The night passes fitfully, images of the foxman... your mate... swirling through the mists of dreams. You yearn for him, and yet, something doesn't seem quite right. He's massaging your cock, but you're a female. Aren't you? You and he struggle, but your swings pass through him like they would a ghost. His grasp, though, is like iron - burning cold as he grasps you, in contrast to the heat of his full shaft pressing to your bellyfur. "And now you'rrre mine," he growls. Pain and pleasure clash, and the ghost is suddenly not in front of you, but behind you. Your voice - definitely feminine as you whine out at the mounting. His panting laugh is the last thing you hear, before an ear swivels atop your head, tracking the patter of rain against the distant roof.
Rain... that's it! You took shelter here because of the weather. Comfort, danger, your mate, and then... Your eyes open, taking stock of the room. Still in the study? It would seem the struggle and claim that was staked upon you left little energy for the todd to do little but pull out and roll over; his open muzzle points to the ceiling, a light snore providing a moment or normalcy to an abnormal circumstance. Your hands... paws... run down your body, taking stock of what you'd hoped had been the prelude to this nightmare. Obviously not. Especially disconcerting is when your fingerpads brush against the thatch of fur at the apex of your thighs; what should be the familiar contours of your maleness are instead the curves of feminine lips hidden amidst fur.
You have to get away, that much is certain. You gingerly clamber upright, standing up a hand's breadth higher than you used to be; a glance down shows that the reason would be your 'heels' being up in the air a fair distance. Nevertheless, your body seems to already be used to this form; walking presents little difficulty. You pant slightly, feeling warm from how the fire has dried your pelt in the aftermath; even the trickling of seed has dried your thighfur into little spikes. The sway of hips, the lingering soreness from that knot, and the gentle *click* of toeclaws against the floor, though, bring a brief flash of irritation to your mind. You have to get help and find some way to fix this.
When you reach have the door of the lounge halfway open, you hear stirring from across the room. "Rrrr, going somewherrre, little vixen?" Your mate-no! You push back the veil of grafted instincts that nudge your mind towards submission. Instead, you silently throw yourself through the door and take off... but where?!