I Want to Be a Catgirl

The wind was oddly quiet for this time of year. It gently swayed the snow-covered branches of the baron Greinhausen's garden trees, carrying with it the scent of gun oil and lavender over the snowy clearing. I stood in a neat row with the other maids, musket at the ready, once again trying not to shiver from the cold creeping up under the hem of my black dress. The endlessly uncomfortable Victorian outfit—corset, frills, apron—and beneath all that fabric, my fluffy tail twitching with every move, tightly strapped in place with special harnesses. Damn those things. I hate the restraints more than anything—but what can you do. Rules are rules.

My name is Miela. And, goddamn it, just eighteen years ago I was Michael Richardson, an electrician from Minneapolis. Middle-aged, mortgage, depression, despair. That night when I got drunk and yelled at the ceiling, "I want to start over in another world—even as a catgirl!" I honestly didn’t think anyone was listening. But apparently someone—or something—heard me. I don’t know if it was God, the universe, or some other crap. But the next morning, I was born again. Literally. I went through childbirth, fully conscious with my grown adult male mind.

I remember trying to say something, but all that came out was a loud baby’s wail. And how could I not cry. I was in shock. But the real shock hit when I realized I was born a girl. And not just a girl—a catgirl. With fluffy ears, a thin tail, and a body that year after year looked more and more like something off a fetish forum I, Michael, used to browse just “for laughs.” Well, laugh it up now.

At first it was diapers, screaming, and sleepless nights—I remember that very clearly. Especially the moment when the old caretaker lady tried to breastfeed me for the first time. As a former guy, I nearly had a heart attack. Okay, not a heart attack—but I spit it all out and wailed like hell. She thought I just had an aversion to milk. Yeah, right…

Then came growth. Slow, relentless, and with nature’s special attention to curves, just to screw with me. At first, I was glad to be a little shorter than the other girls—hoped I might not fully transform, maybe something went wrong? Ha. By fourteen, everything hit at once—breasts, hips, curves. Nothing manly left. And every day felt like a slap in the face. Dresses started to squeeze my waist, my tits got crushed by the corset, and my tail had to be stuffed through a specially sewn hole in my panties. Yeah, those existed. And no one here thought it was weird.

— Miela! — Mirael snapped at me. — Stop zoning out. Keep your fingers near the trigger, you’re on patrol, not at a ball.

— Sorry, ma’am, — I replied, instinctively lowering my gaze.

It was part of my daily game—be obedient, polite, invisible. When you’re a former dude in the body of a cute maid with ears, it’s best not to draw attention. Especially from men. Though to be fair, the baron runs a tight ship. Any guy who flirts with a catgirl guard ends up in the ice pit.

Catgirl maids-guards aren’t just about cleaning and serving tea, you know. Us catgirls, the baron trains from childhood. Whoever survives—gets to stand in line. I survived. Learned the language from scratch—Old Arctic, cursed with its grammar and unpronounceable endings. Every morning—drills, every evening—lessons, every night—a tail massage (otherwise it goes stiff as hell under that fucking corset). And then patrol shifts in the hallways, and of course, these dresses. Like right now, when I stood up a bit to adjust the musket on my shoulder, my tail twitched under the skirt without meaning to. Fucking uncomfortable. The fur itches against the skin on my lower back, but I can’t move—discipline.

– You think it’s true the Swamp Bastards might attack now? – asked Tiiri, standing to my left. Her ears were trembling—not from fear, from excitement. She loved “action” way too much.

– If it wasn’t true, the baron wouldn’t have dragged us out to the garden with guns – I muttered, turning my head back, tilting it slightly – and judging by the fact that even the newbies were sent on watch, it’s serious.

– I hope so, – Tiiri said with a smile, even a hint of joy in her voice.

– You really don’t give a shit about your life, do you – I grumbled, shooting her a sidelong glance. – Want me to remind you who licked your wounds last time?

That memory made my knees go a little weak again. Licked. Yeah. We literally licked each other. And it wasn’t a metaphor. It was a ritual. Catgirls were supposed to lick their comrades’ wounds to “strengthen combat bonds.” That’s what they taught us. That’s what tradition demanded. That’s what we were forced to do.

I nearly died of shame back then, when Tiiri was lying on the infirmary cot and I, dressed as a nurse, tail sticking out from under the short skirt, ears perked up, leaned in—feeling my breasts pull downward and my nipples start to harden—toward her, and opened my mouth, slowly, so damn slowly, touching her soft skin. I remember how my hands were trembling. I was still trying to keep a straight face, pretending it was all just—formality. Tradition. Nothing kinky. Just a girl licking her friend’s wound on her stomach. Just slowly sliding her tongue along the red cut, lingering at the curve of her hip. Just breasts swaying in sync with her breathing, stretching the thin fabric of the medical corset. Just the tail writhing behind me, twitching in a rhythm I was desperately trying to ignore.

But the worst part was how Tiiri looked at me. It was like she knew more than I did. Like she was me in that moment. She didn’t look at me like a friend or someone wounded. She looked like a predator. And that turned me on even more, though I tried to ignore it. My nipples got hard like two stiff little rods, ready to tear right through the fabric of the uniform, and between my legs—and I only found this out later while washing my panties—it got so wet it felt like I’d pissed myself.

And most horrifying thing was that, trying not to think about Tiiri, I switched to something I thought would be more disgusting—male bodies. But that only made me, God help me, even more aroused. It was disgusting and arousing all at once.

__________________________________________________________________________

– Fuck… – I whispered, automatically remembering that for some reason. – I’m still a guy… I…

– What are you mumbling about like some old cat? I don’t care about my life? Licking wounds? – Tiiri smirked, snapping me back to reality. – Well, if anything, you’ve definitely got a knack for licking. You were working so hard back then, like you didn’t just want me to heal—you wanted me to start purring.

– Don’t start, – I muttered through clenched teeth, feeling my cheeks slowly heat up. Under the thin fabric of the dress, between my shoulder blades, something itched—either from the cold or from the memories.

– What? You brought it up. "Who licked your wounds," "don’t care about your life"… I just reminded you. Though if I’m being honest—you were so focused back then… – She leaned in, nearly whispering. – Your ears were trembling when you touched my thigh. You remember? You even purred a little and closed your eyes. Oh, I definitely remember.

– Shut up, – I hissed. – Or I swear I’ll smack you with the butt of this musket.

– Don’t give me that. We both know you’re way too sweet to actually do it. – She leaned forward, her breasts slightly pushing out of her cropped bodice, and was just about to say something else when a strange squelching sound cut her off—like something slowly crawling out of a swamp, dragging slime and branches behind it.

– …it’s starting, – Tiiri whispered with a smile, her ears instinctively flattening against her head.

I shifted my foot out of reflex, the musket tensing in my hands. From behind the trees, just past the line of frozen bushes, the first shadow emerged. Almost the size of a horse, writhing, covered in blotchy crimson-green chitin. Its eyes—boiling like pus—dripping something acrid and smoky. Swamp Bastards.

– To positions! – Mirael barked, and the whole line flinched, moving into formation. Me too. My heart pounded in my chest so hard it felt like it might burst right through the bodice.

Here it is. The magical world with spells and catgirls. Is this what you dreamed of, Michael?

There weren’t many choices for a catgirl here: either a maid-guard with a musket and a corset, or a concubine in the baron’s chambers—the “fate of the chosen.” The ones called upstairs, whose uniforms soon changed to something more revealing, and whose duties became… less armed. The alternative? Brass collars and a life in the underground kitchens. Or death—the Swamp Bastards spare no one.

Squelch… skrrrrrr…

The monster stepped forward, slime pouring onto the snow, revealing its clawed limbs.

– Fire on my command! – Mirael shouted.

And I, musket in hand, fingers trembling, suddenly thought—maybe it really would be better to choose the baron’s chambers…