Audience With the Headmistress

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Yet another story taking part in The Rendering Pit! Let us know how you're enjoying these, and if you think we should do more <3

The following is a story written and illustrated by RabidBadger! Check the attachments to find the illustrations, as they should be placed within the story file itself, as well as standalone copies. This story gives us an insight into the ellusive Headmistress... spooky!

The following contains fatties, big and small! Transformation, mind alteration and some minor time tweaking!

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Ziralia stood outside the curiously old-fashioned door, her robe uncomfortable. It was fine fabric, an expensive purple synth-silk, but while it felt glorious most of the time it had a habit of sticking and itching just a little if the wearer was sweating. The answer to that was always, of course, ‘don’t sweat’ as her mother told her – ‘the Julicress family never sweats’. Yet, as she stood outside the carved wooden doorway set in an arch that seemed to bleed into the metal bulkheads around it, she could not call her uniform comfortable. No matter how well it accented her perfect, pale pink fur.

There was an audible click as the door opened itself, the latch undone – hinges creaking a little, scents akin to the banquets her family sometimes held for shareholders in their shipping business. Lots of rich meats and sauces with bread everywhere. It was clear enough as invitations went. The equine heiress placed a dainty hoof fingered hand to the door and pushed inward, trying to take the place in despite the low lighting.

The entire office seemed to perpetuate her initial impression – the headmistress liked anachronisms. Wooden floors, walls stuffed end to end with shelves of honest to god, dead tree format books, what might be genuine gas lanterns in the corners – but all on low. It took her eyes a few seconds to adjust enough to actually see the far end of what was a not very wide, but extremely deep room. The entire back wall of it was dominated by a half moon desk, laden with myriad platters of food (and the occasional brick-a-brack, two snow globes, some kind of cube with colored squares on it, a nice looking purple geode with lots of geometric color striations inside) – some eaten, some not – and the blue furred (and apparently nude) creature indulging herself at them.

Ziralia had at one point been practicing her etiquette for this, her wait in the hallway had given her all manner of time to argue the benefits of ‘hello headmistress’ versus ‘greetings professor Seraphina’ and everything in between. Then she found herself facing down a wobbling (slightly sweaty looking) blue posterior in hazy lighting.

“Who in Chrome’s greasy dregs are you, and why are-“

The room, Ziralia learned in a moment that left her spine feeling like a violin string being violently mistreated by an amateur musician, had fantastic acoustics. The eruption from the blue behemoth’s throat was loud enough that the heiress could practically feel the belch crawl through her body.

“Ah! Right on time I see, if a little less cordial than expected. Help yourself if you like.”

It was the familiarity that left her blinking hardest. Ziralia stared, looking about the woman for any sign of the badge the staff and students wore. It ought to be beyond prominent she thought, some glorious edifice of rank and prestige, but the sagging, flabby thing was just as nude on the other side as she turned to face the slender horse. It was holding a wine bottle in one hand, and a rolled pizza in the other. Honestly, Ziralia wasn’t even completely sure what species she was looking at – it might be something ursine, but it was a trifle small for that at least in terms of bone structure. Not much else about the woman was anywhere in the vicinity of small.

“I… yeah, no. Look, I don’t know who you are but I’m here to see the headmistress about something – not to stuff myself until I have to stroll around naked because my ass is too fat for a uniform robe.”

That managed to get the fuzzy, flabby-cheeked visage to scowl a little. The blue woman lifted two fingers, and surprising Ziralia, a sturdy looking settee materialized under her. Not resized, she noted – spatial altering had obvious visual signs. This just wasn’t there a moment ago. Nor was the one behind her now that she found herself landing on as her backing up a step walked her right into it.

“Quite a bit ruder than expected, but perhaps I’m at fault there. I spend so much time watching abroad I forget where things are in the present. My dear, you’re here to discuss the recent damaging of school property attributed to you and your friends.”

Ziralia blinked slowly, the distraction of landing on a soft, impossible cushion shattered by the realization dawning on her of who she was in the office with.

“…Mist-prof-head- er, Headmistress, that uhm, I wasn’t - that is to say, my friends and I were all involved in that, and there’s really no way to be sure what exactly-“

The great, wobbling blue woman looked more bored than anything by the stumbling attempt, using the time to reach to her side and procure a leg of some kind of fowl and tear a frankly savage amount of meat off the bone.

“Your friends have been interviewed, assessed, fined, and forgiven as was seen fit in each of their cases but they all told a compelling and consistent story about your conduct last Friday evening.”

Ziralia’s fingers tightened into the cushion – satin and real cotton padding from the feel of it. Her uniform felt more uncomfortable than ever, in stark contrast to the seat.

“Those little… Ugh. Look, it… things maybe got a little out of hand, okay? But it wasn’t like we broke anything important, and if it’s about a fine my parents will just-“

The headmistress tossed aside a cleaned bone, which did not seem to hit the floor so much as vanish into the corner somewhere. She then folded her slightly greasy hands together and interjected.

“I have no interest in calling your parents so they may buy your way out of your latest mistake. Nor, I think, would you find them as willing to cover for you as you think. We’re here to discuss your future, which is by necessity a product of your past.”

The girl squirmed in her seat, the first real flickers of fear presenting in the back of her mind as she scanned the room – eyes darting about, as if some solution lay in the dimly lit corners. No such comforting thing awaited her though, just a fresh glance at all that half-eaten food and the useless trinkets on the desk.

“I uh, I have savings, and-“

Headmistress Seraphina stood laboriously, her frame’s expanse settling downward in lazy folds. All traces of her earlier good nature had left, collapsing off her into an ominous scowl.

“I’m aware, and you should be aware that drone will never function properly again.”

Ziralia’s gaze drifted to the desk, something had briefly joined the soft orange glow of the gas lights far more colorful – probably just a flickering catching the inside of that geode. There did seem to be a great deal of gleam coming from inside it. The distraction was all of a moment’s worth of time though, and afterward-

“N- that- that’s not my-“

“It is explicitly your fault my dear. We see everything that happens to them. So, let’s see where you went wrong.”

The blue furred behemoth shuddered gently, and then slowly lowered herself to the ground. Looking disoriented, at best – but that only held Ziralia’s gaze so long as it took for the light inside the geode to flare to near blinding cascades of chaotic radiance. Staring into it would’ve hurt, she thought – but instead it felt warm somehow, hazy. Like floating on her back in a hot tub. Relaxing, apart from the voice anyway – mostly the same as the one she’d just been speaking to.

Ugh, exactly what I expected. Surface level judgmental confidence. No real spine or trials.

The equine heiress swallowed hard, blinking – turning her head, and yet even with her gaze averted – and more sobering – with her eyes closed, linear patterns of color still dominated her vision. She tried to speak, finding that her body didn’t seem to be listening, and yet someone else clearly was.

Do stop fidgeting. I need to see what I’m working with.

Ziralia felt an intense chill about her body not moving when asked, but she kept trying. Something in her perception felt light and fluttery in an uncomfortable way, like missing a heartbeat. A creeping sense of familiarity began to ease into her mind, unclear, but altogether like déjà vu. Just without her knowing what it was she’d done before to provoke this.

Wealthy family, obviously. Generations worth. Some genuine character, if you go back far enough. People with drive, who wanted a legacy – not just shiny objects. I like your great grandfather, no matter what angle I look at him from he stands tall – knows how to put his people first, but still make time for himself.

The memory came bubbling up, probably just from the reminder. Probably. Great Grandpa Julicress – Ziralia had seen him once or twice – but he’d died when she was five as she recalled. Ancient, but always smiling – laughing – sneaking her cookies. The aged stallion had started the business they now lived in the shelter of by hauling cargo himself, hooked to an early model lev cart. Things expanded from there exponentially, over generations, as they’re wont to do. And it was due to be hers sooner or later – sooner, if her father knew what was-

Oh, do get over yourself. This whole thing was founded on providing – and you just want to suck it dry. Hrm. That gives me an idea.

There was a sharp prodding sensation in the back of Ziralia’s mind, leaving her train of thought in shambles. She tried to concentrate, to make something coherent come of it all – but all she found were fragments of ideas that repeated like broken records. The fear that something had broken in her made it a sincere relief when one thought finally stuck. It was the meeting with her Great Grandfather she remembered best, the last time she’d seen him – the oldest she’d been. Sitting on her mother’s knee, resting up against her side, waiting for him to arrive. She remembered the red silk her mother favored, the stern expression – always the devotion to poise. Then the door had opened, and that was-

This really is perfect, best to leave at least three generations for the ripples to smooth out. It’s funny how much one push can change, and how many of those changes fix themselves.

Ziralia wanted to grunt out an annoyed ‘what the hell are you talking about?’ to the voice, but found herself too distracted to think it clearly. There were sounds filtering in still, not from the memory – muttering, grunting, chewing? And the voice of course, but the memory was moving still – slowly. It felt like it had been reduced to partial speed, and unsaturated – she was staring at her ancestor in monochrome.

Great Grandpa was always devoted to family, that part is ironclad – the family itself? A little more flexible. He seems to have met his wife at a bar after a day’s deliveries.

She had heard this story plenty of times. Great Granddad and his wife meet, hook up about sports given the nature of the bar, things go from there. He’d been younger than the former track and field sprinter by about five years though, and she didn’t live to make the-

The young heiress’ train of thought derailed noisily in her mind as the door opened in her memory of the first meeting with the family patron. Great Granddad strode in, soft as ever – smiling as always, looking uncommonly healthy for a man his age. Right behind him was Double Granny Marie; a russet furred, fluffy mountain of a dairy cow – though she was gray in many places too at that age.

Ziralia could swear she heard a record scratch in her mind. She had never seen that bovine before, but she remembered -visits every Christmas. She remembered generous presents, warm, pillowy hugs, remembered crying at the funeral. Even her mother had gotten a little emotional, and that never happened really. The girl twitched, scratching at an itch in her mind – something was wrong. Not painfully wrong, but irritating – obtrusive – slippery.

Marie was a delightful woman really. If your ancestor lingered at the farm a little rather than hurry to the bar – sore ankle – then he was around when Marie finished her chores. They went to a drive in as their first date that weekend.

The story was a familiar one – old horror movies, Marie had clung onto him and gotten so scared she milked all over the windshield.

Wholesome pair really, loving – and it didn’t take long before the family was growing as fast as the business.

A spread of great aunts and uncles, most of them at least on holiday visit terms – and of course the grandparents. Her nan- her grandmother Evely- er, Ethyl. She had that delicious red and black spotted fur pattern from her parents’ mix, and that’s how she’d gotten the attention of her husband – gotten the family business merged and really moving. Ethyl worked actively in things, but found time for family just like theirs always did. There was some odd notion in her mind that she ought to have been working more, less approachable – like her mother – but no matter how many times Ziralia tried to find the memory that confirmed the work-aholic grandmother thought she came up empty handed, or rather she came up with the recollection of a smile and donuts every Sunday morning.

She reached for a broader batch of memories, but mostly Ziralia remembered them coming over every summer. Quick jaunts in the family yacht out to the edge of the atmosphere to watch meteor showers. Big catered birthday parties her mother always pretended to be bothered by the extravagance and wastefulness of.

Funny how this works isn’t it? An extra ten minutes to nurse a sore foot, then people change a couple of qualifier tags, but the core identities and accomplishments stay largely unaltered.

There was another flush of confusion. Hard blinking, even though the visual Ziralia had didn’t darken for an instant. A rough swallow – there was still a fear here somewhere, but damned if she could keep a grip on the reason. Nothing was easy to think about, all too ephemeral and greasy, except for one thing – it was different each time, but one thing was always easier to see than the rest.

She remembered her mother fussing, always focused on appearances. Never lose face, always wear the best, know what to say to whom and when. It wasn’t that she was cold, just that she had high standards she put on herself – and expected Ziralia to live up to. The tailoring was expensive, but the hours sitting in being measured for the custom fits necessary to cover a curvy, primarily bovine form were ones her mother never actually complained about. It took patience and skill to look elegant, and never leak, for hours at a time in fine company. Ziri was a bit less tolerant of the waiting herself, but she had to admit her mother had a point about the leaking.

That had nearly gotten her at the Prom in fact – she had…

Ziralia blinked, or tried to – but there was still nothing moving. Just the same incessant spread of color, and the sound of clinking plates and low moaning.

Of course, that’s mostly the nature part of it. Nurture is a lot more malleable, which is the whole point of this exercise.

The heiress fought, scrabbling with hands she couldn’t move to hold onto an image. Herself in royal purple, striding through the dance like royalty – passing by those she deigned worth attention and those not so blessed with all the poise and grace her mother wanted, right to the buffet table.

She couldn’t hold onto it – that memory was one of the slippery ones, it seemed. Far more clear cut was the image of a young girl wearing a much lighter shade of the same color, pastel not being so royal. The girl was a little pudgy, but seemed happy enough. Not shy, not self-conscious, just pleased to be who she was as she started school.

It went well for her too, the benign sort of confidence seemed to be exactly the best way to attract a good friend or two – people to have sleep overs with pizza with, to have celebratory dinners and nights out after good report cards alongside – even just to much on snacks while studying to achieve the former. Some of them came and went – moving with their families, but she could see the whole procession of the next eight years. The girl grew taller, fuller – at first, she simply thickened a bit around the thighs, that pastel skirt riding a touch higher before a dress replaced it. One she had a habit of posing in front of mirrors in.

She seemed to be doing just that, posing – like some ancient billboard model – ass pushed outward enough that the dress was just high enough to suggest what was underneath without showing it. It took Ziralia a moment of staring mentally at this to realize it was creeping steadily upward, like the dress was shrinking.

Or the ass under it was growing.

The girl could’ve been anywhere between ten and thirteen, not much changed – except that rump. It ballooned slowly outward, rising bread dough under a soft purple cloth, tinted just the faintest shade of pink. The whole of her ass exposed itself when, opposite side, her belly began to spread in much the same fashion. A childish dollop of pudge that bloated and wobbled, pudding in a purple sack, eventually overflowing – cresting the girl’s lap and onto her thighs. Her swollen body too much for that poor garment to do much good with – precisely why there had to be a replacement, even if it was her favorite.

Necessity was the cause for the two piece that followed it, easier to get that tailored – and to have spare tops on hand. A darker shade of purple, why was it that older always meant darker by way of wanting to be more mature? (And what girl thinks she looks mature with poofy shoulders?) The mid-range of the bovine student’s teenage years had been a blessed golden age of free time, easy classes, her own transport, and a summer job that meant spending money. As well as employee discounts. The entire span of those years seemed to be a self-repeating montage; looking good behind a counter, messily destroying several containers of fried food, then spending afternoons at the beach with her current roster of friends – counting how many stopped to stare, and how long, and at what. Eventually she’d squeeze herself into the transport’s seat (feeling it sink an inch or so on her side) before it ferried her off home, and repeat the process.

Every so often things needed sizing up, and there were a few noteworthy moments of it – the proper exploding of a top during volleyball (lots of staring that day – but none of it competition legal among the girls) – the day the kitchen told her there was no chicken left in the freezers at all – the heart wrenching pout that followed it. That cycle had repeated itself all the way to prom night.

A twisting, bubbling sound drew Ziralia’s attention.

The mere memory of deep fried wings and crab cakes was enough to set Ziri’s belly rumbling ominously, Chrome did she ever want that now. There’d been platters that night, she’d emptied a couple – ended up with grease on her dress. Her mother had been annoyed at that to say the least, but what celebration was worth it without indulgence? She remembered how it tinted the purple a shade darker, seeped into the hips mostly – where her hands rested, but also the straps holding it up across her shoulders. Honestly the tailor had outdone himself again that time – fitting a form that was quite taxing to get around, and staying flexible enough to accommodate filling all-

All…

Cows have four stomachs dear.

Ziri remembered how divine it felt, having all four of them stuffed and taut – the tension as she moved around the dance floor, still cutting an impressive enough figure at it to earn some cheers and get regular offers. There’d been that moment when she thought she was going to rip a seam on a dip, but the marvelous dress held. It had been one hell of a way to commemorate the end of mandatory education.

And then you registered for higher education, complete with work study in the kitchens.

Which she did so she could get access to the leftovers after each meal. Set two examples with one stone. Don’t be afraid to get your hands dirty, and don’t leave anything to waste. It felt so much easier to grasp things now, the reach for a memory or thought came easily – like it should. It was enough that Ziri felt more than a little confused about why she’d been having such a hard time for a few minutes there. Maybe she hadn’t eaten recently enough? She did get fuzzy in the head when she was hungry.

Ziralia’s eyes opened when she told them to this time, showing a room bathed in a faint kaleidoscope of light – mixed with the warm glow of the lanterns. She wasn’t alone of course, that blue furred body was back at the plates, stuffing itself – both hands – chest caked in sauces, grease, a panicked and helpless look on her face.

“Err, are you all right Professor?”

The wobbling, aqua body started – turning rapidly.

“I… n- no, I – oh Chrome why am I so hungry, I wasn’t li…”

The glowing lights faded, all but the gas-powered ones that is – leaving Ziralia to watch as a vacant look settled into the woman’s face, soon replaced by the familiar smile (welcoming, tolerant, but self-sufficient and strong willed) of the headmistress.

“Sorry dear, that got away from me a bit. Look, I think that’s all we needed to cover really. Why don’t you load a plate up for yourself before you head out?”

The cream-furred cow beamed. Buffets were her favorite thing, and Seraphina always had one ready to go. She’d managed to turn on the other silver spoons in her year to the idea, indulgence mixed with a little self-actualization and with the chance to explore new things. Most of them had packed on a few pounds since they adopted the viewpoint, but they had some way to go to catch up with her grand self.

Getting to her feet took two tries, one to loosen up the grip the seat had on her ass – the other to actually heave forward, feeling the synth-silk glide and caress her. The stuff was awkward if you got sweaty in it, but that only happened when Ziralia was stressed – and frankly, that was a rare occurrence. Barring ghost peppers anyway. Then came the wait for her body to stop moving, there were always two or three seconds of feeling her ass wobble, her thighs undulate, her belly slap against them as it rose and fell – she loved every inch of the monument to her choices she lived in.

A plate stocking up later, Ziralia was near the door – finding herself pausing as a soberer thought came across her mind.

“Headmistress? How is the drone I fell on doing?”

Seraphina was already back to her gluttony, and had a mouth half full of smoked fish when she answered.

“Honestly? We probably must retire them to the breeding program, but I’m told they seem to appreciate your visits. Try not to worry about it dear, they’ll enjoy themselves. Now you just worry about your mid-terms, and don’t forget to stop by the kitchens for milking before class tomorrow.”

Ziralia let out a chuckle, squeezing her chest together between thick arms, setting her plate down on top of the fleshy shelf they formed.

“As if I’d forget to take care of these girls. By Headmistress!”

Seraphina licked her fingers watching her student leave, mentally watching the threads she had pulled – the strings she swapped around – for frays, but seeing no such thing.

“Cute kid, gonna be a cute mom too – and she’ll get used to the hover assistance and gas issues when those grow in. Now, for the second course…”

A twinge somewhere in the back of the lumbering woman’s mind gave her the slightest pause, left her eye balling a mirror in the far wall in annoyance.

“Do stop fidgeting in there! I did no such thing – as if I could just rewrite the world on a whim. I found one thread, whether her great grandfather took his time on one particular day, and tweaked it. Then we sat back and watched the consequences play out. He looked far cuter with the love handles anyway.”