The Tale of Felicia Thign

This tale was written as part of an exchange with an artist who wishes to remain anonymous for the time being, which they were then good enough to illustrate. Join us, won't you, for a tale well-met by moonlight?

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The Tale of Felicia Thign

Felicia Thign—you said it THINE if you knew what was good for you, they'd spelled it wrong at Ellis but decided that "Thing" was even worse—hadn't meant to stay up late to watch the supermoon. People acting like the moon being a teensy bit bigger, a teensy bit brighter, was this great big thing…typical pointlessness. The moon had been super on and off for billions of years before the 24-hour media cycle.

And yet, why couldn't she sleep?

"Screw this," Felicia said. She kicked back her covers, revealing her usual nighttime outfit of a curve-hugging tank and flannel slacks. It was only May, but she was burning up under the sheets. She quietly padded to the bathroom for a drink, which dried up like a rainstorm in the desert. Failing that, she flung the patio door wide to let a little night air in.

"Ugh," she panted. "It's even worse…outside…"

The moon had never been higher, never been brighter, and it shone deep into her blue eyes with a curiously yellow hue. Felicia felt a strange heat deep inside her, one that seemed to come as much from without as within. Sweat glistened on her mocha complexion, a compromise between Dad's Icelandic roots and Mom's family in Burkina Faso.

"Ohh, man…" she quietly sank to the floor, legs drawn up on either side of her. "So…hot…"

It wasn't a harvest moon, but it had nevertheless brought her eyes to a level of night vision she'd never known. Blinking, she didn't even notice her pupils becoming slits, the soft lines sharpening just as where those of her ears, prickled out and growing to either side of her head.

"I just…can't…get…cool," Felicia moaned. That tank had to go; she peeled it off from the bottom up, pooling it around her toned waist and revealing the pert gals, their ebony sheen paled by moonlight but stiff and quivering as on the coldest day of winter. Instinctively, absently, she worked each nipple in turn, ignorant of how each undulation made both areola and fingers rougher, one thickening quietly to pads as the other toughened to withstand tiny but sharp teeth.

"Been a…dry spell…like the Sahara…" Felicia said.

But, now, there was little about her that was dry. Her skin was soaked with sweat, her flannels sopping it up like salty rags. Every pore on her body was blitzing with sweat or the first tickles of fur, emerging on moon-dappled skin like lunar shadows. She could feel a steady soaking of her unmentionables, and bit her lip at the sudden burning pleasure of a…

"L-lunar…ladyboner," she snickered.

It was true, and the pleasure welling at her feminine crevasse and upon her now-furring breasts clouded her other sensations, forcing the growth of tooth and claw from her mind even as her maw was alive with stalactites of sharpening teeth and her toes kneaded the carpet in the throes of shedding nails for something far subtler and sharper.

The tail that flopped out, cresting her underwear and flannel like a Hawaiian rogue wave capped with jet-black fur, was as a physical manifestation of the intense, surging wetness Felicia struggled to hold in even as she quietly reveled in the sensation.

"C-c'mon, Felicia," she said to herself shakily, not noticing the strange purring quality which the words now carried, nor the stretching and gentle crackling of a face in the midst of becoming a feline snout. "N-not here, n-not now…don't want to have to scrub cum out of the carpet…"

But as the supermoon reached its apogee, and the strange changed coming over Felicia hit an apogee of their own, there was no stopping it. With an animalistic yowl, she shivered with pleasure, scratching at the carpet with newborn claws and snaking about newborn tail as the built-up lunar energy flooded her unmentionables—and a growing spot on the rug—with liquid ecstasy.

"Dammit," Felicia sighed, the spell broken. "Now I gotta get the wet-vac."

It wasn't until she reached out a werecat's darkly furred claw to open the closet that she noticed anything amiss; neighbors who had been wondering at the animalistic yowls of pleasure before now wondered at the animalistic howl of surprise as well…and called animal control.

Come to think of it, hadn't Mom started disappearing for nights at a time around the same age?