Originally Published Spring 2018
A small foxgirl feels like being bigger after being taunted by some other fey creatures. She makes her way to a large gathering of people (some sort of club) and starts taking things from them. Things like curves, height, a little bit of strength. Something she doesn’t know she’s taking though is a part of everyone’s sex drive and personality, making her much more confident than before.
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Okay, so it’s not fair. I know that, I get it. But let’s be real-are we really any different?
People like to pretend they’re original. That we’re all some unique star-child born with an amazing destiny. They do this through sub-culture, through fashion, all these things part of a larger whole. The reality is, we’re composites. Little tiny cuts and swaths of all these things that define us. Mixed and matched into a mosiac of being, jumbled shapes that stand upright and proud.
These little tiles, the scraps of selves that say “This is me, and I am unique”. But they’re not. None of us are, really. We’re borrowed parts thrice over. Hey, it’s okay-really. Don’t give me that look. There’s a point to this. You’ve just got to let me get there.
We’re borrowed parts-but we get to choose those parts, don’t we? All the one liners, the mannerisms borrowed from the silver screen. All the in jokes with friends, the memories that make and break. We, ultimately, make the choice. It might be out of want-but it’s just as often out of need. A need to belong, a need to be.
That’s what happened to me.
You’ve got to understand, I wasn’t like this. Once. I was typical-well, as typical as my kind can be. Aside from having to find pants that accomodate tails, life was normal. I’ve never been one for causing trouble. It just seemed so exhausting while trying to live, you know? But all my friends, gods. They teased me endlessly about it.
“Hah, Rara can’t even nick something! Not with those skinny twig arms!”
That was the popular one. Meaning it stung the most. I mean, I could ignore it sometimes. Take this jumbling mass of parts and smile. But then they’d reach out, and they’d pinch me. Right at the hips, giggling about how they felt bone. How small my breasts were. How flat my ass was.
The thing is, we make the choice for what we are. But sometimes, people don’t agree. Even if it suits us, even if we’re happy. I guess in a way that’s why they do it-so we can be just as miserable as they are.
So.
I made a choice. A new one.
I decided I was sick and fucking tired of being “rara the twig”, “rara the kiddy-kit”. Nicking and pranking seemed exhausting, but just breathing another day in this body? I couldn’t do it. Just the thought made the veins on my temple pop. So I made a decision, and then I made a plan.
Nicking and pranking, it’s all about opportunity. You don’t plan some elaborate heist. It’s a waste of time, energy. No, what you do instead is scout. You spend five minutes on google tracking down a club, a party. Then you go. You have a drink, dance a bit. Tuck your tail if need be. Then you do what comes natural.
Maybe the next day, people feel a little funny. Something’s off, something’s missing. But it doesn’t matter. They shrug it off, you jiggle on. Everyone trots away happy. At least, that’s how it’s supposed to go. You nick, you trick, and you laugh it off with your new parts. The new you.
Only the thing is, scouting? It doesn’t account for the long term. Sure, it’s the most practical option. But then it’s a week after, right? These new parts, these aspects you so carefully nicked-they’re bursting at the seams.
Which brings us to here. To now. Me, and you. I already told you-don’t give me that look. It just makes me want to nick it.
I used to not be this way. Seriously, I didn’t. Then I went to a halloween party. A swingers event, but I didn’t know. Not until I was already there, the lot of them inside me. Clasping, squeezing. Grunting and cooing as I swelled in their hands, taking every little part of them.
They had no idea. None.
The news called it the strangest case of mass dehydration they’ve ever seen. Blamed it on bad ecstasy, on speed. The few that said there was a girl that survived, they got squelched. My sisters saw to that.
They stopped teasing me after. Stopped all the pet names, the pinching and the groping. They didn’t have a real reason to, not anymore.
I guess I nicked that too.
But like I said-I didn’t plan for the long term. Because if I had, you’d not be suffocating beneath my thighs, would you? Your cock hard, throbbing against my warmth.
This isn’t like me, I swear.
But it’s like them-and they love boys like you.