I slept well enough, but I woke up feeling like I'd been hit by a truck. There was a hardly a part of me that wasn't experiencing a dull ache, and it felt like every bone in my body had gotten a visit from the Trash Compactor Fairy. I had a suspicion that this was due to changes overnight, but it was a good ten or fifteen minutes before I finally summoned the willpower to heave myself up off the bed and investigate.
Well, one thing was for sure – I'd filled out a bit up top. Things might've squished a bit yesterday, but there was now a measurable delay between the time my torso lifted off the mattress and the time my breasts did. My tail had grown out considerably, as well – and it was actually mobile now. I could feel it arc with the rest of my spine as I gave my aching limbs a full-body strreeetch – followed by a full-body cringe as I realized what I was doing. How many of these damned behavioral quirks was I gonna have to deal with!?
With a murr and a shake of the head, I got up and padded over to the bathroom. By this point it almost felt routine: sleep, wake up, go see whatever the hell my body decided to do to me this time. My legs were still getting…leggier than I was used to, but I had less trouble with it today; and at least they were still human in structure. My face didn't feel like it was resigning from the Homo sapiens club, either…
…aside from the ears, anyway. They were the first thing that jumped out at me from the mirror; not quite in position yet, but a lot closer than they'd been yesterday. They'd broadened out, too, and the fur was really coming in; it looked to be mostly a soft gray, with no pattern visible yet. Unlike the tail, they didn't seem to move, and I still felt that lack-of-response in my brain; the musculature, I'd read, wouldn't develop 'til they were in place.
As for the face itself…I still didn't know how I'd end up, but it'd tipped the balance from not-sure to leans-feminine. The nose was a little smaller, the jaw more delicate, the brow-ridge less pronounced; my Adam's apple had shrunk a bit, as well. I couldn't tell if the skin was smoother, or it just seemed that way since I wasn't used to seeing myself this clean-shaven; I'd sacrificed the facial hair for masking purposes, for all the good it did me, but there wasn't even stubble now.
I glanced down at my chest, feeling incredibly self-conscious. I could tell from the mirror that they were nothing like huge, but it felt that way, compared to what I was used to. Enough to tent out my pajama shirt, anyway (at least with the hem tucked into my waistband,) and clearly visible in profile when I turned sideways and looked over at the mirror.
They were also sore as hell. I'd known about that from my sister's kvetching when she started to "blossom," but it was an entirely different thing to experience it myself.° It was funny, I reflected; at the time, that'd felt a little weird, like it was one of those Things Man Was Not Meant To Know – not that we'd ever held strong taboos about this stuff,°° but you get a cultural sense for it even if it's not taught to you directly. And now I was living it…
° (Plus, she got to develop normally, while I had to speedrun it over the course of a few days.)
°° (Mom being a nurse, we'd had a lot of weird medical conversations around the dinner table.)
Shaking my head, I gave the rest of my body a look-over. Yes, the proportions on my legs were still shifting, and no, there was no sign of them going all digitigrade and cat-pawed. I wasn't sure why I felt relieved; not like that was going to be the biggest adjustment in any case…but, well, fewer things to re-learn meant fewer opportunities to make a spectacle of myself. Were my hips still broadening? My shoulders were definitely narrower…
I turned 'round and glanced back at the mirror. My tail had about doubled in length since yesterday, hanging down almost to my knees, and with the fur coming in (also gray, with a white splotch at the tip) it was looking less freak show and more catgirl. I watched it twitch antsily in reflection of my own emotions as I processed that thought; I knew I was becoming one, but every day brought me closer to the end of the becoming…
That wasn't the only thing that made me feel awkward, either; getting a look at my back side drew attention to, well, my backside. If the first couple days had changed anything much in that department, I hadn't noticed; but between butt, thighs, and calves, my lower body was developing (subtle) curves. Add in the fact that I suddenly had a prow, and…
Aw hell, I realized, I was getting a figure. Not much of one, at present, but who knew where it'd go from here? Again I found myself wondering what I even wanted to look like – and feeling freshly awkward over it, as some part of my brain engaged in baseless and unasked-for speculation on the theme of my newly-foxy neighbor, another part protested that this was not genetically likely, and yet another part was really Not Okay with even considering the question. Casting about for something else to focus on, I scratched nervously at my scalp…and was suddenly keenly aware that I hadn't had a shower since Monday evening; my hair was all greasy, and my skin felt substantially grungier than usual.
The thought of taking one – of touching my changing body – was a little intimidating, I'll admit. The Internet hivemind took all of about three nanoseconds since the start of the pandemic° to associate "guy-turned-catgirl in the bath" with "gender-flipped sexual self-discovery," which made a lot of novice catgirls self-conscious about it. And while I knew that was just the Internet being stupid, and I could tell myself I rejected it, I still couldn't help but feel awkward…
° (Which the memesheep dubbed "nyandemic," a construction that I furiously loathe, refuse to accept, and wish to shoot the parties responsible for.)
Honestly, though, it was more that I felt like it'd make things more real, somehow. That was irrational, I knew; this was happening, whether I acknowledged it or not, and anyway I'd already had to get hands-on with my tail. And what else could I do, swear off baths and lick myself—
I cringed, forced that thought out of my head, and doffed my pajama shirt, my enhanced nose driving home that it was way overdue for laundering. I was surprised it'd taken me this long to notice, but the last few days had been just filled with distractions – like, for instance, the sight of my new breasts in the mirror. The realization wasn't as arresting as yesterday, but it still took me a good minute to tear my gaze away…
And even that just left me free to contemplate the final step…but there was no getting around that, either. With a sigh, I shucked off my shorts and underwear – and yes, there you had it: a developing mound, a patch of what was now downy white fur, and…that was it. There was really nothing left to signify manhood; even the remaining nub of what had been my penis was no longer outwardly visible. For a long moment, I just stared down at what wasn't there anymore.
It was funny to think: I couldn't really see without the aid of a mirror, but I knew this wasn't technically complete. The structures were probably still forming, the gonads were in transit, and it'd likely be another day or two before the upper and lower ends of the canal joined up. Even my uterus was still growing, to judge by the twinges and the very strange sensation of having a new space opening up inside me. How was I supposed to categorize° myself like this…?
° (Damn it!)
Yesterday it'd been deeply uncomfortable to think about; today, it was more confusing. Clearly, I no longer counted as a man, or even an ambiguous in-between – but it felt bizarre trying to think of myself as a woman, when I couldn't help wondering if it should be asterisked: under construction, pending final review. What was I in the meantime, then? I found myself getting all addled and emotional trying to sort it out; gah, was this a hormonal thing? Was that also something I'd have to deal with!?
Then my thoughts were wrenched off in a different direction by the sound of some small critter skittering through the attic, tiny claws scrabbling against the sheetrock of my bathroom ceiling. I found myself turning to stare after it, ears straining to triangulate, brain still confused at their refusal to pivot – and then my senses returned to me, and I realized what I'd been doing. With a sigh that sounded a lot more teenage-drama-queen than I was comfortable with, I hopped in the shower and set the water running.
Part of me felt antsy and weird at the sensation of it spattering my skin and matting down my fur, but all of me knew I needed this. It was strange to think that I was developing a sort of "cat side" to my brain, with its stupid alien instincts that kept intruding and making me feel like an idiot; but even it understood wanting to feel clean and well-groomed. I'd never been very particular about "grooming" in the human sense – it seemed like a lot of pointless effort when I didn't care much about how I looked in the first place, and sue me, I'm lazy – but this was just basic hygiene…
Just basic hygiene, I told myself, as I felt the water running down my altered form, just basic hygiene. I gave my face a thorough scrubbing, feeling the changes in structure for the first time. I didn't have to get all weird about this, no matter what a bunch of gibbering primates online thought; it'd be plenty weird enough without pushing beyond whatever the hell constituted my "comfort zone" right now…
I shampooed my hair and rinsed it, then did it again; ye gods had I gotten to be a mess over the last few days. I left my ears and tail alone; the fur was too new to have gotten all that grungy, and I didn't know how delicate it might be right now. If I was stuck with cat bits, I didn't want them all mangy. But I couldn't help prodding around the base of the ears as I lathered up; it was bizarre to feel something so clearly non-human and have my brain recognize it as a "normal" part of me. The tail was one thing, I had no basis for comparison there; but these were my ears, just not the ones I was used to.
And…okay, it'd be lying to say I didn't feel weird about soaping up and scrubbing down my increasingly feminized body. The Internet is convinced that the universe runs on porn logic and a woman's body is one giant erogenous zone constantly ready to go off at the slightest stimulation;° but I'd gathered that there was some truth to the notion that women are more sensitive to touch, and I had no idea what to expect here…
° (It isn't.)
I squirmed, rolling my hips, trying to get used to the feeling of "nothing" between my legs; it was a new flavor of bizarre. It's not like phantom-limb syndrome,° where the brain knows there should be something there and there isn't; as far as my grey matter was concerned, everything was present and accounted for, and it was none the wiser re: what hadn't finished forming yet. But I still remembered the sensations as I'd experienced them my entire life, and the reports coming in from Ground Zero were very different.
° (Or so I'm told, never having taken up amputation as a hobby.)
A lot of former guys talk about this like it's a lack of something, but it's more that the disparity between what you're accustomed to and present experience makes you very aware of what you aren't feeling anymore. You never give much thought to the basic sensations of having your reproductive organs dangling between your legs in daily life, but when they're suddenly not, it's hard to stop noticing. All my bits were there, in a sense, but not where I expected them to be…or what. Some of them were smaller, some were inside-out° – and I hadn't even finished changing yet…
° ("Outside in…?")
Feeling all weird and trying not to think about it, I soaped up the washcloth and ran it down my whole arm and side – and twitched when the other arm trailed across my still-tender breast. Then the other arm and side…and the other breast. (God, they weren't even that big – how did anyone manage with these things!?) I huffed in annoyance and reached around to scrub my back, which was less trouble than usual; whether it was from becoming a woman or becoming a cat, I was definitely more flexible.
Steam clouded the bathroom; water clattered against the shower stall. The seconds ticked by as I ran the washcloth down the outside of my legs. Then up the inside of my calves. Then across my stomach and shoulders. Then around my buttocks and the base of my tail. And then…
…well, shit. I was officially out of parts of me that weren't a little awkward to think about lathering up. But it wasn't like this was going away any time soon; I'd have to get past this sooner or later, and I really did need it. I sighed, took a deep breath, and dabbed carefully around the perimeter of the pubic mound; at least this wasn't actually tender, just suffused with the same dull ache as the rest of me, which the shower was gradually soothing. My cheeks felt a little flushed, but it was probably from the hot water; this was just basic hygiene, after all.
I scrubbed down the inside of my thighs, then gave my right breast an experimental heft. Yep, still sore. I hoped this wasn't going to last long, but I couldn't remember exactly what Caitlin had said about it back when, just that it was a point of aggravation – with which I could now heartily concur. I lifted it and gently scrubbed around and underneath this part of my chest that'd never had an underside before, then did the other. I left the nipples alone, on the theory that if the rest was still tender, they were probably worse – but there was no missing that they were noticeably larger, and the areolæ wider.
Well, that was everything, or near enough. I turned slowly, letting the water sluice over my frame and rinse off the soap; God, that felt good. I hesitated for a moment, then heaved a sigh and shut off the tap. I felt at least 80% more…well, it was hard to say human, now, especially when a certain part of my brain was already prodding me to do something about my sodden fur. I'd have to get a hair dryer, I mused, as I stepped out of the shower and began to towel off; it was still coming in and it was already dense enough to get completely bedraggled.
Plus, there was the rest of my hair – which I did my best to squeeze the water out of. It didn't seem to be growing out any quicker than usual, but I'd gotten shaggy enough over the preceding months that it hardly mattered; mostly because I was too lazy to bother doing anything about it,° but post-lockdown it'd also meant deciding between appearances and risking my humanity and manhood. Naturally, appearances lost.
° (That, and it was a subtle way to needle Bryce, who plainly didn't think it was a very "professional" look, but was too concerned with appearing open-minded to actually put it in the dress code.)
It was weird to think that the equation was suddenly flipped: I had nothing left to lose by going for a haircut, but I wouldn't be Considered Scruffy just for having it out this long, either. In fact, keeping it as short as I used to would put me further outside the norm….not that I cared about that, or anything. After all, I was never going to pass for normal again, so the only remaining factor was the hassle of maintaining it. Which was non-trivial, I thought, yanking my comb through two and a half days' worth of tangle and snarl, but probably manageable if I wanted to…
Did I want to? I hadn't really thought about that since high school, and coming back to it now brought on a whole lot of uncomfortable memories. Back then, I'd told myself I was just trying it out for the hell of it…but if I was honest with myself, it'd been a way to maintain a degree of separation, a partition between myself and the rest of the world. And between typical adolescent oiliness, lack of experience with it, and my general social awkwardness, the end result had been…how had I put it to Nicole? "Stringy-haired, hollow-eyed cave goblin?" Yeah, that about covered it.
But I didn't need that anymore, really. I was…at least baseline functional…around people, now as much as could reasonably be demanded of any responsible-ish adult type person; I didn't need some kind of built-in security blanket just to deal. What I did with it from here was entirely up to me; but what did I actually want…?
I shook my head, and my still-damp hair tickled at the base of my neck. Damned if I knew; but there'd be plenty of time to figure that out later. I could always cut it, and if I felt stupid with it short, I could always grow it back out. And hell, here was something about my appearance I still had a say in…
And there, I thought, licking the back of my hand to tidy up the last stray locks. I'd gotten through cleaning myself up in…a more or less normal-ish manner, like a normal hu—person, no matter what the chimpanzees on the Internet thought. It was just basic hygiene…which was good, because anything more would be a complication I really didn't need right now. Especially not since I found myself still standing naked in front of the mirror.
I stood there for a long moment, letting several different flavors of confusion and emotional jumble duke it out in the pit of my stomach; then I took a deep breath, turned away, and began digging through the closet. My pajama shirt needed laundering, and it was the last one I had that wasn't worn to tatters; I really ought to order some new ones. I tried on one of my other shirts, but the fit was all screwy; too loose at the shoulders and…well, not tight around the chest, yet, but snug enough to irritate the sore bits.
With a quiet growl and a lot of brooding over how much I'd have to fork out for clothes when this was done, I stalked out to the living room and grabbed my hoodie off the back of the recliner. It was the one worthwhile thing I'd gotten out of the company apparel buys,° and it really was nice: warm, roomy, and most importantly, made with a soft, fleecy inner lining that was about the gentlest fabric I owned.
° (Bryce was convinced that, if he bought us branded clothes on the semi-regular, we'd feel obligated to wear them, and this would somehow advertise us to anyone besides our own clients – the problems being that A. we never went anywhere besides the office and on-sites, and B. only Curtis actually wore them. I had three dress shirts with Fulcrum Solutions's generic identikit logo embroidered on the lapel, and I'd tried one on exactly once.)
I pulled it on and zipped it up; blessedly, the backing patch for the embroidery wasn't too stiff and sat well above nipple-level. It felt weird to be shirtless under what was technically a jacket, and I was sure I'd feel some strange new variety of under-dressed if I actually went out like this – but what the hell, it'd do for now.
That got me wondering how I was going to work around my tail. Threading it through the fly of my boxers worked (aside from mussing the fur, which I was sure I'd find even more annoying going forward,) but the pajama shorts weren't outside wear,° and that wasn't even factoring in…however much leg it'd show. I tried putting on a pair of jeans backwards; no dice. Not only were they also tight in some places and baggy in others, but even men's pants are designed around the fact that people are not front-to-back symmetrical. Plus, the zipper chafed at the base of my tail, and I knew that'd drive me up the wall even if it didn't rub things raw.
° (Not even for that strange period where people thought wearing basketball shorts in public was cool.)
I sighed; I was gonna have to live with skirts until the garment industry caught up, wasn't I. Okay, hardly the greatest indignity facing me in all this, but it irked me on principle, even if I'd no longer be Considered Odd for wearing one. I hadn't even gotten used to having my altered legs, yet; I definitely had no desire to draw attention to them.
Could I cut a hole in women's jeans without compromising the structural integrity? No idea; my sewing experience was limited to clumsy button replacement. Maybe I could find a tailor?° Or, denim skirts were a thing, weren't they? That'd be…maybe sort of vaguely like the same thing…? Less fluttery, at least. I wondered how long you could get them; but then, was it possible to wear a really long skirt without looking like a Fundamentalist homeschooler? And would it feel confining for my tail…?
° (Oh DAMN it.)
I shook my head, pining for the time before I had to think about this stuff. I'd decided long ago that I couldn't be bothered to care about fashion, and as a guy you're more or less allowed to do that; bathing, a certain bare-minimum amount of maintenance, and remembering to wear slacks and button-up shirts to the office are really all it takes to move out of the "slob" tier and into "unremarkable background entity," which I was…more or less comfortable with.
But I was aware that social standards were different for women; my sister put in more effort on her casual day-around-the-house look than I did going to job interviews, and while part of that was that Caitlin had a genuine (if low-key) interest in these things, she'd confirmed my suspicion that people's expectations were higher and you got more and funnier looks if you fell short of them as a woman.
I wasn't looking forward to having to navigate that. Of course, I could reject the idea on principle, declare me an island unto myself, and demand to know why I should care what people thought of me…but no matter how rational it might sound in my head, societal pressures and damnable hardwired social instinct make it difficult not to internalize other people's reactions. And here I was, facing the prospect of maybe having to try after years of never bothering to learn…
A little shudder ran up my spine. Good Lord, I thought, my sister'd absolutely be ready and willing to help…which got my mind all in a jumble at the realization that I hadn't even told her, or my parents. I groaned, shook my head, and finished dressing. I'd worry about that later; I wasn't even done with this part yet.