His dark hair is now soaked in your skunk-spray. However, you've grown so accustomed to the scent that, even in such a concentration, it just smells pleasantly musky unless it's actually physically on your own face or in your eyes. From a couple of feet away, your sensitive nose can take in details: under the intense--and admittedly malodorous--smell of "rotten eggs" and garlic, you can pick up notes of cinnamon and a vague hint of licorice. Once you've resigned yourself to the sulfurous background odor, these nicer notes really stand out more.
Your musing is distracted by a sound of popping and grinding, though, and you pull your thigh out from under his arm, which had been draped across your lap. Is this a sound people always make when they are dying? A whimper forms in your throat at the unfamiliar thought of a demise happening with you being around, and you're not sure whether you should flee from the scene or not.
However, these musings are stopped short as you see his upper lip starting to form a split, and you see it slowly puffing out as the teeth inside it rearrange. The skin darkens, and you realize that this is going on all over the man's body. For a moment, the effect is a little horrifying, but as the color spreads everywhere, even over his rump, this perception passes, soon appearing more native to him than his previous color. Furthermore, blemishes and scars disappear from his flesh, being as erased from him as if he had been dropped into the Lethe. The gashes and burns left by the blast from the butterfly bomb are erased, any scabbing turning to soot and seeming blown delicately away. His body is being, besides transformed, healed by the magic of your spray.
Most strikingly, though, his fur doesn't just grow on his tail, nose and head and in a "boot" tuft around the ankles as was the case for you. His entire body is being covered in a silky pelt of skunk-fur, giving him a soft, plush look like that of a teddy-bear. Emboldened, you reach out to stroke it, and with a giggle, you realize that this is why hair on men's bodies is so attractive.
As that hits you, you blush hotly, jumping away from him and tumbling over. Oh, no. Are you really being attracted to a man? Your head buzzes with renewed protest. No. No! Your chest heaves with anxiety, and you glance back. You're so embarrassed, and you feel weak and frail and naked. Your body is flush with excitement, reacting against your will. The feeling is a stupid, silly feeling. This can't be happening. This can't happen. You can't have turned into a blushing girl, your male memories scream, trying to reassert themselves in protest.
Tentatively, part of you wanting to disprove your feelings and the rest wanting to prove them, you crawl back over to man, and you look his body over. You scan his unconscious form from snout to tail-tip, crown-to-toe, and fingertip to fingertip. You open your mind as much as you can to understanding what you see, one part of your mind determined to give this man a chance, the other part determined to test and to judge him. What you see this time is quite different.
First, you realize that the man is hardly more than a boy. He can't be a day over 18, or he might have even lied about his age to get through the draft for his country younger still. There is also something you have never noticed about a man before: it's not just the body of a man, but it's the body of a human...or in this case, skunk-person. Many of the things that make a female body nice are also present on this particular male. First, his body has a look of being very limber, and you can imagine him moving with the grace of a dancer if he wanted to. His fingers, in spite of having been transformed into paw-digits, are long, graceful and delicate, although the paws are overall much larger than yours, perhaps large enough to wrap around your waist. You can imagine those fingers moving over guitar strings or a piano, and you can imagine him entertaining his friends with a song once in a while. His legs are shapely and pretty, and they are really a lot more muscular than those of the boys you remember from school: of course, boys only tend to care about their upper bodies, and they tend to devalue their legs, as if ashamed of them. You frown a little, and you sort of wish they would show their legs to the world more often, since they are really quite cute and boyish.
His face really does it for you, though. It isn't that of a killer or bad man at all, but it's a handsome and sensitive, broad-cheeked sort of face. Looking at it, you can imagine him as a little boy, proudly showing his mommy a coloring book where he had proved he can color inside the lines. You giggle again at that thought, in a more affectionate way. You can't stop seeing the little boy inside him, so idealistic and determined to prove himself. Again, your past male self is losing the argument, and you're not entirely sure that you mind it.
His eyes move as they try to blink open. After closing them tightly again and his chest giving a heave to breathe, they fly open, staring at you. They are the most beautiful, warm, soulful, hazel-colored eyes that you have ever seen.