Kim, the Catgirl

Even in her human form, Kim possessed the balance and grace of a cat, allowing her to stride effortlessly down the street in the tall wedge sandals she'd gotten from the clothes shop. This despite the fact she'd never before worn shoes with heels over an inch, despite the fact that she was no longer petite and unassuming, but had gained several inches in height -- even without the sandals -- and now had an idealized "girl-next-door" figure.

She looked down once again to see the golden-brown breasts, being pushed upward and barely contained by the white shirt tied tight across them, as they bobbed appealingly on her chest with each step. They were nowhere near the size of Clementine's, but it was still an impressive view, given that she'd never really had anything to look at before. With each step, too, she was aware of her wider hips, aware of her longer legs, aware of hair long enough to touch the top of her ass.

She knew, too, from seeing herself in mirrors at the clothes shop that her face was still recognizably hers, albeit improved -- no more acne, eyebrows thinner, nose smaller, cheekbones higher, and so on.

I'm an Asian goddess, she thought, but then quickly corrected herself. No, only my Goddess is a Goddess. I am but Her humble servant.

There was a clock on a building. 1:57. How excellent was the timing, she noted.

This was not a very well-trafficked area, but still the scents of hundreds if not thousands of potential members of the pack reached her nose. With her willpower, though, she ignored the scents, ignored the people who passed by and did a double-take at her beauty, ignored the bicyclist who crashed hard into a lamppost as he stared.

No, she was set upon one place in particular, where there was one person who she felt must be her first. It was the apartment where she lived with them, and it was conveniently not too far away.