I have not heard of Jackson yet.

Pretty sure you have, he's from Pack Bang, one of the few, if not the only, we were in together.

...

Really? That was weird. It feels like that one was so long ago. I completely forgot you were in it on that side. Huh. Okay, uh, Ma-- Roxie

Roxie’s real name is Angela Royce, she was born the middle child in a large Catholic family. With four siblings, the petite rat female was rather ignored for the most part. Her parents were both very devout to their religion, and enforced it upon their young children in turn. Her father was a successful business analyst, and her mother a dutiful wife and mother, the family never went without the luxuries of life.

Angela grew up more or less unbothered by the chaos of her family. With an older brother who was her parent’s pride and joy and a baby sister who seemed to have a perpetual cold or fever, she was just kind of… overlooked. That suited Angie well enough, and allowed her to spread out and view the world without being harassed.

At the age of eleven, at a sleepover with a few school friends, a game of truth or dare would alter Angie’s perspective permanently. A truth was asked of her, had she ever thought about kissing another girl? Surprising even herself, the little rat replied that she had. Another truth, had she ever wanted to hold hands with another girl? Again, with a blush, the rat replied she had. This was followed by a dare, for her to kiss one of her best friends, a dainty little tabby cat named Grace.

Being a curious young female, she assented, fully unprepared for what the touch of another girl’s mouth would be like. The pounding pulse in her chest was answered in kind by another in the pit of her stomach, delicious warmth that suffused the entirety of her body and craved more. Grace was so soft, so pliant, and melted against her so perfectly that the rat flushed and shuddered. When the cat’s fingers caught in her hair and her lips parted, Angie felt her tongue instinctively pressing forward into that hot confine. Electricity, she would swear, simmered and danced through her at that touch, something she would never forget.

Through middle and high school, she learned from her parents that their view of homosexuality was linear and without allowance. She felt ashamed of her own deviance, though she couldn’t bring herself to stop the secretive relationships she’d maintained with like minded girls over the years. Every time she was on the cusp of speaking up about her own leanings, something dissuaded her from coming clean, be it a snide comment about gays from her father or the inevitable shudder her mother replied with. She didn’t want to be something her family hated.

When rumor of one of Angie’s schoolmates being pregnant whispered to her mother’s ears, she pulled her little girls out of what she felt was temptation’s path. Little did they know that their eventual sequestering of their daughters in an all girls school would only add flame to the fire for their middle child.

A Catholic school, she soon found out, was not unlike their portrayal in movies. Like in any school, there were good girls and bad girls, and they each had something of appeal. Perhaps due to the lack of males, many more of the Catholic school girls were more amenable to fooling around with another girl. Angie became known as one of the ‘bad girls’ soon enough, having discovered some unusual tastes.

The rat lost her virginity to a vibrator wielded by an upperclassman when she was fourteen, and loudly enough to be heard half a block away. She began testing the waters soon after, developing something of a fetish for exhibitionism, be it as simple as leaving some buttons undone on her shirt, neglecting a bra, or ‘forgetting’ her panties beneath her short plaid skirt. She also became more brazen in her escapades, sneaking not only one girl aside for her amusement, but two or three at a time. It was only a matter of time before she would be caught.

Her parents were brought into the school after a rather enticing romp outside the brick building with one of her volleyball teammates had grass stained her white knee socks and skirt and torn her gym shirt. The rat had been discovered with her slim muzzle buried between the thighs of the writhing doe and had been dragged into the office as she’d been found, the neckline of her gym shirt torn badly enough to expose a racy black and red bra beneath. When confronted, she shrugged and didn’t deny any of the accusations. Quite the opposite, with her parents sitting aghast in front of the school mistress, she rattled off a lengthy list of near misses.

Angie was disowned three months later when she brought home her then girlfriend, a leggy ewe named Daisy. Her parents came to grips with the fact that this was not a phase when the rat was seventeen years old. She found herself ousted from the family home and the will.

Far from despairing, Angie did what she was best at, and sought out a place where her talents would be appreciated. Soon enough, she was a main act at one of the local strip clubs, where she discovered the joys of piercing. She took the stage name of Roxie from a favorite song of hers, and began to adopt a more dominance based look. Presently she does quite well for herself, and is using a significant portion of her earnings to put herself through a business degree and is intimately involved with one of the exotic dancers at her club.

Interesting how one event can change the course of one's entire life.

I think I’ll double answer a couple of these, given that a few of these characters were fun to create as well. Jackson’s loosely modeled on my father’s personality, kind of a gruff, emotionally reserved, and guarded. However, Spike’s persona evolved on its own, as many of my better developed characters do. He started as a turncoat archetype, but grew into something much more.

Jackson comes from a family of cops, his father a homicide detective who met his mother on one of his cases. Some measure of corruption was always present in the household, from an early age it seemed that his father had more than the other officers. They always had a bit of cash to spare, where other detectives had just enough to scrape by.

As is often the way with cops who start turning against their purpose, Jackson’s father hit the bottle pretty hard when he hit his teens. An only child, and a rather perceptive one, Spike was soon hiding his mother from his father’s drunken rampages, and ended up battered more than once for his trouble. Jackson always believed in the solidarity of reputation and family, so he didn’t call in the police on any of these occasions.

When he was old enough, he entered the police corps himself. He soon rose to sergeant in his division, Vice. He’d seen enough of battered women not to take steps towards neutralizing some of the worst culprits.

It was at this point he had first contact with a gang known only as the Howlers. A rough and tumble group of canine males with a penchant for what they called ‘catch and release’ program for young females. Hearing of the routine gang bangings these males doled out, Jackson turned his attention towards this new threat to the females in his area.

The Howlers soon heard of Jackson, and the way the sergeant sank tooth into his obsessions. Something about the cop struck a chord with Rockhound, the defacto leader of the Howlers, and he set to catching the hard headed Doberman. The plan was simple enough, grab a girl near the cop’s beat, lure him in, show him what was what.

It worked, and like clockwork, Jackson came out to the defense of the young lady. Two of the gang members ambushed the sergeant and knocked him out. When he woke, his muzzle was strapped shut and he was pinned down to a table’s top facing a restrained female surrounded by the Howlers. Jackson was forced to watch as the gang took turns with the female, though he couldn’t help but notice that soon enough her reserve melted and she was eagerly squirming for the next male to mount her.

Despite himself, Jackson found himself quite thrilled by the spectacle before him, which hardly went unnoticed by the two pinning him down. Some mockery ensued as the Doberman’s ‘interest’ in proceedings was discovered by one of the other males, who despite holding the lean cop down, started fondling Jackson as the antics of the group continued.

Soon enough the restrained cop was panting against his gag and primed for the hunt himself. When the grip on him released, he lunged over the table and took turn with a feral abandon, interested in little but the warm body beneath him and the cresting pleasure that claimed him. As his climax spiked, the Doberman felt a shame tighten in the pit of his stomach and staggered back to the table, his breathing heavy and his eyes wide.

All the Howlers did was chuckle and turn him loose.

Several days later, the sergeant was in booking and saw a couple of the other officers lead a female in, and the bottom went out from his stomach. He knew her, in more ways than one, it was the girl the Howlers had teased him with and turned him loose on. Jackson knew that if the girl saw him, he was in hot water, so he tried to arrange for it to look like she’d slipped through another officer’s watch. The girl noticed him and threatened to narc, and Jackson was caught counting the bills he was planning to use to pay her off. The assumption was made that he’d taken a bribe to let her go, so no one paid any attention to the ranting of the female about the Doberman sexually assailing her.

He was fired and retreated with his severance pay to the bottom of a bottle. Soon after, two of the Howlers found him and brought him back to the gang, who took him in, if suspiciously. He retains a clean cut look and a cop-like manner, so he’s become something of a failsafe when members of the Howlers get into law related trouble, Spike can walk and talk cop, something the other gang members wouldn’t know how to. It’s an odd niche, but a niche nonetheless.

Damn. This is really well thought out.

There's usually more to my characters than what gets posted in a profile.

I like to think my characters are three dimensional. >.>

Ain't nothin' wrong with that!

Oh, this one looks like fun. I might have steal it from you in turn.

I wouldn't mind hearing more about your koala lass. I remember the cute little picture  naira did of her, and I've always liked that one.

Tanwynne

Wynne was one of those characters who was created in response to a friend’s character. Jie is a giant panda escort in a bordello in the city of Fairwind. Fairwind is in a steampunk style world created by my close friend Pyro. When I brought forth the inquiry to Pyro or whether Jie would be possibly curious about the girl on girl aspect of sexuality, he gave me the freedom to run with it.

Jie, from Pyro’s description, is something of a shy, if not guileless female. She’s a musician as a hobby and was described as less subtle or political than many courtesans might be. In response, Wynne came to me, something of an opposing personality. Tanwynne is not exactly subtle in some ways, but she has that undefined sensuality and mild reservation that makes you wonder what she’s thinking. To me, that trait, the mysterious and calmly observant mindset, is greatly attractive. There was also mention from Pyro of Jie’s using elemental metaphors to describe people, which further defined Wynne’s personality. From there, the albino koala came to life without prompting.


Hailing from a superstitious family, the albinism of their third child was seen as an ill omen. Tanwynne’s birth was widely considered to be a sign of bad tidings by the village she was born to, and as such, the red eyed child was seen as cursed. Wynne’s childhood was quite a lonely one, always being treated as though she were some kind of demon, what child shuns and is weakened by the sun’s light? Even her parents and sisters were wary of the white furred female, she knew nothing of intimacy from an early age.

Perhaps it was the negligence of the community that turned the merchant caravan’s eye to the solitary little figure playing with her handmade doll beneath a heavy wide parasol. Maybe it was the intelligent ruby eyes that looked up at them inquisitively as they passed her ramshackle home. Regardless of what it was about Wynne that intrigued them, be it her albinism or her inquisitive reservation, one of the merchants turned from the caravan and approached the abode.

Tanwynne would never really know what went on behind those doors, only that when the big lion came out, he was carrying a small bag and offered her his big paw. One last look saw her father nod to her with a slow wave of his silver hand, and the white furred female put her small fingers in the feline’s grasp.

Jonga, as she would come to know the lion, was a good hearted male, if not versed with children. As a weaver and textile merchant, at the very least he kept her clothed. She had been in her seventh year when he adopted her into the caravan, and time passed quickly on the open road. By her twelfth year, the albino female was not only well versed as a peddler, but had learned to read and write, do enough mathematics to help Jonga balance his books, had the basic understanding of clockwork required to perform basic repairs, and had an eye for fabrics and textiles.

By her fifteenth year, the pure white beauty had mastered many of the bohemian dances of the caravan’s more provocative females. Wynne spent hours practicing the correct undulation of her hips, which were rounding to a luscious femininity more each day. She rehearsed the correct arch of her spine to best present her audience with a generous eyeful of her ripening breasts beneath the semi-sheer silks she had begin to favor. More than once, Jonga had to chase away the pack of young males who had begun to hover around his charge like ravening beasts hoping for a bite of the delicious prey before them. It seemed Wynne was going out of her way to entice the eyes of the youths, and Jonga began to worry about what should happen if the lovely young koala were to be beyond his protection when her sensual torment became too much for her audience to bear.

In her sixteenth year, the red eyed femme discovered the joys of the flesh. It had started with the attentions of one of the caravan’s merchants, a jackal who was easily twice her age. Intrigued by his descriptions of the sexual act, Tanwynne gave herself over to the expertise of a more experienced male. Her first few forays into hedonism were mildly disappointing, she hadn’t felt the heat and ripple of the climax she’d been promised. With a sense of methodical experimentation, the albino bedded many of the males (and eventually females) in the caravan in search of this elusive pinnacle.

With each tryst, her confidence in her abilities with this new hobby grew, and her bed became a coveted position within the caravan. When Jonga expressed his concern for not only her reputation, but her personal pride, Tanwynne offered an enigmatic smile and commented that it would be a grand thing for this to be considered a trade, much like textiles was. Sternly, he explained to her that it was already considered one, though not a respectable one. Nonplussed, Wynne calmly splayed her hands in note of the fact and set out to master this newest obsession.

It would only be a matter of time before the wayward albino’s actions began to upset the other females of the caravan, they had mates who were now sneaking off to bed down with the caravan’s whore and were unappreciative. Several mates of Tanwynne’s regular clients cornered her one evening and set to show her how little they thought of her current trade. Bedraggled and bruised, she crawled alone to bed for the first time in two years to consider her current position.

Guile, she discovered, would be the best way to maintain her clientele without garnering the offense of the group. Over a year, Wynne spent much time engaged in a game of words and silence with the females in the caravan, during which the importance of keeping one’s mouth closed over possibly vital information became clear. What one could ruin with three ill considered words, they might protect forever in silence. It was much like playing a game of tiles, strategy would win it before random chance.

In each of the large cities they came through, Wynne took to vanishing for the duration of their stay and coming back several hundred silver pieces the richer. It was so much simpler, she reasoned to herself, to engage clients anonymously in a large city than to be stuck traveling with the same band of two hundred individuals. Simple enough logic, really, she mused.

And then came Fairwind. As the merchant band crossed the river’s bridge into the bustling city, Tanwynne found herself struck as much by the size of it as by the architecture and the energy of it. Planting a light parting kiss to Jonga’s cheek, she gathered her skirts and slid down the wagon’s side to investigate.

The scents and sounds were ambrosia to her, one who had spent so much time on the move. Bustle within stasis, it was lovely! The koala moved along the streets without much purpose for a while, slowing only when she noted she was being followed. She introduced a slight roll to her steps, so that beneath the bustle her hips would give slightly suggestive sway. She began to slide one foot directly before the other, so that the contours of her form would be flattered to her observer. With a half glance behind her, the koala slipped into an alley and waited for the passer by, her fingers giving a lazy comb through her pale hair.

She was just about to offer what she had to the trailing figure when she caught the gleam of dark eyes from under a bonnet and the sleek sheen of deep red flesh. Her follower gave a slow tilt of her head and lifted a brow mildly, the simple gesture somehow elegant. Wynne noted well the complexity of each gesture and slowly mirrored them with a few of her own. A genuine smile slid over the red female’s mouth as she eyed the albino, her black eyes seeming to almost spark as a few simple words whispered seductively from her throat, “Exotic and subtle… Deep notes, reserved desires…” Slowly, the sleek female made her circuit of the albino, who noted the lazy appraisal in the tall femme’s manner, “Much like a favorite perfume of mine,” she smiled, the expression somehow elegant and lascivious at once as she turned back to the main road, “Coming, ivory?”

>_> This is awesome, by the way.

If you say so? O.o

I most certainly do!

That's really quite the story! It's very sad, too, for a lot of the way, especially her childhood. The ending seems pretty sinister to me, too. It all makes me want to know much more about her, though. Thanks for sharing!

You're very welcome, thanks for asking about her. Wynne was a fast favorite of mine, and fleshing her out was a lot of fun for me.

There are some melancholy notes in the course of her life, but things often work themselves out in unusual ways.

Dakota! I like Clydesdales. ^^

Dakota Marie Branston

The winding path of Dakota’s life is one that several have shown interest in. Given that the mare isn’t much of a talker, it’s not a tale that has been told, even to those she calls her friends. She hasn’t always been the strong silent type she is today.


Dakota was the youngest of four children in her family, and the only girl her parents produced. Before her were born Austin, Duke, and Roscoe - three strapping stallions that were the pride and joy of her mother. It was no small coincidence that Dakota became the apple of her daddy’s eye.

As a child, Dakota was as many foals, energetic and slightly gangly. From an early age, one could tell that in time her legs would lengthen and she’d carry a statuesque height. Even among Clydesdales, a female was lucky to top the six foot mark, Dakota’s build as a youth indicated she’d be more in line with the height of the family males. As she grew, so too did her interest in physical activity: specifically her attention fell on anything involving track and field. With legs a mile long, there were few who could keep pace with the coltish female.

What Dakota didn’t know was that most of her family subscribed to a rather backwoods mentality. Not spoken of in front of the fairer folk, the males of the Branston line had devoted a lot of time and effort into keeping the familial lines as pure as possible. This had led to multiple clandestine trysts between family members in attempt to keep the lines strong. Each generation saw certain members of the family branch out to new locales, as it was simpler that way to avoid detection from outsiders.

Given that they’d moved to the small town of Kaurville as a young pair, no one had put together that Wade and Abigail might not have simply been husband and wife. They shared the same surname and lived as man and wife, which was all the citizenry seemed to take note of. The reality of the situation was that the pair were half siblings, sharing the same mother but separate fathers, a not uncommon occurrence within the bloodlines.

From a young age, the males in the family were brought into the conspiracy, just about the time they hit puberty. Austin, Duke, and Roscoe initially quailed, though as time passed, knowing their roles in the family history soon had them watching out for their baby sister in a wholly new fashion. There was some level of shame to it, of course, not many teen males could abide the thought of mounting their sisters, but it had to be done.

In the meantime, the budding mare was allowed a measure of freedom. She began modeling at the age of fifteen for a local boutique, which got her noticed by some municipal scouts. The leggy equine female was soon on the national fashion circuits, envied for her length of leg fresh faced appeal. Her extroversion knew little bounds, and by seventeen, she was often on the arm of a fashion conscious male. A suggestive little smile here and a coy bat of lashes there earning her more attention than she’d have thought possible.

Behind the scenes of the model’s glamour is a much different world. In it, rail thin slips of women huddled over porcelain altars, praying with heaving stomachs to the gods of fashion. Sex was a means to an end, the surest way to assure you were the one wearing the collection masterpiece while the other girls wore the filler pieces. It wasn’t pretty, and as much as the girls might hate themselves, the ones with ambition capitulated to groping hands and rough romps to get further in the industry.

And then there were the drugs, cocaine and heroin flowed like water if you came into the right circles, many of the models used them to keep off the weight they thought they had gained, even with their ribs visible through any fitted garment. Dakota was no different, waking up hung over and craving sniff or shot in any one of a dozen beds, never quite sure who she’d fucked or what she’d imbibed the night prior. A quick rinse between her legs, a brush of her teeth, and eye drops to chase the night’s residue from bloodshot eyes, and it was back to the next photo shoot, prep for the next fashion show.

Dakota soon found it hard to keep the curvature of adulthood from intruding onto her once lithe frame. The women of her family were all built with a draft horse’s muscle, and she turned to crash dieting and began introducing her fingers to her throat at every chance. Combined with the binge drinking, the heroin use, and the ludicrous hours, the industry began to take its toll on the leggy Clydesdale. She’d enjoyed her year of fame, now it was time to pay back with interest.

When she woke in a hospital bed instead of in a chintzy hotel room, reality started to kick in. Leaning heavily on an intravenous pole, the wasted horse tottered to the mirrored door of her semi-private room’s closet and for the first time saw herself without the spell of the fashion industry. Her chocolate brown eyes were sunken and shadowed, her limbs little better than sticks. She could see the sharp lines of her skull through her shrunken hide and the knobby protrusion of her knees. She swayed on her hooves and forced herself to look at her abused body as she dropped the dressing gown. The only contours she could boast were those of her bones, having wasted away to a nigh cadaverous shell.

Staggered, she hurriedly dressed in the gown and found her way back to the bed. As soon as she was strong enough to do so, she called her family for support. Recovery was slow going, but progressed over time. With her brothers and parents to keep her on track, Dakota slowly regained control of herself and began to fill back out. The curves that she built were womanly and alluring when they manifested, backed by a slight musculature inherent to the Clydesdale lines.

At twenty years of age, the males decided it was time to tug Dakota into the traditions of the bloodline. Recovered enough to appeal to their instincts, but not at the full of her potential strength, her brothers made their move.

Though she fought like a wildcat, Dakota was no match for the three big stallions, and was soon bent to their pleasures. She knew nothing for the better part of three days but the huff and snort of stallions, the thick dripping of the forced union congealing in her mahogany fur, and the steady ache of her body being abused by the size of them. Though they all took their turn, again and again, only Roscoe showed any sign of regret for what went on. Despite her injury and frustration at her state, in time her body reacted as any female might, and her own desperate cries of climax mingled with the grunts of the stallions.

When Austin and Duke felt she had grown acceptant of their attention, they did what they could to explain the family’s nature, and her role as the only female in their generation. Again, she fought, far from acceptant of their plans for her. She’d only just escaped her own undoing, she sure as Hell wouldn’t have the males in her life rein her in and make her their brood mare. Steeled by the fury she felt toward the ones she should have been able to trust, Dakota took advantage of their exhaustion from the prolonged assault and used her remaining energy to break away.

Using some of her savings, she hid for a month before she realized what had happened. The stallions had timed their attack perfectly, they’d succeeded in a single lengthy attempt, she was pregnant. Weeks spent in debate of what to do with the undesired product of the incestuous rape sped by, and soon Dakota’s resolve was turned to iron. She knew she couldn’t abort the unborn foal, but she sure as Hell wasn’t letting her family lay a hand on it.

It amazed her how carrying another life within her body changed her ways. She turned away from her old habits, eating healthier, exercising (and discovering a kind of release in it), and spending time getting in touch with herself. The mare took up several types of self defense training as her pregnancy progressed, having sworn to never again be a helpless victim.

Months passed, and despite the ponderous swell of her stomach, the remainder of the six and a half foot female had grown lean and strong with compact muscle. Her cell phone rang now and then, though she refused to answer, having left that life behind her. Now and then, she checked the voicemail, only to ignore her mother’s whispered pleas for her to come home and her father’s stern commands of the same. It was only when she received a murmured message from Roscoe that she softened. Dialing his private cell phone, she agreed to meet him publicly, but only if he came alone.

The café was bustling when the big stallion made his way over to the table where his little sister sat. Awkwardly, he took his seat opposite her, and they spoke. Dakota was no longer the openly talkative girl he’d known, and Roscoe was no longer the dire threat she’d recalled. They spoke less as siblings than as adults, and Dakota calmly informed him of not only her pregnancy, but of her plan for the child. The family could never know she’d borne her brothers a foal, she refused to put her baby in that kind of backwards position. Roscoe agreed without pause, then gently reached a big hand out to press against the swell of Dakota’s stomach. A sort of boyish shyness overtook him as he felt the movement beneath the mare’s hide, and he cleared his throat before pulling his fingers back.

If she had to pinpoint when she’d forgiven him for his past actions, then that was the moment. Thinking he might be a father, he had reached out to contact the young he might have given her. Neither of them spoke as they finished their meal, no further words were required. When the meal was finished, Dakota extended her hand to him silently, and didn’t let it go until they were in the small apartment she’d leased.

Whether it was that they shared something deeper than many sisters and brothers would ever, or whether it was genetics speaking from instinct’s grip, at least this time the consent was mutual. They fell into one another with a tenderness not common among beasts so sized, united now in mutual communion where once there had been only lust and duty to move them. When they reached the peak of desire, each cried with a shuddering crescendo before tumbling back to earth.

Their parting was poignant and heavy when he left to rejoin the ones who had so wronged Dakota, though she couldn’t hold it against him now. She watched him go with a half smile before turning back to the empty apartment.

When the time came, she already had the papers in order for the adoption. The sensations dulled by an epidural, the Clydesdale gave birth to a perfect baby girl. Dakota named her Annabelle before she was handed to the young couple who had accepted the young one as their own. She held the babe to her breast once and murmured that she loved her before she found the arms of the femme she’d call ‘Mom’ as she grew. Despite knowing that the course of action was for the best, something in the tall equine ached when she saw the baby carried away. For all of her newfound strength, Dakota still cried when the room emptied.

Once she had mourned losing the filly she had given up of her own will, Dakota turned back to the pursuit of self knowledge. She’d never been a stellar student, but as time passed, she grew from a frightened young female to a confident mare.

She began employ as a personal trainer in a local gym to fill her time, which was where she met Steve. The bull was one of those innately friendly males, and it didn’t take long before Dakota caught his attention. Steve ran a small ranch outside of the city, and when he’d heard Dakota’s breathy drawl, the mare had struck him as a possible addition. He explained the nature of the Wooded Ridge, to which the tall mare simply lifted a blonde brow, a teasing smile touching her lips as she inquired where she could sign up.

At present, Dakota has worked for the Wooded Ridge as a personal trainer, farm hand, and escort for over two years.

Damn. A rough life, but it's good to see her finally take control.

Holy wall of text Batman! Nice backstory actually. I always like hearing about the history on your characters. ^^

Thanks for the reply. I probably enjoy inventing back story way more than I ought to. >.>

Tell me about Ethan?

Ethan's a fawx. *nods sagely*

Pfft. C'mon.

C'mon what? >.>

Surely there's more to it than just "Fox"?