... A pair of bull's horns and a stopwatch. The horns are on a piece of string, and you pick them up for a moment and look them over. They really look like real bull's horns, and they feel natural to your hands.
You put them down and look at the stopwatch. It reads 20:00. For a moment, you think that it is referring to when you are expected at the park, but a second look reveals that it is set to begin counting down twenty minutes before 8 PM.
You start to wonder who your secret admirer is. It could be Judy, who you've had a crush on since high school, or perhaps it's Helen, the receptionist at your work. You consider the possibility that it is Peter, your best friend whom you know to be gay, but you decide that is unlikely.
As it is only 7 PM, you put the package aside and sit down to watch TV. Half an hour later, you have a quick shower and get dressed in a pair of tight jeans and a polo shirt, with a pair of thongs (flip flops for Americans). As 7:40 approaches, you find yourself in front of the mirror near the front door, the horns in one hand, the stopwatch in the other. You carefully line up the horns on your head, tie the string in a knot under your chin, and glance at the stopwatch.
At that exact moment, the stopwatch starts to count down, strangely counting slightly fast, starting with 19:99. You grab your keys and head out the door. You reach the sidewalk and glance back at your house, which looks somehow cleaner than usual. A quick look at the stopwatch reveals that it now reads 19:85. Your nose starts to feel a little sore, and your skin starts to itch.
You walk down the street, and watch as the tarmac of the road deteriorates to dirt, the houses around you seeming to disintegrate, with older style houses replacing them. Shaking your head, you snort at the weirdness of your senses, thinking you must have had too much to drink, or something like that.
Your feet start to ache as your pants start to feel tight. You readjust your package, the slight tingling starting to arouse you. As you reach the intersection of your now-dirt road with a cobbled road, you stretch out, your muscles aching, and look at the stopwatch. It now reads 18:00, and you look up to see a horse-and-buggy travelling down the road.
You start walking down the cobbled road, looking up at the candle streetlights, trying to figure out what is going on. You begin to breathe harder as the tingling in your crotch grows stronger. Your heels start to grow very sore, and you walk on the balls of your feet in an attempt to reduce the pain. This works, and you snort in satisfaction. You look around at the houses, which look much more like shanties than proper houses. The stopwatch now reads 17:00.
It isn't until the stopwatch reads 15:00 that you realise that you are still walking on the balls of your feet. You try to lower your heels, to no avail. You look down at your feet to see your toenails are getting thicker and blacker. Shrugging it off, you continue walking, your pants growing ever tighter, and your shirt now feeling tight around the chest and shoulders. You scratch at your chest, the itching growing rather strong.
The houses grow cruder and more sparse as you walk, and by 12:00, the area looks more like a forest than the suburbs. You stretch again, and your shirt tears at the shoulders and around the chest, now hanging from your hips, a rag. Looking down, you are astonished to see your chest, abdomen and arms covered in a thick layer of hair. Beneath the hair, your chest is huge, and your biceps are the size of small melons.
You take another step, and hear the clop of a hoof hitting stone. Confused, you look around, and find yourself alone. Another step brings another clop, and you look down to find that your feet are unrecognisable. Your lower legs are covered in hair, and they end in huge hooves. Your knees are bent at right angles, and when you straighten them, you find yourself disoriented as you look around from a much greater height than you are used to. You glance back to see your thongs a few steps back.
You feel fear welling up inside you, and you start to run, each footfall bringing a loud clop sound. You snort in fear, and this brings your attention to your face. In between your eyes, you see a large mass, much larger than your nose should be. Before you can reach to feel it, you hear a twig snap off to your left, and your ears perk up, turning towards the sound. A moment later, you realise and reach up to feel your ears. You keep reaching up, and discover that they are not where they are supposed to be. Continuing up, you find them much higher on your head, covered in hair and very much moveable.
You glance at the stopwatch to see that it is already down to 8:00.
Walking very fast, you start to feel at your face, which is now much longer than it should be. It doesn't take you long to figure out that it is a bull's muzzle, but not quite as big, and a quick tug on the horns confirms that they are firmly attached to your head.
The pain being produced by the tightness of your pants reaches a climax, and suddenly they tear off your body, revealing a pair of muscular bull's legs, and a package much larger than you expected, already half-erect from the tingling. The feeling of the air hitting your enormous bullflesh excites you more, and you start snorting heavily from the sensation. The stopwatch beeps, now saying 5:00.
Realising you are still a fair distance from the fountain, you break into a run again, your fear being compensated for by your logical conclusion that the only way to undo this was to be found in your "secret admirer".
Your body continues to grow, and you feel your muzzle to find that it is now entirely covered in bull's fur. Your erect bullhood starts to demand attention as it bobs in time with your running.
You arrive at the fountain just as the stopwatch hits 0:00, and you are surprised to find that it now looks like a greek fountain. Leaning over the side, you look at your face, not surprised to find a bull's head staring back at you.
With a snort, you realise that your hard-on is raging, and you begin to pleasure yourself. However, you only barely get started when you hear a voice.