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Author Topic: Gnothi's Stories Without Homes - Seeking Male, Female, and Trans Characters  (Read 1333 times)

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Offline GnothiSeautonTopic starter

  • The Baddest Bitch in All the Realm. Mother of The Bieber. Defender of the Brotherfucking Faith. Captain of the Raven. Queen of Gilea. Lover of all things Kenneth Parcell and Lucielle Bluth.
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Gnothi's Stories Without Homes




*queues up Sarah McLachlan songs*

For the price of one PM, you can give these poor, neglected stories a home...


Welcome to Gnothi's Stories Without Homes thread.

Every once in a while, my muse tends to have a mind of it's own.  It likes to get away from me and focus on one of my ideas much, to the point where I just *need* to write something for it in order to get the scene or story out of my head and put my attention to other things.  My muse is a pain, but it wants what it wants.

This thread is intended to be a sort of wanted thread/display thread for stories and ideas that I've already begun in terms of a starting post.  Either partners abandoned before it could start, or my muse just couldn't stop thinking about it. 

The stories here range from light and casual, to extreme and disturbing.  Each one will be accompanied by a short blurb spoilered, wherein I'll give light on the idea, the sort of character I'm looking to play beyond my introduction post, as well as what sort of character and direction I am hoping for with the story.  Nothing is set in stone, but it should be noted I strongly favor plot and story over smut.

If a story interests you, please PM me.  I might not be the quickest with PMs, with my schedule offline as well as my workload on here with my group games and attentions, but I try to get back to people.

One big thing to keep in mind:  Don't let the size of some of these pieces intimidate you.  In most cases, they're the product of an over-active muse, in addition to just setting the scene and stage for the story.  Most of my posts are a few paragraphs at most, and not novel-sized posts like some of these.

Also, please refrain from posting here in the thread.
« Last Edit: December 06, 2016, 11:13:27 PM by GnothiSeauton »

Offline GnothiSeautonTopic starter

  • The Baddest Bitch in All the Realm. Mother of The Bieber. Defender of the Brotherfucking Faith. Captain of the Raven. Queen of Gilea. Lover of all things Kenneth Parcell and Lucielle Bluth.
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Re: Gnothi's Stories Without Homes
« Reply #1 on: August 30, 2016, 09:17:14 PM »
Listings and Updates




Master List
  • Magnum Opus - Posted August 30th, 2016 - Seeking Male Characters - Taken
    A modern romance story following a terminally ill painter and her newfound muse in the form of a vagrant young man.
  • Contested - Posted August 30th, 2016 - Seeking Male, Female, or Trans Characters
    Set against the backdrop of an intense presidential election, this story follows the relationship between a popular Senator and a younger sex worker.
  • Owned - Posted August 30th, 2016 - Seeking Male Characters
    A look at a troubled and complicated relationship between a sex worker and a powerful and influential client.
  • Life Lessons - Posted August 30th, 2016 - Seeking Female Characters
    A modern romance featuring themes of adultery and taboo relationships between a teacher and a former student.
  • Playing with Fire - Posted August 31st, 2016 - Seeking Male, Female, or Trans Characters
    A story following a woman with unique abilities and the difficult relationships that follow.
  • Family Bonds - Posted September 1st, 2016 - Seeking Female Characters - Taken
    The tale of a man who, having escaped an incest cult at a young age, is reunited unexpectedly with his betrothed:  his devout sister.
  • Decay - Posted September 6th, 2016 - Seeking Female or Trans Characters - Taken
    A romance story about culture clashes with a 1% Biker recently released from ten years behind bars.
  • Claiming; or A House of Swords - Posted September 7th, 2016 - Seeking Female Characters
    The story of a twisted romance between two unlikely individuals as they seek to claim power in George R. R. Martin's Westeros.
  • Don't Let Me Down - Posted September 20th, 2016 - Seeking Female Characters
    A reunion of two lovers following difficult circumstances after thirteen years apart.
  • Family Reunion - Posted September 20th, 2016 - Seeking Male Characters - Taken
    This is essentially the story listed previously entitled Family Bonds.  This version, however, is with myself seeking a male character to write against while I write the younger sister.
  • Domestic Servitude - Posted September 21th, 2016 - Seeking Female Characters
    A story of intrigue, drama, and betrayal between a couple and their live-in submissive.
  • Lessons to Live By - Posted October 4th, 2016 - Seeking Male Characters
    A modern romance featuring themes of adultery and taboo relationships between a teacher and a former student.
  • Don't Let Me Down* - Posted October 4th, 2016 - Seeking Female Characters
    A reunion of two lovers following difficult circumstances after thirteen years apart.  Seeking someone to portray the abused character.
  • Owed - Posted October 5th, 2016 - Seeking Female Characters
    A look at a troubled and complicated relationship and it's evolution between a young sex worker and an older, powerful and influential client.

Updates
  • August 30th, 2016 - Creation of Thread, Magnum Opus, Contested, Owed, and Life Lessons
  • August 31st, 2016 - Addition of Playing with Fire
  • September 1st, 2016 - Addition of Family Bonds.  Removal of Family Bonds.
  • September 6th, 2016 - Addition of Decay
  • September 7th, 2016 - Addition of Claimed
  • September 8th, 2016 - Addition of Don't Let Me Down (1).  Removal of Decay.
  • September 20th, 2016 - Addition of Family Reunion
  • September 21st, 2016 - Addition of Domestic Servitude.  Removal of Family Reunion.
  • October 4th, 2016 - Addition of Lessons to Live By, and Don't Let Me Down (2)
  • October 5th, 2016 - Addition of Owed
  • October 11th, 2016 - Addition of Desperation
  • October 15th, 2016 - Removal of Magnum Opus
  • October 22nd, 2016 - Addition of Rent to Own
  • November 20th, 2016 - Addition of Playing House.  Removal of Don't Let Me Down (1), Don't Let Me Down (2)
  • December 7th, 2016 - Removal of Contested, Playing with Fire, Desperation, Rent to Own.  Shuffling of thread.


Current Desires
  • Owned - Posted August 30th, 2016 - Seeking Male Characters
    A look at a troubled and complicated relationship between a sex worker and a powerful and influential client.
  • Life Lessons - Posted August 30th, 2016 - Seeking Female Characters
    A modern romance featuring themes of adultery and taboo relationships between a teacher and a former student.
  • Claiming; or A House of Swords - Posted September 7th, 2016 - Seeking Female Characters
    The story of a twisted romance between two unlikely individuals as they seek to claim power in George R. R. Martin's Westeros.
  • Domestic Servitude - Posted September 21th, 2016 - Seeking Female Characters
    A story of intrigue, drama, and betrayal between a couple and their live-in submissive.
  • Lessons to Live By - Posted October 4th, 2016 - Seeking Male Characters
    A modern romance featuring themes of adultery and taboo relationships between a teacher and a former student.
  • Owed - Posted October 5th, 2016 - Seeking Female Characters
    A look at a troubled and complicated relationship and it's evolution between a young sex worker and an older, powerful and influential client.
  • Playing House - Posted November 20th, 2016 - Seeking Female Characters
    Intended to be a slow burn of an incestuous romance between a brother and sister who struggle to make ends meet with a complicated family life.
« Last Edit: December 06, 2016, 11:40:48 PM by GnothiSeauton »

Offline GnothiSeautonTopic starter

  • The Baddest Bitch in All the Realm. Mother of The Bieber. Defender of the Brotherfucking Faith. Captain of the Raven. Queen of Gilea. Lover of all things Kenneth Parcell and Lucielle Bluth.
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  • Join Date: May 2009
  • Location: Cloud Cuckoo Land by day, Isle of the Damned by night, Church of the Sacred Union every Sunday
  • Gender: Female
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Re: Gnothi's Stories Without Homes
« Reply #2 on: August 30, 2016, 09:28:16 PM »
Magnum Opus (Seeking Male Characters) - Taken (October 15th, 2016)
Magnum Opus



Idea:  This idea is a combination of two ideas of mine, "Last Hurrah" and "Taming the Muse".  I had thought of a talented, successful painter in her thirties who is given a diagnosis of terminal cancer.  While it's devastating at first, she comes to terms with it, and is determined to live her remaining life to the fullest, including painting her last painting before embracing death.

My Character:  A young, successful painter in her thirties, who is recently diagnosed with terminal cancer. 

Your Character:  What I had thought for this was for a younger male from the streets.  A younger vagrant who is living on his own in the streets, trying to survive.  I have a few face claims in mind, but would defer to your decision.

Themes and Outlook:  I would like this plot focused story to focus upon her decision to live her life, and this young man's helping, along the way.  I thought that she would come across him, and be so taken with him that she offers room and board in exchange to paint him.  They both could help each other along the way, with him helping her to experience the life she might not have experienced in the past, and she helping him to better himself and give himself more stability in life.





The change had been unmistakable.  It always was, she learned, when the news had been broken, the truth brought out into the light.  Crestfallen.  Despondent.  They always tried to put on a strong face, to be that pillar of strength they thought she needed in such times.  Pained smiles, pats upon her back or shoulder.  Some tried to be humorous, tried to brighten the dark, gloomy mood that had fallen over their relationships with her.

Martin Gomey was no different.  The smaller, older man had tried to put his best face forward as the two of them stepped out of the cozy, warm restaurant, and into the cold bleariness of winter.  Her agent offered a last smile, strained from the news that had been said, along with a gentle, delicate pat and caress upon the back of her shoulder.

“We're going to beat this thing, kid.” He said in the same gentle tone.  “I'm going to start hitting the phone, find you some of the best doctors and specialists in the world.”

Elaine Montgomery could only give the same tired, worn smile as she listened to the very words she had heard over and over again by those who knew.  She could only offer a gentle nod of her head, be polite and silent.  It wasn't easy, to stand there so often, to listen to those close to her try and give her hope, to try and give themselves hope, that she would be alright, that she could beat the cancer that was eating her away inside.

“I would appreciate that.  It means a lot to me.” She said automatically, the same practiced and given response that had been given to everyone who made such offers of help and assistance.

They said their goodbyes to one another.  The same embraces that were so gentle, so careful, as if they were afraid that even the slightest bit of pressure would break her into pieces.  Promises to call if she needed anything were made, though she knew she would not dare make such a call.  Goodbyes were said, laced with deeper emotions, before the two went their separate ways.  He, back to his home in the Bronx, where he would tell his wife the sad news that Elaine Montgomery has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.  She, back to her lonely loft in the city.

She walked in silence, a slow and careful walk among the people living their lives in the winter wonderland that Manhattan was becoming.  There was no rush to go back home.  Once, there might have been a time in the winter where she could not have waited to go home, dreaming of the warmth interior as the frozen hell grasped the city beyond the windows.  Such a night would have awakened the flame in her heart, causing the fingers and wrists to unleash the creative flow upon the canvas. 

But now...

It was a prison, waiting for her.  Her home, the confines where she would spend the rest of her days, waiting to die.

Guilt made her tell people the truth of the grave situation she was facing.  Her lawyer was the first to know, papers being drawn up to help manage her estate and finances.  She told her mother and siblings, breaking the news to them over the phone one after another, more out of some sense of duty, she supposed, than desire.  And now her agent knew the truth.

What they did not know...  What she could not tell them...  All of the offers for help, the friends that would be called, the inquiries made, all of it was for nothing.  Elaine had no plans to put herself through such hell, just for a few more months. 

She was going to die, and die upon her own terms, by her own rules.

Such a determination had hardened in the time spent after the diagnosis.  How she spent a week, locked away in her loft, drinking and crying, crying and drinking, on and on and on.  The Grief Stage, she thought.  But soon, she learned to accept it, to take in the fact that within two months, she would be dead and done in this world. 

To tell those who knew of the cancer, who had heard the admission from her own lips, they did not know that she had made her peace with such a timetable.  They all had the hope, the false hope, that she could survive it.  That, with treatments, surgeries, and medication, she could live a little while longer.  That, in time, she would beat the disease within her.

Two percent. 

With all of the surgeries, the mountains of pills, endless bouts of radiation, there was but a two percent chance she would be lucky enough to live to an old age.  Two measly percent.  And for the time until she died, she would be a ghost of her former self.  Bedridden.  Her insides aflame as they melted to liquid.  Could she live that life?  Was that even a life?

No.  Elaine accepted her diagnosis.  She came to terms with the shortened lease upon life.  And rather than try and fruitlessly delay the inevitable through pain and suffering, she was going to do what she wanted to do:  live her life.

She thought of painting.  The rest of her days, painting.  Nothing but the paints, her palate, and the canvas before her.  It brought a smile to her face in the frigid bite of the cold, warmed her up deep down inside.  If the painter was to die, she was going to paint until the end of her days.

Contested (Seeking Any Gender Character) - Not Looking Currently
Contested



Idea:  This was a bit of a twist of one of my older ideas entitled "Whipped", in that a younger se worker becomes the object of an older client's obsessive desires.  But this has been changed a bit over time, with more of a focus on the relationship between the two as the surroundings change and become somewhat contentious.

My Character:  I'm looking to write the role of a successful female senator in her late thirties.  One of the true independents, well liked on both sides of the political aisle, an endorsement desired by both sides.  But beneath the charming smile lays a sociopath with a cold heart, willing to do what it takes to achieve her heart's desires.

Your Character:  Totally up to you.  I would be fine with any gender; male, female, or transgender more than acceptable to me.  I saw them as being a bit on the younger side (twenties or so).

Themes and Outlook:  I would really like to focus this as a political drama of sorts.  I saw the relationship between the two of them becoming more and more strained and contentious as it unfolds, with my senator becoming more and more possessive over her secret lover.  More than happy to discuss more.





Ashley Whitman
Senator, California (I)

The cold, winter night's air felt so completely blissful upon her face.  It's crispness was a much welcomed change from the inside of the building, soothing and refreshing after having to make the rounds of the rich and powerful.  She could have stood there for hours, watching her breath steam in the air, floating up into the dark, cold gray sky.

It always made her think back to when she was but a child.  Looking out of the window each and every winter, hoping, wishing, praying for snow. Such nights made her reflect on that childhood mysticism that accompanied winter.  How nice it would be, to go back to those times.  Those simpler, easier times, when the greatest thing in the world on nights like that would have been a blizzard of snow.

Her melancholic thoughts were dashed away with the coming rush of reporters.

It took a certain amount of control to keep from groaning out loud.  Instead of giving the disdain she felt for them, Ashley put on her best smile and grin, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her long coat as she began to make her way down the steps.  Security came up around her like a protective shield, keeping the hungry sharks at bay as she gave them a little nibble for their sites.  A trademark smile.  A wave here and there.  Just enough to keep them sated.

“Senator Whitman!” One of them called out, brandishing a phone.  “What are your thoughts on Secretary Donaldson's surprise wins in South Carolina and Michigan?”

Ashley allowed a soft, amused laugh to escape her lips.  “I wouldn't say they're surprising.” She lied.  “The Secretary is a very capable and deft individual.”

“Are you close to endorsing one of the three, Senator?” Another voice called out.

A few more steps, she reminded herself.  The car was there, waiting at the curb, the black SUV of peace and quiet.  All she had to do was to make it there while walking the delicate tightrope that was Washington Politics.  “Now now, I don't think it would be prudent of me to endorse anyone at this time.” She said.  “I think any of the three are excellent candidates with strengths and weaknesses like all others before.”

More questions were shouted out, words clawing at one another for dominance over one another.  She said her peace, had given them just enough to chew on for their articles and posts.  “No more questions tonight, I'm afraid.” She said.  “Momma has to get home and get some rest before getting up with the kids in the morning!”  They ate it up with a few chuckles and snickers.  They all always ate that shit up, when it was served with a grin and smile.

A few more moments, she thought, keeping the pleasant, cheerful demeanor on her face, as the opposite door opened, and a man slid in beside her.  The warm, inviting smile kept upon her face for just a few more moments, until the car eased forward and began to creep down the busy avenues.

“Jesus Christ.” She murmured, removing a glove from her hand to massage her dimples.  “If I have to put on one more goddamn fake smile tonight...”

Mark Dalton laughed beside her.  “I think you're done for the night, Senator.” Her chief of staff remarked.

“Did Donaldson really win South Carolina and Michigan?” She asked.  “Who the hell did he screw to get that?”

“It's looking that way.” Dalton remarked as the glow of his phone illuminated the back of the cab.  “Thirty five in S.C., and thirty seven in Michigan.  Brewer got thirty four and thirty, respectively.  Jones got thirty one and thirty three.”

Ashley could not help but to allow an amused chuckle to escape her lips.  It wasn't surprising, the three way tie in the primaries.  For weeks, close to months, the polling was suggesting that the three would be running close races.  But none predicted that the Secretary of Homeland Security was going to pull out wins in the states.

The party heads had to be going nuts, she thought to herself.  They had all thought it would be a cakewalk.  An easy path to victory to dethrone the failing Republican president.  Select a leader they could all rally behind around, a candidate that could unite the party and the country.  And instead, they seemed to have a three-headed viper on their hands, snipping and snapping at each head, all in the name of democracy.

“You know the calls are only going to increase, right, Ash?” Dalton asked, his tone going more serious.  “They're not going to stop.  You're the crown jewel.”

Ashley could only nod her head at that truth.  She did not need to be told, to be reminded, of the position she was in.  Her poll numbers were high in her home state of California.  The It Girl of Washington.  Respected and admired by both parties.  The true Independent.  She, who kept her self above the infighting, who stayed out of the mudslinging and forged working friendships and relationships on both sides of the aisle, who helped to salvage troubled bills and legislation.

They all wanted her at their campaigns and rallies.  Both Democrats and Republicans courted the lone Independent of the Senate like Scarlet O'Hara in Gone with the Wind.  Supplying the endless flattery, the constant invitations, etc., etc.  They all wanted her, a victory to say to the American People that they were the right candidate for their races.  It didn't matter if it was a mayoral seat in the middle of nowhere in California, or the Democratic candidates for president.

They would call, and call.  Pour on the pressure to endorse one of them.  To choose between the three of the unsavory choices.

Secretary of Homeland Security Terry Donaldson, with his too extreme, hawkish views.  Representative Michelle Brewer of Massachusetts, with her pie-in-the-sky dreams and far-too-left views.  Governor Andrew Jones, of New Jersey, with that slimy reputation and past scandals.  They all had their baggage, and to choose between any of the three was if to choose a method of execution.

Ashley leaned forward to the front, and the driver behind the wheel.  “Paul, take me to the Apartment.”

The driver only gave a curt nod as Ashley sat back.  Dalton, on the other hand, could not resist injecting himself.  “Tonight?” The man asked, raising an eye brow. 

“Yes.” She said, putting her head against the cold glass of the window and closing her eyes.  “After two and a half hours of shaking hands and trying to raise money, I wanted it.  And now, knowing that I'm going to have to deal with those three buffoons tomorrow, I'm going to need it.”

“Do you have a preference for the night?” Dalton asked, undoubtedly looking through the listings of the site on his phone. 

A moment passed, as she rested her head against the mirror, drinking in the cooling sensation to fight off the looming headache.  She debated what she wanted that night, what sort of mood she was in.  “Surprise me.” She said.  “You know what I like.”

“Blue or pink?”

Again, she fell silent, debating the offer.  A boy, or a girl?  “Surprise me.”
« Last Edit: Yesterday at 12:53:42 AM by GnothiSeauton »

Offline GnothiSeautonTopic starter

  • The Baddest Bitch in All the Realm. Mother of The Bieber. Defender of the Brotherfucking Faith. Captain of the Raven. Queen of Gilea. Lover of all things Kenneth Parcell and Lucielle Bluth.
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  • Location: Cloud Cuckoo Land by day, Isle of the Damned by night, Church of the Sacred Union every Sunday
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Re: Gnothi's Stories Without Homes
« Reply #3 on: August 30, 2016, 09:45:00 PM »
Owned



Idea:  In a sense, this is not unlike Contested, listed above, in that it's a story between a sex worker and a person of influence.  But where it differs is that this is intended to be closer to a romance.  With this idea, I was looking to explore a young woman who is in the sex industry, who gets into trouble, and forms a relationship with a client who bails her out, and the evolution of their relationship from there.

My Character:  I'm looking to write the prostitute.  She's a young woman in her mid twenties who, unlike the cliche stories, is a woman who enjoys what she does.  It's empowering and exhilarating, not demeaning and remorseful.

Your Character:  I'm looking for an older male character.  I would prefer a family man in his early to mid fifties, as age difference is something I truly want to explore.  Perhaps a judge or lawyer?  I have a few faces in mind, but again, will defer to your decision.

Themes and Outlook:  I want to explore their relationship, from the first time they meet, to the bitter end.  I don't think that a relationship is something that she wants, and is doing it more to keep him happy, with the lifestyle he has given her, and the certain sense of comfort that comes with him.  Being able to resist the pull of the former career is something that she can't let go of, and would love to explore the relationship and the struggle with that.




The room had been cold, just flirting that line between comfortable and uncomfortable.  It felt good upon her nakedness, soothing, calming the still fast beating heart and heat within her.

He had been in the shower, the sound reaching her in the main part of the hotel room.  She knew what was expected when it came to Thomas, or whatever his name truly was.  They would do the deed, comfortably bask in that afterglow, for only a moment, before he would carry himself to the bathroom to clean her from his body.  The gentle, older man expected her gone by the time he emerged from the steamy shower, and Alicia Wesson was fine with that.

It was easier, she thought, to not see her when he dealt with the shame that came with cheating on his wife and family.

Funny how that so often seemed to be, she thought to herself, as she wiped her folds with a few Kleenexes.  How eager they were, how desperate they were to have her, and others like her, sparing no expense, just for a little bit of their attention and presence.  And then, how uncomfortable and shameful they were after the deed was done, when all that was desired was for loneliness.

The musings on such paradoxes were entertaining from time to time.  The attempt at unraveling the mysteries that were the minds of her clients.  Some just wanted someone to talk to.  Some just wanted to feel loved and desired.  And some just wanted to fuck.  Each and every one with their own unique reasons.  A lonely life and busy career.  A misunderstood family man.  A stressed soul just needing some sort of release.  She didn't dare try and psychoanalyze her clients.  In the end, none of that mattered.

The only thing that truly mattered to her was how much, and for how long.  Money and time.  The most valuable things in the world.

Tick, tick, tick went the clock in her head.  She had a few minutes to get dressed, gather her belongings and payment, and head out into the maze of halls of the hotel.  After a few minute wait for the car, she'd be on her way back into her normal routine, changing in the backseat while her driver navigated the streets and thoroughfares.  From the back of the car, she would emerge, her navy-blue cocktail dress folded away neatly in her bag, donned in the simple, casual attire so often seen around campus.

Back to her apartment, back to the life and lie she lived to all of those around her in her personal life.  The dutiful college student.  With enough time, she thought she might be able to sneak in a nap, a short rest to recharge her body and mind before plunging into her studies.

Until the phone would ring again.

Just as it had while she was sitting there upon the edge of the bed, vibrating away from the depths of her small clutch.  Alicia rose from the bed, stretching her taut, lithe figure before retrieving her phone.  A quick glance at the screen, and she did not hesitate to answer.

“Hey.” She said in a soft, gentle whisper.  “I was just getting ready to call you.  I'm getting ready to get dressed and leave my Noon appointment.”

Alicia could almost hear the grin upon Joanna's face.  “'Atta girl.” The Madam had said.  “Listen, I need to talk, like, right now.  I've got a bit of an emergency on my hands.”

Her eyebrows raised at the statement.  “What sort of emergency?” She asked after a slight pause.

“Nothing major or anything like that.” Joanna said, which made Alicia breathe a sigh of relief, knowing what dangers and troubles lurked in such an industry.  “I had Amie scheduled for one of my V.I.P's, a big one to me.  She got sick this morning, and I need someone, like, as soon as possible.”

Alicia turned her head to the door of the bathroom, the shower still going.  “But I just had an appointment though...” She said, her voice filled with uncertainty.  “Isn't there someone else?”

A sigh came from the other end of the phone.  “Sweetheart, I need you.  I've got no one else available with their day free.” Joanna said.  “If it were any other client, I'd try to reschedule, offer a discount, whatever.  But I can't with this one.  He's my VIP of VIP's, and you're right up with alley with what he likes.”

When Alicia hesitated, Joanna pounced.  “I personally vouch for him.  All of the girls who've had appointments with him like him.” She continued.  “Plus, he's an amazing tipper.”

Could she do it, she wondered?

“When and where?” She sighed. 

“You're a lifesaver.” Joanna grinned.  “He's at the Allegro, downtown.  Already knows what's going on and that you'd be running a little late.  He said to just meet him in the hotel restaurant.  He'll be looking for you.”

~~~

Ordinarily, when it came to arranged meetings with clients, Alicia preferred to stick to the sacred routine she kept for herself in preparation.

By no means was it some sort of strict, demanding regimen, nor was it something that could just be glossed over with an idle sense of care.  It was something that, in her mind, was simple.  Easy to follow.  Calming and soothing to perform.  After all, that was the entire purpose of her routine.

A long soak in the tub was often required.  If she were lucky enough, and her stores were stocked, the waters would be scented with fragrances from one of many bath bombs.  The water was always warm, hot, to help scrub away what dirt, sweat, and whatever else may have been lingering upon her flesh.  A drying out period, usually wrapped up in her softest of robes. 

From there, she would clear her head and mind of all of the negativity, all of the troubles and thoughts of her “normal” life.  Sitting before the mirror, applying makeup with a deft hand, she pushed such thoughts out of her mind, and focused on what was needed, what was required, for that evening, whatever it might have been.

By the time she left her apartment, she was often relaxed and calm.  Loosened up from the routine designed to calm and ready herself.  No troubling thoughts of whether she looked this way or that way.  Nothing but confidence in her steps, that sense of power and strength that was always comforting in what was to be done when meeting with a client.

But not always can one be as prepared and calmed when about to meet a client.

She sat alone in the little stall of the hotel lobby bathroom.  Her eyes scanned every inch of her face and eyes.  Makeup was touched up here and there.  Her dark hair brushed as best as she could in the small, barely private space.  She cleaned herself up as best as she could with the baby wipes in her purse, a refreshing spray of perfume here and there upon her body.  Every motion hurried, knowing that already she was running late.

She had made sure she was clean before leaving the other place, cringing as she asked her last appointment to use the shower, further prolonging their time together.  A hot shower with hotel courtesy soaps.  A far cry from the rich and expensive bath products that were tucked away in her room.

It made her feel as she had all those months ago...  Lost...  Naive about the ways of the business...  Ignorant of the value of such comforts...  Before she ever discovered the rush, the thrill, the empowerment of it all.

When she emerged from the stall, the young woman could not help but to give herself another look in the ling mirror of the bathroom.  Her hands smoothed over the navy blue material of the cocktail dress, picking away a stray hair here and there.  She looked good, she thought, as good as she could feel under the hurried circumstances.  The fountain of youthful innocence, containing that hint of something more...

A couple of deep, calming breaths.  The only thing holding her back as herself, she thought.  All that needed to be done was to step out and go.

Despite the lingering doubts in the back of her mind, the little ball of anxiety that went with knowing she was not at her absolute best, having just come from an appointment, she walked with a sense of confidence that was enviable.  Her long, dark hair trailing gently behind her, her high-heels clicking softly against the marble, she was ready for the night, and all that came with it, as she emerged into the restaurant of the hotel, waiting and looking for her client.

Offline GnothiSeautonTopic starter

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Re: Gnothi's Stories Without Homes
« Reply #4 on: August 30, 2016, 10:31:25 PM »
Life Lessons



Idea:  It should be mentioned, first and foremost, that at the time of this post I am currently engaged in a version of this story.  However, as it is with me playing the female role in that version, and I am seeking to write the male in this piece, I'm opening myself up for it again.

This idea is focused upon the adulterous relationship between a teacher and one of her former students.  What begins as a serendipitous one night stand begins to turn into something more than that as the two of them navigate the difficulties of their feelings while being in relationships with other people.

My Character:  My character is a young male, in his early twenties.  Slowly making a name for himself in the publishing world by rising through the ranks at a publishing firm.  He's a handsome man, a stark difference from his youth in high school where he was the definition of awkward.

Your Character:  I'm looking for an older female for this role.  Married.  A teacher.  I thought perhaps she would be in her forties at the earliest. 

Themes and Outlook:  One of the twists I had in mind was that this young man works at her husband's publishing firm, unknown to either of them until they reunite at the office christmas party.  I would really like to explore the relationship between the two of them, while they are in the middle of relationships with other people.  I think it could be a fascinating thing to write, that struggle between the two of them, that competition with each others' significant other for love and attention.





Normally, Josh Floyd was not a man who enjoyed the bar scene.

Some of his friends could not understand or figure it out.  Despite their ever persistent best efforts, Josh abstained from venturing out to the often crowded and busy bars and watering holes.  They'd call the young man every name in the book, trying to goad him into coming out in some defense of his honor, but still, he would not bring himself out of his comfort zone to go drinking the night away.

He always preferred the peace and quiet of his place.  It was a comfortable place, where he would not leave often when he did not have to contend with the busy and demanding work schedule during the week.  Drinking in comfort in his apartment, where he could wear what he wanted, listen to whatever music, or watch whatever he wanted on the television.  More often than not, he enjoyed his times with a good, strong drink and a book in the old recliner he had salvaged from the Salvation Army.  

But he just needed to get out and celebrate.

The bar he was standing in on a Friday night in the chill of early November had a relaxed, laid back, yet refined atmosphere.  Dark woods, seats of leather, with soft gentle lighting.  From somewhere above smooth jazz music played over the din of the patrons of the Crawford Lounge.  All dressed in professional and business casual attire, undoubtedly escaping the various office towers and buildings around for a little time to let loose and unwind from the work week.  It was the sort of place he might have enjoyed if he were on his own, on a less busy, less crowded night.

A hand clasped him upon the back.  “The Man of the Hour.” James McCallough said with a warm, friendly smile as he returned to the tall bar table where their party had gathered.  “Drinks are on me tonight, but next time, don't you dare think you're getting out of paying.  You can afford it, right?”

Josh offered a soft smile, a gentle laugh beneath his breath as he took the Old Fashioned being offered to him.  “I'll make sure to get my money's worth tonight, then.”

Another pat on the back came from James, smiling broadly at the remark as he turned to the half dozen coworkers that had come out to celebrate.  His glass raised.  “To our little Joshy, who we'll miss down in the pits while he goes off to play with the big boys up on the 45th Floor.” He said, turning his gaze over to Josh.  “Don't forget about us peasants while you're up in your tower.”

A smile cracked across his strong features as a chorus of cheers went up around the table.  The glass was brought to his lips, drinking in the strong spirit.  The taste of victory, of success, on his night, surrounded by friends he had worked with through the slog and tedium of their proofreading jobs.  It was good to be out, to break the mold of what would have been a typical Friday night.

And if the looks that Sandra had been giving him, with that recognizable twinkle in the leggy ebony skinned woman's eye, he was well on the road to getting lucky that night.

It brought a soft smirk to feel her eyes checking him out.  He knew he was an attractive man.  Short, cropped dark brown hair that matched his dark eyes.  A strong chin and jaw, lightly flecked with stubble.  He kept himself in shape, working out and running to keep his body and strength up.  The clothes he wore when making the rare night out, or in the work space, clean and crisp, smart and sharp.  A certain pride did he take in his appearance that was far from vanity in his mind.  The motivations for keeping his body in shape, and his appearance on point went far deeper than some vain love of oneself.

Josh could not help but to wonder, as he did so often when he noticed he was being checked out by women, if they would have dared showed him the slightest bit of attention a few years ago.  The answer was almost always a resounding no in his mind.  Back then, he was a far cry from the strong-looking man in the suit he wore in the Crawford.  A tall, lanky youth, with thick glasses, and a ghostly pallor to go with the wild, untamed curls of dark hair.  An easy target to get singled out by the looks-and-vanity driven youth of his high school years.

The dark memories of the past came threatening to bubble up into his thoughts, and with another hard swallow of the cold drink in his hand, he fought them back.  It would do him no good to let such assholes who had ruined his youth, had left their indelible mark upon his mind and psyche, ruin what was arguably one of the biggest nights of his life.

“So how does it feel?” One of his party asked, Luanne.  “Excited?  Get your own office?”

The question, the welcomed distraction from the quiet reflection upon his youth, made Josh smile broadly as if to answer the question.  “I'm supposed to go in and set it up this weekend.” He said.  “Get to meet the whole Editor's Board on Monday, learn the ropes and hit the ground running.”

He was more excited than he was letting on with just the smile and soft-spoken few words.  Hell, he was excited enough to want to leave the comfortable nest of his apartment to venture out for drinks.  Over and over in his mind, he could not help but to replay the meeting with the higher-ups in his mind.  How afraid he was, sitting in the reception area with his feet nervously jittering.  What he done, he kept wondering.  What sort of trouble did he get into?

He had tried to think of all of the reports and analyses he had written and put together, trying to figure out what might have earned him the attention of the men up stairs at Wellington Publishing.  His mind poured over everything he could think of, a part of him trying to figure out what he could possibly say to save his job if he were indeed facing the axe...

They liked him.  They loved his work, his analyses.  Admired the detail he put in, the thought and effort put into everything he touched.  The potential and talent was something they did not want getting away,  scooped up by some other firm.

And now he was their newest editor.  It was intimidating to think of, to consider when he thought of what was required of him.  The stresses and burdens upon his shoulders of assisting writers with their stories, helping to navigate the turbulent waters of publishing.  But even as intimidating as it was, he could not help but to be excited, to feel more than ready to face the challenge.

He finished off his drink and moved back to the bar, looking for another as he tried to take in and enjoy the moment.

Offline GnothiSeautonTopic starter

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Re: Gnothi's Stories Without Homes
« Reply #5 on: August 31, 2016, 06:47:01 PM »
Playing with Fire (Seeking Any Gender Characters) - Not Looking Currently
Playing with Fire



Idea:  With this idea, I'm looking to possibly explore a somewhat contentious and stressed relationship between a young woman with unique abilities, struggling to survive, and another person in a world in which might be difficult to say the least.  There are plenty of options that I'll discuss in the Your Character section.

My Character:  I guess you could call her special.  She's a young woman, in her mid twenties, who has the ability to conjure enough body heat to produce flames, as well as the ability to read minds and thoughts, and use something akin to hypnosis.  She's been on her own for most of her life, an unwanted outcast, moving from town to town, city to city, conning people here and there for a little bit of cash to just survive.

Your Character:  This is where the story can go in a variety of ways.  I don't have anything set in my mind in terms of a preference, so it's up to you and whatever twists.  Could be another person like her, with perhaps different or similar abilities.  Could also be just someone who takes pity on her.  Maybe even a government agent or doctor who captures her to perform experiments and the like.  So many options, and am up for various ideas.

Themes and Outlook:  Again, it can go in a variety of ways, depending on what you want to do.  I wrote this mainly as a way to explore a character that I've been wanting to write for a while.




Creedence Clearwater Revival played from the old juke box in the dated dive bar.  Proud Mary.  It brought a faint, ever faint, smile to Mary's face as she stepped inside. 

She had never been one to put much stock in the belief of signs from ostensibly above (or below, for who could really know).  It had been Mary's experience that such signs were nothing more than false hope, or wastes of time and prayers.  Signs that meant nothing at all.  But even she had to admit she had a good feeling to hear that song playing over the speakers under the din of sports broadcasts, random conversations, and the cracking of pool balls against one another.  Proud Mary.  It was so fitting, a perfect fit.

A few eyes turned in her direction when the brunette walked in, wearing her jean shorts that stopped mid-thigh, and tight black tee that left little to the imagination when it came to her curves and assets.  She was a firecracker, she'd been told before.  A heart breaker.  They didn't know the half of it; none of them did in that little hole in the wall in Jackson.  Then again, she thought to herself, as she strode down the bar with her large bag in hand, most of them never did, those who came into her life.

There was an old saying, about a tree falling in the woods.  If a tree fell in a forest, and no one was there, did it make a sound?  For Mary, it was something different.  If she erased a memory, did it really happen?  Was it just a phantom dream, a thought of vivid clarity, in the back of the mind?  Did those who she “touched” remember anything at all?  She didn't know.  Most often than not, Mary didn't hang around very long afterwards to ask questions.  Fear mostly drove her away.  Fear of being found out.  Fear of being caught.  Fear of what would happen if something went wrong.

At the far end of the bar, next to the old relic that was the coin-operated bar-top video game system, Mary sat herself down, the bag tucked away at her feet as she ordered herself a bottle of beer.  A cigarette was pulled from the pack in her pocket, soon placed between her lips.  Without a lighter in hand, she looked around cautiously, turning her head to make it seem she was lighting a lighter.  She wasn't up for doing party tricks for everyone to see, especially not the one that had set her down that dark and lonely path of being on the run.

On the run from what?  She could think of a few police groups that were looking for her.  Curious and wanting to ask some questions.  Questions she had no intention of answering.  She knew of a few individuals who were looking for her, wanting to handle their own sense of justice and vengeance.  Mary would have liked to think that she had a few friends looking for her.  A few people who cared about her.  But that was a fool's hope.  She had no friends.  No one wanted to be friends with “the freak”. 

She knew she was going to get company soon.  A girl like her stood out like a sore thumb, a magnet for the drunks and locals who'd try their luck.  Though he had been standing with his back turned when she entered, lining up a shot with his pool cue, Mary knew he, out of all of the patrons there in the little dive bar, would be brave enough to be the first to approach her.  The vision had played out in her mind so vividly, so clearly, as it always seemed to do when she was, as she liked to call it, in the zone.  It had only been a question of when, not if, as it always was, he'd come up to her to break the ice.  And it seemed, as the drink from the bartender was placed before her, she did not have to wait long to find out.

“Evening.” He said as he slipped in beside her, leaning against the polished wood of the bar with what was a smile he'd been told was charming.

James Masterson was not charming.  He looked the part.  Older than she was.  From the appearance alone, she put his age at double her own at twenty five.  She didn't need to use her third eye for that.  He seemed a bit polished up, wearing a white dress shirt that was unbuttoned a little, the tie (the red tie that was in the pocket of his jacket, she knew) removed with his shirt sleeves rolled up.  A professional man, out blowing off some steam.  Trying to be hip by going to dive bars because it's “cool” and “hip”.  Slumming it up.  Hoping to get lucky.

“Hello.” She said tersely as she drew a sip from the long neck of the bottle.

He smiled and nodded his head to the drink.  “I had you pegged for a fruity tooty kind of drink.” He commented as he extended his hand.  “Name's Mike.”

It's James...  James Masterson, of 1338 Holbrook Drive...

Briefly she paused, an eye looking at his hand before she placed her smaller hand in his.  “Melanie.” She said.  I can lie too...

Big wheel keep on turnin',
Proud Mary keep on burnin',
Rollin', rollin', rollin' on the river.


James/“Mike” shook her hand firmly, his larger, masculine hand overtaking hers easily as those intense, lustful eyes looked into hers.  “Pleasure to meet you, Melanie.” He said as he released his hand from hers.  A look down to the bartender caused the man behind the bar to come down as James/Mike pointed to her drink.

“Put it on my tab, Lou.”

The bartender nodded his head in understanding as he went back to his other customers.  Mary could feel the unwanted companion looking at her, as if expecting her to be impressed and overjoyed at the free drink.  As if a free drink entitled them to whatever they desired.  She hadn't need to look into his mind to know what he was thinking about.  “That's sweet of you.” She remarked with an idle sense of disinterest.  “What would your wife think, knowing you were buying some young thing drinks?”

A laugh came from him, not of panic, not of distress, not the kind of laugh that came from being caught.  There was an ease about it, an effortless sense of genuine amusement.  Some might have believed it.  Some might have found a little relief at the genuine sound.  But to a person like Mary, it was only the sound of an accomplished liar.  A liar who had told the lie too often, who could slip so easily and effortlessly into the lie like it was second nature.  The portrayal of a character that was a favorite and regularly performed one.  They had that in common, at least.

“Oh shed hate it.” He said.  “If I had a wife.”

Her name is Linda...  You two met in college, and your marriage started to die with your kids coming into the picture...  Little Bobby and Carianne...

A thin smile came across her lips as the images of the happy family played across her mind.  “I'm sure she'd hate to know what was running through my little head right about now.” She said, letting her eyes size him up in the little farce she was more than willing to play in for the moment.

Her boldness seemed to have caught him off guard.  The charming smile faded just a little as excitement began to build in him.  He straightened up a bit, looking around.  “Is that so?” He managed to ask.

“Indeed.” She said, taking a last sip of her beer.  Normally Mary would have been loath to leave a perfectly good beer, especially after a long day of walking and hitch hiking, but she had a live one on her hands, an opportunity she wasn't about to let pass up so easily.  She reached down to grab her bag, looking over to her companion.  “I could use some help with something in the restroom...  Care to lend a hand?”

From the look upon his face, it seemed as if he thought it was going to be his lucky night.  He did think it was going to be his lucky night, she reminded herself as she began to make the short walk to the men's restroom.  Unfortunately for him, he had no idea what he was getting himself into...

He wasn't far behind her.  A mere few seconds after she stepped inside the foul smelling bathroom, her bag put by the door, he was right behind her.  He smiled like a kid on Christmas, looking at his presents.  The door was locked quickly by him before his attentions were overcome by lust, coming upon her like something fierce.  Against the tiled wall he pressed her, the cooled tile a welcome sensation from the long day under the blazing sun.  She could have stayed there for a moment as he kissed her neck like a ravenous animal, his hands exploring her hips, but as always, Mary wasn't wanting to stick around.

Her hands were gentle and firm as they planted on either side of his head, pulling it up to look her squarely in the eyes.  There was no denying the lust, the hunger which burned in them.  That overwhelming desire... 

“Look into my eyes...” She said calmly, her voice almost serene.  “Look deeply into them.”

And he did...  Not at first.  His eyes were scanning all over her face, almost in disbelief, but as they did, as his eyes fell into those dark, entangling pools, he was hers, completely.  It was easy enough after that.  Like clay in the hands of an artist, he moved to her desires.  She pushed him back a few feet, giving her space to breathe, and space to go to work as he stared blankly on into the unseen abyss. 

His wallet was the first place she went, fishing it out from his pants pocket with ease.  She ignored the pictures.  She always ignored the pictures.  Instead she went straight to the cash.  A few hundred dollars, more than enough to see her through for a few days.  Maybe a hotel room.  The thought of a hot shower was almost enough to make her sing.  The money was pocketed, stuffed in the pockets of her shorts along with her cigarettes.  A container of prescriptions were found next.  Pain pills, she thought, as she read the pharmacy label.  The good stuff.  The stuff she could easily turn for a bit more extra cash.  Those too were pocketed. 

Eyes turned to the watch on his wrist, upon the arm that hung limply from him.  A fake, she thought, after examining it.  After a while, she had learned to tell the difference from the real thing and fake thing, the good stuff from the cheap shit.

When she was finished, she turned her attention back to him, her eyes once again looking deeply into his.  The windows to the soul and mind.  “I'm going to be leaving now, James.  And when I leave, you're going to wake up, and not remember me at all.” She spoke evenly, her voice sweet and gentle, as if talking to a child.  “When I leave, you're going to pull your prick out, and bang your head on the wall.  Someone came in and mugged you while you weren't looking, because you were too busy pissing and thinking of the family vacation you're planning on taking with your wife and kids.”

He said nothing.  He did nothing.  James only looked on, straight ahead, blankly.

“Do you understand?” She asked.

Gently and slowly did he nod his head, bringing a smile to Mary's lips.  “Atta boy...” She commented, giving him a gentle pat upon the cheek before she moved around him.  Nothing more was said, nothing more needed to be said, as she grabbed her bag, unlocked the door, and slipped out of the bar, making for the back exit and out into the warm Mississippi air.
« Last Edit: December 06, 2016, 11:07:58 PM by GnothiSeauton »

Offline GnothiSeautonTopic starter

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Re: Gnothi's Stories Without Homes
« Reply #6 on: September 01, 2016, 01:03:09 PM »
Family Bonds (Seeking Female Character) - Taken (September 1st, 2016)
Family Bonds



Idea:  This is based on my original idea entitled "Family Bonds".  It follows the reunion of a brother and sister, after years apart, following his sister's escape from the religious cult they had grown up within. 

It should be noted that this cult, this Church, is not like others.  It's focus and beliefs are deeply rooted in the belief that, not only are women expected to be subservient to men, but also that incestuous is encouraged and promoted, particularly between brother and sister as a way of finding salvation in life.

My Character:  I am looking to write the male in this story.  I saw him who, as a young man, was exiled from the Church for his rejection of the beliefs and Church.  He's been on his own ever since, trying to make a living and life for himself, while dealing with the difficulties and memories of the life he left behind.

Your Character:  I saw her as a younger woman, perhaps around seventeen or so, who is out in the real world, beyond the walls of the deeply guarded religious compound.  There's that sense of awe, naturally.  But instead of playing against a demure, meek young woman, I was hoping to write against a character who is deeply religious, who sees her brother as something of a heathen for his time away from the Church.  She wants to help him, turn him back to the faith, back to what is rightfully his.

A bit of comedy is always welcome.

Theme and Outlook:  This could go in a number of different ways.  Perhaps the Compound was raided by law enforcement, and she managed to run out.  Maybe she ran away from the Church, away from a damning match, in order to find and "save" her brother.  A number of possibilities that I'm more than happy to discuss.





Abel
Cooking, like his work in the wood shop, was something that had always been more therapeutic than any amount of therapy and counseling had been in all of the years since his forced exodus.

The small townhouse's kitchen was fragrant with the scent of spices, alive with the sizzle of meat in the pan on the stove.  Two strips, blackened Cajun style, the best he could find.  A pot of mashed potatoes sat on the back burner with the saucepan beside it containing the brown gravy.  A medley of vegetables were still steaming in their covered pot on the set table.  Candles set, a bottle of wine ready and waiting.

He had been at it most of the evening since coming home from the shop, putting most of his attention and focus into the task.  The cookbook of recipes had sat open nearby.  A list of clearly defined rules and guidelines.  Instructions that had to be followed near-perfectly to achieve the desired goal of whatever meal was on the menu that evening.  That was something he liked when he cooked.  Order.  Something to keep in mind, to focus on, rather than letting his mind go into the rabbit hole that was the past.

Abel had been better than he had in the past.  In the years following his exile, the Church, and all of it's tendrils, haunted him and his mind.  For years he struggled with the desire to try and go home, to beg and plead for mercy.  And for a time he did, going to the gates, and professing his repent like a broken animal, begging for mercy.  How he'd lay awake at night at times, thinking the Church, thinking of everything that went on in the community he fought so hard to escape, thinking of everything, everyone he left behind.  His friends.  His family.  His mother.  His sister. 

There had only been one time when he had reached out after failing to be allowed back.  One time, driven by guilt, when he wrote to his mother, letting her know he was fine, that he was living on his own.

He had gotten better over the years.  Slowly.  A slow and gradual shift away from the pain that had dominated his mind for so long, from the Church, to those miserable days on his own, doing things, horrible, disgusting things, just to survive.

Things like cooking and his wood-work helped to erase those constant memories.  It gave him something to focus on, something to devote his mind and thoughts to, rather than allowing the trouble to come bubbling up to the surface.  He'd gained a control on it, as best a control as he could claim.  He'd learn to avoid certain things, avoid movies and shows, books and programs, learn to focus on something else, safer things, when the little things came to mind.

And Cara.  He had Cara to help take his mind off of things.

He had heard her approaching under the din of stove and jazz playing on the stereo, only having surprise when he felt the wet, naked body press up against him from behind, with arms wrapping around his waist.  “Hey Good Lookin'...  Whatcha got cookin'?” She asked playfully, bringing her eyes around to survey his progress.

A snort of amusement came as he spoke with his deep voice.  “The smart thing would have been to wait for that shower.” He remarked as he flipped the steaks with care.  “I'm afraid I'm going to have to dirty you on up later.”

Cara laughed with a voice darkened with lust a her fingers began to toy with the buckle of his belt.  “I don't see reason why we have to wait.” She said.  “A nice little appetizer?”

“Asking for trouble.” He said as he turned to face her, his eyes surveying from his six foot, three inch, height the short-haired redhead looking up at him.  A smile, a rare smile, came across his lips as he leaned forward to plant a kiss upon her forehead.  “All good things come to those who wait.” He said, the smile softening as he released his arms from around her.  She gave a playful swat on his ass before departing to the bedroom to change.  The smile that had been on his face had faded, but never truly left his face.

Cara.  His Cara-Bear.  There would have been a time when Abel would have been frightened of her from her appearance and demeanor alone.  She was unlike the women that called the Community home.  Strong.  Outgoing.  Free with her mind and body.  And her appearance...  The short red hair, tattoos and piercings, wearing short skirts and whatever appealed to her.  The kind of women that were warned and preached about in the Church, the kind that were rife with sin and demonic desires.  But that was the past.  That was the frightened, scared Abel in a wood full of wolves. 

They had met at some party, some gathering between friends, connecting instantly.  She was the only person who knew of his past, knew where he had come from in his life, what he had done, shamefully, to survive, and she had always been there by his side.  There to hold him when he woke up to nightmares, there to wipe away the tears and be by his side, just as he was always there at her side whenever she needed him.  He was hers as much as she was his, and there was no thing, nor person, to change that.

If they had been back home, back in the holy embrace of the Church, such a relationship would have been an abomination.  She, taken to be beaten for the way she looked, the way she thought.  He, lectured day after day, disciplined and admonished for being allowed to be seduced by such a temptress of the devil.

But that was in the past... 

Abel was placing his meal out upon the table while Cara was in the bedroom changing, when the knock upon the door caught his attention.  Eyes looked over to the door before he glanced over to the clock upon the wall.  Normally he would have ignored the call at his doorstep, fearful on some level of coming face to face with the door-to-door LDS that preyed upon neighborhoods to spread their word of God.  But at the time of night, it had to have been something serious. 
« Last Edit: September 01, 2016, 04:15:32 PM by GnothiSeauton »

Offline GnothiSeautonTopic starter

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Re: Gnothi's Stories Without Homes
« Reply #7 on: September 06, 2016, 11:03:13 AM »
Decay (Seeking Feminine Characters) - Taken (September 8th, 2016)
Decay




Idea:  This is based off of my previous idea entitled Decay.  A biker of a 1% club finds himself out of prison after ten long years, and embarks on a spontaneous relationship of sorts with a person met on his first night of freedom.  The relationship serves to decay one's normal, happy life, into something different...  It'll make more sense as you read on with the characters and themes...

My Character:  My character is one that I've recycled from a past group game in addition to a couple of story attempts.  He's a man in his thirties, recently released from prison, and facing the changes in the world for the first time.  His life and the world's changed in the time he's been gone, especially with his motorcycle club, and seeks to gain control to right the ship, so to speak.

Your Character:  This is where the heart of the story lives.  Your character should, I hope, be different than he and the life he's accustomed to.  The original idea called for a more straight-laced good girl who just seeks some freedom in life she's never really had in the pressures of her life.  This can easily change according to what you might like to write.  One variation that I explored with someone, but did not get to really try, as they had to leave the site, was something of a long-lost sibling that neither of them knew about.  One concept I would really love to try and explore would be a trans female (mtf), but again, it's all totally up to you and what you might want to do.

Themes and Outlook:  The major theme for this one is culture clashes, and how two different people, from two different cultures, fall in love and how they cope with each other's lives.  As far as an outlook, it's up to you.  I do like the idea of her complete and total embrace of his life, to possibly the point of running from the law and starting a new life together.  But it's up to you to discuss.

Also, my writing this kind of got away from me...




The feel of the breeze upon his face was different than the times before.

Sheridan Miller had been outside during his stay at Adamsburg.  It was unavoidable, one of those unavoidable musts that were mightily desired by those like him.  Time outside in the yard, a chance to feel the sun on their faces, the breeze on their flesh.  It was a feeling that could not be had, sitting inside a cell, or looking out one of the windows.  It was a sensation that one could not feel, walking along the sterile, florescent-lit halls of the prison.  For many, it was the closest thing to freedom any of them had in years, and for a few, the only sense of freedom they would ever feel again.

For him though...  On that day...  Freedom was freedom. 

A moment had to be taken as he stepped outside the release sally-port.  A moment all to himself.  Standing there, in the warm sunshine of the summer morning, knowing there was nothing out there holding him in.  No fence.  No armed guard.  Nothing but the open air and open world, waiting to embrace him once again.

It didn't matter that he wore clothes that were old, unwashed from a pile of courtesy clothes, an old plain t-shirt and pair of sweat pants.  It did not matter that ten years, ten long years, had been taken from his life.  It didn't matter that all he had to his name were the clothes upon his back, the cheap, old and scuffed up tennis shoes upon his feet, and a check for a pittance of what had been in his commissary in his pocket.  All that mattered, in that blissful moment was that he was free.  Finally free.

“Is that mangy son of a bitch who I think he is?” A voice called out.

Sheridan's cold blue eyes opened from their savoring moment, looking out across the sun-lit parking lot to the lanky man in black.  A smirk began to form under the long tangle of his beard, matching the smirk of the man leaning against the rear of an old mustang.  It was somewhere in the space between them that they met, embracing one another in a long, tight hold on one another.

“You lucky bastard.” The man spoke, pulling back to look over him.  “Well look at you.  Grown a bit fatter, I see.” He teased, his hand going up to the bare chin.  “Nice beard.  Going into the homeless look, I take it?”

A chuckle, soft and faint came from Sheridan as Dave laid into him with the ribbing and jokes.  It felt good to laugh, to have that sense of enjoyment that had been robbed of him for so long.  His brother-in-arms could have made jokes about his mother, and still Sheridan would have laughed.  Just happy to be out and free again.

“I'll give you the homeless look in a minute.” Sheridan remarked in his deep voice, with no hint of malice in his voice.

Dave laughed.  “Oh-ho...  Is that so?” He teased, giving a firm pat on the shoulder that quickly slid around behind his shoulders as the two began to walk back to the car.  “Good to see you again, man.  Didn't think I'd see you for a good while longer.”

“You and me both.”

It had been nothing short of a miracle, he had thought those months ago as he sat in his cell.  All it took was one domino, one witness, for the case that had been brought against him to deteriorate.  A recantation of a statement by a witness, the one thing that had been the proverbial nail in the coffin of his case.  The one thing that had tied him together in the case against him.

And now he was free.  Out there, away from the bonds that had held him in place.  Out there, free to fall back into the life he loved, the only life he lived.

He fell into the life at a young age.  Just like Dave and a bunch of the others.  All looking for that sense of family that had eluded them in their childhoods.  Some came from broken homes.  Some from homes where their parents slaved away each and every day.  Some were born into the life, by fathers who rode with the devil, or the women who fucked them.  Some just never had that sense of camaraderie that had been missing.  And with each other, they found it, and found the club that was the glue that held them all together.

He had been just like the others.  A broken home; a father who had ran out long before he was even born, a mother who loved the pipe and cock more than him.  So many days and nights of his young youth, trying to take care of himself when he wasn't taken up by CCP.  There had not been anyone there in his life, no one there to look out for him but himself.

No one but the Brotherhood.

Ten years, he thought to himself as he sat in the car.  Ten years.  A lot had changed, just from looking out beyond the open window, at the streets and roads that passed them by.  Ten years.  How much had he missed?

“So what's been going on?” Sheridan finally asked.

Dave snorted in mild amusement.  “More like what hasn't been going on.” He remarked with a shake of his head.  “Brotherhood ain't the same from when you left it.  Things have changed.”

He didn't doubt that, he thought.  What news he had learned had been filtered down to almost nothing, with the ever watchful eye of guards reading letters and listening in on calls.

“Mike'll explain it all to you.”

“But you won't sugar coat it.” He said, looking over to Dave behind the wheel.

A soft sigh escaped his lips.  “Shit's been changin', man.  The world's been changin'.  Ever since Mike took over when you and bunch of the big guys got locked up, things have been different.  Ain't like it used to be.” Dave said with a hint of nostalgia in his voice as they drove on.  “We ain't peddlin' pussy anymore.  Got out of the pot business.  Streets are flooded with that shit nowadays.  Now, he's got us in the meth business.  Got a lab out in the middle of nowhere, some smart cook.  Make it and sell it out of state.”

Meth, Sheridan thought to himself uncomfortably.  That things would change, would have to change, had not been in any doubt.  It was a way of life.  Evolution.  In the case of the club, like most clubs and outfits, it was the evolution of production and revenue.  Where would they find their next way to sustain themselves and their club? 

It had been pussy and pot when he was young and joining up.  A few girls who needed a few extra bucks, who didn't seem troubled with the how or why.  A farm up north that grew some of the best green around.  But that was all of the past.  Meth was the present, the future.  Meth, whose seductive effects had not been shielded from his own view.

“Gotta say though...” Dave said after a long moment.  “Makes a hell of a lot of money.”

Sheridan snorted lightly in a quiet derisive amusement.  “I'm sure.” He mused, reaching for a pack of cigarettes and lighter on the center console.  The answer to his next question already given.  Money was sure to make even the most conscientious of the group quiet.  “How the old guys take it?”

“Well, it ain't like they got much of a say in things anymore.” Dave commented.  “Jimmy is still locked up in Tulsa.  Martin is somewhere up north fuckin' mooses or something.  And Sid's retired.”

Softly Sheridan nodded his head.  “Heard from Sid a few times.”

Dave nodded softly.  “Damn shame what's been happenin' to him.  Fuckin' Cancer.”

For a long moment, Sheridan's mind drifted to the old man.  He who was like a father to him when he didn't have one in his life.  The figure who helped to look out for him, helped to raise and shape him into the man he would eventually become.  The bastard had been as tough as nails, strong and intimidating.  Out of everything else in their life, all of the hazards and dangers, it would be cancer to do him in.

“You hear anything about his daughter?” Sheridan asked.

Dave shook his head.  “Not much.” He said.  “Heard she went off to college.  Came back after a bit to take care of him.”  A smirk came over his face.  “Maybe she'll drop by at the party tonight.”

A groan escaped Sheridan's lips.  “Don't tell me there's a party.”

“The fuck you think we ain't going to throw a welcome-home party for you?” Dave grinned.  “Mike thought of it, and the old ladies and screws jumped all over it.  Been fixing up the club house and cooking like crazy.  Even went out to that dump of a trailer you called a home to clean and make it all pretty for you.”

“I don't want to go to that shit.” Sheridan said, resting his head against the headrest as the wind blew upon his face.

~ ~ ~

Half way into his beer, he was already feeling the first touches of regret in his mind, pulsating with every vibration against his thigh.

A long, deep drag of the cigarette came between his lips.  The slow burn in the back of his throat welcomed, before being extinguished by the ambrosia that was a cold beer.  He savored the taste upon his tongue for a few moments, the tinge of nicotine mixed with the moist taste of hops upon his palate.  Heaven on earth...  For how long had he desired nothing more than a cold beer and cigarette?

It felt good.  It tasted good.  Even with the changes in the surroundings of his once favorite haunt, it was a welcomed change from the cell he once called home. 

There would be headaches in the morning.  Shit talking and questions asked about where he went off to, where he could have possibly went that was more fun and enjoyable than his own welcome home party.  Grumbles and rumbles of how some felt slighted by his absence.  Some of the other charter members might feel a bit sore, inconvenienced for making the long rides from wherever home was for them to see the jail bird who would never show up to the party.  Judging from the amount of vibrations from the alien phone in his pocket, buzzing almost incessantly with calls and messages, Sheridan felt sure the discontent was already in full bloom.

Let them wait, he thought to himself, taking another pull of the ice-cold goodness.  He'd done his time.  Did he not deserve a bit of peace and quiet?  Did he not deserve a chance to do something he wanted with his reclaimed freedom?

It would not be as if the company at the party would be any better, he mused to himself, glancing around at the bar he once thought of as a second home.

Weekend Riders.  Wannabes.   The sort of men and women who thought it was some sort of mark of cultural achievement, to have a motorcycle and a leather jacket, to ride their bikes and frequent hole-in-the-wall joints like The Den, drink their lite beers and go back to what could only be described as their normal lives.  The white picket fences.  The families waiting at home.  The nine-to-five jobs that no one cared about.

Was the Brotherhood any better?

From what he had heard, through the talks with Dave and his time behind bars, a clear picture had been formed in his mind.  The shambles and ruins of what the Club was once.  More boys than men, full of piss and vinegar, all talk and bravado.  Slinging meth on the streets.

What happened to the club he once knew?  What happened to the club he embraced and loved like a family?  In ten years, the club that once struck fear into the hearts of men and law enforcement alike, had been burned away by the fires of time.  What was left of the once famed club, the club he had sweated for, bled for, killed for, was reduced to nothing more but the cinders of a time forgotten.  Looked after by fools who didn't know what they were doing, who were all bark, no bite.

Would they do what he had done for the club?  Could they survive as he had survived?  It was doubtful, an uncomfortable pit in his stomach.  What was he going to do, he wondered, taking another long drag of the beer as he let his thoughts roam over the uncertain future
« Last Edit: September 08, 2016, 07:20:49 PM by GnothiSeauton »

Offline GnothiSeautonTopic starter

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Re: Gnothi's Stories Without Homes
« Reply #8 on: September 07, 2016, 12:35:40 AM »
Claiming

or, "A House of Swords"




Idea:  To sum up this idea in a nutshell, think of House of Cards set in Game of Thrones.  This is a story of one unlikely couple's rise to the top of the Westrosi politics together through any means or actions necessary.

My Character:  This is almost exactly a character that I will be using from my previous engagements in Game of Thrones groups here on the site.  His name is Elmo Volmark, of the Iron Islands, a man who seeks power and vengeance against those who have wronged him, and yearns to change history by bringing the Iron Isles back under his family's rule, as descendants of the extinct House Hoare.  More fleshed out info can be found here.

Your Character:  I had in mind that she is the bastard daughter of a Lyseni lord/nobleman, looked down upon and treated with some harshness by her father, and viewed as somewhat less desirable as compared to her sisters.  A woman who has not had the experience of love, affection, and attention, and one who is fiercely loyal and unafraid to do what it takes to protect those she loves.  I would love for someone to use this, but am more than happy to defer to your preferences and desires.

Theme/Outlook:  Essentially, I wanted to write with this a twisted romance of sorts between these two people.  He, who admires her spirit, who sees potential and beauty in her, she who loves that he loves her, and offers her the vengeance she had only dreamed of before.  Together, the two of them depend upon one another to right the wrongs against them, and climb the ladder of chaos to the Iron Throne.

This can be in an alternative universe, or set later in Westrosi history than the shows/books, or earlier.  I would ask that my partner be willing to engage in some world building, and play multiple NPCs with me in this story.  In the interest of fairness and openness, It should also be noted that I am playing him at present in a group game.





They made for a pitiful sight in their shameful march of defeat.

The procession was a slow one, made up of the unfortunate who knew what their lives were to become, the regretful march of a people who did not want to go willingly to such new lives.  Rich merchants.  Spoiled daughters.  Headstrong sons.  Weak old men and women.  Innocent and naive babes.  Ripped from their lives of comfort and leisure, to be made the unfortunate spoils.

Some here and there tried to fight.  Some tried to resist, making the brave, but foolish, choice to try and rush their new overlords.  Whether it was out of some sort of misplaced sense of pride, defiant to the end of their lives...  Or whether it was the laughable attempt to defend a loved one from the carnal lusts and desires of the men under his command...  Some were stupid enough to try and strike back, which Elmo Volmark could not help but to appreciate.

His men needed some more fight.

It had been an easy conquest for the men of the Isles, better than any could have imagined.  With the rising of the eastern sun across the horizon, so too did the sails and flag of the leviathan, landing upon the unguarded, deserted strip of serene beach in force.  All it took was an hour.  A simple turn of the hour glass, and victory was theirs.

The pillow princesses and pillow biters were of no match for the seasoned and blooded Iron Islanders.  What token fighting they put up at the onset of the invasion of the small village was nothing more than that of a pesky fly, buzzing about harmlessly but annoyingly so.  He had hoped for more of a fight, more of a battle...  His men had been starved for a good fight in their reaving.  Attacking and raiding a farm village of Lys had been hoped to provide the blood thirsty entertainment his men desired.

But judging from the screams of the more fairer sex across the small village, it seemed to his ears that some of his men were finding other sorts of entertainment.

It was too early to tell what sort of return upon the attack he and his men would receive when it was all complete.  Already a good deal of valuables and fruits had been turned up, some of his men going through the pile of jewels and precious metals with the hungry gleam in their eyes.  A good price could be found at home, where the Westrosi lords and ladies would pay good gold and silver for such items, regardless of their origins.  The slaves would be where the true wealth of such a venture would come from...

Sixty of the top choices would do.  The pretty, desirable women of the famed Valyrian stock and good, strong lads would be kept and stored down below, the others worked to death at the oars or offered to the Drowned God for good fortunes and travels.  Two of the three ships under his command would sail North for the slave ports of Tyrosh and Myr to offload their precious cargo. 

The Leviathan would sail back west, back to King's Landing, with the best treasures and fruits to be found as payment to the Throne.  The Dragon would have it's feast of riches, and that would be that.  The simple, and frustrating, cost of doing business.

And yet, there were some things the crown would not have, Elmo mused to himself, as he looked over the collection of books and scrolls.

The Magister had been a collector.  The collection considerable, with rare titles and pieces Elmo had only heard of in his upbringing at King's Landing.  Seeing some gave him pause as he drank the Arbor Gold in the seized cup of silver, pulling the rare and valuable titles down to be examined.

Some of his men might give him the occasional look, the rolling of their eyes, their lord the reader.  Those who were not as fortunate as he, to be raised on the Isles and in the Capitol.  The son of the Master of Ships had been taught to read and sail, groomed to one day take the position of his father.  Some of those who served in his command looked down upon that, seeing it as nothing but a past time of the greenlands.

But to him...  Though they might find it amusing, an odd quirk of their captain, none dared to mock the reaver to his face.  They knew the stories about him...  The tales...  The rumors...  They knew what Elmo One Eye was capable of...

Footsteps came through the open archway of the library, pausing respectfully, waiting in silence.

“What is it?” Elmo asked, his back turned to the fellow reaver as he thumbed through Wonders Made by Man.

“Riders, captain.” The familiar voice said.  “Looks to be a Lyseni Lord with a couple of Unsullied with a flag of truce.”

Softly Elmo snorted in amusement.  Could the lord be coming to ransom the city?  Come to claim some of the spoils?  Demand justice and peace?  Whatever it was, it should be entertaining at the very least, Elmo thought, placing the book in his possession off to the side.

“Invite them up.” He said, draining the last bit of his wine as he continued to inspect the various assortment of collected books in his possession.

Offline GnothiSeautonTopic starter

  • The Baddest Bitch in All the Realm. Mother of The Bieber. Defender of the Brotherfucking Faith. Captain of the Raven. Queen of Gilea. Lover of all things Kenneth Parcell and Lucielle Bluth.
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Re: Gnothi's Stories Without Homes
« Reply #9 on: September 19, 2016, 11:12:38 PM »
Don't Let Me Down (Seeking Female Characters) - Taken, November 20th, 2016
Don't Let Me Down




Idea:  This is one of my longest-standing ideas from when I first joined this site, and it's one that's been very near and dear to my heart.  It's a story about two former lovers, the love of each others' lives, who, after a sudden and abrupt seperation, reunite after years apart, with one of the women attempting to escape an abusive relationship.

My Character:  My character is going to be the victim of abuse.  She always knew she was different from the other girls in her early life, and it wasn't until college, and meeting your character, that she finally realizes who and what she is.  After falling in love with the woman, after knowing in her heart she wants to spend the rest of her life with her, her uptight, conservative, religious family steps in.  They keep her from seeing her, make her drop out of college and put her in gay conversion therapy and the like.  She is married to a man, one who is abusive.  After one night for years of marriage, she can't take it anymore, and runs away.

Your Character:  I saw this character as being a bit more of a butch, so to speak.  One who is gay, comfortable with who she is, and has always, despite attempts to get over her, can't get over the love of her life.

Theme/Outlook:  I saw this as a difficult reunion between the two of them, but still one that is rewarding for each other deep down.  I thought of my character being pregnant, but can change that.  This could also go in several directions, with perhaps her just running away from her husband, or having killed him, and is on the run.  I am more than open to discussing just about anything.




How many times had she looked at that number on the screen of her phone?  How many times had her thumb hovered over the green call button, on the precipice of reaching out, and reaching back, into the past?

It was different than the dozens and dozens of times before of recent memory.  Often had she looked at that number, reading the digital digits she had long since committed to memory, in the comfort of her home, always at home.  In the kitchen she had to keep immaculate.  In the small home office that was her own, or was so told to guests that came by.  In the bedroom, when he had trudged off, leaving her all alone with nothing but pain and misery to keep her company.

Pain and misery.   Her only friends in that life.  The only friends by her side through nearly all of her life.  Nearly all.

She had always thought about calling.  There were times when she felt so close, so very close to reaching out.  Once she did.  Once she felt so low, so upset, that she pressed Send.  Before it could be answered, before that call could be answered, and that familiar voice came over the speaker, Margo hung up, shutting off the phone completely and putting it in a drawer of a dresser, as far back as she could, as if afraid of the damned thing.

And she was afraid.  Afraid of opening that door.  Afraid of bringing about more pain, more misery, than she could have dealt with.  For both of their sakes.  But for her that night, her fear of Him was greater than anything else. 

Fear had driven her there, to the iHop just beyond the outskirts of the city.  Alone in a little booth, with nothing but the pitiful brown paper bag beside her.  Her possessions.  What little she had, what little she had wanted, tucked away in the contents of her bag.  Snatched and gathered up in a haze.  No time to think.  No time to consider.  Thinking always made her stop.  Considering what she was doing always made the fear of what he would do too strong to ignore.  Always, always, what nerve she had, what will she had when it came to leaving, was always dashed away by the thought of what he would do.

He had been so angry, so enraged, the one and only time he had caught her trying to leave him.  He had never hit her so hard, never hurt her, as much as he had that night.  Laying his fists into her as if she were but a punching bag.  No one ever left him, he said.  No one ever left Richard Snow. 

The bruises, the wounds, broken bones and injuries, all covered up, like they always were when it was serious.  It paid to have friends working hospitals and friends on the police.  A mugging incident.  Her own fault for going out late at night.  She had said so herself, lying in fear of what would happen otherwise.

She didn't think of him that night, wouldn't allow herself to think as she threw together some clothes and necessary items, shoving them into her bag before getting a cab.  Soon finding herself sitting there, alone in the little booth, wondering what she would do from there.

A part of Margo thought of going back home, hoping to go home before he came home.  She could put her things away, wash off the make-up she had placed over the bruises upon her face.  Perhaps, she thought, if he was waiting, he'd be lenient.  Have a little mercy if she came home on her own.  Unlikely, she thought, but a small hope. 

There had been no where else for her to go.  No place she could think of where she could find shelter, a place to hide and think of where to go, what to do.  What small amount of cash wouldn't last her long.  What family she had would be more likely to reach out to him, still thinking he the Golden Boy who had helped “save” their wayward daughter.  What friends, a loose term she used, were married to men who were his friends and family.  She had no one.  No one but a ghost of her past.

Thirteen years.

It seemed longer, so much longer.  A lifetime.  There had been so many times when she wanted to reach out, to just talk.  She'd gone through the trouble of hiring an investigator to search her out, to find the phone number she had long since committed to memory.  That desire to reach out, to explain, to just talk to her one last time had never left her, from the moment she was ripped away from her.

Would she even recognize her if she were to walk into the restaurant?  It was doubtful, with the large sunglasses on her eyes, the thinner, paler look she had.  Not the bright and bubbly girl, the adventurous woman who could be the life of the party.  That girl was gone, dead and buried under all of the painful abuse of her husband.

With no where else to go, no one else to turn to, who else was there?

Her fingers trembled, shook as she pressed Call and held the phone up to her ears.  It was a fool's hope, to hope that, in the middle of the night, some unknown call would be answered, but at that moment, it was the only hope Margo had. 

“Hi.” She would say simply as soon as the call was answered, her voice quiet, gentle and meek.  “It's Margo.”
« Last Edit: December 06, 2016, 11:09:22 PM by GnothiSeauton »

Offline GnothiSeautonTopic starter

  • The Baddest Bitch in All the Realm. Mother of The Bieber. Defender of the Brotherfucking Faith. Captain of the Raven. Queen of Gilea. Lover of all things Kenneth Parcell and Lucielle Bluth.
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Re: Gnothi's Stories Without Homes
« Reply #10 on: September 20, 2016, 10:05:50 AM »
Family Reunion (Seeking Male Characters) - Taken (September 21st, 2016)
Family Reunion



Idea:  This is based on my original idea entitled "Family Bonds".  It follows the reunion of a brother and sister, after years apart, following his sister's escape from the religious cult they had grown up within. 

It should be noted that this cult, this Church, is not like others.  It's focus and beliefs are deeply rooted in the belief that, not only are women expected to be subservient to men, but also that incestuous is encouraged and promoted, particularly between brother and sister as a way of finding salvation in life.

My Character:  I saw her as a younger woman, perhaps around seventeen or so, who is out in the real world, beyond the walls of the deeply guarded religious compound.  There's that sense of awe, naturally.  But instead of playing against a demure, meek young woman, I was hoping to write against a character who is deeply religious, who sees her brother as something of a heathen for his time away from the Church.  She wants to help him, turn him back to the faith, back to what is rightfully his.

Your Character:  I saw him who, as a young man, was exiled from the Church for his rejection of the beliefs and Church.  He's been on his own ever since, trying to make a living and life for himself, while dealing with the difficulties and memories of the life he left behind.  Ultimately though, he is up to you to create.

A bit of comedy is always welcome.

Theme and Outlook:  This could go in a number of different ways.  Perhaps the Compound was raided by law enforcement, and she managed to run out.  Maybe she ran away from the Church, away from a damning match, in order to find and "save" her brother.  A number of possibilities that I'm more than happy to discuss.  And yes, I'm lazy and copied/pasted this mostly from my other post here.




“So, what's your name, darlin'?” The man beside her asked during one of the lonely, quiet stretches of road.

She had expected there would have to be some sort of small talk to be made from the moment the big semi-tuck pulled up on the side of the highway at her hitched out thumb.  Ever since she got in, climbing up in the long, ankle-length dress, she had debated and contemplated just what she should, or could, say if asked about her life.

“Hannah.” She said, offering a meek, polite smile.

The man smiled through the gray beard, keeping his eyes on the open road in front of them.  “Hannah.” He said, testing the name on his tongue.  “A pretty name, for a pretty girl.”

A slight flush of color rose in her cheeks at the compliment.  She had always been called pretty back home, a comely young woman who many of the boys her age wished to have in their lives.  But something that had been only a short time ago, hours before felt like years and years past sitting there in the cab of the big rig. 

The driver, who had introduced himself as Tiny Tim in a joking manner when she first boarded the truck, the name a contrast to the big, large build of the savior behind the wheel, gave a glance over to her, doing, as many had in her few time on the run, a curious look at her clothing.  Ever since she had boarded the cabin that was scented with stale french fries and cigarette smoke, settling her frame in the worn leather of the passenger seat, Hannah could not help but to notice his gaze shifting from the road to her.  They were not unlike the looks, the gazes, the curious glances, she received upon her journey from the Compound. 

The glances and gawking at her ankle-length, long sleeve, throat-covering dress in of a dark blue, complete with a white bonnet (that had been tucked away by the time she had started hitch-hiking) were looks she had grown used to from the few trips and travels outside of the compound.  Some looked at her curiously, as if she were out of her mind, others as if she had stepped out of a time machine.  But Hannah, as always, as she had been taught, paid no thought to them.

“What's a pretty girl like you doin' out here?” 'Tiny Tim' asked.

That was a questions she had been prepared for, an answer of truth.  “I'm going to see my brother.” She answered, her brown eyes bright and hopeful.  “He doesn't know I'm coming.”

“Well ain't that somethin' special.” The old man remarked. 

It was something special indeed, Hannah thought to herself, her thumb idly stroking the old envelope through the material of her pocket.   He would not be expecting her, she knew.  She doubted whether he would be expecting anyone from his life back at the Compound.  If her mother's apparent lack of responses to his letters were any indication, he would not be expecting any family to come and see him anytime soon.

How he would react to seeing her, of all people, was something which Hannah couldn't plan for.  A constant unknown in the thoughts and planning that had brought her from the walls of the Church and Community.  Ten years had passed since she had last seen, or even heard, from her brother, before he chose a different path in life.  Before he got turned his back on his faith and family.  Exiled.  Banished.  What little knowledge she had of him came from the letters he sent her mother, the letters Hannah couldn't help but to sneak away every now and then to read and look over, to wonder of her brother and the life outside the Walls of the Church.

“You ain't from that... cult, or whatever it is... out around Nebraska?” Tiny asked, trying to make small talk on the surface, trying to broach the subject of her attire and obvious background.  “Real goddamn nightmare from what I heard on the news.  And then all the damn shit that's been goin on there for years...”

The soft, meek smile upon Hannah's lips gently faded.  What was she supposed to say to that?  “I heard about it.” She said quietly.  “I heard it was bad.”

Tiny snorted in disbelief and amusement.  “Polygamy.  Brothers marrying sisters.  What the fuck, man?” He asked, shaking his head, his eyes glancing over towards Hannah, seemingly trying to gauge her reaction.  “We're in all this shit all over the goddamn world, and we should be taking care of the nutbags here in our own goddamn country.”

A soft nod of understanding came from her.  “At Jessup Creek, those sorts of people would have been castrated for their unnatural beliefs..” She lied, struggling with her own conscious to speak out against her own people, her own family, her own beliefs.

It felt sickening, an act of betrayal to talk the way as she had, and to listen to her companion go on and on about how disgusting places such as The Church were, to listen to how relieved he was to hear she was not one of “those freaks”.  More than once she found herself offering up a silent prayer for her transgressions, for speaking ill of the true path in life, for her companion, Tiny Tim, for forgiveness for him in his blind and ignorant ways...

She was seventeen, not too long away from her eighteenth...  It should have been a time for celebration, a time for great importance and ceremony...  Instead, she was on the run.  On the run from her family, from the life that had been thrust upon her. 

All for the Word of God.

Just thinking of going to see him, her own flesh and blood, made her feel uneasy.  Cast Outs were not unheard of, even as rare as they were in the Church, but few dared to talk about them, or even bring up their name.  From the sacred records were their names stricken, any and all trace of them removed.   He was not the first to be cast out for his beliefs about the Church and the doctrine, nor was he the last.  They were a godless people, straying away from the true and sacred path in life, the castaways were, even worse than the Outsiders, the people who grew up without even knowing the one true and sacred path.

Her Momma and Poppa would have taken the switch to her bottom and made her bleed for doing what she was doing, for even considering going to run to her brother.  But they were not there to punish her.  A part of her, deep down, liked to think that, if they knew why she was doing what she was doing, why she ran away, to go to him, they would be merciful.  That they would forgive her for the righteousness she was trying to bring into the world.

It had taken a few more hours of listening to her only friend, the old trucker, go on and on about the world that had been so strange and foreign to her ears and eyes.  Hannah had only a taste back in the compound, when she was allowed on a few small trips into the small town outside the walls of the Church to buy provisions and offer prayers.  And yet for Hannah, seeing was more powerful than hearing.

She had been in a stunned silence, a mild sense of shock, as her eyes looked out of the window of the truck.  It wasn't a big city, she was told, suburbs her companion had said when she asked what city it was (as if she knew the difference!), but it certainly did not seem that way to her eyes.  The bright lights, neon signs advertising all sorts of stores and restaurants.  Hannah had heard of such places before, to be sure, from the lips of her Grandfather and other Holy Men, of the evils and temptations which lurked behind those bright, colorful signs, but she couldn't help but to think they were pretty.

Would he see her as pretty?  The thought troubled her as she looked out the window, entranced by the bright, shininess of the world.  She had been a young thing back then, a little whisp of a person, innocent in the ways of life, in the ways of the Church.  He had left her as a child, and at that moment, that uncertain, frightening moment in time, she was coming to him as a woman, trying to make him see the light, trying to bring him home.

Time would be needed.  Time would be necessary, in order to help him heal, to see the light.  For ten years, he had been blinded, corrupted by the world that lay outside the true light of God. 

Tiny Tim had gotten her as close as he could to where the address was, half a mile away if the woman at the gas station had been truthful and precise.  She had been more than willing to walk the distance, crossing the streets and busy roads of the town, following the directions as best as she could before finally arriving at the Westley Apartments.  Her heart was racing, hands nervously wringing themselves as she climbed the flight of steps before coming to a stop in front of Apartment 43.

Nervously did she knock, struggling to keep her hands from shaking as she took a deep breath and prayed for an answer.
« Last Edit: September 21, 2016, 01:39:37 PM by GnothiSeauton »

Offline GnothiSeautonTopic starter

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Re: Gnothi's Stories Without Homes - Seeking Male, Female, and Trans Characters
« Reply #11 on: September 21, 2016, 12:35:28 PM »
Domestic Servitude




Idea:  This is one of my more ambitious ideas, and one that I've had up and down success with in the past.  It's always been one of my favorites, and is one that I've been wanting to do for some time.  Essentially, the story revolves around an open minded, kinky  couple, two individuals who love one another deeply, who have had success on multiple fronts except where it counts:  starting a family.  Everything that could be done had been done, to no success.  It's on one of those frustrating nights when one of them comes up with the idea:  bringing in a live-in submissive as an unwitting surrogate.  This story would follow that attempt, and the unforseen romance and difficulties that follow.

My Character:  Two for the price of one!  After so much frustration and lack of success in trying to find someone to write the couple, I'm deciding to once again take on the mantle of writing both characters.  These two are an older, successful couple.  He, an accomplished writer, she a tough, respected lawyer.  There is an age difference between the couple, and am happy to discuss and change faces if need be.

Your Character:  This story calls for a more naive, eager to please submissive.  One who wants to live life, explore the world, and herself.  In this couple, she could see the dream that she wants, an experienced couple willing to help her learn and grow.  It's your character.

Theme/Outlook:  I saw this as a decay of one relationship, and the formation of another, all because of one's misguided plans.  There is pregnancy involved, so please keep that in mind.  Age difference as well, but I am open to discussing that.  This is a story about three people, with a blossoming romance centered around the gentleman and the young submissive.

Everything is up for discussion.






Euan Ryan

It had been years since Euan Ryan had been in such a restaurant.

By no means was it the sort of place he had become accustomed to over the years.  Where he had been used to dining in some of the more elegantly decorated restaurants and eateries that were scattered about Manhattan, the Italian restaurant he found himself in was different.  Though it did have a cozy atmosphere, some remote familiarity, it felt in a sense something akin to being plastic.  Manufactured upon a whole-scale, lacking a sense of authenticity.  And yet, it was not something to be frowned upon in his mind.

Being in the establishment, named Michelangelo's, brought about a subtle feeling of nostalgia, a touch of a smile upon his lips as he reminisced.  As a young man in college, working his way through his studies, it was the sort of restaurant that one could hope to visit with a date.  And as he thought of such memories, here and there his blue eyes drifted across tables of the small-town restaurant, many of which were occupied of couples of various ages and backgrounds.  It made him think back to a time in his life when he was working his way through the world, depending upon paycheck after paycheck week to week just to survive.

How long had it been, he wondered, since he had last been in such a place?  Twenty years?  Thirty?  He could not remember.  At his fifty seven years, time seemed to make the memories of the past swirl together into a blur of images gone by.  Whenever it was, whether it was twenty or thirty years, it was most assuredly long ago, back before he had finished his first book, back before he put pen to paper.

Normally, to think back upon his past, particularly those difficult years of struggling and finding his place in the big, vast city, was not something he thought of fondly.  But surrounded by the plasticness of the place, from the rubber vines that decorated the faux vineyard décor, to the cheap, laminated menus that were smudged with the fingerprints of diners past, it brought about a sense of familiarity and comfort that had been absent for some time.

A good omen, he hoped.

And while he was comfortable upon the faux leather upholstery of the semi-circle booth, it was clear that his wife was not.

Despite the attempts of polite calmness, Euan had known Abigail better enough to know that a part of her was cringing deep down at her unfamiliar surroundings.  The others might not have noticed, their server oblivious when it was announced they did not carry any of her favored wines, but Euan could detect it always and immediately, bringing a soft smirk to his lips when he watched the dismay within her eyes.

Did she ever imagine that she would be in such a state?  Did either of them, considering how much time and debate had been spent upon the matter?  After such a stalwart defense of her plan she had put up to his initial opposition?

He could see it in her eyes, watching as her chocolate irises fell upon the menu in hand.  The look of concentration, of mild intensity, as she looked over it did not go missed.  That she was trying to decide between the dishes that would only be mediocre to their more traveled palates never crossed Euan's mind.  He knew what she was thinking.  He knew what his wife was feeling.  In truth, he too felt the same way she did as the two of them sat there, waiting for their third.

“You're nervous.” dryly observed Euan, a faint smile upon his lips.

Abigail Ryan

Abigail turned her gaze, the gaze that had so often seen through her client's hearts and lies, to her husband with a mild accusatory heat to them.  The tone, that dry, as-a-matter-of-fact way that he spoke had seemed to be brimming with his type of humor, to see her unsettled and nervous.

But the fire died away in the silence, the absence of another remark from his lips soothing.  He was anxious too, she thought to herself.  “A little bit.” She admitted, adverting her gaze to the bottle of cheap, forgettable wine as she poured herself a glass.

That she admitted her nervousness of the situation was not something either of them failed to appreciate.  For Abigail Ryan of all people, the lioness of the courtroom, the savior for many of Wall Street's top financial firms, to admit that she was nervous, when so often in the past she'd rather die than to give off that impression of weakness, was a major moment that neither of them missed.

“I am too.” He admitted, watching as she brought the glass to her lips.  “It feels odd, to have the tables turned on us like this I suppose.”

A snort of mild derisive amusement came from Abigail.  “I hate this feeling.”

“I'm sure they did too.  In the beginning, at least.”

Softly Abigail nodded her head in an absentminded agreement.  Her head turned, looking out to the window in the distance, and the rain soaked parking lot of the strip mall beyond.  “This one is different.” She said, her hand idly toying with a corner of the file folder that sat between the two of them upon the bench.  “There's a lot more riding on this one than the others.”

Euan sat silently in agreement for a moment.  Both knew the stakes.  This one would be different from the others that had come and left in their life together.  This young woman meant more, held more value, than all the others combined.  He knew that.  Abigail knew that.  The young woman did not.  “She didn't strike me as the sort who would hold things up by wanting to read and talk to lawyers.” Euan remarked quietly. 

A gentle smile crept across her lips.  “And if she does, we throw enough money at her to shut her up.” She said as she turned to her husband, looking to that older face she had fallen in love with, that beacon of calm serenity in a turbulent, stormy world.  She could remember, with such vividness, the long nights in which they had talked and debated this moment, going back and forth until dawn on many occasions.

And yet, despite that, he was still there.  He was still with her.  Still the rock she wanted and needed.  In that moment she was reminded of how and why she fell in love with him all those years ago on that miserable December night.  Why the two of them were perfect for one another.

Her hand reached over, taking his into her own.  “It's the best way.” She said, giving his hand a squeeze.

In that moment, despite the lingering doubt in the back of his mind, the questions he felt in his heart, he could only smile and nod in agreement to her statement.  It was the best way, it was her way, this idea that had sprung up in the middle of the night so many months ago.  She had wanted him on her side, and needed him to be on her side.  The woman he loved, the missing part in his life.

“It will work.” He said, raising her hand, her knuckles, to his lips.  “I believe in us.  I believe in this.”

The subtle look of reassurance as a comfort to both of them.  They were in it together, the two of them, just as it had been from the very beginning.

Offline GnothiSeautonTopic starter

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Lessons to Live By



Idea:  This is the inverse of the story above entitled Life Lessons.

This idea is focused upon the adulterous relationship between a teacher and one of her former students.  What begins as a serendipitous one night stand begins to turn into something more than that as the two of them navigate the difficulties of their feelings while being in relationships with other people.

My Character:  My character is an older female, in her early to mid forties.  She's a married woman, with kids, who, sometimes, just needs to get away.  Her marriage has been hitting a dry spell, her career as a teacher has been more demanding than ever.  But she's comfortable and happy with her life.  She loves her kids, loves her husband, despite the stresses.  And she loves her career as a teacher, teaching young minds and inspiring them to grow, a passion that comes out in her teaching.

Your Character:  Your character would be a younger male in his mid twenties, a former student of hers who was one of her favorites and one who was a good kid in school. 

Themes and Outlook:  One of the twists I had in mind was that this young man works at her husband's publishing firm, unknown to either of them until they reunite at the office Christmas party.  I would really like to explore the relationship between the two of them, while they are in the middle of relationships with other people.  I think it could be a fascinating thing to write, that struggle between the two of them, that competition with each others' significant other for love and attention.





Bethany Hamlin

The Crawford in the heart of Downtown hadn't been her first choice in accommodations.  On those special, rare nights, she liked to splurge on herself a bit, dipping into her savings for luxury.  Most often, it was the Ritz that she booked herself into, seizing upon the spa and fine dining offered to unwind, where almost everything could be had with just the pressing of a button.  But as booked as it was in the coming chill of November, she had to set her sights lower, and lower.

Spending the evening in the lounge of the Crawford, or any sort of bar/lounge, had not been her first choice.  The thought of spending a  just a few hours in the spa had been damn appealing.  But even she had to admit to herself...  Just stepping into the lounge bar made Bethany Hamlin feel as if what remaining tension and stress that had clung to her insides had been expelled with a soft, gentle breath.

She walked gracefully, with a quiet confidence in every step while navigating through the patrons.  A few eyes turned in her direction as she went past.  The little black dress that hardly ever saw the light of day from inside the back of her closet clung to her slender figure in a flattering way.  It brought a certain flush of color to her cheeks, to feel eyes upon her in such a fashion, a feeling that was oddly comforting, soothing in her age.  A reassuring note that she still had it.  They could look all they wanted, think what they wanted to think.  None of them would be lucky with her.  None of the men who looked at her in such a fashion ever did when she treated herself to such a night.

Some might try.  Some might be brave enough, undeterred by the wedding ring upon her finger.  Casual flirting, a few remarks here and there that only made the evening all the more entertaining for her.  Bethany didn't mind the flirting.  Not at all, on such nights.  They were a welcomed change, a comforting and sometimes amusing twist to the evening that was all about taking a break from the stresses and frustrations of the life that awaited her at home.

“A bourbon, neat, please.” She said to the bartender, a soft pleasant smile upon her face as she took a seat at the bar.

A breath escaped her lips.  Eyes closed softly, the corners of her lips gently curling into a soft smile.  For the moment, Bethany just wanted to savor the moment of being free and on her own for the evening.

No cooking dinner for the family.  No having to go over the girls' homework.  No great and grand battle for the almighty power of the television remote.  No worksheets to grade, and certainly no boring, idiotic papers to read over.  The one night out of the year where she left the life of a mother and wife, put away the career of a teacher, and was simply just herself.  Doing what she wanted to do, without having to worry about homework or dinner or anyone else's schedule but her own.

The sip of the searing, and soothing, alcohol presented to her only made the splendid reality of her night all the more real in her mind.  A soft, gentle sigh of contention came from deep within her, feeling the muscles of her body relax and unwind with the single sip.

Me-Nights did not usually take place so soon after the beginning of another school year of teaching English.  The once-a-year night where she treated herself, where she cut herself away from all of the stresses and frustrations of home and work so often were closer to the end of the year, where the rush of students trying to make last minute miracles with their grades, when she had to prepare herself for what was often the depressing, draining prospect of reading over so many finals essays and tests. 

Another sip of the soothing alcohol, another shovel of dirt over the stresses and frustrations of her mind.  But for the life of her, she needed her night earlier than usual.  Any chance to get out of the house, to get away from everything, and just be free.

If only for a night...

Offline GnothiSeautonTopic starter

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Don't Let Me Down (2) (Seeking Female Characters) - Taken, November 20th, 2016
Don't Let Me Down




Idea:  Again, this is another inverse of a previous idea, where I would be playing the other character.

This is one of my longest-standing ideas from when I first joined this site, and it's one that's been very near and dear to my heart.  It's a story about two former lovers, the love of each others' lives, who, after a sudden and abrupt seperation, reunite after years apart, with one of the women attempting to escape an abusive relationship.

My Character:  My character is a lesbian female police officer.  She's comfortable with who she is, her struggles in life helping to shape and strengthen her.  She's a tough, comforting presence, but one who still wrestles with the demons of her past.

Your Character:  Your character would be a married female who's in an abusive marriage.  Sexuality is up to you, as is her past and background.  My original thoughts were a woman from a deeply religious family who, after finding out about the relationship, cut the girl off completely (my character would not know what is going on), and is sent to a religious camp to sort of pray the gay away.

Theme/Outlook:  I saw this as a difficult reunion between the two of them, but still one that is rewarding for each other deep down.  This could also go in several directions, with perhaps her just running away from her husband, or having killed him, and is on the run.  I am more than open to discussing just about anything.




There were few things in the world that could ruin a night after a long shift for Gwendolyn. 

It was her time to relax and unwind, her moment to rest and ease her body and mind from the stresses and demands that came with the job.  The black and blue uniform was exchanged for soft, cozy pajamas.  The weapon and radio on her person turned in for a cigarette and something strong to numb herself into a comfortable stupor of relaxation.  She would settle herself in on the couch, after taking care of Sparkplug and feeding herself, the booze and nicotine soothing as she lost herself in this show or that show, feeling the worries of the world slip away into a blissful nothingness.

It was hard to jolt her from that routine after a shift.  The phone was so often turned off, cut off from the outside world.  The curtains and blinds in the windows closed to dissuade any neighbors coming over to pay her an unexpected visit.  Those nights after a long shift were supposed to be calming, relaxing.  Instead, that night was anything but calm and relaxing.

For the longest time, Gwendolyn Miller sat in silence, staring at the paper that sat upon the coffee table before her.  A seemingly simple piece of paper.  Against the dark, worn wood of the table, the paper stuck out brilliantly with it’s pale yellow hue.  Her eyes were focused so intently upon it, staring through the haze of cigarette smoke that ever so gracefully danced upon the warm summer night air.  The seemingly simple piece or paper, with it’s “WHILE YOU WERE OUT…” title bold and black against the yellow stationary, with it’s scribble of a phone number and a vague name, had long since been committed to memory from the long hours spent staring at it.  Even though it seemed like just another piece of paper, a piece of office stationary, for Gwendolyn words could not do true justice to the meaning of that damned little piece of paper.

She had thought it was nothing at first, when she picked up her mail from the little cubby hole at the station.  A piece of paper that had just been another piece of paper.  Sometimes her neighbors called, left a message asking for her to check out this or that.  Sometimes it was a friend of her father's reaching out to connect.  Sometimes it was nothing more than just junk.

How long had it been since she had heard from her?  Too long, she thought to herself.  A lifetime...  For so long, the name that had been written onto the paper in the dull blue ink had haunted her.  A phantom that was nothing more than a thought, a memory in the back of her mind.  Until that night, when she looked at the paper with a sense of dread, of excitement, of anxiety, of pain...

The first thought that crossed her mind, as she settled in at home on the couch, looking over the old mail and messages, had been that the paper was nothing more than some joke.  A cruel joke.  She would not have put it past any of the guys on the squad to try and pull some sort of joke on the only woman on the small force. 

But that thought, that possibility, was only fleeting.  She told no one about her...  Not when the pain still felt too real, too deep, even after so many years. 

What was she doing, calling and looking for her?  Why would she try to reconnect after so many years?  Why, after the way things were left?  Why, after so many letters that went unanswered, so many calls that went ignored?

Gwendolyn took another long drag of the cigarette, her hand trembling.  For so long, she had tried to put the love of her life out of her head, out of her mind, out of her heart.  For so long, she tried to move past the one that had hurt her so much, who still haunted her for so many years...  She went out, dated, drank and fucked, tried to do everything and anything she could to put the past behind her like her love had...

A part of her screamed to tear the paper up and throw it away.  Destroy it.  She was reminded of how many nights were spent crying, nights full of pain, wishing her carebear was still there with her.  Could she open herself up to that again?

Her fingers shook as she dialed the number on the phone.  A sigh of emotion escaped her lips as she hit the call button, bringing the phone to her ear to call the love of her life who destroyed her life.
« Last Edit: December 06, 2016, 11:10:18 PM by GnothiSeauton »

Offline GnothiSeautonTopic starter

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Owed




Idea:  Another inverse of another idea of mine, entitled Owned, listed above.

This idea is intended to be a slow burn of a psychodrama.  A woman who wants her freedom, and a man who wants her.  Following a few encounters together through their normal relationship of an escort and her client, the young lady comes to depend upon her client for shelter, food, and protection.  It's a mutually beneficial relationship for a time, but what happens when they both eventually want more out of each other?  For her, it's her freedom, her chance to do more of what she likes in the form of her career.  For him, he just wants more of her that is so often isolated.

It's not going to be instantaneous.  Again, I intend for this to be a slow burn.

My Character:  The character I am going to be writing is one that I've been wanting to write for some time.  He's a family man, loving and caring, attentive at home to his wife and family.  Successful in his career, becoming a federal judge in the U.S. Justice System.  But despite having his career and family, there's always been something missing in his life...

Your Character:  Your character would be a younger (late teens, early twenties) female escort.  I would love it if the character was not one who was sad or depressed about their career, but rather feels empowered and enjoys what she does.

Theme/Outlook:  With this being a slow burn, I wanted to explore the adulterous relationship, that begins as business, turns personal, and becomes toxic.




They sat around the glass conference table acting like children.  The voices of the young law clerks and secretaries waged a battle for dominance over one another.  Cases were sited for one side, cases were sited for the other.  Legal opinions and court decisions read over and over again.  Papers were rifled through on the table that was filled with law books, boxes of files, and copious amounts of legal pads.  The battle field, he liked to call it, that little space of a conference table that was taken up as either side went on in arguments.  All in an attempt to persuade more to their prospective sides in the case that was before them. 

But for the one person whose opinion was the only one that mattered, Judge Travis Williams had long ago made up his mind about the case at hand.

He could have stepped in at any moment.  With a simple look, he could have quieted the young minds, put an end once and for all in his chambers to the heated and animated discussion like so many before it.  But truth be told, he actually enjoyed watching them go at it with their knowledge and blossoming expertise as they tried to gain his favor in the debate, as well as his praise in their young, developing legal careers.

In some ways he was reminded of his children when he sat at the head of the table, watching his clerks and researchers argue their sides over the case that was the point of discussion.  The way they went at each other, trading facts and arguments, lobbing opinions and decisions at one another, felt primal in a way, as if he were watching a savage fight take place before his eyes.  They would tear each other apart, fight and grapple with each other, all in the competitive race for his favor and praise. 

Was this how a king felt, watching their knights fight and joust, all for his entertainment?  Was this how a Roman plutocrat felt when watching his gladiators fight, all for his favor?

He traded a glace over to his right.  Doris, the only person in the room who was over fifty like him, mirrored the soft smirk upon her face.  She knew all too well he was enjoying the slug fest taking place in front of them.

Travis felt no need to step in and settle the heated debate.  It was entertaining for him, and good for them.  Let them bloody each other with their pointed remarks and rhetoric.  Some might relish the moment, and walk away victorious.  Some might feel nothing but contempt for their fellow clerk, and walk away scorned and defeated.  They would need the experience, if they wanted to carry on after their clerkship with him expired, and they went on to the real world, the rough and miserable world of law firms and legal practice.

A part of him yearned to get into the fight himself.  He was reminded of his own days as a clerk.  That first day, feeling so high and mighty, so established, having been selected to clerk in his first year out of law school.  His reality check came soon enough, his first day that had begun in such a confident, good way, at the top of the world, feeling like he had hit rock bottom by the end, getting chewed up and spit out by the others in his group.  He had been so young, so stupid back then. 

But it was these fights, these arguments, that made clerking fun.  Finally put to the test, where your arguments truly mattered in the private chambers, trying to sway the judge to one side or the other.  These argumentative conclaves were the fires that forged you into the student and advocate of the law, strengthening you, hardening you, making you into the better lawyer and, if you were lucky enough, judge, in the end. 

One thing he did not enjoy, however, was how late and tedious the meetings could run.

It was getting late, he thought, with a look to the gold watch upon his wrist.  Far later than he had anticipated.  Did he want to sit in traffic for hours?  Helene would tell him to stay in the city, that it would not be worth the two hour drive through commuter traffic and frigid weather conditions just for a few hours of rest before having to get up early and start all over again.

The clerks arguing their cases hardly noticed in their fervent arguments that Travis rose from his seat.  Gently he gave Doris a nod to the phone in his hand.  A silent understanding passed between them as he slipped out of the conference room and into the quiet serenity of his adjoining office.

Slowly he wandered over to the windows, his eyes looking out across the snowy landscape of Philadelphia.  Already traffic was becoming a nightmare, the streets below ensnared in entanglements and accidents. 

“I was wondering when I was going to here from you.” Helene's voice said through the speaker of his phone.  The dry tone, tinged with amusement, brought a smirk to Travis's face.

“I lost track of time in the War Room.” He explained, his blue eyes looking to the dark, heather gray sky.  “I suppose you know what I'm going to say, huh?”

“I suppose you know what I'm going to say too.”

Travis chuckled softly.  “Did I miss anything?  Other than you, of course.”

Helene snorted softly in amusement.  “Not really.  Kevin's got a friend staying over for dinner.  Beth is locked in her room, deep in midterm studying.  Catelyn got an B on her science project, and won't stop hounding me for a puppy.” Helene reported.  A sigh escaped her lips.  “I don't know about the puppy.”

“You say that now.  But if we get one, you'll be all over it like it was your baby.”

“I could see that.”

Travis grinned to himself as he took another glance down at his watch.  “Listen.  I've got to get back in there before someone kills someone.  But we can talk about the puppy thing when I get home tomorrow.”

“I'm looking forward to it.” Helene said, the slight playfulness in her voice unmistakable.  “Stay safe, please?  I'm not ready to do the whole widowed, single mother thing.”

A chuckle escaped his lips.  “I'll do my best.” He said.  “I love you.  Stay warm.”

“You too.” She said.  “I love you too.”

With the call ended, Travis remained at the window, looking out at the snowbound city, debating his next course of action.  Did he want to spend the night alone?  Stuck in the city with nothing but himself and work to keep him company?  How long had it been since he treated himself, Travis asked, searching through his memory, and soon his phone.

Too long, he thought, as he scrolled through his contacts.  Far too long, he thought, as he pressed send on the highlighted number saved in his phone.

“Artemis Associates.” The cool, young female voice said over the phone.  “How may I direct your call?”

“I'd like to speak to Patricia, please.” Travis said promptly, not missing a beat as he continued.  “Tell her it's Sven Lewis in City Center.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Lewis.” The young woman said.  “One moment please.”

Patiently Travis waited, idly listening to the piano jazz music playing through the phone.  His mind drifted.  What was he in the mood for that night?  For the life of him, he couldn't decide, torn between so many possibilities, though he was so often hesitant to have repeat encounters.  What could he have to sate himself?

A soft clicking sound, and the music ended, shifting as the receiver on the other end was lifted from it's cradle and brought forth.  “Well well, it's a pleasure to hear from you, Mr. Lewis.” Patricia greeted, a slight mock in the casual, business-like voice.  “I do hope this is a my-sort of business call rather than your-business call.”

Travis grinned softly.   “No no, nothing like that, thankfully.” He said.  “How are you this frigid afternoon?”

“Oh, you know me, I'm staying warm and cozy.” She said with a grin in her voice.  “How can I help you, Travis?”

“I'm snowbound in the city tonight, it looks like.” He said, his eyes looking down upon the mess that was traffic in the city below.  “I was thinking it would be nice to have someone to stay and keep me warm and comfortable tonight.”

“Say no more.  It's on me tonight, after everything you've done for me in the past.” She said.  “Was there anything in particular you were in the mood for tonight?”

“I have quite a few things in mind, if I'm being honest.” Travis laughed softly, picking at his tie.  “How about you pick something for me tonight.  You know what I like.”

A sensuous laugh came from the other end.  “Young.  New.  Yeah, I know what you like.” She said, with what sounded like a drag of a cigarette.  “I think I might have a girl in mind for you.  Though, if it gets around that you came calling, I know some girls will be upset I didn't send them to you.”

“Oh, I'm sure.” He said in a sarcastic fashion.  “I'm going to be staying at the Ambassador in all likelihood.  Have your girl come find me in the Blue Room at seven, if that'll work.”

“I'll move heaven and earth for you, sweetheart.” Patricia said.  “Anything for you.”

~ ~ ~

It was a little bit before seven when Travis was seated in a booth overlooking the city.  There was hardly a crowd in the intimate, cozy dining room of the Blue Room. 

Only a few of the many tables had people dining or drinking.  Others like him, he supposed, stuck in the city with no place to go.  It was a quiet, intimate place, one that made Travis feel all the more comfortable as he sat upon the blue leather of the booth, and drank his sparkling water in a patient sort of silence.

Quietly he drank.  His thoughts drifted to the pile of cases that sat upon the docket in his mind, the crowded calendar that only continued to grow.  Between work and home, it was nights such as this which he savored to the fullest.  Nights to himself where he could unwind and relax, to be sated and pleased, rather than having to be the one who served.

It would be a good night, he thought.  He was determined to make it so as he sat and waited for his companion for the evening, whoever she was, to join him.

Offline GnothiSeautonTopic starter

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Desperation (Seeking Male Characters) - Not Looking Currently
Desperation




Idea:  This idea is based off of one of my ideas entitled The Arrangement.  It's essentially about a couple who, after difficulties and complications in trying to have a child, reach out to the husband's brother to help and be a sperm donor.  But it's not as easy as it might sound.

My Character:  My character is a female in her early to mid thirties.  A confident woman, successful in life, who is haunted by her inability to conceive with her husband.  It's a vulnerability that hurts her, that fills her with doubt, and is something she wants to get over. 

Your Character:  I saw him as being the sort of black sheep of the family.  Quiet, reserved, not the partying douche sort of guy.  Age and appearance up to you.

Theme/Outlook:  I saw the two of them, the wife and brother-in-law, having sex on the first night together.  It's an arrangement, one that's supposed to be business, but end up falling for one another, and the relationship that develops threatening to destroy their other relationships.




Bernard and Judith Vance had always valued traditionalism and manners.  It was the way the two of them had been raised, putting a good deal of stock and belief in bringing out the best in themselves and each other.  They married not long after finishing their college careers, and enjoyed a few peaceful, romantic years together in bliss before making their little family a little bit bigger.  Their children were raised up in lives to be the best that the could be, and to always present the best version of themselves.

To do their best in school.  To always be courteous and polite.  To be punctual and keep their promises whenever they could.  To believe in themselves, and their family. 

Annabelle Vance had done just that in her life.  She put her all into her studies as a child, as a teenager, and as an adult.  Academia had been something she excelled at, always achieving top marks and excellent feedback upon her assignments.  In her career at one of the better technology firms in the city, that same drive and ambition in her studies at school, that need to do her best and be her best, propelled her up and up and up in the ranks of the firm. 

She had a good life, she had to admit, even as she sat there, alone at the table in the busy restaurant.  She had a good career, a fulfilling one.  A job that she was proud to have, one that she enjoyed, unlike so many others of her age and social circles.  Her marriage to Mark was a loving one, a happy one...

The thought of Mark made her reach for the glass of wine in front of her.  A greedy, hard swallow came of the calming libation.  Her blue eyes were closed for a moment, a calming breath drawn from deep within.  It would do no good to be upset, she thought to herself.  Thinking of Mark, of the spot she had been put in that night because of him, would only stoke the flames of upset anger she felt within herself.

Mark... 

She loved Mark.  She loved him ever since she first met him.  Their first meeting would forever be in her memory, that cold, snowy night at the college bar not far from the University Commons, the shared awkwardness of being the third wheels with their friends...  How the two of them walked back together across the snowy grounds, arms linked together, slightly inebriated as they talked and laughed, laughed and talked.  That magical connection between the two of them had stayed ever since that first night together. 

He had been like her.  In some ways, he reminded her of her father.  A good, loving, tender man.  One who put his all into his work and family.  Always there.  And yet...

She loved her husband.  She truly did.  He had always been there through the difficulties of their lives, had always stuck close to one another as they tried, again and again, to conceive.  Mark had always been there for every Doctor's appointment, every test, every fertilization treatment. 

But he wasn't there that night.

The temptation to call him up was strong.  The urge to call her husband and leave a long, scathing message fueled on by the wine in the bottle at her side was an alluring thought.  Annabelle could still hear, with such vivid clarity, his words when he called her.  Waiting until the last moment, as she sat waiting in her car, parked in the parking lot of the restaurant, psyching herself up for what was to come, for what was to be asked...

“I can't make it, Anna...  I got tied up with work...” He said, his excuse not fooling his wife as she sat in the dying heat inside her car, steaming in anger.  “I'm sorry, sweetheart.  I really am...  Let me call him and cancel.”

“No.” She had said, her voice adamant, a struggle to keep calm and her voice even.  “I'm already here.  I might as well meet him.”

She had said nothing more to him after that.  The call was disconnected, her phone turned off and left in the depths of her purse.  Tears threatened to spill.  Tears of anger, of rage, of frustration, all held back.  It would have been easy to give in to Mark's offer, to reach down into her bag, pull out her phone, and tell him to call it off.  She could go home, defeated and dejected, as she had so often, robbed once again of her chance to put it all behind her.

But Annabelle refused to do so.

She was tired of doctor visits.  She was tired of being poked and prodded by this specialist and that specialist.  She was tired of worrying of what others were saying and thinking.  She was tired of putting herself through such hell.

One hurdle remained.  One obstacle sat before her.  It would be a long night, an agonizingly slow, painful, night.  One full of waiting, full of anxiety, full of discomforting and disquieting thoughts.  But she had to do it.  For Mark.  For herself.  For the child she always wanted.  She had to do it.
« Last Edit: December 07, 2016, 12:00:12 AM by GnothiSeauton »

Offline GnothiSeautonTopic starter

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Rent to Own (Seeking Any Gender Characters) - Not Looking Currently
Rent to Own




Idea:  This is another story of a sex worker and the relationship with a client.  It's pretty straight forward, but would like to explore some deep emotional depths with adultery, relationship conflicts, possessiveness, etc.

My Character:  I wanted to write a young male prostitute.  One who is in college, who does the line of work for nothing more than the pay, and a chance at a better life.  It's something that I want to explore from the male perspective, the struggle with balancing his life with what he does in private.

Your Character:  Totally up to you.  I was hoping for a richer client, and would absolutely love it if it were a male client, but I'm flexible and am up and willing to hear anything you might have in mind.

Theme/Outlook:  Again, it's a pretty straight forward story.  I wanted to explore the emotional depths between the two of them, develop characters, and let it grow in an organic sort of way.




The water in the sink drowned out the sound of light and whimsical piano jazz playing through.  On occasion, a few of the other patrons of the restaurant came in to use the restroom, heading to the urinals or the private stalls.  They made their business quick and efficient, not wanting to spend more time than they had to in the restroom.  But Ethan Paulson stayed for a few long moments, and kept his eyes ahead as he stood before the marble counter, eyes locked in upon himself and his reflection. 

Here and there he made the necessary adjustments.  The brushing away of a stray hair or piece of lint.  A running of the comb through his hair.  An adjustment of his white dress shirt, a quick fix and straightening of his tie.  His hands would run over his face, making sure it was clean shaven and smooth, with not a spot of stubble missed.  He already had on cologne, a few dabs upon his abdomen, a dab of it just above his pubis, and another right behind his testicles.  Hands were checked over and over again, looking for any scrap of dirt, as he sucked on a breath mint. 

A few gentlemen who entered gave him a glace, some curious, some having a hidden amusement at what seemed to be such a prim and proper young man being so finicky about his appearance.  There had been a time when Ethan might have been conscious about that, a time when he would have cared.  If anything, Ethan felt pity for a great many of them when he caught their amused and queer expressions.  Let them laugh, he thought.  While they go back to their wives or girlfriends, wishing and hoping for a little action, or shelling out money just to have a little fun, he'd be getting paid to fuck.

It was the pre-meeting run through he always gave himself.  A quick look over to make sure everything was in order and to make sure he looked his best.  Condoms were tucked away in his pocket, next to the comb he kept on him.  It was a cheap suit he wore, a bargain at the thrift store, but it was decent enough and fit nicely, and he wore it with confidence.  Confidence was what made it count.  He made sure, always, that he was ready to go, relaxed and at ease.  He'd practice his smile in the mirror almost every day, nearly mastering the art of putting on a smile when all he wanted was to go back to his dorm room and crash before his room mate kicked him out for the little study group.

He hated what he did.  He absolutely hated it.  Sure, it was a confidence boost, knowing he was getting paid to fuck women, that he was in such demand.  It brought a smirk to his face to see the men who found it amusing or odd to see him making sure he was impeccable.  But that did not mean that he didn't hate what he was doing to himself each and every night it seemed, the selling of himself like he was a piece of meat when all he wanted was a normal, happy life...

Even if this was the only, sure way to make a normal, happy life...

Minimum wage jobs, unpaid internships that only offered the hope and dream of moving up, all of it couldn't help him with what he needed.  A drunken night of desperation turned into something he never seemed possible, certainly not to him...  But he couldn't dwell in the past, couldn't think back to how life had been and how life was, and still is to some extent, not when he was to be expected...

He made sure he looked decent and presentable one last time, checked his phone, and began to make his way to the restaurant's front.  To the Maitre D' did he say he was there for the Beckett party, and soon was he led away to a small, secluded table to wait for his client for the evening.

Just another night... He told himself as he ordered a water.  Just another night, and another step closer to putting it all behind you, once and for all.
« Last Edit: December 06, 2016, 11:11:13 PM by GnothiSeauton »

Offline GnothiSeautonTopic starter

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Re: Gnothi's Stories Without Homes - Seeking Male, Female, and Trans Characters
« Reply #17 on: November 20, 2016, 11:50:30 AM »
Playing House




Idea:  They had struggled their whole lives with their surroundings and lives.  Drug and alcohol addicted parents.  A shitty neighborhood, a crumbling house.  They had been left on their own to raise their little brothers and sisters, and when one of them went away for years, their crappy lives still went on.  When the older brother went away to prison, it all fell to her shoulders to keep the family afloat.

But after fifteen years, he's back, and the two of them are together again, trying to survive in a fucked up world, and struggle with new found feelings for one another after so long apart.

See theme/outlook for better understanding.

My Character:  I'm looking to write the older brother.  He's a ex-con, former/current gang soldier/enforcer.  He's trying to find a better life for his family, and a better life for himself.

Your Character:  His younger, but oldest, sister.  One who has had the burden of trying to raise a fucked up family on her own while her brother's been away, and seemingly never getting out.  If you've seen Shameless, I'm kinda thinking someone like Fiona.

Theme/Outlook:  In simple terms, I'm looking for this to be a romantic incest story.

Not something where there's always been an attraction between them.  Not something that is a smut fest.  Not something where a series of awkward encounters leads to sex.

I'm looking to build a strong, emotional romance between the two of them, and the struggle of dealing with it between the two of them.  He'd been gone for so long, so far away, coming back a changed man, while she, by the same token, has also been forced to change and grow, to transform into the kid she once was when he left, and turn into a beautiful young woman trying to make it in the world.  Lots of possibilities here for family drama, crime drama, etc.




“You're aww-fully quiet back there.” Jimmy said from the front passenger seat.  The grin, amusement, clear in his voice.  “Gettin' choked up by the emotions of it, softy?”

Aaron looked over to the fat man stuffed in the track suit.  Soft, he thought to himself.  If anyone was getting soft, it was the man who had bloomed into a four hundred pound behemoth since he had last seen him.  The sad state of affairs, Aaron thought, but it was at least a little better than the sight that lay beyond the tinted windows of the luxury tank of an S.U.V.  “Something like that.” He answered, pushing the black sunglasses a bit further up upon the bridge of his nose.

So much had changed, and yet, at the same time, nothing had changed.  The people he once fought with, the people and brothers he once entered into the great struggle for survival with, had changed.  Jimmy was the clear of example of that.  He had been a fit, athletic man when he went in, a man who could run with the best of them.  But those days seemed long gone, Aaron thought.  He had been unrecognizable when Aaron had first laid eyes upon him, seeing the years having been filled with indulgence.  Even some of the others they had run with in The Temple Hill Gang had changed, the faces and people so very different from the familiar crowd he had run with all those years ago.

And yet, some things had remained the same.  Some things he had hoped would have changed.  Some things that just seemed destined to stay the same.

The neighborhood he had left behind all those years ago seemed to have remained the same in it's depressing, run down state.  The streets hadn't changed at all.  Run down buildings.  Bodegas and liquor stores on every block.  Vehicles that looked as if they were on their last legs, being scrapped for parts over the years.  Even in the neighborhoods, the hood he had grown up in, the street that he had held dominion over as a kid along with all the others, hadn't changed. 

Being in prison, he thought, he hoped, that things would be different.  He had hoped that things would have gotten better than the bleak picture of the hard, rough neighborhood he had grown up in.  A better, brighter future for his kid brothers and sisters, a safer place for them to grow up and rest their heads at night.  He had hoped, he had bought into the dream, and awakened from a long, fifteen year nap to find things were still the same.

It amazed Aaron as he sat in the backseat of the S.U.V., his bag of possessions tucked close to his side.  Things will get better. Owen had promised him, and the others who had grown up together, fought together, bled together.  But they ain't gonna be given to you...  You've got to take 'em.  He and the others of his age had believed the old man, the tough old gangster who just exuded a coolness that was so envied by the boys of the streets.  They had believed in the old man, had fought for the old man.  Some had died for that dream, that promise, and some, like him, had done time for that dream.

Was it all for nothing?  It certainly seemed like it as he sat upon the fine, leather seats, looking out at the disrepair beyond the tinted glass of the window.  Had it all been for nothing?

A hand went through the long, dark hair, pulling it back as he tried to process the changes and lack of changes around him.  When he went in, he had been a kid, twenty years old.  Young, dumb, reckless, and desirous of a better life, a better future, one that a strong, charismatic old man had promised.  He did his time, earned a decent thank-you package for his time and silence, thinking that things would be better when he got out, when he got his parole.  Fifteen years could change everything, he thought.  Fifteen years could bring a bit more prosperity and progress.

It could by a better house for his family, the kind that his drunken addicts of a parents could never afford.  It could bring a better life to his kid sister and all of the other little ones that had been dumped in their laps by their parents.  It could have been a different, brighter future.

He did what he could for that dream.  On the streets, he worked for Owen O'Shaugnessy and the Temple Hill Gang.  He did what was called their own brand of community out reach, being there to provide protection, to take from those who overreached themselves, to do what was needed.  It earned him a ticket to prison a few hours away, but still, even behind bars, he tried to do what he could.  Sending money to his sister, writing and calling when he could to check on her and the family he had left behind.  He had done all that he could, more than what most would have done,

But what was it all for in the end?

It was a question he asked himself again and again as the car came to a stop before the old familiar house.  The run down, beaten up house that had been his home.  What was it all for, he asked himself, as he looked out of the window to the house in the bleak, winter air.  What had happened while he was gone for so long?

Jimmy turned in his seat, as much as his girth would allow, with a grin upon his face.  A grin that Aaron could not help but to want to strike from his fat, greasy face.  “Good to be home, eh?” He asked, in an air that felt so genuine, so true, that it was as if he had seen nothing wrong with the house, as if it were normal.  Nothing at all.

Aaron swallowed hard.  “Yeah.  I guess so.” He said, taking the straps of his duffel bag in hand.

A chubby, fat hand disappeared into the interior of Jimmy's tracksuit, soon emerging with a small box in hand as he handed it over to Aaron.  “New phone for ya.  Boss wanted you to have it.  There's a card in there with his number.  Wants you to give him a call when you're ready to work and earn again, but wants you to take it easy.  You deserved it.”

The iPhone in it's box was accepted quietly.  For a moment, Aaron looked over the white box, wondering if it was all worth it still.  His hands popped open the box, taking out the card and slipping it into the interior pocket of the cheap gray suit jacket.  “I'll give him a call.” He said. 

He would have to call the old man.  There was no denying that.  But what he would say, what it would all be about, was hard to say.

Jimmy nodded his head.  “Don't celebrate too hard, jail bird.” He called out to Aaron as the ex-con stepped out into the cold of the neighborhood and looked up to the house he had been raised in, the house that had been his home for so long, and would be once again.

They weren't expecting him, he knew, as he opened up and stepped through the gate.  His release caught even he by surprise.  Owen's work, no doubt, greasing the wheels of bureaucracy to gain what the man wanted.  What would they say to him?  Would they recognize him?  He even had a hard time recognizing himself.  Would he recognize them?

Time would tell, and soon, as he stepped up to the door and knocked, and waited.