Scott descends the darkened stairs from 53rd Street in anxious silence. The outer door, shaded in the stairwell, responds to pressure against one of its panels with a soft click. Just as promised. His silent footsteps echo up and down the hall, and the urgent pace of his heart helps him count the doors. Five, six, seven. The faded sign is just as it should be: Alterations. This door requires no special knowledge of its peculiar defects; it opens when he turns the handle. Her slender fingers grip the knob on her lamp, turning it slowly. The streetlamp shades trickling down the rain-slick light-well from above recede gradually, unveiling the hanging-racks of suits and dresses, packed too tightly to offer more than hints of color and texture. Implications of appearance. She sits at a worn-down desk, roughly level with the faded wainscot panels. His pale blue eyes alight on her bright green ones, and he gasps. She smiles, a little bit genuinely. "Ah, finally. I was beginning to worry that you'd lost your nerve." She nods to the antique chair opposite her, to save him looking for it. He sits. It takes him a palpable moment to decide what he's meant to ask: "Is it true, what they say about you?" "They say a lot of things about me, Mr. Roberts. You would have to be specific." "Well I particularly-" She stands, the chair easing back with a soft squeak of wood on wood, stopping his voice. Her presence is overwhelming in this small dark room; it is all he can do to listen when she speaks. "For instance, it's widely-trafficked that I alter more than fabric." Scott's peaked ears flush. He lets his eyes drift down her figure; the elegant green satin cuts away to her lurid mauve fur. She moves so gracefully, it makes her seem so natural; and yet she obviously, alarmingly is not. "Like those golden twins?" Scott fumbles through his well-coiffed mind, unfolding the society pages internally. "Your lovers, they say. Arial and-" She scoffs, stopping him again, walking slowly around the meek todd-fox, to the full-length mirror behind him. "No. Those two are just as I found them, plus or minus a few bad ideas in their heads." She smiles into the glass, puckering her lips just a little, looking briefly distant. She returns to the present while very unnecessarily tidying her hair, making sure it all flows neatly between her massive curling horns. "People usually come to me looking for something more avant-garde." Scott gulps. He watches with wide eyes as the dark lady approaches the racks of clothing along the back of the room. She rifles through them, with a certain demonstrative slowness, between the four-armed suit jackets, the trousers with one extra-wide leg, between the dresses with an extra shoulder-strap in the middle. Fabrics in every color and pattern, drifting to and fro under the direction of her spider-fine grasp. "Do you know what you want? Or shall I fetch the catalog?" It takes him a moment to move again, his mind aswim in the possibilities. He's seen a few of these designs in the wild, the jungles of the city's nightlife and its lively ecosystem of swanky Aug clubs providing just enough cover for something so strange to walk the world of the living. But he shakes his head, and reaches, finally, into his back pocket, getting out his wallet. Getting out the folded paper within, spreading it out on her desk, pressing hard enough to suppress the shake in his hands as she returns to her chair, as her eyes follow every move. As she smiles. "Oh. Oh, yes, I remember these. How long have you kept this? It's been ages since I printed an advertisement." "I found it in my father's things, while I was settling his affairs. I was sure it was a fake." "Leslie sure liked to say she was fake, but no. This picture entered a camera's lens as rays of light. I ran my hands over every inch of this girl - one does, to assure the correct fit. She was as real as you and I sitting here. But she tired of this outfit. You could have it today, and never be mistaken for anyone else." "Well, I, I'm not sure I want to look just the same. But-" "Let me see it. I suppose you're mostly interested in her measurements, yes? Nice big fat ones that stick in the doorframe just a smidge. I don't walk around like that, myself, but I understand the appeal." "Oh, hum. Do they? That doesn't sound so bad." "And this, here - not as fashionable as it was, but still a very popular feature. Especially with the boys. There's just something about horses, isn't there?" "I, oh. Yes, I think so. I'd like that. But just that part. I don't think I want hooves." "Oh! Of course. Those lovely boots you've got on - I bet they're just the beginning. Hm." She nods, brow knit slightly as she stands again, returns to the racks. This time she does not rifle - she pulls the right hanger without even looking. The gold satin hanging off it might make for a slinky dress, but you'd have to fill it with an /awful lot/ of woman first. "That's. That's not." Scott stammers, eyes wide. "Oh, yes, it is. The very same dress from the advertisement. Your copy's faded a little, but this one hasn't. It made such a curious contrast with her pastel blue fur." She grins, reaching down to him, pushing the hair back from his eyes, resting her hand on his head. "But for you, I think - I really see you in pink." ----- Alice stirs slowly from the murky darkness of her dreamless sleep. Her sleek, pink-furred paws struggle in vain to pry her pillows out from under her chest. She gives off a soft, quirking grunt when she realizes the fact of the matter. Oh. Oh, goodness. It is surprisingly easy for her to sit upright, and to stand, despite the obvious disruption of her balance. She steps carefully around the rumpled mass of stained gold fabric on the floor, not yet appreciating how aware she is of it despite it being firmly occluded from her view. Indeed, besides a nagging, bruised soreness under her tail, she is slightly off-put by her own grace. She pushes her messy cyan hair back from her pale blue eyes, and stares gobsmacked at the vixen in the mirror. Most of her, anyway - the elegant full-length mirror is unprepared for the /breadth/ of the young vulpine. Even several feet away - any closer and she'd lose sight of her feet - her hips just barely fit in frame. She bites her lip, gasping softly, admiring the way the morning light traces the countours of her sultry hips. The plush, outsized male-parts in front hardly seems masculine at all, in this context, the last vestige of boring old Scott lounging like an odalisque on the couch of Alice's thighs. And of course, her breasts don't fit in frame at all. She bites her lip anxiously, eyes wide, as she really takes their measure under the cool light of day. Huge, sure - easily two feet apiece, at the widest. Buoyant? Oh yes, round and perky and light. She could scarcely have stood erect if they acted like normal breasts. And sensitive - Alice gasps and chokes back a breathless whine as she explores them with her fingers, from the deep shadow of the undercurves to the crinkled, fleshy tips. Her cock bobs forward, lazily. Mmm, maybe good old Ricky would take an interest in this. We could test just how straight he really is... But then she sees the marks on the top of the mirror. Blazing bronze lipstick, sparkling faintly as the sunlight seeks it out. Figures, digits - a phone number! A very important one. Alice cups her muzzle in shock, her gaze sliding into the middle distance, remembering. Remembering a long night on her high-heeled boots, but weightless, graceful, free in them at last. Dancing, flirting, kissing, sucking - a girl as pretty as Alice can make friends fast if she's willing to have a good time. And New Girls are always a big hit at the Aug clubs, aren't they? Especially the Dark Lady's pr- Alice whips around, her turgid prick knocking Scott's ID off the nightstand, onto the floor. She blushes, blinking, seeing what she's done, but her ears stay peaked. There, again - a noise in the kitchen. She makes her way into the front room, slowly. Scott's old bathrobe is no match for her newfound puissance, but if she holds her breath securely, she can just keep her nipples tucked in the front. "Coffee?" The her eyes seem to shine, even with the sun rising outside. "What are you DOING here?" "Making coffee. Young ladies can't go sleeping the whole day through, I don't care WHAT they told you." Alice folds her ears. "What WHO told me?" "Oh, don't be coy. I shooed them along home an hour ago. Really, you must have had quite the workout." "Shouldn't I have?" She sits down, carefully, tentatively, at her own dinner table. Her ass is a bit too wide for the only chair, and again, the soreness - but she makes do. "Oh, hardly." The spoon softly clinks in the mug. "You're lucky, really. Most New Girls have to settle for the biggest, the most enthusiastic. But you managed to find the best, didn't you?" She grins, slyly, setting the mug down, sliding it closer, cocking her hips to one side. "I know that limp." Alice squeezes the mug in her dainty fingers, holding it in her lap - there's no room on the table in front of her, after all. "So if that's not a problem, then why are you here?" "Don't you remember?" Of course she doesn't remember. "I let you wear your new dress right out the door, since it was getting to be prime time anyway - you were so /anxious/ to go dancing in it. And just like I said," she coos, sliding a black envelope onto the table, "I've come by with the bill today." Alice recoils slightly, her vision focused tightly on the sharp-creased black paper. The elegant arch of the purple mark on the front. "We, that is, I don't remember a price being set." "Oh, and so it's free? No, sweet, everything comes at a price. Drink up." Alice's eyes widen, flicking down to her mug. She puts it on the table, careful not to spill, pushing it away. "Why? What's in it?" She stares accusingly up at the dark woman looming over her in the morning's last shadows, pale blue against wild green. Focusing herself on her accusing glare, bringing all her haughty grace to bear on those wild, swirling green irises. "A distraction. Relax, and take a deep breath." Her ears tip up, and forward, and when she spreads her ribs around a heavy lungful of crisp air, her tits pop straight out of the ill-fitting robe. Her hands lurch up to tuck them in, their every motion leaden, hung-over. She dare not avert her gaze, lest the sinister shadow slip away. Her vision curves and bends and narrows, transfixed gaze locked axially with the churning whorl around the intruder's dark irises, turning in counterpoint. Spinning, swirling too. The sleek, spidery fingers push backward through Alice's bangs. She still hasn't gotten her nipples put away again - the struggle has stiffened them, and her clumsy, aimless fingers do more stroking than stuffing. They reach up to brush the hand away, but slump back to her chest, spreading out flat to hold on. Gravity is overwhelming, she finds, centrifugal crush slumping her over her own dense breasts on the table. "There's a good boy." Incongruous, dissonant. There's no boy here - Alice and her big fat vixenprick are 100% woman. The voice must be talking to somebody else. The spinning swirls intensify, darken, and begin to strobe, light swelling over darkness, and sliding under again. Her breaths grow labored, heavy. The palm on her brow feels like a million pounds, tongue lolling from her face as she struggles to keep her head up under it. It's no wonder she practically springs through the roof when it's removed. Their gaze separated, all semblance of balance is lost to Alice; she's forced to cling to the invader for support. To let the seamstress lead her back to her bedroom, back to the mirror. ----- The reflection staring back at her seems awkward, intoxicated. Unsteady. Divided. But the pieces are all there, and the reflection seems to know what to do, so Alice follows suit. Staring into her own churning whirlpool gaze, her fingers curling around the base of her sticky cock. Pulling at it, slowly at first, her upper arms jostling her massive tits. But her reflection settles into it, and so does she, eliding the dark woman from her sensorium. Dizzy, almost nauseous, but fixed, as though at the center of a vortex. Pulling and stroking, whining and groaning as her brain swims against the undertow. But the voice is there, a lighthouse in the dark, guiding her. "There's a good boy, Scott. You had a good night, didn't you?" She nods. Every moment of it whirls before her eyes, crystal clear. Every throb, every drop, every stretch and gasp and groan and gush. Her turgid prick gushes prettily on the glass, hot prespunk splashing the ground between her reflection's feet. "But now you're getting in the way." Alice furrows her brow, nodding. Glaring accusingly at her reflection, which looks startled, nonplussed. "You're going to start looking for your old life, your old friends, your old habits. And those aren't Alice's things, are they?" Alice shakes her head vigorously. Scott frowns, and gulps. Scott watches in awe, the dark glass framing Alice before him, the dark lady looming behind her like her shadow. His girl-body throbs and pants, his hands anxiously, rapidly wringing his overgrown cock. Alice's fervor drags him along, the nausea grinding into him. He wants to wobble on his dainty pink toes, to stumble and fall, to vomit, but he can't. He can't move a muscle if Alice doesn't, and all Alice does is masturbate. Furiously, vigorously, greasy cocklube jetting ferociously from the flesh. Alice closes her eyes, and scott is blindfolded, his vision burning with every incredible thing he did with this flesh last night, the tongues and the lips and the pricks all over him again. "Cum." The voice commands, and he obeys. Wheeling in the darkness, his essence arcing away from his straining prick in alarmingly thick, sticky shotgun bursts. "Cum it all out." Wringing and kneading the tender root of his endowment, stroking and groping his puckered asshole under his tail, his beachball tits heaving as he screams it out. Drooling, aching for a mouthful of his own salty nutbutter, but Alice gives him nothing, exorcising herself vigorously, mostly onto the floor. "You and your cum are going away for a while, Scott. You're going to leave Alice's body just like your cum is leaving yours. You're going to let Alice live her life." Scott reels. His tear ducts burn, tears wriggling loose a bit at a time. Alice isn't crying. She's exulting, tongue stroking over her lips, crystal-blue eyes alight as she watches him dwindle. As his prick shrinks in his hands, as the breasts recede from his scrawny biceps. Scott clutches the sides of the glass from inside, pleading silently, his words twisting away in the voids of Alice's eyes. He watches the dark lady produce a handkerchief, and whisper something into Alice's ear as she folds the fabric over the end of her dick. Then Alice shrieks with ecstacy, and the fabric jerks and darkens, and Scott is gone. "Oh, the girls are going to LOVE you." ----- Alice surreptitiously checks her hair in the reflection on the glass, a slightly awestruck attendant bringing her dry cleaning around for her. "Here it is, Ma'am. I thought it must have been ruined for sure, but I guess not." Alice smiles, tugging the fabric out of the bag, running her thumb over the golden sheen. "Oh, sure. Haven't you had one like this before? They all fit SOMEBODY." The white convertible idling outside honks its horn. Its headlamps burn steadily on the pavement before it, obscuring the occupants by contrast. One can just make out the tall, peaked ears. Alice looks back through the glass. At the lanky, tattooed rabbit with the hollow look in his eyes. She reaches into her clutch, pushing the stained handkerchief to one side, tugging out a sharp-creased slip of paper. She slides it across the counter, then hurries out the door.