Meteor shower

by Tym Greene   

A couple heads out to a costume party to celebrate a big meteor shower. Little do they know that the party’s host has other plans.

“Blake, honey where’d you put my costume?” Chuck ran a hand through his hair as he rummaged through the hamper one more time.

“Oh, I returned it. I actually found this getup that’s much better.” She stepped out of the bathroom, showing off her own costume: a cheetah-print morphsuit, Ugg boots, and a torn denim jacket that looked like she’d stolen it from some biker.

The boots and jacket didn’t do much for Chuck, but the sight of his wife’s body—curvy and slender in all the right places—accentuated by the skin-tight spotty yellow and black fabric was definitely distracting, to say the least.

“I don’t know what you’re supposed to be, but I like it.”

Blake laughed and chucked him on the shoulder. “You dork, we’re gonna be a tacky couple.”

“Then why didn’t we just put rolls of duct tape on our heads?” His suggestion got him a mess of pink fluff thrown at his face. “Ufh, what’s this?”

“That’s part of your costume. Here’s the rest, go put it on, I wanna see how awful you look.”

Obligingly, Chuck took the bundle of fabric into the bathroom and put it on. Turning so he couldn’t see himself in the mirror, he pulled on the clothes his wife had likely found at the thrift store: puffy gold sandals, black pleather booty shorts (just long enough to hide the hem of his boxer briefs, but not much more than that), and a pink sweater. The last looked like it would be incredibly itchy on his bare skin, but it turned out to be soft and comfortable; even the cartoon elephant appliquéd on the front was light and flexible.

He turned back to the mirror and had to stifle a groan: he really did look tacky.

Knobbly knees and hairy legs on full display, as well as the pudge of his midriff beneath the too-short sweater. Throwing caution to the wind, he stepped out of the bathroom and struck a pose.

Blake giggled like a crazy person, circling Chuck as though she were sizing him up. “Wow, that looks worse—I mean better—than I’d expected!”

“Better? What are you talking about? We both belong in a trailer park.”

“Exactly, that’s the whole point! Oh, I almost forgot.” She grabbed something from a side table and held it up: an oversized plastic heart, split in half down the middle and tied to lengths of yarn. “We’ve got the ‘tacky’ part down, but this way it’s obvious we’re a couple too. I mean, how’ll they know otherwise?”

“Honey, you know everyone there knows we’re married, right?”

“Oh hush and put on the necklace; I’ll even let you pick which half you get to wear.”

“Gee, thanks,” he grumbled as he grabbed one of the loops and tossed it over his neck, then followed her out the door.

Terry and Ash, the party’s hosts, lived just a few blocks away, and since the forecast called for a cool evening the newly tacky couple had decided to walk. Plus, Chuck thought, futilely trying to pull his sweater down to cover a few more inches of skin, I won’t have to worry about getting too hammered to drive.

He suspected he’d feel more comfortable in his costume with a few drinks in him.

They reached the address and Blake clung to Chuck’s arm. “Look,” she exclaimed, pointing with—he noticed—long cheetah-print press-on nails, “Even his house has a costume!” Sure enough, there was a purplish light coming from the windows, and a large circle had been chalked on the sidewalk leading up to the door. As they walked over, Chuck could see that it was a diagram of the solar system—Pluto included.

A happy little leap and pirouette on that seventh circle carried him up to the front door. There he noticed more chalk marks, this time in the form of esoteric runes and symbols of the sort he’d seen in shows like Fullmetal Alchemist: squiggles, triangles, broken circles, and letters that looked like they had been conjoined. He knocked on the door, which was opened by an elephant mad scientist.

At least, that’s how he looked when silhouetted by the bright lights within. As

Chuck’s eyes adjusted, he could see that it was actually his buddy Terry, wearing a lab coat, a slathering of grey makeup, and a rubber trunk strapped to his face. The host stuck out a hand encased in a grey rubber glove. “Chuck, Blake, glad you could make it: it wouldn’t have been a proper party without you two. Hey!” he exclaimed, noticing Chuck’s sweater, “We match! Maybe we should be the couple,” he added with a saucy leer that made both guests laugh.

A hulking form loomed behind the host, growling: “You trying to shack up with someone else again, dear?” The hairy paw that descended to grip the lab coat’s shoulder turned out to belong to Ash, Terry’s husband, wearing a piecemeal bear costume. Paw gloves of cheap faux fur, a crop top Winnie the Pooh t-shirt that showed off Ash’s suitably hairy belly, a pair of round ears glued onto a head band and a spot of black makeup on his nose all added up to make him look like some sort of ursine pole dancer.

The two couples laughed as rubber glove patted hairy paw. “Naw, you know Chuck doesn’t swing that way. We were just comparing costumes. Now, come on in, the party’s already started and you’re way behind in drinks. Ash’ll get those for you, he’s our bearkeeper tonight.” Chuck could have sworn there was a blue glow—like pictures he’d seen of Cherenkov radiation—coming from the chalked letters on the door frame as Blake walked through, but shrugged it off as just his imagination, or maybe lights from other parties or a passing vehicle. Still, it didn’t stop him feeling a chill as he stepped through it himself.

Terry held up a tray as they entered, on which were arranged a few pieces of costume jewelry—a bracelet, a few rings, a small hoop that might have been a diadem, a couple of coiled necklaces—all of which had glittering greenish crystals, like quartz points that had been dipped in the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles’ ooze. “I see you’ve both got necklaces, so feel free to pick something else, but everyone’s got to wear a crystal. Party rules.”

So they shrugged and made their selections. Blake picked a faux leather cuff that looked oddly appropriate on her spotty fabric-covered arm, while Chuck decided to continue the tacky theme and selected the diadem as the least appropriate item for him to wear. Terry, he now noticed, had a matching crystal attached to the pocketwatch chain dangling from the vest he wore beneath his lab coat.

“Now that you’ve got your mood enhancers on, let’s get you those drinks.” Still playing the dutiful host, Terry ushered them into the living room where a bar had been set up. Ash’s furry paws were a blur as he handled bottles and glasses and shakers like a professional mixologist, his military dog tags—one of which had an embedded green crystal, just like the other bits of accent jewelry Terry noticed among the other guests—clinking softly as he moved.

While waiting for his drink, he looked around at the other attendees. In addition to his and Blake’s “Tacky Couple” costume and Terry’s and Ash’s beastly getup, there were some very interesting costume choices. Some, like the horse (who had clipped his glowing green earring to his floppy rubber mask) and his sexy cowboy boyfriend, were obviously couples. Others were less matchy-matchy, like the buff merman with shimmering leggings and a teal wig who was leaning very close to… I guess she’s a gorilla explorer? Chuck couldn’t help but stare as he tried to figure the combination out: the gorilla bodysuit hid her figure, all lumpy faux fur and inflexible shiny black plastic, and on top of her very human and very female head was a pith helmet with a green crystal stickpin stuck in the band.

There was also a rather prim looking lady who seemed very uncomfortable in her snug leather pants, biker jacket, and clip-on nose ring; while the man Chuck assumed was her boyfriend or husband was clearly at ease in his dog collar and spotty face paint. In all, a very motley bunch, none of whom he knew.

Still, Blake seemed to be mingling just fine, chatting with the biker and dog couple, chugging from a beer she’d obviously grabbed from the open cooler beside the bar. Now why didn’t I think of that? Chuck wondered, looking at the labels, none of which he recognized; then he turned his attention back to Ash, watching as the clumsy paw gloves deftly flipped and mixed and swirled various fluids into a glass, layering different colors as easily as if he were wearing no costume at all.

“There you go,” Ash grumbled pleasantly, handing over the martini glass with its strata of darkness, “an Ouroboros Nigredo. It’s one of my specialties.”

Chuck looked at the drink, then the barkeeper. Had he always been wearing a fake bear snout? I thought he’d just had black paint on his nose, a part of him tried to point out, but the bearman growled, showing off an impressive set of fake fangs, clearly insulted that his concoction wasn’t being drunk. Obediently, Chuck put the rim to his lips and let a small dollop of viscous liqueur flow across his tongue.

He immediately smiled, taking a bigger sip, relishing the alternating coffee and chocolate flavors, with a hint of cranberry spiking through like an assassin’s dagger. Then he blinked, feeling his head swim: clearly this was one of those drinks so overwhelming in flavor and sweetness that the drinker didn’t notice how drunk he was getting. “This is really good,” he said, raising the glass in a mock toast before Ash bent to make a drink for the cowboy. Turning back to the party, Chuck resolved to sip slowly.

Across the room, he could see Blake struggling with her necklace. The cheap plastic half-heart kept bouncing off her beer, getting wrapped around the neck of the bottle, and generally making itself a nuisance. The biker chick—Hadn’t she been skinny just a moment ago? Maybe she’s got one of those inflatable fatsuits and is slowly blowing it up as the night progresses, Chuck thought, admiring her commitment to a slow costume change like that—laughed uproariously, snorting and clapping Blake heavily on the shoulder, as though the awkwardness were the funniest thing she’d ever seen.

As he watched, Blake hissed in frustration, handed her beer to the dalmatian and with both hands lifted the necklace off. Even though the joint necklaces had been her idea in the first place, she chucked it behind her like it was a used kleenex, the glowing crystal on her leather armband flashing a green arc in Chuck’s vision. The plastic-and-yarn necklace landed square on Terry’s trunk, which seemed to be a bit longer and more securely attached to his face than when he’d opened the door.

Chuck had to giggle a little despite himself, seeing his friend stare crosseyed at the cheap jewelry that had appeared as if by magic. Then Terry shrugged and lifted the loop: instead of taking it off, he simply allowed it to slip around his neck to rest on the collar of his lab coat. Meanwhile, Chuck seemed to be feeling the effects of his drink more with each passing minute.

Perhaps it was the number of bodies in the small space—Hadn’t it seemed bigger when I arrived? I swear there was more than just a few feet between me and the ceiling…—or perhaps it was the chocolate and coffee liqueur (plus whatever absinthe or Everclear Ash had slipped in when Chuck wasn’t looking) that was making him sweat. He tugged at his sweater, which seemed to be tighter than when he’d put it on. Despite the discomfort, he had to chuckle at the thought of a Goodwill find so cheap that it would shrink while he’s wearing it. At least the bootyshorts gave him some airflow as he shifted his otherwise-bare legs and sandaled feet to catch any draft.

A noise behind him made Chuck turn around: Ash was still working on the drink for the cowboy, but had come out from behind the bar, his hulking body crouched down beneath his customer, who had both hands on the counter as he leaned forward, legs spread. At first, Chuck thought that he was witnessing the beginnings of a blowjob, but then he heard the hiss of fluid spraying into a bucket: Ash was milking the cowboy. Even as he watched, Chuck could see the formerly-fake cow tail twitch.

Taking another swig from his own drink, he stared as the cowboy’s rump swelled, gaining hefty bulk that strained the Holstein-print faux leather chaps until they were simply absorbed, the black and white blotches incorporated into his legs and thighs. Soon the cowboy costume looked much more realistic, given that he was a cow from the waist down, for now anyways. Chuck had a sneaking suspicion that the change wasn’t stopping there.

Ash had evidently harvested enough fresh milk for the moment, and he stood back up. Feeling surprise at his own lack of surprise, Chuck noticed that Ash’s whole head was now ursine: instead of fake ears and a painted nose, or even a snout prosthetic, he now looked like he was wearing part of a fursuit. His arms were thickly muscled and covered with a thatch of shaggy fur, as was the round belly threatening to rip his Winnie the Pooh crop top; Chuck could barely make out the green glow of the dog tags’ crystal in the fluffy dark brown thicket. He also noticed that he and Ash were now eye to eye, despite the facts that the bear had been more than a head taller when Chuck had joined the party, and that Ash now seemed to be even taller than he’d been initially; they both were showing off much more belly between shirt hem and waistband.

Trying to regain some composure, Chuck took another swig and turned to survey the party once more. The merman had flopped onto the couch, taking up the whole length, and still having a few feet of tail to drape over the arm rest as he ran his slender and long-fingered hands across his body. His girlfriend was sitting on the floor next to him, using her hands and feet to braid his flowing teal hair. Her face, Chuck noticed, had begun to darken, a widening nose and thickening brow framed by her still-blonde locks. It was hard to tell, with the way her feet and hands were nimbly plaiting, but there seemed to be a bit more between her legs than there had been when it was just a costume.

Meanwhile, across the room the biker chick had swollen to hoggish proportions, while her companion seemed to be getting even leaner and shorter. But the rotund biker was ignoring the spotty dog-man, instead devoting all her attention to what looked like a lean cheetah man. He was naked apart from a ratty denim jacket and leather boots, and swayed from one side to the other, brimming with energy, his muscles visibly flexing beneath his short fur, black-ringed tail lashing the air. He was lewdly groping the biker, slipping his hands under her leather jacket; Chuck could see by the light of the green-glowing crystal on the leopard’s wristband that there was nothing beneath the jacket but heavy folds of flesh and too many nipples. He counted three on the one side before the pair shifted position and blocked his view.

While the cheetah began making out with the biker—whose nose had already begun to turn up into what he suspected would be a piggish snout—Chuck was distracted by a growing ache in his feet.

He looked down…and further down still, setting aside a feeling of vertigo because there was something more important to focus on: his feet were swollen. They were also grey, and his pinkie toes didn’t seem to be in evidence. With loud snaps like gunshots, his sandals burst, finally succumbing to the strain of holding feet three sizes too big. Shaking off the remnants of gold plastic, he bent to examine the damage. While the sandals were completely destroyed—stretched out of shape by the new width of his feet and squashed by his oddly flat soles—his feet seemed unharmed.

Unharmed, but not unchanged. Attached to the ends of his legs were massive grey cylinders, with thickly-wrinkled grey skin and only four stunted toes. Even his toenails had been altered, each one now opaque and easily two inches wide. They look a bit like ivory, he thought as he straightened up unsteadily. He could still taste Ash’s Ouroboros Nigredo on his tongue, which felt heavy and somehow too big in his mouth.

He was distracted from these changes by a heavy hand sliding across the bare skin between the too-short bottom of his pink sweater and the too-low top of his bootyshorts. The thick fingers pressing into his flesh were warm, and softly leathery, like an old glove. Chuck turned and found himself facing Terry. Or, rather, facing Terry’s chest. The party’s host seemed to have undergone a growth spurt as well, and now stood a full head taller than Chuck, the top of his bald head inches from the ceiling.

The prosthetic trunk seemed to be of an even higher quality, the rubber blending smoothly into the grey-painted skin of his face, articulated and with some sort of actuator or servo setup within to allow it to move more like the real thing. Hadn’t it just been a little plastic strap-on thing earlier? Chuck wondered, remembering vaguely something that would have been well-suited for a costume shop’s dollar bin. Elephants have forty thousand muscles in their trunk…how did I know that? As he watched, the trunk reached out and pressed against his face, alleviating somewhat the sinus ache he hadn’t known he’d had.

“Terry, what’s going on?”

The taller man ignored this question, his trunk instead coiling around to pluck at the necklace resting above the lapels of his lab coat. “See, we match now.” His hand was still on Chuck’s waist, but the other one lifted Chuck’s necklace, leaving no doubt that the two half-heart pendants were indeed counterparts. For some reason, Chuck didn’t feel the need to push away the other man’s affections, allowing hands and trunk to roam where they wanted. He relished the feel of the warmth and power radiating from Terry, the way his belly strained his shirt and pushed aside the flaps of his lab coat; and there was the heat that seemed to pulse from the sizable bulge running down the left leg of his pants. Trying to break the mesmeric spell of that twitching, flexing length, Chuck glanced up, trying to spot his wife. Across the room he could see the cheetah making out with the biker hog, while the dalmatian busied himself snuffling under the cheetah’s tail.

Around them, the other party guests were getting in a similar mood: kissing, caressing, groping, and shedding of extraneous clothes. Chuck again looked at the biker, her leather vest open and showing off her hefty breasts, but for whatever reason he couldn’t get aroused at the sight. The cowboy—now more cow than boy—sidled past, showing off a particularly milfy figure and plump swaying udders, but again Chuck found his libido lacking. His attention was brought back to Terry, who had reached out to caress the cowboy’s flank as he—she?—sauntered by. The alchemist’s trunk reached out too, feeling across the still-male face’s beard as it softened and a black-and-white spotted bow tied itself around the end, matching the one that appeared just above the tassel of his tail. The trunk pulled the cowboy satyr in for a long kiss, and a pair of bovine ears flopped out from under his cowboy hat.

Even as Chuck watched, Terry’s eyes flashed at him devilishly, as though trying to say something like: “This could be you,” or possibly, “I’m cheating on you, and I know you love it.” Now why would I think that? I’m married to… A sudden gurgling, groaning sound rumbled up from his innards, and he beat a hasty retreat.

The powder room, just off the front door, had obviously been re-done from the tract house’s original half-bath. Instead it had a luxurious feel, with a high ceiling, dark purple flocked wallpaper in a regal brocade pattern, and antique-looking gold-ish fixtures. After all, a little powder room is a perfect place to splurge on decor without breaking the budget, he remembered reading in a decoration magazine. Since when do I read home improvement magazines? He looked around the little room once more, with the distinct feeling that it looked like something he’d seen in a restaurant that was trying to fancy itself up. A restaurant… or a bar.

Then he caught sight of his reflection. His belly had swelled up, destroying all the effort he’d put into situps over the past few years, and his sweater was lifted up so high above the round softness that it looked more like a tube top with sleeves. And every movement brought a fresh chorus of creaks from his pleather booty shorts, threatening to burst. His knees had followed the example of his feet, and were now big, grey, and wrinkly, oversized and clunky like something from an anime. Then he noticed just how quiet his steps were—apart from the protests of his clothes—his stumpy feet cushioned by a layer of soft skin and fat that muffled the sound and cushioned the impact of his growing weight.

He laughed at how light-footed he was, but the intake of breath was too much for the sweater’s cheap pink fabric, and with a sharp rip, a stitch popped. “Aw man,” Chuck groaned, “well, let’s see what the damage is. Maybe Terry’ll have a sewing kit I could use.”

Crossing his still-unchanged arms in front of him, Chuck grabbed the sweater’s hem, lifting it up as delicately as he could manage, given how snug it was on his bloated body. He gasped a little as it brushed over his nipples, but then an audible bwoomph drew his attention back to the mirror. Staring through his crossed arms, he could see the up-lifted sweater, the straining black pleather shorts, the Ganesha-style belly, the human thighs connected to elephantine knees…and a pair of very large breasts.

He stood there, motionless, watching as his shallow breaths lifted the latest additions to his body, their heavy mass swaying pendulously. There was no way they could have fit within the confines of his little sweater, which had been snug on him as just an average human male. Even as he watched, the skin greyed, thickening, crisscrossed by a network of fine wrinkles; the nipples darkened too, swelling until the areolae were easily five inches across, with thumb-sized teats. He touched one and immediately had to grab the sink for support, the pleasure was so knee-bucklingly intense.

The breath whistled through his nose as he steadied himself. He could smell his own sweat, and the chocolate from his drink. He could also smell something spicy, like a savory version of amarula. That’s when Chuck realized that—despite his growing arousal (especially as thoughts of Terry’s muscular trunk and thickening body crept in unbidden)—he wasn’t feeling the usual sensations. There was no pleasantly-uncomfortable straining of shaft against underwear, no turgid shifting when he flexed the muscles down there. Instead, the booty shorts seemed to be snug, too snug in front to give room for balls or shaft; What should have been causing him crippling pain as his nuts were compressed into nothingness was instead…just nothing.

But there was something there. He reached down and delicately explored the front with delicate, still-human fingers. It took him a moment to realize it, but the black pleather was alternatively creased and stretched, forming the traditional shape of a definite camel toe. Chuck’s fingertip squeaked across the taut fabric, pressing against bits he hadn’t had that morning, feeling the alien sensations as a moan welled up from his depths.

“Oh… fuck…”

A knock on the half bath’s door brought him back to his senses. He could see the sweat beading his face in the mirror, and his skin looked decidedly grey; even his nose seemed out of proportion. With mixed emotions, he realized that he was indeed changing, just as Terry had; it wasn’t the effect of the booze, nor was he just imagining it. He had a vagina, he had elephant feet, and he had big grey breasts that he doubted would fit in his petite pink sweater.

“Hey, sweetness,” a gruff bass voice called through the door, “are you planning on joining us out here? Or should we all pile in for a bathroom party?”

That can’t be Blake’s voice…can it? The vision of a leanly-buff cheetah wearing little more than Ugg boots flashed before his eyes, a cheetah wearing the same arm band his wife had put on at the beginning of the party, a cheetah who was decidedly male. But then the person outside the door shifted position, and even that slight movement betrayed the sheer mass of the body behind the voice.

That’s Terry, it’s got to be. But why is he calling me…sweetness? And why does it feel somehow right? “Uh…ok, I’ll be right out.”

He splashed water on his face, but when he blindly reached for the towel rack his hands met a metal box with a dull clunk. Squinting through one dripping eye, he could see that the fancy linens had been replaced by a paper towel dispenser. He pulled out a handful of rough brown paper and daubed at his face anyway, not at all surprised to see his reflection looking older and grayer.

As he stepped back out to the party, he felt his hips swaying as they adjusted to his new gender.

“There you are, Celine,” the other elephant in the room remarked as she rounded the corner.

Celine…not Chuck…yes, that’s my name. It felt good, hearing Terry’s deepened voice rumble out the syllables, especially when he stepped close and placed his hand on the small of her back. Somehow, in her haste to get back to the party, Celine had managed to tug her sweater back down; like magic it had stretched over her new breasts, holding them in place despite their mass.

“Okay everyone,” Terry trumpeted, getting his randy guests’ attention, “fifteen minutes until the show really starts, so grab a drink and head outside.” He turned to look down at the shorter elephant. “You sure you’ll be warm enough out there, babe?” The half-heart necklace bobbed between his thick pecs as he leaned forward, but for the life of her Celine couldn’t remember what it signified. His hand was gentle as it ran across the leathery bare midriff between the bottom of her slutty pink sweater and the pleather shorts barely containing her pachyderm posterior.

Leaning into his touch, Celine purred, “Well, as long as you’re there to keep me warm I won’t be cold.” Why did I say that? she wondered, inwardly grimacing at how cheesy the line was, and how much his presence was flustering her. After all, Terry was a well-respected alchemist, as well as a big elephant stud. She shook her head as she followed him outside: That’s just fantasy… right? Alchemy isn’t really real…

As she crossed the threshold onto the patio, she noticed that her surroundings were increasingly blurry. She could barely make out the features of the other guests—only the dalmatian’s spots (or were those the cowboy’s?) stood out in the dimness—and looking up at the sky revealed only the black velvet of a starless night. Celine turned to look back inside, thinking perhaps it was just the darkness, but the furnishings and decor of the alchemist’s living room were just as indistinct, though well-lit. Starting to panic—Am I losing my vision? Am I going blind?—she placed a hand on her chest to calm herself, and felt a line of cold metal.

Investigating further, her thick-but-nimble fingers discovered that there was now a pair of wire-rim glasses hanging from the collar of her sweater. Silly me, why would I take them off? she thought, withdrawing them and unfolding the confection of hinges and bars that allowed her to hook the lenses over her ears. The wide bridge descended across the base of her trunk and she heaved a sigh of relief as Terry’s broad lab-coated back came into focus.

His presence gave her more pleasure than she would have expected, for just a friend. But he’s more than just a friend, isn’t he, she thought with a soft self-satisfied smile. Vague remembrances of pachydermic pleasure hovered just outside her recall, leaving her with a racing pulse and clenching groin. She wondered if the other guests could smell her arousal; the dalmatian had been glancing back at her and licking his nose as though trying to get a better scent. And there had been that burly bear; she looked around, but Ash didn’t seem to have followed them outside, she couldn’t even smell his masculine scent. It was almost as though he hadn’t been at the party at all.

A heavy arm descended on her shoulders, breaking her train of thought and causing her to lean to one side where a warm thickness supported her, immobile as granite. A veil of skin partially enfolded the back of her head, reminding Celine that she was bald now, and her scalp had been getting cold in the night air. She let Terry hold her closer, enfolding her more with his body, his broad ears, his strong arms, moaning softly as his trunk found and twined with hers.

Feeling his breath and pulse pumping their disparate rhythms through that long tube of muscle, sometimes counterpoint to—and sometimes in harmony with—her own, was yet another new sensation of their altered bodies, and for a moment she couldn’t understand how humans were able to stand living with such blunt and awkward little noses. But then Terry gestured skyward and Celine followed the line of his pointing arm, seeing a green-glowing meteor just as it fizzled out in the atmosphere.

Now that she knew what she was looking for, she was able to spot the next one sooner, watch more of its track across the sky. It didn’t occur to her that the color of the meteors’ fire was the same as the glow of the crystals embedded in the “party rules” jewelry each guest was wearing, nor did she notice that the diadem encircling her skull and resting squarely on the middle of her bulbous forehead was growing warm. What she did notice was that with each meteor her loins grew warmer, her breath shorter, and her need deeper.

The trunk wrapped around her own seemed to twitch and quiver, thicker and stronger with each flex, longer with each panting breath; the arm—the thick fingernails taking on a dull pinkish sheen, like it had been a while since Celine had last visited a salon—that was pinned between them felt another source of warmth, another flexing pulsing length. “Enjoying the show?” she asked in a husky voice.

Around them, the other party guests seemed to be feeling the same wild oats, as though there’d been something in the punch, or pheromones in the air: interested remarks on the speed and brightness of the shooting stars shifted to wordless oohs and aahs as though the crowd were merely watching an average fireworks display, until finally they succumbed to their passions and devoted more attention to one another than to the sky. Cuddling up closer to Terry’s bulk, Celine watched as the party guests paired off—in one case, trioing, as the biker sow, her dalmatian pet, and an oddly familiar cheetah-man made out lewdly—and lost all interest in anything else.

“Looks like they’re really getting in the spirit of things,” Terry grumbled. He caressed Celine’s jaw with a gentle hand, lifting her gaze to meet his. The bull elephant’s eyes glowed the same green as the meteors above them, and his tusks seemed to be growing as she watched. Somehow, though, that didn’t matter much to Celine; what mattered was that he was lifting his trunk and turning his head, heavy lids drooping over those iridescent eyes, his mouth opening, revealing a thick tongue barely visible in the darkness. She wanted him, wanted nothing more than to explore his body with hers.

With a force that would have knocked down a lesser man, she threw herself at him, her own uplifted trunk wrapping around his head to pull him closer into the kiss, her ears fluttering across his cheek and the shoulder of his labcoat. She could taste the alcohol on his breath, and suspected that he could taste the coffee and cranberry and chocolate flavors of her own drink, but the fervor of his kiss proved that he didn’t mind. For the next few minutes, there was no sky, no party, no city around them; there was nothing but his lips and tongue, his trunk, his breath, his body strong and warm against hers.

He broke the kiss long enough to murmur: “Oh sweetheart, I didn’t think it’d actually work!”

Celine leaned back in his embrace, her eyes scanning his wrinkled face, blurry around the circumference of her glasses frames. “What do you mean, Terry?”

Her trunk caressed one of his floppy ears idly, as though making sure he was still real.

“This, all of this,” he threw out an arm to encompass the party, the deck, the night sky, and the meteors incandescing above them. “I’m…I’m an alchemist,” he said with a conspiratorial whisper and a glance at the other guests, who were too engrossed in their own passionate embraces to pay him any attention.

“I know, silly, and I’m… a MILF I guess? Hmm, I forgot what my costume was supposed to be.”

“No, no, I mean I’m really an alchemist. Didn’t you notice the symbols on the door? The crystals on the jewelry I gave everyone?” He tapped the diadem on Celine’s forehead with a thick finger as his trunk fished his pocket watch from its vest pocket. Both crystals were glowing green, flashing brighter and fading along with the meteors above, as though they were somehow linked.

“That’s silly, you tusk-for-brains,” Celine laughed and batted hand aside playfully. “It’s just a knickknack I got at a rummage sale for the party.” Terry blinked, obviously confused, as though trying to fit two different puzzle pieces into the same spot. “Well… I mean… That doesn’t matter. What matters is that I planned to use the meteor shower and the combined life force of my guests to tap into ancient magics and alter reality. I didn’t want to be a boring human living in Suburbia…Is that right? Is that what the country is called?”

“What’s a human?” The elephant was feeling increasingly confused, and the spark of lust was fading far too quickly. “Look, Terry, you’re cute, and you’ve got such a nice…” her hand slipped down to grope the front of his trousers for emphasis, “trunk, so why can’t we finish this discussion later, when you’ve figured things out more? Right now, I just want to enjoy the cool night air, your wrinkly skin, and these big strong…muscles.”

“You’re right, babe. You always know what’s best for me.” He didn’t talk much after that, as his mouth had found a better use for itself. The fabric of the alchemist’s pocket and the eyelids of the two elephants were sufficient to block the increasing glow coming from the crystals on both diadem and pocket watch, and the moans and grunts of their fellows drowned out any noises that might have resulted from changes to the world beyond the perimeter of the deck.

Then, above the revelers, the meteor shower reached its culmination: a final burst of green light, as dozens of extraterrestrial pebbles burned up, adding their chemistry to the air of the planet whose gravity had been so enticing. The otherworldly light faded and allowed the normal constellations their proper dominance of the sky. Below the mythological connect-the-dots game, the guests were able to catch their breaths and come to their senses.

When the green-glowing stones had climaxed, so had the watchers below. One or two had been far enough along in their passionate embraces to have fished out dick or pulled down panties, but the rest were left with quickly cooling stickiness in their trousers and the taste of satisfaction on their lips.

As though nothing untoward had happened, they stood and began shuffling back inside. None of them noticed that the suburban backyard deck was now surrounded by brick walls, nor that a barbed wire-topped chain link gate led onto a noisome alley that echoed with the roar of passing motorcycles. The house, of course, had changed as well.

Gone were the silly Halloween decorations, gone too the trappings of kitchen and living room. The glowing “mood-enhancer” crystals that Terry had scattered around his home were now mounted in brackets on the walls and in the center of the beat-up tables: normal lighting crystals, cheap and ubiquitous. A long bar ran across one side, leading back to the quick-and-dirty kitchen famous for its fifteen flavors of grease masquerading as food.

Feeling an odd compulsion that had nothing to do with the way her black leather shorts squelched against her thighs with each step, Celine trumpeted as quietly as she could to get the others’ attention. “Okay, everybody. Closing time.” She felt as though this wasn’t quite enough, given the momentousness of the evening.

Though… what’s so important about it? I mean, it’s just another Thursday… She shrugged and added: “Thanks for being such good patrons, we appreciate your business, and would be happy to call a taximeter if you’re not up to drive yourselves.”

No one took her offer, so she watched as the crowd dispersed. The muscular horse, breath still pungent from his oat beer, hitched himself to the sleek new carriage parked out front, while the cow-boy hefted his udders into the well-padded seat. Milk must pay well, Celine thought, admiring the gleaming metal and streamlined curves of the horse-drawn vehicle as much as the curves of the horse himself, especially if that cow can afford such a handsome chauffeur.

The semi-famous explorer tipped his pith-helmet to Celine as he carried his merman husband out to their own vehicle, showing off his muscular arms even despite the thick thatch of black hair that covered them. After stowing the merman in the large water tank sidecar of a car with tractor treads and streaks of mud, the gorilla explorer took his own seat. The glossy skin of his bare chest and balls looked a dingy brown in the yellow glare of the streetlight crystals (even cheaper than the plain white ones back inside), but Celine couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy for the merman, being able to cuddle up to those plump pecs with their thumb-thick nipples. Perhaps the next time they came to the bar she’d have to slip a little something in the gorilla’s drink and take him down to the basement for a little exploration of her own.

Celine was so engrossed in the rear window view of the broad back and ample rump of the gorilla explorer as his car rumbled down the block, that she almost didn’t notice the final guests preparing to leave. The trio was clustered around a heavily modified hoverbike, the design of which seemed to have been shifted in favor of more exhausts and chrome, as though someone had crashed a jet airplane into a pipe organ. The cherry red paint showed scuffs and burns, exactly what one would expect from a backstreets racer. The sow had already taken her position at the front of the bike’s long and well-worn seat, flabby forearms draped across the handlebars as she waited for her companions to mount up behind her. Celine couldn’t help but stare at the dangling cleavage, so like her own in size and heft, but also completely different: where the elephant’s were grey with darker teats and delicately-wrinkled skin, the sow’s were hairy and ruddy, and there seemed to be more pairs hidden down the front of her leather jacket.

Instead, Celine turned her attention to the two men that the sow was waiting for. The dalmatian was cute enough—for a pet—his buff body on full display given that he was naked apart from a collar with a faintly-glowing dog tag. The cheetah, on the other hand, was worth her lewd gaze. He wore nothing more than boots, a skimpy leather jacket, and a leather cuff around one leanly muscular arm, but she doubted he ever got in trouble for public lewdness. It wasn’t that he wasn’t indecent—far from it: his every glance and movement spoke of sex, alley rutting, truck stop bathroom trysts, and just plain grungy fucking—it was more the predatory look in his eyes that seemed to say, “Yeah, you want me, and you’ll do anything to get me.” As though daring any cop to resist the urge long enough to write a ticket, let alone actually arrest him. For a moment, those eyes flashed green as they looked Celine up and down, and the feline’s tongue licked a suggestive invitation.

The elephant felt an all-too-familiar stirring in her loins, and was on the cusp of stepping towards him when the cheetah broke the stare, and he stepped back from the kneeling dalmatian, withdrawing seven inches of pink shaft. Celine found herself drooling as she watched the cheetah mount the bike, and then the biker: the sow’s leaned-forward position now clearly an invitation to be bred. The cheetah whistled briefly and the dog hopped up behind him, obscuring the big gothic letter “B” embroidered on the back of the jacket, his own knotted shaft sliding easily under the spotty tail. Celine could only imagine how it felt as the bike’s engines warmed up, visibly vibrating the trio as it rose above the ground and then rocketed down the street, the cheetah already pistoning between his wife and his pet. Lucky, was all she thought as she turned back to the bar.

A quick glance confirmed that the last customers had left, so she locked the doors and dropped the nightcaps on the larger crystals. With only the glow of the smaller, table-mounted crystals to light her way, she checked that everything was in order. The coins in the till went into her boss’s money box, and she added the evening’s take to his tally-book. Ash was rumored to have a few skeletons in his closet, former bartenders who had tried to swindle the bear from his precious profits; and, while Celine didn’t believe the big softy would stoop that low, she also knew the benefits of good behavior.

Having proved herself to be a loyal employee, he’d allowed her to move into the bar’s basement. The rent was reasonable, and neither she nor her live-in boyfriend had to worry about their heavy footfalls disturbing any downstairs neighbors. Slipping behind the bar, she unlocked the heavy door and descended to what had once been a wine cellar, back in the days when more refined palates had held sway among the drinking class.

The high ceilings with their thick brickwork arches were lit by the same cheap white glow-crystals as the bar above—Ash spared every expense—and greenish fuzzy mosses clustered around the pools of light wherever groundwater seeped through the bricks. Still, it was always cool and damp (if not outright dank) and it was nice to strip to bare skin and clomp around without being concerned that she’d break through the flooring.

Stretching and congratulating herself on another night of good sales, she paused for a moment: had she remembered to check the back door? It led to the loading dock behind the bar, a walled off space that was often used by patrons interested in more than alcohol and greasy food. Just as she was about to trudge back upstairs, she heard a grumble from the dim depths of the basement.

“I already got the back door, babe,” huffed a sullen voice.

Ugh, she thought, Terry’s pouting again. Well, there was always one sure-fire way to kick him out of a slump. She stripped out of her uniform of leather booty shorts and crop-top sweater, (Ash made all the bartenders wear the same slutty outfit, whether they were male, female, or other, no matter what race or endowment, because he believed that sex sold; he was, of course right) and chucked them in the hamper at the foot of the stairs. Their basement home wasn’t just clothing-optional, but actually clothing-forbidden, something that

Celine had insisted on when Terry had moved in with her, back when they were still in an above-ground apartment with a broken cooling unit.

With nothing between her skin and the chill subterranean air but the chunky links of her gold necklace, she strode across the well-worn flagstones.

Everything down there was well-worn: the permanent fixtures because of their age, the furnishings because of hard use. In the back of the cavernous space an over-large mattress sat on the floor—after they’d broken their second bed with indelicate humping they’d decided to forego buying a third—but that wasn’t where Terry spent most of his time.

As she’d suspected, she found the male elephant lounging on the big couch, his rump and belly making the middle sag even more than usual, his head resting heavily on the misshapen armrest. Like her, he was nude apart from a matching necklace with a half-heart pendant. Unnoticed by either, sometime in the night the cheap plastic and string necklaces had transmuted themselves into chunky gold, rough-hewn and well-suited to their new elephantine physiques.

On the floor before the couch, and resting in the usual debris of crisp crumbs and cookie wrappers, was a dingy pile of formerly-white fabric. “You know this goes in the hamper,” she scolded half-heartedly. From the way he was slumped and the sappy cathode-romance on the televista, she could tell that he’d had a rough day of it. Still, she’d been on her feet all day too, and wanted nothing more than to relax.

With a grunt and a creak of older-than-she’d-care-to-admit joints, she knelt in front of the couch, further grinding the lab coat into the snack debris. But she didn’t care; after all, there were more important things than clean laundry, and

Terry hadn’t left the building in the past few months, rarely even venturing up from the basement. Her left hand rested lightly on his chest, while her right stroked along his thigh. “Tell me, what’s got you down?”

“Oh, the usual: my experiment didn’t work tonight. My experiments never work.

I was sure I could open a portal to another dimension this time…”

“Hey now, none of that,” Celine consoled, as her right hand shifted its attention from thigh to cock, the smooth, fat-cushioned palm soft against his warming length. “After all, not all of your experiments were failures. I’d say that some have been… rousing successes.” The gold chain around her neck clinked as she shifted position, using both hands now to caress her boyfriend’s unnatural shaft. “Oh babe, fuck,” he moaned as she leaned forward. Her breasts and belly draped heavily over his, like pendulous clouds swathed in cool grey leather. “I really should marry you one of these days,” he grunted as her weight pressed down on him.

“Shut up,” Celine replied gently, “don’t fuck with a good thing.” To further silence him, she lifted her trunk and pressed her lips to his. Her tongue eagerly found the remaining bits of cheap pre-packaged snack food, which she considered to be merely flavor enhancers for the kiss. She was briefly reminded of the girlfriend she’d had in finishing school—before she’d dropped out to become a professional rollerball player for a few seasons—who had loved anything with the taste of blueberries; Celine had gotten the vixen to do just about anything with a combination of blueberry lip balm, blueberry lube, and of course blueberry muffins. And her dainty little paws had been just the right size…well, the right size back then. Nowadays I wouldn’t be surprised if I could take both her arms at the same time.

There was an odd sense of pride filling the elephant as she remembered her thirty-odd years of sexual experience, and just how much she had developed since those first tentative attempts. For an instant, there was a brief flash of confusion as a small voice inside her asked: Wait, is this all real? But the images, the memories and recalled sensations were simply too vivid to ignore.

The little voice couldn’t even bring up its next question (Weren’t you a human male this morning?) before it acquiesced to the flood of pleasures. Instead, Celine turned her attention to her boyfriend. Her kiss had done its job and woken the “sleeping dragon,” as she’d begun to call it.

For beneath her hand pulsed the male elephant’s enhanced groin. At her urging, some months ago, he’d set aside his dimensional linkage research, and instead began investigating how to combine attributes from different races. Thanks to her position as Ash’s favorite bartender, Celine was able to gather the required samples from her various customers, and pass them along to Terry to aid in his research. She had also added test potions to the occasional customer’s drink of choice, inviting them to the back room on her break for a little hands-on examination of the results.

Celine took very thorough notes.

As a result, Terry had easily found the combination that would produce the desired results, namely essence of whale and extract of centaur, with a little boar dust for seasoning. And now the only things he could wear were the lab coat—unbuttoned, of course—and his half of the the gold necklaces they’d bought for the anniversary of their first date. Had it not been for the natural size and strength of a bull elephant, it’s possible he wouldn’t have even been mobile after taking the elixir. Of course, if that were the case, Celine thought, we would just have given him pachyderm distillate as well.

As a result, his shaft had taken on a shape more likely to be found under a Clydesdale centaur, but had retained its elephantine flexibility; his balls had grown as well, to better accommodate all the apparatus required for a semen output more than ten times normal for a man of his age and race. Now Celine had more than enough (more or less) to satisfy her, and he had the benefit of her experienced attentions.

Her kiss only served to whet their appetites, and she leaned back enough to wrap her trunk a few times around his shaft. The glossy pink-and-black mottled skin seemed to shudder against the corrugations of her muscular trunk, and she slid down to the flared end to harvest some of the precum that seemed to be always staining their furniture these days. His scent filled her nostrils, making her mind go a little blank as her trunk pythoned around his shaft, which itself was beginning to writhe and flex.

But it had been a long day for both of them, and neither was in the mood for lingering. Making the couch creak in protest, she clambered on top of him, and, resting on her elbows, pressed her hands against her breasts, swathing his horsecock in boob meat. This, as it often did, started Terry’s mouth running. Celine had found that she liked the sound of it, and liked the pervy sorts of things he said when he was in a lascivious mood, so she moaned and grunted at the appropriate times to encourage him.

“I saw you staring at the last batch of customers today,” he began, knowing full well that his middle-aged girlfriend had a serious case of wandering eye. “I bet that sow, the biker gives almost as good a boob job as you do.”

She gripped his heavy balls, using her thick three-fingered hands to squeeze them playfully. “I doubt you’d enjoy it, you didn’t get a good look: she was covered in bristles, so unless you want me to jack you off with hair brushes…” “No thank you. I’d rather get a blow job from your boss…all those teeth.”

“True, but he’s got that tongue,” and here she snaked her trunk into the slickly turbulent pile of flesh to coil around the cock for emphasis. “He really knows how to use his tongue, and it’s so long.”

“That’s a—nnfh—good point. Oh babe… and his fur does look really soft. Maybe one of these days you can invite him down here for a little employee get together.” This led Terry to a familiar avenue: the different ways each of Celine’s coworkers and regular customers was hot and the different things he’d like to do with them. She let him ramble on, the sound of his voice making her pulse race a little faster, even as the well-worn topic floated by unheeded. Still, should the occasion arise, she wouldn’t say no to a tryst or three with… well, with any of her coworkers. But right now her attention was focused on the elephant beneath her.

Another side effect of the alchemical draught had been the growth of body hair on the previously-hairless pachyderm. He now sported a bushy black treasure trail and hairy chest, tufted armpits and stubble across his chin that needed to be shaved down several times a week. His body had grown in other ways too, since he was now, at eight feet, a full head taller than her, and with the thick body of a professional college athlete who still ate like he was in his twenties but hadn’t worked out in a decade or more. The armband tattoo and beer breath didn’t hurt at all. Were it not for the picture she’d kept for the sake of comparison, she’d have forgotten just how slender he’d been when they’d first met.

And, while he was six years younger, anyone looking at them now would have seen a DILF with freakish junk and a MILF with an overactive libido. Quite the pair, she thought with a smile. Which was the moment when Terry clearly had reached a plateau and was ready for the next event. With one hand under each arm, he lifted her and slid her bodily along his. The overabundance of precum slickened her travel and soon she was resting squarely atop his chest.

His trunk draped over her shoulder as his mouth found her nipple. There was something so sexy about a big brutish bull elephant suckling on her tit like some kind of calf; if she hadn’t already been horned-up, this would have easily sent her over the edge. Feeling his two foot long cock flopping against her thighs, she spread her legs wider, welcoming him in. Not many partners could so easily accommodate such a massive tool, in any hole, and she was once again thankful for her many years of experience—not to mention the fact that she hadn’t ever been a “tight young thing.”

To tell the truth, she’d found it hard to find suitable partners herself, and had found the oversized toys on sale in the various artificers’ markets to be nothing when compared with the overwhelmingly delightful sensations of a living cock. Still, as amazing as Terry and his alchemical enhancements were, and as much as he enjoyed her attentions, neither of them really wanted to be tied down in a serious relationship. So Terry continued his experiments, and Celine continued working to support both of them, bringing in the occasional third or fourth party for mutual fun, and that suited both of them just fine.

A change in the rhythm brought her out of her reverie and back to the throbbing shaft that filled her so completely. Terry had since switched to the other breast, as though making sure both teats got equal milking—and, indeed, there seemed to be a white fluid soaking into the stubble of his beard. For a moment Celine wondered if he’d slipped her a potion, but then he dropped the nipple and lifted his head, kissing her with clumsy intensity.

There was a definite taste of thick creamy milk on his tongue, then he pulled away long enough to grunt: “Fuck, babe… gonna… fuuck…!”

She felt the flared head fan out even wider, stretching her insides as it twitched and pulsed, spraying what felt like gallons of elecum. The flare’s knobbly edge kept things well-sealed, just as it did in the centaurs it’d been borrowed from, and Celine swore she could feel her belly swelling. Once they’d tried to measure the volume of his ejaculate, and it had filled a pint glass, frothy head and all. Five hundred milliliters is what he’d told her—one hundred more than the average draft horse, he’d said—but perhaps he’d become more productive since then.

Or, she thought with a salty burp and a grumble of stretched flesh, maybe he’s been doing some more experiments on the both of us.

As she lay atop his belly and drifted into a doze, the tiny voice in the back of her mind tried to point out that her name was Chuck, that Terry was just a friend, that they both were humans, that neither of them lived in the basement of a bar, that alchemy wasn’t real, and a thousand other things. But then the diadem dropped off her bare head and bounced off a couch cushion to land on the flagstones with a brittle-sounding crack. The voice faded away; after all, it was hard to deny the reality of a massive cock in your own pussy, and the warm feeling that came from being well and truly bred.

Terry shifted, his heavy arm draping across her back, pinning her in place. Then again, the fact that his cock still hadn’t un-flared suggested that he’d taken a “hair of the dog” a bit more literally in one of his recent experiments, and meant that—arm or no arm—she wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

Thank the gods for trunks, she thought as she snaked hers down to fish through the pockets of his lab coat. He always kept his pocket watch nearby, in case he needed to time a reaction or take into account the phases of the moon, and the cheap multi-function timepiece had served him well. Then she realized that what she thought was snack debris was actually bits of flimsy metal: in her passion, she’d knelt on the watch, crushing it and its little glowing crystal beneath her bulk.

Oh well, she snorted, shaking her trunk free and letting her eyes droop closed, I can always get him another watch later. I’m just glad I don’t have work tomorrow. The snores of two mature elephants rumbled through the basement as hoverbike gangs roared across the city above them.

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