bones.
Edgar Allen Hoe
- Local time
- Today 10:43 PM
- Messages
- 11
- Age
- 26
- Pronouns
- she/her
Hi cuties!!! <3 How are we doing today?
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|| Post Length ~ 400+ words (and I usually go well over that). Multi-para to novella. || Posting Frequency ~ Multiple times a day to once a week. Can take longer. || Tense ~ First and Third Person || Plot to Smu-… yeah, we don't do that here. Our characters will click when they click || Age Limit ~ Must be 21+. This is non-negotiable; I don't care if it is technically legal and if you rival Virginia Woolf with your description of things. Nope. || Ghost-Friendly ~ Will always appreciate a heads up, but idc. || Versatile ~ I write the cruelest of doms, the sluttiest of switches, and the most alluring of subs, and I love writing each equally. So, come all. || Wordbuilding ~ I love a good fantasy story with a world created by me and my partner, but I am not good for J.R.R Tolkien level worldbuilding. My worldbuilding is X-rated Disney movie or fairytale levels of complicated.❦❦❦
[/CENTER]Pairings & Plot Bunnies-->
All of these are up for a great deal of editing, and I'd love to have these stories really take shape through conversation.
1. WW2 — German Officer x Minority
My biggest craving right now. I will always be up to do this. This can go many directions, so I will keep this vague and allow us to plan further upon writing. You don't need to know the exact date Normandy happened, but please have a workable amount of knowledge about this, or at least do your research. This would take place in a Nazi-occupied territory, revolving around their romance being kept a secret through the environment they are put in.
2. Revolutionary War — British Officer x Patriot
It's 1778. The British are advancing through the South, raiding homes and forcing settlers to give them shelter during their stay. My character has lost her male family members to the war, leaving behind only a dog to look after her. She's a writer, deep into the patriot ideals, especially after the death of her family. Until she meets your character, a Redcoat who lodges with her against her will. At first it's strictly banter, with both characters taking a distaste to each other. After initial arguing, she realizes that she doesn't mind the company, and he's actually quite useful around the home. And then, before she knows it, he's shirtless preparing breakfast while she kisses his shoulder.
3. Time Travel — Rivals to Lovers
Two academic rivals are intent on making each other's lives miserable, and after one of them "steals" the other's internship, it breeds a new vendetta. The afflicted ends up getting shitfaced and meeting a strange person in a pub, who ends up helping them do a spell on the other person. The next day, they can barely remember what happened, but the other goes missing. Immense guilt (and shadowed attraction) causes them to seek the other out, which somehow leads them to traveling back in time, where they find the other. This idea is my way of having my cake and eating it too - I want them to go on all sorts of adventures, their nerdy selves building up a life in this new (or old) setting.
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Stuff I Like -->
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Yandere - obsessed men/women who don't adhere to normal boundaries and would destroy others, or themselves, for that one person
Addiction - people who need that fix to cope, or even survive
Stockholm Syndrome - because of course.
Arranged marriages that turn to love
Trashy Americana - I'm talking trailer-park, 4th of July cookouts and American flag bikinis. Embracing the aesthetical trashiness that comes with American culture and patriotism
Codependency - twin-flames, but dark and destructive
LGBTQ+ Stuff - we're here, and we're queer. Will write any gender for any pairing, and I am definitely open to writing trans characters.
Polyamory - presented as something loving and romantic on all sides. A throuple who would kill for either one.
Master/Slave stuff - spank me, daddy
Fun/Intense Dynamic Duos - (think Sherlock Holmes and Watson, or Arya Stark and "The Hound")
Dark Magic
Religious trauma!!!!!!!!!
Mental Illness - presented as something that actually affects the story somehow
Obsession - if you haven't noticed, I definitely don't have a thing for starstruck psychopaths fixated on one person like blood to a shark. Nope that would be completely cliché and stupid...
Vendettas
Irredeemables - yeah so "morally gray" is cool and whatever but how about "you're a terrible person who cannot be redeemed but you're hot so I'm gonna let it slide". Seriously, give me your deplorable bullies!
Interracial Couples - because it's so fascinating to have two people from different backgrounds and scope of experiences falling in love (or fucking each other up, depending on what you like)
Incest (I have a certain way of doing this, and I will explain in the spoiler)Forbidden Love - wait we can't be together but you're so hot???Ok, I think there's something I need to state. When I say that incest is ok with me plot-wise, I don't mean a stepsister getting stuck in a washing machine and gasping, "Omg, step-bro! What are you doing?!?!?1111!!!1!1", or a father that punishes his daughter for getting a D in English. I need something emotional, raw and vulnerable to be paired with this. Two sisters with a shared trauma that find comfort in each other's love, or an absent father returning to repair the damage he has done. In short, I don't want something out of a porn plot.
Wholesome/Cuddly Romances in twisted settings - daisies in a storm
Services - prostitutes, escorts, strippers, etc
Sugar Daddy and Sugar Baby dynamics - yeah.
Syndicates - Peaky Blinders my beloved.
Alternate Timelines
Any plot that sounds like a Lana Del Rey song - guys if you didn't know, I sort of like this singer that goes by the stage name "Lana Del Rey"
Halloween Vibes - supernatural, horror, fear, campy stories, final-girls who break final-girl stereotypes (so final-girls that aren't clueless white virgins who get rewarded for their chastity by not getting killed), murder mysteries... basically all the creepy. -
Victorian England
Wild West
Puritan America
Present Day
Ancient Mycenaean Greece
Ancient Rome
WW2
1950s
Prohibition Era
Tudor Era
Medieval England
1790s France
American Revolution Era -
Crime
Historical Fiction
Psychological Thriller
Fantasy
Mystery
Drama
Romance
Horror
War
Dystopian -
Annnd the moment you've been waiting for.
Kinks:
Scissoring • S&M • Dub-Con • Oral sex (giving and receiving) • Evidence of S&M or Roughness (marks) • Blindfolds • Things that inhibit movement (handcuffs, ropes, ect) • Older men/women and age gaps • Teasing • Aftercare (especially if it's after something sadistic) • Intense Foreplay • Collars • French kisses • Cuddling • Dirty Talk • Orgasm Denial/Control • Anal • Sensation Play • Threeways (where everyone gets equal attention) • Body Worship • Sex while covered in blood • Pussy Worship • Sloppy, passionate makeout sessions • Character A licking the tears off Character B • Character A kissing the tears off Character B • Face-Fucking • One-After-The-Other scenes • Cock Worship • Spanking • Trim, neat dressers • Free Use • Hate-Sex • Sex Toys • Passionate Missionary • Self-harm for the pleasure of another • Slow Dancing • Hand-Holding • Males Moaning/Groaning/Grunting/Whimpering/Literally any sign that they are enjoying it (MAKE SOUNDS MEN OMG) • Rimming (giving or receiving) • Pegging • Size Differences • Non-Con • Branding • Humiliation (excluding "wetting" and stuff like that) • Light-Medium BDSM • Very, very, very light age-play (slippery slope for me) • Mutual Masturbation (extra points if it's part of a humiliation thing) • Drug/Alcohol Consumption • Staring into eyes • Incorporating food into sex scenes • Exterior Grooming (like brushing someone's hair, applying their makeup, or cleaning them... you get the gist)
No-Gos:
Underage • Apparatuses (they scare me, and not in the good way) • Tentacles • Tendencies that are overtly animalistic (men growling a bit doesn't count hehe) • Things that tend to belong in the bathroom • Unrealistic Proportions • Pregnancy (as a kink - sex while pregnant can still happen) • Playing spineless characters that obviously exist just to be used (I play women with substance, sass, and intelligence, not self-lubricating fleshlights) • Beastiality (kinda open to anthro, though) • Harems • Doms whose entire personalities is being a Dom/being all-powerful or whatever. I have no interest in a Christian Grey type character who does nothing but be rich and hot and for some reason my character's panties are on the ground over this milk-toast weirdo. Make him rounded. Give him flaws. Give him embarrassments. Write justifications for him to be a certain way.
If you like something that I didn't list in my kinks or limits, then ask! I love discovering new things I like.
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Ignore if you want:
Send me little song lyrics that pertain to our story, or are just cool in general? I'm a sucker for this stuff. I'm the type to formulate a playlist when I really get into a story.
Send me little song lyrics that pertain to our story, or are just cool in general? I'm a sucker for this stuff. I'm the type to formulate a playlist when I really get into a story.
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Writing Samples:
(These don't have context and I won't be providing context lmao. Although I'm usually self-conscious about my writing, these are some posts where I read them and thought "oh yeah I ate the assignment right up".)
If Paisley has ever grown to enjoy one aspect of this life, it was the frequent visits to the lake. She could reach it with only a half-mile of walking, and she wouldn't worry about any onlookers. Not when twilight would hide her underneath nature's troughs. She rarely ever fully submerged herself, although there were about a dozen times when she disregarded all dignity and floated around in her nightgown. But that was when she was still pre-pubescent and lively; those urges had long made way for constant dread. But despite that, she still felt at peace with herself when the water enveloped her little toes; much like a deceased people lying under a proper burial should feel. At times, she wondered if it was the brief solitude she gained from this brief episode of escapism, or maybe she just adored the feelings of the cool, twilight water taking her away. At times, she wondered what would happen if she stuffed her coat with rocks and simply stepped in…
But alas, she would return. She had work to do.
Men dying and others coming to take their place wasn't a new reality to Paisley, and as much as she was relieved that she wouldn't have to skate on thin ice around Father Greene anymore, she had come to accept that her life was a series of trials paved for her by her God. Each new chapter would drain the vitality from her flesh more than the previous, and each new man would harm her, and each woman would neglect her whimpers for help - for they know the song of The Lord. And as Eve interfered with the Lord's will, the women would let His plans unfold. Even if it was upon Paisley. And when she would scream and trash and rattle from years and years of tolerating the savagery of passionate men, she would be met with "God loves you.".
He does, but Paisley wished that he showed it. But, as they always say, The Lord works in mysterious ways, and every hardship would all build to a reward for her. In this case, future children that will supposedly fulfill the void in her soul; sired by a man who might look at her with stars in his eyes from the beginning, but as time unfolds, grow to despise her just as all the others have. But in the midst of her new torturer, the feeling of a baby's mouth suckling upon her aching teat would remind her of all she needed. Should she have daughters, they would face the same rhetoric; they would learn about Maria Goretti, and they would learn to lock their innards up until a man came along to repeatedly occupy her womb until she died of it.
There were glimpses of joy in this. Paisley would throw in an apron and cook for her siblings, and they would smile and chatter to her. She would bathe them and read them a less sanguineous verse - or perhaps even tell them the story of Esther, or the proud perseverance of Moses. They would fall asleep in their little beds, and she would unintentionally join them. But then, she'd hear another happening of a woman in the community dying during childbirth, or gruesome medical afflictions as a result of repeated birth. Nothing else terrified her more than that.
"If that's what Paisley wants".
Those words plagued her for the rest of the day. What she wants. Well, it was never a matter of desire, or enthusiasm. When she had to fulfill duties that she didn't like, she never even thought to complain about it. It just… happened. What she wanted to do was read books on the shores of Lake Wateree until the sun hid, and she couldn't physically see the words anymore. But choices were few… did the new priest know that? In secret, she would almost roll her eyes, but then she'd abstain from such disrespect. How dare she.
While efforts to invoke desire were fair game for physical abuse, she still had to look orderly for a man such as Father Thomas, so in her nightgown, she would iron her alb until not a single crinkle can be seen in the alabaster fabric. Out of all the clothing she has ruined with grass stains and mud, this single article remained glowing; white for purity, readiness, and virginity. The alb almost made her seem ready for the heavens, but then she would see her freckles span across her face, and she'd grimace. Once, she ran her hands across the warm linen as steam clouded upwards from both the iron and the clothing.
The white paint began to chip from the windowsill; they would need to mend that soon. The early light spilled in from the curtains and onto the creaky wooden floor. The house itself looked a tad too pedestrian for any normal human being to thrive in, with a depiction of the family tree sitting proudly above the fireplace, and a lavish record player with various classical pieces arranged next to it. Nothing by any Jewish composers, of course, and God, none of that sleazy swing hodgepodge. Nothing that could coax a quick swing of the hips, or that could lead to thoughts revolving around romance, or heartbreak, or sex. Nothing like that. In fact, nothing in this house could lead to any of those things - no concentrated or vibrant colors that could stimulate the mind, or any recondite piece of art that inspires deeper thinking.
But she did. She touches the fabric as if it was a work of art, her calloused fingers running along the fabric after she ironed it. After she bathed and groomed herself accordingly, Paisley wrapped her bushy hair into two sagging buns, with a few locks of hair falling over her face. Next, she let the alb hang over her lithe body, and then fastened a bister rope cincture around her waist. Yes, white for purity. White for chastity. White for worth.
She would go barefoot, because that was the pinnacle of innocence. Well, innocence in the eyes of parochialism. But nevertheless, she had somewhere to be.
"Watch him." His voice pierced her ears, and she almost grimaced. Her father; seldom do men strike the same trepidation in her soul as he does. But, even through all the hardship, there was this perverse form of love lining the very base of his voice. Maybe not fully, but she was loved to some extent. That's why she gulped, and nodded like the very embodiment of reverence. "Father Greene knew to clench his fist around these people. God bless his soul." There was this sneer in his voice, like he was deliberately trying to stir Paisley from her stomach. Really, all she remembered was the fits of rage. She only knew the times she would come to know her God through some senseless act of violence. She didn't answer. She sniffled.
The eyes of Charles lingered on her lithe shoulders as she connected her gaze with the floor.
"Yes, God bless his soul.".
A few footsteps towards her, and a breath washing over her head - she can feel him loom over her like the eyes of God Himself. "I knew I could trust you, my wildflower. Now, make me proud.". Some infected part of her enjoyed doing her father's bidding, even though he has never thought to protect her from the horrors of men. Even still, she accepted the hand upon her pointy shoulder, and the face looming above her head.
Father Thomas seemed quieter than Father Greene, and by that description, she meant that he didn't seem to colonize the very spirit of the room and capture it in his iron fist. In fact, this man was quite young for a man of Christ, even if she managed to observe some of the graying spreading through his temples. Years from the war can do that to someone, no doubt. Paisley just wanted to please him, and to avoid punishment. That is why she only uttered "Yes, Father", and nodded. She had perfected the art of taking up as little space as possible. No, she would remain in the shadows, pouring her wine and inaudibly mouthing little things to herself.
Then, as he paced around with his nose in The Bible, he collided with her. She only wanted to fill up the chalice with care, and even though she wasn't at fault for this, she still gasped and braced herself for some depravity. The wine splashed onto her alb, and then to the ground. "Oh, Father, I'm sorry!" She instantly whipped her head towards him and lowered her entire being. "I'm so dense, I know, and I'm sorry! Forgive me, please!" She acted like he was going to completely wallop her for this, and she almost spoke over his cursing.
Did he just… curse? In the Lord's holy house? She was prepared to avert her eyes and hope for the best, but she looked at him as if he betrayed her, and not her God. A silence premaded the air, before she tilted her head upwards, and choked on the air. "You can't-" she began, and stammered, "that's disgraceful, Father. A word like that here is a word directly to Our Lord. You can't do that." She was beyond dumbfounded, her eyes incredulous in their glowing. And her alb was soaked.
But alas, she would return. She had work to do.
Men dying and others coming to take their place wasn't a new reality to Paisley, and as much as she was relieved that she wouldn't have to skate on thin ice around Father Greene anymore, she had come to accept that her life was a series of trials paved for her by her God. Each new chapter would drain the vitality from her flesh more than the previous, and each new man would harm her, and each woman would neglect her whimpers for help - for they know the song of The Lord. And as Eve interfered with the Lord's will, the women would let His plans unfold. Even if it was upon Paisley. And when she would scream and trash and rattle from years and years of tolerating the savagery of passionate men, she would be met with "God loves you.".
He does, but Paisley wished that he showed it. But, as they always say, The Lord works in mysterious ways, and every hardship would all build to a reward for her. In this case, future children that will supposedly fulfill the void in her soul; sired by a man who might look at her with stars in his eyes from the beginning, but as time unfolds, grow to despise her just as all the others have. But in the midst of her new torturer, the feeling of a baby's mouth suckling upon her aching teat would remind her of all she needed. Should she have daughters, they would face the same rhetoric; they would learn about Maria Goretti, and they would learn to lock their innards up until a man came along to repeatedly occupy her womb until she died of it.
There were glimpses of joy in this. Paisley would throw in an apron and cook for her siblings, and they would smile and chatter to her. She would bathe them and read them a less sanguineous verse - or perhaps even tell them the story of Esther, or the proud perseverance of Moses. They would fall asleep in their little beds, and she would unintentionally join them. But then, she'd hear another happening of a woman in the community dying during childbirth, or gruesome medical afflictions as a result of repeated birth. Nothing else terrified her more than that.
"If that's what Paisley wants".
Those words plagued her for the rest of the day. What she wants. Well, it was never a matter of desire, or enthusiasm. When she had to fulfill duties that she didn't like, she never even thought to complain about it. It just… happened. What she wanted to do was read books on the shores of Lake Wateree until the sun hid, and she couldn't physically see the words anymore. But choices were few… did the new priest know that? In secret, she would almost roll her eyes, but then she'd abstain from such disrespect. How dare she.
While efforts to invoke desire were fair game for physical abuse, she still had to look orderly for a man such as Father Thomas, so in her nightgown, she would iron her alb until not a single crinkle can be seen in the alabaster fabric. Out of all the clothing she has ruined with grass stains and mud, this single article remained glowing; white for purity, readiness, and virginity. The alb almost made her seem ready for the heavens, but then she would see her freckles span across her face, and she'd grimace. Once, she ran her hands across the warm linen as steam clouded upwards from both the iron and the clothing.
The white paint began to chip from the windowsill; they would need to mend that soon. The early light spilled in from the curtains and onto the creaky wooden floor. The house itself looked a tad too pedestrian for any normal human being to thrive in, with a depiction of the family tree sitting proudly above the fireplace, and a lavish record player with various classical pieces arranged next to it. Nothing by any Jewish composers, of course, and God, none of that sleazy swing hodgepodge. Nothing that could coax a quick swing of the hips, or that could lead to thoughts revolving around romance, or heartbreak, or sex. Nothing like that. In fact, nothing in this house could lead to any of those things - no concentrated or vibrant colors that could stimulate the mind, or any recondite piece of art that inspires deeper thinking.
But she did. She touches the fabric as if it was a work of art, her calloused fingers running along the fabric after she ironed it. After she bathed and groomed herself accordingly, Paisley wrapped her bushy hair into two sagging buns, with a few locks of hair falling over her face. Next, she let the alb hang over her lithe body, and then fastened a bister rope cincture around her waist. Yes, white for purity. White for chastity. White for worth.
She would go barefoot, because that was the pinnacle of innocence. Well, innocence in the eyes of parochialism. But nevertheless, she had somewhere to be.
"Watch him." His voice pierced her ears, and she almost grimaced. Her father; seldom do men strike the same trepidation in her soul as he does. But, even through all the hardship, there was this perverse form of love lining the very base of his voice. Maybe not fully, but she was loved to some extent. That's why she gulped, and nodded like the very embodiment of reverence. "Father Greene knew to clench his fist around these people. God bless his soul." There was this sneer in his voice, like he was deliberately trying to stir Paisley from her stomach. Really, all she remembered was the fits of rage. She only knew the times she would come to know her God through some senseless act of violence. She didn't answer. She sniffled.
The eyes of Charles lingered on her lithe shoulders as she connected her gaze with the floor.
"Yes, God bless his soul.".
A few footsteps towards her, and a breath washing over her head - she can feel him loom over her like the eyes of God Himself. "I knew I could trust you, my wildflower. Now, make me proud.". Some infected part of her enjoyed doing her father's bidding, even though he has never thought to protect her from the horrors of men. Even still, she accepted the hand upon her pointy shoulder, and the face looming above her head.
Father Thomas seemed quieter than Father Greene, and by that description, she meant that he didn't seem to colonize the very spirit of the room and capture it in his iron fist. In fact, this man was quite young for a man of Christ, even if she managed to observe some of the graying spreading through his temples. Years from the war can do that to someone, no doubt. Paisley just wanted to please him, and to avoid punishment. That is why she only uttered "Yes, Father", and nodded. She had perfected the art of taking up as little space as possible. No, she would remain in the shadows, pouring her wine and inaudibly mouthing little things to herself.
Then, as he paced around with his nose in The Bible, he collided with her. She only wanted to fill up the chalice with care, and even though she wasn't at fault for this, she still gasped and braced herself for some depravity. The wine splashed onto her alb, and then to the ground. "Oh, Father, I'm sorry!" She instantly whipped her head towards him and lowered her entire being. "I'm so dense, I know, and I'm sorry! Forgive me, please!" She acted like he was going to completely wallop her for this, and she almost spoke over his cursing.
Did he just… curse? In the Lord's holy house? She was prepared to avert her eyes and hope for the best, but she looked at him as if he betrayed her, and not her God. A silence premaded the air, before she tilted her head upwards, and choked on the air. "You can't-" she began, and stammered, "that's disgraceful, Father. A word like that here is a word directly to Our Lord. You can't do that." She was beyond dumbfounded, her eyes incredulous in their glowing. And her alb was soaked.
"Fuck that! Don't look at my knees! What the fuck have you done to my girlfriend?!" His carefree and amused attitude was enough to fuel a potential punch, regardless of her lack of power. She wanted to blow him to pieces with that shotgun, but she would never get back to Daisy that way. She needed to be smarter than that. Scarlett's small fists balled, her lips pursed and her eyes wide. Her heart was pounding faster, even comparable to her heart after a hit. Scarlett didn't care for herself, allowing herself to be beaten, raped, and addicted. However, Daisy? That was her woman.
The heat of the desert further progressed her hostility, her livid figure barely able to keep still. She watched him as he casually comforted himself, yawning as if this was a typical Friday morning. The shotgun posed as no real threat to her, as her energy went to her lover. "You better start fucking talking." She pointed a skinny finger at him. She sweated. A lot. The withdrawal, desert, and pure rage essentially turning her into a functional maniac.
And he did talk. He spoke the most hostile words. These were the words she wished she wouldn't hear when she reached his lot. She wanted him to pat her on the back and tell her that she was locked somewhere, and that nothing was being done to her. She wanted some way to rescue Daisy, by any means. Scarlett slammed her head to the palms of her hands, gripping the base of her hair. "No no no NO NO NO NO!" she screeched, her chest filled with an unbelievable amount of pressure. She paced back and forth, the moment shifting into a surreal fog. She couldn't imagine the intense fear her partner must be feeling. She never wished her perverse addiction onto someone completely innocent.
Scarlett was to partly blame for this. She blamed herself completely, even more so than Quinn. But Daisy was still alive. Hanging herself with a belt wasn't the immediate option to consider; she still had something to fight for. Even if Daisy would forever despise her, she just wanted her girl to be safe. Scarlett leveled her breathing, her mind impeding on her fast-paced inhalation and exhalation.
She shook her arms, inhaling deeply. Daisy wasn't dead, yet. "Quinn." Her voice drastically flattened from high-strung and off the rails. "Quinn, I don't care about pride. I love that woman so much." She shook, barely able to stumble over to Quinn. She didn't think she had that much bearing, only being a frequent copy of a model that he could easily find; a skinny coke-fiend with daddy issues. "Quinn, I will do whatever you want if I can have her back. I won't complain. I won't resist. I'll even like it, if you want. You can hit me, or rape me, or whatever you wish to do, and I won't resist." A small hand crept down to his chest, another one placed on his shoulder.
Digging her nails into his neck would provide a sense of ablution to her guilt, but it wouldn't convince him to let her see Daisy. Scarlett was being serious for once. "I'll be your pet. You can give me a name. I'll act like nothing. I'm nothing. Just... please... please don't make them kill her. Or hurt her. I love her." Tears stained his shirt, her voice decrepit and defeated. "My collar is in the car. I'll put it on.". He had her. Cocaine was a strong and formidable force, and control was easy to achieve when it came to that. But not without remarks and occasional denial.
Now, he had her.
The heat of the desert further progressed her hostility, her livid figure barely able to keep still. She watched him as he casually comforted himself, yawning as if this was a typical Friday morning. The shotgun posed as no real threat to her, as her energy went to her lover. "You better start fucking talking." She pointed a skinny finger at him. She sweated. A lot. The withdrawal, desert, and pure rage essentially turning her into a functional maniac.
And he did talk. He spoke the most hostile words. These were the words she wished she wouldn't hear when she reached his lot. She wanted him to pat her on the back and tell her that she was locked somewhere, and that nothing was being done to her. She wanted some way to rescue Daisy, by any means. Scarlett slammed her head to the palms of her hands, gripping the base of her hair. "No no no NO NO NO NO!" she screeched, her chest filled with an unbelievable amount of pressure. She paced back and forth, the moment shifting into a surreal fog. She couldn't imagine the intense fear her partner must be feeling. She never wished her perverse addiction onto someone completely innocent.
Scarlett was to partly blame for this. She blamed herself completely, even more so than Quinn. But Daisy was still alive. Hanging herself with a belt wasn't the immediate option to consider; she still had something to fight for. Even if Daisy would forever despise her, she just wanted her girl to be safe. Scarlett leveled her breathing, her mind impeding on her fast-paced inhalation and exhalation.
She shook her arms, inhaling deeply. Daisy wasn't dead, yet. "Quinn." Her voice drastically flattened from high-strung and off the rails. "Quinn, I don't care about pride. I love that woman so much." She shook, barely able to stumble over to Quinn. She didn't think she had that much bearing, only being a frequent copy of a model that he could easily find; a skinny coke-fiend with daddy issues. "Quinn, I will do whatever you want if I can have her back. I won't complain. I won't resist. I'll even like it, if you want. You can hit me, or rape me, or whatever you wish to do, and I won't resist." A small hand crept down to his chest, another one placed on his shoulder.
Digging her nails into his neck would provide a sense of ablution to her guilt, but it wouldn't convince him to let her see Daisy. Scarlett was being serious for once. "I'll be your pet. You can give me a name. I'll act like nothing. I'm nothing. Just... please... please don't make them kill her. Or hurt her. I love her." Tears stained his shirt, her voice decrepit and defeated. "My collar is in the car. I'll put it on.". He had her. Cocaine was a strong and formidable force, and control was easy to achieve when it came to that. But not without remarks and occasional denial.
Now, he had her.
The lines and crevices that composed this absolute miracle of creation were equally devilish as lovely. Winter wouldn't deny that this face was an alluring one, but there was a malicious undertone to the huntsman's looks. It didn't occur to Winter that the huntsman could be of kin to Aisuna, but there was a poison that lingered. It lingered with every impish smirk, boyish string of words, and every whimsical glance that the boy flashed Winter. Nothing in this world could he rendered pure, sure, but there was an undeniable venom that chilled the knight.
Still, Winter was aware that he was jaded. He was aware that he was cursed with a sight that allowed him to see cancer and corrosion wherever he may turn his head. It wasn't the huntsman's fault that Winter had built a wall of steel over his heart, and that was due to Winter's habit of bottling everything up, until it revealed itself in pure and utter chaos. Winter possessed a rare carnality that crept and availed its claws in every action he may take. From the way he almost revealed the length of his sword, to his anger towards the world of woods that seemed to own his temporary companion.
Still, just because Winter was devoid of concrete control doesn't mean that he couldn't have his fun with the subtly dulcet exchanges that he and this nymph could share. Winter still hadn't lost the ability to blush when he was meant to, and he did so when he was called beautiful. It must have been quite a sight; a forest keeper weakening the knees of a jaded knight. Winter bit the inside of his cheek, fighting against the urge to grin in an obnoxiously cocky manner. Winter ran his fingers through the sturdy neck of his steed while he lamented on the comments, before crafting a response.
"Chronos wouldn't care for his followers, let alone wallowing in the hair of one and shamelessly indulging in coquetry on the same follower. Although, maybe since it is you who he would be dallying alongside of, he wouldn't reject the opportunity. Faces like yours are something that evokes the minds of men and gods alike." Winter mentally snapshotted the vines and stone paths and slur of colors. It seemed as if he regained his ingenuity with the presence of the huntsman. Like a beacon of beauty and saccharine artistry, the huntsman had forced the beauty back into Winter's stubborn mind.
The huntsman had spun straw into gold; he had stolen the ideas from Winter and spun a story that appeared to the senses of his alabaster counterpart. And oh, did it make Winter's heart flutter like a nest of butterflies had sought refuge within him. Witchy, mischievous butterflies. Winter just had to stare intently at him, not caring a jot that this wasn't to be. This huntsman spoke in fanciful riddles such as Damian did, and for that, Winter felt his eyes dampen. Damian spoke of alternate worlds, and he spun stories embroidered with a honeyed optimism that charmed Winter.
Winter brought his cloak up to his eyes, and wiped them when the huntsman couldn't see. "Well, that's an exquisite way of seeing it." Winter cleared his throat, distracting from the macabre undertone. What he really wanted to do was to shake the boy savagely and interrogate him as to why he spoke like his dead lover. Maybe not quite, but it did cross his mind. His face contorted into the usual tedium that painted it, and he dissolved all current remnants of his pain.
Winter rested his eyes on the huntsman, and it wasn't a look of anger, dreariness, or lust. Winter's mouth curled up into an ever so slight smile, one born with content and admiration. This might be the only time that Winter would ever look at the boy in such a way, at least for a long while. But of course, Winter wasn't aware of that. He could already picture embraces in the dead of night, and conversations that ran for so long that they deprived the two of them of sleep. He could picture the both of them holding hands and scampering through the forest.
"If what you say isn't a fabrication, which it probably is, then I say, hello to you. I'll part from you, and the perhaps when the gods resurrect me in another suit of flesh and bones, we can kiss." Winter was staunch on the idea that coincidences couldn't happen. Something always happened for some reason. It wasn't born out of false chance that he had recognized the boy, despite not being able to recall any other meetings with him. In reality, he was partly on the mark, but reality is darker than fiction, and the both of them would be akin to that lesson soon.
Winter returned the impish smile by leaned to the side, and gently patted his counterpart on the head.
"Do you weave stories, often? Just by looking at those mysterious features, can I wager that your mind is quite the forest in itself. Maybe it's an illusion, and in that case, you'll have sheer beauty to thank for that.".
Still, Winter was aware that he was jaded. He was aware that he was cursed with a sight that allowed him to see cancer and corrosion wherever he may turn his head. It wasn't the huntsman's fault that Winter had built a wall of steel over his heart, and that was due to Winter's habit of bottling everything up, until it revealed itself in pure and utter chaos. Winter possessed a rare carnality that crept and availed its claws in every action he may take. From the way he almost revealed the length of his sword, to his anger towards the world of woods that seemed to own his temporary companion.
Still, just because Winter was devoid of concrete control doesn't mean that he couldn't have his fun with the subtly dulcet exchanges that he and this nymph could share. Winter still hadn't lost the ability to blush when he was meant to, and he did so when he was called beautiful. It must have been quite a sight; a forest keeper weakening the knees of a jaded knight. Winter bit the inside of his cheek, fighting against the urge to grin in an obnoxiously cocky manner. Winter ran his fingers through the sturdy neck of his steed while he lamented on the comments, before crafting a response.
"Chronos wouldn't care for his followers, let alone wallowing in the hair of one and shamelessly indulging in coquetry on the same follower. Although, maybe since it is you who he would be dallying alongside of, he wouldn't reject the opportunity. Faces like yours are something that evokes the minds of men and gods alike." Winter mentally snapshotted the vines and stone paths and slur of colors. It seemed as if he regained his ingenuity with the presence of the huntsman. Like a beacon of beauty and saccharine artistry, the huntsman had forced the beauty back into Winter's stubborn mind.
The huntsman had spun straw into gold; he had stolen the ideas from Winter and spun a story that appeared to the senses of his alabaster counterpart. And oh, did it make Winter's heart flutter like a nest of butterflies had sought refuge within him. Witchy, mischievous butterflies. Winter just had to stare intently at him, not caring a jot that this wasn't to be. This huntsman spoke in fanciful riddles such as Damian did, and for that, Winter felt his eyes dampen. Damian spoke of alternate worlds, and he spun stories embroidered with a honeyed optimism that charmed Winter.
Winter brought his cloak up to his eyes, and wiped them when the huntsman couldn't see. "Well, that's an exquisite way of seeing it." Winter cleared his throat, distracting from the macabre undertone. What he really wanted to do was to shake the boy savagely and interrogate him as to why he spoke like his dead lover. Maybe not quite, but it did cross his mind. His face contorted into the usual tedium that painted it, and he dissolved all current remnants of his pain.
Winter rested his eyes on the huntsman, and it wasn't a look of anger, dreariness, or lust. Winter's mouth curled up into an ever so slight smile, one born with content and admiration. This might be the only time that Winter would ever look at the boy in such a way, at least for a long while. But of course, Winter wasn't aware of that. He could already picture embraces in the dead of night, and conversations that ran for so long that they deprived the two of them of sleep. He could picture the both of them holding hands and scampering through the forest.
"If what you say isn't a fabrication, which it probably is, then I say, hello to you. I'll part from you, and the perhaps when the gods resurrect me in another suit of flesh and bones, we can kiss." Winter was staunch on the idea that coincidences couldn't happen. Something always happened for some reason. It wasn't born out of false chance that he had recognized the boy, despite not being able to recall any other meetings with him. In reality, he was partly on the mark, but reality is darker than fiction, and the both of them would be akin to that lesson soon.
Winter returned the impish smile by leaned to the side, and gently patted his counterpart on the head.
"Do you weave stories, often? Just by looking at those mysterious features, can I wager that your mind is quite the forest in itself. Maybe it's an illusion, and in that case, you'll have sheer beauty to thank for that.".
Yeah, his logic was flawed. He seemed to forget the circumstances of their meeting. At least Mattie wasn't miserably going through the motions. Mattie's admiration stroked Victor's ego, and he closed his eyes, fighting back a cheeky grin. "Well, ahem, I am fully aware of that. I'm probably the hottest man you have had to sleep with." Now that was ludicrous, and even Victor knew that. He chuckled, indicating that only a small part of him was actually serious about that. The corner of his mouth curled upwards, and he didn't hide the fact that he was gazing. Victor's light sapphire eyes stared at Mattie as if he was prey (which really wasn't far from the truth).
Victor's arms rested against his sides, so Mattie could have room to sit.
Seeing Mattie from this angle - his legs parked on each side of Victor's lap and his pools of azure captivation anticipating Victor -, it was difficult not to react to this. This was probably mostly exaggerated in his head, and Mattie just wanted Victor to hurry up so he could leave and feed his addiction. If Victor was as staunch about avoiding unrealistic fantasies, why pay for this little slice of entertainment in the first place? The smell of Victor's cigarette and muted soap replaced Mattie's scent. The fresh scent of Mattie rousted Victor's senses, and he didn't bother restraining his inclinations. First, though, he toyed with his prey a bit. His right arm hooked around Mattie's waist, acting as a restraint to hold him in place. His left hand came to his face and he took a generous drag on his cigarette, his eyes closing and his face scrunching.
Victor wasn't by any means buff, but compared to Mattie, he held so much more dictation. After Victor finished, he faced Mattie once again. This time, he bellowed the smoke in his lungs straight at Mattie's face. The smoke washed over the blonde's beautiful features, begriming the lithe allure that he held. With a sinister, yet contained laugh that ended with a sigh, he smirked in such a way that could aggravate anyone. "You know, you could've just asked, right? Here," Setting his cigarette on the ashtray, Victor leaned to the side, pushing Mattie for a moment as he reached to the coffee table. He grabbed the box of matches and the tin container of cigarettes. He opened the containers and took out a match and a cigarette. "Open your mouth." Victor didn't give him a chance to do that; he took his free hand and pressed against the hinges of Mattie's jaw, wrenching his mouth open. When his lips parted, Victor stuck the cigarette in between his lips. He lit the match, and lit the cigarette.
"Ah, there we go..." He flicked the match, extinguishing the small fire. While Mattie smoked, Victor availed himself to the banquet in front of him. His hands dragged up his hips and waist, bunching the bathrobe at his sides. "Mmm… so, rule number one…" his grip around Mattie's waist was firm enough to leave marks, "if you steal anything, damage anything, or I think you did…" Victor leaned forward, his hands clasped around Mattie's waist and his nose prodded at his neck. "I'll have to ruin that cute little face of yours. If you deny me anything I ask, I'll withhold your payment." This exercise of power… aroused him. Mattie would feel something poke from in between his legs, and he would definitely know what it was. "I'm only doing this with you once, unless somehow you are worth more than a disposable toy. So, get it right. Oh, and don't fucking whine about the things I tell you to do. Now, unbutton my pants and grind on me. I want to feel your hands on me while you dance." His voice washed over Mattie's earlobe as he whispered the lusty demands.
"Tell me, what are you addicted to? Hold on, lemme guess. I'm going with cocaine... you just look like it. I don't know how to explain it. Strung-out and desperate; snorting your soul away. You'd probably kill for a bump right now, right?".
Victor's arms rested against his sides, so Mattie could have room to sit.
Seeing Mattie from this angle - his legs parked on each side of Victor's lap and his pools of azure captivation anticipating Victor -, it was difficult not to react to this. This was probably mostly exaggerated in his head, and Mattie just wanted Victor to hurry up so he could leave and feed his addiction. If Victor was as staunch about avoiding unrealistic fantasies, why pay for this little slice of entertainment in the first place? The smell of Victor's cigarette and muted soap replaced Mattie's scent. The fresh scent of Mattie rousted Victor's senses, and he didn't bother restraining his inclinations. First, though, he toyed with his prey a bit. His right arm hooked around Mattie's waist, acting as a restraint to hold him in place. His left hand came to his face and he took a generous drag on his cigarette, his eyes closing and his face scrunching.
Victor wasn't by any means buff, but compared to Mattie, he held so much more dictation. After Victor finished, he faced Mattie once again. This time, he bellowed the smoke in his lungs straight at Mattie's face. The smoke washed over the blonde's beautiful features, begriming the lithe allure that he held. With a sinister, yet contained laugh that ended with a sigh, he smirked in such a way that could aggravate anyone. "You know, you could've just asked, right? Here," Setting his cigarette on the ashtray, Victor leaned to the side, pushing Mattie for a moment as he reached to the coffee table. He grabbed the box of matches and the tin container of cigarettes. He opened the containers and took out a match and a cigarette. "Open your mouth." Victor didn't give him a chance to do that; he took his free hand and pressed against the hinges of Mattie's jaw, wrenching his mouth open. When his lips parted, Victor stuck the cigarette in between his lips. He lit the match, and lit the cigarette.
"Ah, there we go..." He flicked the match, extinguishing the small fire. While Mattie smoked, Victor availed himself to the banquet in front of him. His hands dragged up his hips and waist, bunching the bathrobe at his sides. "Mmm… so, rule number one…" his grip around Mattie's waist was firm enough to leave marks, "if you steal anything, damage anything, or I think you did…" Victor leaned forward, his hands clasped around Mattie's waist and his nose prodded at his neck. "I'll have to ruin that cute little face of yours. If you deny me anything I ask, I'll withhold your payment." This exercise of power… aroused him. Mattie would feel something poke from in between his legs, and he would definitely know what it was. "I'm only doing this with you once, unless somehow you are worth more than a disposable toy. So, get it right. Oh, and don't fucking whine about the things I tell you to do. Now, unbutton my pants and grind on me. I want to feel your hands on me while you dance." His voice washed over Mattie's earlobe as he whispered the lusty demands.
"Tell me, what are you addicted to? Hold on, lemme guess. I'm going with cocaine... you just look like it. I don't know how to explain it. Strung-out and desperate; snorting your soul away. You'd probably kill for a bump right now, right?".
This ravishing, breathing, warm, beautiful man who bellowed warm breaths that washed over the redhead's warm skin... enchanted her. Francis was nothing if not fanciful and quixotic in nature. A little secret shielded away from the wives of many, a vivacious tryst in the night, a guilty pleasure; she truly thought of herself as the supreme odalisque, at only age nineteen. She wasn't even of drinking age, and she already fancied herself the "other woman". His indulgence in her little teenage fantasy only increased her erotic vaingloriousness. For the weekend, she would belong to him. For the weekend, she would let him love her as he craved.
The thought of his caution being the result of age didn't even cross her mind; she quite appreciated how he trained her slit for her playmate. By the time he finally fully gave himself over to her undeniable and unique allure, despite his size, it didn't hurt. With each glorious impel, and creak of the bed, a satiating pressure built in the depths of her sacred tunnel, and she welcomed it with soft pants and gasps. Hands on each side of his face as he used the headboard as an outlet for his sensation, and legs wrapped around his waist the red serpent she was, she accepted him.
When the strain exceeded all that her lithe figure could take, she gasped, her left hand drifting from his rough face and to the white sheet. Despite her mature occupation, the teenage girl still shone through the moment through whimpers and smiles. This was all relatively foreign to her, no matter how much she tried to hide it. Her right thumb crooked inwards, softly caressing the corner of his mouth, before he relieved himself. Her legs tightened its demanding grip, consigning him to a thorough finish inside her snug, intoxicating womanhood.
Francis arched her back when he finally left her depths, her legs parted while she waited for his company. Was this it? Did he just want to forget about her existence until he wanted her to shine his erection, once again? No, and a part of her felt charmed when he joined her in the enchanting moments after their session. He crimsoned, all well as she; the afterglow of their shared aerobics shining the both of them. She joined him in concealment, draping the covers under him to allow his skin to kiss hers.
A temptation to slap his hand away arose, but she refused to mistreat him. He peeled off the only source of obscurity that she had, revealing the youthful feminine allure that she radiated. Residual glitter made her pale face sparkle, and increased the unique glow that people got after a session of gratifying love-making. The mask in her soft palm, she turned to set it on the nightstand, pondering his question. In truth, she was ashamed of it, but she was the type to cry after sex. The melancholia of being deserted after being used could overwhelm her, especially with the stress of college and friends and suitors. Sometimes cuddling was just what she needed.
"She feels... like she needs a hug." He wasn't going to be a regular partner (she thought), and confidentiality played a huge role in these types of meetings. Francis neared herself towards the man who had just enjoyed her, and snuggled against him. The vixen gazed into his brown orbs, a slight smile crossing her face.
"I'm not actually going to charge you for making me remove the mask. That's just something stupid that I added because I thought it was funny.".
The thought of his caution being the result of age didn't even cross her mind; she quite appreciated how he trained her slit for her playmate. By the time he finally fully gave himself over to her undeniable and unique allure, despite his size, it didn't hurt. With each glorious impel, and creak of the bed, a satiating pressure built in the depths of her sacred tunnel, and she welcomed it with soft pants and gasps. Hands on each side of his face as he used the headboard as an outlet for his sensation, and legs wrapped around his waist the red serpent she was, she accepted him.
When the strain exceeded all that her lithe figure could take, she gasped, her left hand drifting from his rough face and to the white sheet. Despite her mature occupation, the teenage girl still shone through the moment through whimpers and smiles. This was all relatively foreign to her, no matter how much she tried to hide it. Her right thumb crooked inwards, softly caressing the corner of his mouth, before he relieved himself. Her legs tightened its demanding grip, consigning him to a thorough finish inside her snug, intoxicating womanhood.
Francis arched her back when he finally left her depths, her legs parted while she waited for his company. Was this it? Did he just want to forget about her existence until he wanted her to shine his erection, once again? No, and a part of her felt charmed when he joined her in the enchanting moments after their session. He crimsoned, all well as she; the afterglow of their shared aerobics shining the both of them. She joined him in concealment, draping the covers under him to allow his skin to kiss hers.
A temptation to slap his hand away arose, but she refused to mistreat him. He peeled off the only source of obscurity that she had, revealing the youthful feminine allure that she radiated. Residual glitter made her pale face sparkle, and increased the unique glow that people got after a session of gratifying love-making. The mask in her soft palm, she turned to set it on the nightstand, pondering his question. In truth, she was ashamed of it, but she was the type to cry after sex. The melancholia of being deserted after being used could overwhelm her, especially with the stress of college and friends and suitors. Sometimes cuddling was just what she needed.
"She feels... like she needs a hug." He wasn't going to be a regular partner (she thought), and confidentiality played a huge role in these types of meetings. Francis neared herself towards the man who had just enjoyed her, and snuggled against him. The vixen gazed into his brown orbs, a slight smile crossing her face.
"I'm not actually going to charge you for making me remove the mask. That's just something stupid that I added because I thought it was funny.".
From every reaction, snark, recoil, and daring word that pulled him by a string into her - she had wanted this so badly. It drove her to some deviated, heightened sensation. Hell, she could feel a goddamn heartbeat pulse from in between her legs as heat spread throughout her cheeks as fast as the stringing both taunted her, and stoked that fire in her heartbeat. The heartbeat both in her chest, and her nether regions. Biting her lip so hard it imprinted a few marks into those perfect, kissable lips, she looked back at the hand coming down at her cheeks. Something about watching her punishment, yet not being able to do anything to prevent it made her hunger for everything he wanted to hurt her with. Maybe she thought it was what she deserved; how could she ever think otherwise? Laying across the lap of her doctor was the closest she would ever get to love. It was factual to her; it didn't even invite melancholia to think of it. Some people received love, and some could only ever hope to be broken at the hands of another. Of course, Gavin wasn't thinking to that depth.
She would tense those delectable cheeks when he struck her, and squeal so helplessly, yet in such a way where it only encouraged that demanding "friend" of his to poke into her abdomen. Lainey adored drooling Gavin - a change from that prim man so set on helping the loons of the world. Lainey didn't want help. She didn't want a dashing king to take mercy on her, and rehabilitate her. She didn't want her deviations to stop, or consideration to taint the strongest aspects of herself. Lainey needed only a couple of things only: to wreak havoc upon all she wrought, and to fuck. Was she a whore? Perhaps she was the skimpiest, and most downright disgusting of all the women in this asylum, but that only made him want to tame her even more.
Like a hyperactive cat capable of mauling anyone in her way, she hissed when he neglected to pull her bloomers back over her rear, and instead shoved her right onto the cot. She would try to buck back and escape the prospect of being tamed, but of course, that glorious cock that would always feel too dulcet when sliding in and out of her pressed in between of cheeks. The bloomers never did unravel from her feet, and they stretched as her feet drove apart when two became one. As soon as she heard the light whipping of his belt from the loops, she craned her neck to the side to observe, but found that her face had been shoved into the pillow, and consistently forced there.
Now, with her dress lifted above her rump, he had once more revealed her cheeks - parted from the force of bending like a stretching cat would, and her absolutely adorable, soaked little cunt that one would hunger to taste. Anyone with any bit of sanity would all want to kiss those lips that glistened in the coating of her sweet sap, and she knew damn well how delectable she was from her head, her toes, and to the perfection that was her sacred. The lips parted like a blooming flower in spring; or a pair of pink butterfly wings. And in between them was that slit that stretched so easily, and yet would always return to its firmness after her partners had finished with her.
She writhed and wiggled when he bound her wrists together, but essentially succumbed as the dry length of his manhood would shift against her every time she struggled. Now, she was demeaned into this little harlot, prepared like a Thanksgiving turkey to be used and forced. And while she fought, it wasn't a fight that she by any means wanted to win. And for the littlest of moments, she did wrench her head to the side, leaving some room for that snippy mouth to speak. "Oh, Doctor, are you going to stir up my insides? Take out all of that frustration onto this perfect little cunt, hm? Why, she is a beauty all right, isn't she?" She purred condescendingly. While he moved himself up and down the length of her womanhood, she fought against letting out tiny gasps. This felt amazing already. She wanted him to ravage her; to leave her limping and aching by the end.
And then, the thrust came, and she shot forward, gasping. Her fingernails dug into the bed as she gripped the sheets, whimpering as he split her apart. The nails made roots into the sheets like sprouts of depravity, and she planted herself on the mattress as he took her on it. "Oh Goodness, Doctor…!" she couldn't help herself; every time he helped himself to her, she could only melt and pant. Her ass completely perked up and angled to take his thrusts, her back formed a slope as she willingly dug her face into the pillow, the bit of fat she had on her delicious rump rippling as he hit it again and again. "Fuck…" she couldn't help but let him use her like a rag doll; this felt so liberating that it turned her into that tamed sex kitten that really only wanted a good dick at the end of the day.
She would tense those delectable cheeks when he struck her, and squeal so helplessly, yet in such a way where it only encouraged that demanding "friend" of his to poke into her abdomen. Lainey adored drooling Gavin - a change from that prim man so set on helping the loons of the world. Lainey didn't want help. She didn't want a dashing king to take mercy on her, and rehabilitate her. She didn't want her deviations to stop, or consideration to taint the strongest aspects of herself. Lainey needed only a couple of things only: to wreak havoc upon all she wrought, and to fuck. Was she a whore? Perhaps she was the skimpiest, and most downright disgusting of all the women in this asylum, but that only made him want to tame her even more.
Like a hyperactive cat capable of mauling anyone in her way, she hissed when he neglected to pull her bloomers back over her rear, and instead shoved her right onto the cot. She would try to buck back and escape the prospect of being tamed, but of course, that glorious cock that would always feel too dulcet when sliding in and out of her pressed in between of cheeks. The bloomers never did unravel from her feet, and they stretched as her feet drove apart when two became one. As soon as she heard the light whipping of his belt from the loops, she craned her neck to the side to observe, but found that her face had been shoved into the pillow, and consistently forced there.
Now, with her dress lifted above her rump, he had once more revealed her cheeks - parted from the force of bending like a stretching cat would, and her absolutely adorable, soaked little cunt that one would hunger to taste. Anyone with any bit of sanity would all want to kiss those lips that glistened in the coating of her sweet sap, and she knew damn well how delectable she was from her head, her toes, and to the perfection that was her sacred. The lips parted like a blooming flower in spring; or a pair of pink butterfly wings. And in between them was that slit that stretched so easily, and yet would always return to its firmness after her partners had finished with her.
She writhed and wiggled when he bound her wrists together, but essentially succumbed as the dry length of his manhood would shift against her every time she struggled. Now, she was demeaned into this little harlot, prepared like a Thanksgiving turkey to be used and forced. And while she fought, it wasn't a fight that she by any means wanted to win. And for the littlest of moments, she did wrench her head to the side, leaving some room for that snippy mouth to speak. "Oh, Doctor, are you going to stir up my insides? Take out all of that frustration onto this perfect little cunt, hm? Why, she is a beauty all right, isn't she?" She purred condescendingly. While he moved himself up and down the length of her womanhood, she fought against letting out tiny gasps. This felt amazing already. She wanted him to ravage her; to leave her limping and aching by the end.
And then, the thrust came, and she shot forward, gasping. Her fingernails dug into the bed as she gripped the sheets, whimpering as he split her apart. The nails made roots into the sheets like sprouts of depravity, and she planted herself on the mattress as he took her on it. "Oh Goodness, Doctor…!" she couldn't help herself; every time he helped himself to her, she could only melt and pant. Her ass completely perked up and angled to take his thrusts, her back formed a slope as she willingly dug her face into the pillow, the bit of fat she had on her delicious rump rippling as he hit it again and again. "Fuck…" she couldn't help but let him use her like a rag doll; this felt so liberating that it turned her into that tamed sex kitten that really only wanted a good dick at the end of the day.
The Reich would kill them for this. It would see her dead and him stripped of his privileges and livelihood because of a choice they both personally made. Bridgette didn't have a choice in whether she had to spend time with him or not, but she could choose the way she reacted to it, and it was everything pleasant and more. To drink his alcohol and American drinks, take his money, and whisper sweet nothings in his ear. It was all their choice, and theirs alone. No one outside this room knew about them – that he thought of her even when he couldn't bury his nose in her ripped stockings, or that she waited by the phone, hoping it rang. That she brought out her best perfume and spent hours on her braids, so he could comment on them. It was their choice. Not Hitler's. Not Germany's. Not the Vichy's. Not the Reich's. Just theirs. The Gestapo can march him out of his offices and to the trains, and that wouldn't change that. Her parents can disown her for being a collaborator a thousand times over, and still, that notion would prevail. Through war, through sickness, through genocides, and through famine, their lips intertwined, reaping honey that descends from their cheeks and to the mattress. Their bed shouldn't have been liturgical, just as the Swastika shouldn't have been. Beads cascading in his eyes and his hands that he would need to later condemn as savage. They aren't pedestals – not his chameleon soul, and not her ardent unity.
Before long, she didn't prick him anymore, feeling the flexed muscles of his shoulders bulging and softening under each heave, fingers soft and spreading themselves through the peak of his musculoskeletal system. Even when she went limp, letting him push and pull her like a ragdoll, she still held. The first slap made her eyes softly open up, her lids heavy and her eyelashes touching the bottom lining of her eye. If she could open her eyes to this every night, she would. She wouldn't tell him that, but she would. The softest gasp left her throat like gills trying to breathe air when he touched her throat – just the mere sensation of his big hand on her slender throat felt abysmal. She drooled, nodding at his semi-rhetorical question like a shameless laudanum addict.
He thrust forcefully into her, a sound emitting from where their centers met and meshed against each other. She squeaked, prompting her to nod obsequiously at his affections and compliments. Those hands of hers mirrored his, as in going to his hair and holding his head through her fingers while he made love to her as a knight would to a princess after a conquest. This was far from that... so, so far, but that didn't matter. Sweetness, she chewed on the name, and when he couldn't see, she smiled facetiously at the name, like a prize won after a game. Of course, it was a throwaway name used for any one of his dolls, and soon she'd be just another toy shelved and only thought about for nostalgia reasons. And she didn't convince herself that she was anything beyond that, and that was the bittersweet beauty of all of this. They would enjoy each other's company and maybe even make promises in the heat of the moment, but soon, they'd sleep in different homes, in different streets, and in different circumstances. He'd be making his way to the top of his ranks, sweet-talking his path through important men, and securing a future for himself and his inevitable German... white family with Erika. Bridgette would await the fate that even he couldn't save her from, and even though she had her sister, in the end, she would wait all alone. There was no real company when awaiting the grave of gas and crematoria.
"I can take you all night." The honey rolled from her lips, soothing the both of them. Inside, she began to swell up again, building up to another climax. She thought about flipping them over and bouncing on him like she did the night before, but there was nothing about this moment she wanted to change.
"You're going to do it again..." She felt herself building up to it, her moans muffled and quieted by the weight of fervor. Then, she reached behind her head to take his hands from her head, intertwining their fingers against the pillow, chasing his lips with hers like a desperate swan. Her Roman nose poked at various parts of her face as they kissed, or committed mangled imitations of it. Half the time, they didn't even properly kiss each other as much as they tasted their flesh and slathered their saliva on it.
Before long, she didn't prick him anymore, feeling the flexed muscles of his shoulders bulging and softening under each heave, fingers soft and spreading themselves through the peak of his musculoskeletal system. Even when she went limp, letting him push and pull her like a ragdoll, she still held. The first slap made her eyes softly open up, her lids heavy and her eyelashes touching the bottom lining of her eye. If she could open her eyes to this every night, she would. She wouldn't tell him that, but she would. The softest gasp left her throat like gills trying to breathe air when he touched her throat – just the mere sensation of his big hand on her slender throat felt abysmal. She drooled, nodding at his semi-rhetorical question like a shameless laudanum addict.
He thrust forcefully into her, a sound emitting from where their centers met and meshed against each other. She squeaked, prompting her to nod obsequiously at his affections and compliments. Those hands of hers mirrored his, as in going to his hair and holding his head through her fingers while he made love to her as a knight would to a princess after a conquest. This was far from that... so, so far, but that didn't matter. Sweetness, she chewed on the name, and when he couldn't see, she smiled facetiously at the name, like a prize won after a game. Of course, it was a throwaway name used for any one of his dolls, and soon she'd be just another toy shelved and only thought about for nostalgia reasons. And she didn't convince herself that she was anything beyond that, and that was the bittersweet beauty of all of this. They would enjoy each other's company and maybe even make promises in the heat of the moment, but soon, they'd sleep in different homes, in different streets, and in different circumstances. He'd be making his way to the top of his ranks, sweet-talking his path through important men, and securing a future for himself and his inevitable German... white family with Erika. Bridgette would await the fate that even he couldn't save her from, and even though she had her sister, in the end, she would wait all alone. There was no real company when awaiting the grave of gas and crematoria.
"I can take you all night." The honey rolled from her lips, soothing the both of them. Inside, she began to swell up again, building up to another climax. She thought about flipping them over and bouncing on him like she did the night before, but there was nothing about this moment she wanted to change.
"You're going to do it again..." She felt herself building up to it, her moans muffled and quieted by the weight of fervor. Then, she reached behind her head to take his hands from her head, intertwining their fingers against the pillow, chasing his lips with hers like a desperate swan. Her Roman nose poked at various parts of her face as they kissed, or committed mangled imitations of it. Half the time, they didn't even properly kiss each other as much as they tasted their flesh and slathered their saliva on it.
Anyways that's about it. If you saw anything you liked, don't be afraid to tell me about it. Or if you hated my request thread and you really want to tell me about it, that works too.
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