Closed I am the Queen Maker

[Lingeress]

I am the Queen Maker​

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I want stories that hurt, thrill, and violate.

Give me violence with heart.
Pain with poetry.
Seduction that corrodes and awakens the soul.

I want raw, unfiltered storytelling—kinky, grimdark, gritty, macabre, and grotesque. Honest. Authentic. Beautifully brutal.

What I'm seeking:

• Grimdark epics
• Kink-laced psychological warfare
• Fight Clubs in bloodstained backyards
• Combat with meaning
• Succubi who eat men for dinner
• That thing that goes bump in the night
• Beauty & Beast aesthetics
• Shadow Self exploration
• Therapeutic intent
• Rebirth built on ash and bone

What I'm not seeking:

• Romantic fluff
• Bland praise
• Flat dynamics
• Shallow Dom/Sub clichés with no arc or depth

I want raw.
I want ruin.
I want rebirth.

I want character growth.
Realistic consequences.
Cruelty with cause.
Affection with devotion.

An immersive deep dive into the human condition.

If you think you can build a world with me that can tear open the sky—then stitch it back together piece-by-bloody-piece...

You may kneel and offer your pitch.

Writing Samples

• Hyperballad (suicidal ideation)

  Bare feet crunched the sparse grasses that were sparkling with early morning dew. The cool air caught each steady exhale as the woman trickled to the mountainside cliff's edge. Her grip tightened around the spatula in her hand as her breath caught in her throat.
  
  The magnificence of the view never faded. She could see down into the valley for miles and at the lush network of trees that surrounded it. She imagined their root systems weaving so deep in the ground that they cradled the valley in a basket. At night, as she was trying to fall asleep, she imagined those roots cradling her body, too. They would pull her down, wrapping the earth around her like a cold, comforting blanket.
  
  Toeing the edge of the ground, a small pebble loosened and fell off the side. The woman grinned as she watched it descend. It bounced haphazardly off the sides of the cliff in what looked like hops of elation. The height made her feel off-kilter, as if the longer she looked down the stronger the urge was to jump. She yearned to experience that adrenaline-filled sensation of falling. It looked so much like pure freedom.
  
  But it wasn't time for that, yet.
  
  Looking down at the spatula in her hand, her knuckles were wraith white. She hadn't realized she had been gripping it so tightly. Cautious not to give in to the downward pull, she loosened her grip and tossed the kitchen utensil off the cliff.
  
  As she watched it descend, she traded places with it in her mind's eye. The wind nipped at her hair and clothing as if to say, "Welcome, friend! Can we play with you?" She imagined eyes on her back; a crowd of bewildered onlookers staring down at her until she crashed.
  
  The sound of her body slamming against the rocks on the side of the cliff surprised her. In the movies, the sound effects would be amplified to increase unease in the viewer. Her imagined reality sounded duller, less impactful. The pain felt dull, too. The snapping of her bones was louder than any sound the rocks could produce. Excitingly, the ground beneath her bouncing descent grew larger and larger. She wondered if—right before she hit the ground—would she close her eyes or keep them open?
  
  She heard the spatula clink against the other utensils, car parts, and bottles she had tossed over. With a satisfied smile, she relaxed into the peacefulness of the moment. She felt happy to still be standing on solid ground. With the spatula in its new resting place, she was safe now; one less possession instead of her own life. That was what she kept telling herself, anyway.
  
  Her mother's voice pierced the air. She froze, tension pulling at every muscle in her body. The moment, ruined.
  
  "Girl! Where are you?! Why isn't breakfast started yet?!"
  
  "Coming, mother!" the woman exclaimed, reeling on her heels.
  
  She stole one last glance toward the cliff's edge before running back toward the house. As she ran, she wondered what she could use to prepare breakfast with, since that was the last spatula. Her mother would call her a fool for not being able to find it. Her mother wouldn't notice her resourcefulness in figuring out a different way to make it work. She never did.
  
  As the bacon sizzled on the griddle and the eggs began to firm in the pan, the woman mused to herself. Tomorrow morning. What could she take without anyone noticing it was missing?

  The Orgasm Diary (rape, strong language)

  I want to see how many different ways I can describe the female orgasm.
  Orgasm Count (so far): +3
  

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  1)​

  
  The orgasm that ripped through her body shattered the illusion and blasted through her vision like a thousand tiny shards of glass. She cried out as it rippled rapturously in waves. Her body convulsed, on fire against the ground in which she found herself forcefully pinned down. The gravel felt cool as it cut against her cheek.
  
  Reawakened to discover her cunt being pounded mercilessly, her body rocked roughly into the ground. Scraped and bloodied, her muscles relaxed as thoughts of resistance fluttered away.
  
  Had she even tried to resist? Would it have mattered?
  
  Vague images swirled through her mind. Had her mouth screamed 'stop', corrected with words like 'don't' mixed with blubbering moans she couldn't decipher?
  
  Her brain floated along in a blissed-out fog. She couldn't remember anything before coming to. At present, she couldn't remember her own name. She found she didn't care. She could figure that out later.
  
  She felt a godly-sized hand push down on her head as she choked on dust.
  
  

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  2)​

  
  A moan stretched from her throat. She had—what she would end up calling—her 'inside-out' orgasm. Starting from inside her on the underside of her clit, the cosmic sensation pooled outward—slow like magma and thick like honey. It took its sweet, sweet time and when it reached her outward shores, it sprung back—quick as lightning—erupting outward in fireworks. She screamed out in bliss, her body bucking wildly. Until it calmed. His meaty finger was pressed down hard against her, prolonging the experience.
  
  She panted, wide-eyed, staring up at the looming figure above her. That had been the single most pleasurable sensation she had ever experienced, and it had been given to her through force. Confliction wracked her mind because she knew, in that convicted moment, she absolutely wanted to experience that again.
  
  He had been concerned enough about her pleasure that he took the effort to ensure she had felt good, too. She didn't know what to make of that. Would a simple 'thank you' suffice? An awkward, 'Aye, it's been swell,' then go about her other duties as if that orgasm hadn't just ripped a hole in the very fabric of the universe itself?
  
  A burning knot settled in the pit of her stomach. This was her captor. Her abuser. Her…reason for still being alive. She blinked. But this wasn't her happily ever after. This would never be her happy ending. She would never find peace here. She would never belong.
  
  Underneath him, she tried to make herself smaller. She couldn't read his expression but there was something of interest in his eyes. What it was, she was too afraid to inquire further.
  
  In the following days she would find herself stealing glances toward the brute, staring at him with renewed interest.
  
  

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  3)​

  
  Her cheeks flushed as steam swirled off her skin. She let out a quiet moan. She imagined Norville's hands, trembling to reach out and cup her breasts—his touch so soft it gave her goosebumps. Olivia's nipples hardened.
  
  She circled her clit a little faster, keeping the pressure light. It grew more and more sensitive as she imagined the young man's hands all over her body, exploring it delicately. Olivia shivered at the thought of such tenderness. Her pleasure intensified.
  
  The pressure inside of her began to build. She brought her other hand down to lift the hood of her clit, exposing herself to even more sensitivity. Her breath stuttered—heartbeat pulsing loudly through her veins. Her mind clouded with thoughts of only his caress. Heat pooled around her clit, throbbing for more pressure. Olivia obliged. She pressed harder, deepening the richness.
  
  After a few more minutes, she came. A soft orgasm released outward in silky waves—the warmth of the sensation washing over her entire body. She twitched, gently, from a few more rubs of the oversensitive bud. Withdrawing her hand, she opened her eyes to stare at the ceiling, humming. Heaving relaxed breaths, Olivia finished up in the shower and turned the water off.