💕 Seeking Well-Matched Partner for a Current Craving - Weekly-ish Posting 💕

[Gypsy]

Please PM me if you're interested in any of these ideas. 

If you'd give me a little bit to work with other than just a bare expression of potential interest, that would be great. 
Once I'm no longer looking, I will lock this thread -- if it's not locked, you can assume that I am, indeed, still looking.

Also, my Ons/Offs and posting history are available if you think you might like to write with me.   They are very much
indicative of what I'm like as a writing partner, what I look for, and what I don't.  My signature contains handy, clickable links.

As the title says, I am looking for 1+ posts per week, and while there's some general leeway on that,
I am not looking to start any slower or erratic posting stories at the moment.

I thought I'd try something a little different.

Instead of bumping my ideas thread which has a wide selection of ideas, both fully developed and bare bones, I'm going to take the double plunge of not only looking for a partner who'd be a good fit with my writing style and posting habits, but one who is also interested one of the specific ideas, or pictorial inspiration, below, or something very similar.

I'm willing to negotiate the details including the character appearance, but the feel, the taste, the scent, of what I'm searching for should remain intact.   I enjoy a good amount of erotic content, but I also like to appreciate and develop the nuances of the characters, and a plot that lets them interact beyond the sexual. 

I'm not laying out the specific plot here, but rather a framework for the character that I want to play.  So long as the plot we come up with allows me to bring that character to three-dimensional life, I will be happy to collaborate on specific plot points and directions.

CRAVING

@}->--  @}->--  @}->--            THE DEVIL INSIDE            --<-{@   --<-{@   --<-{@

(click for details)

A Midwestern Cowgirl with a Belly Full of Demons
Lacy Dolan is a prickly, plucky gal working double duty on the family ranch
She's also got succubus blood in her veins, and a chip on her shoulder the size of a tractor
What she needs is someone who can bring out the devil inside, one way or another

A Little Background

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.

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.

@}->--  @}->--  @}->--  @}->--            THE LADY LUCK SALOON            --<-{@   --<-{@   --<-{@   --<-{@

(click for details)

Old West
a feisty woman running a saloon in the Old West - certain that trouble will walk through the swinging doors at any moment

When she'd come west on the train, Sarah Louise Whittcomb hadn't had much of a plan at all.  In fact, all she'd thought about was getting far, far away from everyone who'd ever known her, the tight collar of her traveling dress carrying with it the nightmare of the hangman's noose.  It had been on the train that she'd taken the name 'Angela', and chopped off the biggest part of her surname, courtesy of the man seated beside her who had flirtatiously remarked that she looked like an angel, waking from an uneasy sleep on the rocking seat to realize that she'd used his shoulder as a pillow.


A whole lot of luck, good for her, and bad for a couple of others, had landed her in Black Jack, a town that had been established mainly on the plans for a new railway that would bring cattle from Texas and the surround environs northward for butchering.  Unfortunately, with the War of Northern Aggression, the War of Southern Rebellion, or the War Between the States (take your pick as to what you called it) and the news that Texas cattle were like to be infested with ticks carrying herd-debilitatng disease had put those plans on hold, leaving the town caught in a kind of limbo.

A lot of men lost fortunes on their speculations, but it was ripe time for a woman with a goodly sum of questionably-obtained funds, equally questionably-obtained six shooters and a trusty shotgun, and a bellyful of tired of being pushed around to buy up the town's hotel/saloon and run it herself.  The first thing she did was put the local cat-house out of business, but not in a way that endeared her to the god-fearing sin-calling, tea-totaling population.   Mostly, she did it by offering the brothel's best girls a better deal, and by recruiting a couple from places both east, west and beyond.  The girls all helped out to serve drinks, and when a group of cattlemen, outlaws, banditos, businessmen or what-have-you filled up the hotel, then the regular serving girls were free to make a few extra coin lifting their skirts if they wanted, and some did.  Some didn't, but that was okay too.


Angela Whit, as she was known in town, had a set of rules that she enforced with her rifle, a fireplace poker with a wicked sharp hook, or a little lady's gun that she wore on a little holster on her thigh instead of the now-tucked-away six-shooters.  The rules were simple - wipe your feet before you come in, pay your tab, take the fights outside, and stick your dick in any hole the girl you paid was willing but no other, and keep your goddamn fists off the girls.  Story was that one asshole come up from Texarcana who punched one of Angie's girls left cupping the bleeding, ragged remains of what had been his cattle prod courtesy of Miss Angie's little bitty gun.  The story had grown to local legend in the telling.  Whatever the truth, the one thing that the folks around Black Jack knew for certain is that the town's Sheriff always came down on Angie's side when there was trouble, and if she'd seen the inside of the town's jail, it wasn't as an official guest.

It was about as uneasy a peace over the Lady Luck Saloon as it was about those who supported the Union and them that supported the Rebs, but it was a peace all the same.


It generally didn't take long when the Lady Luck opened for business for people to start filtering in, whether to get themselves a drink, a girl, or just a place to play cards or checkers out of the chill Autumn wind.  Angela, dressed in her preferred garb of a low off the shoulder top and skirt split up high to keep her little gun accessible, was enjoying a cup of coffee at 'her' table, and lazily laying out a game of Sol as she kept her ears open for any bit of gossip or news that was of interest.  While there was some truth in the whisper of 'whore' that the town Bible-thumpers hissed in her direction, she didn't lead anyone up the stairs to her private room 'less she wanted to (though she was honest enough to admit that a little present was as good as foreplay for gettin' her in the mood to those brave enough to endure a little straight talk that wasn't precisely ladylike).  That didn't mean, though, that she didn't take some sort of delight in findin' out a bit of dirt to dish right back, and a saloon was a good place for that.  Funny that the truth seemed to hurt more than any lie ever could, and it was often Angie's favorite weapon.


Come sundown, she reckoned that they'd have a decent crowd, enough to make the expense of the Mex troubadour .... as he called himself ... worth it in what the house'd draw in.

********* UNDER DISCUSSION *********

@}->--  @}->--  @}->--  @}->--            AFTER THE CROWDS LEAVE            --<-{@   --<-{@   --<-{@   --<-{@

I love the potential in this picture, and I want to do a story using its inspiration.  The setting can be from the early 1900's to current day, and can include the supernatural or not.

What do you see when you look at this dark, lonely, fog-kissed ferris wheel, with the uneven, cracked boardwalk and that one little spot of warmth, of light, and a figure waiting inside?

Is it a dark story of kidnapping, of vengeance?

Is it a story of two people seeking to recapture a moment in the past who find the strength to continue on in an unexpected encounter?

Do creatures who shun the sunlight call this their home after sunset?

Is it a place where people come to unleash their wild side, with aid from the caretaker, who has his or her own reasons for being accommodating?

What do YOU see?   And, more importantly, do you want to let me into your vision, as you discover mine?

I'd love to find out.