This is Caption-Muse's trap OC Millie, done as a trade with him
All art used here are under fair use.
Monday, April 29, 2019
Magically Trapped
This is Caption-Muse's trap OC Millie, done as a trade with him
All art used here are under fair use.
Tuesday, April 16, 2019
Turned Into A Flower Girl
1st April
The train going on my way to the ancestral home was stuffed with far more people than other times of the year, as far as I could know. It’s the local Spring Festival, but the festivities stretch from the spring solstice to the 3rd so the locals grab more tourism money when they have not much else to cash in from in other seasons. Obviously, there’s another season based on the folklore here, I’ll get on it soon.
I’m here because this is my ancestral home that I had never visited, and my grandpa insisted that everyone of the land’s blood must visit the Spring Festival once in their lives – even for me who’s just on a vacation away from work in Brazil. “Without seeing the long-lasting cherry blossoms of our origins, we are not genuine descendants of the land,” was what my grandpa told my dad and me – probably calling back to our cultural origins.
If he was alive, he would say it’s even more important for me personally when the last day, coincidentally, is my birthday – so he actually said I’m also the son of the blossoms. He seemed to be hiding something of the last day about the procession – of his memories attending the festival, he never went into detail on the secretive ritual. This will be my chance to find out the truth, and it might be my first time seeing the cherry blossoms. I’m eager, but not so much enjoying the time here.
*ACHOO* Just outside of the rustic station I had a running nose, because of the pollen from the cherry trees everywhere. By everywhere, I mean not just this square, but along many of the roads and paths of the small town, in some of the backyards, *ACHOO* and even in some of orchards. As you can guess, cherry trees are important here because of the Spring Festival.
I did my research on the town’s history, here’s the folklore that explains the whole thing:
Centuries ago, when the forefathers of the town came to the place and opened the coastal plain for farming, they met a stubborn cherry tree under a jealously burning sun *SNEEZE*. They’ve vowed to protect the tree from being logged or ran over, to which, reputedly, a tree spirit appeared and thanked the aspiring pioneers, giving the gifts of a bountiful harvest every year and the signs of blessing. *ACHOO*
That’s how the folks here explain why, every cherry tree here start blooming at the same time as the others ones in Kanto, but only withers after the end of the Festival. As far as there’s still a last cherry tree left, the tree spirit will still reside in the town’s main shrine and bless the town “with splendor and happiness” *ACHOO*. And for the spirit or goddess the Festival is now held in her honor, there is one big procession on the last day, and the 2nd sign is in it – I said it’s my birthday, and something’s going to happen, right?
Damn, the pollen’s *ACHOO* close to choking me. I just can’t realize the spirit of this custom with my itchy nose.
2nd April
I’d been to some places around – there aren’t much to see except for my family’s ancestral home (which a distant relative of mine lives in) and the shrine. *SNEEZE* The home is my lodging for my stay here – it’s not much except for the tallest cherry tree in the town, which is definitely a great thing to be proud of.
*ACHOO* I instantly understood why my ancestor emigrated to Brazil. Giving up the boring procession for the Carnavals I guess. That might be a good thing for me – if I had been born here, I would have been a rural *ACHOO*… you get the idea. What a nuisance for me to be in this town, but the ancestral home’s standing here, and it’s the Spring Festival that’s important for my dad and granddad, or maybe the even more important ritual. I might still need the experience here that’s turned into a dream for my family, for good or bad. *SNEEZE*
Now onto the shrine. The main hall does have a dignified tree spirit as its main goddess, and even more nondescript gods are housed on the sides. I was slightly surprised to find my surname on the row of the donators to the shrine’s renovation – apparently belonging to one of my ancestors who was a landed dignitary in the village. *SNEEZE* and just for that, to keep the memory of the donation and our roots alive, he was passing that custom of homage to me. It was not like this place was indispensable for his descendants like me, apparently, when I’m growing up as a Brazilian.
*ACHOO* The blessing’s may be good. The town is animated, brought by the tourists who truly appreciate the beauty of the cherry blossoms. A bountiful harvest, which was needed by the subsistence farmers of the past, isn’t the most wanted thing for now. The cherry trees, with their abnormally long blooming season, is getting some good tourist money.
But this feels a bit hollow – without the trees and the tradition, the town’s just another one south of Tokyo. I can even say, in the past, the harvest was just the fertile soil and frugality. *Breathes deeply* The cherry blossoms – what magic’s up with those that keeps attracting tourists unlike anything else in the average park? What have they hidden in the procession? Maybe that’s it.
3rd April
My sneezing was getting worse and worse by the day. Most of the morning I was just rolling in my futon, with the occasional sneezing. Good thing it was far less than the last 2 days.
“Please be awake, it is 5 in the afternoon and the grand procession will proceed in an hour.” The relative gently spoke to my weary ears.
“Isn’t it bad for me to sneeze for the whole procession inside the crowd?”
“My boy, have faith in the Sakura Goddess. Pray and she will bless you will the right spirit.”
A cherry petal drifted softly onto my face, and naturally I sneezed again. My relative was right, no matter how bad the sneezing would be, have faith in myself, even if I had wanted to be in a field of flowers as a child and my family doctor had kept me back. I would definitely hold my own breath in the crowd. Picking the petal up, even without the right nose, I was ready for the procession and unravel its secret.
5:55pm. I was squeezing past the gathered bodies in front of the shrine.
Under the warm light the cherry trees were reflecting something for me. A reflected light guiding me into the hall.
The procession might start anytime now, but something in my mind clicked.
I flied up the good number of steps to the modest structure, skipping and barely scratching at once, as if tree branches were propelling me.
Entering the hall, my heart was glowing for little reason than something.
To enjoy the procession…
Without rinsing my hand or offering, I quickly clapped my hands and, without myself thinking, I heard myself saying a prayer:
“Oh Goddess of Cherry Trees, for my allergy, please claim, and for the procession, please direct…”
I was barely aware of what was happening. Was I praying to some figure the villagers of old projected onto the cherry trees? Why would I pray when I could simply hold my breath from time to time?
I turned back to the torii, barely noticing the gust of wind swirling around me. With those and the cherry petal flashing around me…
The motionless body was like a constantly shifting mannequin. Petals of tints of pink pushed and attached themselves to the body, morphing for the skin and bulk to match what the petals had in mind. Or rather, what the tree spirit had in mind. She had finally found the body of the as a vessel, with the birthdate exactly aligning with this year’s procession. The petals clustered to reshape the torso, with the right chest size here and the favorite short hair up there. 2 cherry buds strapped onto her bangs, radiating a warm, sharp light. A few more loose petal were strung onto a few threads of soft scarlet, with much more providing the texture of the stamped fabric in the top and skirt – this year the spirit preferred an exposed mid-riff.
With an almost magical hop, the girl disappeared from the grounds of the shrine…
All in a sudden, the “Hana-Hime” appears at the starting point of procession, right in front of my eyes. You can always recognize her from the flamboyant dress. I’m calling a Brazilian friend of mine who’s coming for his birthday just to see this. The phone rings for a few seconds and is cut.
This is the “Hana-Hime”, said to be the incarnation of the Cherry Tree Goddess herself, but with different faces every year that the locals have never recognized as the daughter of someone they know. Just like how she arrived, out of thin air. As she ascends the float, she will be shaking to the drum beats with her second nature and be the attention of the crowd – some pious townsfolk even kneel and chant before the float, as the Hana-Hime smiled and waved to the fullest.
The cherry pollen reminds me of the missing guy instead of the mysterious centerpiece here. Where’s the Brazilian? He just visited the spring market yesterday, and said he’s risking choking to death for the secret of this. Is he too sick from allergy to be out now?
Written for a DeviantArt group.
All art used here are under fair use.
The train going on my way to the ancestral home was stuffed with far more people than other times of the year, as far as I could know. It’s the local Spring Festival, but the festivities stretch from the spring solstice to the 3rd so the locals grab more tourism money when they have not much else to cash in from in other seasons. Obviously, there’s another season based on the folklore here, I’ll get on it soon.
I’m here because this is my ancestral home that I had never visited, and my grandpa insisted that everyone of the land’s blood must visit the Spring Festival once in their lives – even for me who’s just on a vacation away from work in Brazil. “Without seeing the long-lasting cherry blossoms of our origins, we are not genuine descendants of the land,” was what my grandpa told my dad and me – probably calling back to our cultural origins.
If he was alive, he would say it’s even more important for me personally when the last day, coincidentally, is my birthday – so he actually said I’m also the son of the blossoms. He seemed to be hiding something of the last day about the procession – of his memories attending the festival, he never went into detail on the secretive ritual. This will be my chance to find out the truth, and it might be my first time seeing the cherry blossoms. I’m eager, but not so much enjoying the time here.
*ACHOO* Just outside of the rustic station I had a running nose, because of the pollen from the cherry trees everywhere. By everywhere, I mean not just this square, but along many of the roads and paths of the small town, in some of the backyards, *ACHOO* and even in some of orchards. As you can guess, cherry trees are important here because of the Spring Festival.
I did my research on the town’s history, here’s the folklore that explains the whole thing:
Centuries ago, when the forefathers of the town came to the place and opened the coastal plain for farming, they met a stubborn cherry tree under a jealously burning sun *SNEEZE*. They’ve vowed to protect the tree from being logged or ran over, to which, reputedly, a tree spirit appeared and thanked the aspiring pioneers, giving the gifts of a bountiful harvest every year and the signs of blessing. *ACHOO*
That’s how the folks here explain why, every cherry tree here start blooming at the same time as the others ones in Kanto, but only withers after the end of the Festival. As far as there’s still a last cherry tree left, the tree spirit will still reside in the town’s main shrine and bless the town “with splendor and happiness” *ACHOO*. And for the spirit or goddess the Festival is now held in her honor, there is one big procession on the last day, and the 2nd sign is in it – I said it’s my birthday, and something’s going to happen, right?
Damn, the pollen’s *ACHOO* close to choking me. I just can’t realize the spirit of this custom with my itchy nose.
2nd April
I’d been to some places around – there aren’t much to see except for my family’s ancestral home (which a distant relative of mine lives in) and the shrine. *SNEEZE* The home is my lodging for my stay here – it’s not much except for the tallest cherry tree in the town, which is definitely a great thing to be proud of.
*ACHOO* I instantly understood why my ancestor emigrated to Brazil. Giving up the boring procession for the Carnavals I guess. That might be a good thing for me – if I had been born here, I would have been a rural *ACHOO*… you get the idea. What a nuisance for me to be in this town, but the ancestral home’s standing here, and it’s the Spring Festival that’s important for my dad and granddad, or maybe the even more important ritual. I might still need the experience here that’s turned into a dream for my family, for good or bad. *SNEEZE*
Now onto the shrine. The main hall does have a dignified tree spirit as its main goddess, and even more nondescript gods are housed on the sides. I was slightly surprised to find my surname on the row of the donators to the shrine’s renovation – apparently belonging to one of my ancestors who was a landed dignitary in the village. *SNEEZE* and just for that, to keep the memory of the donation and our roots alive, he was passing that custom of homage to me. It was not like this place was indispensable for his descendants like me, apparently, when I’m growing up as a Brazilian.
*ACHOO* The blessing’s may be good. The town is animated, brought by the tourists who truly appreciate the beauty of the cherry blossoms. A bountiful harvest, which was needed by the subsistence farmers of the past, isn’t the most wanted thing for now. The cherry trees, with their abnormally long blooming season, is getting some good tourist money.
But this feels a bit hollow – without the trees and the tradition, the town’s just another one south of Tokyo. I can even say, in the past, the harvest was just the fertile soil and frugality. *Breathes deeply* The cherry blossoms – what magic’s up with those that keeps attracting tourists unlike anything else in the average park? What have they hidden in the procession? Maybe that’s it.
3rd April
My sneezing was getting worse and worse by the day. Most of the morning I was just rolling in my futon, with the occasional sneezing. Good thing it was far less than the last 2 days.
“Please be awake, it is 5 in the afternoon and the grand procession will proceed in an hour.” The relative gently spoke to my weary ears.
“Isn’t it bad for me to sneeze for the whole procession inside the crowd?”
“My boy, have faith in the Sakura Goddess. Pray and she will bless you will the right spirit.”
A cherry petal drifted softly onto my face, and naturally I sneezed again. My relative was right, no matter how bad the sneezing would be, have faith in myself, even if I had wanted to be in a field of flowers as a child and my family doctor had kept me back. I would definitely hold my own breath in the crowd. Picking the petal up, even without the right nose, I was ready for the procession and unravel its secret.
5:55pm. I was squeezing past the gathered bodies in front of the shrine.
Under the warm light the cherry trees were reflecting something for me. A reflected light guiding me into the hall.
The procession might start anytime now, but something in my mind clicked.
I flied up the good number of steps to the modest structure, skipping and barely scratching at once, as if tree branches were propelling me.
Entering the hall, my heart was glowing for little reason than something.
To enjoy the procession…
Without rinsing my hand or offering, I quickly clapped my hands and, without myself thinking, I heard myself saying a prayer:
“Oh Goddess of Cherry Trees, for my allergy, please claim, and for the procession, please direct…”
I was barely aware of what was happening. Was I praying to some figure the villagers of old projected onto the cherry trees? Why would I pray when I could simply hold my breath from time to time?
I turned back to the torii, barely noticing the gust of wind swirling around me. With those and the cherry petal flashing around me…
The motionless body was like a constantly shifting mannequin. Petals of tints of pink pushed and attached themselves to the body, morphing for the skin and bulk to match what the petals had in mind. Or rather, what the tree spirit had in mind. She had finally found the body of the as a vessel, with the birthdate exactly aligning with this year’s procession. The petals clustered to reshape the torso, with the right chest size here and the favorite short hair up there. 2 cherry buds strapped onto her bangs, radiating a warm, sharp light. A few more loose petal were strung onto a few threads of soft scarlet, with much more providing the texture of the stamped fabric in the top and skirt – this year the spirit preferred an exposed mid-riff.
With an almost magical hop, the girl disappeared from the grounds of the shrine…
All in a sudden, the “Hana-Hime” appears at the starting point of procession, right in front of my eyes. You can always recognize her from the flamboyant dress. I’m calling a Brazilian friend of mine who’s coming for his birthday just to see this. The phone rings for a few seconds and is cut.
This is the “Hana-Hime”, said to be the incarnation of the Cherry Tree Goddess herself, but with different faces every year that the locals have never recognized as the daughter of someone they know. Just like how she arrived, out of thin air. As she ascends the float, she will be shaking to the drum beats with her second nature and be the attention of the crowd – some pious townsfolk even kneel and chant before the float, as the Hana-Hime smiled and waved to the fullest.
The cherry pollen reminds me of the missing guy instead of the mysterious centerpiece here. Where’s the Brazilian? He just visited the spring market yesterday, and said he’s risking choking to death for the secret of this. Is he too sick from allergy to be out now?
Written for a DeviantArt group.
All art used here are under fair use.
Thursday, April 4, 2019
Wednesday, April 3, 2019
Well Done for a Bunny Girl
“Bang!” The talks had broken down. The “bodyguard” of the opposite side shot this boss.
Taken altogether, this was closer to a serious negotiation than the gangster confrontations in the streets, but they were no more legal than those inferior minions. They were on a higher level of being a crime syndicate: Cadillacs instead of those worn-downs, sips instead of pops, and schemes instead of dealings. Yet they bore the same risk of bloodshed.
The underling of the dead boss rushed outside, blood gushing out from his motionless body on the ground. Surely, on the table, Richard Macotelli was gone. Another entered to claim and drag the body off the scene before anyone else could.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Richard awoke in a room vastly different from where he had been last: instead of the dark interior, it was all blank. Some figures in a kind of uniform were handling something… Scarcely anything could be made out before Richard fell into darkness again…
Then a bed-ridden girl shook up from her place. She was Asian from her slightly tanned skin and pitch-black hair, and a well-endowed one at that: Under the white coat 2 heaps bounced loosely, some hair dangling above them. The coat barely covered her thighs as fatty as the breasts, and the blanket slid off one of her slimmer, hairless legs to the side.
“Where am I?”
A man clad in black suit hurried to the bedside. “This is your new body, Il Capo or whatever you used to be.”
As much as Richard had expected of the paid service to “resurrect” himself – now herself, she had not thought of being this body. The paid service was of course for the cases when he had to die or was killed, and for a hefty (but affordable with his hidden wealth and influence) price, his mind or brain would be transplanted into another body with novel and poorly-known surgical procedures – so a new life. Richard Macotelli was gone, dead as f*ck, no matter which body his consciousness had ended up. As she would later hear, a new Capo has taken over Richard’s place, and nothing else was left except his private money and his mind here. Influence, gone, hubris, gone, old enjoyments, gone. She wouldn’t be the old Mafia boss she used to be, and back then it’s much expected.
But becoming a buxom woman? “They’re short of male bodies, you see.” She’d be stuck like this for the rest of her life now the procedure was irreversibly complete. What then?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Here’s what she has to wear every day – a dark bunny suit “uniform”. She’s got to be familiar with its leather and lace since she’s here to stay, at least for now. With the muscle memory of this body, she easily dresses up, bends the bunny ears a bit to stand out, and handles a tray of shots, before entering the main playground…
She can’t help herself but blush when she sees the guests’ eyes, all fixed on her perfect figure and her delicate face. Oddly it’s satisfying for her to be looked down onto after all these years of looking down on other. She hands each guest his favorites (so as other bunny girls tell her), and while some are good with just drinking and looking, some go touchy on her body, at least a nip on her suit or skin, and as much as grabbing her chest or butt mounds. Those are extra goodies for the guest and extra money for her, after gesturing them to tip after all that intimacy, and they’re all compliant.
Even more “shameful” is seeing her new master. He’s the same boss Richard used to negotiate before he was shot dead, who has already taken over some of the rackets Richard used to preside over (as far as she can tell) and no less gain a lot of the ground lost by Richard. He’s sitting here sipping martinis; she’s standing beside him, trying to please his guests. The blush grows into a fret before him, since she’s still a bit hesitant to “serve” this imbecile.
But she isn’t Richard physically, she’s just a bunny girl. So, with this thought, she decides to put some of the old feuds behind…
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
It’s a special event for the master: a bunch of Yakuza bosses are coming for some boozing with him, and some fireworks are arranged for this. She can actually recognize some of them as the ones she had dealt with as Richard, and in them there’s a few well-connected ones who know of her real identity.
Another pair of hands clutch her pair of titties and then slipped bills into her cleavage. At the back, she takes the bills out to find a vial. Immediately she knows what it does, and what she has to do to avenge for her last body’s death.
But if she poisons her master, her time here will end, and she can’t get back into the underground as this caricature of sexiness. No more giggly looks on her. So…
This is a commission for someone on DeviantArt
Taken altogether, this was closer to a serious negotiation than the gangster confrontations in the streets, but they were no more legal than those inferior minions. They were on a higher level of being a crime syndicate: Cadillacs instead of those worn-downs, sips instead of pops, and schemes instead of dealings. Yet they bore the same risk of bloodshed.
The underling of the dead boss rushed outside, blood gushing out from his motionless body on the ground. Surely, on the table, Richard Macotelli was gone. Another entered to claim and drag the body off the scene before anyone else could.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Richard awoke in a room vastly different from where he had been last: instead of the dark interior, it was all blank. Some figures in a kind of uniform were handling something… Scarcely anything could be made out before Richard fell into darkness again…
Then a bed-ridden girl shook up from her place. She was Asian from her slightly tanned skin and pitch-black hair, and a well-endowed one at that: Under the white coat 2 heaps bounced loosely, some hair dangling above them. The coat barely covered her thighs as fatty as the breasts, and the blanket slid off one of her slimmer, hairless legs to the side.
“Where am I?”
A man clad in black suit hurried to the bedside. “This is your new body, Il Capo or whatever you used to be.”
As much as Richard had expected of the paid service to “resurrect” himself – now herself, she had not thought of being this body. The paid service was of course for the cases when he had to die or was killed, and for a hefty (but affordable with his hidden wealth and influence) price, his mind or brain would be transplanted into another body with novel and poorly-known surgical procedures – so a new life. Richard Macotelli was gone, dead as f*ck, no matter which body his consciousness had ended up. As she would later hear, a new Capo has taken over Richard’s place, and nothing else was left except his private money and his mind here. Influence, gone, hubris, gone, old enjoyments, gone. She wouldn’t be the old Mafia boss she used to be, and back then it’s much expected.
But becoming a buxom woman? “They’re short of male bodies, you see.” She’d be stuck like this for the rest of her life now the procedure was irreversibly complete. What then?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Here’s what she has to wear every day – a dark bunny suit “uniform”. She’s got to be familiar with its leather and lace since she’s here to stay, at least for now. With the muscle memory of this body, she easily dresses up, bends the bunny ears a bit to stand out, and handles a tray of shots, before entering the main playground…
She can’t help herself but blush when she sees the guests’ eyes, all fixed on her perfect figure and her delicate face. Oddly it’s satisfying for her to be looked down onto after all these years of looking down on other. She hands each guest his favorites (so as other bunny girls tell her), and while some are good with just drinking and looking, some go touchy on her body, at least a nip on her suit or skin, and as much as grabbing her chest or butt mounds. Those are extra goodies for the guest and extra money for her, after gesturing them to tip after all that intimacy, and they’re all compliant.
Even more “shameful” is seeing her new master. He’s the same boss Richard used to negotiate before he was shot dead, who has already taken over some of the rackets Richard used to preside over (as far as she can tell) and no less gain a lot of the ground lost by Richard. He’s sitting here sipping martinis; she’s standing beside him, trying to please his guests. The blush grows into a fret before him, since she’s still a bit hesitant to “serve” this imbecile.
But she isn’t Richard physically, she’s just a bunny girl. So, with this thought, she decides to put some of the old feuds behind…
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
It’s a special event for the master: a bunch of Yakuza bosses are coming for some boozing with him, and some fireworks are arranged for this. She can actually recognize some of them as the ones she had dealt with as Richard, and in them there’s a few well-connected ones who know of her real identity.
Another pair of hands clutch her pair of titties and then slipped bills into her cleavage. At the back, she takes the bills out to find a vial. Immediately she knows what it does, and what she has to do to avenge for her last body’s death.
But if she poisons her master, her time here will end, and she can’t get back into the underground as this caricature of sexiness. No more giggly looks on her. So…
This is a commission for someone on DeviantArt
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)