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Contains: Male / Female -> anthro fox transformation. 18+ only.

*****

“You’re sure we’re all alone? No one’s going to interrupt us?” the woman asks, following you into your bedroom.

You shut the door behind you. “I’m sure.”

It’s nice to see the floor of your room without laundry on it; you should clean more often. Of course it’s not every night that you have strangers– especially strange women– in your bedroom, but tonight is special, and this woman is strange.

Her name is Shay. You learned that just tonight. She’s wearing a black tube top, black lipstick, and a black leather collar with a silver star. Her movements have a nervous energy, like a cat dropped in unfamiliar territory. She glances about, but her eyes always return to you.

“Go sit on the bed,” she orders. You sit on the edge, feet on the floor. “Are you ready to turn your fantasies into reality?”

You nod eagerly. Shay has a special gift. You didn’t believe her when she first messaged you, but the photographs were too real to be manipulated, and the video. . .

She reaches into her cleavage, retrieves a tiny leather pouch, and, with a flick of her wrist, sends a cloud of lavender powder billowing toward your face. It smells like saffron and alcohol. You go to wipe your face, but your arm doesn’t move. You want to ask why, but your jaw is locked. Frozen, all you can do is blink and breathe as the dust dissipates.

Shay waves her hand in front of your face and taps your forehead, confirming your paralysis. She breathes a heavy sigh of relief, and her tense muscles all at once relax. Gazing down at you, her lips hint into a smile.

The timid cat has found a mouse.

“The boy who wanted to become a sexy fox man.” Her smile widens. “We are going to have fun tonight, you and I.”

The woman surveys your bedroom. She speaks smoothly, savoring every syllable like she’s performing a monologue. “You spend a lot of time in here, don’t you? It’s cozy. Makes me want to get comfortable.”

Any anxiety you have about being paralyzed dissolves as she grips her shirt and pulls it up over her smooth stomach. Shay moves slowly, sensually, turning the simple act of disrobing into a strip tease. She sheds her shirt, leaving her bountiful breasts covered only by a minimal, red brassiere. Next she turns around and slides her jeans over her shapely hips, butt bouncing as it’s freed from its prison. She kicks off her pants and faces you, lacy panties not quite concealing the smooth, hairless curves of her sex.

“Like what you see?” Shay asks in a sultry voice. “Or would you prefer something a bit more exotic? Something like. . . this?”

Shay turns around and pushes her round bottom toward your face. One dainty hand reaches back to rub her lower back, and then, after a slight pause, you notice movement in her panties. It starts just below the waistband. A small bulge begins to form, twitching and wiggling as it grows. Your stomach jumps as you realize what you’re watching. The sight might confuse some people, but you’ve fantasized about this exact thing a thousand times before.

She’s growing a tail.

The nub sprouts quickly, filling and stretching that lacy fabric triangle.The growth snakes up and out, pushing her panties’ waistband down under its thickening base. Shay exhales and lets the sinewy length fall between her legs. It stretches toward her knees, little bumps of freshly forming vertebrae stippling the supple skin.

She bends further forward still, palms on the ground, downward dog, raising a foot inches from your face. She stretches and flexes it, and you stare, amazed, as it takes on an inhuman shape. You eagerly anticipate each incoming change: the lengthening of the arch, the thickening of toes, the swelling of pads, the curling of the nails. Every aspect is precisely on-script, and the show ends with you staring at a hairless paw.

The paw is lowered, and you see her other foot has changed to match. Her naked tail sways back and forth, giving glimpses of more movement in your guest’s panties. A subtle triangle swells under the silky fabric. The gap between her thighs fills with her freshly plump pussy, and a subtly shadowed divot signals her shifting sex’s teardrop shape.

The witch turns to face you. She presses a fingertip against your lips and drags it sensually down your front, bringing it to rest on your jeans and the aching bulge within. She smiles showing pointing teeth as she unbuttons your pants and opens your fly, her forming claws lightly tinkling against the metal zipper. She slides a hand inside, over your underwear, and gives your straining penis a single stroke and a gentle grip before withdrawing.

“I must admit, you aren’t what I was picturing when we had those. . . conversations online. You’re rather plain-looking. Just a normal everyday guy,” she says as she tugs her ears into triangular points. “Luckily, in my line of work, the way you look at the start hardly matters.”

With that, she opens her mouth, inserts denizli escort her fingertips, and hooks them behind her teeth. Then, with a firm and steady pull, she starts to reshape her skull, drawing her jaws forward into the beginnings of a muzzle. Her other hand molds the rest of her head to match, compressing her forehead and widening the bridge of her nose. For a moment, she is hideous, sporting the uncanny in-between face you’ve seen online, drawn by the artists you tend to avoid. But it’s gone the moment she finishes her muzzle. Soon you’re staring at a fox’s face, albeit a hairless and human-sized one. Her eyes change from brown to greenish-yellow with a single fluttering blink.

Her hands drop to her sides, and she pants, flat tongue peeking from her new maw. “The face is always the hardest part.”

Her voice is not so different, less sinusy now that she’s opened her nose by molding it into a moist black snout. Her animal face looks surprisingly natural forming words, the way her lips move, the way her emotions come across in the rising and wrinkling of her brow.

Still, she’s not quite beautiful, that lady-skinned fox. She has freckles instead of whiskers, a pink blush instead of orange flamboyance, blonde curls instead of a white collar. Without fur, the shapes are as wrong as a hairless cat’s.

“Now to finish up.”

Shay presses her fingertips to the tip of her nose and drags them up her muzzle, leaving trails of fresh, rust-colored fur in their wake. You don’t see it growing; it flows from her fingers fully formed. Delicate filaments near her lips cascade into full fluff around her cheeks. She paints it on like an artist. Her palm is the mop brush, laying down a lustrous coat. Her dark claws are the riggers, pointing fine details like whiskers and trim. Always her hands move with the grain, gracefully petting on a pelt.

It’s something like watching a woman shower, you think, seeing her stroke her hands across her body, lathering a layer of fur instead of soap. She props each foot upon the bed and pulls on orange and white fur stockings topped with black toe-tips. Her tail is the last to get its coat. She makes an O with her fingers around its base and slowly draws her hand down its length, long, fluffy fur popping free as she goes.

Hairs poke through the fabric of her undies. She adjusts them, taking an extra moment to touch a curious finger to her altered mound.

“That’s better,” she says, turning towards your mirror and posing like she’s trying on a new dress. “Not bad.” She turns and cranes her neck to examine her tail. “Not bad at all.”

She’s a real-life anthro vixen, formative furry fetish fuel in the flesh. Your heart pounds as she pads across the carpet with sensual, digitigrade steps. You want to touch her, to run your fingers through her fur, to wrap your arms around her and feel her tail flick against your thighs, but you still can’t move a muscle. It’s a cruelty, to be close enough to reach the woman of your fantasies but unable to move your arms.

She spins slowly. “Now I suit your tastes.” She looks at you and licks her lips. “I spent a lot of time looking through your favorites online.”

Hearing someone speak about that part of your life in-person makes your skin crawl.

“It was full of people transforming into foxes and wolves. Not a lot of variety. Other species don’t quite do it for you? You know, you can get a pair of these on any model.”

She reaches behind her back, unclasps her bra, and lowers it from her breasts. Two dark nipples peer out from the fluffy white fur.

“Maybe. . .” she mumbles to herself, cupping her mounds and hefting them gently and dropping them. When they settle, they’re ever-so-slightly bigger. It’s less than a single cup size difference, but she seems satisfied. “There.”

She looks down at you as if waiting for a reaction, then chuckles. “Look at me, almost naked, and you’re still fully dressed. Let’s fix that.”

She bends and tugs off your socks, unceremoniously tossing them over her shoulder. She examines your feet as she brushes the extra lint from them, working a blunt claw-tip between your toes with the skillful efficiency of a tailor preparing a piece of fabric. Next, she sticks her fuzzy fingers down your waistband and pulls at your pants. You want to help her by shifting your weight, but she manages quite well on her own. She tilts your stiff body left and right, pulling your arm here, pushing your shoulder there. She’s a master butcher handling a slab of cold meat. It’s unsettling being so completely at her mercy.

In seconds, she’s pulled your pants and underwear past your butt cheeks. Then it’s tug tug tug, and you’re completely naked from the waist down. Your penis, still erect, stands proudly in front of your t-shirt. You and the witch both examine your freshly uncovered member, and you begin to feel self-conscious. Your dick is average. Your legs are average. Even your dusting of wiry human body anal porno hairs is average. Under the gaze of the vixen sex-goddess, average feels inadequate.

But the witch’s muzzle doesn’t show a single sign of disappointment. Her eyes aren’t judging; they’re measuring. They’re soaking in every freckle, curve, and wrinkle.

“You’re a perfect canvas,” she concludes. “I can’t wait to shape you. I have so many ideas!” She tilts her head and touches your skin, tracing the outlines of the muscles underneath. She spreads your legs to get a good, close look at your crotch. Gently, she cups your balls, little hairs on her palm tickling against the sensitive skin. Her other hand wraps around your penis and strokes slowly– teasingly, painfully slowly.

“Yes, yes,” she whispers as a droplet of precum forms at the tip of your dick. “You’re going to love it.”

She gives your penis another pair of charitable strokes, then stands.

“Now where were we?” Her fingers slide southward through her fur, leaving little trails behind. “I know you prefer human pussies,” she says, hand gliding into her panties, “but I couldn’t resist. You’ll like this one too. I promise.”

Shay pulls her panties past her knees and steps out of them. Now completely naked, she looks to you like a model, one that you’ve seen drawn countless times but never had the pleasure of meeting. Nothing but the very hint of dark, sensitive flesh is visible between her legs, but it’s there.

“Want to see?” she asks, turning around once again. She bends over but keeps her fluffy white-tipped tail lowered, showing her curvaceous ass but blocking the view of her most private parts. She traces its tip up your chest, chin, lips, nose, and beyond until It reaches a critical balance point and flops up onto her back, curling like a husky’s.

Now you can see everything. Between that pair of perfectly plump butt cheeks, nestled in the fur, is the shadow of her puckered rosebud. She flicks her tail, and its dark, wrinkled skin flexes from the motion, muscles and sinews all subtly connected. Your gaze drops lower, between her fuzzy cheeks, down to her exposed sex. It’s less bestial than you feared, but its puffy, charcoal-black lips are certainly not human. The hood of her clit protrudes in a swollen, rubbery point. In the place of inner labia, a line of hot pink flesh lays enticingly between her swollen lips.

“I’m ready for you,” she says, turning to face you. “But you’re not ready for me. I don’t need a lover. I need a mate.” She looks at you like a sculptor looks at a featureless block of clay, focusing past you, within you, ignoring pieces of you, seeing your potential.

“Let’s get you on all fours. That’s a fitting pose for a fox.” She climbs onto the bed and starts to reposition you with surprising strength.

“Do you remember the first transformation picture you ever saw? What was it like? It must have been a profound, magical moment, judging from your favorites gallery. Does it still summon that same magic after all these years?

“I suppose if it did, you wouldn’t have risked inviting me over. You don’t know anything about me! I could be dangerous. You knew the risks, but you’re desperate. Desperate to revive the magic.”

She moves you like a yoga coach, curling your fingertips over the edge of the bed and raising your chin so you’re looking forward. Your back is relaxed and curved, exposed hindquarters high in the air behind you.

“There’s apprehension in your eyes. Did I scare you? Don’t worry, I’m not cruel. I’ll put the magic back into your fantasies. I’ll give you the knotted fox cock you’ve always dreamed of. I promise.” She winks and climbs onto the bed, tail sashaying excitedly behind her.

“This paralysis charm is very fragile. My magic will wash it away, one body part at a time.” Her eyes dance over your body. “Let’s start by giving you a tail to wave around.”

The bed shifts under her weight as she crawls around to your backside. She places her palms on your ass cheeks and runs her cold padded fingers up your hips and back down your spine. A shuddering tingling sensation blooms around her touch. It’s more than your hairs standing on end. It’s her magic.

The buzzing intensifies as she massages the base of your spine, growing into a white-hot energy focused on the tip of your coccyx. Then you feel it. Growth. You’ve imagined it a thousand times before, but this time it’s real. It’s the relief of stretching stiff muscles. New vertebrae pop like knuckles as they form. Soon you feel something brushing against the top of your crack, and your crack brushing against your. . . your tail.

“I love growing tails,” comes Shay’s voice behind you. “You’ve always wanted one. I bet you’ve even worn a fake one before, hoping it would be like the real deal. Of course it wasn’t. You couldn’t feel it. You couldn’t move it.”

You wag your tail, testing the motion, excited as a puppy. It thwaps against your hips and butt. Her fingers are porno seyret still coaxing growth from its base, and it’s getting heavy. You raise it up and brush its naked length against her fuzzy arms, trying to curl it around her wrist in thanks. If your body weren’t frozen, you’d tackle her with gratitude.

The vixen giggles. “Easy there! I know you’re eager, but it’s harder when you move. You don’t want me to mess up, do you?”

She grabs a hold of your tail. You try to relax, but you have so much energy it writhes like a snake in her grasp. She pulls, drawing the length out as if it’s always been inside of you, curled up and hidden, and she’s simply pulling it free into the open air. The touch of her furred fingers feels natural against your new limb. It feels as right and real as her fox-mouth looks when she speaks. You’re being made whole. It’s an amputation in reverse.

She releases your new limb, and it flops onto the sheets between your knees, twitching. Its fleshy base lays between your butt cheeks, resting against your taint, brushing against your balls. You can’t wait until it’s covered in a thick coat of bushy, fur.

The witch examines her handiwork. “That will do for now.”

You try to raise your tail, but it’s heavier than you expect. It flops. It flicks. The muscles down its length are too weak to lift its weight with great precision. Most of the strength is right at its base. You flex that new knot of muscle, and it jumps to the right, whip tip stinging the bottom of your ribs. That was unexpected.

You’re so absorbed testing your tail, the vixen surprises you when she pops back into view. She grins with pointed teeth as she inspects your face.

“Let’s do your ears next. You want pointed, foxy ears, don’t you?”

She pinches the tips of your ears and pulls. The pressure of her fingertips borders on painful as her magic flows into them.

“I wish you had a mirror to look in, but you’ve seen a thousand drawings of fox-men with triangle ears atop their heads. Picture it inside your mind. Envision me reshaping your silly, human semi-circles into sturdy, noble points.”

Your imagination goes to work. You picture her tugging your ears up toward the ceiling, forming points. But that isn’t what you feel. Instead, she pulls them out away from your head. They grow and grow as she smoothes the convolutions from their insides, longer, wider, larger. Then she ever-so-carefully pushes her claw tips into your ear canals, opening them into spacious channels. Her other fingers massage the surrounding scalp, working dormant muscles to prominence.

“How many thousands of drawings of people turning into foxes have you seen anyway? It’s like you found a TV show that you liked, and you’ve been watching reruns ever since. Doesn’t it get boring? You stay inside your comfort zone, stick to your tags, and know the ending to each story before you’ve read the first word. Now, let’s see. . .”

She withdraws her hands and looks at your face, beaming. “You’re becoming such a handsome, vulpine boy.”

You test your ears, trying to fold them back or raise them to attention. You can, but each motion comes with an unexpected wobble, a little extra flop. When you relax, they hang heavily on either side of your head, sticking straight out. You wonder if their position seems strange because she hasn’t yet reshaped your skull.

The witch jumps onto the bed and scurries back to your behind. “Time to do something about these boring human feet,” she says, gripping your right foot. Her thumb-pads push into your arch, and her magic tingles through your bones. She pulls it like a slab of taffy, huffing and straining as she draws it long and narrow. Next she extends your ankle, pointing your elongated foot so the natural way to stand is on your tip-toes. She squeezes the fatty pad of your heel, and it melts away until there’s nothing left but a bony angle.

Her sculpting hands grab your toes next, and your heart leaps. You can’t wait to feel them swell into padded, vulpine digits. She clasps them in two bundles, the three smaller toes in one hand and the larger two in the other. Then she begins to squeeze, and as her grip tightens, the pins-and-needles heat of her magic builds and builds. The sensations from each individual toe blur away, and when her hand withdraws, they feel numb. You wonder, is that what it feels like to grow a fox’s paw?

You try to wiggle your toes, but it’s all wrong. You can stretch them apart, but it feels different. It’s like she’s squeezed your foot into a too-tight, two-toed shoe. You hear a faint clicking sound as you flex your altered feet. Your ears swivel back to catch the noise, flopping heavily as they do. Growing nervous, you try to point them forward only to have them swing forward and flap against your eyes. You blink reflexively just in time to spare yourself some pain.

Something’s very wrong here. Your ears aren’t fox ears. Your foot isn’t a paw. Everything feels wrong. Everything moves wrong.

“One paw down, one to go!”

Your heartbeat quickens as you feel the witch’s cold fingers wrap around your other foot. She’s lying to you! What is she doing? You want to scream and demand answers, but all you can do is flail your tail and flop your ears and click your toes in panic.

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