All but slamming your foot into the gas pedal after shifting into reverse, you about-face the car and speed back the way you came. The other cars are similarly or already have scattered like rats from a collapsing derelict, not wanting to catch whatever happened to the biker-woman-turned-giraffe-man.
At the very least, you note with bittersweet relief in your rear-view mirror that she or he or whoever doesn’t look in pain, just very, very confused... and if that massive, erect cock is anything to go by, just as horny.
Unfortunately, looking back takes just enough of your attention away from the road to send you swerving around another car when you look forward again, narrowly avoiding crashing into them but definitely sending you careening into the curb. You car roughly lurches upwards as the broken concrete of the sidewalk effectively kneecaps your already shoddy tires, not enough of a rattle to deploy the airbag but enough to render your car useless for the time being.
You curse; who are you supposed to call for a tow and car repair when the world is turning into animal people? A grease monkey?
Getting out of you now useless car, you glance over to where the other car ended up—namely, spun around with one rear in the toothy clutches of a pothole, just as immobile as your own.
You creep closer, hoping you didn’t inadvertently cause a casualty, only to blink as you ask yourself why they’d be veering into oncoming traffic in the first place. Your question is swiftly answered by the driver stumbling out of their car, another collegiate man with a scruffy beard and gangly limbs.
The young man promptly falls to his knees, vomiting an inky black froth as his skin turns purple.
“He’s already got it,” you mumble. “I need to get out of here before I’m infected too!”
You turn around and make to run, but the man calls out, “Don’t leave! Help me, man, please! Call an ambulance or somthffshhhmmm- - -”
You turn back just in time to catch another gut-wrenching glimpse of the man vomiting that pitch black goop, his lavender flesh pulsing and shifting. Your gaze held captive by morbid curiosity, you watch as his hair grows out longer but also clumps together into distinctive tendrils, thickening into writhing lengths sprouting countless suckers.
His nose and mouth absorb one another as his face pushes out into a slight snout, mouth fusing shut as gill-flaps open along the sides of his thinning neck. His shoulders lurch roughly inwards as his whole body shrinks into a far shorter, slighter built, his waist narrowing in kind as his fingers merge into thicker mitten-like tips to yet more tentacles.
Just like the wolf-woman, the transforming, soon-to-be-former-male’s hips jut wide, wider, and wider still as his thighs and rear plump, stretching or sometimes breaking free of his overworked clothes. The bulge in the front of those newly threadbare pants recedes and vanishes, tentacle-like feet to match the hands sliding slimily out of sneakers meant for someone with feet, not to mention bones.
Finally, the new octopus-woman’s chest bubbles and swells. Once flat and firm pectoral muscles melt into fat before fattening all the more, soft, supple flesh expanding, growing larger, fuller, and heftier by the moment. They quickly swell past any semblance of A-cup and B, soar over C and D, and don’t even slow until they’re well past E and F.
The octopus-woman wobbles to her feet, seemingly uncoordinated on her new boneless limbs and frame, her tentacles wriggling this way or that to try and maintain her balance.
“Why didn’t you call an ambulance?” a sweet, high-pitched voice flows from the gill-flaps along her neck.
“I tried that earlier,” you reply. “It didn’t work out so well.”
“What even am I?” the octopus-woman asks, looking down at herself in disbelief. “Everything is so jiggly, but so tight...”
Grabbing the shredded clothes with her suckers, she rips the remaining threads free, leaving her voluptuous curves and fully nude body free and bare to both the elements and your eyes. She runs her tentacles over her enormous breasts, her purple skin somehow blushing as her suckers pluck at her breasts and the mound between her newly wide hips and full thighs. You note with no small amount of both fear and confusion that her female sex is dripping, and her blush only grows as she locks eyes with you, stepping closer.
“Did you do this to me?” she asks. “What are you still doing to me? I’m not into dudes, so why do I want you so badly? Why do I want you so much, holding me, kissing me, ramming your dick into my- - - Why do I even have a pussy?!”