It is raining. Boring. The Mistresses are in meetings. I am banned since the whole vase/duchess thing. The dog is asleep. Sigh. At least it’s warm. I watch the raindrops on the windowpane.

* * *

When I was a girl, I was often cold. In winter I was permanently wrapped in blankets. I would cook, even go to the loo, swathed in these things. This was in my room at Mrs Becky’s house. Single glazed. There was an electric bar fire, but it made a worrying smell after five minutes, and Mrs Becky would up your portion of the leccy bill. Winter was a grim time, and always getting worse.

Prices kept getting higher, whereas my jobs kept getting shorter. I was alone. I’d alienated my family by refusing to be a boy. I’d alienated my friends by either fucking them, or not fucking them, or by fucking their girlfriends. And shit, I had terrible taste in girlfriends. If they were prepared to believe I was a girl, or to act as if they believed I was a girl, and wanted to fuck me, well, that was good enough for me. And if they hit me, or shouted, or burned me, well, that was because this stupid typical male-looking body made them angry. It made me angry, too.

I was in a downward spiral, and I didn’t really see it. I was lucky if I saw a couple of days ahead.

But then I found a cat. I thought it was a kitten at first, but no, it was just small. It was in the Aldi car park, batting around a mushroom from a spilled punnet. I watched it for a long time. I was high; I don’t know how long. When I finally went to go, it followed. Meowed. I picked it up.

Mrs Becky didn’t allow pets, so I tried to keep it hidden. Mrs Becky was a bitch; she would misgender me if I was annoying or late with the rent. And I frequently was both. But she liked the cat. Mushroom, I called it, though she suggested Button. I called it an ‘it’ as well. I had enough trouble with my own gender, I’m not dealing with a bloody cat’s. Mushroom would escape from my room—fuck knows how—and haughtily demand treats from Mrs Becky. Which it got! Fucking cheeky.

And, well, the cat improved things. It was a needy git, wanting cat food and litter. Which meant I couldn’t spend a week’s wages on drugs and alcohol without getting the little fuck meowing for tuna all week. I stopped seeing girlfriends who were mean to Mushroom. I stopped… well, doing various things that meant I wouldn’t be there for the bloody cat. It was stupid, but when it lay in my lap, profoundly unjudgemental, I began to believe in weeks, months in the future. Even if the bloody thing was too proud of its own arsehole.

I even got a better job. Okay, it was because I could pass as a nice t-slur now. The couple who ran the coffee shop wanted to show how brave and indie they were. Henry (Ry) and Charlotte (Chaz), were upper class, and claimed to be queer in some magical way. Henry slept around, and Charlotte cried about it, so maybe that was it. But they were decent employers. And the coffee shop was popular with witches, who don’t tend to be terfs. Life was okay, for a couple of months.

And then the cat got sick. I scraped together enough money for the vet. It had cat AIDS, fucking idiot. They said I should have it put down, before it got too bad. There were medicines, but they were so far out of my price range they might as well not exist.

I could start to feel my life crumble. 

There were healing spells, of course, but those were as expensive as the medicine. The witches were nice, but unhelpful. Chaz spent ten minutes telling me, in the most roundabout and deniable way, not to bother the customers with my dying cat. At least Mrs Becky offered to pay to have Mushroom put down.

One day, I heard two witches talking—bitchily—about a nature witch. Not even a proper witch, they said. Going around healing bird’s wings, like some Disney fucker. Living in the middle of bloody nowhere. And handily winning witches duels, whatever the fuck they were.

I demanded to know where. Got them to draw me a map. I was a bit threatening. Ry told me to take the afternoon off. Unpaid. Lib-dem wanker.

I went home. Mushroom was lying in the same spot it was this morning. I packed it into a second-hand cat crate. I stole some of Mrs Becky’s towels off the radiator, so that the fucker didn’t get cold.

Caught a train to the right area. Got off at a little station in the fucking country. Consulted my hand-drawn map and set off. I was a city girl; it was tough going. Plus, witches on broomsticks are crap at mapping. For someone on the ground in cheap trainers, at least.

Anyway, I did manage to climb the waist-high wall that surrounded the estate. Then I really got lost. I began to lose track of time. One moment I was walking through a muddy field, the next I was in a wildflower meadow, the next, a wood. It was dark now. I was beyond tired. I sat down at the base of a tree. I made sure the damn cat was still alive. I stroked it and cried my heart out.

“Are you alright?” a woman said. She had a small knife, and a large basket of toadstools. She was pretty. Slightly clocky in that way that beats any cis chick. She had freckles. 

“No,” I said. “I’m looking for a witch.”

“Oh well,” she said, shyly. “I’m Wren Hedgewitch. Well, not on my birth certificate. But I’m a witch, if I will do?”

She led me back to her cottage. She listened to me talk about the cat.

On her kitchen table, she did various spells around the cat. Mushroom was breathing lightly now. But I felt hope. The pretty witch really wanted to help.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s too late. I can make its passing easy, but I can not save it.”

I cried again. A lot. Wren made us both a cheese omelette. Mushroom didn’t even try to steal any.

“Can’t you,” I said, “swap us? My life for the cat.”

“That’s not how it works,” she said, kindly. “And besides, you’re using your life.”

“Not really,” I said. I could see the spiral now. I felt powerless to prevent it.

“Tell me about your cat,” she said. Distracting me.

“It’s stuck-up, and playful, and flighty, and picky, and self-absorbed, and it’s not fair that its cuddles won’t be in the world anymore,” I said.

Wren had an idea; I could see it in her eyes.

“What?” I said.

“Nothing,” she said. “Your cat sounds lovely.”

“You had an idea,” I said. “I could see it in your eyes.”

“No,” she said.

“Tell me,” I said.

“It’s stupid,” she said.

“Please.” 

“There’s a ritual,” she said. “It would bind the two of you together. Into one being. Into a doll.”

“A doll?” I said. “A witch sex toy?”

“Dolls are a bit more complex than that,” said Wren, going bright red. “But as I said, it’s a stupid idea.”

I looked at Wren.

“Your doll?” I said.

She was still red. “Yes. Well, I could bind you to another witch, if you know any…?”

I didn’t. She was the only one who’d given a fuck about Mushroom. Or me.

“Okay,” I said. Okay, if it saves the stupid cat. Okay, I could probably cope with being her toy. Okay, what else have I got to do? Okay, I just want out of the spiral.

The ritual took some time to prepare. Wren worked quickly, in case Mushroom died.

I lay on her bed. Naked. Mushroom on my chest, scarcely breathing. She drew sigils on me in green marker. She intoned, which is like singing but crap. She did lots of witch shit; candles, wavy dagger, cauldron, etc. Maybe I should have been excited; naked, hot witch, sexy magic. But I was too tired, and too afraid for the cat, and perhaps a bit worried about being a doll.

I fell asleep. I remembered feeling Mushroom’s tiny mind merging with mine. That was what self-esteem felt like? Wow! Shit, that cat was so fucking content. No speech, of course, just a mood of extreme catness. Like a self-centred sainthood. Even though the damn thing is dying, it's convinced its worshippers will save it. And I suppose it's right.

When I woke, it was as a different I.

I leapt up, feeling myself. Pointy ears. Furry tail. Petite; a head shorter than Wren, who wasn’t tall. Really nice tits; not huge by volume, but perky and perfectly shaped. Nice cock as well; tiny, like a clit. 

“Is it alright?” Wren asked, sitting on the side of the bed. “It’s kind of random. There's a mirror in the wardrobe.” She pulled open the door.

I looked in the mirror, set into the back of the wardrobe door. There was a vague memory of horror; but toothless now. I had hated mirrors. Trans thing, and maybe a witch thing; even Wren kept her mirror out of sight. 

But I was… I was hot now. And not the high and drunk and slutty, sort of hot. But beautiful. Part of me just said "of course". But there was an echo, a ghost, of the part of me that had hated myself. It tried to shout and scream as it had always done, but it was just silly now. It faded away; evaporating under this new self-regard. I was fantastic. 

“This one—” I said, and stopped, confused by the odd phrasing. “This one is fucking pretty.”

“Yes, you are,” said my Mistress.

I felt a huge welling up of love for my witch. How lucky I was! She was my home, my safety, my love. I never felt that I belonged before, but I belonged now, to her.

“Will you stroke this one?” I said. 

“Of course,” she said. She stroked my head, scritched my ears. I leaned into it, trying to climb into her lap.

“Are you alright?” my witch asked.

“This one loves you,” I said.

“I know,” she said, going red again. “Part of the spell, I’m afraid.”

Why was she afraid? I loved loving her. I could only express this with happy meows. I would be the best cat-doll for my witch; I would give her the best cat advice, and she would pet me.

My witch continued to stroke me.

“Can this one—” I started, then frowned. That way of speaking was rubbish. “Can I have a kiss, please?”

Wren looked surprised, but kissed me, blush rising again. Her kisses were so sweet. Her lips were soft and cushiony. She was so lovely. I wanted to be useful to her. I wanted her to use me.

“You should probably fuck me,” I said. “While you are already embarrassed.”

I raised my tail, and showed her my arse, with more pride than I had ever felt as a human. I was the best cat-doll.

* * *

I smile. And now I have two Mistresses! Wren is still the best, but the butch is kind and firm and sometimes carries me. If only they didn’t spend so long in bloody meetings.

I leap over to the sofa, and bite the sleeping puppy-doll on the ear.

“Wuff,” says Sophie, startling. “Something bit me.”

“Flea,” I explain. “I got rid of it for you. Cuddle me.”

The pup sighs, and opens its arms, allowing me to little spoon next to it.

“Do you ever remember being human?” I ask.

A long pause. “No,” it says. “Try not to. I was friends with Mistress. But otherwise it was bad. Better now.”

“Fucking right,” I say. “Better now.”

I think about our poor Mistresses, dealing with all the shit of being human, of being witches.

I turn around in the dog’s arms.

“We should practice kissing,” I say. “As a surprise for our Mistresses.”

“Okay,” says the puppy-doll. 

We kiss for a bit. I was the best, but Sophie isn’t bad at kissing. Wet, but nice.

“It didn’t surprise them last time,” Sophie points out, as we break off.

“Well,” I say, “we obviously didn’t practice hard enough.”

Sophie shuffles against me.

“You seem hard enough,” it says. I think that’s a joke.

“Hmph,” I say, and resume kissing. The Mistresses will be back soon, and I will be so fucking content.