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Author Topic: Detailed Plots, story or smut-driven, from non-con to vanilla romance  (Read 1209 times)

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Offline Egoiste!Topic starter

Consider this an open invitation for anyone who wants to RP with an experienced writer and role-player. I'm looking to explore a variety of plots with some focusing more on character and story, and others of a more depraved substance. I usually play males but am comfortable playing male or female characters, and happy with partners of any sort though I usually end up RPing with females. I’m on the look-out for players who have a similar attitude to mine and who find the themes of my games and stories interesting - the ability to make every post a masterpiece is not required! - and I’m generally happy to adapt my style to my partners. Although decent grammar and spelling is a plus imagination, a sense of fun and a personable nature are even better; as is a relaxed and casual approach to RP where our mutual enjoyment is the primary goal.

   You'll notice my games usually have an introduction, and may include PB suggestions (If I ever I get around to uploading them) so if you're curious the introductions are there either to set the scene, introduce a character, provide information, or maybe just to give you an idea of the tone of the game. Some may be able to function as the first post - though I could just as easily write something else - others won't. Some are written from the male lead's POV, some the female lead's; if you wish to change something established regarding either, or anything else for that matter in any of these intros (even if it's just a name) simply let me know. As for PBs (I've had a few people ask about this) a PB is simply a reference for a given character's appearance. I post these suggestions to give a clear picture of how I envision a character (sometimes with multiple possibilities) but I don't mind if you prefer not to make use of them, or pick something else. So go ahead and show me one or more that suit the character as you envision them and feel free to suggest any you'd like me to use for my characters. As for why I don't pick male PBs I've simply found people are less interested in them, but I can do so upon request.

Lastly if you’re not interested in any of my plots but would still like to arrange a game I’m always happy to read over any story ideas you care to send me and if you have any other questions or comments at all feel free to contact me and fire away.


The Stepford Syndrome (Taken)

A young journalist (or broadcaster, depending on your preference), always on the lookout for odd news and gossip, hears about a town with a most unusual quality. It seems social convention here has taken more than a few steps backwards: the women giggle and flirt like school girls, and if they're not pregnant or doing house work they're always made up and well dressed, while men seem to rule the roost, and nobody ever complains, or so they say. Of course she can't believe it's really like this, but it might be worth investigating. After talking to several people whose relatives or friends were either travelling through the town or staying nearby and who never came back her enquiries take a more sinister turn. Later some of them sent letters or called but only to say they had relocated permanently. Often after getting married, usually with a child on the way. She could not help wondering what was behind this and felt certain it could make a good story. Setting out to investigate (determined to track some of these young women down to get a better idea of what made them stay) she finds the town exactly as described, but though retrograde the locals all seem welcoming enough, and - as reported - nobody there seems unhappy, nor does anyone there wish to leave. There is a fairly simple - albeit rather shocking - reason for all of this., and if she isn‘t careful in her attempts to discover the truth she may become the latest in a long line of young women who suddenly and inexplicably decide to stay in Point Pleasant forever.


   The young journalist glanced over at the two members of her crew. Her photographer, James and his assistant Chris seemed eager to set up and get some photos of the gathering. She’d been told the fair was being held to celebrate the opening of a new library. Amid the groups of people and rows of stalls on a neat reserve of park-land perhaps one hundred people were sat on folding chairs set up in rows facing a small dais. Three people had already taken their turn to speak. Two of them: Joseph Wright and Stephen Marsh headed two of the three families who claimed descent from the town’s founders. Her research had made it fairly plain that this small town with no real industry or exports and an apparent desire to avoid attracting tourists could only seem as prosperous and independent as it did by way of frequent, generous donations from these three founding families. They were the towns de facto owners.

   Now it was the turn of Joseph Wilkinson. He was the very picture of an older yet still vital gentleman, and dressed in a superbly tailored suit he appeared a robust and athletic forty-something although he was in fact approaching his fiftieth year, and the only clue was the odd grey in his close cropped, dark hair. He gave a congenial smile as he looked over the small crowd. After tapping the microphone once he spoke earnestly about the superior community values, and spirit of fellowship that existed in Point Pleasant and pontificated, at length, on their ongoing ability to dodge the pervasive corruption of post-modern apathy with its culture of degeneracy. This saw the crowd react with insufferable smugness or, at least, the men did. That was the thing about Point Pleasant. The men, or rather the women, or - in fact - both of them. Particularly when seen side-by-side. Joseph for example occasionally received adoring waves from a tiny thing clutching a couture purse who could not have been more than twenty five and nothing about the way she looked at him suggested he was her father, unless they had an unwholesomely close family.

   Though she was more fashionable in her accoutrements she was no less made up, dolled up one might go so far as to say, than the other young women in the assembly. Many of whom stood next to much older men. They kept their mouths and listened, or tended to the children, and speaking of the children, there were a lot of them. Point Pleasant seemed very big on families. In fact a fair percentage of the women present were visibly pregnant. The young journalist thought of the photographs she had brought with her. Each had been sent by the family or friends of a young woman who had seemingly disappeared while staying at or passing through the town. She couldn’t be certain, but several of the young women she’d seen so far had reminded her of those photographs. 

   Joseph’s speech contained further oddities for anyone who was listening, and the young journalist was definitely listening. For example after remarking on the excellence of its reference facilities, the breadth of subjects covered on its shelves and the rich collection of literature he added that their new library boasted an entire section intended for the women of the town. The subjects it focused on or at least those he listed were quaint in the most chauvinistic fashion but the women did not seem to mind. In fact a number of them seemed impressed, some almost giddy in their excitement over having simply been mentioned.

   What was wrong with them?

   Finishing his speech the patriarch alighted from the podium and was greeting by an athletic young man not far from the dais. The familial resemblance suggested it was his son, one who had not wanted to listen to the speeches. The two traded a few words which she wasn‘t able to overhear, and Joseph followed his son’s gaze as the young man pointed towards her photographer. The two regarded him even as the dispersing crowd gave rise to a confused colloquy which overtook the area as each individual aired their views now they could speak freely, although the chorus of raised voices had a depth and timber which was wholly masculine.

   As a chattering group of young women obscured her view the journalist did not realize that Joseph was approaching her until he stood almost in front of her.

   ‘Good afternoon miss [your character], I trust you’ve been welcomed suitably. If not, welcome to Point Pleasant-’ there was a charmingly personable quality to the way he offered his hand and smiled, ‘I hear you’ve spoken to our deputy councilman, Jack’s a decent enough fellow but, well, between you and me - no verve, or backbone. I can’t stake the reputation of our wonderful community on his say-so. As one of our esteemed patrons, a member of one of our founding families, I’m prepared to answer any questions you might have. First, though, let me introduce you to my son-’ Joseph turned then, ‘Jared?’

   The dark haired youth took a step forward, bereft of his fathers energy in presenting himself to this lovely young woman - a fact neither had missed or were shy about acknowledging by way of their glance - although there was absolutely nothing in his posture or expression which spoke of reticence. He was appraising in his nature, his manner invested with a careful patience. His eyes dark to the twinkling shade of blue of his father’s, but otherwise the two were much alike save that Jared was a hair taller, his posture a straighter, and his arms and shoulders noticeably bulkier . He wore a simple pair of trousers and a long-sleeved, button down shirt although the warmth had seen him fold the cuffs back, and he held a sports coat in one hand.

   ‘This is [your character],’ his father went on. ‘[your character], my son Jared, and my wife Christine,’ he directed to the young woman who had just swept over to stand by his side.

   ‘Pleased to meet you,’ the journalist remarked with feigned interest before fixing her gaze on Joseph, ‘Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about your town?’

   ‘I’m not in the mood for questions,’ Jared interjected brusquely, speaking to both of them, before Joseph could respond.

   He looked the journalist over a final time with that, raising an arm to sling his coat over one shoulder, the cotton of his freshly pressed shirt flattening against his chest as it was drawn out between the pinions of his backward-thrust shoulders to mark the rigid contours of his athletic sinews. A studious, dark eyed gaze took in the curve of her hips, her waist, and with one slightly raised eyebrow he seemed to take some pleasure in tracing the arc of her bare neck, his lip curling into a slight smile.

   ‘But I might see you later,’ he remarked, and with that he left her and Joseph alone.

   ‘I‘m afraid my son doesn’t appreciate small-talk,’ Joseph stated with a shrug, making no apology for the young man. ’or it may be that he’s simply tired of hearing me talk about the wonderful community we have, oh!’ his voice became louder as though there was some revelatory point he had forgotten, ’before we go on, in case I should forget again, as we are so seldom lucky enough to receive any media attention you are of course welcome to stay for as long as you wish, and your entire group as well. Unfortunately we have so few hotels now, so you’ll need to see Jack again. I’ve arranged matters and he’ll direct you to an apartment. Your crew as well, though you may be in different buildings. If you have any problems just let Jack know as we’re eager to keep any members of the press, and hopeful that if they do stay they’ll, naturally, be willing to tell the world about how wonderful our community is.’

   The attractive young journalist wondered at this. Confessing a certain surprise that he professed to relish media scrutiny. Of course she hadn’t told them her real reasons for being here and had explained to Jack earlier that she was covering Point Pleasant for a series on small communities. She’d kept from enquiring directly about any of the town’s more sinister qualities as a result. Still her research up to this point had made her certain the town would not relish such attention.

   ‘However, with that out of the way, I believe you had some questions-?’ Joseph showed a look of disappointment, ‘Only I‘m afraid I won‘t be able to spare the time to answer them just now,’ his regret appeared sincere, ‘but I‘m sure Jack can tell you almost anything you need to know about our town, and you can schedule an appointment with me through him if you find he can’t.’

   .She felt a stab of disappointment with this. Of course she’d already questioned Jack extensively and although he’d earnestly volunteered a great deal of information about the town in general he hadn‘t been able to give her anything truly useful. On the other hand it she did not get the impression that he was trying to avoid an interview.

   ‘When do you think you might be available?’ she asked.

   ‘I‘d say-’ his brow creased with thought, ‘not for a few days I’m afraid,’

   The young journalist sighed inwardly at this, but it looked as though she’d be staying at Point Pleasant for a few days at the very least.

   The short walk to their accommodations - after getting the details off Jack, and trying once more to see if he could provide any useful information - turned out to be rather interesting. Together with her crew they found it only a short distance from the newly opened library and their route took them through the centre of town. The streets were clean and far from crowded, and the stores they passed all had an up-market feel. She noticed one or two boutiques she would not have expected to find in a place as small as Point Pleasant, but all in all it seemed fairly normal. The air was fresh, and a cool breeze blew off the nearby water however it was the people who drew their attention.

   ‘I’m not complaining,’ one of her crew, James, spoke up as they passed a gaggle of young women, ’but I don’t think I’ve seen a woman who looks over twenty-five yet,’

   ‘Or who wasn’t in a dress,’ his colleague added.

   This wasn’t hyperbole. In fact even as the two spoke they found themselves swerving around a sundress-clad, twenty-something blonde manoeuvring a stroller out of a clothing store. She was followed by an amiable looking fellow who looked to be in his mid thirties carrying her bags who regarded the small group with a polite nod as they passed.

   The street descended along a gentle slope down to the coast where several high-rises - probably the largest buildings they had seen in town so far - redolent of apartments were currently obscuring their view of the water. Two of the largest turned out to be where they were staying.   

   The apartment itself, one of the upper floor penthouses, proved to be very impressive. The almost panoramic view, thirteen floors up, was breathtaking, and from here it was plain to see that the building was sited at the very tip of the narrow peninsula the town occupied, giving it views of the water on three sides thanks to a substantial strip window that encompassed most of the common areas. A large, split-level, four bedroom residence; it must have taken up a substantial amount of the buildings two uppermost floors. The lower floor was largely contiguous and composed of several large, open-plan living spaces that were pleasantly furnished and decorated. There was a card by the telephone with the number for the front desk and the concierge which suggested to her that the apartment had been used by visiting notables in the past. The upper floor was given over to three bedrooms, and a small sitting room or parlour of sorts with a staircase leading up to the roof. The master bedroom was particularly large, and fitted with a walk-in robe and on-suite bathroom, while a sliding glass door led one out onto a substantial, sheltered balcony fitted with a Jacuzzi, and a spiral staircase that led to the roof. The roof itself being given over to a substantial entertainment area partially shaded and partially open that boasted an outdoor dining suite, verdant gardens and several sitting areas in addition to a dazzling pool built into one corner whose dual infinity edges were rather disconcerting. A large, opaque glass fence marked the boundary on the other side. Presumably bisecting the roof between this, and the complexes other penthouse. 
   There was an abundance of good natured joking amongst the crew and herself as they looked around, and examined the amenities. James and Mark were especially keen to point out that they were staying on a much lower floor in the next building over - sure to practically be a dungeon by comparison - but before they left they sat down to make plans for the next day. James volunteered to take Chris and spend the day photographing some of the town’s more notable features and locations. They parted ways for the evening with that. 

   They had hardly left when a package arrived for her. The enclosed note - which included a few generic lines welcoming her to the town - indicating that a number of local businesses and manufacturers had contributed its contents. These were a little peculiar - though of course any local girl wouldn’t have thought it strange - and it all had an almost comically feminine tone. There was a great deal of literature from business cards to pamphlets providing all manner of information about the various contributors, and then the contents themselves. Several outfitters had included items or gift cards along with a number of cosmetics and a substantial selection of fragrance samples from a local boutique, plus a few examples of local produce, all slightly boring save for some hand-made chocolates, along with a ’welcoming,’ gift from the town patrons - an ‘84 vintage bottle of Verve - and if she had even the slightest idea why it had all been given to her she would probably - should, definitely - have incinerated it all. Immediately.

   That was all a part of Point Pleasant’s ‘magic,’ though, the additives found in so many of its consumables, including the drinking water. Some worked slowly, effecting a more permanent change, others more quickly and sensationally. All had different effects, but generally speaking they tended to heighten certain impulses, and dull others. Their designers were incredibly proud of them. Especially the effect they had on women. It was almost a civic service. After all the women in Point Pleasant were some of the happiest in the world. Also the most compliant. The most pliable. The most suggestible. The horniest. The least troubled by such terrible afflictions as critical thinking, personal aspirations, and the ability to grapple with anything more intellectually challenging than buying clothes and giving blowjobs. Still it took time before things got this bad. She still had a chance.

   The focus of this plot is coercion, largely by way of mind-altering substances, and the idea of changing someone - from the way they think and their world-view down to the way they dress - into something radically different. Its about someone capable, independent and used to being in control of their life having all of that taken away. Whether this is a realization of some long-buried impulse or desire, whether the desire is created through the process of change, or whether it is imposed upon her by an external force (the ’magic’ of Point Pleasant) is something you can decide on. The story can encompass many other kinks and fetishes which we can discuss and consider based on our preferences and characters as well, but it is best suited to a slower build-up in order to generate erotic tension. So if you want a game that dives right into the smut this may not be for you. Though this is certainly a game whose central theme is erotic, and one where the male lead at least may not show much depth initially (beyond the depths of his depravity) it does not mean there is no room for character growth and development. The changes wrought on the female lead may be the focus, but there is no reason why her presence cannot also lead to changes for the male lead, although initially at least this game certainly won’t be about romance or sentiment.

First Time Slave, First Time Owner (Taken)

A straightforward plot involving a young woman being introduced to the flesh trade. Of course it was all very unsettling and disturbing being kidnapped without warning or motive and wondering, while helplessly made captive, why her, and what would happen. She wasn’t mistreated directly though and was actually made fairly comfortable. Her anxiety more a product of isolation and uncertainty - the sense of being under the control of another - but that doesn‘t last. Indeed its only a few days before she finds herself being transported to what appears to be a private home with a handful of other captive young women, and they explain - to her indignant outrage - that she is going to be auctioned. Why, or who will be bidding no-one tells her, and while she is able to overhear the bidding itself she still has no idea who has purchased her - though the why is beginning to become a little clearer!


   As the van took a corner at what felt like excessive speed she found it impossible to remain upright. Her seat belt stopped her from simply flopping to one side - her fettered wrists making it impossible to hold on - and she was able to pull herself back upright, and into something resembling a comfortable position, but all the same a scowl showed on the young woman’s attractive features even as she tried to blow an errant lock of hair away from where it had fallen over her face. With only one way to express how pissed off she was the hand-cuffed figure banged the back of her head against the thin panel separating her from the drivers cab.

   ‘Slow down you Idiots.’ she snarled, eyes flashing angrily.

   If there was a single shred of satisfaction to be taken from being sold it was in the fact that she could now express her contempt for the assorted collection of thugs, morons and criminals working for whoever it was that had sold her. She’d come to that conclusion when she realized that of the half-dozen girls she had been brought out with, and whose auctions she’d been able to overhear none of them had sold for over a hundred thousand, while her final bid tallied over half a million. If she was worth that much to someone they would probably take a dim view of any ill-treatment on their part. Of course she could only guess, but so far it had worked out, and though it was difficult to be sure given the windowless rear compartment in which she was seated it did feel as though they slowed down.

   Thinking back to the auction was troubling though. Not merely for what it had been, or for what it had represented. No it left her feeling slightly queasy because it had all been so smoothly handled. Even the location. She’d only gotten a glimpse of it from outside but it had looked like the estate of someone very wealthy. Without wanting to she found herself picturing the dressing room, and the stage where she’d been displayed to the bidders. They had installed a two-way mirror from floor to ceiling between it and wherever it was the buyers had congregated. No there really was nothing about the experience that had suggested common criminality at work. If these people even thought of themselves as criminals they were the kind that had an easy time pretending they weren’t. The kind that never got caught.

   ‘Stop driving so slowly-!’ she banged the thin panel more loudly this time, while shifting uncomfortably, ‘My hands are going numb.’

   It was true. In fact she‘d never before appreciated how nice it was to just be able to move around how and when you wanted to. Then and there she would have paid almost anything for the opportunity to stretch her arms. Since that was impossible though she did her best to adjust the way she was sitting, but with her cuffed hands and the seatbelt making it frustratingly difficult she soon gave up. Once more attempting to blow a wayward few strands of hair aside as they fell over her eye. It didn’t work. She shook her head angrily, but that only made it worse, and no amount of blowing would help. She tried, by way of some very awkward squirming and shifting, to use her shoulder. It actually worked. Sort of. Moreover the attempt occupied her attention so much so that she did not realize the van had come to a halt.

   Wherever they were going. They had arrived.

   A simple game, and a simple set-up but how simply it plays out is in our hands. The focus is the idea of slavery, and in particular the idea of two people new to slavery. Your character because she had just been tossed into that world. Mine because he has recently struck out on his own, and with his families connections to the underground flesh-trade one of the advantages to that is the chance to purchase and keep his own slaves. Though dominant in his desires and attitude he is still new to this and discovering what he likes and dislikes. So he will not see your character as a mere, lowly slave but rather as a fellow human stripped of her rights and freedoms for his benefit. He is open to the idea that this is a good thing, but his conscience may tell him otherwise and how exactly he proceeds is up to us. I’m hoping for ‘substantial personality conflict, at least initially, and regarding kinks I’m open to including objectification, training, punishment - as a product of training, or for its own sake - dominance & submission, coercion, physical struggles, roughness, bondage (hand-cuffs, chains, leashing and collaring) humiliation, name-calling, sexy and slutty clothing & forced clothes-wearing, and more. However as with most of my games it is capable of covering many other kinks and I‘m always open to suggestions and ideas. We might also employ any number of twists or variations on the standard theme. Perhaps they knew one another prior to her enslavement for example? Perhaps she ends up appealing to his conscience and we follow a more adventure-driven path as they attempt to free others, or expose the underground trade. I’m willing to hear any and all suggestions.

A Gilded Cage (Taken)

This plot focuses on the events concluding a long, intermittently bloody war between a human-dominated kingdom and an Elven one. Despite their apparent superiority in many areas the Elves were never many, and were not a warlike people at the outset. Their grasp of logistics and strategy in particular were limited and did not develop quickly, and though they won battle after battle they were losing the war. So rather than risk the conquest and occupation of their lands their king attempted to forge a peace. The price was the hand of his daughter in marriage to a human prince, the annexation of a part of his peoples lands, and his own personal surrender to be tried and hanged for war crimes.

   From where he stood on the broad, high terrace Ajax could see the entire palace complex sprawled out before him. It’s sheer size was something he could not easily come to terms with - the towering outer walls encompassing an area larger than the town where he had been born. However its excesses seemed typically Elven to him, and , at least by human standards, bordered on the insane as a result. In spite of the semi-arid climate there was nowhere in the entire complex where one could not hear running water, supplied in abundance by an immense and brilliantly constructed system of hydraulics to meet the exorbitant needs of the endless, terraced gardens that thronged every structure within the complex. By every measure he understood the place felt wrong. For one thing there were no doors, and Ajax frowned slightly as he glanced back into the huge bed-chamber with its high, domed ceiling open to the night sky through an open portal of bare, dark stone beyond which he could see clearly through the equally over-large doorway of the chamber itself.

   Flimsy silken hangings, partly transparent when not overlapping, replaced doors, and the hallway beyond was angled to allow for privacy in their absence, but as far as Ajax was concerned that simply meant that if someone wanted to wander in and murder him he’d be less likely to see them coming. It explained why he wore a sword-belt, and had one large, calloused hand resting atop the sheathed weapons pommel. For a moment the young prince appeared to be listening intently, his head listing gently to one side even as he brushed back an errant lock of dark hair from his eyes. Nothing. All his life his ears had been accustomed to a low yet constant hum of human activity and speech, but now it was gone. He heard the splash and trickle of running water instead and shook his head.

   The temple had been similar in its essential architecture, but for the endless rows of broad, dark-stone columns stretching to a breathtaking height where they met the ceiling. A truly vast structure. The interior had been dark, and lit only by the flickering, rosier luminance of small bronze braziers whose fragrant effusions filled the air with the a blended mixture of camphorous and balsamic scents. The ceremony itself had been reminiscent of the hand-fastings that Ajax thought of as normal, but not without differences. Then, as was their tradition, his bride had been cloistered with her handmaidens and he had retired to their bed-chamber. There the young prince had been waiting for several hours, and he was growing bored.

    The only thing that had broken his impatient reverie that evening was a visit from his steward. He had told him there was a riot occurring in the low-city, but had also assured the prince that it was a small and isolated incident. Ajax trusted it would be dealt with in his absence, and left strict instructions to be passed on to his sergeant at arms. He did not want it to turn into a massacre. However in spite of this apparent deference - and despite him seldom admitting to it - Ajax disliked Elves. That was perhaps normal for a man in his position. After all many of them, on so many occasions, had tried to kill him, but merely understanding why it was so changed nothing. In the long war Ajax had lost his father before he could even walk, and his two brothers - both of them older - while his uncle had been crippled. Their families lands had always been on the border, and an oft-contested part of it at that.

   Now the war was as good as over. Yet many more people vied for the spoils of their apparent victory than had fought to bring it about, and it made for troubling prospects. After all Ajax had never had a head for politics, and even less so for courtly intrigues and power games. Already his family had been outmanoeuvred and cheated of lands that they had been promised during the negotiations that had brokered the current, tenuous peace. In exchange he now held a dubious lordship over this city, and the hand of the princess. It was a disaster, and worse still now when Ajax most needed his advice and experience his uncle had been forced to travel to the court of the high-king to ensure that they would not lose any other promised concessions.

   The young prince exhaled slowly, and lifted his head to the cool night breeze blowing over the open terrace as he thought about his uncles last letter, and the advice it had contained. He went over it in his mind as he brushed back his dark hair and strode back into the bed-chamber proper, a tall broad-shouldered figure, his posture confident and erect. He moved without trepidation, brushing an errant lock of his long, dark hair from his stoically handsome face even as he drew his sword and swung it in an idle fashion, clearly bored, as he walked across the massive room swinging the long blade idly from side to side. He smiled at a bowl of heaped fruit and used the flat of the blade to toss one of the items into the air before slicing it in two with a swift flick of his wrist. He did it again, and once more although he missed on the third attempt and after using the tip of his blade to pick up the fallen pieces Ajax strode back over to the terrace. Setting the weapon down on its edge he dragged it back to divest it of the skewered edibles, letting them fall, before he paced back inside. His attention shifted to a candelabra and he stepped into a swift cut that unfortunately not only knocked it over but sent one of the three candles flying across the room.

   ‘Why does that never work for me?’ he muttered wryly even as he stood the candelabra back upright before raising his weapon to eye level and frowning at the edge.

   Ajax set the blade down with some of his other personal effects, and picked up a second, sheathed blade of a markedly different design. It was not so long, nor so symmetrical with its curved shape, while the single-sided blade flared noticeably toward the tip.  He drew it part-way from its sheathe as he inspected the highly polished edge, noting that it had no secondary grind before he drew it from its scabbard. As he slowly rotated the weapon with his wrist, his arm outstretched, the young prince frowned at the way it felt. The center of balance was much higher than he was used to and when he took it in both hands to examine its temper by bending it the prince found it had almost no give. However this time when he swung at one of the candles the blade cut clean through the wax, and wick without knocking the base off its stand. Though he seemed almost disappointed in spite of his success as he sheathed the weapon and set it back down.

   Rather than making his way back to the balcony to continue his impatient reverie Ajax sat by the low table, and after wiping its edge he laid his own blade across his knees. There was a dark, smoothly-polished and square cut slab of slate-like stone among his effects and he took it up, dipped it into a jug of water, and began whetting his sword with it. It left his mind free to wander, but even as he contemplated the future the prince’s train of thought was derailed by the rhythmic sound of soft, unhurried footsteps in the hall outside. It suggested that the handmaidens were finished with his bride, and saw him look up with an expression of uncertainty.

   This game requires a fantasy setting and centres around an arranged, inter-species marriage with potential for elements of coercion and preferably involving some strong personality conflict between the two leads. Kinks are all subject to discussion, suggestion and negotiation - assuming we don’t choose a story focus - but for my part I could take an interest in exploring, or including non-consensual scenes, elements of physical struggle and conflict, the use of tight-lacing (perhaps a human custom to which our leading lady can be introduced?) along with other period or fantasy fashions, discipline, punishment and bondage. On the other hand things may also go down a less contentious and more romantic route as well as there is plenty of room for external conflict, character development and general story-telling. This is a game which will probably develop a little more slowly, and which will require some world-building on our part to realize successfully. How extensive this need be however remains up to us.

If its Not in Frame, it Doesn‘t Exist

This plot concerns a fashion model with a solid professional reputation who has always found more mainstream success elusive. She has primarily engaged in editorial and high-fashion work in the past, but her publicist has recently been urging her to try work with more mainstream appeal. Something more risqué although her experience with such work is limited as she has always considered it to be rather low-brow. She eventually relents but only on the condition she work with a photographer of her own choosing. An old friend (or former lover if you prefer) who seldom works in fashion, and seems focused on less commercial compositions, though he agrees to her request readily enough.

   It had been a long, tiring flight and Peirce was glad that the last leg of his journey was drawing to a close. The crowded, noisy airport and the glare of the evening sun did nothing for his headache as he stood by the conveyer waiting for his bags. The photographer’s small entourage, his crew, waited with him, and in a few moments they were carrying their bags and equipment and lining up for the obligatory customs check. Thankfully the security was not so convoluted as in New York and the process was relatively swift. The small, six-person party were at odds with the others in the airport: holidaying families or couples and other pleasure-seekers whose casual dress and relaxed demeanour contrasted sharply with the four men and two women as they hurriedly made their way toward the exit carrying a substantial amount of baggage and equipment.

   ‘This is right isn’t it?’ Peirce said as he glanced between the exit and a pamphlet in his hand on the back of which was printed a map of the terminal.

   A shorter, younger male nodded as he halted beside Peirce. He was carrying a suitcase in one hand, and a bag in the other whose length, over five feet, and narrow width suggested something far-removed from holiday luggage.
   ‘Yeah-’ he took a step forward then turned part-way, ‘Yeah, he’s meeting us here.’

   ‘Good.’ Peirce said before he turned toward the four others standing behind him, ‘Who has the bulbs?’ he asked, his dark-eyed gaze flickering over the bags.

   One of the two men behind him stepped to one side of a large black trunk with steel trim and patted the top of it, signalling to Peirce that it contained them.

   ‘I’ve already checked them,’ he said.

   Nodding at that, feeling reassured that no heavy-handed airline staff had damaged the most fragile element of their equipment, Peirce waved his crew after him, and they strode through the automatic doors, and into the tropical heat outside.

   A half an hour later and Peirce was seated in the front seat of a taxi, a large hand angling the vent of the air-conditioner on his side even as he fanned himself with the pamphlet he had been carrying since the airport. The young man and woman in the back seat, members of his crew, were muttering about the intense humidity, while he glanced at himself in the rear-view mirror and shook his head. His crisp button-down shirt was in no way suited to the weather even with the cuffs turned back and the top two buttons taken down. He hadn't been given time to change though. Their flight had been delayed on a stop-over and they were late, and tired. It had been a long trip all the way from New York to the Canary Islands off the West African coast, but it was almost over.

   ‘Almost there?’ Peirce asked of the Taxi driver, while glancing at the meter and trying to remember what a Euro was worth in US dollars.

   ‘Yeah, almost.’ the dark-skinned taxi driver said, his bright teeth flashing into view as he smiled cheerfully. ‘We’re skippin’ the traffic this way.’

   The driver’s laconic French accent reminded Peirce of being in Paris. About a year ago. The last time he had worked on a fashion shoot, and caused him to wonder, with a touch of self doubt, whether he was up to the job now slated for him. The young woman he was shooting was a personal friend, though he had not seen her in some time, and he couldn’t refuse her request. A part of him wondered though whether it might have been better to recommend someone else, but Peirce shook his head at this. He was looking forward to seeing her once more, and he knew the shoot was not going to be a challenging one. Not for him at least, though it was somewhat out of character for her.

   Amid his introspection though Peirce was shaken back to reality when the vehicle lurched on its suspension as the driver came to a sharp halt. In front of them was a large marina whose pontoons stretched out into the deep-water bay and criss-crossed between numerous moored yachts and cruisers. Further out, moored on its own, was a sizable vessel - perhaps seventy feet from stern to bow - with the name ‘Saltshaker,’ emblazoned across the stern. It was going to serve as one of their sets, and as transport to the resort which would serve as both set, and home for the duration. Having seen it Peirce’s crew disembarked from the taxi to retrieve their bags and equipment even as another cab pulled up beside them with their colleagues on board. The photographer meanwhile dug out his wallet and paid the driver, and after stepping out of the Taxi himself he shaded his eyes and peered at the large vessel.

   There was little talk among the small party as they made their way onto the marina. Six of them in all, each carrying a portion of their equipment and laden down with luggage and gear as a result. There were three men aside from Peirce, and two women. They were all younger than him although the entire group were attired in much the same way wearing fashionable, yet professional clothes as though en route to an office somewhere. Walking in front Peirce frowned slightly at his leather shoes, shifting his toes and thinking how hot his feet were, while looking forward to a shower. A cool breeze blew off the nearby ocean at least and he savoured it as the air breezed over his thin cotton shirt and dark trousers. He looked to be in his thirties, but the tall photographer was invested with a certain vitality, and the stoic nature of his symmetric features showed few signs of age beyond a sense of maturity and character. His large, expressive dark eyes were fixed ahead as he approached a tender whose driver appeared to be waiting for them. The driver smiled as they approached and gestured for them to bring their gear on board.
   Once they had finished packing their luggage and equipment into the small vessel, and had boarded themselves it took off, gliding smoothly over the glassy water of the still bay and cutting a v-shape into its surface as its small outboard hummed. The larger vessel was not far, and the tender traversed the distance in good time before the pilot turned as they approached the stern. One of the larger vessel's crew had watched them approaching, and caught a line tossed by the pilot, while Peirce and his crew remained seated.
   ‘We’ll take care of your equipment.’ the crewman stated from on board as he fixed the line to a cleat.

   Peirce stood up slowly on the unsteady platform, and it took him a moment to find his balance before he moved, heading toward the ladder-like steps on the vessel's stern. Frowning slightly after ascending them he gestured back towards their equipment while looking at the crewman.

   ‘Do be careful,’ he implored, ‘Some of our gear is fairly fragile,’

   ‘Of course.’ the crewman replied before he gestured the photographer toward the door which led into the vessels interior.

   The voices of his crew could be overheard behind him as Peirce strode across the vessel’s open deck. They were speaking with the pilot, and he caught him remarking that they would be departing soon, and that it was only an hour or so on to the resort itself. Their voices faded though the further he went as Peirce made his way down the port side of the large cruiser and found a door. Pushing it open and stepping through he raised an eyebrow at the size of its interior. There was a leather corner-couch against one wall which curved around a low, broad coffee table set opposite another, three-seat couch, and a further along a sizable dining table. Beyond this he could see through an open door into the galley, and in the other direction he espied a staircase which led down to the cabins and stateroom, while another led up onto the covered fly-bridge. Best of all though the interior was air-conditioned, and Peirce closed his eyes with a sigh as he strode into the cool surroundings, making for the smaller of the two couches where he flopped down, his head slumped back tiredly.

   'Finally.' he muttered, 'Now-' sitting up, opening his eyes, he glanced left and right. 'I wonder if she's here already,' it struck him then he might have asked someone, but it was too late to do so now.

   This game is more character than story-driven and the focus is both romantic and sexual. There may be less build-up than in some of my other games but I’d rather not rush into the erotic stuff all the same, and though there isn‘t a great deal of external conflict I‘d still like to see some character development and storytelling. Kinks are likely to be character-driven, or leaning more to the tamer side of my O/Os. Their exact history, and the details of the shoot itself are something of a blank slate and we can work out the details between us, but it will be an important feature of the game. So you might even say one of the primary kinks is voyeurism and exhibitionism although that’s not to say it’s something the lead characters are motivated by, or even aware of.

On Troubled Waters

Ever since they crewed together on a small-stakes oceanic race Damien and Alex disliked one another. To others it almost seemed they so enjoyed disliking each other that they took every opportunity to do it up close, but the truth was simply that with many friends in common neither was truly at liberty to avoid the other entirely. It became even more difficult after Alex found, and fell in love with an old, rather beaten up wooden sloop up for sale. She meant to have it restored but not long after the purchase found herself in a less positive financial position than she had hoped. Not wanting to simply sell it again at a potential loss, and knowing Damien had the skills to attend to the restoration himself Alex eventually struck a deal with him. In exchange for becoming a part-owner he agreed to handle all the work personally, and to cover any relevant costs. Much arguing followed. From the cosmetic details of the interior fittings and décor to whether or not they should install any modern instruments or aids. Damien generally asserted that the presence of anything modern would be a foul blight, while Alex would point out that though he would be free not to use them if he so chose having them just made sense. He tried many times to explain that it wasn’t a question of utility, but of ambiance, and she tried many times to explain that he was an idiot, but neither seemed to be able to see things from the others perspective. Unfortunately neither took much time to consider their mooring fees either as they had been pre-paid for a period as part of the sale contract, and by the time they did this period was almost at an end. Alex, and Damien found the cost untenable, they simply could not afford to more it locally, and the only viable option was a substantial voyage to the nearest affordable anchorage. By sail because Damien had to that point refused to install an engine - much to Alex’ annoyance - claiming it would ruin the ambiance. It was a trip neither was prepared to let the other make solo in what had become a rather expensive investment, and one they both believed was, on some level, entirely their own.


   Sixty miles from the nearest coast, and heading further out to sea a small vessel pitched and rolled through wild ocean swell. Above a dense, dark canopy of boiling, lightning-streaked cloud brooded low in the sky, making the hour impossible to guess. It was almost wholly dark but for the odd incandescent flash of lightning and would have been so whether night or day. Two lights, one blinking, glowed in the oppressive rain streaked gloom atop the pitching vessel’s mast, high enough to be seen above the massive swell even when they rolled into a trough between the waves, but nowhere about them did any other lights blink back. Its crew were alone, and the state of their vessel - it’s canvas in particular - suggested that the storm had come upon them swiftly. On the wind swept deck of the boat itself, amid the driving rain and pounding spray, two oilskin clad figures stood, one at each end.

   Astern the smaller, sleeker shape was at the wheel. A female figure, she looked foreword with something quite like disapproval on her face, or at whiles would glance astern as though something unpleasant loomed behind her. She was worried about her boat; thinking of it as the Unsounded, though the name painted on its side was Thunder Child. Her own name was Alex, although her crewmate had a longish list of other, more pejorative, monikers which were perhaps best left unmentioned.

              ‘Seven-and-a-half!’ she called forewords though her voice barely carried the mere eight or so meters abow of the tiny vessel to where a larger male figure was trying to haul in the headsail. The wind took it elsewhere.

   She was calling out the height of the swell for her crewmate - though she might have objected to the term crewmate as opposed to crew - who wanted to know when it reached eight. Eight happened to be his record, and he was looking foreword to surpassing it. Despite that private ambition, and the rigging in front of him on which he worked steadily with gloved fingers he seemed largely unconcerned about the weather, or his own safety, though he was securely life-lined to their forestay. He was not especially worried about the boat itself - having made it seaworthy in the first place he was confident she could take the pounding - which despite his crewmates silly ideas, and the name under which it was moored, he was determined to think of as the Thunder Child. It was after all the name he had painted on the side. His own name was Damien, and that was generally what people called him, but for Alex who often considered things like idiot and moron a great deal more suitable and accurate.

   If in any storm he would break his record it would have been the one the two were in the midst of. Had the young woman at the wheel, and the older man at the bow working the sheets not both been experienced ocean yachtsmen, or yacht-persons as Alex might have had it, such weather would have been cause for fear, even panic. As it stood though each held private concerns although neither would have admitted it - especially not to the other - and they both seemed outwardly calm despite that moments ago they had been asleep, or pretending to sleep at least. There had been arguments about navigation the day before, unresolved arguments, about their system of taking turns to fix their heading which had seen Alex sneak up on deck during the night to fix what she had deemed a faulty course. Damien had guessed she would do so and followed suit, but it was impossible for either to head up in such cramped quarters without the other knowing and so the back-and-forth had continued for several hours until neither was able to keep track of the many alterations, improvements and adjustments. They were pathetically off-course in other words, and only dimly aware of how badly. Neither could spare the time to think much on it though; the storm had their full attention.

   Even over the booming and crashing of the shuddering deck timbers that sounded their progression as they smashed through the lip of each narrow wave crest the unerring sound of the torrential rain, a downpour so vicious it stung where it pelted exposed skin, could be heard as it thrashed the deck and all their raised canvas. The shrieking gale - easily over forty knots - caused it to gutter and swirl with each gust, and nowhere but below deck was there a way to escape it. Even if it had not been raining though nothing could have remained dry in such a storm. Each time they slid down into the trough of the steep, and rising swell their nose was buried by eleven tons of ballasted hardwood and rigging bearing down atop it at an angle of almost sixty degrees to split the surface of the uncharacteristically angry Pacific with a sickening crash. Under such impacts the deck shuddered disturbingly beneath their feet while their vessels sleekly cut prow and nose gouged beneath the ocean surface, and sent up sheets of spray so thick it almost seemed that Damien was plunged underwater with each lurch where he stood life-lined to the forestay. This spray was hurled up with such force that thick drops of white-water even rained down on atop Alex where she stood astern, almost eight meters away, manning - though she might have objected to this term - the wheel.

   Glancing to their rear to see their wake their skipper stared for some time. Despite the swell, and the furling headsail their speed was impressive, but the young woman pulled her gaze away, and looked up at the low, brooding clouds that made up the boiling storm-sheeted sky. Neither moon nor star shone through them, but at whiles all was bathed in evanescence as lightning forked between the towering banks of cloud. Such storms did not occur over land, and they made for an absorbing sight so that she appeared unwilling to look away until a particularly excessive shower of spray returned her attention to the moment. Shifting awkwardly as it pelted her slender, oilskin clad figure, she turned, while scraping a saturated fringe of darkened, dripping hair from her eyes to start briefly. For a moment Damien had been entirely shrouded by white-water, disappearing from sight as if the rushing water had ripped him clear of the prow. Yet as their bow-sprit arose he became visible once more, completely drenched from head-to-toe, and Alex felt certain - though she could not see him - that he was grinning like an idiot. Somehow, she could feel it, and it was obnoxious.

   ‘My socks are wet,’ he yelled back as though it were somehow interesting, important, relevant, or perhaps even revelatory.

   The sound of his deep-voiced laughter drifted astern, and in no way did it seem contrived or forced. In fact he sounded thrilled.

   ‘Idiot,’ Alex muttered darkly as she hauled on the slick metal spokes of the wheel, and bore them about to come head-on at the next rising wave.

   It annoyed her that Damien pretended to not know why she hated him. As if it were all a mystery - as if he were shocked that anyone could - when he refused to take even something like this seriously. Alex had actually been worried. Not because she was fond of him in any way, but because she was not a sociopath, but instead of having the common sense to be shaken or concerned like a normal person he treated it like an amusing game.. The canvas was down a moment later though, despite his amusement, and he managed awkwardly to traverse the wild rearing, lurching deck to where he furled it somewhat, and with that it was tied to the mast. Alex meanwhile guessed again at the height of the swell by gazing from mast-tip - she knew its height to the nearest centimetre - to wave-tip.

   ‘Eight,’ she called out, not needing to raise her voice as much, even as Damien traipsed nimbly toward her across the heaving deck.

   That was something else which annoyed her. He was big - athletic, tall and broad shouldered - probably close to two hundred pounds, and looked like he should have been a clumsy, ham-handed idiot. Yet he was no less sure-footed when it came to traversing the pitching deck than she was. Though he was an idiot, or she was convinced of it at the very least. Spinning on a heel at the crashing sound of their nose smashing through the surface even as she considered him her crewmate threw out his arms as if glad of the sheet of white-water which splashed over him heavily along with the deck, and lastly Alex herself. She shook her head, but said nothing, and in a moment Damien had life-lined himself to the wheel mount beside her.

   ‘Look,’ he held up a bent shackle.

   Alex raised an eyebrow at the twisted steel. Damien nodded. They both knew what it meant, namely that certain tolerances were being reached, and gear was going to start failing.

   ‘We’ll need a sea-anchor,’ she stated, while her crewmate nodded his agreement.

   Even standing less than four-feet from one other they had to raise their voices to be heard over the wild weather.

   Damien reached for his life-line, but moving more swiftly Alex had hers detached first.

   ‘No, I’ve got it,’ she spoke quickly, ‘You take this,’ she nodded at the wheel.

   He might have had more raw ocean going experience than she did, but Alex did not trust him to set something so important; her thought being that he never took things seriously enough to be wholly trustworthy. In addition to being an idiot with wet socks.

   ‘Ah,’ his trademark vacant grin was replaced by a contrived expression of weariness, ‘Such is the prestige, the privilege, and the burden-’ he stopped with this when Alex raised a finger in a warning gesture.

   ‘This isn’t a steamer out of Shanghai, and you‘re not in command.’ she cut him off, ‘So stop quoting that stupid book, and turn us into the weather.‘ and turned away, heading astern.

   ‘-Such is the loneliness of command,’ Damien went on facetiously as though there had been no interruption, even as he sidled around to take the wheel.

   Alex halted briefly to glower at his back.

   ‘Moron,’ she remarked though it was clear he either could not hear or was ignoring her.

   As Alex headed astern to fix the sea-anchor, nimbly traversing the heaving timbers of the deck with practised ease, she thought ruefully on what strange compulsion it was which had possessed her to buy this vessel. Of course she had desperately wanted to own it, but being forced to share it with someone as vacant and bewilderingly irritating as Damien almost made her wish she didn‘t.

   Ten minutes later and the two were ensconced within the dry, relative warmth of the cramped, lurching, dimly lit space that was their vessel’s cabin. Alex’ drenched oilskin was across her knees, and her outer, long-sleeved shirt had been tugged off so that she wore only a drying black tank top. She looked under the weather, and though her face was not visible there seemed a pallor to the otherwise healthily tanned colour of her smooth limbs as she sat with her athletic shoulders hunched over, while one hand gripped the back of her neck. Damien sat opposite atop a table trying to avoid looking at the bucket on the floor held between her boots.

   ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of, happens to the best of us. Except me,’ he spoke in level tones - being offensively reasonable - regarding the bout of sea-sickness. Even so he appeared to be suppressing a grin as he slipped down from the table and held a green apple towards his crewmate, ‘they do work y’know,’ Alex looked up slowly, and narrowed her eyes as he took a swig from the bottle of gin he held in his other hand.

   ‘Fuck off.’ she spoke icily.

   ‘Oh, OK. Where should I go?’ he asked before taking a noisy bite out of the latterly proffered apple, ‘the conservatory-?’ his eyes widened as he swallowed the over-large mouthful too soon in order to go on, ‘Or perhaps I’ll take a stroll out through the gardens to the atrium, and watch the peacocks on the lawn, or the hedge-maze, oh yes, I’ve heard its simply enchanting this time of year, but on the other hand there‘s always-’

   ‘Shut up!’ Alex looked up again, ‘this bucket going on your head if you keep talking,’ there was a moments silence as her head lowered again. ’What the fuck are we doing down here anyway?’ she had never been sea-sick before in her life precisely because she knew the worst place to be while pitching was below deck and she disliked being stuck there.

   ‘You know why we're down here. Its safer if we roll-’ her crewmate shrugged, ‘and if you don't like it remember, if you’d set the sea-anchor right it wouldn‘t be a problem,’ he shifted with that as though trying to get a look at her face.
   ‘I did set it right,’ she ground out as though this were a sore point. ‘Your cheap line just snapped,’ Alex looked up as though expecting him to argue.

   ‘Its not cheap, its authentic, and actually more expensive than nylon, besides-’

   ‘-It snapped,’ she cut him off. ‘because it’s cheap. You and your stupid love of old shit, we don’t even have an engine! I mean what the hell, why are you such a retrograde simpleton? Afraid of anything more sophisticated than a wrist-watch,’

   ‘I hate wrist watches,’ his tone was pointed, offended even. ‘Especially digital ones, they’re almost as bad as mobile phones,’

   ‘Oh that’s right, I forgot about your stupid watch-aversion.’

   Damien sighed at this. Apparently his preference for the old fashion was a sore point between them.

   ‘Well I kinda wish we did have an engine now,’ he responded, much to her surprise, ‘I mean we can’t drop canvas without a sea anchor, and we’re carrying too much, but its the only way to head in without an engine-’ he scratched his head through a longish, untidy mass of drying brown hair. ‘if it gets worse we might have to call it quits,’ as he spoke Damien pulled a thick, long-sleeved shirt over his broad shoulders.

   A moment of silence passed with that as Alex wondered at his voice. He hardly seemed disappointed though he was talking about abandoning a boat he seemed to love, and had thrown six months of his life into making sea-worthy. It certainly wasn’t an event she looked forward to herself, although she perhaps gave it less credence than she should have. Alex was simply not accustomed to failure though, and had always disliked admitting to being powerless even in the face of forces she had no control over.

   ‘Alright, fine. Give me that,’ she spoke up suddenly, snatching the bottle of gin from his unresisting hand before she took a swig, and grimaced over the unpleasant taste.
   ‘All good medicine tastes awful,’ he remarked.

   I‘ve tried something like this game in the past as I think it has potential especially given my interest in personality conflict. Taking two people who dislike one another, and obliging them to remain at close-quarters, each with no way to get away from the other, where they will be forced to work together, rely upon one another, even trust each other. The focus isn’t erotic, and may even be better described as romantic but there is certainly room for erotica. This plot can easily go in two directions as well with one being more story and character driven, possessing greater scope for drama and external conflict, and the other retaining the core character conflict and having more room for erotica. The first option would involve disaster. Perhaps they strike a shipping container and go down mid-ocean, off-course, and we detail their attempts to survive in a life raft. Alternatively the trip continues (albe
« Last Edit: October 22, 2016, 10:28:08 AM by Egoiste! »

Offline Egoiste!Topic starter

Sibling Revelry (Taken)

Another fairly straightforward idea surrounding blackmail. Our lead characters are step-siblings whose parents married fairly recently (no more than two years ago, no less than one) so that there is no real familial sentiment. They did not get along particularly well either, but that wasn‘t to last. Several months ago she lost her job and found it impossible to get another given her college schedule, but their parents did not accept this as an excuse and after a number of fights she was kicked out. After six months crashing on couches and with friends she found herself with nowhere else to go. Times were lean and everyone who had room needed paying tenants. Though one possibility still existed: her step-father owned a little beach-side place not far from her campus where the family would spend the occasional holiday, but the only person who could snag her a key was her jerk of a step-brother. When she finally asked he seemed all too accommodating, almost as if he had something in mind.

   Mark strode purposefully towards the pleasant, but rather small town-house with a lazily confident smile on his arrogantly handsome face. It wasn't too far from where he lived - he hadn't been travelling for more than an hour or two - yet there was a sense of isolation there. As he strode down the path which bisected the simple lawn leading toward the front door he found himself savouring - as much as the sound of the nearby surf, and the pleasant salty tang in the crisp air - the feeling that he could do almost anything here. That it was a place outside the realm of his normal life, with different rules. It caused him to smile in a less than wholesome manner while approaching the door as he dug in his pocket for the key, halting just outside it, and slipping it into the lock. As the door swung open he pulled down the hem of his button-down shirt, drawing the thin cotton taut across his athletic torso briefly in an attempt to smooth the creases from its surface. He stretched his arms back, and rolled his well-built shoulders, muscles shivering with pent up energy, before reaching for the bag he had left on the doorstep.

   'Hey...' Mark called out as he strode boldly down the hallway, glancing into the first bedroom to find it was empty, though he knew she was there somewhere.

   The interior of the small house was as modest as the outside, but pleasant and comfortable nevertheless, if a little under-furnished. Only two doors, one of which he had just passed, opened off the tiled hall before it lead into the main open-plan living space - a living and dining area that the kitchen opened off - and from where he stood in the hall Mark could see through to the glass rear door beyond. It led out onto the small yard, and beyond that to a band of golden sand stretching down to the water, broken by the white lines of rolling waves, and the dazzling reflection of a sunset against the smooth water beyond.

   He found his step-sister in the rear room, rising up off the small couch where she had been sitting, and glanced at the mess of books scattered around her laptop on the coffee table. Stepping into the room as if he owned it while she regarded him with a quizzical expression Mark looked her up and down shamelessly, smirking. She was exactly as hot as she had been on the day he had last seen her.

   'Hey,' he intoned, but even as he spoke the young man's dark eyes roamed boldly over the young woman‘s figure. 'How's it going?' he asked, 'Looks like you've settled in-' he smiled in a fashion that worried her, while glancing around the room, 'That’s cool. I'm going to be spending my break here,' his arrogance and the blunt declaration made the young woman’s eyes narrow slightly as she looked at him.

   ‘Fine, I hope I won't be in your way.’ her last words were laced with sarcasm as she followed his gaze, her own eyes flashing with irritation. ‘I think I’ve made it more comfortable-’ the girl’s shapely eyes flicked downward as she closed her laptop and lifted it up off the table, ‘So what are you going to be doing this week?’

   ‘I'm glad you like it,' Mark cut back after a pause, ignoring her question. 'There's nowhere else you can go, after all, is there? Still I thought that was pretty rough, you getting kicked out for losing that job, good thing no one knows you're staying here though,' his face was less than reassuring, and the words saw a lump appear in the young woman's slender throat as she swallowed nervously. He went on, 'I mean, you'd be sort of screwed if they did...'

   This game is all about personality conflict, coercion and blackmail. Other things I’d also like to try include dominance and submission, physical struggles and conflict, teasing, roughness, spanking, bondage, humiliation, non-con, name-calling, and so on but these are not necessary to play the game out. I’d love to hear your suggestions too. The story is character driven, pacing is flexible, and I think playing with some tension and a little build-up could also make this game more fun. Though the option is there to dive right in. The blackmail side of the game is less about giving the male lead a means of controlling the female lead, and more about giving him a sense that he can act without consequence. As, with his new-found leverage, he begins finds certain inhibitions melting away; giving him what he feels is the opportunity to express some of his darkest impulses without fear of consequence. In addition the blackmail angle can be reduced or minimised to make it a more straight non-consensual plot if you prefer. As things move forward to hopefully we’ll get to see a little more character and story. It will be interesting to see how these two adjust to living together given their altered dynamic.

A Little Blackmail

This plot is fairly standard stuff, following a pretty young teacher who has recently begun working in a new town. She has family who live there including a niece with whom she’s rather close, and much to her irritation she finds out that the girl is going out with her most troublesome student. Then after less than a month the girl comes to her in tears. The two have broken up, but that alone would be a relief. The real bad news is he has a number of compromising images, and even a recording that he took without her knowledge when they were together, and she knows he has spread around such images of former girlfriends in the past. Having discovered this his teacher decides to take matters into her own hands.


   She had always made it a rule to reach out to problem students, to resist the urge to dislike even the very worst, and was very proud of her ability to turn such students around. In fact and largely as a result of this she was acknowledged as capable of working wonders with even the most troublesome classes. However teaching here was different and from almost the first day she had felt like she was at war with Greg - one of her students - for the loyalty and respect of the male half of her class. Though it was a war she knew she was winning, and one she was determined to win despite the shocking indifference of the over-privileged young man’s rich, influential parents. When she had spoken to them about his behaviour they had simply refused to believe that their child was capable of doing anything bad.

   Even more frustrating the brat was on a sports-scholarship and was often excused work as a result of his extra-curricular commitments. As for his behaviour well she had only been teaching here for six months and did not even feel guilty for hating him anymore. Though it was true that some of his closer friends were little better she was certain that if he were out of the picture then she’d be able to work with them and get them back on the right track.

   Glancing up from where she sat behind her desk, her shapely eyes glancing toward the clock - seeing class was almost over - the attractive young teacher briefly turned her attention toward Greg. Her students were all making notes about their homework; and a few had finished. Greg meanwhile had stopped to run a hand through his thick black hair. Their eyes met for a brief moment when he looked up and the his teacher wondered if he knew what was about to happen. If he didn’t he would soon find out, and that thought gave her a certain satisfaction as she stood and headed down the aisle between two rows of desks, walking towards him.

   ‘Don’t forget everyone your term projects are due tomorrow,’ she spoke up even as the bell rang.

   Her students had begun to pack away their books as she halted by Greg’s desk. He slid his books off its edge and let them fall haphazardly into his open bag, and appearing to ignore the fact that his teacher was standing beside him.

   ‘Not you,’ she stated simply as Greg started to stand, ‘There’s something I would like to speak with you about.’

   ‘oh man, you're in trouble bro,’ one of Greg’s friends drawled idiotically.

   ‘Did I ask for your opinion?’ she stated icily.

   ‘Naw,’ the young man answered, eyes down, even as he slung his bag over his shoulder. ‘Sorry,’

   Greg sat back idly as though bored and let his chair rock back onto two legs as the other students filed out, and his teacher returned to the front of the class. The room was soon emptied but for the two of them, although the sound of people chattering and the bang of locker doors drifted back in from the corridors outside.

   ‘Do you know what this is about?’ she asked after a moments pause, waiting for the hallway outside to quieten down a little.

   Leaning back further in his chair Greg shrugged and rolled his athletic shoulders, his challenging expression difficult to read, but otherwise clearly bereft of any fear or concern.

   ‘I might,’ he ventured noncommittally, a crooked half-smile forming on his face.

   ‘Then you shouldn’t be surprise that I’m confiscating your phone,’ she cut back.

   He shrugged at this, and she could not help reacting worriedly to his apparent indifference.

   ‘Sure-’ Greg withdrew his smart-phone from a pocket and held it out, ‘but you won’t find what you’re looking for on this, it’s all been uploaded.’

   Opening her mouth to reply his teacher found herself suddenly bereft of comment. In fact she seemed little shaken by the news.

   ‘Where?’ she demanded.

   ‘Nowhere public,’ he responded evasively, ‘Not yet at least, but even if I told you I doubt you could do anything about it,’

   This game focuses on blackmail, personality conflict and power-exchange. However it could also feature things like dominance & submission, roughness, bondage, humiliation and non-consensual scenes. Though of course these are not necessary features of the story, and I’d love to hear any suggestions you have. The option exists to move things along more slowly and focus on character development and motivation, but in fairness this is never going to work as a deeper, story-driven game. That said although I’d like my character to start off as a real scumbag and initially have our two leads strongly opposed with the potential for much conflict and even outright antagonism. There is no reason that things must continue in that vein forever though in fact it would be interesting to explore how the characters come to live with this situation in a more realistic manner, and to see what effect it has on them, and whether their twisted relationship - founded on abuse and coercion - can ever develop into anything more.

Contact me if you‘re interested in trying any of these plots, or if you have any questions or comments. I try to respond to private messages on the same day I get them, or you can add me on AIM or Yahoo.

Plot Hooks & Ideas

These are game ideas or plots that have yet to be fully fleshed out. Usually because I have an idea I’d enjoy playing out in a game but am uncertain about the details. The aim is to use these basic ideas as a spring-board for collaborative plotting or world-building

Non-Linear Storytelling: this is not a game idea so much as a way of playing out a given game idea. The idea is to play out the introduction to a game and jump right into the action all at the same time. In other words we split our posts between two different time-frames. For example I might begin by writing a post, the events occurring in the past, where my character is approaching a rendezvous with yours. Then the second half of my post, the events occurring in the present, could be set hours, days, or even weeks later. You would respond to each part in context. It is a great way to begin the role-play with more exciting events which might otherwise take us months to get to. We can dive straight into the action but still get to enjoy writing out everything which leads up to it, losing none of the build-up that provides later events with context and meaning.

Pygmalion: as a big fan of the play Pygmalion and to a lesser degree the film My Fair Lady (a story involving a wager made between two gentleman that one of them, a professor of phonetics, can pass a flower girl off as a duchess) I‘ve decided to try a request based on these themes. I‘d like this to make use of a contemporary setting, but I won't write an intro as there are so many ways this could go. Some ideas might include a well-known fashion photographer taking part in a wager that centres around whether or not he can turn the female lead into a successful model, or we could retain the phonetics angle: perhaps a young woman wishes to make it big as an actress but her strong accent makes it difficult to land non-typecast roles? There are a few different possibilities. As far as pacing and erotic content goes I’d like to keep things fairly relaxed and I’d prefer not to get involved in listing kinks and the like because any erotic scenes that occur are going to be very much character-driven and it will take time for the story to get to that point.

Shadow of the Vampire: I love the idea behind this film. A crazed director has somehow managed to find a real vampire to cast in his vampire movie; having discovered them while scouting locations. In the film the monster’s price for starring in his production is the female lead, but we need not go down that road exactly. For example the vampire character could either be the male or the female lead while their opposite number could be an actor, or even the director. Then of course we’d need to decide what the movie is they’re making. We could go with something original although I think it might be easier to pick a classic like Dracula or Carmilla, something like that, depending on the gender of the vampire. Naturally the cast and crew will be in the dark as to his or her true nature. The director will attempt to explain away any peculiar behaviour by asserting that he or she is a dedicated method actor who will not break character during the production.
« Last Edit: October 22, 2016, 10:28:22 AM by Egoiste! »

Offline Egoiste!Topic starter

Re: Detailed Plots, story or smut-driven, from non-con to vanilla romance
« Reply #2 on: October 20, 2016, 03:32:10 PM »
Update: added another plot-hooks (something that could serve as a jumping off point for collaborations) based on the film Shadow of the Vampire, planning additional and more extensive updates soon.