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. He contacted me directly, asking for an image of his original character, the young fox Philippe McGowan, in a very different situation, dressing and acting like a geisha, in a setting reminiscent of Japan. Since it's something I don't particularly know much about, I found the challenge interesting, and you can see the result here.
Even in a world of high-speed trains, neon lights, and the echo of centuries-old shrines, there are moments that feel timeless. The hush of a hotel corridor in Kyoto, the faint scent of incense drifting through sliding doors, the stillness of tatami floors—these are the spaces where fantasy blends seamlessly into ritual. And for Philippe McGowan, the gentle fox who had long ago learned how to dress his flame-orange fur in layers of tradition, this was where he belonged tonight.
The door slid open with a muted shhhk. Philippe stood framed by the soft glow of paper lanterns, his slim figure wrapped in a long blue kimono embroidered with gold. A crimson sash tied it neatly at his waist, pressing against his petite body in a way that exaggerated his elegance. His geta clicked faintly as he shifted his weight, one hand resting lightly on each side of the doorframe. Behind the black-rimmed glasses, his green eyes gleamed knowingly, though his lips offered only the faintest, wordless smile. Without speaking, he invited his guest deeper into the silence of the room beyond.
Inside, the kotatsu radiated warmth, pulling him down to his knees with practiced grace. He poured a cup of sake, pale liquid shimmering in the dim light, and tipped it back slowly. The effect showed almost instantly: a blush spread across his cheeks, softening his sharp features, and his shoulders eased beneath the shifting folds of silk. The kimono loosened just enough to bare the elegant slope of his collarbones. A second drink followed, and this time, the fox let the alcohol guide his expression—a sly, closed-mouth smile tugging at his lips, playful and knowing. His white socks stretched clean and snug along his legs as he leaned closer, a living portrait of coy seduction.
Soon, restraint faded further. Philippe stretched out on his side upon the tatami, one arm bent casually as he held the sake cup aloft like a prop in a dance meant to entice. His kimono betrayed him now, slipping past his chest and clinging only where the red sash still held it half-fastened. His petite frame was revealed in delicate contrast to the hunger stirring below—his shaft, firm and exposed, twitching with anticipation. He tilted the cup lazily toward his lips, as though nothing had changed, though his body’s urgency told the truer story. Behind him, the shōji window opened to a burning sunset, its orange and pink blaze echoing the hues of his own fur, as if nature itself shared in his unraveling.
At last, surrender was complete. Reclining on his back, Philippe laced his hands behind his head, glasses slipping slightly down his muzzle. The sash lay discarded, the kimono spilled wide open across the floor. His legs stretched languidly, while his erection stood proudly, pulsing with every quick beat of his heart. The grin on his face was no longer shy—daring, almost teasing, as if to say that the performance was over and the choice no longer his.
And then came the silence. The sake cup rested forgotten, the garments scattered like petals, the sunset pouring molten fire into the chamber. Philippe’s green eyes, mischievous and questioning, looked not at the walls nor the ceiling, but beyond—to the one watching, the guest for whom all of this had been staged.
If you were the client, if you were the one his charms had been meant to disarm… What would you do first with the young fox?
