Saturday afternoon
"In the garden if you want to smoke." Spider effortfully began to roll the joint one-handed as he followed me out through the patio doors. When you're a white drug dealer you need all the credibility you can get. I wanted my head clear so I just took a Marlboro Light from the packet, no diseased lung pictures just warning messages safely obscured in Czech or Polish or some East European shit. We stood for a minute smoking in the insipid North London sunshine. In the distance a simurgh flapped lazily across the sky.
"I need Change," I said, and watched the creaking gears of Spider's mind attempt to engage the wheel of humour.
"Yeah, we all want change. Like that's why they vot-"
"You know what I mean," I interrupted. "OVD-1. The drug, man."
He winced at the open use of forbidden words and scanned the garden suspiciously, wondering if any feds were lurking behind the yellowed leaves of unsuccessful tomato plants or lying prone in the long weedy grass. Now a rusting but deeply embedded middle-class mind-gear engaged.
"You should really mow this lawn."
"Can't, I'm allergic to grass pollen. Change. You've got to get me some Change. Two pills."
"I can get you hash, K, Meow, coke, E's, trips, whiz-"
"I don't need those. I need Change."
Spider sniffed. "I don't know why. So you change into some mystological creature for eight hours, you change back, big deal. I can do you some great acid, four hundred mikes, you can talk yourself into turning into whatever you want. Or I can get you DMT if you want a trip that'll blow your mind, DET if you want a chilled trip, or 'shrooms, or whatever. So Change does your body as well, who cares?"

To be honest, I agreed with him. The pigeons and cyclists on their own had been bad enough in this town, without having to worry about some over-entitled trust-fund griffin shitting on your head, or a centaur in an ironic waistcoat trampling you at the crossing as if a psychomorphic transformation means you don't have to care about red lights. But then I looked through the grubby fingerprinted glass and saw the reason I had to get some OVD-1: Camille.

Her long, slender legs were curled beneath her now, but that only drew more attention to the glorious, near perfect spheres of her breasts, which jiggled with silicone-free authenticity when she laughed. A foam of curling light blonde hair cascaded downwards like a fountain laced with Fairy Liquid, the impeccably trimmed golden arcs of her eyebrows holding tantalizing prospects for more, the angular symmetrical planes of her cheekbones not much sculpted as cut like a diamond by a jeweller. From this angle I couldn't see the startling neon blue of her eyes.

But I could see the reason I needed that OVD-1 ASAP. The smug, bony, smirking face of Lucillus Smythe, sadly not hidden behind an obligatory fashionable beard. Thankfully I couldn't hear his oily voice, doubtless oozing about some pop-up restaurant or promenade theatre experience as he tried to muscle in on the narrow window of Camille opportunity.

"Spider, you must know someone who can get it," I said urgently. I forced a smile. "You know everyone. I'll owe you mate, big time."
He rubbed his chin uncertainly. "Maybe... just as a favour... let me make a call." He wandered off into the long grass, bumbling around as he muttered into a phone while I continued smoking. Eventually he returned, and we exchanged some words. When he'd finished, I cocked my head, glancing behind him.
"Hey, was that..." I said.
"What?"
"Looked like a cop car. Might have been wrong though, maybe just a van with a paint job."
Spider looked panicky. "You think they were monitoring the call?"
"No, no, they'd make sure not to be seen. Maybe you should leave by the back way if you're worried"
I gave him a leg-up over the back wall, and strolled back to join the others.

"Where's Spider?", Camille asked.
"He had to run. Listen babe, I've been thinking about what we were talking about last night."
"Yeah?"
"Maybe we should talk in private."
Lucillus rolled his eyes, but obligingly got up, sliding some kind of slim iPhone One More Than You've Got from his jeans as he crossed the room. I sat down close to Camille and touched her arm. Too early for kino? Fuck it, I was short of time.
"Listen, we talked about this last night. I made some calls and I can get some C. Some Change." Did anyone call it C? "Are you still up for it?"
Camille's eyes widened "Sure. It's like, a whole mystical thing, you know? It like expresses your inner soul." Her voice dropped and became dreamy. "It changes you, you know. Not just like the body, that wears off, but deep inside forever. But you know I'm flying to Milan tomorrow."
I knew. "What about tonight?"
She bit her lip. "I said I'd meet up with some people in Soho tonight. We were going to meet up in Hesiod's, then go clubbing."
Perfect. Show off the new bodies, then what could be more natural than two Changed people heading off together. "Great. I'll meet you there. I could only arrange two pills though."
"Oh. Couldn't you get another for Lucillus?"
I looked sorrowful. "No, there's a real drought. Just two. One for me, one for you."
"OK." She kissed me softly on the cheek. "I can't wait to see what the real you is like."

Saturday evening
Hours later, the connection made, I stood on a Central Line train rattling West. two pills safely enpantsed. I'd exchanged them for a shocking amount of money by a pair of old grey cranes in South London, from an aloof West Indian whose patois didn't hide his contempt. Had I been ripped off? They weren't aspirin, they were large soft pills almost the size of a 10p piece. The placebo effect wouldn't help me here.

I alighted at Tottenham Court Road, ascended through the hot, moist, brightly tiled tunnels, with the cheerful Saturday evening crowds around me. Tourists milled uncertainly, ancient instinct drawing them to congregate in narrow bottlenecks. Gaggles of teen girls tottered precariously on vertiginous heels, sinewy tanned legs taut with effort. Flush-faced lads, muscles bulging from T-shirts, bellowed awkwardly as they lurched towards High Volume Vertical Drinking Establishments.

Above ground the trace of a breeze calmed and cooled the crowds. I shuffled behind them when I had to, darted into spaces when I could, heading into Soho. On the roads taxis fought ferocious duels with the cars and buses. Lambos and Ferraris purred at five, ten miles an hour, their sleek aerodynamic lines either failing or truly fulfilling their real purpose. In an sidestreet off Greek street I found the front entrance to the bar.

The music was something I didn't recognize, with deep slow beats and heavily bent bass. The lighting was dim, and I circled a while before spotting Camille and her crew. She wore a dark green backless tunic dress, cinched at her tiny waist. I palmed the pills before approaching. I gently stroked her shoulder and as she turned, put my arms out to encircle her and began to dance. A moment of fear flashed in her eyes before she recognized me: good, helps to keep them off-balance.

"I've got them," I spoke into her ear. "But I can't hand them over, it looks dodgy. You understand?"
She nodded, not understanding.
"So we kiss."
I kissed her, deeply. Uncertain at first, she worked it out as I passed over her pill, then swallowed my own. She didn't see Lucillus tense rigidly behind her as he saw us embrace, and I made sure to hold her close as I shot him a triumphant grin over her shoulder. With a rictus poker face, he stalked out of the club.
"Now let's dance!"
We couldn't, of course, but she was too new to London to know it. When the staff approached, complaining about the lack of a dancing licence, I pulled Camille with me out of the back entrance, into an alley busy with office workers in the daytime, empty now. The beat of music pursued us faintly as we stood in doorway.

"Can you feel anything yet?" I asked.
"No... wait. Yes, something. There's a tingle." She rubbed her back, and I turned her around.

Little yellow-white strands were emerging from her shoulderblades. They lengthened, split, ramified before my eyes. Tiny feathers began to form.
"Wings!" I said. "You're growing wings! And... you're getting taller!"
Camille reached back and touched the wing-stubs, wonderingly. "Yes! But... I don't feel taller."
"You're a couple of inches taller," I said. But then, I noticed, the doorway nearby was a little higher too. "No, hold on, wait..."
Camille turned round again. "Your head!".

There was an itch at my temples. I reached up, felt two hard, round swellings. My eyes were now level with Camille's chin, but she wasn't growing: I was shrinking. I tried to step back, stumbled awkwardly. My right foot came right out of its Converse: my feet contracting even faster. I stepped out of the other, and no longer stumbled: instead I felt more sure-footed than ever before, rapidly dancing back with an Astaire assurance.

With a gentle rustle, Camille's wings extended behind her, still small, but I couldn't pay attention, for my face was now level with those magnificent breasts: full, rounded, nipples visibly showing behind the fabric, but now, somehow... too rounded. My legs were itching now too, and burning hot. Not caring who saw, I let my jeans drop: I didn't need to undo them for my hips were narrower now. The hair on my legs had thickened, coarsened. Camille reached out and gently stroked the horns growing from my head. The skin on my stubby feet was hardening now, into hooves. My torso still seemed unchanged. But my underpants were now gruesomely tight. I ripped them off, and Camille and I gasped as one.

I hadn't been that badly endowed before. But now my testes had become hairy monstrosities like two tennis balls in a hiking sock. The cock was in proportion. And now it began to stir.

"You're a satyr," breathed Camille.
"What?"
"Half man, half goat, sexually insatiable... I should have guessed."
"And you're an angel". Her wings were longer now, and she beat the air experimentally a couple of times. I drank her in with my eyes, starting at her feet (size five maybe, but still somehow... too big) then raking up from her tight calves, splendid thighs, hips sadly cloaked by her dress, those magnificent mammaries, and finally her sweet face.

My new improved willy was pointed there now.

I tapdanced towards her and took her in my arms. First I buried my face in her soft scented bosom. Then I pulled back, she leaned down, and for a moment that was either brief or eternal, we kissed again. I pulled back briefly for air and then... swift as thought she turned her head so when I came back for more, I only kissed her cheek.

"Thank you," she said. "Thanks for the Change. But now I understand: Lucillus really loves me. And now that I'm really me, I have to do the right thing."

Her wings beat the air with real purchase now. For a few seconds, my grasp was firm enough that I rose with her, but my arms had only human strength and couldn't hold. I lost my grip, crashed down to the alley below as she ascended majestically into the air, arms folded.

She was wearing white cotton panties. I'd hoped for a thong at least.

"BITCH!" I screamed into the sky. "Whore! Cunt! You dirty fucking prickteasing slut! Come back and fuck me! I need to fuck!"

She only smiled beatifically as she disappeared over the rooftops.

I fell to the ground, screamed, pummelled the flagstones with fists and hooves. Problem was, I hadn't been lying. A pressure had started to build in those testicles. They were swelling taut, and I had a bad feeling it wasn't the transformation doing it. And a worse feeling if your balls exploded when you were transformed, they wouldn't un-explode when you changed back.

Well, at least I was in the right part of town.

I transferred my wallet from jeans to shirt. I didn't dare risk that burning sensation, so I carried them in front of me. At least my shirt was long enough to hide the arse of my diminished body. Hunched over, I scurried towards what I hoped was the nearest walk-up. I tried ineffectually to wank as I walked, but my new cock didn't seem to notice; it wanted more than a hand. More than both hands too, so I took the jeans out of my mouth and just walked.

I frantically rang the bell of the first place and got in, but as soon as the maid saw my horns she pressed a button and I heard locks click.

"No satyrs." She said firmly. "Too much."
"I'll pay anything!" I scrabbled for credit cards, hurled them to the ground in front of her.
"Pick those up. Try number fifteen, second floor, ask for Galya."
"I need it!"
The maid curled her hand into a tiny fist. "Get out or I'll beat you!"
Somehow this terrified me. I scrabbled for the cards and left.

Galya was a specialist of some kind: at least six feet tall, forty-ish, muscular. I couldn't have cared less what she looked like. She relieved that terrible pressure, and much of my current account, but kicked me out after an hour. After that, things became a blur. I found a card-festooned phone box and rang number after number asking for someone, anyone to cope with a satyr. There was a homeless person at some point, I'm not sure of the gender. Eventually I stumbled across a hen party, a couple of dozen women in identical pink hats down from up North, who helped me out, after I’d danced for them. Eventually, the throbbing fullness finally eased, and I staggered home, wincing every time my now sore penis thumped too hard against my hairy leg. When I finally got in, I grabbed a packet of frozen peas from the freezer, lay down on the carpet with legs akimbo, and soothed my aching crotch enough to pass into blissful unconsciousness.

A Month Later
Spider was at the door of my house.
"I've got Change", he offered helpfully. "I can get you all you need."
I shook my head. "I don't need it. In some ways, it changes you deep inside, forever."
"Huh?"
I bought an eighth of glassy too-hard hash from him to keep him happy, and closed the door without letting him into my new domestic idyll. Then I slid open the patio doors, cleanly windexed now (funny how a partner makes you a bit more house-proud, even if she cares less than you) and joined my lover in the garden.

To think I'd once been impressed by Camille's blonde hair, when my new partner's was even lighter, curlier, more lavish. How could I ever have been attracted by Camille's fat, clumpy ankles? And why had I ever thought her round breasts attractive, when the heavy pendulous dugs of my new lover were clearly what I'd always truly desired.

And of course, mowing the lawn is no longer a problem.