InSTALLment (HERM LIZARD CORRUPTION TFTG)
This story is very personal to me. Like most people, I sometimes think about my life direction while I'm staring at the ceiling at 1 AM, and I ask myself "Wouldn't life be easier if I was a perma-egg-preggers partially-TF'd lizard herm?'
Hashtag #relateable, am I right?
And it's ironic too
'Cause what we tend to do
Is act on what they say
And then it is that way
-Jem, "They"
Broken people get recycled.
But he's not really broken, just bruised and battered, black and blue from body blows.
Albeit not to his actual body.
He looks like a fairly young man, as he slumps into the bathroom. Except for the slumping. And the eyes.
The eyes are...much older.
He's not really shocked at the bathroom's decor. The wallpaper of club photos, the scrawled graffiti, the faint scent of pee, even under the air freshener that that desperately tries - and fails - to suppress it.
He swipes at his dripping nose with the back of his hand.
He's too tired to care. Too tired, too experienced. He's seen bathrooms like this a million, billion times before.
And they never get any prettier.
When he pushes his way into a stall, he doesn't check his watch. It's late, he knows that. Late at another crappy club, with another crappy manager.
And, of course, crappy pay.
Used to be he would look at himself in the mirror first, at his floppy red hair that hangs over his right eye, at his green eyes, at his soul patch. And - lately - the gray hairs on his temples.
He pulls down his ripped jeans -gotta remember to check the secondhand shops - as he sits down, and the seat's metal is cool on his legs.
Same old, same old.
He'll...he'll just close his eyes for a second.
"So," said the woman on the far side of the desk, "what makes you think you're a good fit for the position?"
He was sitting in an office, clearly, and there was a glass of water on his side of the desk. He needed to buy time, and reached for the glass. "May I?"
She smiled, like she'd seen it before, and reached for her own teacup. "Go ahead."
While he took a drink, he checked himself out.Definitely not in the band's shirt. Those were his Serious Job Interview clothes. And the decorations in the room weren't helping. Just generic corporate stuff, down to the photos.
He almost expected the "HANG IN THERE" cat.
Okay, how about the interviewer? Middle aged, slim, blonde, mom hair. No wedding ring. Cream blouse, grey coat over the back of her chair. Still smiling.
Why can't I remember where I a-
"You must really like that water."
Huh?
The glass was empty. He was out of time. He put it on the table, and tapped into his creative skills.
"Well, I feel like I have a great deal of experience dealing with high-stress environments. I have also written numerous successful business letters to various venues-"
And even more unsuccessful ones.
"-and have experience managing the pay, training, and logistics for a small band. While the environment may be different, I feel these are transferable skills."
The interviewer stared at him for a while. A very long while. Her eyes were slightly narrowed, and her mouth was neutral.
A drop rolled down the side of his face.
And the woman smiled again,
And stood up.
Smoothed her sensible grey skirt, over her sensible dark - but still kinda hot - pantyhose.
"Would you like a tour?"
A tour? Was that a good sign?
...Couldn't hurt.
"Sure," he said.
Darby shoves opens the door of the unisex bathroom and walks in.
Where_is_ he?
"Dude, where are you?" She runs a hand through her asymmetrical mohawk. "You spend any more time in here and someone will steal your guitar. We're already late for the next set. And that cheap guy-"
Her pierced lip curls into a sneer.
"-will take any excuse to stiff us."
She hitches up her ripped jeans, bends over, looks into the stall closest to the door.
And smiles.
There you are.
As the interviewer walked in front of him, the musician tried to keep his eyes level, looking at the back of her head. Tried not to look at the bulge under her coat, barely hidden by the tales of her sensible grey business jack-
"-don't you think?" she said.
Hmm?
She half-turned, kept walking, and smiled at him over her shoulder. "Of the office. What do you think?"
He hadn't really noticed the office, and he took a look around at the bland, anonymous cubicles, at the workers pecking away at computers, speaking into phones. "It seems very...productive."
She turned forward again. "Exactly the word I'd use."
The end of her dark tail swung just below the hem of her sensible grey skirt. It was even more fascinating than the bulge had been. Like a metronome, or a hypnotist's watch.
The musician blinked.
What bulge?
Darby rattles the door handle. Locked. She rattles it again. Angles her head until she can just... barely... There! There he is. He looks...asleep?
Angles are a funny thing. An angle that is sufficient to let a worried bandmate see into a bathroom stall might not be sufficient for her to see how the dark liquid dripping from her friend's nose has fallen through the air and then stopped, as if it struck some invisible container.
An invisible container that is roughly in the shape of a snake's tail.
As it fails, the shape begins to twitch. To curl. To stretch toward the face it came from.
And to strike another invisible shape.
The "tail" sweeps over this second shape. If there were any one to see, they would see how the tail's dark liquid coats the outside of the shape, until it is plain that it is some kind of snout or mouth. As the musician's nose continues to drip, the tail fills up more and more, until it's connected to the mouth.
And then the tongue overflows, and its liquid begins to fill the shape of the head. The tongue itself curls back into the mouth, and kind of turns itself inside out, until it's long enough to paint the musician's lips in darkness, lips which plump out as he smacks them.
The liquid covers his red hair, tops off his head shape entirely, and keeps going. His new head is a slim, streamlined, cold-blooded shape, and a line of points on top push into crimson spines.
And the musician slumbers on.
"And_here's_ the production floor!" said the interviewer.
The musician looked up at the big sign over the double doors that said PRODUCTION. "Yeah, I figured. Look, I have a confession to make. I'm not...exactly sure what you produce."
The interviewer just smiled, opened the doors, and walked in.
Her tail dragged on the catwalk.
When the musician followed, he glanced at her. Her face was focused and intent on the factory floor below them. Her massive pregnant belly, covered in dark iridescence, pressed against the railing.
Funny. The musician was pretty sure the building hadn't been big enough for an entire factory floor. Wait, no, he couldn't remember much about the shape of the building from the outside at all. Why no-
The interviewer's arm snapped out and down. "Look."
He looked.
"Oh," he said.
Darby slams the bottom of her fist into the door, hard enough to make it sting.
She doesn't care. She doesn't even notice.
"Dude, wake up!"
Nothing. Nothing but the sound of the hinge rattling, and the AC running, and, distantly, the muffled bass of the club's music.
The dark liquid has filled up most of the invisible head, and drips down his neck, his chest. The light catches it, makes it iridescent. as it traces the outer shapes of two rounded mounds on his chest, over his band shirt.
Shapes which rise and fall as he shifts in in his sleep.
Darby sees none of this. She's busy backing away, cradling her aching hand, and trying not to panic.
Deep breaths. Deeeep breaths. Can't be worse than that one gig in Chester.
"Okay," she says. "Time for Plan B."
She thinks.
"...I need a plan B."
Rows of people.
That's what he saw down there. People. Lots of people, kneeling. Lots of bare skin. And some kind of...costume? The noises they were making...
"Uh..."
The interviewer reached up and grabbed a handle. "Take a closer look." She dragged a heavy CRT monitor on an arm into view, tapped in a number on the controls underneath.
A girl appeared.
The interviewer handed over the screen.
Well, it was probably a girl.
He had known some very girly boys in his day. Especially in certain bars.
Her legs were folded under her, but she seemed to have feminine hips. The only parts of her that were bare were her arms - which were also pretty feminine - and the sides of her torso. the rest was covered in an iridescent purple scales or bodysuit or shell - he couldn't quite tell what it was.
By accident, his finger pressed an arrow button below the screen, the one pointing right. The viewpoint of the camera shifted accordingly. He blinked and held it down. The camera orbited the woman, went from a right-side view to her rear, and now he could probably see her head, the slickness that covered it, rendered it a blank, egglike shape.
Not even a mouth.
And more importantly, he saw the massive, pregnant belly that jiggled as she visibly strained. She held onto two handles above her, and he could see her arms tense. Her bare skin glistened with sweat.
He pressed the key again and the camera resumed its orbit, until he could see most of her back. and the massive tail that curled around her feet, twitched and moved as she pushed, strained -
-and an egg popped out from under her tail and skidded across the floor until it bounced off one of her feet -
(claws, really)
- hit the wall of the little circular pit she was in, and stopped. it wobbled slightly.
The musician blinked.
The overlay text in the corner of the screen said 505. He reached for the number pad, tapped 506, and hit the enter key.
Another girl. Slightly different skin colour. Slightly different hide colour. The same arms, the same squat, the same slick eggs rolling across the floor.
He looked over the railing again. Could he even find them, down there? Even if he wanted to do something for
(to)
(with)
them?
Were they even unhappy?
Those aren't costumes.
"No," said the interviewer, whose chest was roughly the size of a New York apartment. "They're not."
The musician's new breasts twitch, and more dark liquid pours from the left nipple, then the right. It glops along the lower curve of each breast, until it reaches some invisible point above his stomach, somewhere near the bottom of his ribcage.
And begins to spread outward over a large, curved shape.
Much like a pregnant woman's belly.
If Darby stretches her leg out, and -ugh - plants her hand on the bathroom floor, she can reach juuust far enough with her Doc Martens to kick him in the shins.
No reaction.
Darby says something one syllable long, straightens up, washes her hands, and stares at herself in the mirror.
The part that isn't covered in graffiti, dust, or things she doesn't wanna think about, anyway.
Okay. We need to get the stall open, and to call an ambulance or something. And not necessarily in that order.
She chews the inside of her cheek.I'll have to ask... him.
She rubs her eyes for a second. Not enough to smudge her makeup, of course.He'll screw us. Somehow.
She looks down, at the reflection of her friend's feet in the mirror.Well, fine. If it saves his life.
She sets her jaw, and heads for the exit.
"Stay here. Be safe."
She pushes through the door, and leaves.
A few second pass.
She pushes through the door, and sticks her head in.
"Please don't die."
In the stall, the spines flop over the place where the right eye would be, if it were open.
Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong, and_why hadn't he noticed it before?_
He needed to stall.
Somehow, he managed to keep his voice level.
"Why not, uh...change them completely?"
"We do, elsewhere. Other production lines. This reduces overhead."
"Overhead?"
"The, ah, office equipment is very different." The interviewer mimed someone holding something in the air. "It's hard to hold handles with claws. But some employees choose to take that career path."
"Career pa - they change_voluntarily_?"
"Yes!"
"All of them?"
"Mmm-hm!"
"Did they know what they were getting into?"
"Every single one."
"And...that's what you want me to do?"
"Not exactly. That's what we want you to_want_ to do."
He looked over the railing. Now that he was paying attention... "I notice they're all female."
"The males are on a different production floor." She tilted her head. "Of course, there's some...overlap."
The musician opened his mouth, paused, and decided it was best not to ask. "Work-life balance?"
"Oh, they can change out of their uniform and go home at any time. Most choose not to. We prefer to scout people for the position without a family to support. Like yourself!"
"I...I didn't tell you that in the interview."
"No. No you didn't."
The musician swallowed, and rubbed his eyes.
Where are her clothes? Why is she only wearing a jacket? Why does she look like the girls down there, except her head is normal?
No, wait. Her lips were the same dark color as her legs, belly, and neck. The same color that caught the light at just the right angle.
Why didn't I notice this before?
He managed to keep his voice level and calm. Somehow. "Employee benefits?"
"Dental and healthcare. And also-"
She smiled, and gripped the railing in both hands.
She's not-
She moaned.
He took a step back.She is!
And then she bent her knees, and grit her teeth, and squatted, right there on the catwalk. Something dripped out, onto the metal grating, and something sour rose in the musician's throat, as the woman in front of him hyperventilated. He saw her arms strain, just the way the girl's had on the camera, except close-up, more real.
Until-
Until-!
Two eggs slipped out, and landed on the grating with twin thumps. Thumps hard enough for him to feel it shake through his sensible business shoes.
The eggs were still slick and wet and coated in...whatever, and it ran down the sides, through the grating, and fell down, down through the air, until-
Something moved on the monitor, and the musician's eyes snapped to it.What was-?
The dro - the_woman_ - turned her head upward, so the next time the musician was looking for it. A drop landing on the drone's head.
Somehow, he got the impression that if she had a face, it would look like a man lost in the desert who has just felt the first few raindrops.
He pressed the up arrow. The picture panned up, to show a catwalk, high above. He stuck his arm out over the railing, and someone in the image waved down at the camera.
He let go of the monitor, and the arm dutifully pulled it into the ceiling.
He whispered "What_are_ you people?"
The interviewer smiled. "Happy employees."
He looked down into her eyes, and something dark swirled behind them. He swallowed. Hard. Took a step back.
"Well!" he said, drifting toward the door. "You've given me a lot to consider. I'll think about it, and get back to you." He reached for the door handle.
Which didn't move.
Tug, tug.
Nothing.
And his heart dropped faster than the egg's goo.
"Uh..." He turned back, hoping against hope. "Is there some kind of...security thing?"
She smiled at him, and licked her ridiculously full lips with her long, black tongue. "Leaving so soon? We're not done with the interview."
He swallowed.
In the bathroom, something dark and slick pokes out the tip of his cock.
There are many nightclub managers that make their employees feel like family. They exhibit concern for their well-being. They ask about their personal lives. They are generous with praise and stingy with criticism. They spring for the_best_ breakroom coffee.
But this manager takes one look at Darby and growls "You people were supposed to be on 10 minutes ago!"
Darby bites back the words she actually wants to say. She never actually learned his name. It was bad enough just wasting the head space to talk to him.
"We have a problem," she says.
The manager raises an eyebrow. "We?"
The goop not only creeps around thin air, but it slides down the center of the musician's stomach, swallows the trails of red hair, and hits his belly button.
And something strange begins to happen, even by the standards of the night.
As it covers more and more of his belly, his uncovered sides begin to cinch in, like someone's fitting an invisible corset. Paradoxically, his belly bulges out, like the mass from his waist is being redistributed. Until, at one point, his waist stops shrinking, but his stomach keeps growing, and growing, until it reaches the dark air-coating.
Until it's a giant, pendulous, beach-ball sized mass, with the iridescence of its curves shining in the light.
And the goo creeps on, until it drips around his balls, cups them, but not his dick proper.
That's about to get an entirely different sort of change.
The musician swallowed. "L-look. I don't know what's going on. I won't tell anyone."
The shape that emerges from the musician's crotch is long, thick, dark and inhuman. It doesn't have the iridescence of the rest of the gunk covering him. Except near the tip, when it catches the light.
If there was a biologist in the stall, he might remark that the new, strange equipment seems less like a human phallus, and more like some manner of ovipositor. Meant to push eggs down its length.
More gunk drips from the point where the human cock-turned-sheath meets the ovipositor, gunk which matches the texture of the clear fluid that drips from the ovipositor's tip, onto the filthy bathroom floor. Lubricant, perhaps.
The darkness has climbed up the interviewer's neck, started to seep along her jawline as she walked behind the musician. Her shoes clanged on the grating. She was a whisper in his ear, over his shoulder.
"Isn't this position better than being a musician?"
Something wet caressed his ear. He flinched.
"I...don't see how."
The liquid spurts from his twitching cock, into the ripped jeans resting around his ankles. At some point, long ago, he stopped caring when his pants touched dirty bathroom floors.
But he_might_ have been a tad miffed at the way the darkness stains his jeans. The way it spreads through them, robs them of all detail, all definition, until they're more like a liquid than fabric.
A liquid that creeps its way back up his legs, until they're wrapped in darkness from ankle to thigh, except for the cutouts where his pale skin shows through.
The ovipositor twitches again.
This time the drops land on his shoes.
When the interviewer came into view, she had a smile on her lips, as she licked them with her dark tongue. "Isn't this better than all those late nights in smokey clubs? Getting overworked and underpaid?"
"How exactly is that different from the corporate world?" says the musician, on pure spinal indie reflex.
The interviewer chuckled.
The manager nods. "Your concern is touching, really, but I don't see how that's my problem. Ask the janitor."
"I can't_find_ the janitor!"
"I don't have a key, and see this? See my clipboard?" He waves his clipboard. "I don't have time to waste. But you do, apparently."
Darby blinks.How much of this club's revenue goes up his nose?
"I'm a musician!" said the musician. "I'm not some...egg-laying...corporate ...drone...lizard! I have_integrity_!"
The interviewer tilted her head. The low light gleamed off her dark cheeks, off her tongue, as it darted across her lips. "Then why did you interview for the position? why not just walk away?"
If the musician were awake, he'd probably compare the rising sensation in his backside - the_pressure_ - to a flood that threatens to break through a dam.
Or, less poetically, to the...aftermath of that one gig-n-grub in Chester.
A certain ring of muscle flexes. Something dark drips from him, and into the toilet bowl below.
"Look," the manager says. "If there's a problem call an ambulance. Find the janitor. Climb over the door if you have to! Just stop bothering_me_!"
Darby, incidentally, has a teeth-grinding problem. Especially at times like this. She can think of other ways to express her feelings, but her hand still hurts.
A new tack. She needs a new way to approach this.
She steps a little closer, looks around, lowers her voice. "I_assumed_ you didn't want an ambulance in front of your club. you know how rumours start, right? And I can figure out a way to get into the stall. It's your club, I thought you'd know better."
The manager looks away closes his eyes, thinks about it. His face tightens, then he sighs and tosses the clipboard onto the nearest horizontal surface. "Ugh, fine."
His finger lances into her face. "But if he's dead, I'm taking the bill out of_your_ pay!"
The interviewer leaned on the railing, and her tail whisked behind her. It almost slapped against the musician's shins, like an excited dog. He followed the line up to her shapely, half-scaled hips-
"Just_look_ at them," she whispered. "They're happy, they're mindless, and they go home smiling at the end of the day and watch Family Matters." She straightened, turned to face the musician in a way that just happened to thrust her chest outward.
He can't remember when she took off her jacket.
"It's a good job, it puts food on the table." She leaned forward, whispered into his left ear. "Belly full." Leaned back, twirled a circle on each temple with her fingers. "Heeeaaad_empty_."
She stepped back and looked him in the eyes. "And you can even keep up your little guitar hobby." A shrug. "You know, on the weekends."
"Do you really expect me to sign on the dotted line?"
"We don't need a contract silly! No verbal agreement, no handshake. As long as you want it."
The musician blinked. "What?"
"As long as you want to be like that-" She pointed at the production floor. "-for a minute, a second, an_instant_. That's all it takes. That's enough."
"No. Let me go."
"Well, if you insist." The interviewer snapped her fingers, and the door handle turned in the musicians hand. "Buuut I forgot to mention the recruiter bonus. If you want the position, I mean."
The musician shoved the door open. stepped through.
And paused.
Hung his head.
"What bonus?"
The interviewers head was long and sleek and dark and reptilian and iridescent and scaly. Her grin was full of sharp teeth. "The bonus iiiis...you get to recruit."
"I don't see how that's a bonus."
"Well it's very_hands-on_, if you get my drift."
He stared at her.
He thought about his current life. About the stress. About the bad food and long nights. About the constant fear of knowing if he'd make rent, or be able to pay the band, or even his van's insurance.
About the grey hairs on his temples he kept seeing in the mirror.
About how tired he was.
About how hot she was. Freaky, but hot.
And then he closed his eyes.
The musician's ring of muscle flexes. Something pokes through, and more liquid falls into the bowl.
He shifts in his sleep.
His breasts rise and fall a little faster.
"I don't want the position," he said.
"Are you sure? She stepped closer. Not even a little?"
"Not one little bit."
And she got up on her tippy-toe-talons, laced her fingers over his shoulder, and spoke in his ear.
"Liar," she whispered.
The tail explodes out of the musician's backside.
The thick, iridescent muscle-like mass lances into the bowl, hits the bottom, and instantly plugs the toilet.
The impact shoves the water out. It slops over the side, keeps going, like the flood pouring out of - through - the dam. His cock twitches and spurts as the tail launches him off the seat.
With all the new sensations, his eyes snap open.
The instant before his expanding endowment slams his tits, dick, and belly into the ceiling.
The manager and Darby walk down the hall toward the men's room. She walks, he - well, is "grump" a verb? To stride down a hall in a grumpy manner? He walks like the world better get out of his way, for its own sake.
The manager gives her a sideways look. "What's he to ya, anyway?"
"...He's a friend."
The manager gives her a look. A familiar look. He even has that smug smile on his face, which Darby has, thus far, managed not to punch. "Sure he is."
Darby frowns.
"Is that why you both have the-" He waves his hand at his head, which probably cost more in some salon than the entire band's equipment. "-same hair? Because it's a friend thing? Or did he get it first and you followed?"
Darby glares at him, and says nothing.
They walk into the men's room, and the manager asks "'Kay, where is he?"
"The closest one."
The manager checks under the door. "I don't see him."
"What?"
"Look for yourself. He'll have to pay for that, by the way."
She looks for herself. The stall is empty. No feet visible. Just some dark, wet stuff running down the side of the bowl.
And that might have been there in the first place.
Darby pushes the door. "Locked."
The manager says nothing.
"Didja hear me? I said the door's locked." Her knees twinge on the way up. "Do you have a pager number for the janitor or something?"
The manager is looking up. "Hey, you know how much roof tiles cost?"
Huh?
Darby looks at what the manager is looking at. Which is a weird, dark stain on the ceiling, above the stall.
"If he did that, it's comin' out of his pay."
Darby stares at him. At the mercenary little moron.
And something in her finally snaps.
"Are you_sure_ about that?"
"Huh?"
"Think about it. If he was in the stall, and whatever_that_ is fell on him, and its toxic, and he wandered off and got hurt..."
She lets his imagination take over, lets visions of lawsuits and
(worse!)
bad publicity dance in his head. Watches him swallow, with wide eyes, and plaster his idea of a friendly smile on his face.
"Look...No need to do anything rash. Let's just find your friend before we start talking about damages. I mean damage-"
Something mostly human-shaped flips out of the stall and lands on top of the door.
The first thing people usually look at on humanoids are heads and faces. In this case, that only increased the confusion, for two reasons.
The first reason is that this person's head and face aren't a head and face in the normal human sense. In fact, it looks more like some kind of gigantic lizard head perched on a human's shoulders. Dark colors, some kind of iridescent blue-purple, with a reddish fringe flopping down over one of its golden eyes.
The fringe kinda reminds Darby of an iguana, if the iguana didn't put on its hair gel that morning.
The color continues down its neck, down its collarbone, past its bare arms, down its chest - and somehow only covers the inner half of its massive breasts - and continues around its stomach.
So Darby feels compelled to use the word "belly". It feels appropriate, felt like a much rounder word than "stomach". And this belly is certainly round. And large. In fact, from the floor, it's the second reason they have trouble seeing the face.
How is she not falling over?
And below the belly-
Darby's mind locks up.
That's not--
It can't be-
But if it was-
What you'd expect to find below the belly on your average man is also on this clearly female lizard thing. Except...not_exactly_. Your average man didn't have that weird iridescent coloring wrapping around his balls, while his actual dick is clearly visible.
Or rather, what had been his dick, before another, very differently shaped dick emerged from it.
Which is the same color as the stuff covering the rest of him.
Or her.
There's a loud crack, and the thing's legs shift without leaving its crouch. Darby can swear - can_almost_ swear - the thing's hips just got wider. She can only get a good look at the lower half of its legs, but they're fully covered, except for horizontal sections with skin visible underneath. Like it sliced its own hide open with claws.
Darby frowns.
Or a pair of scissors.
Why is that familiar?
The whole ensemble ends with its feet. Wicked looking claws. The whole thing is like a wolfman, if the wolfman only changed down the middle and also the legs and was also more of a lizardgirl.
Darby's eyes flick to its crotch.
...Mostly girl.
Turns out it has the same kind of claws on its hands, as Darby learns when it waves at them. But only the tips, like wax running down a candle. And those eyes...mascot outfits with motorized eye-tracking were_expensive_.
It's a_really_ good costume.
"Hiiiii," it drawls.
Its dick twitches, and something drips from the tip. Both Darby and the manger's eyes follow the drop down until it splatters on the floor, which leaves the bathroom slightly more unsanitary than before.
"Hey!" says the manager. "Who are ya? What did you do with my musician?"
Darby gives the manager's back a Look. While she backs away, of course.
The were-lizard-thing tilts its head, and licks its lips.
"I don't know who you are, or how you snuck in here, but if you damaged my toilets-" The manager snaps his arm out to point at the lizardgirl. "-you're gonna pay, you hear me? Freak, you're gonna pay!"
The lizard straightens its head. And in an almost-familiar voice, it says "Funny. I was just thinking the exact same thing.
"What's that supposed to-"
Something rises up behind it, something hidden by the stall door until now. Something large, and thick, like a gigantic, fat, worm, with a pointed tip. Except this worm's tail opens up like the egg from_Alien_, with three flaps instead of four. The friend can see the wet, sticky insides.
And she can also see how the lizard girl stays perfectly balanced. Doesn't sway at all.
This is about the point where the manager's common sense - what little he has - kicks in. He swallows, takes a step back. "What-what is that thing?"
Takes another step back. "Hey, don't do anything rash, all right? We can talk this out. I know people-"
For such a big thing, the tail-worm strikes very quickly.
And Darby decides this would be a great time to run.
One might expect her to stop, to attempt to help the manager. Until you remember that the natural human panic reaction is "run for your life".
And also, he's kind of a gigantic dick.
Does that thing eat people?
Just as she reaches for the door, she trips.
Or, more accurately, she falls. Tripping implies her feet struck something. And even in the few semi-seconds before she faceplants into the door, she recognizes the sticky stepped-in-bubblegum feeli-
She hits something a lot softer than the door.
Something that wraps around her. Something with a big round part the size of a beachball, and two smaller round parts supporting her head, and a third part poking her in the-
She blinks and blushes and there's dark stuff dripping from the boob in front of her_ew ew ew ew-_
Something touches her head, and she flinches, decides sudden moves_might_ be a bad idea, and slowly looks up at the were-lizard thing cradling her, stroking her hair. What little there is.
And now she knows where she's seen that fringe before.
"...Erik?"
"Oh, you noticed. So, before you ask-" Lizard-girl reaches up with one hand, and flicks her floppy-fringe like she's a model in a shampoo ad. "-yes, I_did_ do something with my hair."
"What_happened_ to you?"
"I guess...you could say I sold out. Got a new job."
"What?"
"Aren't you sick of it? The long nights? Playing the same clubs for the same crappy managers, for the same crappy pay, over and over and over?"
Crappy managers?
The friend pushes up off Erik's giant belly-
(and_there's_ something she didn't see coming that morning)
-feels the texture, the round things moving on the inside-
(like a plastic bag pull of grapes. But bigger. Eggs?)
-and looks over her shoulder. The manager's still there. The tail got him. Detached, swallowed him up like some kinda really weird body bag. She can still see his hands pushing at the sack, trying to get out. Like someone poking at the inside of a balloon.
She shivers, wonders if she can pull away and get her shoes off before the lizardgirl...catches her too.
"Don't worry about him. He was a total dick anyway. Lets call_his_ change a...hostile makeover."
Huh?
Something long and wet and flexible curls under Darby's chin and up her jaw and_into her ear-_
She sat in an office, in her - yep - her interview clothes. The ones that cover up the tats nicely.
The red-haired guy across the desk looked familiar. But she can't...quite remember where from.
He lined his papers up, tapped them on the blotter to align them, laid them down, and smiled at her.
"Afternoon!" he said. "Are you here for the position?"
She blinked.
"Yes," she said. "Yes, I am."
ENDF
"InSTALLment"
by Eulalie "Nequ" Quentin
2021 Creative Commons By-SA-NC
Fanart and fan stories welcome. Please PM me when you do.
If you repost this elsewhere, you might wanna move this credit bit to the top.
Similar stories:
Stalled (lizard cock TF, male + herm TGs, corruption)
Obeysance: Going Up: (confined space, goo, corruption, F>Herm/Futa)
Omelette(egg, futa, drone, corporate TFTG)
The Spray(latex goo lizard rat partial TFTG bondage romance)
Thanks to Automata for the main character concept. Which I solicited, oh, a decade ago. I don't even remember what I wanted it for.
I vaguely remember a Liquid Latex Corruption story by ZXC that may have inspired this. Or maybe ZXC's art in general, idk.
Inspired mainly by two ideas I've had for a while; a "centerline" TF, and a tail growth so large and explosive that it physically launches the subject off the toilet they're sitting on.
Strangely enough, the tailcoon was original to this story, assuming I haven't seen it anywhere else. Maybe inspired by the way Xenomorphs can transform humans?
Opening line is the opening line from Katie Melua's "The Flood", because I felt like being self-indulgent. Now that I look at it, the whole song's lyrics are very appropriate to the story.
Oh, and that "Liar." line and the interviewer's whole shtick was probably inspired by a that Dreamworks_Sinbad_ movie nobody watched. Saw it on Amazon Prime. Decent, but not good.
You saw it on Amazon?
Yes.
The biggest retail corporation on Earth by revenue? The one infamous for forcing its warehouse employees into strict working conditions?
Second biggest, after Walmart, but yes.
Are you aware of the irony?
Also yes.
In my defense, it was the free Prime trial.
The "Chester" I mentioned is Chester, PA. Chosen entirely at random from a list of dangerous towns in Pennsylvania. Which was also chosen at random.
Because I felt like eating a cheesesteak at the time.
Free association is fun.
Hey Nequ, is this some kind of social commentary on capitalism?
One, no this isn't Youtube. Or Twitter.
Two, if you look at all the corporate-speak really closely you'll notice they're not actually talking about_selling_ anything. It's just a bunch of themed double entendres.
Three, our protagonist is an 90s grunge musician barely scraping by. The job interview and the Production Floor represent his worst nightmare; selling out and losing sight of who he is.
Whatever or whoever is influencing him and changing him, maybe it's using his fears about losing his integrity to weaken his resolve. If he was a British Punk in the 70s, maybe he would see visions of joining some kind of latex lizard dickgirl police.
Or the most conformist, mainstream thing of all; a pop group.
Wow that's a lot of thought for a weird hermy porn story. At what point in the writing process did you come up with all of this?
When I was writing this commentary, actually.
Don't look at me like that. I start writing the commentary before the story is finished.
And literal showerthought: What if the Company doesn't have any actual power over him at all? What if the changes are easily reversible if he wants it enough, unless it can convince him otherwise? What if, like, the only power the system has over him is to convince him the system has power over him, man?
One question.
Yes?
...Are you sure this isn't a capitalism metaphor?
I said_no_!