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Author Topic: 🔮 I Would Like, if I May, to Take You on a Strange Journey (FxM) 🔮  (Read 2720 times)

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Offline GypsyTopic starter

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This thread is formatted to be best read starting from the other end.

« Last Edit: October 03, 2019, 06:41:33 am by Gypsy »

Offline GypsyTopic starter

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🔮 The Dusty Bookshelf 🔮
« Reply #1 on: April 25, 2018, 10:09:34 am »
A place for miscellaneous links and stories I'm not currently interested in telling (possibly because they're taken), but don't want to forget about.

~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~    ~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~
Hell's Belles PrequelRinging Hell's Bells Group Game Link
The Wild Hunt   
Dystopian/Alt Modern        ~~@~~        Quasi NC/Rough Sex
Hunter vs. Prey in Part Celebration of the Hunt / Part Reality TV
Scenario: The invitation came in the form of a plain white envelope.  Inside was a white card, with only a web address --  The Wild Hunt is an exclusive website, only open to hunters who meet certain physical requirements and skills.  They offer the opportunity for a real, honest-to-god hunt, chase down your prey caveman style and drag her back to your camp and do whatever, for a price.  The catch -- the prey isn't some random girl, terrified out of her mind, but rather someone who's just as keen to pit her skills against yours.   

If you* don't catch her within the allotted time, the money paid is hers, along with bragging rights and a gold star against her name on the members only website that arranges the hunt.  If you do catch her, YOU get the bragging rights, and the sex.  The money is still hers, either way, and she's not going to make it easy.  You have to earn your good time, and your victory.  And, of course, the hunt is streamed live so that your peers will all see your prowess -- and your bumbles.  Whether or not they see the 'kill', which is what the victory sex is termed on site, is hunter's choice, assuming the prey doesn't get away.

*(you) used for convenience, but meaning 'your character'

Requirements: A good writer willing to post once a week, and who would enjoy a good build-up in tension, working with me to create the dynamics of the hunt as well as giving dimension to both the hunter and the setting.

Other Info: This would be a one shot, and degradation/humiliation and bathroom play is off the table.   Real world or supernatural characters, setting can be wilderness or urban, and can also incorporate sci-fi or virtual reality themes.  Character appearance is negotiable, other than she will be athletic and of a sufficient age to have some real world experience.

This is also a bit of a wild hair for me, so it's thrown together in spur of the moment fashion.  I've moved it here as discussion of the idea has shown me that I need to define and better clarify the feel that I'm looking for in this.

Her name was Diana, after the old world goddess of the hunt.  She had been chosen at an early age, and her parents given a tidy sum to give her over.  They had been delighted with the exchange, and even if her mother had cried when she said goodbye, Diana remembered most the words that she had said.  “You are strong.  Because of you, your family will not be hungry, not have to struggle.  That is the greatest gift, the greatest honor.  We will remember you, with love and gratitude.”

Diana had clung to those words, in the nights when missing her mother, her brothers, her sister, had curled her into a ball, the blanket stuffed into her mouth to keep her sobs from being heard.  Crying was weakness, and weakness was discouraged.  If you were weak, they sent you back to your family and took back all that they were given.   That was the one thing Diana could not bear, and gradually the tears disappeared, and the memories grew less vivid, though at times the shape of a head, the timbre of a laugh, the roll in a walk would bring them to the forefront, and Diana might even take a step toward the one who had evoked the memory. 

She and the other girls trained, in body and mind.  They fought against each other, learned to evade each other, and when they were old enough, others were brought in to teach them.  They lived together in a compound surrounded with a high wall, and, as she found out when she was 15, it was considered a mark of favor to have tried to escape.

At sixteen, she was allowed to watch her first Wild Hunt upon the vid screens, something that was usually reserved for dissecting their lessons.   With fascination, she observed the drop of the hunter and hunted, their meeting, and the chase.  During the first days of the hunt, she was there at every spare moment, rapt in fascination as the woman eluded the hunter.   She cheered, and smiled a fierce smile, at the woman’s triumphs, and turned away when she was caught.  For some time, she could not look again, but then … then the sounds drew her back … and Diana could not drag her eyes away as she watched the two mate – again, and again, and again.  Most curious, and strangely stirring, to her was that though the woman attempted to get away once more, only to be dragged back to the makeshift bed where she was forcefully taken again.  Diana saw her face, and the smile that she gave to the camera as her captor pushed her down and impaled her once more.  It was a smile that Diana seemed to recognize, one of satisfaction, one that she herself might have given when another took the bait that she had laid out.

She thought much of it over the next several years as she continued to train, and was allowed greater freedoms.  Yet now that she could escape, Diana trained all the harder, and when she was chosen for a hunt of her own, she accepted the honor with pride … and anticipation.
If she won, she would be allowed to participate in other hunts.  The record holder, Artemis, had participated in six hunts before she retired, unconquered.  Secretly, though, Diana rather pitied her, though she would never actually say so.   Eluding once or twice would be honor enough, though the hunted was accorded a goodly measure of respect so long as she eluded for half the allotted time, and, of course, allowances were made if the Hunters were especially skilled.

Diana’s first Hunt had been rather depressingly easy.  It might have been better had not one of her traps worked a little too well, aided by an unlucky flaw in the rock, but she had been less than impressed than she had hoped by her hunter, but she had not had the opportunity to choose.

Her second Hunt was coming up, and this time, she would be offered to those of a higher skill class, and have right of refusal.



Not Currently Seeking
Mirror, Mirror                            Horror / Modern, Supernatural                              dub-con, mind control, corruption
a magic ritual, a succubus, a middle-aged man wondering if he's past his prime

Name: Mirror, Mirror

Content: Non-Consensual, playing with taboo elements, mind control, mind fuck


Everyone has heard those stories about standing in front of the mirror and saying her name three times.  It's good for a scare, and a favorite past time -- if horror movies are to be believed -- of high school and college age parties.   Of course, if anyone sees anything, it's just some random shadow, a trick of the light, but there are screams and comforting, safe arms and hopefully someone uses that little thrill to get lucky.  It never REALLY works.

But think about it.  Maybe it does.  Maybe whoever, or whatever, can zone in on the mystical mirror frequency can hear every time someone is foolish enough to attract her attention using such a conduit.  Over the years, she's had her fill of insipid high school boys, college nerds, jocks whose brains reside in their little heads, the boys next door whose most wicked thought might be wishing the popular guy would walk in front of a bus or take a tumble down a four-story staircase or getting a blow job from some slutty spoiled brat with big tits and blue eyes.

Really, it's not even worth picking up the mirror-line just to tear them limb from limb for disturbing her hellish spa day.
... click to read more ...
But what if the 'caller' were someone more interesting?  A father, perhaps, or a college professor, who finds himself 'proving' that the summoning doesn't work?  What if this man -- a good man, a pillar of the community, a reformed bad-boy who is now weighted down by the responsibilities of taking care of a family, holding down a responsible position -- has been having dreams of things he could never dare do?  Dreams that make him feel shame, but the shame is slowly growing secondary to the desire?  Not that he'd ever DO anything like that, of course ...

Setting: Any, as the summoned succubus will not be coming out of the mirror, but rather dragging him in.  This could be historical, modern, or fantasy, and also holds the option of having the character from any setting of interest.

Requirements: The 'victim' would be male, and in his 40's at the youngest, perhaps at the onset of some midlife crisis.  I would prefer he be someone who's always gotten women easily, perhaps too easily, and is now feeling the pangs of worrying if he's truly past his prime.   I'd like to play out the mind fuck, as well as the hot, sweaty sex.

Other info:  Posting frequency 1-2 times per week, occasionally faster.

Not Currently Seeking
Why Not?*                           Modern / Romance                             vanilla, romance, banter, dub-con, NC
teen-age rebellion, biker guy, action & adventure

Life sucks.  That was the lesson that Tina Renee Fogerty had learned from school and life alike thus far.  Her parents were getting a divorce, and her new 'step-mother' was a year younger than she was.   Her boyfriend was a no-good two-timing piece of shit, and so was her best friend.  She knew because she'd just caught them both together doing the kinky shit that she'd refused to do.  She'd refused mostly because she thought he'd put some effort into talking her into it instead of running off behind her back, and with her supposed best friend, too.  She was failing one of the courses she had to pass, so forget the summer trip she'd been half-promised as a bribe to stop insulting her future step mother at every opportunity. 

LIFE SUCKS, in all caps.

It was petulance that made her start walking that evening, with no real idea of where she was going.   When the gorgeous guy on the motorcycle stopped at the red light where she was waiting, and asked her if she wanted to go to a party, she only hesitated a heartbeat before giving him a determinedly bright smile.  "Sure, why not?"
... click to read more ...
He had smiled in return,  and patted the seat behind him.  "Get on."

She did. 

What happened next ... well ... was an education.

Not Currently Seeking
Dark Passions*                           Vampires / Dark Fantasy                           corruption, mind control, seduction, dub-con, blood play
a vampire hunter who secretly longs to fail in her hunt   

Concept: Siobhan (description & background follows) has dedicated her life to hunting down and destroying the undead, and pursues her aim with single-minded intensity.  Her relationships are often passionate and intense, but never lasting, for Siobhan's dark, hidden desire is for the kind of unholy ecstasy that she experienced in the arms of the vampire who set her upon the path of vengeance.  She has tracked a vampire lord to a remote, tiny kingdom, and prepares herself for the eventual confrontation, her two sides at war, determined to destroy the fiend but weakened from within by the suppressed memories of lust.

Whether she triumphs against her darker urges, or succumbs, is left open to be determined by the story's direction.

I'm looking for someone to play a vampire, a fellow hunter, or other character type that might find themselves involved with a slayer's hunt.  The story is

Background:  Siobhan was born into an ordinary life, and planned to die from it as well. This daughter of a cleric and a farm girl was stable and steady, and prized practicality and contentment over excitement. The very idea that she might one day adventure away from her home was laughable.

At an early age, Siobhan married. Patrick was her husband's name, and he'd been her only sweetheart. Perhaps he did not make Siobhan's heart flutter or her knees weak like she heard the other, silly, girls confess, but he was a good man and a hard worker, and she was content with their life together, facing the small challenges of setting up a home, planning for a family. She expected a long, gods willing, life there in the village with her husband, a respected part of the community, an extended family, and all was content. The niggling worry that somewhere, somehow, she was missing something she ignored as best she could, except in the darkest hours when she was alone, or tired. She baked and sold the goods, and had some small skill with basic healing and growing and dispensing herbs, and her talents as a midwife were valued. She was part and parcel of the community, and it was part of her.

Yet fate seems to be no great respecter of duty and complacency, and fate had other plans for Siobhan and her simple village, her simple life.

It all started with the girl. Fanny, her name was, and she was a special child. Her mother had had a difficult childbirth, dying as her infant was pulled screaming into the world, and perhaps this left its mark on Fanny. Though she had lived 15 summers, she was in more like a child of 5, perhaps, in mind if not in body. The villagers all knew, and all looked out for her, for her father, the village smithy, could not keep her safe on his own, and work too.

Though none would know it, a butterfly, fluttering bravely through the spring air played Fate's hand in the drama. Fanny wandered off, chasing the butterfly even as it flew from field to meadow to wood. It was a busy time, planting season, but in the afternoon when she was missed, the village mobilized to search. Siobhan was among them, and fate, or something more sinister, led her in the right direction. Darkness had fallen, but Siobhan knew the area from her own walks and explanations, so she clutched her cloak about her and continued on, buoyed by both annoyance and the discovery of the girl's shawl discarded on the path - lantern clutched in one hand as she peered into the darkness and called, "Fanny!"

In retrospect, it always seemed to her that there should have been some warning - a cold fist clutching at her heart or some other foreshadowing of the doom that awaited, but in truth, all she felt was annoyance. Fanny had wandered off before, and would again, chasing shadows or butterflies. Perhaps it was that very lack of concern that turned the tables against her, but she could not truly apologize for it. The shadows had not yet come into her life -they were as unreal to her as stories of the boogeyman might be.

As she pushed her way through a copse of bushes, she spied the girl's dress, and arms about her shoulders, holding her. Siobhan's first reaction was relief - she had been found, and they could all go back to the village and the plethora of things that must be done. Then, the chill - was that blood leaking down the girl's shoulder? And what was he doing to ...
... click to read more ...
The questions disappeared as the thing, for no man it was but a fiend, sent to tempt and beguile the innocent, raised its head and looked at her. Siobhan was lost in the red-tinged gaze, seeing a thousand things about herself that she had never known, seeing her pride, envy, her complacency, the shadows of unfulfillment that smoldered beneath the surface. She didn't even notice as Fanny crumpled to the ground, discarded, and the black-cloaked vampire came to her, enfolding her in his dark embrace, whispering that she was the one he had come for ... Her eyes closed at the touch of his cold lips upon her neck, the lantern falling to the ground, the clatter of glass and the scent of lamp oil unnoticed as darkness took her.

The hours, or minutes, that followed, Siobhan remembered only in the black silence of her dreams, or in the heated prickle of her flesh at the caress of a cold breeze. Pleasure that she had never known in the arms of her husband wracked her body, over and over, as her undead lover claimed her, and when she arose from his embrace, she was his, body and soul, enthralled.

Under his command, she lured her neighbors out to sate the vampire's appetite, glowing under his approval, the caress of his bloodless-white hand upon her hair, her skin worth any price. One after the other, his victims came to him at her behest as the search for Fanny and Siobhan continued, with the half-wit girl rising to commit her own atrocities. Siobhan cared nothing for that, though her soul burned with jealousy at the vampire's approval at his feral prodigy's excess. Finally, her husband led a group of the villagers to the vampire lord's lair deep within the forest, and pulled him from his rest while the sun yet rode the sky. It was Siobhan, breaking free from the man who held her struggling body, who drove the sharpened stake through her husband's heart as he fought with the vampire, pitiless and heedless of the memories and feelings she had once thought she held, and delayed their efforts long enough for the vampire to awake in the dusk of his crypt, and the hunters were slaughtered to a man.

In the carnage, the vampire held Siobhan one last time, kissed her, pleasured her ... and then cast her from him, releasing her from the enchantment of his will as he swept out, his evil laughter echoing in that foul place of death. Siobhan knelt there on the bare, blood-soaked stone, weeping, until the morning, praying for him to return - to kill her or to reclaim her, but the vampire's plan for her was far more torturous. He let her live, left her with the memories of her horrible crimes, and with the knowledge of his touch.

How long she stayed there, until the villagers finally marshaled another search party and found her, she did not know. She remembered nothing of the mourning, of the funerals that followed, but when she awoke from her stupor, she led the men on one more search, and it was Siobhan's blade that struck the head from Fanny and her hand that cast it into the bonfire. That action brought the first peace, the first ease, she had known since experiencing the vampire's kiss.

Though the villagers accepted that she had not controlled her own will, the dark, suspicious looks cast her way, intensified by her own knowledge of her failing, made it impossible to stay in the place that was once her home. She thought, long and hard .... then sought out the priests of Amanutaur and declared her calling. She would dedicate her life to the destruction of the undead, wherever they laired, heedless of her own comfort or safety.

There, Siobhan slowly came to terms with her deeds, never blessed with the forgetting of them, but driven by her vow to pay for the blood spilled. It was only in the darkness of sleep that her body burned, and she ached anew - and it was a secret she never told, never truly allowed herself to acknowledge, that each time she faced a vampire, ending their foul, perverse existence, that part of her prayed to fail.

Not Currently Seeking
Here There Be Monsters                           Fantasy / Dark Fantasy / Monstrous Races                           bondage, betrayal, dub-con, seduction
Monsters are not defined by their race, but by their actions

General Madelaine du Pre had blazed through the army's ranks like a wildfire, and those skilled warriors who protested that a woman could never possess the skills in battle of a man invariably found themselves with the sting of her gauntlet across their cheek, always delivered in front of an audience that made it impossible for him to refuse her challenge with honor.

Those who possessed honor, rather than just the seeming of it, had admitted her skill, and those who did not possess honor enough found themselves pressed to their weakness and battled into the ground.  Her harshest critics soon found themselves beset with ill luck, their sins laid bare through happenstance that never seemed to lead back to Madelain's doorstep, or they were swallowed up into the darkness.

Before she had become a soldier, the lady was said to have been a prestigious member of some society in her homeland called the Order of the Guardians.  Just where that was was not something she had ever publicly divulged.  "What I was is of no import.  This is my home now, and I serve my king, and my commander," she would respond, and there was little doubt that she did so with blade and magic, though the latter was never publicly explained or acknowledged.  Soon, her commander was the king, and she was put in charge of the northern ranks, charged with protecting the kingdom from bandits and the creatures that dwelled  in the mountains, and in the valleys beyond.

Her post is Icefall, the northernmost fortification in the kingdom, is strategically important post because protects the mines and the forest which supplies Salex herbacea to the healers in the south who use it to treat an ailment that can otherwise reach plague proportions.

The lands beyond the mountains are held by bandits and tribes of monstrous races, driven ever northward by the expansion of human settlements.  In order to survive, and perhaps for revenge as well, these bands and tribes often attack Icefall, and make off with captives and whatever supplies or gold that they can steal.

Such raids were much more common, and more successful, before General du Pre took command.

Now, she sends out raiding parties of her own soldiers, to invade camps and settlements of these mountain tribes, ostensibly to free human captives who are used as slaves or breeding stock, but it is whispered that she is searching for someone, or something, and will not stop until she finds it.

Now, one of her raiding parties has captured one of the enemy, whose tribe or band is said to have a number of closely guarded human captives in a stronghold in the mountain's heart.  Rather than having her captive killed or tortured, she claims him as her own, with the excuse of using him to learn all that he knows, so that the knowledge can be used to free the captives and wipe out their stronghold once and for all.

Expecting torture, the captive is instead treated reasonably well, though he is enslaved, and the General soon makes it clear that she has a personal interest in her captive, and a rather oddly focused interest in mating habits, particularly the fertility rituals.

Does she have a motive to her actions beyond her own lusts or drive for glory?


Looking for someone to play the captive monster in this story, and would prefer a partner who is interested in exploring the lore and mindset of the chosen monster race, both sexual and otherwise.

Race of interest include, but are not limited to:  Lycanthropes, Dragonkin, Gargoyle, Fey, Satyr,  Minotaur, Ogre, Orc, Rakshasha, Shadar-kai, Demonkin, Male Gorgon, Cambion,  Djinn,  Shadow, etc.  Add half- or demi- as desired, so as to make the idea of sex with such a creature plausible and potentially appealing to a human with exotic tastes.

« Last Edit: September 28, 2019, 10:55:36 am by Gypsy »

Offline GypsyTopic starter

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🔮 Picture Prompts 🔮
« Reply #2 on: April 25, 2018, 10:14:10 am »

Does one of these images strike a spark in your imagination?  PM me, and let's see what catches up.

It's night, and there's a storm rolling in. The crowds have all gone, perhaps for the season or perhaps only for the night.  There is silence, save for the waves rolling in to the nearby beach.  The fog is cool, thick, the perfect backdrop for secrets and clandestine activities that shun the light.  There is a soft creak, and a door opens, silhouetting a waiting figure against golden light that suggests warmth and comfort within, an allure that is almost irresistible as the darkness grows.

Is this a short story of two lonely souls who find comfort in each other's arms in the unlikeliest of places?

Or is it something more sinister - a watchman or caretaker who waits not for love, but to close a profitable ... or unholy ... bargain?

Or does a spirit linger here, waiting for the opportunity to say goodbye that she was denied in life?

Is she a stranger in a strange land, having left everything she knew behind, and perhaps a debt unpaid?  Will she find that there are some things that simply will not allow an escape until what was started has been finished?

Has she come here to this lonely place to meet a lover, to cast a spell, to heave a bottle into the waves and see where it might wash up.  Does she wish for the courage to wade out into the water, not knowing that someone watches behind the cover of boulders?

In the luxurious surroundings, she waits, outwardly patient.  Slowly, serene, her face untroubled by fear or anticipation, she turns the pages, though she does not see the words written there.   She is waiting, and her attention is focused upon her other senses, ears straining to hear footsteps coming down the hallway, her nose seeking the familiar scent of cologne, the musky residue of pipe smoke, her skin the faint tremble of the anticipated approach.

Is she a courtesan, awaiting her benefactor?

A spy or assassin, intent upon her mission and awaiting only the right time? 

A spoiled wife who plans to take advantage of her husband's absence?

Confident, assured, she bends her knee only to the king.  A force to be reckoned with, she writes her own rules, as the king allows.

Is she an assassin?

An unlikely general?

An emissary from a land where women who wield a blade are more deadly than the men?

A spy who has a way of getting in where others cannot?

Or perhaps she is the keeper of the king's secrets, or a blackguard who uses the king's gratitude to her own advantage?

Once, the cell had held one of the most dangerous creatures ever to have plague the land, according to legend.  Now, she feared the story was much different, and legend written by those who prevailed -- and those whose power was stolen feared, more than anything, suffering the same fate.

She had come across a different account only by chance, and had traveled far to see for herself if it were true, though it hardly mattered now.  Whatever, whoever had been locked in the oubliette was nothing but bones and dust.

Still, perhaps there would be something she could use to discover the truth.  With great difficulty, she raised the heavy lid.

In the darkness below, amber eyes slowly opened, blinking against the harshness of the moonlight.

« Last Edit: April 25, 2018, 10:16:00 am by Gypsy »

Offline GypsyTopic starter

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🔮 Placeholder 🔮
« Reply #3 on: April 25, 2018, 10:15:39 am »

« Last Edit: September 12, 2018, 03:28:56 pm by Gypsy »

Offline GypsyTopic starter

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🔮 Rough Ideas to Brainstorm 🔮
« Reply #4 on: April 25, 2018, 10:17:11 am »

These are story ideas that haven't really been fleshed out at all, and are open for brainstorming and suggestions from potential partners.

~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~    ~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~@~~~
The World is Filled with Fog   
Horror / Supernatural        ~~@~~        Possible NC
ghosts & vengeance

The world is filled with fog; I welcome its embrace.  In it, I am hidden rather than invisible.  Its cool, enveloping arms give meaning to my pain, and I do not suffer it alone.  The fog is my servant, my master, my companion and my strength.  It is my reason.

I'm not sure where I'm going with this one yet, but fog makes for a wonderful backdrop, whether it is physical, mental, or spiritual.  I'd like to do a story with the theme, and the above images are all possibilities that could be incorporated into a marvelous story.
Stephen King with an Erotic Twist   
Horror / Supernatural        ~~@~~        Any           
horror-tinged erotica in King's settings

Salem's Lot -- there's a new vampire in town
Needful Things - She KNOWS what you want
Duma Key - I'd love to have you pose for me
Good Sister / Bad Sister   
WWII Era        ~~@~~        NC / Corruption / Romance           
sisters left at home while the men are off fighting

Based on an observation made by Capone that these two images looked like they could be sisters (my avatar, Madame Professor's avatar).

WWII - husbands going over to fight Jerry, young wives left behind to hold down the fort, work factory jobs, do their bit for God & Country.

One sister does what she should, puts on a good face during the day, cries into her pillow at night.  The other sister doesn't -- resents being left alone, has no wish to do the Rosie Riveter thing, determines to enjoy her newfound freedom and let tomorrow take care of itself.  Why make plans for a future that may never happen, waiting until it's her turn to get the visit, the telegram, the letter?  She looks for trouble and finds it -- in spades.  The good sister gets drawn in ... at first to save her sister from herself, and later ... well ... life doesn't always follow the plan laid out for it.

Possibly the two sisters are one in the same (split personality or just a means of escapism) ... or not.

The Identity Thief   
Modern        ~~@~~        NC / Quasi-NC           
a con-woman steals the wrong identity
'Professional' Con-Woman buys a series of identities to use in her scams.    Thinking nothing of it, she uses them as she has need, and then ditches them before the cops move in ... leaving those who didn't safeguard their information to pick up the pieces and rebuild their credit.

This time, the identity she steals is going to bring her more trouble than she ever wanted.

-- a woman wanted by a drug lord, powerful politician or entrepreneur for reasons of espionage or corporate theft, or even someone who knows secrets that someone of a paranormal bent wants to make sure never surfaces.

Offline GypsyTopic starter

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🔮 Gypsy's Campfire - Structured Story Ideas - Part II 🔮
« Reply #5 on: April 25, 2018, 10:19:46 am »
Part II

Some details of these story ideas are flexible, but the setting/general gist of what is laid out is more or less what I'd like to write.

* suitable for a one-shot

The Price of Dishonor (I Own You)*                            Hist / Alt Hist                           dub-con, BDSM, romance
a young woman will do almost anything to convince the magistrate to commute her brother's sentence

Eleanor Waller is twenty-four years old, a widow of eighteen months, and she had served as her younger brother, Patrick Grant's mother figure since her own mother had died when a winter cold took to her lungs and settled when she was fourteen, and Patrick only seven.  The loss of her mother had hit her hard, and she had made up for it as much as she could by mothering, and indulging, Patrick.  When their father looked to punish him for any indiscretion, Eleanor was there to intercede.  When her husband was called to duty, Patrick came to stay with her much of the time, and when the news came that he had been killed, Patrick had been there to console her.

However, as much as she loved her brother, her brother perhaps did not return her affections quite so much as she believed.  He grew up wild, rebellious, and given to mischief.  Had her father the will to ignore Eleanor's pleading and excuses, perhaps he might have fared better, but whether Patrick's behavior was that of a thoughtless young lad who would, in time, grow more serious-minded, or whether he was a 'bad seed' destined to come to a bad end was a moot point.  At eighteen, he killed a young man, a rival, in a duel where he had offered challenge.  Whether his nerve failed, or he simply had no care for honor when his own life was at stake, he turned and fired before the count had been completed, turning a point of honor to murder.

Eleanor was a comely woman, with gentle but not ungenerous curves.  Her skin was fine and clear, her eyes green and clear, possessing of long eyelashes that rested noticeably upon her cheeks when eyes were closed, and emphasized the pleasing shape of her face when open.  She had married at a suitable age, to a suitable young man who had both her father's and young Patrick's approval, and their marriage had been, if not joyous, at least happy.   Her voice was well-modulated, and she spoke not stridently, and save for those times when she stepped up to fight for her brother's welfare, she was judged a well-mannered young woman, if stubborn and perhaps a bit keener upon books and the reading of newspapers, discussion of current events than was seemly.

Still, had it not been for her brother's latest escapade, she surely would have not remained a widow long, being still of marriageable age and her regrettable lack of bearing her husband children excused by the demands of his duties.
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Eleanor had sat through the proceedings as silently as she had been able.  Her brother's defender had cautioned her against an unseemly display, though it had hardly been needed.  She must be the voice of compassionate reason, not a woman who could not put her own emotions aside and weigh the facts.  That those in the courtroom, save perhaps the judge and the hard-eyed man dressed in a style that marked him a Tory, did feel sympathy for her, and she had done her best to utilize it in her brother's favor.

She had no pride where his life was concerned.  Let them weep for her, lean one toward the other and whisper of the heavy hand of fate that had fallen on her, first losing her mother so young, then taking on the responsibilities of a mother to her brother, a housekeeper for her father, and then losing her husband so shortly after she was wed.  Let them see her sitting with her back ramrod straight upon the uncomfortable wooden bench, her Bible clutched in one hand and her kerchiefs in the other, wiping away tears.

Of course she mourned for Alphonse Whittier, and his family.  Her heart went out to the poor woman who was in as sorry a shape as she, and who had been carried from the courtroom when she had fainted at the testimony given regarding the duel.  Yet sentencing Patrick to the hangman, the headsman's axe, would that bring Alphonse back?

She had looked them in the eyes, each and every one, and begged them to see that more pain would not repay the life.  Prison, if they must, the horror of exile, so long as he lived and there was hope.  She had been allowed to speak, to shoulder the blame for not teaching Patrick properly, for indulging him because of her own sorrow, and her father's absence, she felt, only bolstered the fact that Patrick was not fully to blame.  Surely, they could see that.  Rosary in hand, she prayed, her lips moving silently as she begged the Good Lord to lead the magistrate to mercy.


The lawyer had cautioned her that she should not allow herself to hope too strongly, after the magistrate had postponed the verdict until the next day.  She had spent time with Patrick, consoling him, reading to him from Gulliver's Travels, until the jailor had insisted she leave.  She had gone home, to her too quiet, too empty house full of memories, and all she could see were the faceless shadows of the people she had failed.

Her guilt, rather than her hope, had led her here.   For what, she did not know, but something in his manner, something in the way he had looked at her ...

Eleanor held her breath, knocked one, two, three times, quickly, before she lost her nerve.  This was improper, she knew, in more ways than one, and yet ... could she live if she did not at least try?

It was the judge's voice she heard through the thick polished wood.  At another time, she might have given thought to the weighty matters that had been debated in silence, or in voice, behind those doors.  She might have thought better of her actions, considered that it might do more harm than good, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Without thinking, she reached for the handle, and it turned in her gloved hand.  She could see the glimmer of lamplight, scent the smell of tobacco within, and even see the judge's form in a large backed chair, the shadow of leg and shoe as he sat cross-legged, attired as a man rather than an officer of the court.  That, somehow, gave her courage to enter quickly and close the door behind her.

"Magistrate?  I am sorry to interrupt without regard to courtesy owed, but please ... I beg you ... may we speak for just a moment?"

Her voice trembled, just a bit, but for the most part it held steady.  She had neatened her appearance, changed her clothing to something just a bit brighter than widows weeds, a dress had brought the light in men's eyes before.  It was slightly musty from its time in her closet, but the verbena water she had sprinkled on it would hide that, aided by the smoke from his pipe.

She did not smile -- no, that would be too much, but she sank down into a low curtsy and held it,  head bowed, so that he would get the full impact of her eyes when her head lifted ... if he were looking.

The Lady Luck Saloon                           Old West                           vanilla, prostitution, romance, violence
a feisty woman, a saloon in the Old West, trouble walking through the swinging doors

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

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

A lot of men lost fortunes on their speculations, but it was ripe time for a woman with a goodly sum of questionably-obtained funds, equally questionably-obtained six shooters and a trusty shotgun, and a bellyful of tired of being pushed around to buy up the town's hotel/saloon and run it herself.  The first thing she did was put the local cat-house out of business, but not in a way that endeared her to the god-fearing sin-calling, tea-totaling population.   Mostly, she did it by offering the brothel's best girls a better deal, and by recruiting a couple from places both east, west and beyond.  The girls all helped out to serve drinks, and when a group of cattlemen, outlaws, banditos, businessmen or what-have-you filled up the hotel, then the regular serving girls were free to make a few extra coin lifting their skirts if they wanted, and some did.  Some didn't, but that was okay too.
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Angela Whit, as she was known in town, had a set of rules that she enforced with her rifle, a fireplace poker with a wicked sharp hook, or a little lady's gun that she wore on a little holster on her thigh instead of the now-tucked-away six-shooters.  The rules were simple - wipe your feet before you come in, pay your tab, take the fights outside, and stick your dick in any hole the girl you paid was willing but no other, and keep your goddamn fists off the girls.  Story was that one asshole come up from Texarcana who punched one of Angie's girls left cupping the bleeding, ragged remains of what had been his cattle prod courtesy of Miss Angie's little bitty gun.  The story had grown to local legend in the telling.  Whatever the truth, the one thing that the folks around Black Jack knew for certain is that the town's Sheriff always came down on Angie's side when there was trouble, and if she'd seen the inside of the town's jail, it wasn't as an official guest.

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

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

Chains That Bind                           Hist / Alt Hist/Voodoo                           BDSM, dub-con, NC, racial, romance, slavery
a young octoroon woman seeks to become a plaçée of a wealthy landowner in 1830's Louisiana

It is the Autumn of 1833, in New Orleans.  Bronze Jack, yellow fever, had swept through the city during the summer, and many died.  Wealthy landowners had left the city, seeking cooler, healthier climes away from the heat and the scent of death, but at last the air has cooled, and the fever has run its course, leaving with as little ceremony as it came.

Musette is eighteen years old, the daughter of Dominique Lalaurie, a quadroon plaçée, and though her skin is fair, her ancestor was a slave, and her place in society was determined not by appearance but by social convention.  To the white slave traders, if she was found without the papers that proved her a free woman, she was property to be bought and sold.  To the wealthy, she was something else - a symbol of wealth, a mistress to be privately displayed and enjoyed like one might possess a rare painting or book.

Had she been plain, her future would have been bleak - a bare existence, perhaps, of domestic servitude, dodging the slavers and perhaps finding some sort of security in marriage with another freeman.

Musette, however, was not plain, and her coloring chained her to a future as surely as the loss of papers.  Her skin was fair, and side by side to the wealthy wives and daughters of the elite, there was little to suggest she could not move among them - but to get caught in such a masquerade meant punishment worse than death.

There was but one path for Musette - to become, like her aunt, a plaçée - the mistress of a wealthy man, who would provide a house, gifts, and an income ... in return for all the pleasures, and the status, that keeping such a woman could give.  Displease the man who provided her existence, and Musette - educated, mannered, and unused to manual labor - could well find herself locked into a dismal future - the most likely, prostituted in much less gentile a manner.

Looking for someone interested in exploring an odd relationship - not master and slave, but a more subtle kind of mastery whose control is no less for being wrapped in a gentile package.  Aside from the sexual and/or romantic portion of the story, there is plenty of room for plot.
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Some suggestions:

  • Political intrigue - possibly involving an assassination attempt on a French diplomat.  Relations were somewhat tense as President Andrew Jackson was soon to demand repayment for the destruction of property in the Napoleonic wars, causing France to sever diplomatic ties in 1834.
  • Voodoo - Musette's mother is a follower of Marie Laveau, and the Voodooeine has plans for the land owned by the man who purchases Musette's contract, possibly involving a feud with a rival practitioner.
  • Vampires -  If you've ever read 'Interview with the Vampire', you can likely see some of the possibilities.
  • Family Quarrels - There's a dispute over the plantation deed, and the cousins are willing to do anything to make sure they get what's coming to them.

The Gangster's Moll                           Hist / Alt Hist / Prohibition                           love, lust, betrayal, romance
getting out from under a gangster's thumb means finding somebody to help take him out

Patrice Riley never had a choice.  When Johnny Poniske, aka 'The Banker' came to collect on her father's debt, he decided to take her in lieu of some of the interest.  He also had his his mug break some of her father's teeth and a couple of ribs, just so that everybody knew where they stood and didn't have any ideas that he was getting soft.

That was fifteen years ago, and Patrice has been with Johnny ever since.  She's not his only girl, not by a long shot, but she's his constant, his confidant.  She's made herself useful in a few tight spots, steered him in the right direction and proven more than once that she understands the angles in the world he lives in.  He provides a swell apartment for her, and an allowance that keeps her looking like he likes her to look.  It's a life, and in some ways it's better than she would've likely had.

The problem is that she doesn't like Johnny, and never has.  She's never pretended to like him, and maybe that's part of the fascination.  Despite his sophisticated airs, Johnny didn't come from any better place than Patrice did.  He just likes to put on a show.  He keeps tabs on Patrice, but that has waned somewhat during the years.  What hasn't changed is that Johnny doesn't let anyone walk out on him, and he also doesn't let anyone take what's his, either.  And, until he says different, Patrice is his.

What she does like and want ... she doesn't really know.  She can't see much sense in dreaming, and she does what she can both to prepare for the future and make sure that she comes out as close to the top as she can.   If she ever has the chance to get out from Johnny's thumb, so long as it doesn't involve shoving her back down into the world of living hand to mouth, she's probably going to weigh the odds, long and hard, against taking it.
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I'm looking for someone to join up with Patrice to take Johnny down.  There are a lot of ways this could go, from a darker tale of treachery and vengeance to a more romantic tale, with a handsome stand up guy who wants to rescue Patrice from the clutches of a ruthless gangster. Patrice herself is in her early 30's, tough, smart, and a bit jaded ... but with a softer side if someone breaks through that shell.

Some potential images to represent Patrice:


Swindled                           Hist / Alt Hist / Old West                           dub-con, revenge, violence, romance
debt collection in the Old West

Emilie Hulet was the eldest daughter of a French military attaché who spent a number of years in Washington and the surrounding areas, particularly in the Southern United States.  Emilie, along with her two younger sisters, spent many of their formative years either waiting on his return or traveling with him while he attended to businesses and parties.  Older than her siblings by several years, she entered her rebellious teen years without much in the way of guidance and supervision, and it was not long until she had learned how to run rings around the 'stand-ins' her father employed to look after and teach his girls.  Though not particularly 'bad', Emilie was quite good in getting herself in questionable situations and making socially compromising decisions.

Her father, once persuaded that his eldest daughter's actions were having an adverse affect on the younger girls, started looking around for a nice young man to take her off his hands, either from a reputable family in the States or back in France.  Given the girl's lack of judgement and her father's less than stellar prospects, given that he was somewhat of a roue himself, it was not as easy as he had hoped.  Emilie was a very pretty girl, but she had developed a reputation for being both headstrong and too familiar and friendly with the wrong kind of people, particularly men.  However, a suitable match was arranged and she was to be sent back to France to her father's relatives to be handed over to her new husband.

She was outraged, and determined not to return to a place that she barely remembered to spend the rest of her life with a bunch of snooty Frenchmen who would look down on her for her upbringing and her independence.  Instead, she ran off with a charming rogue much like her father, a former soldier and gambler whose promises were always in the future and whose present ran the gamut of rags to riches on the turn of the card, the roll of the dice, or the nose of a horse.  Emilie learned to play whatever part was required, from wife to sister to cousin, and truth be told she reveled in the game almost as much as her beau did -- though the romance aspect quickly palled.  She had an ear for accents, and could change hers to suit the purpose, though she preferred the French of her youth or the liquid drawl of Southern society, and she held tight to the jewels, gifts, and gowns that the charming rogue gave her in the good times.  They were her props, her hooks, and they allowed her to play in the exciting games as they traveled from place to place, often leaving just ahead of trouble.
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Despite her disappointment in her 'partner', life was good ... until they booked passage on a Mississippi Riverboat, and her lover made a bet he couldn't cover.  Rather than pay it, he jumped ship ... taking with him Emilie's jewels, her security, and leaving her facing the man he owed a considerable amount of money to ... along with the damnable marker 'handing' Emilie over to cover part of his debt.

The one thing they could agree on is that hunting down that rat and getting back what was owed to them both was top priority ... everything else, including who got the honor of slicing off her former lover's cojones, was up for negotiation.

Looking for someone to play the gambler that 'won' Emilie, as well as the money that her former lover slipped away with.

A Hint of Scandal                           Hist / Alt Hist / Supernatural                            vanilla, romance, dub-con, NC
a scandal in her past, an arranged marriage & possibly a haunted house with greedy spirits

Lydia Barrons was born and raised just outside of Charleston, South Carolina.  Her ancestors imigrated to America from Italy and England, and had attained both wealth and status in banking and imports by the time her grandfather married, late in life, and by the time Lydia was introduced to Charleston society in her debut party, had achieved comfortable and respectable status.  Of course, it was rumored that they held some abolitionist tendencies and Lydia's mother Annalise claimed to be a Transcendentalist, but aside for the odd discussion or two most of their neighbors were willing to forgive them these eccentricities so long as they did not stray too far from conventional wisdom and maintained their wealth.

Lydia, like most young girls, did not worry too much about such things.  She enjoyed the parties for their gaiety, and the company of other girls her age, and, of course, the charming men and music and dancing.  Even so, she had been influenced more than she realized by her mother's interest in the Transcendalist movement, and had read the works of Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, and even Edgar Allan Poe.  For the most part, she did not discuss these peculiarities with her friends, but eventually she found herself in the company of Phillipe Russo, a wealthy young man who had come to the United States both to see the world and check into certain business matters for his family.

It was not long before the gentleman, with his sophisticated airs of mystery, had captured Lydia's imagination and 'heart'.  Her family attempted to intervene, to forbid her to see him, but that only made rebellion flare hotter.  In due course, things progressed as such things usually do.  When it was discovered, Lydia revealed that she was with child - a foolish and desperate act, made with as much fear as truth, in the hopes that he would do do the honorable thing and that her parents would support her.
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It did not happen that way.  Phillipe, whose fiance awaited him back in Florence, quickly found family business calling him away - the burned bridges of little moment.  Lydia was given the option of being sent abroad to hide her shame, or accepting whatever marriage her family could arrange quickly, with a respectable man who was willing to forgive her mistakes in return for whatever consideration seemed appropriate.

Lydia chose the second option.  However, by the time the marriage was arranged, Lydia fell ill, and if there was a child conceived in her trysts with her exotic beau, it was taken from her in her feverish dreams.  Even so, her family insisted that the agreement with her husband to be be honored, and at least it was a better alternative than staying in Charleston where the memory of her foolishness to have given herself to a lying scoundrel did not haunt her in every movement and conversation.  And in the period of her recovery, she had had much time to read and to think ...

Before her illness, Lydia had been flighty and and prone to selfishness.  After Phillipe walked away with an 'It's for the best for everyone, you'll see' and her illness, she has become more introspective and less inclined to seek out the society of other people.  The love of books and reading that she had had as a child has returned.  She is still, however, more than a little stubborn.

This was first tried as a ghost story, with Lydia and her new husband moving into a haunted house.  The ghost story element, and the location, are negotiable, but I love the character of Lydia and the basic idea.

Skeletons & Closets                           Modern / Hist / Supernatural                             vanilla, romance
a scorned woman, an ex with secrets & a caretaker who has made his peace with a house's ghosts

When Vivian Blake was hired right out of college for the Washington Monthly, she had been ecstatic.  Print had started its decline, but in some respects, DC was an old fashioned town.  Those who made their living off politics in one way or another might take advantage of technology, but they still liked the feel of paper in their hands.

Vivian suspected it was because it allowed them more control, or at least the illusion of it.

One of her first assignments was an interview with Jude Hamilton, who was an up-and-comer on the scene, an assistant to a senator who was so deeply entrenched in the political scheme of things that the opposing party didn't even invest in more than a token opposition to his elections.  He'd been great to interview, personable, handsome, exciting ... and when she'd stood and shaken his hand, a good half-hour later than the interview had been scheduled to run, he'd held her hand and gazed into her eyes and asked her to have a drink with him later that evening ...

She'd floated out of his office, and the piece she'd written had been been published almost without editing.  For almost a year, she'd been golden.  She went everywhere with Jude, parties, rallies, intimate dinners, any time he needed a pretty woman on his arm.  They'd become lovers immediately, and Vivian had assumed that things would follow at least an approximation of 'every little girl's dream'.

A year later, she was yesterday's news.  Jude Hamilton was engaged to a Boston socialite with money, credentials that went back to the Mayflower, and Vivian was left nursing a broken heart.  Some whispered that it was closer to the truth that what she was nursing was an ego that had been thoroughly sandpapered.  Whatever the case might have been, it had hurt and oozed and festered like hell, and a broken heart might have healed both faster and cleaner than whatever had been damaged.

It was her ego that led her to write another piece on Jude Hamilton, and his new wife.  It was, admittedly a hack job, and Washington Monthly not only refused to publish it, but handed out a stern warning.  Vivian didn't listen, and when she didn't drop the matter, she was politely 'let go' ... downsizing.

A few months of being a virtual pariah in circles where she was once welcome, and she'd learned her lesson.  Her resentment at Jude Hamilton and Kathleen Hamilton-Tivey was put on the back burner, though not forgotten.  She'd learned that women scorned were also women pitied, and while their amusement value might grant them a little indulgence, it was a very short indulgence.
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Living in DC is expensive, and there was no give-up at all in Vivian's personality.  When she got a chance to interview with a feminist publication 'Velvet', she was hired, and when her next piece was published, the tone and focus of her writing had changed.  Eventually, she expanded her repertoire to include semi-fictional pieces that took past rumors, past scandals and published them with enough facts changed to make lawsuits unsuccessful and enough truth to garner attention and publicity.

Over a decade later, and Vivian had never quite forgotten how thoroughly she'd been made a fool of ... and now, a family argument had given her the perfect chance to get a little payback.  Foolish, perhaps, but it was a temptation that she had no intention of resisting.

Kathleen Hamilton-Tivey -- Just call me 'Kathy' -- actually wasn't a bad sort at all.  Time and perspective healed all wounds, or so Viv thought as she drove along the road that was rapidly becoming more snow than asphalt.  Even with the inclement weather, she was singing softly to herself along with the radio turned down to a barely perceptible volume.  With the snow, she needed to concentrate, but her mood was too good, almost jubilant ... not a good time for her to be driving in bad weather, but she wasn't going to let a little thing like a snowstorm, hell, a blizzard, stop her.  Not now.

The years had left their marks on Kathy, or perhaps it was her marriage to Jude that had deepened the crows feet, added the lines of discontent to her mouth and her forehead.  She'd had work done, but it hadn't been enough to offset the bitterness, and unhappiness.  At first, Vivian had enjoyed the favorable comparisons - to her, it was more proof that good peasant stock could outdo a blue blood pedigree any day.  She might be a mutt, but she looked a good decade younger than her one time rival.  Then, as she had talked, some of the cattiness retreated, and by the third drink and an hour into the litany of what living with Jude Hamilton had been like, they were confabulating like sisters from another mister. 

Being wronged by the same man was, it seemed, a good unifier. 

Ms. Hamilton-Tivey, it seemed, had decided to file for divorce and make sure that darling Jude left the marriage with no more than he'd had when he came into it, and if his wife's lawyer was good enough, considerably less.  It was that goal that had prompted Kathy to contact the woman she'd edged out ... and make her an offer she couldn't refuse.

There were skeletons in good old Jude's closet, and Kathy was offering the key to the closet door and a shovel to dig them out.   A few negotiations, and another drink to seal the deal, and they were partners.  Viv could dig all she wanted, and Kathy would give her access to everything she had -- the only condition was that whatever Vivian wrote, she would slant it in Kathy's favor.  It was, of course, phrased more diplomatically, but that's what it came down to, and Viv didn't even bother wasting time protesting journalistic ethics.  A shake, and a couple of days later, Vivian had keys, a contract, and permission to delve into the secrets Jude had hidden away ... secrets that had to do with the time he had spent in his family's summer home in Quogue.

It hadn't taken too long for Viv to clear her calendar.  An exposé for Velvet, and perhaps even a book for her, and finally, a little well-deserved payback.  The weather, the drive, had been a bitch, but a little snow wasn't going to stop her.  She was a bloodhound on the trail, tracking that scent of sweet revenge, and even as the windshield wipers started clogging up with blue-stained white flakes, she didn't even bother easing up on the gas pedal of her rental, but just turned up the wiper speed, increased the defroster fan to the max, and plowed on.

The car went down a little dip just as Viv lifted her styrofoam cup of cappuccino, purchased when she'd had to fill the tank back several miles, and she cursed as the car hit the bottom with a little bounce, sloshing the dark, sticky liquid out the hole in the lid and onto her sweater.   Her attention was diverted as she put the cup back in the holder, swiping at the droplets ... never  a tissue handy when you really needed one ... with her fingers and mostly succeeding at smearing it ... good thing her sweater was brown.  Her peripheral vision picked up something looming in front of the car as the climb from the dip leveled off -- an unmistakable shape of figures, one regular size and one smaller, bundled against the storm.

Vivian's eyes widened in alarm, and she did probably the very worst combination of things she could do.  The cup crushed in her hand, sending hot chocolate over her thumb and wrist before she dropped it to grab at the wheel.  The cup rolled, tipped, hit her thigh.  The lid came off, dumping the contents onto her pants,  sending a sear of pain jabbing up into her as it soaked through the fabric to the sensitive skin of her thighs, and onto the seat.  At the same time, her foot slammed down on the brakes, hard, and her hands jerked the wheel to the left.   With the slick snow on the road, she could feel the heavy vehicle rise in that stomach-lurching way that indicated the wheels no longer had traction.  As she lost control, there was just enough time for her to feel a lightning-bolt of relief as the front fender just missed the dumb-asses who'd wandered out into the middle of the road in a fucking snow storm ....

and then the shape was gone, and Viv fought to straighten the spin as the seatbelt cut into her while gravity fought with her seatbelt, the blare of the horn sounding over the slushy scrape of gravel and the radio's soft harmonies of the Red Hot Chili Peppers singing 'Snow (Hey Oh)' in some cosmic joke.   The vehicled as the wheels went into the ditch, and the engine died, the overhead light coming on to reveal Vivian's shocked face starkly, and making her jump painfully yet again as her reflection showed in the windshield for a moment.

she screeched, even as her fingers clawed at the seat-belt release, and then reached toward the door handle, the odd angle combining to almost send her sprawling in to the half-frozen run-off.  Instead, her booted foot skidded a bit on the ice, then plunged into slushy mud as she steadied herself and then ran/slogged up the slight bank.   "Are you all right?!!"  she yelled, her head turning frantically right and then left back the way she had come, torn between anger and a terrible fear that gradually morphed into confusion as her eyes beheld ... falling snow, and nothing at all in the road except for where her skid had displaced the accumulated blanket.  There were no people, no terrified pedestrians to shake their fists and scream at her for driving recklessly, no sprawled figures on the surface of the road, and she could see even no footprints to suggest that anything had been there at all as she made her way back down to where the skid had begun.

"What the hell??!"
she questioned, her voice almost meek in the falling snow, helplessly looking around as her mind sought some explanation ... and then it occurred to her that it would be one hell of an irony if she stood there gaping until somebody else came along and SHE was the reason another driver would be slamming on their brakes.   She gave the area one last look, and then headed back to the vehicle, shaking her head in a mixture of relief, disbelief, and irritation at her own self.

It was really no surprise when, back in the car, her pants wet and sticky, her boots wet and muddy, and thoroughly off her game, the car's lights flickered as she pushed the 'Start' button, but the engine didn't turn over.    The Onstar thing that was supposed to bring help when there was an accident didn't come on on its own, and there was no concerned voice asking if she was okay, not even when she jabbed at the manual activation button. "Fuck.  I'm demanding for a refund," she grumbled, then laughed a little at herself, though she was dead serious.  She'd paid extra for the protection, and a fat lot of good it did her. 

Cell phone was next, but dialing 911 didn't do diddly, and neither did anything else.  The place where the signal bar usually was ... was blank.  Completely fucking blank.  Of course it was.  Vivian's palms slapped into the steering wheel in frustration.

Well, she had two choices.  She could sit there and wait until someone else came along, or she could haul her ass back out of the car, grab her overnight bag, and hike on down the road until she came to the house.  It should only be another mile or so.


And so it was that Vivian arrived on the doorstep, her overnight bag slammed down onto the porch.  She banged on the door with a numb, sticky fist and yelled out 'Hello' and then banged again.  After a minute or so with no answer or sign of activity,  she fumbled into her slouch-bag for the keys that Kathy had given her.  For the first time since the near accident, things went her way, and the keys were right there in easy reach instead of having crawled and burrowed down into the bag's bottom, so she let herself in ... just as the flashlight she'd gotten from the car's glove compartment flickered out.

That was the last straw.  She cursed again and dropped her bag, purse, flashlight and all to the polished wood floors while she felt along the wall for a light switch.  The crash, thump and thud of her things hitting the floor didn't bother her -- apparently the caretaker Kathy had mentioned either had taken the night off or hadn't expected her and she was in no mood to be timid.  She wanted lights, warmth, a bath and a change of clothes ... and then to get started on what had brought her all this way.

The reason for her accident, what she had seen, was dismissed as a trick of the lights on the snow.

« Last Edit: May 16, 2018, 07:16:27 pm by Gypsy »

Offline GypsyTopic starter

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🔮 Gypsy's Campfire - Structured Story Ideas - Part I 🔮
« Reply #6 on: April 25, 2018, 10:20:41 am »
Part I

Some details of these story ideas are flexible, but the setting/general gist of what is laid out is more or less what I'd like to write.

* suitable for a one-shot

The Company of Wolves                           Modern / AU / Supernatural                                  dub-con, corruption, vice
a modern day Red Riding Hood & Big Bad Wolf

Scarlett Capuche is twenty-seven years old, and is the owner of one of the city's most successful restaurants.  Though small, it is in an ideal location to attract the lunch and dinner crowd for the financial district, while small and cozy enough to bring in the artsy crowd from the nearby suburbs.   Her father was a chemist, her mother a chef, and between the two of them, they brought molecular gastronomy into their business long before cooking shows like 'Master Chef' brought it into the main stream.

Or, rather, she owns 25% of Out of the Box, which also specializes in gourmet picnic basket meals.  The other 75% is owned by her parents, who have retired and moved to Charleston to enjoy the fruits of their labor (65%) and by her brother, Hunter (10%).  Hunter is not involved in the business at all, so the bulk of the responsibility has fallen on Scarlett's shoulders as manager.

At first, Scarlett was proud, and enthusiastic about the trust.  She'd been working around and at the business since she was a child, and she'd done well in school, graduating early from high school and going on to take business classes at the local community college, in order to keep her hand in with the business.  She'd always been a bit of a goody two shoes, and smug about it, she'd been homecoming queen, prom queen, and perpetually on the honor roll, and took a somewhat more perverse pleasure in it because her brother, Hunter, was such a screw-up in the eyes of her parents - bad friends, drinking, drugs, dropped out of high school at seventeen, though he was arguably as smart as she was.  He'd gotten his GED, finishing the test first and barely hesitating at any of the questions, and apparently he was satisfied with his non-working 10%, and moved out.  What he does, Scarlett wasn't certain, but he never seemed to lack for money, a car, or a place to stay.

Somewhere in the mix, things started to go bad.  Scarlett had made a couple of bad supplier decisions, spent money that the company couldn't necessarily afford due to fluctuations in investments on sprucing the place up.  The weight of running the business, of having her parents, her employees, depending on her had gotten harder and harder to bear, and she'd done something really, really stupid.  Her ex had turned her on to this 'sure thing' and she'd invested everything she could scrape up, including the company payroll, and lost it all.

She'd turned to Hunter, but he shrugged and said he was short on cash at the moment, but he knew where she could get a loan to tide the company over for payday.  There had been glee dancing in his eyes when he said it, and he'd upped the ante the same way he'd always done when they were kids, adding in the one dare she never could resist.  "Unless you're chicken..."

They'd loaned her the money, even at a reasonable rate of interest rather than usury, but there'd been a condition.  She had to take something from one of her regulars ... nothing much, just his cell phone.  He'd taken some pictures, the man said, of one of his friends, the kind she didn't want spread all over the internet like he was threatening to do.  It sounded sort of fishy, but Scarlett was desperate, so she'd done it.

Turns out, big surprise, that the story was a line of bull, but now Scarlett was hooked, plus she still wasn't out of the red with the business, and paying back the loan had been problematic.  "That's okay, sweetheart," the man had said.  "You can work it off ... like with the phone."
... click to read more ...
She ought to have been mortified.  She ought to have called her parents to fess up, and she ought to have told Hunter to get the fuck out of her life and stay out.  But she couldn't.  Maybe Hunter thought it was her pride that kept her from it, or maybe he knew something she hadn't figured out yet ... that she felt more alive since this started than she ever had ... and the idea of going further in was better than diamonds AND a new Lexus.

"Goodnight, Miss Capuche."

Scarlett looked up from where she was counting out cash into a neat little pile, frowning at the interruption.   Luckily, this wasn't the first time she'd been preparing to make a payment on her 'outstanding balance' to the assholes Hunter had hooked her up with, or she'd probably have given herself away by doing one of those guilty tells.  Funny, she guessed, how you get used to it.  The first time, she'd been shaking in her Cazabat boots, flinching at every sound, with the doors triple checked locked and the lights off.  Afterward, she'd realized that acting like you had something to hide was the one thing that made everybody sit up and take notice. 

"I thought you'd gone, Louis.  Did you need me for something?"  She paused in her counting, her perfectly manicured fingernails tapping lightly on the bill's surface.  His expression told her that he'd love to give one of his trademark ladykiller remarks, but they'd had that discussion before, and she'd meant it when she said she'd fire his ass in a heartbeat if he didn't take the hint.  She didn't date employees of the restaurant, no matter how gorgeous they were.  That was a mistake she'd made once, half a lifetime ago, and she wasn't the kind to repeat her mistakes, not when there were so many new ones out there waiting.

"No." When she didn't change expression, Louis' expression molded into one of charming boyishness, a wry chagrin that his would-be lovers probably found charming.  Right then, he could have been dressed like a Chippendale dancer with bills stuffed in his thong and Scarlett wouldn't have done more than roll her eyes.  She had things to do, and people to see ... and the people weren't very nice (at least on the inside) and certainly weren't patient.  "I was just making sure the new guy cleaned his station up to standards."

"Did he?"  The words weren't harsh, or clipped, but rather just neutrally expectant.   If there had been a problem, she'd better not have to drag it out of him.  That was why he was head chef.

Louis shrugged. "Yeah.  No problems."

Scarlett waited another breath, then raised a smoothly plucked eyebrow.  She looked good, as good at the end of the night as she had at the beginning.  Her days of working in the kitchen, of waiting tables, of being dogsbody were long gone.  Now, she was at the front of the house, and she dressed appropriately for greeting guests and keeping things running smoothly by delegation -- though every once in a while she'd make up one of her special picnic baskets for an important, valued customer ... or one that she had a soft spot for.   "Well then ..."

Louis sighed, his teeth flashing against the dark skin, fashionably shadowed with a light, neat beard, and visibly conceded, if not defeat, at least a stand-off in the status quo.  "I just wanted to say goodnight.  Are you sure you don't want me to walk you to your car?  It's a good neighborhood, but still ..."

Scarlett resumed her counting.  She didn't want the payment to be so much as $1 short ... or $1 over, for that matter.  "No, I'll be fine.  Go on, just lock the door behind you, and make sure the gate's down over the front."  Good neighborhood, but that was all the more reason to make sure the expensive glass door and windows had protection.   They'd been robbed before, though that was before the new security system ... one of the upgrades she was still paying off.  She was damn sure going to get her money's worth.

Soon enough, she heard Louis call out another 'good night' as he left, and she heard the beep of the door's opening and closing.  With a sigh, she finished her task, and carefully put the stack of cash in the deep pocket of her jacket and made sure it was buttoned in.  Now that it was time, her heart was beating faster, and she felt ... god, she knew what she felt.  It was like a gambler's high, or at least what she'd read about them back in the day when she'd tried to understand Hunter better.  She'd felt so superior back then, so righteous and smug because she was making the effort, so certain that she'd never be bit by the bug.

Well, she hadn't been bit by that bug, but rather one that probably was kissing cousins to it.  She'd tried to take on too much, too fast, so certain that she'd be able to get it done like she always had before, and instead, she'd fallen flat on her pretty little ass.   Still, she was digging herself out of it, no thanks to her asshole brother who was probably sitting back on his couch with a scotch in one hand and god knew what in the other, smirking at her difficulties.  Well, she'd done what they asked her to ... and, whether she wanted to admit it or not, it was that that caused the high.

Maybe she and Hunter had more in common than she wanted to admit, especially when he was in the catbird's seat looking down at her.

But there was no time for introspection, and she'd stopped going to her fashionable therapist years ago, and that was a decision she didn't regret.  She had a payment to make, and being on time was in her own best interest, at least for now.

She stood, turned off the lights, and gave a final look around before exiting.  At least it was late enough that city traffic shouldn't be that much of a bitch, especially where she was going ... though she might have to weave through the johns looking to buy a little pseudo-affection.   Outside, the muggy warmth of the autumn day lingered still, making her jacket feel too heavy.  The sky above was clear and bright, colored a light blue/black by the lights, accented by an occasional flash of neon.  There were still car horns, shouts, a dozen different kinds of music ... the city never slept, and neither would she.  It'd probably take at least a brandy before she could even think of sleeping after handing off the installment.

There was the familiar sound of her car's security system turning off as she held down the button on the door, the key in the inner pocket of her jacket. There was no time wasted as she slid in behind the wheel, buckled in, and depressed the button that made the engine hum to life.  Another day, another profit ... except today she was going to make a payment for the loan sharks who'd helped her out with her little over-extension problems.    At least it would give her a chance to gather more information, because she was determined to find something that would give her the upper hand, some sort of bargaining power.  If she was going to be swimming in shark-infested waters, then she either wanted a fucking laser-powered harpoon ... or to be one of the sharks.

Not Currently Seeking
By Royal Edict                           Fantasy                                  vanilla, romance, banter, dub-con
the king decrees that his widowed daughter wed - a husband of her choice ... or his

Kayelle is 30 years old, and her marriage to the first Baron was decidedly unsatisfactory.  Her first husband's taste did not run to women, and they kept this secret through ten uneasy years of blackmail and manipulation, and it is (very quietly) rumored that her husband's death might not have been accidental.   The people of the barony, however, seem to be sympathetic to her more than resentful, and their only concern over the baron's death is that it leaves them vulnerable. 

Kayelle intends to make certain that her new husband, and her people's new leader, has both the ability to rule and appetites as strong as her own -- and what the king doesn't know (until it's too late) about how she makes her choice won't hurt him.

The Elishae Barony was the final outpost of the kingdom.  North of the farmlands, to the mountains that lay beyond, savage tribes of goblins, orcs, and other monsters roamed freely, and the wilderness proved a refuge for outlaws and thieves, providing they were resourceful enough and strong to carve out their territory and defend it.  The King would likely have let this northernmost outpost of civilization revert back to the wilds, except that he felt it hurt his pride to relinquish any territory, so instead he granted land title to the most stubborn and resourceful of his knights, and wed him to the most stubborn and willful of his daughters, and sent them to take charge of the keep and keep the King's Road open through the mountain pass into the neighboring kingdom beyond the wilderness.

Now, thirteen years later, the Baron is dead, and Kayelle, the Baroness, is without heir.  Kayelle believes herself perfectly capable of maintaining the barony alone, but her father, the king, does not agree.  It is his command that she must choose a suitable man or he will choose for her.  The man who will become the next baron must be strong enough, ruthless enough, or clever enough to hold the kingdom's land against all threats - including those from within, and pledge his loyalty to the King.

The candidate for the next Baron could be a noble, a soldier, perhaps a clan leader from one of the primitive but strong nomadic peoples to the north, or even one of the brigand leaders who decides that possession is 9/10ths of the law.
... click to read more ...
"My lady, there is a herald in the great hall, bearing a message from His Majesty, the king."

The steward's voice held awe, and his eyes were wide, and his knees in the over-tight breeches that showed the knobbiness of his knees and the stork-like thinness of his knees bordered on the ridiculous.  At another time, Kayelle might have strove to hide her smile -- but now there was no need, as laughter was the farthest thing from her mind.

A message from her father bore no possibility of good news.  He had not attended Edam's funeral, but he had sent dignitaries enough in his absence to honor the passing of a valued vassal.  Had she done the expected thing and popped out an heir before her husband trotted off to the hall of honored warriors, he might even have come himself.

There was a very short list of things that might have prompted a message by herald, instead of a brief missive of instructions with one of the regular caravans, and none of them boded well.  A call for armsmen to strengthen the borders or respond to a raid, a demand for additional levies to the crown, or he had reached a decision regarding her petition to be granted her husband's title and lands in the absence of a blood heir -- few other things would stir her father to communicate with a disappointing daughter.   Her petition had been made earnestly, but with scant hope that it would be granted.

"Inform him that I will see him shortly, Reginald."

A candlemark later, clad in her most imposing gown of black velvet -- to emphasize her status as widow -- she entered the great hall, with an entourage comprised of her husband's most trusted men, and Lady Diedre Snelling, her lady-in-waiting who had once served more as her keeper than her conspirator in deception as she was now.

She took the royal missive, and broke it's seal, and read her father's words.

My dear Kayelle,

I would again extend my condolences on the passing of your husband.  He is missed at court, and I am sure that you feel his absence even more deeply.

Your petition to assume his lands and title has been considered, and under advisement I have determined to grant it, with certain conditions.  You are commanded to set aside the traditional period of mourning and wed within half a year.  If, within two years, you are with child or have produced an heir of your body, you will be granted equal status as baroness of Wildsmere, and all lands, titles, and associated responsibility will pass down through your issue.   If you are still barren, the lands you hold in trust will revert to the crown, and you will return to court and my household, or to the household of your husband, as you please.

Should you prefer not to wed as I require, you shall return to court and the Wildsmere lands will be returned to the crown, and awarded as I direct to ensure the security of the kingdom.

I hope, my lady Wildsmere, that you will not waste time in attempting to sway my decision.  You are no longer young, and you have a duty to your people, just as I have to them, and countless others as well.  I advise you make haste, and bear me a grandchild.

With affection, your father,

Elric Dewinter III

Haven: To Protect & Serve                           Fantasy / Dark Fantasy / Adventure                             vanilla, romance, banter, dub-con, violence
a pair of city guards in Haven, the grittiest, deadliest, most unforgiving city in the Low Kingdoms -- inspired by Simon R. Green's Hawk & Fisher series   

Being a city guard wasn't all it was cracked up to be.  The pay was lousy, half the time you got yelled at for doing your job when the wrong people were involved, and the other half, the victims of the criminals that you brought in developed a sudden case of amnesia.  Zee Pusey had been a corporal in the guard for 5 years, and, newly arisen to captain and assigned a new partner, she thought she'd seen everything.  She was wrong.

Another fan of the setting would be ideal, but anyone who would enjoy taking part in writing a 'tough cop, high fantasy' adventure with the possibility of romance or simple physical pleasures in a corrupt, crime-riddled metropolitan city where magic is common would work.  There are no elves, no other races - just humans that have been living with magic for so long that it is part of their everyday lives, especially for the rich and powerful, in an atmosphere where all too often, might makes right.
... click to read more ...
The Setting: Haven

"When you are tired of life, come to Haven.  And someone will kill you.

The city port of Haven was a bad place to be after dark.  It wasn't much better during the day.  If there was a viler, more corrupt and crime-ridden city in the whole of the Low Kingdoms, its existence must have been kept secret to avoid depressing the general populace.  If Haven hadn't been settle squarely on the main trade routes, and made itself such a vital part of the Low Kingdoms' economy, it would have undoubtedly have been forcibly evacuated and burnt to the ground long ago, like any other plague spot.  As it was, the city thrived and prospered, brimming with crime, intrigue, and general decadence.

It also made a lot of money from tourism.

Such a dangerous city needed dangerous men and women to keep it under something like control.  So from Devil's Hook to the Street of Gods, from the Docks to High Tory, the city Guard patrolled the streets of Haven with cold steel always to hand, and did the best they could under impossible conditions.  Apart from the murderers, muggers, rapists, and everyday scum, they were also up against organized crime, institutionalized brutality and rogue sorcerers; not to mention rampant corruption within their own ranks.  They did the best they could, and for the most part learned to be content with little victories.

They should have been the best of the best: men and women with iron nerves, high morals, and implacable wills - unstoppable heroes ready to take on any odds to overthrow injustice.  But given the low pay, appalling work conditions and high mortality rate, the Guard settled for what it could get." - Simon R. Green, Guards of Haven

« Last Edit: September 28, 2019, 10:49:08 am by Gypsy »

Offline GypsyTopic starter

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🔮 Gypsy's Campfire - Adaptable Story Ideas - Part II 🔮
« Reply #7 on: April 25, 2018, 10:23:54 am »

Part II
These story ideas are extremely flexible, including changes to the basic plot, characters, setting, etc.

*suitable for a one-shot

Gypsy Fortune Teller                           Fantasy/Werewolves/Monstrous Race                             extreme, exotic, NC, dub-con
an invading army needs a fortune teller to ensure victory

Jaelle Zingari had always been told that her curiosity and her inability to heed the warning wisdom of her elders would be her downfall.  She was bold, perhaps too bold, and confident in her dukkering, her gift of telling fortunes. 

What no-one had ever told her was that gift rarely runs true on the teller's own future.

When her band of rovers camped on the outskirts of a forest that their captain had declared 'interzis' or 'forbidden', Jaelle had paid little heed.  When one of the handsome giorgios had come to the camp, giving her silver for telling his fortune and bidding her meet him later in the shadow of the trees, she had slipped away.

Her would-be lover had not kept faith, however, but in the shadows and rising mists, she had somehow lost her way, and it was not long until she found herself hunted, pursued ... driven ever further from the safety of her people and their blades and magic ... straight into the wolves' jaws.

Her beauty, and her skill with fortune-telling and certain healing herbs and mixtures made her valuable, too valuable to break or kill so long as her gifts run true, though she is still the property of the wolves and under doom of death should she attempt to escape.
... click to read more ...
(concept created for a werewolf group game)

Not Currently Seeking
Les Liaisons Dangereuses                           Hist / Alt Hist / Fantasy / Serenity Universe                              blackmail, dubcon, BDSM
a spoiled, rich debutant seizes uses discovery of an indiscretion to get the man she's always wanted

Masquerades were always fun.  Of course, since everyone just wore a domino and everyone knew everyone worth knowing, any mischief one got up to 'in costume' was only secret when everybody agreed to keep it so -- otherwise, it was just more grist for the entertainment of those in the know and those fortunate enough to be in their good graces.

Evelyn Montague was a popular debutante, the daughter of a widowed nobleman who thought the sun rose and set in his daughter's eyes.  She wanted for nothing that his wealth could buy - dresses, shoes, jewelry, horses, a fine carriage, servants, parasols, stoles.  In truth, he bought her friends as well, indulging her entertainments, assisting the families whose daughters were her favorites.

He was determined that she would have the best possible match, not only marrying for wealth, but to suit her own affections.  Yet when she was of marriageable age, there was only one that she wanted, and he had been promised to another and neither her charms nor her plots (and of those there were many) could affect him to break his vow.

She'd never failed to get what she wanted before - and even though there were others who were more handsome, more connected, more wealthy, and certainly more eager for her company - she wanted what she could not have all the more.

A desperate, overheard confession at a masked ball on All Hallows Eve might be the path to her desired destination - and if not, then vengeance will still taste sweet.
... click to read more ...
Fantasy, Historical, Alt. Historical, Serenity settings all possible.  In fact a Serenity setting might be fun for this story.

The mischief level of Evelyn's machinations could run from the irritatingly smug to refined heartlessness of the original Isabelle, but a slap would be the most physical manifestation of her anger.

An Age of Decadence                           Hist / Alt Hist                                        taboo relationships, incest, any
when you're rich enough, powerful enough, famous enough ... society's rules don't apply

It was an age of decadence – an age, rather than ‘the’ age.  Decadence came and went, in different forms, different locales, but it was always the same thing wearing a different mask.

The era – pick a time in the 20th century, 1910 thru 1980, after the advances of modern medicine that put an end to syphilis and other rampant and wasting sexual diseases and pre-Aids,  a time when men and women could safely think themselves exempt from society’s rules.  Promiscuity carried few risks, and drugs were the ‘in’ thing.  Sex was an indulgence, a sign of status and power, of popularity and beauty …

and the in crowd, those special few, considered themselves above society’s rules, above any morality other than their own.

Perhaps he’s a director or producer of films.  Perhaps she’s the daughter, the niece,  he had nothing to do with prior to him showing up on his doorstep, case in hand and eyes filled with determination and stars, determined to be the next film sensation.

Perhaps he’s a dignitary, a diplomat, the up and coming rock star, the brilliant and arrogant CEO of a business that barreled its way into the Fortune 500, the equivalent of a Kennedy, a politician, or some drug lord in small country who rules like a feudal baron.  Whatever she is, she is beautiful, desirable, and all too ready to do whatever it takes to buy into that world of power, of exclusivity, of forbidden decadence.
... click to read more ...
The feel of this story is more important than the specifics, but I’d like to incorporate elements of incest, of abuse of power , of temptation and seduction – not cruelty, but rather the allure of being one of those ‘special’ people who get a pass from the rules that the rest of society lives by.

I am not looking to play an innocent, necessarily.  While I’m fine with her being sexually innocent, I do not want my character to be naïve.  In some ways, I want her to be complicit in her own corruption, her own seduction, even subtly goading the opposing character into doing what the morals of society says he shouldn’t. 

I would also consider historical or other established settings that fit the mood of what I’d like to write, illustrated somewhat by these images.


The Cat Burglar's Mistake                           Modern                             dubcon, BDSM, blackmail, age gap
a cocky young thief chooses the wrong house to burgle

Quinn O'Brien was the name on her birth certificate.  Whether it was her father's true surname or just one her parents had picked up along the way, Quinn wasn't certain.   On the surface, her parents were an upwardly mobile, a well-to-do family.  Her father was a stock broker, and her mother had her own security consulting business.  They had a nice house, money in the bank, cars, clothes, jewels ... Quinn didn't find out until she was fifteen that most of what she thought she knew was a lie.  Oh, her parents DID work at the jobs they claimed, but they had gotten their 'stake' and then some by theft.  At first, Quinn was mortified, but the more she learned, the more her fascination grew.  When it was obvious that she would not be content with NOT trying her hand at the family business, they set to work to develop her skills in useful directions.

Quinn had taken gymnastics and aikido classes, and under her parents direction, she added a regimen to build up her agility, speed, and endurance - she already was good at both climbing and getting in and out of tight places.  She also studied electronics under her mother's direction, and picked up as many tricks of the trade as they could teach.   Her first few 'jobs' were done under their watchful eyes, but eventually it was time for her to go out on her own, and her parents were ready to enjoy the fruits of their labor well beyond extradition and statutes of limitations.

She's had a few successes, enough to boost her confidence, and not enough experience to give enough credit for the role luck has played.  For the last couple of weeks, she's been scoping out her next target, a very nice home that just happens to be private enough to afford a good opportunity to get in and get out unseen -- and he has enough expensive, portable items scattered about to make it worth her while, particularly when she managed to parley a flirtation with the contractor who was putting in a sauna into an opportunity to 'borrow' the key without his knowledge and get ahold of the security codes for both the gate and the side door.
... click to read more ...
It had been a tip that led her to the big house that  couldn't be seen from the road.  Unlike many residences with a price tag seven digits long, there was no fancy gate at the road.  No, that, too was out of sight, discreet.  To Quinn, it was an irresistible curiosity.  She'd done some homework, but some information just wasn't available where it was supposed to be.  To a veteran, that might have been warning enough.  To Quinn, it was just another lure.

The first thing was her vehicle.  A car parked off the road was suspicious if it was seen.  A car with a reflective safety sign set out, hood up, and a driver not in evidence ... less suspicious, even in this day and age.  It was still cheaper to get a tow during the day, and the little orange chalk mark would convince most that the police were already aware.

Quinn walked down the road in plain sight for a while, before moving into the woods, shrugging off her bright oversize jacket and turning it inside out, folding and hiding it behind the root of a big tree that she'd picked out as a marker on one of her canvases.  Beneath, she was stripped down for action and limited visibility -- black pants of lycra that hugged her figure, and, more importantly, didn't have any excess cloth that might hang or slow her down.  A tight tank top, also black.  A black bra, just to streamline running.  Black climbing shoes that provided flexibility for her feet to seek out holds.  A black leather jacket, with black zipper and snaps.  Hair pulled back in a ponytail braid, sleek.  No strong odors of soap, shampoo, or perfume to linger or give away her presence.

The wall in the back wasn't alarmed, but it was tall with a wicked old-fashioned metal guard that was likely enough to keep out the curious.  It was not enough to deter her, particularly with a thin bit of black twisted rope and a little climbing hook.  She was over in an instant, the hook disengaged.  She lowered herself down quickly, and moved into cover to coil the rope and put it away.  In the most accessible pocket, she made sure what she would need to deal with the guards was ready at hand.  Right on schedule, she saw the first -- the big guard, the one that she would need to disable quickly.  If she didn't ... things would be going to hell before they really even got started.

Quinn was smart, she was quick, agile, and stronger than she looked.  She was also very confident in her skills, and high on the enthusiasm of early successes and the insulation of never having failed really badly at her passion.

Not Currently Seeking
Bad Girls Go Everywhere*                           Modern / Romance                             exhibitionism/voyeurism, public sex
she'd had the perfect marriage, the perfect life ... and it wasn't enough

Laura sat down at their favorite table, lifted her drink and took a long drink, tasting little but the strength of the gin and the bitterness of the lime.    She grimaced, but swallowed it down.  Bobbi sat down across from her over the small table, sitting her own glass of wine down to grab up Laura’s.  She took a small sip, then raised an enquiring eyebrow. “A little strong for you, isn’t it?” she asked, flashing a smile that didn’t quite hide her concern.  “Want to switch?”

“No, it’s fine,”
Laura insisted, and Bobbi  shrugged and slid the glass back over to her and reclaiming her red wine for a sip, while Laura tipped the glass and downed a good third of it in two swallows, something that only intensified Bobbi’s concern.  Laura wasn’t usually much of a drinker.  “Come on, girl, spill.  What’s wrong?”

“Todd asked me for a divorce,”
Laura answered simply, taking another drink.  Bobbi looked for tears, but Laura’s eyes were dry.

“Wow.  I thought you two were perfect for each other.  I mean, you’ve been a couple since high school.”

The two women were, at first glance, as different as different could be.  Laura was a natural blonde, a well formed body usually clad in conservative outfits..  She worked in one of the city’s most prestigious law firms, and most of the partners were well beyond middle age.  Bobbi called them the ‘Stodge Club’ and said that they probably considered Viagra one of the modern age’s many abominations.  She liked all the right things, could always be counted on to help with sick kids, emergency moves, and providing a shoulder to cry on.   Bobbi, on the other hand, dyed her brown hair innumerable shades of red, operated a personal beauty salon, and loved showing off her body, from hinting at nature’s kindness to downright flaunting it when it suited.  They were unlikely friends, but the truth was they kept each other balanced.  Bobbi went through two or three relationships a year, and just about given up on anything stable.  In some ways, the news of Laura’s possible divorce seemed to be more shocking, more frightening, than it was to Laura herself.
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“Why?  What’s going on?  Is that bastard having an affair?”

That was the most likely answer as far as Bobbi was concerned.  People weren’t made to be monogamous, except for Laura, or so she’d taken to saying.  It certainly seemed true in her case.

“No.  But it’s been eight months since we’ve had sex.”

“Eight months?  Wow.”
Bobbie didn’t even like to go eight days, so the news evoked immediate sympathy. “He must be having an affair.”

“No, I don’t think so.  It’s me.”
Laura gulped down the rest of her drink, and waved over the waiter, and asked for another. 

Bobbi looked at the wine, pushed it aside, and added her order. “Bring me one too.”

Another drink later, and Laura had revealed what she considered the whole sordid story that had brought her to where she was now.  Sex had gotten boring.  It was always the same thing, in bed, most of the lights out, missionary position.   They tried things now and then, mostly at Laura’s instigation,  but Todd always seemed in a hurry to get anything  remotely different from vanilla sex over with.  Finally, she’d stopped trying, and just went with the flow.  Life was pretty good, after all, and they were the perfect couple.  Todd wouldn’t even hear of marriage counseling, since stability was a cornerstone of his livelihood.

Then, when they were on vacation at the beach, relaxing on the balcony, Laura had spotted a couple the next balcony over.   They were very obviously engaged in foreplay, with the woman, a gorgeous redhead whom Laura said looked like Bobbi , with a faint smile, laying back on the table with one leg bent, the other over the shoulder of her lover, his dark head moving slowly, intently while the woman moaned and writhed. 

“I was going to go back inside, really I  was, but then Todd came out, and the woman opened her eyes, and she looked over at us and smiled, and said something to the guy.  He stopped, looked over, and he smiled too and went back to what he was doing, but he moved some, too, like he wanted us to look, and so did she.”

Laura’s face flamed, but her eyes were bright, sparkling, and Bobbi had to bite her lip to keep from smiling.  Laura looked as if she were half the way to an orgasm just talking about it, even if her voice was a little hushed, and she fell silent when anyone got too near. “We watched.  All of it.  And I … oh, God, I felt like I was on fire.  I looked at Todd, and he looked at me, and he kissed me, and I wanted to, right there  … he wouldn’t, but he pulled me back to the bed, and it was … it was like everyone always says it is, especially you.  It usually wasn't.” Laura gave a little smile, but it was bitter, sad.

“Well, then, congratulations, sweetie.  I’m still not seeing the problem, though.”

Laura’s voice took on a hint of defiance as she stared Bobbi right in the face and forced the words out. “I wanted him to do it … to fuck me … there on the balcony, like they did.  If not when they were watching, then later, but he wouldn’t.  He couldn’t.  And I … I guess I said that I was tired of missing out or something like that.  And ever since … nothing.  I didn’t mean to hurt him, Bobbi, I didn’t, but I want more.  And if he doesn’t, well, then maybe a divorce is the best thing.”

It was Bobbi's turn to gulp down a third of her drink.  The taste really did improve about halfway, she thought, while she tried to come up with something to say beyond simple agreement.  It still felt a little like someone'd had just told her that Santa Claus didn't exist for the first time.

Not Currently Seeking
Best Laid Plans                           Fantasy                           humor, blackmail, romance
a conniving maid forms a desperate plan to escape her boring village, one way or the other

The oldsters in town talked of the time when the dragon came and laid waste to the countryside, demanding tribute of treasure, cattle, and a beautiful maiden.   

The stories were all different, really, as most of the old men had been barely old enough to escape their mother's apron strings at the time, but all agreed that it had been a time of exciting chaos.  Taxes had been levied to raise the demanded were-gild, maidens had suddenly lost the reluctance to yield their maidenhood to their sweethearts, and a lottery had been organized.  The maid had been made much of, praised for her beauty, purity, and sacrifice ... and a local hero, hearing of the town's plight, had ridden in upon his magnificent stallion and killed or driven off the dragon, taking the maid ... and half the treasure demanded by the dragon ... as his reward.

Andella was the daughter of the town's mayor, and had been promised in marriage to a well-off merchant two town's over.  She was beautiful, confident in her beauty and rather spoiled, and he was ... unremarkable, save for his wealth and position, and she found neither even remotely exciting. 

When the dragon returned ... or another dragon came in his stead ... the scenario repeated itself, but Andella was determined that SHE would be the lucky maid this this time. 

As luck would have it, there was a hero in the vicinity, who had been bragging in the tavern, the commons, and whereever else he might be heard of how he had slain a dragon, not once, but twice.
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He was handsome, suave, foreign, exciting ... everything Andella's 'betrothed' was not.

Andella never considered that stories are often gross misrepresentation of the facts as she went about fixing the lottery so that she would be the sacrifice.  Surely the hero would come to her rescue?

  • What if the dragon and the dragon slayer were working an extortion con, and Andella finds out about it and demands a cut to play her part?
  • What if the dragon and the dragon slayer are one in the same?
  • What if the stories were true, and the dragon defeats the slayer and claims his prize?

Unforgiven                           Fantasy / Dark Fantasy                             succubus, seduction, corruption
she had spurned one man's dark desire -- now she is cursed to call those with dark desire to her

Years ago, a practitioner of the arts sworn to heal dabbled in black magic to punish the woman who'd rejected him after he'd broken his vows for her.  His curse transformed her, trapped her in its grasp.  Now she lies in wait for the next man with forbidden desires to come, to take up the grimoire of spells and invite her forth once more to feed off the lusts he longed to give free expression.

She stirred, and there was a glimmer of light in the peaceful, velvet darkness.  The feeling was like the harsh scrape of fingernails across skin, gentling into an almost tender scratch that awoke a sense of dread, loss, and longing.  She did not wish to waken, if this was sleep, or to live if this was death, but even as her consciousness retreated from the light, the hunger flicked across it like the brush of a lover's tongue.

Catta had been barely more than a girl when she had sought him out, the healer who had come to Krinesthai to take up the old tradition.  Her family was scattered and gone, and her husband of just a few months had gone to sea for the promise of gold to secure their start.  The swell of her belly was not noticeable beneath her skirts, but it felt to her like a boulder of ice, and fear gnawed at her insides with cruel, jagged teeth.   The Order held life sacred, but he had understood, and his eyes were gentle when he handed her the scrap of cloth that held the herbs.

She wept alone in her tiny hut, her blanket stuffed into her mouth to muffle the cries as the healer's tea ripped the fear from her body.  In the morning, she washed away the blood and cleaned the soiled bedclothes and got on with the things that must be done.
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A season passed, and then another.  The trees turned to fire and gold, and the coast where she watched was as barren as her womb.  A new fear took root, working its tiny tendrils inward slowly and leaving no trace upon her body, save for the hunger in her eyes.  It was then that the healer came to her and spoke of the hunger that lay within him as well, and he drew her down into the fallen leaves and warmed her with his hands and mouth.  But though he was as one starved, he could not sate his hunger, and he left there there, again lonely and unfulfilled.

Again and again he returned to her, ink upon his fingers and his eyes reddened from sleepless nights as he sought a cure for his own affliction in the great library, and his hunger grew red, and his hands turned cruel, and despite the secrets that lay between them, she turned him away, and he had gone.  He had gone, back to his gardens and his libraries, and the secrets that lay within, and eventually, when the winter had passed and her husband had not returned, the wife of the blacksmith in the next town had died birthing their child.

It seemed fate, and if she had not been overjoyed, she had been relieved and content enough.

And yet, without her will, she had left her new husband's bed, his child sleeping fitfully in its crib beside the fire, and had somehow crossed the miles to climb the hills to where he waited, in his buildings of empty, hungering stone, with his books, and his plants, and his desires and his angers.

Though she had not died, the hunger he had sown within her had consumed him, consumed them both, and she had descended into the peaceful darkness ... until another came and his hungers called to hers until she stirred once more.

Now another had come, and the desires that he had sought to bury deep within called to her, whispered her name, and breathed kisses over her skin until she writhed free from sleep, and eyes as hungry as the roiling seas opened, and a moist, rosy tongue emerged to flick across ruby lips.  The whisper of his name was like the taste of summer wine.

The Witch's Due                           Dark Fantasy / Misdirected Revenge                           NC, dub-con, seduction, tragic romance
if they want her help, she stands ready to give it ... for a high price     

The clouds rolled in, dark and dim, and swallowed up the sky.  On the road, a figure dressed in dark robes strode toward the village, a tall and crooked staff in her pale, deceptively fragile seeming hand.  Black eyes glittered beneath the hood as she looked up, reflecting the sharp streaks of lighting, and Malinda smiled with ravenous anticipation.

She’d been cheated once.  Now she was here to finish the bargain once struck and broken.  She’d saved the village once, at a considerable cost to herself, and her price had been agreed upon but not been met.  This time, they’d pay up … or they would not have to worry about the advancing horde.  There’d be nothing but soot and ashes beneath the invaders’ bootheels when they strode through what used to be the village main.

inspired by an image found by King Serperior, and posted in Finders & Seekers, with his kind permission
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My idea for this is a darker story, with Malinda returning to the village
and promising to save it once again.
This time she intends to take what she wants ...
and keep it as long as she wants.

And what she wants
is a man of the village
who catches her eye,
much like Garreth did long ago.
What he wants ...
is irrelevant.

The details of the character would be negotiable, but if the character is submissive or has submissive tendencies,
I'd like that to be very much a dark little secret that is brought out in the roleplay.

In Over Her Head                           Modern / Action                           NC, dub-con, seduction, romance
her sister is missing, and to find her she'll have to follow a dangerous trail     

From a story discussion that petered out ...

Only two years separate the two sisters, but it might as well have been a decade or more.  Even when they were young, Carol was the quiet one, the one who never seemed to get into trouble, except when she was following along with her younger sister in the hopes of keeping her out of it.    Their parents were similarly different, and as the girls got older, those differences erupted into vicious and loud fights.  Sometimes the fights turned physical, but their father was not the abuser, at least physically, but the abused.

When they divorced, Carol & Andi's father was granted full custody by the courts.  Andi, who was thirteen at the time, bitterly blamed her father for the problems, and ran away to live with her mother.  They went through the court system a couple of times, but when it became apparent that Andi would live with her mother or she'd run away every chance she got, their father gave in.

While he threw himself into his law practice, and was appointed a judge in the city's municipality, Carol lived in the suburbs, finished high school with honors, and then went to college.  In college, she was involved in a car accident involving the wife of a wealthy businessman and her father negotiated a nice settlement for her that meant she didn't have to have a steady job, and her father was of the opinion that what she really needed to do was marry someone with money and influence ... something that was all the more attractive as he began to gain a foothold in local politics and developed ambitions for more.
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Carol Steadham                 Andrea Steadham (Andi)
Andi didn't fare so well.  Their mother became ill, and got hooked on narcotics, and pretty soon Andi was stealing her medications and selling them. The first couple of arrests, her father had stepped in and hushed it up, but after that, he had washed his hands of it, and his younger daughter.    Not long after that severing, Andi seemed to have straightened up a little, sobered by their mother's death, and had found someone steady in her life who she swore was a good guy, even if he had half a billion tattoos and wore a leather jacket.  He was a biker, but he seemed to be good for Andi and the sisters  started talking more and trying to mend their relationship ...

At least until Carol caught Andi stealing from her ... which led to a huge fight that opened up all the can of worms about how Carol had always had it so good and had abandoned Andi and their mother. 

There was some justice to that, as well as to Carol's rebuttal that Andi had made her own choices that led to her harder life ...  but they were sisters still.  When Carol reached out ... Andi was gone.  Phone calls, texts, went unanswered, and Andi's shithole apartment had been abandoned, trashed.

After Happy Hour (Fractured Fairy Tales)                           Modern / Fantasy / Any                           dub-con, seduction, romance, humor
fairytales for adult amusement

Name: Fractured Fairy Tales (After Happy Hour)

Content: Possibilities from Light to Extreme

Scenario:  What is a fractured fairy tale, you might ask?  It is a Fairy Tale that takes the conventional story and changes it up, giving it a new perspective, a new setting, and perhaps makes fun of the social implications of the original, while still maintaining a recognizable plot and theme.

What I'd like to do is take a fairy tale and 're-write' it in a probably humorous XXX fashion.    The particulars would be up for negotiation, depending on the story and the partner, and I'd also like to write with someone who will enjoy the brainstorming and also helping guide the story from beginning to a satisfactory ending.
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There are many fairy tales that can be twisted, but some possibilities are:

Goldilocks & the Three Bears - Goldy Locks is a cat burglar who has been casing the Bear household for a month.  Momma, Poppa, and teenage son 'Babe' are always gone on Fridays, so that's when Goldy breaks in.  It turns out, however, that at least one of the Bears noticed that they had been staked out.  Let's find out how the the chairs and bed really got broken ... or maybe she decided that 'too hard' wasn't so bad after all.

Sleeping Beauty - Sleeping Beauty might well be the princess who only pretends to sleep while some other palace resident creeps in ...

Rumplestiltskin - Perhaps, instead of trinkets and first borne children, Rump decides upon a different negotiation -- and instead of straw spun into gold, we could make it the feeding of a gambling addiction, wins in the stock market  or a beauty pageant ... and transform Rump and his would-be princess into modern equivalent.

Little Red Riding Hood -  Perhaps instead of a girl and a wolf, we have a delivery driver for 'Red's House of Ribs' who keeps getting orders to make a delivery to a cottage in the woods owned by a pretty MILF.

Hansel & Gretel - Well, we don't need kids lost in the woods to tell this story.  Perhaps, instead, a lost hunter or hiker seeking shelter from a storm needs a place to stay until it blows over ...

The Emperor's New Clothes - What if that fancy outfit she wore for their date started falling apart, bit by bit?

Rapunzel - a penthouse apartment inhabited by a reclusive celebrity known for her gorgeous hair ...

Of course, any of these scenarios are basic 'smut' type plots, but I'd love to sneak in elements of the story, suitably twisted, to keep the theme, rather than just changing the names around.

Setting: Modern, Historical, and/or Fantasy

Requirements: A partner who likes to mix a little tongue-in-cheek humor with good writing and some sexy writing that still holds true to the story.

Other info:

« Last Edit: September 28, 2019, 10:47:43 am by Gypsy »

Offline GypsyTopic starter

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🔮 Gypsy's Campfire - Adaptable Story Ideas - Part I 🔮
« Reply #8 on: April 25, 2018, 10:25:34 am »

Part I
These story ideas are extremely flexible, including changes to the basic plot, characters, setting, etc.

*suitable for a one-shot

I'm Mesmerized By You*                           Hist / Alt Hist / AU                           vanilla, romance, banter, dub-con
an innocent demonstration of mesmerism leads to the unraveling of inhibitions

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

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

The provided sample post is one possible setup for a story, and while I like this setup, I am perfectly willing to discuss stories and characters that are completely different, so long as they involve some sort of deliberate mesmerism as described above.
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Lorraine Appleton, affectionately dubbed 'Lolo' by her father, friends and those others given to a fashionably casual mode of address, had never gotten along with her older sister, Margaret. Perhaps it was only natural. Their father's first marriage had not been a happy one, and most said that his often vocal and public disagreements with his wife had caused her to drink herself into an early grave. It probably didn't help that he married his mistress, and mother of his three-year-old illegitimate daughter Lorraine, less than two months after his wife's funeral.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Devil Inside                           Modern / Supernatural                           corruption, multiple partners, dub-con, succubi
a midwest cowgirl with succubus bloodlines meets a devil who wants to bring her to her full potential

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

They just wouldn't stay buried.  Her dreams made sure of that.
... click to read more ...
It was a perfect day.  The sky was the perfect shade of blue, a hair darker than a robin's egg, and the clouds that were strewn along the horizon were the white, fluffy variety with only a shadow of grey.  The air was warm, but clean and light, like sheets fresh out of the dryer.  In a week, maybe less, it would be time for the first haying, a time that Lacy looked forward to without quite knowing why.

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn't a hair shirt, and there were no scars that you could see, not from this.  Maybe this time, she'd finally learned her lesson.

« Last Edit: November 14, 2018, 09:10:29 am by Gypsy »

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« Reply #9 on: April 25, 2018, 10:47:27 am »

Modern / Horror / One-Shot

Halloween - anything Halloween.  From costume parties to tricks gone wrong to monsters coming out to play with mortals to ghosts looking to recapture just one more evening of life.  If there's a Halloween related story that interests you or you'd like to brainstorm a seasonal one-shot, shoot me a PM.

A Shadow Out of Frame
Vampire / Gothic / Alt Historical   
A story idea inspired by Shadow of the Vampire

Ellen is a woman who discovers the ultimate expression of love in the most exquisite pain imaginable. Sound familiar?  It will be your most demanding role, the role that will make you great as an actress.  Consider it a sacrifice to your art.”  ~~ Murnau

And you think I would ever do such a thing?  That’s a rather skewed characterization coming from a man I’ve spent the past two hours raping like a woman.  Still, I must admit you took it like a man.”  ~~Micheline (Berlin Cabaret owner – from the screenplay)

“My sense of style is realism, but my sense of art is moral.  I want to explore evil with the eye of a scientist.”  ~~ Murnau

“There are others less indispensable.  Why not the script-girl?” ~~ Murnau      “The script girl?  I’ll eat her later.” ~~ Orlock

“It was woman.  We were together in the night and then she left me …” ~~ Orlock

A story prompt featuring a picture of an old fashioned projector running in the darkness of a movie theater inspired the idea, and desire, to write a story involving a vampire in the early film industry.

The movie ‘Shadow of the Vampire”, provided further musing.  It is a great old-school gothic style movie about making a movie, and the performance of John Malkovich as a narcissistic, amoral, and yet philosophical director who is ruthless in his pursuit of his art and convinced o his own genius.

I do not want to write about the movie, but rather a small chapter that would take place long after Murnau's film horrified audiences on the silent screen.

The premise – a woman involved in the shooting of ‘Nosferatu’ was turned by Orlock (unbeknownst to him) and was either presumed dead or else managed to return to Berlin after the horrific end to filming.   

Perhaps it was Greta Schroeder, the actress who played Ellen.   She is a diva of the age, a flapper, a sexually liberated woman, and an occasional drug user.    She was Count Orlock’s final meal, but was interrupted before he had fully finished.

Or it could have been Micheline, who only made it into the American version of the film for a shot of Murnau lifting her skirt to bestow a kiss upon smooth skin.  She was, in the screenplay, the owner of the cabaret in Berlin catering to wealthy decadents, including Herr Doctor Murnau.  Who is to say that he escaped Orlock unscathed?  Or that his lover came to Romania to visit him, and fell prey to the vampire before Murnau learned of her arrival.

Maybe it was the script girl, so scathingly dismissed by Murnau as he berated the vampire over killing a valuable member of his crew.  It might be the makeup artist who was not allowed to powder Orlock's face, or Elke or Maria who dressed the sets or extra from the film, or a nurse from the local hospital accompanied someone back to Berlin, or even a would-be actress who acted as dogsbody for the film's important personages.

Whoever she is, she is now a vampire, living in a city with a strong theatrical presence, famous in her own right at least in that city - an actress in plays, a cabaret singer, a patron of the arts.

She wants to share her story to someone who might understand.

Perhaps she is weary of living a lonely existence where her only true reality is captured frame by frame.  She might be disgusted by the change in society and revisits the past in this manner to recapture something of a life that is slipping away, frame by frame.

Maybe she wants a companion who she hopes will imbue her with new purpose.   It could be that she was enamored by Murnau, and wants to honor his legacy by sharing her 'gift' with someone in the industry who she feels could recreate his genius, given a ... unique perspective. 

It might even be that she is tired, and wants to echo Murnau's cry of "Thank god, an end to this artifice!" as she shares her truth with a single soul.

There are a lot of possibilities for the dynamic, and I'm hoping to leave it open for discussion to capture a flavor that interests both writers. 

What I would definitely like:
  • A time period between 1926 – 1950, in a metropolis with a great appreciation for film -- Hollywood is the obvious, but it could just as easily be New York, Paris, London ...  Heavy emphasis on historical detail is not necessary.  Avoiding obvious anachronisms would be desired, but capturing the flavor of the time chosen works just fine.
  • I would prefer the opposing character not to be a protagonist, per se – no Van Helsing, no vampire hunter, no priest (unless it were a priest embroiled in a crisis of faith). 
  • I would also like my partner's character to be someone with ambition, a driving goal, that makes the idea of the vampire’s wealth, influence, or fame a temptation that he could fight only so hard.
  • A writing partner who can help to move the story along would be ideal -- someone desiring collaboration and who would work with me to achieve a good, enjoyable story.
  • A positing speed of 1-3 times per week.

In the Crosshairs
Contemporary / Action

Kelleen Dauphin hadn't seen her father in ten years, not since the day he'd told her that he'd filed for divorce from her mother, and was planning to marry the conciliatory-smiling bitch on his arm.  "You'll live with us, of course," he'd stated, his snake-oil salesman's hand covering that of her mother's replacement as if to hide the presumptive diamond ring on her finger.

"Like hell I will!" 

Kelleen, called Kelly by her friends, punctuated the growled response by throwing her glass of grape juice in his face before stomping out.

Her only regret over their parting was that she didn't throw the glass as well ...  and that only a few drops got on her soon-to-be stepmother's Neiman-Marcus blouse.  At least she'd ordered grape juice, and she hoped the stain set.

Her father was a persistent bastard, and he didn't simply accept her decision, but her grandfather had taken the letter from her father's lawyer with a 'We'll just see about that" grumble of defiance, and that was that. 

Her grandfather didn't travel in the same circles as her father, but he'd been fortunate enough to have inherited land from his grandfather that sat on top of substantial, and valuable, mineral deposits.  His wealth was the only reason her father had married her mother, and as far as Kelleen was concerned, her father was the reason that her mother was being cared for in an expensive private institution.

Such care was expensive, and her grandfather shouldered the full burden of it, other than what her mother's trust fund covered.  Francis Dauphin had offered, as his business ventures and political maneuvering increased his fortunes, but his 'blood money' had been spurned.

Of course, there was fault enough to go around, but she had always been the type to offer her loyalties with a dogged blindness -- a fault that her mother had shared, if Kelleen had just allowed herself to see it.

Now, her estranged father's company is on the verge of rolling out a new technology that would make mining in delicate habitats environmentally safe.  In a world caught on the cusp of environmental activism that wanted fossil fuels to go the way of the dinosaur and a world that needed energy until science could make that leap, Francis Dauphin found himself in the crosshairs.

Kelleen hadn't cared ... at least not until a black suburban had driven up along side her on the private drive to her grandfather's house when she was jogging, and masked men slid out from behind the darkened glass doors.   They'd gotten more than they bargained for, since Kelleen's first instinct had been fight -- a good, hard kick between the legs of the first man who'd grabbed at her her had bought her enough time for the second instinct, flight, to kick in.

Now, it seemed, that the daughter of the CEO of such a controversial company needed a bodyguard.  Her father insisted ... and what was worse, this time her grandfather agreed.

Looking for a partner who is interested in helping flesh out the bare bones of the idea.  Kelleen is a stubborn tomboy, smart in her way, but she has tunnel vision when it comes to viewing the world.   I expect there to be violence in the story, and the relationship between Kelleen & the bodyguard will contain power struggle elements.

What I would definitely like:
  • A writing partner who can help to move the story along would be ideal -- someone desiring collaboration and who would work with me to achieve an enjoyable story.
  • A positing speed of 1-3 times per week.

I Summon Thee*                            Modern / Horror                           dub-con, NC, corruption, violence
a goth chick, a summoned demon, a flawed summoning circle & a score to settle

Lenore wasn't her given name, or even her middle name.  Her middle name was Eleanor, but a nip here and a tuck there, and it was close enough that most people didn't balk at her insistence on being called 'Lenore' after Poe's works.   Most of the time, they called her 'that Goth chick' or 'Weirdo' or 'Morticia' or even 'Elvira', though that one was accompanied by jeers over what Elvira had that she didn't.  She'd filled out this last summer, but she was a long way from doing justice to an Elvira costume all the same.

It had been a mistake to come here.  She hadn't wanted to come at all, but when Judith, who had been her best friend until she she went boy-crazy, asked her to come, she'd thought that maybe there was a chance to re-capture that closeness.  Both of them loved Halloween, after all, but it turned out that Judith's latest boyfriend had a weird cousin and nobody else would go out with him.  Once Lenore had punched him in the nose, adding a dose of authenticity of real blood to his dorky doctor costume, Judith had dragged her off to the bathroom to scream at her for messing up her date.

Messing up HER date ... as if Lenore had wanted a blind date with Tony's loser, grabby cousin who smelled like a combination of moth balls and Listerine.

At least casting a spell sounded like fun, so she tagged along with Gavin, Carol, Rick, Tina, and a couple of kids she didn't know.  There was even a time or two when it seemed like Gavin was treating her like a real person instead of just the school weirdo, but she'd seen the sniggers.   It was better than going home, though.  Things were better, but they could get bad fast if her Mom got any indication that things weren't going okay in her life.  At least here, she didn't have to pretend.
... click to read more ...
They'd gotten the spell off the internet, from a site that Lenore had suggested.  It was, from what she could tell, one of the better ones.  Some of the books they cited were actual books that she could get at the library, and some of the spells were real Latin, instead of just the juvenile excuse for rhyming drivel that rivaled Hallmark for the gag factor.  She'd been able, for a moment, to hold their interest, and she'd felt important, proud, even hopeful ... but then there'd been the giggles and the looks.

Even now, when she'd done everything she could to help, to be a good guest like you're supposed to do, it was more sneers.  "Your creepy alley."  Yeah, sure, he could like her.  Right.

"Why not?" Lenore stood, unfolding her legs from beneath her in a graceful movement that drew Gavin's eyes, for all his jeering.  She took the paper they'd printed out and looked at it with a little snurl of her lip that would, hopefully, rob every last one of them any satisfaction for having drawn her in, even for a moment.  The summoning circle they'd drawn on the wood floor of the attic actually looked pretty good, though she wasn't going to tell them that.

Maybe they would summon a demon.  If they did, Lenore hoped it ate Gavin first, then Carol next.  Of course, it wasn't much hope, because she didn't believe, not really.  Maybe she never had, but it had been better than believing in nothing.  And it was a cool look, a costume that you didn't just haul out one day a year.  Her black dress, the taffeta slip, the blood red and black makeup, her black-dyed hair ... that she loved, though maybe she loved it just for spite.  At the moment, she didn't know why and didn't really care.

"You're supposed to gather around the circle and hold hands." Lenore waited until they'd all shuffled around, jockeying for position around some air-headed, big boobed girl, grabbing looks and feels.  Darrel, his cheeks still red, held up his left hand to Lenore, and she recoiled a step and snapped, "Not me, Einstein.  I've got to hold the paper.  Hold Gavin's hand.  Don't worry, Carol, it's part of the ritual.  Your boyfriend's not a homo .... is he?"

At least she could give them reason to hate her, since they were going to do it anyway.

"Oh, shut up.  I was just joking, for crying out loud.  Now let me read, and remember .... no matter what happens, don't break the circle.  It could be dangerous." Her voice sounded ominous in the darkness, surprising even herself. "All those drama classes paid off," she thought, though it was a wan, pallid little thought, tinged with hopelessness.

Lenore didn't know Latin.  She could guess at the pronunciation of most of the words.  She was smart, after all, a B & C student, and she could have gotten all A's and B's if she had wanted to endure more insults.  Still, she gave it the old college -- that was a laugh! -- try, calling on her experience in drama and in school plays to add a dramatic flair to the delivery of the quasi-familiar words.

"Exorcizamus te omnis immundus spiritus
Omnis Satanica Potestas
Omnis incursio infernalis adversarii
Omnis Legio
Omnis Congregatio et secta diabolica
Ergo, draco maledicte
Ecclesiam Tuam Securi Tibi facias libertate servire
Te rogamus
Audi nos
Exorcizamus te omnis immundus spiritus Samael
Omnis incursio infernalis adversarii
Omnis Samael!"

She skipped a few words and a sentence or two, growing bored with the charade.  Not like they'd know the difference. Nobody at all was more surprised than she was when the candle flickered at her last authoritative command, then went out, leaving them blinking as they looked at each other with the negative image effect of the suddenly extinguished flame still dancing in front of their eyes.  She heard shuffling of tennis shoes, the scrape of denim on wood, exclamations that held a touch of fear.

"How the hell did you do that?" Gavin's voice was accusing, though there was a little hint of ... approval ...

"I didn't do anything." Lenore's heart was beating hard, fast, in her chest, and the hands holding the paper were clammy with sudden sweat.  The sounds of the others went away, like someone had pressed a 'mute' button, and she smelled it.

It wasn't sulfur, or rotten eggs, or anything at all unpleasant.  Instead it was the heavy, warm scent of spices and exotic weavings and sun-scorched sands, of strong coffee and cinnamon and candle-vanilla, and a heady undertone of something she didn't recognize.  The darkness in the middle of the circle got darker, until Lenore could almost swear that she could hear it breathing, perhaps licking its lips ...

Her fishnet stocking-clad legs trembled, knees starting to ripple like water .. and then the candle blazed up as if the whole thing was set aflame at once, like a torch ...
« Last Edit: September 28, 2019, 11:04:42 am by Gypsy »

Offline GypsyTopic starter

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« Reply #10 on: April 25, 2018, 11:14:23 am »

My post length generally varies from a couple of paragraphs to multiple paragraphs.  If I have a general length, it's probably 4-6 paragraph range.    However, I'm perfectly fine with responses from 2 paragraphs to whatever it takes to convey the gist of what my partner wants to say.  I'm pretty adaptive when it comes to pace and length within those parameters, and certainly don't need or demand a wall of text -- and I don't always promise one.  :-)

My posting rate is somewhere between 1-10 days, currently.  I am still responding generally within a week, and I hope to get back to the point where responses come within 2-4 days, but can't promise a consistent speed right now.  I'm in the midst of planning for a move around March of 2020, with finding a house, selling a house, and all the stuff that goes with it.

Forum roleplay only – while I’m happy to chit-chat, or brainstorm,  over PMs or Discord, I need the ability to edit my posts.  Also, I generally take a peek at prospective writing partners past posts to get an idea if styles will match, and I can't do that when someone writes exclusively in PMs.

My characters are not me.   I write some pretty steamy content in the context of my stories/games here.  I enjoy erotic content, both reading and writing, but that content takes place only in the context of those games and stories.  PMs are between 'me' and 'another player', not between fictional entities.  'Gypsy' is me.  So while I may flirt a little with people I've gotten to know a bit, or greet friends with a virtual hug or smooch, that's where my comfort zone ends.

I'm really pretty laid-back as a writing partner.  I don't bite, and I welcome PMs.  I will do my best to answer any PMs that I receive.   If I don't have time to take on another story, or if I don't feel that someone is a good match as a writing partner, whether it be for reasons of style, posting speed, or common interests, I will be polite in saying so.  I also invite anyone interested to take a look at my Ons/Offs and current stories (linked in my signature) or any of the completed or inactive stories that are linked in those threads.

I've been doing cooperative writing online for a pretty long while.  I've had a few people tell me I'm intimidating, which I find pretty funny as I can be pretty hesitant to reach out to others about writing.  I consider myself, most days, a pretty good writer.  I love to write, and nothing is more thrilling than those moments of chemistry in a really good story.  I'm here for the long haul, and I will not just disappear on my partners, as my posting history shows.    I have not picked up stories that were put on pause at my hiatus, but am hoping to revisit at some point when my writing pace is steadier.

« Last Edit: September 28, 2019, 09:37:31 am by Gypsy »

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« Reply #11 on: September 28, 2019, 11:24:07 am »


Who do I consider a good potential writing partner? 
Well, first and foremost, it involves communication and a little confidence, a little enthusiasm.  Tell me what you're interested in writing, particularly if you don't have an On/Offs or Interest thread.  Suggest a story or a character you want to write, a dynamic you'd like to establish.   There's no need to ask me if I'm looking for a partner or if I want to roleplay -- until the above red lettering says that I'm not available, I am, and I do.  :-)  I'm not asking you to 'sell yourself' -- if you contact me about writing together, I will go looking to see what you've written on the boards-- but that initial contact is my first impression of 'you as a writer'.  Invest in a few sentences to pique my interest, or better yet, make me eager to go looking.

If you don't yet have a posting history, that's fine -- but please be willing to strut your stuff a little more to show me that glint of light on broken glass.  If all I have to go on is that you're a warm body looking to roleplay with another warm body,  if I get what feels like a form letter expressing vague interest but no detail, I'm much less likely to be intrigued.

If you'd like to see examples of some of the characters I have written, or am writing, I have an incomplete collection of them here: 


09-28-2019added current cravings
09-07-2019changed status
10-18-2018      bumped, looking for compatibly styled, consistent writing
moved 'Dark Passions' to Dusty Bookshelf category
09-03-2018bumped, looking to add 1 story, changed current craving
07-30-2018bumped, looking to add 1 story, added to current craving
07-03-2018bumped, looking for a compatible writing partner
06-03-2018bumped, looking to add 1 (possibly 2) new stories
04-25-2018redesign of interest thread