it contained. It was finally finished! Finished and still he had to begin and yet--
The writer clicked to download the attachment. He cursed the slow connection and prayed that no one would call between now and the download's completion, lest it be lost. Worse than worry was the pulsing in his mind, his obsession's need to be fulfilled pulling his attention back to the blank document. Already finer details of his freshly formed story were fading, his distraction not without cost.
Finally he could stand it no longer. The image finished and opened, revealing a crimson display of her lounging, lizardlike, tail lifted and snout smiling sardonically. She had come out quite close to how he had imagined, and though he wanted to examine it longer, he regretfully closed it. He would have a look later when all this was done and images, not words, would be of utmost interest. For now he had to start, he had to finish.
The writer sighed, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Usually he might have listened to some music but the rhythm of words would suffice. After another deep breath, his eyes opened, his fingers flew to the keyboard, and he began to write.
He typed as quickly as he could, but he could not meet the measure of the maelstrom within his mind. The words flowed fast. In mere moments a world was created, a small place with even smaller people. Yet with each passing moment the world grew, thoughts and talk lending substance to space that would otherwise be confined. By his will, reality reshaped.
There were mistakes, of course. Many, many mistakes that were nevertheless unavoidable and there would always be time for edits later. Still, the writer hissed in displeasure but continued on, claws clacking away as--
The writer paused,
Claws?
He tore his gaze away from the screen and looked towards the keyboard. He blinked because of what he saw: fuzzy, indistinct shapes thanks to his glasses having traveled down to the bridge of his nose. He pulled one hand away and pushed the glasses back and then paused once more. His hands were clawed, tipped with talons and there were traces of crimson along his palm.
The writer stuttered and stood. With his palms facing upwards, he watched his hands and waited. He was sure that what he saw was but a product of his mind, just like the sights before, such as the trace of her tail and vaguely serpentlike silhouette. His conviction was shattered when cool crimson scales ran up his palms to his arms, a race of red that defied reality. In that moment he felt what he had written so much about in his stories where others had changed:
Fear.
Initially, the instinct to fight won out. In a frenzied panic his talons tore at the spread of scales. A few ripped painfully away, but they were rapidly replaced and still they continued to spread. He stared for a few seconds longer and then the other instinct kicked in.
With a cry, the writer fled, out of the study and to... Where? He paused, unsure what to do, shivering as the scales crept past his shoulders. He could feel his hair falling away prior to the scales' spread and that made the ensuing coldness all the worse. More worrying was a shuddering in his skull, the hair there also shedding while his skin crawled and the bones began to subtly reshape. The mental ache of obsession had fled, replaced by the physicality of change. Still, questions sprang into his mind while he stood uncertainly in his hallway of why and how and why not, questions he could not answer at the moment. He could only be certain of two facts: that he was changing and that his humanity was leaving him by the moment.
He fled again and ended up in his restroom. He was unsure why he had come here when there wouldn't be much help to be found here, though in reality he feared not much of anything or anyone could help him. Perhaps it was his affinity for mirrors that had drawn him here, the same reason why he always looked into the waters under the bridge. He had to see himself, but from another perspective entirely.
The writer stared into the mirror and did not like what he saw. His fingers had altered further, elongating slightly, thinner, more slender. The crimson scales had solidified from hands to elbow, and from the digging sensation spreading up and under his sleeves, he could justly guess they were not stopping there.
His face was more disturbingly changed. His skin seemed stretched, his ears shrunken and pressed against the sides of his face, his nose nearly flat, his skin spotted with red scales, and his hair patchy and fading. It was hardly human, a mockery of his once youthful face and yet there was still very human fear etched upon it. He brought his clawed hands--his _clawed_hands!--to his face and grit his teeth together. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. This could not be.
"No," he said as if denial was enough to combat reshaping reality, as if his obsession had not already overwhelmed him. His doubt, along with a crawling cranium, encouraged repetition. "No."
He opened his eyes and found things were not the same as before--they were worse. His mouth dropped open when he saw he lacked a nose or ears and his eyes were farther apart, his glasses having fallen to his shoulders. He let them fall to the ground, instead leaning forward so that he could make out what was happening.
The writer gritted his teeth again and grimaced when he felt them sharpen, a temporary misalignment causing a few to dig into his gums. He knew it would get worse, and so it did, only when the last patch of his hair had fallen away before crimson scales subsumed the newly bald spot of skin. A second later, his jaws were forced together as they suddenly pushed out into a reptilian snout that pressed into the mirror and included two nostrils slits, a paltry replacement for his already sorry nose. The rest of his cranium followed the change so that he possessed a lizardlike head, complete with crimson scales, and a pink tongue that thinned and lengthened so that its tip just fell out of his altered muzzle.
The writer blinked and pulled his lizardy head back. For the first time in his life, he was able to see himself in perfect clarity without the need for eyewear, insignificant recompense for the persistent presence of a portion of his snout in his view and his worsened sense of smell. Still he stared and blinked a few more times, green irises shifting to a brighter hue while pupils shrank into reptilian slits and the rest of his optics took on a limey green film.
"No," he said once more, pleasantly surprised he could at least speak even if his voice had a slight hiss to it. When he tried to deny again, scales spread from his head to squeeze at his neck while those on his arms finally reached his shoulders. His claws scraped against his sink's counter as his shoulders narrowed and his neck lengthened and thickened slightly so that it had a somewhat serpentine appearance. He coughed and fell forward, claws clutching against the inside of his sink.
"No," he muttered weakly, eyes widening when he heard his own voice. The problem was that it was not his voice at all. It was far too sibilant and high in pitch, as well as slightly pathetic. His voice sounded feminine and fearful and there was reason for both. He shook his head rapidly and stared at the mirror, all too aware of what was to happen next. "No, no, no--"
The next change was rapid but not unexpected. Powerful pressure concentrated in his chest, pulling at the flesh therein and starting the spread of scales. The writer's hands went to his covered pecs and felt the flesh roil and bubble beneath, softer and more spherical by the second. In the next instant, the twin mounds exploded with growth, tearing his shirt apart with the rip of fabric and the singular sensation of the teardrop shaped growths bouncing. His reptilian muzzle fell open at the sight of them, a pair of breasts topped with puffy pink nipples that hung there and wobbled with every harried breath. The scales covered up what little of the fatty tissue was bare of their crimson color before moving down to engulf his chest. Under their spread, his stomach thinned and body hair vanished while his waist pressed in, granting him curves he had never possessed before, making the presence of his breasts all that more obvious.
"N-no!" the writer whined. He had breasts now, lovely, perky breasts that might have been appealing if they were not his and if they did not foretell further feminine alterations. His hands moved instinctively up to cup them and yet he stopped himself. He already knew they were real thanks to the room's chill stiffening his nipples into hard points, as if his breasts tendency to wobble with every movement was not reminder enough. It was at this place in time that he moved past denial and to terror again. He knew what was happening now and yet he was still unsure why.
The scales reached his hips. He squirmed and hissed when his pelvis cracked, bone grinding against bone before his hips came apart with an audible pop. Supported as he was, he still lurched and his knees bent until his hips had ceased widening, granting him conspicuously wider hips. His breasts wobbled as he pulled himself up and something dropped down, many somethings.
The writer hissed in dismay and glanced downwards just in time to see his pants drop down to his ankles, with his boxers following closely behind them, leaving his crotch exposed and allowing him to see that there were a few spots of scales here and there on his legs and that they were spreading. He hardly cared for them, for he had caught sight of his cock. The scales were already covering his crotch, each freshly sprouted scale shrinking away his masculinity. He watched wordlessly, tongue flicking in agitation. When he finally took action it was too late.
His cruel claws bit painfully and pleasurably into his shaft, the diminished length getting all the more sensitive for its smaller size. Desperately he hooked a pair of claws under his cock and cupped his balls to hold them in place but they quickly outshrank their enclosure. A moment later, his testicles tucked into where he could not see. The writer hissed as he felt his softly scaled thighs thicken and press against his hands, causing his grip on his manhood to falter. It slipped through and sank into a freshly formed slit.
"Why?" he whispered. His obsession had never truly made sense; there were connections to be made somewhere but they had never come together into a complete picture. Perhaps this apparent reshaping of reality would help him understand, or so he hoped.
There was no understanding, however, only confusion when his slit shuddered, followed by a grotesque churning of his insides that rendered him just as female on the inside as the outside. His claws brushed briefly across it, eliciting a shiver from him before he pulled them away. At once there was coldness in his crotch, thanks to its apparent emptiness, yet a subtle warmth grew as his slit developed into a complete cleft, the flower of womanhood complete with two moist pussylips and a small, swollen clit. He... She stared down past her snout and the valley between her softly swaying breasts, down to her crotch where her scaled slit resided. There was no question about it. She was female now and that much closer to being what she was not, becoming the subject of her fixation, a terrible truth she had trouble taking in stride but was becoming numb to.
This time when more changes occurred, she did not question, nor deny, nor did she accept them. She merely watched and felt, wincing only slightly as her scaled toes pressed together tightly within her shoes, five toes merging into three and what remained curling and pushing out into claws. For a moment they merely pressed against her shoes. She shed her shredded shoes and socks quickly before another tear resounded that echoed through the enclosed space as her claws grew to full length. Afterwards, her heels tilted upwards and her legs cracked, her stance permanently shifted to a digitigrade configuration. She stumbled back, breasts bobbing, and tripped against the bathtub. She fell with a screech, her posterior plumping so that she landed onto her more padded rear. Her now fully scaled lengthy legs hung over the tub's outermost side while she held onto the innermost with her claws, her breasts hanging away from each other on either side of her chest.
The writer let out a harried breath and hoped it was all over. One final change made itself quickly known, however, as a nub pressed itself out from the base of her spine. She sat up slightly and disturbed her unrestrained breasts once again as the tail quickly extended, growing longer and thicker until it was nearly as long as she was high, so that she might have stability she had lacked before. Then, it was finally over.
In reality, it had just begun. The newly minted lizard lady breathed evenly until her rapidly beating heart finally returned to a more soothing speed. She blinked and looked down at herself.
Situated as she was, she could nearly see her whole form. Her body was completely covered with red scales and bereft of human hair or skin. The claws on her feet and hands were a pure white and seemed sharp enough to cut through her previously softer skin. Her form was lithe and slender. She still had muscles but they were not so apparent under her crimson hide, even if her busty bosom and wide hips were. It was impossible not to catch glances of her bust from time to time, but she avoided gazing at her smooth, feminine crotch as she surveyed herself, the aching emptiness down below all too much a reminder of what was no longer there. She glanced over her shoulder and saw her plump rear and tail, a twitching, unknown entity. Lastly, a portion of her reptilian muzzle remained eternally in her view and her tongue flicked out from time to time, giving her a taste of the air and her own emotions.
Many feelings churned through her belly, making it impossible to concentrate on one. This remained true for a time as she stared blankly at the porcelain surface of the tub between her legs until her gaze suddenly dropped and she was now looking at her crotch. The sight of her puffy pussy and her slightly spread netherlips separated one emotion from the others--lust. It was truly surprising, an unexpected occurrence in a time of terror and uncertainty. Still, in the mix was curiosity as well. What she had now was hers and curiosity dictated that she feel her form to its fullest even if only to distract her mind from the real issues at hand.
Thus, the writer reached for her breasts--her breasts. It was an odd thought, one she had never thought to have herself, yet had forced upon others. Still, they were most assuredly there and as she cupped them, she felt their weight and observed their size. She craned her extended neck, dipped her snout between them, and wondered how large they truly were. Whatever their official size, they were too large, for she should not even have them in the first place Like so many other details about her altered body.
She whimpered and closed her eyes, trying to fight against the founded fear within. Impulsively her claws closed against her breasts, squeezing and caressing at the softly scaled flesh. Her eyes flew open at the singular sensations this awoke, a pleasurable tingle that went right down below. Again she squeezed, eliciting a twitch of her tail and a hissy moan that caused her perpetually red visage to flush with embarrassment. It was working, her growing arousal pushing away her trepidation if only temporarily. Mere fondling of herself would not be enough. She would have to do more; and so her gaze fell to her puffy pussy.
The lizard released one breast and let the hand snake down to her thighs, but no further. She let it rest there, afraid to move forward. She stared at the alien apparatus and was unsure what to do. Her pussylips were already slightly spread apart, wet and wanting. Absentmindedly she lifted her breast and tilted her head downwards. Her tongue sprang out of her mouth and before she even knew what she was doing, the prehensile protrusion wrapped around her puffy areola and licked at its stiff, pink point. She shuddered with arousal, her claws abruptly jumping to her pussy and spreading her feminine lips further apart still. Her tongue took another lick at her nipple and then she could take it no more, her anxiety and apprehension finally matched by her arousal. Two of her claws dug into her spread sex and what they discovered inside was wonderful. Her feminine folds were hot and inviting, accepting of her eager intrusion. Before her claws had barely made it in, they were already slick with her juices. She gasped and hissed while her pussy pulsed, inner passage clamping down on her claws. At the same time, she squeezed at her breast above, enhancing her excitement. She hissed and moaned, sounding very much like a lusty lizard lady, not that it concerned her. What mattered was that it distracted her from her current state of mind and, strangely enough, her body as well.
She panted, her breathing becoming faster and faster as her claws dug in further and further into her scaled slit, hips bucking as her passage demanded more and more. Abruptly she twisted her claws within her passage and pressed another claw inside, aiming for the top. She hissed a squeal when it came into contact with her nubby clit, the sudden spike of bliss nearly proving too much for her and causing the claws on her feet to clench and scratch at the tub's surface. It only took another prod and poke for her mind to finally detach from her worrisome emotions and focus solely on the impending climax. This disconnect proved beneficial for her crude clawing as the reservations keeping her from clawing and caressing at her breast fled. She probed and plumbed her passage until all but one claw sunk in. In addition, she pressed one breast against the other while her tongue alternated between sensually licking at her pert nipples.
Finally, she reached her peak. With a screech, she climaxed, her back and tail stiffening as warm wetness slid down her crimson thighs. Her head fell back, tongue lolling out while her arms relaxed and fell by her side. She breathed raggedly, her breasts wobbling with each ragged intake of air. Whilst her body quivered from her orgasm, her mind relaxed, all thoughts and fears placated by pleasure.
Of course, her peak only lasted for so long. Slowly, but surely, her mind began to descend from the purity of base bliss until her breathing was calm while she was not. She looked down at herself and at the mess she had made and felt flutters of embarrassment well up within her.
She shakily stood, wincing at the warm wetness that slid down her legs. Though she did her best to ignore the gentle throb of her nethers and the general sensual warmth of her form, it was impossible to disregard the slight scent of sex despite her weakened sense of smell. Her tail slithered behind her and occasionally bumped against the tiled wall while she tried to think of what to do. Fortunately, fear had dissipated. Unfortunately, uncertainty reigned.
Unsure what to do and slightly disgusted with herself, she turned her head towards the mirror. What she saw was the flesh of her fixation, a lusty lizard lady recently satisfied and yet distressed. While her lizardy visage was incapable of the same range of emotions as a human face, she still saw worry in how her snout was set and in those green reptilian eyes that belied the simple similarity to her old ones.
Unable to stand the sight, she turned away and clicked her claws together. She drew them apart when she felt the lewd slickness to one set. She shivered and her gaze fell past her breasts and slick sex to the whiteness of the tub below.
She blinked, mystified. A sardonic smile graced her slightly serpentine snout as her shame was swept away by the clear certainty of a single thought that had already taken hold. She stepped forward, closed the bath's curtain, and turned the shower faucet with some difficulty thanks to her hand's wetness.
A moment later, the shower sprang to life as water sprayed out of the shower head. She shivered at first due to the water's chill but it quickly warmed up. Her spirits rose with the temperature. The hot water spattered against her smooth scales, washing away what remained of her shame. She hummed and hissed happily as she reached for the soap, scrubbing it into her slick scales whilst vaguely wondering if she would retain the soap's sweet scent. When she reached her thighs she dropped the soaps and shed the suds from her claws before placing them at her feminine folds. She was about press in again when a sudden thought struck her.
She looked over her shoulder and snatched for her tail. Somehow she caught its trailing tip. She hissed in pleasant surprise and tugged the appendage closer to her, hugging it and feeling its length and thickness for the first time. Her grin grew when she thought of what she could do with both of those traits...
She tucked her tail over one leg and brought the tip close to her sex. Her nether lips quavered slightly, ready to receive. She hissed and--
Stopped. She dropped her tail and felt it thump wetly on the bath's bottom. What was she doing? She was a writer, not some lusty lizard lady... A lizard lady, sure but it did not mean she had to give in to lewd likes. She had retained her mind after all, a miracle really considering her brain had no doubt altered to fit her changed cranium.
She shook her head. Once had been enough to banish her fear and set her partially at ease with her shape; a second set of self pleasuring would only distract, but not deny from doubt. There was no reason to get lost in the mindless maze of instinct.
She shut off the shower and let the last hot drops of water drip off her scales before she stepped out. She pushed her shredded clothes to the side and procured a towel. She dried herself, a process delayed by her squeamishness in rubbing the towel against her breasts and nethers. Surprisingly, her tail took the longest to dry thanks to its twitching twists lending to occasional difficulty.
Finally she finished. She stared into the mirror one more time. There was still concern in her eyes but the rest of her appeared quite fine indeed. She gulped and wrapped the towel around her waist, leaving her breasts bare. She wished to cover herself fully, but that would have to wait. The obsession pressed and pulled her to focus elsewhere. It was not as if anyone else was going to see her naked like this, not if she could help it.
She left the bathroom behind and made her way to her study, her claws clacking against the wooden floor all the while. She stepped inside and immediately sat, brushing her tail aside and wiggling the mouse before she could even get a glance at the screensaver. The screen displayed the document she had been working on before all this had happened, before the mania had truly been made manifest.
She stared at the document and the words therein. Slowly she highlighted the text and then stared at it. After a few moments of contemplation she hit 'delete' and quickly closed the document without saving. There was nothing now.
No.
She shook her head. That was not quite true. The obsession was still there and in her, just changed. There would always be uncertainty.
While she thought of what it wanted her to do, she dragged the mouse and opened the image she had downloaded previously. She examined the image and then looked down at her chest. She was glad her breasts weren't that big, though she wouldn't mind having some of those tattoos. Or were they runes? She shrugged, closed the image, and opened a blank document once more.
The writer that was also a lizard lady peered at the empty white space. What was there to write? What did this altered obsession demand?
She blinked, understanding. She surveyed her form with its shimmer of scales and serpentine snout, feminine form somehow meshing well with scaly shape. There was doubt in the knowledge that this was not her, and yet there was certainty that it was presently her. She gulped and returned her gaze to the screen. Her claws shook even when they came upon the keyboard as her conviction waxed. She sat up straight, smiling somewhat as her chest wobbled slightly and her tail curled around a chair leg of its own accord. Her nethers, too, pulsed passively but she could attend to that later--or not. All that mattered was at this moment she was mostly naked and afraid and yet she knew what she had to do.
Finally, the writer began to write.