Here is the second YCH winner of  Renard_DeFleureax's YCH featuring his cheshire Theo and his escapades of bigness through history. In this particular case, he's helping his latest client show up everyone at a fancy Victorian ball by playing the role of fairy god-cat, making his own reverse-Cinderella story come true; with only a minimal chance of turning into a pumpkin!

Art by Yours Truly
Story by  Renard_DeFleureax
Featuring  Wes13

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Have you ever heard of humans, dear reader? Such frightfully plain creatures. They inhabit a realm practically identical to ours in history and scale, and yet, they all look practically the same. So starved are they for diversity, they’re reduced to judging one another based on skin color, can you imagine? And they say I’m mad. But, come the age of Pax Britannica, their British Empire was no less resplendent than ours, sprawled across the world, the glory of a monarchy that claimed sovereignty over a third of the globe, and its sheer power and might for all to see under the sun. I do so miss such posturing amongst the nations. I did so enjoy the Victorian Era; barring some of its unpleasantness, one can find a rollicking good time if you know where to look. I did give this one fellow, a fidgety mathematician named Mr. Carroll, such a fright, but I smoothed things over and moved on to the likes of Mr. Oscar Wilde for a more libertine experience. But the strange things about these humans is that a few of them have, shall we say, a reflection here in our world, and when I discovered one such person, I saw it as my duty to reunite him with his better half.

Wes, to be known henceforth as Mr. Franklin, was an unfailingly average man, living in an unremarkable town in rural England. That much alone meant it was my sacred duty to save him from utter boredom. When I first chanced upon him, he was in the town square, lost in the crowd watching a performance of William Shakespeare’s “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” a play I had always found droll, if somewhat lacking in accuracy. The real Puck is not nearly so whimsical, I am sad to report- and he’s a notorious cheat. Still, my eye fell upon Mr. Franklin, because I saw that all-too familiar hunger upon him during the transformation of Nick Bottom into a donkey. Judging by the look on his face, he was fixated on it; I daresay he even desired it.

Once the play was done, I kept a low profile. Judging by Mr. De Fleureaux’s incredulous look, that may be hard to believe, but I am, after all, a cat. I know how to move quietly. I waited until he was alone, his falling upon a poster advertising the social event of the year; the Queen’s Golden Jubilee. Old Vicky had been on the throne for fifty years, and all the Kings and Queens of the world were coming to give their well wishes to the Grand Dame of monarchs; anyone who was anyone would be a part of festivities, and it seemed Mr. Franklin would do just about anything- or become anyone- to be a part of it.

I appeared before the poor man in a flash of smoke; a little showmanship is always enjoyable. “Who are you?” he asked, eyes wide and mouth agape.

I introduced myself in my usual fashion, bowing graciously and flashing him a winning smile. I told him I had seen him admiring the poster, and he admitted it. I saw that hungry look in his eye; maybe he wasn’t aware of it, but he already knew. It’s so refreshing to meet someone who’s hunger and ambition is so obvious. I told him if he wanted to go to the Jubilee, he had to stand out, and I had just the way to do it. All he had to do is take a drink, I said, producing a bottle of my special brew, and all his dreams would come true.

Usually, there are questions. Usually, there are reservations. I braced for the usual bevy of skepticism, but Mr. Franklin surprised me; he snatched the bottle right out of my hands and drank the whole thing in one swig. A man after my own heart.

Of course, what I had planned for him was a bit much for one sitting. It was not merely the molding of a body, which is, of course, my bread and butter; I had to form Mr. Franklin from the ground up. In his home realm, he was one of a billion boring, pedestrian humans, but here, in the proper realm, he was a large, powerful stallion. That pale, pink skin was soon covered in glossy, chestnut brown fur as my concoction took hold. I watched as that round, flat face grew a proper muzzle, and his feet melded into hooves.

Then, came the fun part. As the transformation aspect faded, and his shock of blonde hair grew into a lush mane of cocoa brown, I pinned him against the wall, and I got to work. His ill-fitting clothes were easily cast aside as I ran my hands over his limbs, like a sculptor working with clay, molding them into something better. Soon, sinewy muscle bulged under his new fur, but not too much- for now, I wanted to give him only a taste. At the end, he was tall and dashing, with a thoroughly athletic build, but there was plenty of room to grow.

All things considered, Mr. Franklin was handling this tremendous change in stride. After I was done sculpting him, I stepped back to admire my work. I invited him to look back around the corner, back at the crowd in the village square, and his eyes bulged as he saw a more proper sort of people; anthros, of every stripe and color. He turned back to me and I could only smile in return. I could see it in his eyes; he had been waiting for something like this for a very long time.

“As… amazing as this is,” he said, finally coming around to asking some questions. “How does this get me into the Jubilee parties?”

“You just have to trust me,” I told him. “But I can assure you, Mr. Franklin, I can make you the veritable belle of the ball. I can supply the looks and presence, but it falls to you, however, to provide the personality. Do you think you’re up to the challenge?”

Wes cleared his throat, in a bid to make his voice deeper. It was adorable. “I think I am, yes.”

“Excellent,” I purred, and with good reason. I’ve spent millennia learning how to juggle my clients; there are a lot of ambitions in the world, and I aimed to fulfill them all… while also having a bit of fun for myself. Some of my clients, depending on their various ambitions, would end up running tabs with me. And in the Victorian Era, when social standing was everything and many would end up driving themselves bankrupt to keep that standing, I had quite a few debts to collect, and Mr. Franklin would be the instrument of my retribution, even if he didn’t know it.

I should add a note to Mr. Franklin, if you ever read this, do understand that I was the soul of honor in our transaction. You got exactly what you wanted, yes? Don’t think that our agreement had strings attached, but rather, you were the string attached to other agreements. Specifically the ones in which I needed to punish someone.

We travelled to London in the blink of an eye, where Mr. Franklin’s foray as a gentleman began. The great city was all festooned with patriotic paraphernalia, with Union Jacks and portraits of dear old Vicky all over the place. Mr. Franklin was one of the most eager clients I had seen in centuries, and all I had to do was nudge him in the right direction. I would get him hooked on society living and such aggressive social climbing like the British East India Company got the Qing Dynasty hooked on opium.

I subtly turned Mr. Franklin on my first target; one Lord Alfred Helmsworth. Had he held up his end of our bargain, his name would be regarded as one of the great statesmen of history, a British version of Bismarck, if you will. But, perhaps fortunately for history, he was a prat and assumed he could continue his climb to the top without me. Foolish man.

A tall and broad-shouldered boar, Helmsworth was handling a young lady rather roughly, trying to hide an increasingly animated disagreement. All I had to do is play upon Mr. Franklin’s desire to be a gentleman. The horse was already fuming to see a lady treated as such, and I just had to let him out of his stable.

Having chugged an entire bottle of my brew, Mr. Franklin was, shall we say, elastic. This, I assure you, was by design. I watched as he took a deep breath, his chest swelling and filling his new shirt, only, when he exhaled, that size stayed behind. He took another breath to steady himself, and again, his chest puffed up, and his limbs followed suit, filling up his sleeves until the cloth was practically painted on. I would cover the wardrobe costs, of course- Mr. Franklin was now respectively large, but I had much bigger plans for him yet.

“The lady doesn’t seem to care for your company,” my equine client rumbled, bumping his chest against Helmsworth.

The boar snorted, letting go of his female companion for the first time. “And just who are…” he cleared his throat, realizing that, as Mr. Franklin clamped his hand down on his shoulder and tensed his newly engorged bicep, he was thoroughly outclassed. “...you?”

“Someone who thinks you’re in need of an etiquette lesson,” Mr. Franklin said bluntly, shoving Helmsworth down to the ground with little effort. The pig met eyes with me for a brief second, and I nodded, flashing him a toothy smile. It was subtle and small, but to be so quickly emasculated in public would ruin Lord Helmsworth’s fragile little ego for weeks to come. Just a little reminder to him that there’s always a bigger fish; and I’m the one making them bigger than him.

Mr. Franklin was quick to ingratiate himself to the fair lady, an alligator with a surprisingly buxom bust filling out her corset, ensnared in the gigantic dresses that were so very much in fashion. The horse and reptile exchanged pleasantries, but if I was to prepare Mr. Franklin for the Jubilee, I needed to get him properly dressed. I quickly dragged him away from his damsel, though I had plans for her- another client that was looking for a life that more closely mirrored fairy tales, and I did hope a dashing Prince at a ball was fantastical enough for her.

Our next stop was, I’m sure you can guess, another client. I was very busy in the Victorian Era. A timid tailor by the name of Mr. Alderman had aspirations of testing his talents on the great and good, but none of the gentry or nobility cared for his little shop. What he needed was a client of his own, who could showcase his talents off if such a client were to, say, become the center of attention before the entire royal court, and representatives of every single royal court in Europe, at the social event of the century.

I’ve been doing this long enough that I can play this game on many levels; whenever my clients will just learn to trust me, it will make things smoother for everyone. I can see Mr. De Fleureaux giving me one of his looks, but he will learn in time, too. Mr. Alderman was exceptional at his chosen profession, and he gave Mr. Franklin a fantastic outfit, done to my exact specifications. This meant that it was noticeably baggy on my client, but that was by design; he’d grow into it soon enough.

Mr. Franklin was a little uncomfortable in his oversized outfit, but I quickly assured him it was the fashion of the court these days before quickly dragging him along, closer to the palace and the more affluent areas of London. I had other targets to line up in Mr. Franklin’s sights, so I had no time to properly reassure him; he just had to play his part for a while longer.

My latest target wasn't too far away, awaiting a carriage to take him to the palace. Mr. Kenneth Cleary was at one point a rather trim man of a decent lineage, until of course a meeting with me had helped transform a somewhat mousy appearance into something much more grand. The bull Mr. Cleary had become was a more strapping figure, his suit clinging nicely to a chest that pushed out proudly. Both ivory horns stood out against dark fur, but his face was turned into an alarming scowl as he berated his carriage driver.

Now on many an occasion I could forgive losing one’s temper. This, however, was a situation I'd come to understand was happening with alarming frequency. In my zeal it would seem that I had aided someone whose temper was kept in check mostly by the fact he simply couldn't stand up to most. It's rather tragic when you help someone change their outer appearance, but the inner one stays ugly. And to answer the questioning stare of Mr. De Fleureaux, yes, that is an admission of choosing the wrong person to ‘help’ change. When one has such a long list of clients you'll wind up with the occasional bad egg. I'm not in the habit of making bulls into bullies.

“You were meant to be here ten minutes ago! What in Heaven’s name do I bother paying you for if you can't even follow a simple instruction?!” The bovine’s tirade wasn't unnoticed, more being ignored by those passing by.

The poor cabbie, a rather scrawny mouse squeaked in shock. “I'm terribly sorry, sir, there was a bit of a mishap at the stables. If we go now it shou-”

“I don't want to hear excuses! After tonight you'll be lucky if anyone in the entire city will so much as glance in your direction. Do you understand? You will be ruined.”
The bull snorted loudly as he advanced on his cabbie.

I'm proud to say that the gentleman I was busily escorting needed no prompting to intervene. Ah, I do so miss the days of true chivalry. Mr. Franklin took another, chest-filling breath to lower his voice again, and had quickly closed the gap between himself and Mr. Cleary, a severe frown spread across his muzzle. “Sir, I suggest that you lower your voice. There is absolutely no cause for such antics in a public area.”

Whirling to face the horse, Mr. Cleary shoved chest to chest, the bull having a few pounds on the much more calm horse. “And what's it to you? I don't need some busybody telling me how I can talk to somebody in my employ. Well at least until tomorrow.”

“No, but clearly you require somebody to tell you that you're behaving like an absolute scoundrel.” Lifting one hand Mr. Franklin jabbed the bull’s chest with one finger. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but that chest seemed to be stretching his suit a touch less while the horse’s suit began to look tighter. “There are children who can compose themselves with more decorum than yourself.”

The bull’s jaw dropped in shock, it had been some time since he'd been spoken to in such a fashion. Of course I should note that perhaps I had something to do with how his deflating ego might have been reflected by his slight withering.

“H-how dare you?! I am Kenneth Cleary! Do you know what I am? I am one of the most prominent bankers in this city and I will not be spoken to in such a manner!” Mr. Cleary was still caught off guard, his attitude changing from one of confidence to mild panic.

“Spoken to in what manner? The sort one might use to lecture a naughty child? I do believe it's warranted here, sir.” With each word more and more of that fragile ego was chipped away, and more of the bull’s mass slipped from his frame and onto the horse. Where Mr. Cleary had outweighed Mr. Franklin upon their meeting the latter had begun to loom over the shrinking bull, his suit starting to hug deliciously tight. “If you treat all your employees in such a fashion I highly doubt you will stay such a successful banker for very much longer.”

Sputtering and stammering the bull backed up, surely aware that he was no longer the one dominating the scene. “You, you can't speak t-to me this way. I'll see you in r-ruins.” The threat held little weight, much like the bovine’s suit at that point. Once tight fabric now hung loose on a somewhat anemic frame.

“I doubt you'll do any such thing.” Mr. Franklin however was currently straining his own suit, chest nearly bursting free as the seams on his sleeves, filled to bursting with pumpkin-sized biceps, looked fit to split. Turning to the cabbie he cleared his throat. “It would seem as though your current employer cannot be asked to treat you fairly. Perhaps I might be able to procure your services for this evening?”

The mouse nodded swiftly. “Of course, sir. More than happy to accommodate somebody such as yourself. Hop right in.”

Mr. Cleary was trying to make an objection, but it fell on deaf ears as the powerful stallion brushed past and boarded the carriage, making it creak loudly as he settled in. It was rather an impressive sight to see, I must say. I left Mr. Cleary with a nod and a smile; I believe I had made my intentions to him clear.

So far my expectations for the evening were going rather swimmingly, and after a spirited day, I believed Mr. Franklin had earned his keep. If Mr. De Fleureaux would stop glaring at me I would remind him that this situation was a rather unique one. Normally I would never have one client be used to handle others, but it would have been a travesty to not take advantage. Besides, it was nothing that Mr. Franklin wouldn't have done otherwise. In fact I like to think it was simply him being himself. The fact it helped me was just an added benefit.

But, at last, it was my turn to fulfill my end of the bargain. Mr. Franklin had been patient, so as we rode our cab down to Buckingham Palace, I produced our invitations, stamped with the royal seal. We were quickly ushered into the hallowed halls of marble and gold, surrounded by the elite of every great and noble court in the world, from Imperial Germany and Japan to the King of the Zulus. But, as I had intended, Mr. Franklin turned heads as soon as we entered.

I took it upon myself to introduce him in a grand fashion, announcing to the assembled, “My Lords and Ladies, Kings, Queens, and Imperial personages, I give to you Mr. Wes Franklin, Esquire, a gentleman of no compare, whose strength, nobility, and graciousness transcends bloodlines and titles, and stands before you in desperate need of a partner for tonight’s festivities.”

The indignity the crowd of assembled royalty held toward me for bringing in a gentleman lacking a title into their midst, and for so forwardly announcing his need for a partner, shrank when the ladies of court had an opportunity to look Mr. Franklin over and began to eagerly consider my offer. This peerless stallion stood head and shoulders of even the most hale and hearty of men assembled in the palace’s great hall, his powerful muscles rippling under his finely tailored outfit. His puffed up chest threatened to burst his vest, and those arms like steel girders bulged mightily under the strained sleeves of his coat. As he began to descend the grand staircase, meaty, tree-like thighs rolling off each other beneath his trousers, several eligible ladies began to force their way to the front of the crowd to greet him. Some fell faint as he flexed his arm, muscles swelling up mightily, but their bounteous dresses did much to keep them stable.

I hung back for a spell, watching as the reptilian lady Mr. Franklin had so graciously intervened for against Helmsworth was at the head of this pack of feminine admirers. Enveloped in a gigantic, flowing white gown that seemed oddly appropriate for Mr. Franklin’s proportions. Gallantly, he bowed, and took her hand as the musicians’ gallery began plucking out the first notes of a waltz. I silently bid Mr. Franklin adieu; as the royal court was captivated with that titanic stallion and his chosen partner gracefully gliding across the dance floor, I began to pick through the crowd of assorted nobles, keeping an eye out for those regarding Mr. Franklin with particularly jealous glares, perhaps coaxing fantasies of possessing Mr. Franklin’s prodigious strength and presence for themselves. I couldn't let this opportunity pass me by; nothing bruises so easily as an aristocrat’s ego, and I suddenly found myself in want of new clients.