Might Have Been Aliens

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A Respite

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Idol in the Machine

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A Long-awaited Encounter

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Some TG Slurping

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Perfect for the Photo Session

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Magically Trapped

This is Caption-Muse's trap OC Millie, done as a trade with him
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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?

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Think Twice Before Playing Jokes

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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…

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Another Onsen

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The Priceless Hunt

It is normal business.
The floor is lightly wettened by the slick goo spreading over the ceiling and dripping. As she jolts and slides along the dark grey “alleys” in the maze-like buildings, whether almost losing her own balance is because of the mildly-drenched gauze platform or that, she is not the best at controlling her own body, despite her swift moves across the thin air.
True, this body is now her own, she has been chasing targets of all descriptions for years as an elvish woman, but not after a process of continuously acculturing to her present form. She is, for now, a tanned elvish woman who is partially enclosed by the black and cream-colored latex bodysuit, made to be a second skin for optimizing her agility, and with a few glowing electronic implements closely attached. It is something and nothing on her body at the same time: the sweats are being trapped in this bodysuit, the slim latex clinging onto her curvy figure even more, but the immense fumes circulating around the alleys are seeping across the fabric, magnified in scorching hotness by its tightness. The same fume is choking without her gas mask, especially so when her nose is sensitized for the scents of each target… Otherwise, the appealing contours, with ample bosoms and the thick, fecund hip, is more telling of the unknown origins of her body – appearing more like the figure of one in a harem and too much like an acrobat of the distant past with every overdrawn swing.
In other words, she appears to be completely strange and awkward to herself, but it is still normal business. A lot of the physical actions she now performs will be strange to her past self, and much of her daily existence – from the skimmed and almost erotic bodysuit to the torque of having such breasts and waist – are those she has never accustomed to. Being a sexually appealing, slightly bumbling bounty hunter is still a bounty hunter, and she has been successfully being one for all these years. On the up side, her body makes a few much-needed skills possible – he is loose in the labyrinth. She squats to listen, with the gift of hearing the smallest noises, the movement of this target when the space is too densely walled and convoluted, as to lose her sight of him, even with the usual sharpness.
This old target. True, she has a lot of old targets: for these years, or maybe since the start of her career, she has long-time chases and armed engagements with multiple criminals across the galaxies, for crimes too demented and damaging to describe, simply and only for monies. It is normal business anyway. But this man is too different from them: she has been on alert of all his maneuvers and thefts, and actively seeking him for years with the persistence she otherwise would not devote onto one target. It is not just another for the bounty – there is no real reward other than a good, overdue revenge. The time is coming for her to conclude the whole incident that has placed her in her present state.
He is her original self.
He used to be her original self – as much as the body he is using originally belonged to her, the bounty hunter, and she was born with the body of that brown-haired lackey or something. He may have changed his body and aged a few years in this body, but two things of his hasn’t changed: who he really is and what he does routinely. Both of which are why she is seeking him. She can remember the whole incident and her life before that, even though this isn’t the right time for flashbacks.

It’s almost the same setting: still a chase between the bounty hunter and the body thief, but that time, the bounty hunter was the unassuming human male. The same fume and mechanical exterior of the walls, just with less experience. He had of course heard of this heister already famous for both her form and infamous for all her exploits. She once wooed 2 escorts full of gold and rare earth off their route and promptly sold those on the black market, all without being noticed; countless lost items in art inventories could be credited to her, always as a visitor or something. She was, of course, the last one in the chain of a lineage of thieves “of the same mind” – he hadn’t really grasped the whole thing so far as he seeked her out.
Catch this elvish woman who was as stout as she seemed, send her to the authorities, collect the heap of money, and break this “lineage” or not for good. He wouldn’t let her escape alive or dead; if she managed to be loose from his grip, then shoot her, hand in her dead body, and collect the same bounty. It was usual business.
Passing by even more pipes and wires, the thief finally arrived at this poorly known part of the tunnel network where much of the routes have dead ends – and promptly she entered one of these routes. Sheer luck for him, who had been there many times for some other targets; this time wouldn’t be far to different. The steel enclosure blocked her further escape, and the top of it was barely above his head. Without any other exits or space to leap backwards, this was the right place for her to be cornered and caught…
Surely, the thief was no longer loose, as she closed onto the roadblock, she slid and slowed her bouncing moves, until slumping against the metal wall. As he approached her, she was laid on the ground, weakened and almost bewildered by her final capture. He could imagine her being gagged or getting a more humiliating punishment by his own hands. If she had this inviting pose and being sluttish with everything of her buxom body, as if on the bed, why wouldn’t he accept those? It’s done, he thought. She was now overpowered and opened to him. Slowing his steps to clearly see her figure. The tar skin of the thief was full of sweat, and the air full of panting vapor. A small blush ran through her pristine face, seemly being in great shame to him, her eyes drifting between her own body and his eyes. The only thing for him to do seemed to be only overpowering her and carry her stunned body to the authorities. Strangely, even in this distressful situation, her ruby eyes gleamed with something else in mind…
The red glow of the eyes intensified, adding a red hue to the vision which radiated first from the eyes, then from her whole body. As the glow increased from a mild annoyance to the blinding light, it covered her whole head and gave his own head migraines as intense as the glow…
It was all white and all too painful before dark numbness set in.

The sight slowly came back. It was still the same darkness around this consciousness which cleared slowly, as the warm fume soothed the skin, anything else stripped away. The arms were fastened too tightly to flex, and in the mouth, something was blocking the throat.
Exasperated…
There were his own legs still standing before the sight. Or rather, the pair of legs that no longer belonged to her. She was seeing from the perspective of the elvish woman – she is now the elvish woman.
The rest are barely memorable from the shock of being in the new body. Assaults to her while being nude? The “bounty hunter” moving both his bulk and her, once dragging and then carrying clumsily, finally falling and injuring himself before unloading her and putting her in chains, all while she was too dazed to sense anything else.
The next thing she knows, she was in a cell with some other petty criminal she wouldn’t imagine to be with, who was constantly eyeing her nudity. It wasn’t normal business then. She needed to prove her real identity and escape; if she had tried to jag the lock, she won’t be that innocent. Every time a guard passed through, she resorted to only shouting, which of course never worked with every indifferent guard. But at once, a few days into the detention, the guard came with the key, and said, “you gotta be right, your old body broke into a few cells around and some of those inmates are out there for you…”
Then it was again normal business.

At least, she has gotten the truth that it isn’t a lineage, but an entity behind all this. To break this entity is one thing, and to exact everything from this man is another. Now that she has found him again, she can of course strip him until nothing is left, massage and rub his member, and force him to cum until his face is full of his own guilt, just like what he might had done to her.
This used to be her body, but it no longer matters – this is no longer hers. She is now the famous elvish bounty hunter, every skill and fighting style she has is now adapted to this body. She is fit for everything that is womanly possible, and frozen in time. This is the perfect body she would have been born into if she had been a superb bounty hunter in the first place. It is a gift to her and the biggest loss to this thief.
The duck may be over after a thought: This target being a body hopper, if she faces them, won’t they simply regain what they’ve lost and leave her with that body? That body belonging to someone already gone?
She waited further. Turning the dial on her gun to the dazing mode, as his head emerges again down below, she aimed...
And the thief, both a valuable and body one, fell onto the ground unconscious. The body is now down. It is normal business, and she will carry it to the authorities…

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Dressing Up

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Selling Yourself to a Demon

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Cosplaying at the Convention: Edna TG

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Cosplaying at the Convention: Esdeath TG

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Costume Once Again

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Serving

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Cosplaying at the Convention

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Race Queen TG

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Cuteness' Retainer

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Inadvertent Shifts

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It's Never Too Late To Give

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Unwanted Holiday Work

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Decking the Halls

As much as they would want to “enjoy” the holidays or “feel” the seasonal spirit filling up the place, they still had a thing to do: getting all the decorations for Christmas placed around the place, so the customers… yeah, customers, they would still be working around for the holiday season though well past Thanksgiving. They needed some hard-earned cash for stuff they genuinely want, not this pretend-celebration of which they barely cared. So yeah, the customers would be somewhat touched and they should be quickly going back to their positions as always, after just a simple inconvenience that the manager claimed to be “enjoyable” or with “seasonal spirit”.
Since the decorations came by limited boxes and batches they needed to make the most out of those, without wasting any. At the middle of all those, a staff revealed one unlike the other: instead of the usual carton paper with the description printed in black ink, this was redundantly wrapped in red and white polka dots, with only the words “Christmas Spirit” on it.
For anything suspicious, of course, he was to inform the manager. “Sorry manager, but there is a box I've just found that would not be opened. That was suspicious-looking enough.” The manager, not expecting an extra box, rebuffed, “if I had not misremembered, there was no wrapped box. All boxes should be carton boxes, and I have personally checked the catalogue for the boxes.” But how much would an employee lie on this trifle matter? So, the manager decided, “I am not distrusting your words - let us go to the storage for proof.”
Not surprisingly, the box was still there, waiting for someone to unpack. “'Christmas Spirit’. Intriguing, keep this as it is and I will return this box to the supplier.” Before they close the door behind them, the box cover was ruptured by itself, popping something into the air. Something of a slightly perfume-like tint and beginning to spread into everything before their eyes - the storage full of merchandise morphed into one full of gifts. Gifts? And the air was exiting the room, almost invisible. “Leave the room, keep off the storage,” the manager instructed, but no sooner than they could walk, the “spirit” enveloped their body, exchanging the usual uniforms and shirts for red-and-white dresses and exposing much of the decolored and hairless skin.
By the time they returned to their original spot in the store, all the employees had been whole transformed into Christmas girls, still working with the decoration. Everything under the Christmas Spirit, more and more decorations manifested themselves into the view. And the girls were more cheerful than ever - there was the seasonal spirit controlling them and making the store a enjoyable place!

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Found Costume

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TG Candy

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A Bento is Like a Love Letter

With each step to the main hall of the shrine, Satoshi’s heart was swinging between the thought of the wish and letting loose of love. The only thing he wanted from the shrine – where he almost never entered – was for his wish to be granted true, no matter how unlikely it was for him, Takuma Shijou, to accept a love confession from a guy. A guy! A guy having a crush on this heaven-sent prince, who had already enough girls surrounding him, trying to gain his favor – and one of his gay classmates? That was how everyone else, if they weren’t treating him as Takuma’s confident friend, looked upon him. Real life just wasn’t some yaoi romance fiction that offered much less for homoerotic – or just homosexual affection. Hope appeared dim for him, and only divine intervention could reverse this – as far as he wished. He was sweating from all the nervousness of reminding all those laughter in the dark, behind his back, for trying to take someone of the wrong sex, and a well-regarded one at that. Is being born gay a sin? Was it really needed for him to treat Takuma as just a friend – an affectionate one, instead of someone to be a partner with?
By then he was slowing at the middle of the steps, weighted down by the overwhelming indecision. But somehow, he needed to get to the top of it – someone was waiting for him, no matter what, maybe a change of mind, or some reasons for loving him or not. Besides, if he decided to wish something else, it could have been his middling grades or a better chance at entering the major he had been looking up to…
For the shrine itself, other than some of the more established gods and goddesses who bless the self-fulfilling, there was an Inari who, as local legends alleged, knew the quick way to succeed at anything. Sooner or later after the prayer, anyone in real desire to achieve would get an inspiration they never had in mind before, and that was said to the minds in a sweet mumble – the Inari answering and guiding them. Shake it off as a figment of imagination, and life went on. Take it and act exactly to her words, as some of them said, and life would turn in favor of their wish in unexpected but reasonable ways. This Inari – if the legends of the faithful were honest – would be the best girl in Satoshi’s life.
Now that he was standing in one of the side halls dedicated to Inari, he couldn’t help but to look at the offerings: a few cartoon animal plushes littering around the tables, some of them coated in dust and one or two with bright, new fur; a few bottles of tea, mostly cheap matcha pulled out from the vending machine downstairs, but one of them stood out for being Taiwan Oolong. The last one – almost obligatory by the legends – was where the subtly putrid tint came from. Onigiri piling up – if the Inari was real, she would have eaten some of them. This won’t be convincing enough for him to abandon the wish. He genuinely hoped for the onigiri he offered, made by his own hands, to be a price for summoning the Inari.
Alright, off to the main hall for some general school blessings. “Hey, what’s this, a shrine maiden slacking off?” A strange shrine maiden indeed, sleeping on the donation box and blocking any pious donations – or was she a shrine maiden? As much as her golden hair ply on the top of the wooden box, solar under the spring warmth, a pair of canine ears protruded seamlessly. The garment barely covering her and revealing her squeezing mammaries wasn’t properly what those serving or part-timing her would wear, but a scant blood-red kimono. And tails folded and unfolded on her back along with the bells and red-white ropes, one or two close to sweeping her crimson-tinted eyes.
Wiping his eyes didn’t send the Inari away; she was here, in a deep afternoon slumber. The problem was, she was taking her nap on the donation box – no wonder why some of them in the line before him turned away, apparently having a sudden change of mind. Throwing a few coins – bouncing off her skin and hit the ground. Satoshi reasoned, if Onigiri had been the most popular offering, could it have been her favorite food – and could it wake her up? Throwing Satoshi’s onigiri – she stirred at the vinegar stint, overturning and fixing her arm for the onigiri. Once grabbing the riceball, she was almost ready to sit upright and prepare for standing up, an eye tightly shut and the other half open. 
“Eh… this onigiri, Inari really like your own cooking… Um, a bento’s like a love letter, right? Inari’s so drowsy now…”
A voice from the back cut off Inari’s sentence. “I’m sorry, but please do not throw your onigiri to the donation box – a reminder for you to recognize its use.” Satoshi turned to see a nondescript shrine maiden, a plain and featureless staff comparing to Inari. Apparently, she wasn’t someone endowed with any divine power, since there hadn’t been an Inari lying on the box. “If you wish to offer to the resident Inari, please proceed in this direction and…” “Apologies, but I have already offered in the hall.” “Then…” Now knowing what she didn’t witness with her normal eyes, Satoshi had some white lie to tell. “And as you can see,” he turned his head to the box, “there was no onigiri left on the box, meaning that I have not thrown anything other than donations.”

Was it just his own hallucination and illusion that the Inari did answer his prayer, and was annoyed by him to the point that, as a vengeful trick, her voice was repeating the 4 dishes in his mind all the way on his trip back home? The same 4, starting from a whisper on the train, but increasingly loud and mesmerizing as he came close to his residence, until he was able to note them in reverse order: fried rice, ham-and-egg sushi rolls, tamagoyaki and salmon sushi. Yes, even Inari had a better taste than onigiri and knew what the best for the bento would be. With those in mind, he was hesitantly standing in front of the door, the key in hand grasping and ungrasping.
He decided to try anyway, after another trip to the supermarket for the needed ingredients. Those were more complex dishes than plain onigiri, but if he didn’t try, he won’t know if the Inari was real or just a figment of his imagination. If the Inari was real, the she might subtly change enough to aid him; or else, sending Takuma-kun a bento would still be a nice “expression of love”! Besides, he had better cooking skills than just onigiri – even though not cooking in ages.
The second thing he’ll need was getting into the right shape for cooking – and into the right persona for confessing like a girl. Sneaky Inari for injecting ideas into his stream of thought. Though being as tanned as him from being athletic might be far from some of those pale, quiet girls, he was still as convincing enough as he could to be “just a tanned school girl” – short stature, some nice make-up to take the most out of his already watery eyes and flushing cheeks, the right amount of padding, a good costume and wigs – after occasionally cosplaying and crossdressing for a few years, he knew fully what it takes to change his gender. Yes, a good costume and wigs, the female winter uniform’s necessary if he was to enter the school without rousing a few disciplinary eyebrows, long fed up with “her”. For the wig, it also had to be the usual one for school – long flowing black hair, tied into a back-reaching ponytail. “Her” usual school self was just handy for this love confession. If a guy confessing to his boyfriend was a laughing stock, then a “girl” would be far above the shame.
More time spent in the room, and a near-unrecognizable “girl”, in her usual serafuku, opened the door, passing to the miniscule kitchen. Good thing “her” mom was away for some community activity that left some time and space for her to mess around with the kitchen. “She’s” all ready for the great cooking in her apron!
Sooner or later “she” was holding the saucepan, slightly unwieldy for “her” than the last time “she” ever touched it, but still firmly throwing the mass of rice and choppings into motion. Wiping “her” sweat a bit, “her” hand – finer than ever – pulled out a streak of the long hair from the wig, so much like the real deal grown out from the scalp. And good thing “her” marine-colored lenses stopped soring “her” eyes, they were now no longer a pesky little annoyance! Getting tamagoyaki fried and cut was as simple as it got, the egg squishing as much as “her” full plumps on the chest. Quickly “she” was starting to test out the right mix of marinade for sushi rice, mixing tints of the right juice into the little dish of vinegar. Drops of this blend flowed down her throat, lightening the dry and stressed throat as far as clearing “her” voice, now octaves higher. At last, after wrapping up the bento, a gush of blushing just ran over “her” whole petite body – just getting crushed by the prospect of confessing to Takuma as a “girl” rather than his little boy! Instead of a little boy wishing, “she” might be one of those girls chasing after the prince – which would at least mean a few pairs less of glaring eyes.

Springtime and cherry blossoms – what a convenient backdrop for a romantic confession. “Akatsuki” was even more anxious to anticipate the man of “her” love letter – her tantalizing bento – Takuma Shijou. The warmth was almost freezing “her” from inching nearer to the campus. Would the prince accept a lowly “girl’s” bento, who had already redressed and refigured “herself” enough to be a crossdressing “girl”, one not too far from the mass of girls and boys chasing and leading him at the gate… But this time, as “Akatsuki” realized, was a far bigger crowd than the usual lovers. “Hanaori-chan? What’s up with prince Takuma-kun?” Just another familiar pair of feet was reaching the crowd. “Eh, nothing but him rumored to leave Japan for good – stuff about emigration, following the steps of his father, leaving for better education, blablablah. And all those talks are real – today’s his last day in this school. Geez, are you trying to bring him a farewell present, Akatsuki?”
If he was leaving, there would never be a chance for “Akatsuki” to embrace him – he won’t need too much of a love interest who won’t be coming to whereever he was heading to, let alone a strange “girl”? Wouldn’t any confession just fall onto deaf ears if he needed no serendipitous love tying him back from leaving? She was not getting anywhere – she was failing before she tried to confess. There wasn’t a way for her to send the cuisinary “love letter” at all – what had Inari done in all of those?
A sudden need took “her” to the male toilet, locking herself in the cubicle for her own business. Panties down, and “she” worked “her” hand’s way to “her” groins. Instead of the manhood “she” was going to manipulate for peeing, there was only natural cavities just suiting the rest of her body and attire. How far had Inari gone to feminize her for just a confession! Even without one, Akatsuki just felt eerily natural, feeling nothing out of her bodily instincts, without also inverting her orientation to yuri – just the right body for many other boys.
If she wasn’t sending away the bento, she could just have it by herself – that was what she thought she would have for the midday meal. Or until Inari came – not Inari, but a school girl with flowing blonde hair and curvaceous, a copy of Inari down to the turquoise eyes, but without the fox ears or tails that would have stood out. Yawning for a sleep, she picked her spot for a nap just besides her, consciously so before asking Akatsuki: “fuu... still with the bento?"



Yes, the bento was just open, with only a piece of tamagoyaki picked out by a hamster. “Inari, even though I failed to confess, I would still be grateful to offer some of the… augh, do you want some of my bento? A sushi rolls of for starters?”

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