Miscellaneous Cravings -- MaryJane, Mesmerism & Succubi, Oh My!

Started by Gypsy, April 17, 2018, 07:17:17 PM

Previous topic - Next topic

0 Members and 1 Guest are viewing this topic.

Gypsy

Currently in discussion re: Copperhead Road, so closing this.  Thank you.




Copperhead Road - Post Viet-Nam War, or possibly Prohibition Era - Appalachian Mountains or similar setting preferred





I volunteered for the Army on my birthday
They draft the white trash first, 'round here anyway
I done two tours of duty in Vietnam
I came home with a brand new plan
I take the seed from Columbia and Mexico
I just plant it up the holler down Copperhead Road
And now the D.E.A.'s got a chopper in the air
I wake up screaming like I'm back over there
I learned a thing or two from Charlie don't you know
You better stay away from Copperhead Road
                                                              ~Steve Earle


..~~+~~..~~+~~..~~+~~..~~+~~..​

Scenario 1)  1975 - 1979

Just like the song says – a country boy back from the war comes back and starts growing marijuana, complete with flashbacks from the war.  Set it somewhere in Appalachia in the mountains where there is a strong tradition of mountain people who take care of their own and have their own code, particularly when it comes to their land and their family.

Scenario 2) 1920 - 1940

Same part of the world, but it’s a time where moonshiners hid their stills up in the mountains, hiding from the revenuers, rival moonshiners, county sheriffs, and those who wanted the sale of alcohol abolished. 

..~~+~~..~~+~~..~~+~~..~~+~~..​

For an opposing character, there are a lot of possibilities, though the timeline would make some better suited for one or another:

  • a country girl who’d do anything to support her man, laws be damned
  • a city girl who finds herself irresistibly drawn to the rebel, so different from everything she’s ever known
  • the widow of another soldier who hunts down her husband’s best friend and finds more than she bargained for
  • a deputy/agent assigned to a task force meant to deal with the moonshiners or marijuana growers, possibly by working under cover
  • a woman who does the buying of the illegal hooch or the weed, the one that the cops wouldn’t suspect
  • anything else that we come up with

For a storyline, there are all kinds of them – from keeping the product guarded from those who want to destroy it or get it without paying to revenge to rivals that want to destroy a way of life that may not be conventional, but is valued all the more for it.

I would prefer to play the female character here, but I'd also be willing to play the male if styles are compatible enough and my partner is willing to provide feedback and some patience.







I'm Mesmerized By You - Historical / Alt Historical Setting Preferred




I'm interested in a story involving a house party, set somewhere in the US, England, or possibly an island territory sometime in the 1800's to 1930's, where a demonstration or conversation leads to a natural mesmerist finding that she, or he, can influence the thoughts and behavior of the other guests, to lead them into giving in to temptation in myriad ways.

The 'mesmerism' that I'm most interested in would be a more innocent version of hypnotism, and employed more or less like early stories or movies portrayed it ... spiritualist leanings and the power of suggestion and persuasion that lowers inhibition and encourages the power of desire and belief.  A session might start out with the mesmerist saying "Tell me what you think of me" and being answered by the unvarnished, and perhaps embarrassing truth ... rather than the mesmerist having the subject barking like a dog.  The emphasis would be on empowering desires and thoughts already present, not causing someone to behave in a completely contrary manner.

The provided sample post is one possible setup for a story, and while I like this setup, I am perfectly willing to discuss stories and characters that are completely different, so long as they involve some sort of deliberate mesmerism as described above.


Sample Post
Lorraine Appleton, affectionately dubbed 'Lolo' by her father, friends and those others given to a fashionably casual mode of address, had never gotten along with her older sister, Margaret. Perhaps it was only natural. Their father's first marriage had not been a happy one, and most said that his often vocal and public disagreements with his wife had caused her to drink herself into an early grave. It probably didn't help that he married his mistress, and mother of his three-year-old illegitimate daughter Lorraine, less than two months after his wife's funeral.

Margaret, an overly serious girl who had developed a love of all things quiet, reserved, and peaceful -- likely because of her parents' loud quarrelling -- was both devastated and mortified that her father would flaunt his infidelities in so public a fashion. That quiet stoicism Margaret cultivated might not have allowed affection between the sisters, but it promote civility on Margaret's part, even when it was tight lipped, and the smiles she bestowed on Lolo during public functions never quite reached her eyes. Lolo had always suspected, and bitterly resented, that Margaret had considered the death of Lolo's mother to be a balancing of the universe's scales, her just desserts.

While Lolo could see that Margaret had some cause for anger, none of that had been her doing, and nor could she have prevented it by any stretch of the imagination save for not existing.

Expecting her to disappear seemed rather bushwa, and she hadn't hesitated in telling Margaret so until they'd settled into a pattern of simply sticking to superficial topics when the need to speak couldn't be avoided with good, or even adequate, grace.

Given the age difference between the two, coupled with personalities that were as different as those of their mothers had been, perhaps all would have been happier if they had quietly drifted apart and confined their animosities to those dutiful gatherings that their father demanded when his business trips allowed.

However, Margaret's desire to maintain the appearance of family, and perhaps even the desire to not give their father reason to favor Lolo in his will as he had favored her in most things, saw to it that Lolo received invitations for summers and holidays. Lolo's discovery, during the summer after her first year of Finch School, that her sister's husband Russell ... who had seemed quite ancient, almost as ancient as her father in her rather childish perspective ... suddenly seemed not so old at all as she noticed the pleasing aspects of his appearance and his character.

Lolo was smitten, and as Fate would have it, it was her first time experiencing such a fervid, all-encompassing emotion. The fact that she could not have him, the certainty that her sister has poisoned him against her and he regarded her as nothing more than a spoiled and pampered occasional annoyance, only increased her longing. Each time she left her sister's home, she would promise herself that she would refuse the next one, and yet when the time came, Lolo could not pass up the chance to be near the object of her unrequited affection.

And if she suspected, in her more introspective moments, that his appeal would have been less if he did not belong to her sister, she did not dwell on it any longer than the time that it took to shrug her shoulders.

During her second year away, she learned that the father Doreen Whitling, hor closest friend at Finch School, had a fascination with the theories and practices of Franz Friedrich Anton Mesmer, a German physician who believed that all individuals possessed a certain animal magnetism that could be manipulated to restore the flow of life's balance. After a demonstration of the technique's effectiveness, she asked Mr. Whitling to teach her more, but like most passions she conceived -- save for that for her painting and her desire for the man she could not possibly have -- it was short lived, and might have stayed that way had it not been for Fate taking a hand, in the form of a parlor game at her sister's home and Lolo's realization that perhaps there was a way that she could have all that she so longed for ...


..~~+~~..~~+~~..~~+~~..~~+~~..​

She had not been there long when she noticed that the gild had worn of the lillies of her sister's marriage, so to speak. They did not quarrel in her presence, and, really, she couldn't imagine them quarreling at all. When Margaret was confronted, she retreated behind walls thicker than thieves, and higher than Mt. Everest in the most genteel fashion possible. Russell seemed to joke less frequently in her presence, and while he might bestow a kiss upon Margaret's pale cheek, or upon her head -- gently, so as not to muss the strands -- it seemed that he was content to leave her to her walls and seek his pleasures elsewhere.

Had he sought out Lolo's company, she would have been over the moon. He did not, though it seemed to her that his glances sought her out more when he thought she wasn't looking. Yet she supposed he still thought her a child, and her efforts to prove that she wasn't probably met with the same sort of wretched indulgence that her father showed when they visited. It was maddening, though Lolo certainly hadn't given up. With Margaret's indifference now seeming to be heaped upon the both of them, there were more opportunities.

Some woman from his office had come with papers for him to sign, and when she had admired the landscaping, Russell had offered to show her around. Lolo was not invited, though she had hung about hoping that she would be, but still she followed after -- not so close to be scolded, but close enough, she hoped, that she could suggest that Russell pose for her. While she wasn't, per se, a painter of portraits ordinarily, the opportunities should he agree were too good to pass up.

So in this leisurely, underhanded fashion, when she came upon the two of them sitting together upon a bench in the pergola near the pond, it seemed perfectly natural for her to take a circuitous route upon her walk, to come up from the side where the bushes would support her surprise at having interrupted.

Yet it was no legal discourse that occupied them. That much was obvious as Lolo drew closer, pushing aside a leafy branch so that she could see. Russell's hand was upon the woman's leg, no, not just her knee, but her thigh, above the stockings and moving higher as he kissed and nibbled at her neck. Lolo's breath caught as she stared, an ache of longing in her heart ... and ... were she honest, a certain point rather lower as she heard the woman's throaty laugh calling him incorrigible, a wolf. Her hands rose up, and for a hopeful moment, Lolo thought she was going to push him away, but instead one hand snaked through his hair, those beautiful locks, and lay atop his head, pushing upon it, as her other undid the buttons of her dress with a casual grace that Lolo envied.

And, oh, how she envied. She could hardly breathe as she watched her brother-in-law pull the woman's dress from her shoulders, kissing the flesh as he pushed up her chemise. Lolo's moan, half wounded, half lustful, was lost in the woman's own as his head pressed against her breasts, and the hand upon her leg slid higher still. Since noticing Russell, she had envied her sister all the more, but at the moment her full complement of envy, all of it, was with the strange woman who was half lying now upon the low bench, with Russell's mouth upon her breasts.

She knew, of course, what men and women did together. Hadn't she seen the art, read the books. Hadn't she even experimented just a bit herself, though such experimentation had been less appealing when she had found her thoughts more drawn to her sister's husband rather than the brothers of her schoolmates, or even the men she had met at various art functions and gathering.

It would, she thought, tear her heart out to see him make love to his woman who was neither her nor her sister, but yet she could not move away. She could do nothing but stare as feminine hands, the color of the polish upon the nails making the gesture all the more pronounced, move from head to shoulders and then reach for what could only be the waistband of his trousers ...

"Miss Lorraine! Miss Lorraine!" It was Hattie, the girl who came to do the lions share of of the housework, her voice loud as the clap of a gong. Lolo's eyes closed, the scene before her still visible against her shut lids like some beautiful, horrible still life, and then she turned and slipped quietly away, her feet as silent upon the lush grash as she could make them until she had enough distance to answer, praying that they wouldn't guess that she had seen.

And praying that he would ... and even more that perhaps, in the knowing, he would invite her to come sit with him beside the pond, to feed the ducks, to be the one his lips and hands explored.





The Devil Inside - Modern Midwest Cowgirl with Succubus Blood Seeks a Devil




Lacy Dolan still lives on her family's ranch, and is involved in most of the day to day running of it as her father has other business interests -- and, in fact, prefers not to spend any more time there and around his daughter than he has to. 

The setup below, which is certainly not the only possible setup for the story involves her best friend (in a dysfunctional friendship) married to a former crush, who loses his farm to a gambling debt to a 'devil' who knows who and what Lacy is and intends to hold that debt, and her guilt, over her head until he can coax her into letting the succubus side of her nature out, instead of fighting it.

The part that I'd like to keep intact is Lacy's personality, and the history of her dysfunctional relationship with Claire.  Brad, and the neighboring farm, are entirely optional.   The 'devil' could be a farm hand hired on, maybe posing as an executive from an oil company looking to buy oil rights, or someone scouting for a rural movie location ... anything interesting that fits, in other words.

..~~+~~..~~+~~..~~+~~..~~+~~..​

Lacy Dolan always knew she was different.  How she was different, why she was different, she didn't know.  A late bloomer, she got a clue when she spied on her older sister and her boyfriend, who had snuck out to the barn one Sunday after church.  Lacy hadn't really intended to catch them 'in the act'.  At the time, she was mostly focused on being a pest, getting a little payback because her sister wouldn't let her borrow a shirt she liked.   Things didn't go quite as she planned, though, because when she saw what they were doing, she was struck into silent immobility by the rush of feelings that she didn't quite understand.

When her sister looked up and saw her and started yelling, Lacy was released from the paralysis, and she ran ... straight to the paddock where her horse was ... and without waiting to try to saddle the animal, she climbed up on Murphy's back and off they went with Lacy clinging to the horse's mane and a precarious seat.

It wasn't long before disaster struck, as mount had picked up on his rider's turmoil of emotions.  A sudden sound, and he shied and bucked, and Lacy was thrown.   A bit of deadfall probably saved her from a broken bone or two, but jagged edges left her with a scar on her cheek and another on her thigh.  The one on her face eventually healed into a thin, pale line, but the self-consciousness over the ugliness of those first days of healing was imprinted on her psyche, as was her jumbled feelings of guilt and blame.

Claire Evans was Lacy's best friend in school, though the two of them couldn't have been more different.   Lacy was smart enough to figure out that a good part of her appeal to Claire was the contrast.  Lacy's tomboyish looks, her prickly, suspicious demeanor, made Claire's 'girl next door' looks and behavior all the more striking, and the contrast almost never showed Lacy in favorable comparison.   Claire was an early bloomer, filling out early and well, the quintessential barbie doll measurements while Lacy remained lithe, a tomboy.  Claire's efforts to 'help' only solidified Lacy's feelings of inadequacy.   She found some measure of triumph, guilty triumph, when one of Claire's boyfriends came on to her after a party.  That encounter, Lacy's first, led to another and another, until most of Claire's boyfriends had at least gotten to 'second base' or hit a home run with Lacy, until Lacy, sickened by her own behavior, determined to stop.

Which she had ... even though she'd had a crush on Brad Underwood for two years before he asked Claire out.  Lacy had been the maid of honor at their wedding, and Lacy had burned in silence, never confessing the dreams that  haunted her at night, or how her fingers had, in her fantasy, become Brad's in the darkness.  She'd avoided him as much as she could, until he and Claire had had a fight and he'd ridden off to cool off.   When his path crossed Lacy's, the old pattern had established itself again ... but once her itch had been scratched, the desire for her best friend's husband was gone, burnt up in that one moment of stolen passion ... but the guilt remained.

Lacy didn't know, didn't even suspect, that she had succubus blood in her veins.  Perhaps if her mother had lived, the knowledge might have been passed on, but she'd died shortly after Lacy was born.  Lacy didn't even know that there were such things as succubi - to her, the term was just a word she'd heard a time or two in horror movies.  All she knew is that the feelings she had both lured her and repelled her ... and rather than seeking to understand them, she buried them.

They just wouldn't stay buried.  Her dreams made sure of that.


Sample Setup Post
It was a perfect day.  The sky was the perfect shade of blue, a hair darker than a robin's egg, and the clouds that were strewn along the horizon were the white, fluffy variety with only a shadow of grey.  The air was warm, but clean and light, like sheets fresh out of the dryer.  In a week, maybe less, it would be time for the first haying, a time that Lacy looked forward to without quite knowing why.

It didn't feel perfect, however.  Lacy paused in her self-appointed task, that of hunting down the nest of a stupid hen that always seemed to get it into her head that laying her eggs in the high grass was better than in the chicken coop, with its wire fence and door that closed at night to keep out the predators who thought eggs for breakfast, or a midnight snack, was the perfect gourmet treat.  Intelligence seemed to be a characteristic that had been bred out of the stock, though the hen possessed just enough shrewd animal cunning to have led Lacy on a less than merry game of hide and go seek.

The sound of a high performance car roaring by at reckless speed attracted her attention, and Lacy straightened, and used the opportunity to take off her hat and wipe away the thin sheen of perspiration gathering under her bangs as she frowned at the light cloud of dust left in the vehicle's wake.  Some city slicker, lost on his way from point A to point B, a tourist looking for a bit of relief from urban sprawl?  It didn't much matter, she told herself as she shook her head, but the faint surge of excitement mixed with dread tickled at her nerve endings like teasing fingertips belied her assurance.  The image of herself in that car, foot pressing the gas to the floor, knuckles clenched and an eager, devil-may-care grin on her face was just below the surface, just below conscious thought.

Her head dropped on an exhalation, a shiver sending gooseflesh across her skin in a manner that was familiarly pleasant and unpleasant all at once.  She swallowed, her hands slipping up to hug her arms, the feel of her own touch imparting just a hint of an ache ...

The cackle of the hen broke her from the half-formed reverie of longing.  "There you are, you ..." she muttered, and returned to her task.  The genie was, for now, back in its bottle.  It could damn well stay there ... but she knew the lie, deep down, even as the silent mantra bought her a brief reprieve.

..~~+~~..~~+~~..~~+~~..~~+~~..​


"What are you doing here?"
Lacy's voice wasn't friendly in the slightest, and neither were her eyes as she held the hose pointed down toward the flowerbed, the one planted by her mother.  The irises, vibrant purple and white and kinder pastels of peach and cream, were in full bloom.  She was tempted to turn the hose on Brad, and would have if not for the twist of guilt in her stomach as he smiled at her, cocksure as ever.

"You used to be glad to see me," he returned, his handsome face going sullen, petulant as some of the flash faded out of his smile.

"Yeah, well ... my Pa always says I need to have my head examined.  Guess he's right." 
In her mind's eye, she could see the two of them, melded together, lips to lips, skin against skin, their clothes wrenched up, down, anyway, just enough, the constraint making the fill of his thrust all the tighter, pleasure and pain combined.   The sound of their grunts, ragged breath, a silent beat that she could have danced to, a heat that had dissipated and left nothing but ice in its wake.

"Look, Lacy, I don't want to fight with you.  Things are .. not so good.  Claire, she's not adjusting so well." 
He dropped the charm, and the petulance, opting for a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.  "She could really use a friend right now.  I was wondering if you might come over for dinner, cheer her up.  All the talk in town, you know how people are."

You know, his voice suggested, rightly, because they talk about you too.  Don't think they don't know.

They knew some, but not all, and if Lacy had any say in the matter, they'd never know it all.  It was that thought more than any that made her bite down on her refusal.  She nodded, closing her eyes against the shame.

"Yeah, I expect having your husband lose the family farm to pay a fucking gambling debt does reflect on your status in the community."


When she looked up again, her lips pressed in a mutinous expression, the glint of anger in Brad's eyes was sweet, even heady, in an unfathomable way.  It was her own reaction to it more than any fear that had her saying, "No.  I'm sorry.  Ain't got much room to cast stones.  I'll come."

It wasn't a hair shirt, and there were no scars that you could see, not from this.  Maybe this time, she'd finally learned her lesson.
<a href="https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=286451.0"></a>      <a href="https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=244545.0"></a>      <a href="https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=279617.0"></a>      <a href="https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=245953.0"></a>     

🌹🔥🌹   on 'no writing' hiatus    🌹🔥🌹    not available    🌹🔥🌹    formerly 'Briar Rose' & 'GypsyRose'    🌹🔥🌹