Weathered hands, aged hands folded against his lap as he sat there in the foyer, tucked beneath the soft warm blanket in his wheelchair. He was old, late sixties, early seventies and looked almost…frail. The cold had taken much of his strength, but the rest of it lay hidden away. Tucked out of sight, where she couldn’t see. He’s loaded. He’s cruel. He’s also the patient.
And she? She was innocent, it was there in the bright blue of her eyes, that sweet honey kissed blond. Her fingernails were pink, the glittering studs in her ears were a bright purple and there was the outline of her Hello Kitty tank top, leaving her upper arms bear. A pair of skinny jeans, that matched in pink, that matched those heels she was wearing completed the picture. She’s the caregiver.
The estate is as decadent and luxurious as it's empty and dark. The heavy rain outside batters the windows and soaks the ground soggy, with muddy steps leading from the front door and through the foyer. A janitor's bucket sits abandoned besides the dirty track, the mop discarded on the floor in a puddle of murky water. The only light comes from a high chandelier, one that flickers with the thunder outside and trembles with every following boom. Staring paintings of historical figures, all unlabelled and forgotten, follow the newcomer's every step. There are no sounds, no noises, besides the downpour. A flashlight, turned on and pointed upwards, rests on a small table besides the main door, still damp from the outside.
The stairs were doubled as well, curving along a circular wall, stretching up to the second floor. Every step is padded by the soft purple carpet, but signaled by the aching creaking of old wood, sometimes triggering the moans of an ancient building; deep, low and distant. The entirety of the second floor's hallway is the same, with the double doors promised sitting imposingly right infront of the staircases' end. It's flanked on both ends by statues of disfigured human beings, young both, arguably female, with their features twisted and wrong. Beautifully made though. Both are unique works of art. To some, master pieces. To most, horrifying. The door itself is decorated with intricate carvings, some tribal, some familiar to those who know the lore of the local natives, others entirely alien. All of them are drawn to, and circle around, the two heavy brass handles, shaped like two great cats pouncing at each other.
He was wet again, whether genuine accident or design, it was hard to say and required a bath. The bath was fine, that was easy. She could do it without feeling awkward, but it was when he said she was stripping away his pride by forcing him to disrobe, despite the fact that she was forced into helping with even that…she argued, sweetly as she could manage. Told him she’d given baths before, that there was nothing to be ashamed of and still he pressed. If she expected him to disrobe then…she was going to have to do the same thing. She wouldn’t leave him in filth, would she? And that’s how he’d stay, if she refused. There’s coughing, some affected wheezing that sounds sincere, the threat of tears.
And she consents. Color staining her cheeks, the humiliation threatening to do terrible things. But it’s okay, right? She can be in her bra and panties. She could give him a bath. It was like being in a bathing suit, that was all. Except it wasn’t and there were noises in the house, things that looked…strange, sounded strange. And while she worked on bathing him, he worked on her mind. On how the beings in the house were afraid of him, how he could keep her safe. Only him. And a caress on the cheek becomes a gentle hand against her shoulder, absently coaxing the strap of her bra lower with every touch.
Sound like something you can use? Abuse? Intrigued yet?
I’m looking for age play here, obvious in the slightly extremer sense. She’s 18-20, depending on where your comfort lays and he’s? Late 60’s, early 70’s. He’s not weak, though he conveys portrays it.
He is dominant. I’m looking to indulge my masochist streak here, degrading, controlling. But it’s not just in the physical sense, because obviously, there are limits to what he’s capable of. It’s the mindfuck I’m after. I want to watch the psychological breakdown just as much as the literal destruction of her innocence.
Because she is innocent. Wide eyed, sweet with an open heart.
Supernatural. In a modern setting. There’s occult focus here, heavy in the research, in the old man’s obsession. He wants a new life. A better one. A younger body. Perhaps they’ll find it together.
But I am looking to go dark here. In all senses of the word.
I don’t want it a fast descent into her being comfortable, I want the break down to be slow, methodical. I’m not looking for scat here either, to be clear. But there’s room for…everything else.
What I need from you? What I’d like? Is someone to play the male.
If you're interested, please don't respond to this thread. PM me and I'd be more than happy to work something out. I've been craving this for a while.