Now, Froxy was getting too busty for her bra. She was the secretary of Boxenfree Motors, but she acted like the lady overlord of her boss Stan Pete Boxenfree's life. It all came to a head when she decided to challenge his driving.
"You drive like an avalanch," she screeched Monday morning. "The manager of Boxenfree Motors ought to know how to drive."
"He sure ought," seethed Stan Pete. Then, suddenly having a magnificent idea, added, "I'll get some practice right away."
And with that, he seized Roxy by the neck, splatted her down on the table, and tied her wrists and ankles into a big old knot as she continued to administer threats and indignities. It was all one to Stan; he was proud of the bow he'd made of her wet slippery flippers. He just needed to get her to the new fuel pump before they slipped out of it.
"This is going to revolutionize the automotive industry," he boasted as an introduction to his company's contribution to the vehicular zeitgeist. "Instead of having to manufacture cars out of our planets dwindling resources, we'll just fashion them out of… well, you'll see."
And with that, he plopped the still-knotted Froxy on her back and plunged the pump nozzle into her naval. She hadn't yet acquainted herself with the new contraption, but so far, she liked it twice as much as it deserved. It deserved negative thirty. All the squeamy, slippy petrolium slithered into her belly button and under her skin, through her pores and across her tender, sinewy muscles (as such should befit a woman working in a predominately male field). It crept into places it didn't belong; she snarled at Stan, so much as a frog could snarl. She was about to declare a rather emasculating fate to him when her tongue shot out aimlessly, taut and far, snapping back into an ebony dry disc, striped with canyonous patterns and zig-zags; sandwiched between two silver discs which she immediately recognized as hubcaps.
Sweat started trickling down her forhead. Or was that mucous? Whatever it was, it complimented the eager beating of her heart, a beating that resembled marching pistons. She protested the change, from the bottom of her engine, and struggled against the knot above; where they not a part of it, she would have launched them at her boss, going for the nose ring and giving it a good justice-serving yank. They did come loose, much to her amazed triumph. That triumph eroded as fast as her agency over her own arms, which stiffened into metallic bars as the petrol crawled and slid all along her elbows. Even her foreflippers couldn't close around anything other than the distinct T-shape of handlebars.
However much freedom their liberation from the limb knot allowed her legs, it too was ephemeral; the kicking and stomping translated into sagital spinning. They tightened and loosened in turn, each blood cell rearranging its molecular structure in a way to more resemble gasoline, the bone cells braking bonds and building new ones so as to arise to metallic properties. And the muscles! Tougher, yet more rubbery, just as likely to leave deep, capacious tracks as the trail blazer her tongue had become.
Worst of all was the control her booty had lost, which was now releasing bursts of fumes unnatural to her amphibian liking. No, these were not the remains of insects she had known, but rather the excess petrolium leftover now that all traces of her native form had fallen away, been driven away, if you will, by a vengeful ox eager to prove himself to his own underlings.
"And now, what say we go for a spin, my byoot?"
617 word description of a frog turning into a motorcycle. Been trying to write this off and on for a while, then I figured, "screw it, it's just an exercise."