I smooth down my pencil skirt and check my reflection in the compact mirror one more time. Perfect lipstick, not a hair out of place. Looking professional but feminine is important in my line of work. After all, I need these failed males to understand what real femininity looks like—the kind they'll never achieve no matter how pretty they might look under the moonlight.

I adjust the photo of my loving husband Richard and darling son Tyler to face me, not wanting them peering out at the parade of failed males who will soon be nervously shuffling in and sitting in front of my desk.

The morning after the first full moon of the month is always our busiest day at the Office of Werewoman Registration. All those girly little eggs that cracked last night will be rushing in to register before the next two nights of mandatory transformation. Some of them might still be in denial, but the law is clear: registration within one lunar cycle of the first change, or face the werewoman denial fine.

I arrange the paperwork on my desk, making sure the brochures for Moonlight Desires and other local establishments that employ werewomen are prominently displayed. Most of these new moon sluts will end up there eventually. Might as well help them accept their new career paths sooner rather than later.

My coworker Brittany pokes her head around the corner. "Ready for the freak parade, Jess?"

"Always," I laugh, tapping my perfectly manicured nails against the desk. "Did you see the moon last night? Must have been at least five or six new ones popping out their first pair of moon-tits across the city."

"I swear they get more pathetic every month," Brittany says with an eye roll. "Had one last week who looked barely out of high school. Couldn't even look me in the eye while I asked about his feeding habits."

"Well, the weak ones fall early," I reply, pulling up the registration software on my computer. "That's why we're here—to remind them of their place in the world now that they've lost their man cards."

The clock strikes nine, and I straighten my nameplate that reads "Jessica Jackson, Registration Specialist." Time to open the doors and welcome the first failure of the day.

The door to the waiting area opens, and I see him immediately—early twenties, tall with an athlete's build, but with that telltale nervous energy they all have after their first change. He's wearing a university sweatshirt and keeps glancing around like he's afraid someone will recognize him. His leg bounces anxiously as he fills out the preliminary paperwork.

When his name pops up on my screen, I call out with my brightest, most professional smile. "Alex Thompson? I'm ready for you now."

He walks over, trying to project confidence but failing miserably. His handshake is firm, though—he's still clinging to those male behaviors while he can.

"Take a seat, Alex," I gesture to the chair opposite my desk. "So, first full moon last night, huh? How was your debut as a girl?"

His face flushes immediately. Perfect.

"It was... unexpected," he mumbles, looking down at his hands.

"They always are, honey. Even when you know it's coming." I pull up the registration form on my computer. "Let's get started with the basics. Full male name?"

"Alexander James Thompson."

I type it in with practiced efficiency. "And what's your female name? The one you'll be using when the moon turns you?"

He shifts uncomfortably. "I... I'm going with Alexa."

"Alexa? How original," I say with just the right amount of sarcasm. "Let me guess, you came up with that right on the spot when you were standing there with your new tits, didn't you?"

His flush deepens. "No, I... I'd thought about it before."

"Of course you had," I smile sweetly. "Most of you have been thinking about your girl names long before the change actually happens. It's part of the build-up, isn't it? Those feminine thoughts creeping in, making you wonder and fantasize."

I continue filling out the form. "Date of birth?"

"June 12, 1991."

I do a quick calculation. "So you're 23. Made it pretty far into the danger zone before popping. Were you hoping you'd make it through the 18-25 window unscathed? That you were one of the lucky ones?"

"I guess... I never really thought it would happen to me."

"That's what they all say," I laugh lightly. "But deep down, something in you must have wanted it, or you wouldn't be sitting here now, would you? The curse only takes those with that special weakness inside them."

I move on to the next question. "Infected or inherited?"

He looks confused for a moment. "I... I don't think anyone in my family had it. At least not that I know of."

"So infected then," I say, selecting the option on the form. "Got it the fun way, huh? Care to share how you picked it up? Couldn't resist a pretty face at a bar? Or maybe you went looking for it? Some of you do, you know—actively seek out female werewomen to turn you when you've got the dormant gene."

"No! It wasn't like that," he protests. "There was this woman at a club about a month ago. I had no idea she was a... one of them."

"A werewoman," I correct him. "You'll need to get comfortable saying it, Alex. Or should I say Alexa? It's what you are now."

I lean forward, genuinely curious. "So what happened with this mystery woman? She must have been gorgeous. They always are, part of the curse's design—making you irresistible to men when in female form."

"We just... went back to her place." He swallows hard. "I didn't know until the next morning when she was gone and there was this book on the nightstand explaining everything."

"Ah, the handbook. How considerate of her to leave you instructions." I make a note in the file. "Bet you didn't believe it until last night, did you?"

He shakes his head.

"Did you try to fight it when you felt it coming on? Most of you do, at least the first time."

Alex nods, looking miserable. "I tried locking myself in my apartment bathroom. Thought maybe if I just... I don't know, willed it not to happen..."

I laugh outright at this. "Oh honey, that's adorable. As if the moon cares about your willpower. If locking yourself in rooms worked, we wouldn't need this office, would we?" I gesture around us. "Let me guess—you transformed anyway?"

"Yeah I…," he admits. "And I... I tore my clothes."

"Of course you did. The change doesn't care about your wardrobe, sweetie. Next time wear something loose or just get naked beforehand. Save yourself the replacement costs." I type a few more notes. "Now for some physical details—penis size when hard as a male?"

His head snaps up, shock written across his face. "Excuse me?"

"It's a standard question," I say, my tone deliberately bored. "We track the data. There's a correlation between male equipment size and werewomanhood susceptibility, you know. Typically, the smaller the package, the easier it is for the curse to take hold."

"I... I'm average. Maybe a little above," he stammers.

I raise an eyebrow skeptically. "In inches..." I said in a cold commanding voice.

“Five inches and um… change.” His humiliation is palpable, exactly as intended. These questions aren't just for data collection—they're to remind them of their place.

"And breast size when female? Be honest—we'll need it to match your ID photo anyway."

"I don't... I mean, I didn't really measure..."

"Stand up," I command, and he does so automatically. Compliance is already setting in. "Based on your frame, and what typically happens with university athletes like yourself... I'm guessing a solid C cup? Maybe D?"

"I think... maybe a C?" he offers hesitantly.

"We'll find out for sure from your photos. Speaking of which, did you take any selfies last night? Most of you can't help yourselves—first thing you do when you see your new female face is grab a phone."

The deep crimson flush tells me everything before he even answers.

"I took a couple... just to see what I looked like."

"Of course you did," I smile. "I'll need those for your ID. Email them to this address." I hand him a card with our office email. "Make sure they're clear shots of your face. We don't need to see whatever slutty outfit you tried on."

He fumbles with his phone, clearly mortified.

"While you're doing that, let's talk about feeding. Did you feed last night after your change?"

He nearly drops his phone. "What? No! I stayed in my apartment all night."

"First-timers usually do," I nod. "But the hunger will get worse, you know. By tonight, you'll probably be feeling it pretty strongly. By tomorrow night, you'll be desperate. There's no fighting that part of the curse either."

"I don't think I'll—"

"That's what they all say," I cut him off. "But trust me, within a few months, you'll be transforming more frequently just to satisfy the hunger. It's a biological imperative. Your body needs it to maintain the balance between forms."

I watch him squirm as he sends the photos to our office email. A moment later, they appear in my inbox. I open them and can't help but smile.

"Well, well. Looks like Alexa is quite pretty. The curse was generous with you—it usually is with the athletic types. And yes, definitely a solid C cup." I turn the screen so he can see I'm looking at his female self. "You'll have no trouble finding feeding partners. The pretty ones never do."

I print out temporary identification forms while continuing my questioning. "Are you aware of the loss of legal status and male privilege that comes with registration?"

"I... not completely."

"Well, allow me to enlighten you," I say, almost cheerfully. "As of today, your legal gender marker changes to female with the 'W' designation for werewoman. Your ID will list your birth name with your female name in parentheses. You'll use women's restrooms when in female form, but you should know that many establishments have separate facilities for werewomen—usually just a single stall with a moon symbol on it."

I hand him a printed information packet. "You'll find that many employers have monthly 'lunar leave' policies, but they're not legally required to offer them. Housing can be tricky—landlords aren't supposed to discriminate, but they do. I'd recommend being upfront about your condition when applying for apartments."

His face falls further with each new restriction I list.

"Oh, and dating gets complicated. Some people fetishize werewomen, others are repulsed by them. And many 'real men'—" I make air quotes, "—consider it perfectly acceptable to use werewomen for feeding without any romantic intentions. You'll need to get used to that."

"This is... a lot," he says quietly.

"Should have thought about that before you let your inner girl out to play," I reply without sympathy. "Now, I'll need all your current identification. Driver's license, passport, university ID—anything government-issued with your male designation."

He reluctantly pulls out his wallet and hands over his driver's license and student ID.

"Your man cards," I say with a smirk as I feed them into the shredder beside my desk. The sound of destruction seems to physically pain him. "Don't worry, you'll get new ones. With your pretty new face on them."

I produce his temporary werewoman ID card with a flourish. The photo of Alexa stares back from the pink-tinged card, next to his male information and the bold "W" designation.

"Congratulations, you're officially a registered werewoman. Your permanent ID will be mailed within two weeks." I hand him a stack of brochures. "These are employment opportunities specifically for werewomen. Moonlight Desires is always hiring, and they offer excellent benefits including feeding partner arrangements."

He looks at the brothel brochure with horror. "I'm not going to—"

"Never say never, sweetie. The hunger has a way of changing priorities. And the pay is much better than what most werewomen can find elsewhere, given the discrimination you'll face." I close his file on my computer. "Any questions before we finish up?"

"How... how long until this gets easier?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

I offer a smile that doesn't reach my eyes. "Who says it gets easier? You've lost your place in the male hierarchy, honey. You're not a real woman like me, and you're no longer a real man. You're something in between—a moon slut who'll spend her nights servicing real men and her days trying to pretend she still belongs in their world."

I stand, indicating our session is over. "The moon will rise around 8:43 tonight. Make sure you're somewhere private by then, preferably with loose clothing or none at all. And maybe consider downloading one of those werewoman hookup apps. Might as well get your first feeding over with—you'll be doing plenty of it from now on."

As he gathers his paperwork with shaking hands, I add with false brightness, "Happy hunting tonight, Alexa! Hope you find a real man to suck on. You'll feel so much better once you do."

The door closes behind him, and I glance at my appointment list. Two more to go today, and the morning's just getting started.

My third appointment of the day doesn't arrive on time. This doesn't surprise me—the computer flagged this one as a "denier," someone who's already passed the required registration deadline. These are my favorites. By the time they finally come in, they're usually desperate and far more vulnerable to the particular brand of humiliation I specialize in.

Twenty minutes after his scheduled time, a young man in his early twenties slouches into the waiting area. He's wearing a baggy hoodie and jeans, head down, trying to be invisible. The receptionist points him toward my desk, and he approaches reluctantly, like a condemned man walking to the gallows.

"You must be Bradley Parker," I say, not bothering to stand. "You're late."

"Sorry," he mumbles, dropping into the chair across from me.

"Being late doesn't exactly help your situation," I inform him, pulling up his file. "According to our records, you experienced your first transformation three months ago. The law requires registration within one lunar cycle. Care to explain the delay?"

He shifts uncomfortably, not meeting my eyes. "I thought maybe it was a one-time thing."

I laugh outright at this. "A one-time thing? The curse doesn't work that way, honey. Once a werewoman, always a werewoman. But you know that now, don't you? After three months of changing every full moon?"

He says nothing, his silence confirmation enough.

"Well, your denial has earned you a hefty fine on top of the standard registration process." I pull out the fine form with flourish. "Two thousand dollars for failing to register within the required timeframe. That's approximately..." I pretend to calculate, "fifty blowjobs at standard werewoman brothel rates. I'm sure you'll work it off in no time."

His head snaps up, anger flashing in his eyes. "I'm not going to—"

"Save it," I cut him off. "I've heard all the denials before. 'I'm not going to be a prostitute,' 'I'm not really like other werewomen,' 'I can control the hunger.' Spoiler alert: you can't. And the longer you've been changing without addressing the hunger properly, the worse it's building up inside you."

I tap my pen against the form. "Let's get this over with. Full male name?"

"Bradley James Parker," he mutters.

"And your female name? You must have one by now, after three months."

"Brie," he says almost inaudibly.

"Brie? That's actually pretty," I remark, genuinely surprised. "Most of the deniers come up with something overly slutty or painfully unoriginal. Brie has a nice ring to it. Almost as if you've given it some thought."

He fidgets but doesn't respond.

"Date of birth?"

"August 29, 1993."

I pause, looking up at him. "You're only 20? And you've been changed for three months already?"

He nods.

"Started young, didn't you? The curse tends to find the ones with the strongest feminine tendencies early. Those deeply repressed girly urges must have been practically screaming to get out."

His face flushes with humiliation and anger.

"Infected or inherited?" I continue, enjoying his discomfort.

"Inherited," he admits. "My cousin has it too, and an uncle… we think."

"And they didn't warn you? Or did they, and you ignored the signs?"

"He tried to tell me what to look for," Bradley says quietly. "I didn't want to believe it."

"Classic denial," I nod, making notes. "Did you try to fight it when you felt the first transformation coming on?"

"Yeah, for all the good it did."

"And how did that work out for you?" I ask with a smirk.

"Obviously it didn't," he snaps.

"No need to get testy," I chide. "I'm just doing my job, documenting your failure to maintain your manhood. So you fought it and lost, like they all do. What happened?"

He sighs. "I locked myself in my bathroom. Thought if I just fought hard enough... I don't know. The transformation happened anyway."

"They always do," I say knowingly. "The moon doesn't care about your willpower. It takes what it wants, including your manhood."

“Speaking of which…” I move to the next question. "Penis size when hard as a male?"

He looks away, clearly mortified. "Average. Say five inches…"

"Below average it is," I say, typing. "Don't worry, plenty of werewomen have small packages in their male form. It's actually correlated with earlier transformation—the less masculine equipment, the more susceptible to the curse."

His hands clench into fists, but he remains silent.

"And breast size when female?"

"I don't know... D cup, maybe?"

"We'll verify with the photos. Speaking of which, I'll need pictures of your female form for your ID."

"I don't have any," he claims.

"Three months of transformations and not a single photo? I find that hard to believe." I give him a knowing look. "Most werewomen are fascinated by their female appearance, especially in the early months. The denial types even more so—secretly taking pictures while publicly pretending it's not happening."

When he doesn't respond, I push harder. "Check your phone, Bradley. I bet if I scrolled through your photo gallery, I'd find plenty of Brie looking back at me."

His expression tells me I've hit the mark. Reluctantly, he pulls out his phone and scrolls through it before selecting a photo and sending it to the office email.

"Just one?" I ask skeptically.

"It's all you need for the ID," he mutters.

"Fair enough." I open the email and examine the photo. "Well, well. Brie is quite pretty, isn't she? The curse was generous with you—feminine features, nice hair. And yes, definitely a D cup. The stronger the curse, the bigger the breasts, you know. Your female form is practically screaming that you were meant for this."

I save the photo for his ID and move to the next question. "Now, about feeding. As a three-month denier, I'm particularly interested in how you've been handling the hunger. Have you fed at all since your first transformation?"

He looks away, his silence more revealing than words.

"I'll take that as a yes," I say, leaning forward. "No need to be ashamed, Bradley. It's a biological imperative. Though I am curious—how long did you hold out before the hunger became too much? One month? Two?"

"The second full moon," he admits quietly. "I couldn't... it was too intense."

"They all give in eventually," I nod. "And how many feeding partners have you had since then?"

"Just two."

"Picking them up at bars? Dating apps? Or did you go straight to the professionals?"

"Dating app," he says through gritted teeth.

"Smart choice for a beginner. Those werewoman-specific apps make it so much easier to find willing partners who understand what you need." I make some notes. "And how did you feel after feeding for the first time? Better, I imagine?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Your reluctance tells me everything I need to know. The relief was incredible, wasn't it? Like nothing you'd ever experienced before. That first real satisfaction of the hunger is intense for most werewomen, but especially for the deniers who fight it for so long."

I close that section of the form and move on. "Now I need to confiscate all your male identification. Driver's license, passport, any government-issued ID with your male designation."

He hesitates before pulling out his wallet and reluctantly handing over his driver's license and school ID.

"Your man cards," I say cheerfully, feeding them into the shredder. "Though after three months of moonlight adventures, they were well past their expiration date anyway."

I generate his temporary ID card with the pink-tinged background and the distinctive "W" marking. "Here's your new werewoman identification. You'll receive the permanent version in about two weeks. You must carry this at all times—it's a criminal offense for a registered werewoman to be caught without proper identification."

I hand him the ID along with the fine notice. "Your denial fine is due within 30 days. We accept payment plans if necessary. I'm sure a few weekends at Moonlight Desires would cover it quite efficiently."

"I told you, I'm not going to—"

"Work in a brothel? That's what they all say at first." I push the stack of employment brochures toward him. "But given your already active feeding history and the financial burden of this fine, you might want to reconsider. Moonlight Desires offers excellent benefits, flexible scheduling around the lunar cycle, and a safe environment for feeding. Much better than picking up random guys on apps."

I close his file and fix him with a stern look. "You should know that as a registered werewoman with a denial violation on your record, you'll be subject to random compliance checks for the next year. An officer may request verification of your whereabouts during full moons to ensure you're not skipping out on registration requirements for other werewomen you might encounter."

His face pales slightly. "That's not—"

"Legal? I assure you, it is. Denial violations trigger enhanced monitoring. It's all in the paperwork you're signing today." I slide the forms toward him. "Initial here, here, and sign at the bottom."

As he reluctantly signs, I continue my lecture. "After three months of changes, you're probably starting to notice that the hunger is getting stronger, possibly triggering involuntary transformations between full moons. This is normal progression. Most werewomen find that by six months, they're transforming once or twice a week beyond the full moon cycle."

I gather his paperwork. "Any questions before you go?"

"How long until..." he hesitates, "until the hunger stops controlling everything?"

"It doesn't," I say bluntly. "The hunger is part of who you are now. It doesn't go away—you just learn to manage it better. Most werewomen eventually establish regular feeding relationships or work arrangements that address the need efficiently."

I stand, indicating our session is over. "The moon rises at 8:43 tonight. After three months, you should be getting used to the routine by now. Though I suspect tonight's transformation might be particularly intense given your recent registration stress."

As he heads for the door, visibly defeated, I call after him. "Happy hunting tonight, Brie! And do consider those employment opportunities. They're much more lucrative than whatever minimum wage job you're probably working now. Might as well make those pretty lips and new curves earn their keep, right?"

The door closes behind him, and I sit back in my chair with satisfaction. Deniers always leave looking more destroyed than when they came in—exactly as it should be.

At noon, I head to the break room where Brittany and our other colleague, Monica, are already eating lunch.

"Three registrations before lunch," Monica says, impressed. "Must be a full month's quota just from today."

"The day after the first full moon is always busy," I reply, opening my salad container. "You should have seen the college boy who came in first thing—total deer in headlights. Claimed he had no idea it would happen to him."

"They never do," Brittany laughs. "Even the ones with family history think they'll be the exception."

"Did you get a denier today? Those are the best," Brittany asks.

"Saved the best for last before lunch," I grin. "Three months without registering. Claimed he thought it was a 'one-time thing,' if you can believe it."

We all laugh at this absurdity.

"How many months of the denial fine did you translate into blowjobs?" Monica asks.

"Fifty," I say proudly. "You should have seen his face. Pure horror mixed with the dawning realization that he might actually end up doing exactly that to pay it off."

"Classic," Brittany snorts. "Did you push the Moonlight Desires brochure extra hard?"

"Of course. Though my money's on him being there within a month even without the fine. Three months of only occasional feeding? That hunger must be building to unbearable levels."

We spend the rest of lunch swapping stories about the most memorable registrations we've handled, each trying to outdo the others with tales of humiliated werewomen brought low by the curse. It's a pleasant break before an afternoon that will likely bring more of the same—a parade of failed males coming to terms with their demotion from manhood.

The afternoon brings three more newly turned werewomen—a nervous accountant, a belligerent construction worker fighting his new reality every step of the way, and a quietly resigned IT specialist who seems to have accepted his fate with unusual equanimity.

I approach each with the same professional demeanor underlaid with calculated humiliation. The accountant nearly cries when I shred his "man cards." The construction worker threatens to file a complaint about my "attitude" until I remind him that aggressive behavior from registered werewomen can result in mandatory counseling requirements. The IT specialist's calm acceptance is almost disappointing, though I manage to crack his facade when discussing the hunger and its inevitable control over his life.

By 4:30 PM, I'm finishing up with my final registration of the day—a nineteen-year-old college sophomore who transformed in his dormitory, terrifying his roommate and creating what will undoubtedly be an awkward living situation for the remainder of the semester.

"Housing accommodations can be tricky for werewomen in college," I explain as I process his paperwork. "Most universities have policies about werewomen in shared living spaces. You might find yourself relocated to a single room, possibly in a separate wing or building."

"That might actually be better," he says quietly. "My roommate didn't take it well."

"Few do," I nod. "Finding out the guy you've been living with turns into a woman several times a month tends to create tension. Though I'm sure some of your male classmates will suddenly become very interested in spending time with you during full moons."

I hand him his temporary ID card. "Your university will require you to register your condition with the disability services office within two weeks. They'll explain their specific werewomen policies at that time."

As he gathers his things to leave, I deliver my standard parting advice. "The moon rises at 8:43 tonight. Make sure you're somewhere private by then—perhaps that new single room you'll likely be assigned. And consider downloading one of these feeding apps." I tap the brochures I've given him. "Campus hunger can be intense, and you don't want to be prowling the dormitory hallways desperate for release."

After he leaves, I complete the final paperwork, noting with satisfaction that we processed eight new werewomen today—a record for our small office. The day after the first full moon of a given month is always productive, but today exceeded expectations.

As I prepare to leave for the day, Brittany stops by my desk.

"Dinner and drinks tonight? Monica's coming too. We're thinking of trying that new place downtown."

"Sounds perfect," I agree, gathering my purse. "I could use a drink after today's parade of failures."

"And the hunting should be good tonight," Brittany adds with a wink. "All those newly registered werewomen will be out looking to feed. Always entertaining to watch them in action."

"Especially on their second night," I laugh. "Desperate and still so awkward in their female forms. Like watching baby giraffes trying to walk."

We head out together, already discussing which bar would provide the best werewoman-watching opportunities for later in the evening. There's nothing quite as satisfying as observing them from our position of natal female privilege—watching their clumsy attempts at femininity while knowing they'll never truly be women like us.

Just another day at the Office of Werewoman Registration, putting failed males in their place and maintaining the proper social order, one pink ID card at a time.
 

 

The restaurant Brittany chose for dinner offers an excellent view of Crescent Street, one of the main nightlife areas popular with werewomen. By 9:30 PM, we're enjoying our second round of drinks and watching the parade of newly transformed werewomen emerging onto the street, easy to spot with their uncertain gaits and overtly feminine outfits.

"Look at that one," Monica points discreetly toward a tall werewoman in a too-tight red dress. "Five bucks says that's one of the freaks from this morning."

I squint through the window. "You might be right. The walk is all wrong—trying too hard to sway those hips. Dead giveaway for a newcomer."

"And check out the one by the lamp post," Brittany adds. "Definitely a denier type. See how she's trying to look casual while eyeing every man who walks by? That's the hunger in full effect."

"Three months without proper feeding will do that to you," I nod, recognizing my third registration of the day. Brie looks even more desperate in person than she did in her photo, nervously tugging at her short skirt while scanning the crowd.

We spend the next hour enjoying our meals and the free entertainment, pointing out werewomen we recognize from registration and laughing at their awkward attempts to navigate both their female bodies and the social dynamics of the street.

"God, they're so obvious," Brittany says. "The real women out tonight give them such a wide berth. You can tell who's natal and who's cursed from a mile away."

"It's the desperation," Monica agrees. "Real women don't have that hungry look. We don't need to feed off men's energy to exist."

"And the outfits," I add. "Always too much—too tight, too short, too bright. Like they're working from some outdated manual of femininity."

We watch as a particularly young-looking werewoman—possibly the college sophomore from my last appointment—approaches and is rejected by two different groups before finally finding a man willing to talk to her.

"First feeding about to happen," I murmur. "Ten bucks says they're headed to his place within twenty minutes."

"No bet," Brittany laughs. "That's a guarantee with how new she is. The fresh ones can't hide their hunger at all."

As the night progresses and our drinks continue, our commentary becomes more pointed, our laughter louder. There's something deeply satisfying about watching these formerly privileged men navigate the lower social position they now occupy—not real women like us, but not men anymore either. Just moon sluts desperate for attention and release, occupying their strange in-between world that we get to observe from our secure position in the gender hierarchy.

By midnight, we've seen at least four of today's registrations pair off with men and disappear into the night, their hunger temporarily satiated until tomorrow's final full moon transformation forces them back into the cycle again.

"Same time next month?" Monica suggests as we prepare to leave.

"Wouldn't miss it," I agree. "First Friday after the full moon—best entertainment in town."

We part ways, and as I head to my car, I catch sight of one more familiar face—Alex, my first registration of the day, now Alexa in a blue dress, leaving a bar with a tall man's arm wrapped possessively around her waist. Her expression is a complex mixture of hunger, shame, and undeniable anticipation.

I smile to myself, knowing exactly how her night will end. They always protest at first during registration, claiming they'll be different, that they'll resist the hunger, maintain their dignity. And within 24 hours, they're doing exactly what I predicted—on their knees or backs, feeding on male energy like the moon sluts they've become.

Just another successful day at the Office of Werewoman Registration, where I help failed males accept their new reality one humiliating registration at a time. In a world where gender determines status, I'll always enjoy my position above these half-women, these moonlight pretenders who thought they deserved to be men.

Tomorrow brings the final night of this month's full moon cycle, and next month there will be more new werewomen to register, more former men to put in their place. And I'll be there, pink forms and shredder ready, to ensure they understand exactly where they now stand in the social order.

A front-row seat to their downfall, one pink form at a time.

My manicured nails tapped impatiently on the ceramic bowl as I dropped my keys inside. Another day at the registration office complete. Another day of watching those weak-willed males squirm as I processed their paperwork, documenting their surrender to the feminine urges they'd been too pathetic to resist.

The amber sunset streaming through my living room windows did nothing to soothe the throbbing headache behind my temples. At forty-one, I was fighting a losing battle with gray hairs and fine lines, but at least I was still a real woman. A natural-born female. Not some failed male who gave in to their sissy desires.

"Tyler?" I called out, my voice echoing through the empty house. No answer, as expected. My eighteen-year-old son was perpetually locked in his room these days, especially Friday nights. I'd skipped drinks with the other registration clerks, claiming exhaustion, though the real reason was darker—their constant husband talk was a knife in my heart, eight years after the divorce.

Eight years since I caught Richard with his cock buried in some moon slut at the Silver Crescent brothel. Eight years since I discovered my husband preferred the company of those pathetic males who'd surrendered their manhood to the curse. The memory still made my stomach curdle.

I kicked off my sensible pumps and headed toward the kitchen, unbuttoning the top of my blouse for relief. A glass of pinot grigio would take the edge off. I'd just pulled the bottle from the fridge when I heard it—a muffled moan from upstairs.

My first thought: Tyler had a girl over. Unlikely, given how shy he was, but teenage hormones were powerful things. I was about to give them privacy when another sound froze me in place—not a girl's giggle, but a deeper, masculine groan.

I set down the wine, my heart suddenly racing. Something wasn't right.

Each step up the stairs was careful, measured. The moans grew louder but weren't coming from behind Tyler's closed door. They were coming from my bedroom at the end of the hall.

The door stood slightly ajar, a slice of light spilling onto the carpet. My pulse hammered against my ribs as I approached, hearing the unmistakable sounds now—rhythmic, wet stroking and heavy breathing punctuated by soft moans.

I pushed the door open.

The sight before me sent ice through my veins. Tyler knelt on my bed, his back to the door, wearing my favorite black cocktail dress—the one from last year's office Christmas party. His legs were smooth, freshly shaved, and my silver stilettos dangled precariously from his feet.

A wig— a long blonde one, Lord knows where he got it—was slightly askew on his head. On the laptop screen in front of him, a video played showing young man in a sheer white robe moaning and touching himself as he transformed into a beautiful woman.

"What the FUCK are you doing?" The words exploded from me before I could stop them.

Tyler whirled around, his face a mask of horror beneath the poorly applied makeup. Mascara streaked down his cheeks. My red lipstick smeared beyond the borders of his lips.

"Mom!" He scrambled backward on the bed, frantically trying to cover himself with my duvet. "I'm sorry—I didn't—I can explain—"

"Explain what?" My voice was ice. "Explain why you're dressed like a fucking girl? Explain why you're watching that disgusting werewoman porn?"

Rage and disgust churned inside me, but beneath them was something worse—fear. Cold, gripping fear. I knew those videos. I'd seen countless registered werewomen admit to watching the same filth before their first change.

"How long?" I demanded, stalking into the room. "How long have you been doing… this?"

Tyler shrank against the headboard, tears cutting through his foundation. "I don't know... a few months, maybe? It started with dreams... then I found these videos..." His voice broke. "Mom, I think I might be—"

"Don't say it!" I slashed my hand through the air. "Don't you dare say it! You're just confused. It's a phase."

But even as the words left my mouth, I remembered all those intake forms. All those tearful confessions from new werewomen about their "phases" that ended with them surrendering their manhood under the full moon's light.

"Look at me," Tyler whispered, his hands trembling as he gestured to himself. "Do you really think this is just a phase? I'm terrified, Mom. I've been trying to fight it, but it's getting stronger. The urges, the dreams... I can't stop watching these videos."

Something in his voice—the raw desperation—pierced my professional armor. In that moment, he wasn't some weak-willed male giving in to perversion. He was my son.

"You can't be." My voice cracked. "I've spent my entire career processing those failed males. I know the signs, and you're not—" But I stopped, really looking at him.

The makeup. The clothes. The transformation videos. The terror in his eyes.

Oh God. All the signs were there.

Tyler slid off the bed and crawled toward me, my dress rustling around his knees, my perfume clinging to his skin. He collapsed into my arms like he used to after childhood nightmares, sobbing against my shoulder.

"I didn't want this, Mom," he cried. "I tried to fight it. I did everything you said. But it keeps getting stronger."

I held him tightly, rocking back and forth as my tears fell into the blonde wig. All these years, I'd believed it was a choice. All these years, I'd taken pleasure in humiliating those men for their weakness. All these years, I'd never once considered they couldn't help it any more than someone could help being right-handed.

"It's okay," I whispered, though I knew it wasn't. Nothing about this was okay.

My mind raced to the registration procedures awaiting Tyler. The invasive questions I delighted in asking. The sneering comments I made while taking their "female form" photos—usually selfies they'd taken after their first change, their faces still showing the confused mixture of horror and pleasure from the transformation. The way I'd gloat as they surrendered their "man cards," my term for their former male IDs.

I thought of how I explained their social demotion in exquisite detail, making sure they understood they were no longer men, no longer deserving of respect, now just moon sluts and failed males.

And my son would face all of that. My son would sit across from women like me—cruel, judgmental bitches who'd never felt the pull of the moon forcing unwanted changes upon them.

"Mom?" Tyler pulled back, his makeup-smeared face a portrait of fear. "Will I have to register? Will I have to go to your office?"

I wiped my eyes, a strange calm settling over me as the reality crystallized. "Yes," I said softly. "After your first transformation, you'll have to register."

"Will... will you be there?" His voice trembled with hope and dread.

I thought of all the selfies I'd gleefully used to create their female IDs. The way I'd make them watch me shred their male identification. The little speech I gave about how they were no longer real men, no longer entitled to the privileges of manhood, now just perverts who couldn't resist their girly urges.

Never. I would never let that happen to my son.

"I'll be there," I promised, stroking his hair. "But not like before. Everything's going to change now, Tyler. Everything."

As I held my son, I made a silent vow. By the time Tyler underwent his first transformation, I would change the registration process in my office. I would make it humane. I would educate my colleagues or see them fired. I would turn my years of cruelty into a force for reform.

Because the curse I had spent a career condemning had found its way home.

And my son would not suffer for my sins.

I can't believe how much my life has changed in just a few months. As I sit in my living room, sipping my evening tea, I can't help but glance at the clock—moonrise is approaching. Tyler isn't here; he's safely at Kyle's house. Or rather, Kirsty's house, as I'm sure she's transformed by now. My son is in good hands, I remind myself. If anyone knows how to guide a young man through his first transformation, it's someone who's been through it countless times herself.

I can't help but imagine what's going to happen to Tyler at moonrise. My mind wanders to those transformation videos I watched when I first learned about his condition. I forced myself to watch them then, out of fear and a desperate need to understand what my son would experience. Now, I find myself replaying them in my mind with a completely different feeling—hope, curiosity, even a touch of wonder.

I've seen Kyle change into Kirsty on my laptop several times now. It never ceases to amaze me how complete the transformation is—how the angular jawline softens, how shoulders narrow as hips widen, how the voice shifts from deep to melodic in an instant. Kyle has become something of a personal hero to me, though I would never have imagined feeling that way when we first met. Funny how life works.

My phone beeps with an alarm I set to mark moonrise. I take a deep breath. It's happening now. Right at this moment, my son's body is beginning its first transformation.

Is Tyler frightened? Is he fighting it? Or is he embracing it as Kirsty advised? I hope it's the latter. The research is clear—those who resist the change often have more difficult experiences, both physically and emotionally. But those who surrender to it, who welcome it even... they report experiences bordering on the transcendent.

I wonder what Tyler will look like as a woman. Will he resemble me? I've read that werewomen often take on features reminiscent of their female relatives. Will he be a younger version of myself?

Perhaps even prettier? The handbook mentioned that the moon's transformation typically enhances feminine beauty, creating features that might be considered "ideal" by conventional standards.

As I sit here, knowing Tyler's body is changing—feeling that first surge of pleasure they call "the kick," experiencing the warmth spreading through his abdomen, watching in fascination as his skin softens and body hair recedes—I find myself oddly emotional. Not with the dread I once would have felt, but with something closer to... pride? Is that strange? To feel proud of my son as he transforms into my daughter for the night?

I imagine his hair lengthening, cascading down his back in waves. I picture his face softening, features rearranging into feminine beauty. I can almost see his body reshaping—shoulders narrowing, waist cinching, hips widening to create that feminine curve. And I know from the videos that he's experiencing waves of pleasure throughout, his body rewiring itself to experience sensation in a completely new way.

It’s been more than 30 minutes since moonrise, I realize, glancing at the clock again. He’ll be entering the intermediate or later stages of the transformation by now. I say a soft prayer that he is handling it well, though I know from all the reading and media on the topic of werewomanhood have me feeling reassured that Tyler will come out fine on the other side.

An hour passes. My phone chimes with a text notification, and I nearly drop it in my haste to check.

"I'm OK, Mom." The message reads. Then another comes through—a selfie. The young woman in the photo is stunning—high cheekbones, full lips, expressive eyes that I'd know anywhere as Tyler's, though now framed by long lashes and delicately arched brows. Her hair falls in chestnut waves around a heart-shaped face that echoes my own youthful features, but somehow... better. More refined. As if the moon took the beauty of my youth and perfected it.

A third message appears: "Call me Tatianna tonight. ❤️"

Tatianna. It's beautiful. Exotic and elegant, yet with a playful quality that suits the bright smile in the selfie.

"You look gorgeous, sweetheart," I text back. "Much prettier than I ever was at your age. How are you feeling?"

"Amazing," comes the reply. "It was intense but Kirsty helped me through it. Everything you need to know is that I'm good. Really good."

I believe her. The young woman in that photo isn't just physically transformed—there's a radiance, a comfort in her expression that I rarely saw in Tyler's more guarded demeanor. I find myself beaming with pride, tears pricking at my eyes. That's my child. My beautiful, brave child who's experiencing something I can barely imagine, and doing it with grace.

Who would have thought that I—once the stern enforcer of registration regulations, the woman who viewed werewomanhood as a shameful condition to be hidden and controlled—would be sitting here feeling proud of my werewoman child? Life truly does move in mysterious ways.

The next day dawns bright and clear. I'm waiting in the parking lot of the diner we agreed to meet at when I spot them—Kyle and Tyler, both male in the daylight, walking toward me with easy strides.

Tyler looks different somehow, even in male form. More relaxed, perhaps. There's a lightness to his step that wasn't there before.

"Mom!" he calls, breaking into a jog.

I open my arms and he crashes into me with an enthusiasm I haven't felt from him in years. "Oh, sweetheart," I murmur into his hair. "I'm so glad you're okay."

"I'm better than okay," he says, pulling back to look at me with bright eyes. "It was... Mom, it was incredible."

"Tell me everything," I beg, suddenly hungry for details. "What did it feel like? Was it scary? Did it hurt?"

Tyler laughs. "One question at a time! No, it didn't hurt—that's a huge misconception. It felt... good. Really good. Like the most intense pleasure I've ever felt, but all over my body."

Kyle nods beside him. "First transformation is always the most intense," he confirms. "Like a full-body orgasm that lasts an hour."

I blush slightly but find I'm not embarrassed by the frankness. Not anymore. "And after? What was it like to... be in that body?"

"It felt right," Tyler says simply. "Not like I was someone else, but like I was... more of myself? I don't know how to explain it. But everything was more vivid—colors, sounds, feelings. And when Kirsty took me out later, just for a quick walk around the block to test things out, it was crazy how differently people looked at me. Treated me."

"Welcome to werewomanhood," I say with a wry smile. "Even temporary womanhood."

We share a laugh, and then I remember why we're here. "Ready for registration? I promise it won't be like what you've heard. We've made a lot of changes."

A shadow crosses Tyler's face, but he nods. "Kyle said you'd make it okay."

"I'll do my best," I promise, leading them toward the door of the Werewoman Registration Office—my workplace for fifteen years, though it's almost unrecognizable from the cold, clinical place it once was.

As we enter, voices call out in greeting.

"Tyler! Congratulations on your first change!" a man with a nametag identifying him as Larry/Lilly calls from the front desk.

"We've been expecting you," Steve/Sandra says, coming forward with a smile. "Your mom has been talking about you for weeks."

Welcome to the community," Jim/Jen adds warmly.

"They all know me?" he whispers.

"Of course they do," I say. "You're my son. And they've all been where you are—some of our newer staff member here are werewomen too. That was one of the first changes I implemented."

Tyler looks around in wonder at the transformed office—the comfortable waiting area with its soft seating and nature photography, the privacy screens, the friendly faces. This is not the intimidating government facility it once was. It's a welcoming community center disguised as a bureaucratic necessity.

I lead Tyler to my office—no longer a sterile interrogation room but a comfortable space with plants and artwork. Kyle follows, taking a seat in the corner as an observer and support person.

"We'll still need to ask some standard questions," I explain, "but we've revised the whole process based on recommendations from werewoman advocacy groups." I glance gratefully at Kyle, who was instrumental in those changes. "No invasive physical examinations. No humiliating photography. Just basic information gathering and providing you with resources."

As I conduct Tyler's interview, following the new format Kyle helped design, I see the tension melting from my son's shoulders. We discuss his transformation pattern, his plans for managing full moon nights, his support system. I provide him with information about werewoman rights, healthcare resources, and community groups. Throughout it all, Tyler answers thoughtfully, occasionally looking to Kyle for guidance but mostly handling it with remarkable poise.

When we finish, I hand him his registration card—a simple ID with his name (both versions) and basic information. Nothing stigmatizing, nothing that marks him as different beyond what's necessary for legal protection.

"That's it?" he asks, surprised.

"That's it," I confirm. "See? Not so terrible."

He smiles, tucking the card into his wallet. "Thanks, Mom. For making this... not awful."

"I'm just sorry it took me so long to understand," I say softly. "But I'm trying to make up for lost time."

Three months later, I'm sitting in my bedroom, laptop propped on my knees as I tune into Kirsty's livestream. She's become something of an internet sensation in the werewoman community—part educator, part entertainer, all heart. Her broadcasts combine practical advice for new werewomen with humor and advocacy that reaches thousands.

Tonight, she's wearing a pink crop top with the words "Moon Goddess" across the chest, her long blonde hair styled in beachy waves. She bounces on her bed as she reads comments, responding with her characteristic enthusiasm.

"Yes, Moonbeam92, the hunger is totally normal!" she assures a viewer. "Everyone feels it. The trick is managing it without letting it manage you. We'll talk about ethical feeding strategies next week!"

I find myself laughing along with her silly jokes, marveling at how someone can make topics that once seemed shameful feel so normal, so matter-of-fact. She's transformed discourse around werewomanhood just as dramatically as she transforms her own body each month.

"Okay, eggs," she says, using her affectionate term for viewers who might be carrying the dormant werewoman gene, "I want to share something special tonight. With permission from two amazing women in my life, I want to tell you a story about hope and change."

She leans closer to the camera, her expression softening. "Some of you know that my local Werewoman Registration Office used to be one of the worst—invasive exams, humiliating questions, zero privacy. But something amazing happened. The woman who ran it—who once embodied everything wrong with how society treats us—had a son who turned out to be one of us."

My heart skips a beat as I realize she's talking about me.

"This woman, let's call her Jessica," Kirsty continues, "had to confront all her biases, all her fears. And you know what? She did more than just accept her son. She transformed her entire office. She hired a werewomen staffers. She rewrote procedures. She turned a place of shame into a place of support."

Kirsty's eyes shine with genuine emotion. "Jessica's transformation wasn't magical like ours under the moonlight, but it was just as real and just as powerful. And her son—who just had his first change three months ago and goes by Tatianna when transformed—is now thriving. They're both active in our local Werewoman Rights group, which is making real progress on anti-discrimination legislation."

I wipe away tears I didn't realize were falling. On screen, Kirsty blows a kiss. "That's for you, Jessica and Tatianna. Thank you for showing that change is possible—not just under the moonlight, but in hearts and minds too."

The sound of footsteps on the stairs pulls my attention away from the screen. It's Tyler—no, Tatianna tonight, I remind myself. I'm still not perfect with the names, still slip up occasionally, but

I'm trying my best.

She appears in my doorway, and my breath catches. She's stunning in a simple black dress that hugs her curves, her makeup flawless, her chestnut hair styled in loose curls. Silver jewelry catches the light as she moves—delicate earrings, a small moon pendant at her throat.

"How do I look?" she asks, giving a little twirl.

"Beautiful," I say, and mean it completely. "You heading out?"

She nods. "Meeting some friends from the support group at Lunar Lounge. Is that okay?"

Six months ago, the thought of my child going to a werewoman feeding club would have filled me with horror. Now, I understand. The hunger isn't some perverted desire—it's a biological need as real as thirst or ordinary hunger. Denying it only leads to suffering.

"Of course it's okay," I assure her. "Can I help with anything before you go? Your makeup looks great already, but..."

"Actually," Tatianna says, "I still can't get my eyeliner wings even. Would you mind?"

I feel a surge of maternal joy as I pat the space beside me on the bed. "Come here. Let me fix that for you."

As I carefully even out her eyeliner, I'm struck by the intimacy of this moment—mother and daughter, even if just for the night. How many mothers get to experience both sides of parenthood with the same child?

"There," I say, putting the eyeliner down. "Perfect."

Tatianna checks herself in my vanity mirror and smiles. "Thanks, Mom."

"Happy hunting tonight," I say, surprising myself with how naturally the phrase comes out. "Be safe, text me if you need anything, and don't stay out too late."

"I won't," she promises, leaning in to hug me. "Love you."

"Love you too, sweetheart."

After she leaves, I turn back to my laptop where Kirsty is wrapping up her stream. I open the private messaging function and type: "Thank you for everything you've done for us. For Tyler, for me, for all werewomen. You've changed more lives than you know."

Her response comes almost immediately, bubbling with emoji hearts and sparkles: "Jessicaaaaa!!!

You're watching!!! <3 <3 <3 No, thank YOU for being the proof that people can change! You're literally my hero and I tell EVERYONE about you (with your permission only of course lol). Give Tatianna a big squeeze from me tomorrow when she's Tyler again! MOON HUGS!!!"

I laugh through my tears as I close the laptop. If someone had told me a year ago that I'd be the mother of a werewoman, watching werewoman livestreams, and feeling proud rather than ashamed... I would have thought they were insane.

But here I am. And for the first time in a very long time, I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be—moonlight, transformations, feeding clubs and all.

Maybe we're all capable of transformation, in our own ways. Mine just didn't require the full moon to achieve.