Just A Cigar
A hyena gets enough confidence to own her new, enhanced looks. (Also, a penis. She gets that too.) Explicit.
The cigar was huge. At least an inch thick and seven inches long. Cam had owned dildos smaller than that. She dug it out of an old cigar box in the back of her closet, so old the green-and-gold paper had started to flake. A gold seal wrapped around the cigar near the base. It smelled not quite like tobacco; still heavy and imperious, but more spice than musk.
Cam wrinkled her snout. "Jesus Christ, that's big," she muttered. The cigar box she tossed over with the stuff she could maybe sell on Craigslist for rent money: a taped-up hockey stick and a portable CD player with blue crystal buttons. The cigar she held onto. Everything else from the bottom of her closet, the torn up shirts and used skateboard wheels and orphaned shoelaces, sat in the 'useless junk' pile.
With a sigh, she heaved herself onto her feet and went to hunt through the kitchen drawers for her lighter. The drawers were only a few feet from her closet, and that was only a few feet from her bed, which was pulling double-duty as her couch.
Cam was a hyena: big ears, scruffy mane, brown spots on her tawny cheeks, the whole package. Well, not the whole package. That had more to do with recessive alleles and testosterone levels and it was pretty rare anyway. Aside from that, she was the sort of lean, strong-shouldered girl everyone expected a hyena to be. She went by Cam because her real name, Camilla, just felt weird on someone like that.
18 April, 2018
Sin
A quick sketch of a priestess being corrupted into a serpent. Mature.
Sister Juliel knelt in front of the shrine of Al-Esh and tucked her white habit beneath her knees before bowing her head and beginning the night-time prayers. At the hour of Vigils, each of the seven shrines that ringed the convent had to be given prayer and their candles lit. It was a lonely, sleepy task, but a peaceful one.
A warm breeze crossed through the open windows of the shrine. Juliel paused, her lips sliding shut as she lifted her eyes and glanced out the window. Nothing stood outside but the shadow of the trees in the orchard. For a moment, she studied the dark, expecting to see the eyes of some owl or cat glinting at her, but there was nothing. Head bowed, she completed her prayer, then lit a thin taper from her lantern and held its tip, one by one, to each of the seven candles.
As she was about to light the final candle, a sudden wind blew so fiercely Juliel thought she had been struck. Tumbling to the side, she landed against the wall of the shrine, suddenly plunged into darkness. The candles and her lantern both had gone out.
Juliel crouched where she had landed for a few moments, wide-eyed and listening. There was not even the rustle of wind in the leaves from outside. Quietly, she traced the sign of the seven-pointed star on her chest, and began to whisper, "Blessed Al-Esh, please guide and protect my spirit..."
12 March, 2018
All Chained Up
A quick sketch of a post-apocalyptic doberman transformation. Explicit.
When I wake up, my hand goes straight for my knife, which isn't there. I roll around until I can get my knees beneath me, then stand up nice and slow. There's a heavy weight around my neck, and the clank of a chain as I move. I grab at my neck—there I find the collar, and the thick chain hanging down from it.
The sun's as bright as it always is, but if I squint, I can start to make out where I am. Outside of some raider encampment, it looks like. I wince and cradle my head as last night barrels right into my skull, right up until I see a pipe swinging for my head.
Could be worse, I guess. I could be inside the camp.
I follow the chain back to its end, where it's been wrapped tight around some bent, rusted rebar sticking out of a concrete block. I don't like this. It doesn't make sense, chaining a girl up outside the camp and just leaving her there. I try all the things you'd expect to get free, but the collar's been welded shut and no amount of scrabbling at the chain will get it off the rebar.
12 March, 2018
Winter Weather
A quick sketch of a fluffy arctic fox transformation.
The snow whirled down outside so thick it looked like static, a haze that swallowed up anything more than about twenty feet from Kate's hotel balcony. Kate glared out the window as she stripped out of her skiing gear piece by piece, slapping her gloves on the counter and kicking her boots over by the kitchenette.
"Closed due to snow? You're a ski slope," she grumbled to herself, giving her left boot another kick, then zipping open her coat and tossing it over the edge of the couch. With her scarf and snow pants pulled off and tossed aside, she was down to just regular pants, wool socks, and her shirt and sweater.
With a sigh, she heaved herself back onto the bed, and lay there for about ten seconds, staring out the window, until she hauled herself back up again and over to the thermostat. It was too hot in her room, too. Seventy-six? In the middle of weather? That seemed ridiculous. She squashed the rubber triangle with her thumb, ticking it down to seventy before flopping back onto the bed.
Since she had her knees over the edge and her feet hanging down, she didn't see what was going on. Her toes wriggled in her wool socks, her ankles bent and then stretched, and then with a soft poof of fluff, the socks vanished, and in their place were a pair of thick white-furred paws, dangling just above the floor.
12 March, 2018
Sanctuary
A quick sketch of a deer-taur transformation folktale.
Men tell many tales of the Lady of the Wood, of her cruelty and caprice. They say that any son of man who enters into her Greenwood must either be fool, or desperate.
Desperate indeed I was on that night. The king's hounds were upon my trail, and his men so close behind I could hear their hue and cry. I had little choice but to enter the wood, or face the sword. I hoped, perhaps, that the men would turn their horses back at the edge of the kingdom, that they might be more superstitious than I, but still I could hear them. They were more distant, slowed by the branches and bramble that pricked my cheeks and tore at my legs, but still they pursued me.
I fled deeper into the forest, under roots taller than a man, over streams that wound silver in the moonlight. My breath was ragged, my face stained with blood and sweat. Still I ran, until from the woods around me, I heard a voice speak, "Halt."
The word chilled the blood in my veins, but I could not have moved even if I had wished. Where I stood, roots rose from the ground and twined about my feet, such that my legs were held fast, like a striding statue.
12 March, 2018
Good Girls Get Milked
A quick escapist VR cowification sketch. Mature.
It's one of those days that stretched on way longer than it should have, from rushing out in the early morning to driving back under an unpleasantly gray sky, bundled up in a coat I'm sick of wearing, after staying late for a job I'm sick of having. By the time I finally get home, it's dark. I manage to get off my shoes and coat and stick some frozen chicken in the oven, but after that, I'm spent.
Still in my shirt and slacks, I slump down onto the futon and just sort of hang there and stare at the ceiling. I stare over at my TV. I stare down at my VR set. It's been a week or two since I've used it—just too busy. But I need it, even if I feel like I'm not too far from passing out. The metal contacts in the strap settle against my neck as I slip the goggles on. I lay down, and flip the switch.
There's a half-second of nothing, then the sensory drivers click on, and suddenly I'm standing. Then, chunk by chunk, the grass loads in under my feet, and the sky rolls blue and bright above me, and a light wind brushes over my shoulders, carrying the scent of hay and warm dust.
I take a breath, then exhale so deeply I feel like I'm deflating. I flop down onto the ground. It's soft underneath me, and the blades of grass are cool and slick under my fingers. As I sit up, I realize I didn't even get my socks off. I bend down, tug them off by the toes, and pitch them over toward the nearby tree.