IsabellaRose

a sunny resort... and I almost blew off work and stayed out there.

(still reading my book) let me know when you're done... oh, you are? mmkay.

head shop

I still would.

hungry hippos

loving cuddles

Maya had named it when she was fifteen, not out loud, not to anyone, just in her own head, a private little word for a private little problem. She had to name it, because "horny" didn't cover it, "in the mood" was a joke, and "high libido" sounded like something a doctor would say while looking at a chart. None of those words captured the thing that showed up in her body without warning and refused to leave until she did something about it. So she called it the hunger, because that's what it was. It wasn't desire, exactly. Desire was a mood. Desire was something you could set aside for later. The hunger was a state. It sat low in her belly like a second heartbeat, and once it arrived, everything else in her life became background noise. Homework, conversation, the plot of whatever movie was playing, all of it dimmed, and the hunger stayed bright. The first time she'd noticed it, she was fifteen and sitting in algebra class, and she'd spent the entire forty-five minutes pressing her thighs together under the desk because the friction was the only thing keeping her sane. She hadn't understood it then. She'd thought something was wrong with her. She'd gone home and touched herself properly for the first time in her life, deliberately, and afterward the hunger had gone quiet, and she'd felt normal for about six hours before it came back. That was something she figured out early. It always came back. It came in waves. Sometimes it was gentle, a low hum in the background, easy to ignore, easy to live with. Those were the good days, the days she could be a person. But sometimes it arrived sharp, all at once, like a switch flipping, and on those days she was useless. On those days she couldn't think, couldn't focus, couldn't do anything except count the minutes until she could get somewhere private and deal with it. Tonight had been one of the slow ones, the kind that made her think she might be able to be productive. Maya had been sitting at that table working on her essay for two hours, but now she was losing her mind. It had started small. A little warmth between her thighs, the kind you could ignore if you had something to do. The essay was open on her laptop, the cursor blinking like a slow, mocking heartbeat, and her body had apparently decided that tonight was the night it would betray her. She shifted in her chair, crossed her legs, uncrossed them, shifted again. Nothing helped. If anything, the friction of her thighs pressing together just made it worse, sending a dull, throbbing pulse up through her belly. She was wearing a thin cotton skirt and panties, no tights, just her and the fabric and the growing, gnawing hunger. She glanced at the corner of the table. It was a cheap wooden table and chair set, but the table had a sharp right angle with a slightly rounded edge from years of use. It was just a table, innocent, unremarkable, and right at the perfect height. Maya scooted her chair back and stood up. The first contact was almost accidental. She leaned in to "read" her screen, and the corner pressed gently against the front of her panties through the skirt. Her breath caught. Oh. She stayed there for a second, pretending to type. Then she rocked her hips forward, just barely, and the pressure dragged across her clit in a slow, delicious line. Her fingers froze over the keyboard. She did it again, a little harder, a little slower. The wood was unyielding and warm from her own body heat, and every small movement sent a spark straight up her spine. She bit her lip and looked around the room. It was empty, thank God, her roommate was out, and then she stopped pretending entirely. She gripped the edge of the table with both hands and started to move. Forward, back, forward, back, a steady, rolling rhythm, her hips grinding down against the corner while her skirt bunched up around her thighs. The angle was perfect. The pressure was perfect. She could feel herself getting wet, and the friction turned from dry to smooth and back again as she worked herself against the hard edge. Her breath came faster. She let her head fall back. It was ridiculous. She was a grown woman humping a piece of furniture like a teenager, and she didn't care, because it felt so good. The corner pressed exactly where she needed it, and every grind sent a jolt of pleasure through her, building, coiling, tightening low in her belly. She went faster and the table creaked loud enough that she didn't hear the front door. Her thighs started to tremble. She thought about nothing, just the pressure, the rhythm, the wet heat between her legs and the hard corner of the table that was somehow, impossibly, about to make her come, and then it hit her. Her whole body seized up, her toes curling inside her socks, a sharp gasp tearing out of her throat as the orgasm rolled through her in waves. She ground down hard against the corner, riding it out, hips twitching, until the last shiver faded and she slumped forward over her laptop, panting. She mad enough noise that she didn't hear the footsteps in the hallway. The cursor was still blinking. Maya stared at it for a long moment, then she sat up, smoothed her skirt, and looked down at the innocent little corner of the table. "Okay," she whispered. "Okay." She typed one word into the essay, then she leaned into the corner again. She had reached the point of no return. The essay was a lost cause. The cursor had been blinking at her for three hours, and in that time she had gone from "casually shifting in her chair" to "full-on grinding against the corner of the table with her skirt bunched up around her hips." She'd stopped caring about dignity somewhere around the second orgasm. Now she was chasing the third, and she was close, so close, her breath coming in short, sharp little gasps, her knuckles white where she gripped the edge of the desk. She didn't hear the soft oh my god from the doorway. Forward. Back. Forward. Back. The table creaked in protest. She didn't hear it. Her panties were soaked through and the corner of the table was warm and hard and perfect against her clit. She rolled her hips in a slow, filthy circle, chasing the angle, and a soft moan escaped her lips before she could stop it. That was when she did hear the voice. "Are you... are you humping the table?" Maya's eyes flew open. Jake was standing in the doorway. Jake, her roommate's boyfriend. Jake, who had a key. Jake, who was supposed to be at work until six. Jake, who was now leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed and the biggest, dumbest grin on his face. Maya froze mid-grind. Her hips were still pressed against the corner. Her skirt was still hiked up. Her face was flushed and her hair was a mess and she was so close that stopping felt like a physical punishment. "I..." she started. "You're humping the table," Jake said again, delighted. "You're literally humping the table right now." "I'm not..." Maya began, but then her hips twitched, almost involuntarily, and the corner dragged against her clit and she let out a tiny, strangled squeak. Jake's grin widened. "You're still doing it." "I can't stop," Maya admitted, her voice thin. "I'm too close." "Then don't stop." She stared at him. He stared back. And then, because she had no other option, she started moving again, slowly at first, testing, their eyes locked. Then faster, because the pressure was still there and the pleasure was still building and Jake was just watching her, leaning in the doorway like he had front-row seats to the best show in town, and somehow that made it even hotter. His eyes tracked the roll of her hips, the bunch of her skirt, the way her mouth fell open when she found the right angle. "Jesus," he said, still with that stupid grin. Maya whimpered. She was past embarrassment now, past caring. She ground down hard against the corner, her whole body tensing, and the orgasm hit her like a wave, sharp and sudden and so good that she cried out, her hips jerking against the table as she rode it out. When she finally slumped forward, panting, Jake was still there, still grinning. "So," he said. "I guess Sophie's not here...?" Maya let her forehead thunk against the laptop. "Get out," she said quietly. He didn't move. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- What happens next? YOU VOTE!! Leave unresolved tension - Maya runs off to hide in her bedroom or Jake leaves. (react HEART/LOVE to vote for this option) Get right into it - Jake or Maya make a move on the other. (react RAVE BLOB/WOO-HOO to vote for this option) Interrupt the scene - someone or something interrupts the moment before either of them can decide anything one way or the other. (react LAUGHING/HAHA to vote for this option)

I might be misunderstanding, or we might be defining terms differently. To me, non-con is when a character is forced into sex without their consent. It has nothing to do with me as the player. It is specifically a scenario in the fiction where a character does not consent to specific (or any) sexual situations and has it forced upon them regardless. By saying that I'm okay with non-con scenes, I'm saying that if my character is overpowered, captured, magically dominated, etc. I am fine with the "bad guys" forcing her into sexual situations against her will. I expect in this kind of game that this will include rape type scenarios where someone defeats her and decides that they will have their way with her. That seems to fit with the general theme of this game. My character is a busty barbarian bimbo whose stats spell out the world SLUT. It definitely feels like the kind of game where she's getting fucked, whether she likes it or not. If she decides to try to get even with the characters who do it to her or never gets that chance, that's all up to how things move in the fiction. I would expect in the fictional world in which we'll be playing, a busty barbarian bimbo getting raped is probably close to something in our world like, "damn, they didn't give me my large fries, I got fucked in the drive thru" than anything else. It's common, everyone expects it, and it's usually too much trouble to go back and try to make it right. At least that's my take on it.

The Second Time He lifted her like she weighed nothing, one arm under her, one hand at the small of her back, and turned her in his lap so she faced him, straddling him, her knees on either side of his hips on the chair. The dress was still bunched at her waist. The fire was still going, and his face in the firelight was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen and the most frightening. She had stopped trying to tell the two apart. He didn't enter her, he held her there, poised, and looked up at her. "Your turn," he said. "This one's yours. Take it how you want it." Isabella's hands found his shoulders and her body found the angle. She lowered herself onto him, slowly, deliberately, feeling every inch of it this time because she was awake for it this time, because the first time had been a shattering and this was a choosing. She took him all the way in, sinking all the way down and stopped, sat there, full, breathing. "Good," he said. His hands settled on her hips, but he didn't move them. He let her set the pace. "Now ride." She rode, slow at first, long, rolling strokes, her hips finding a rhythm that was hers and not his, and it was different, God, it was different. The first time he'd taken her. This time she was taking, she was using him. She was sitting on an ancient thing in a chair by a fire and riding it at her own pace, and the hunger in his face had gone quiet, watchful, and pleased. She understood that this was what he'd meant, about choosing to want. He was letting her choose, letting her want him out loud, with her body, at her speed. She went faster. The rhythm broke into something urgent, chasing something, and her hands left his shoulders and found the back of the chair. She rode him hard and fast. The firelight blurred, the room blurred, and she came, a sharp, bright, sudden thing, a release that was nothing like the first one and everything like it at once. She cried out as her body clenched, then sagged forward onto him, and he still didn't move. "Not done," he said against her hair. "I came..." "But you're not done, are you?" His hands were still on her hips, steadying her, not driving. She realized he was right. Her body, or something in it, still wanted more. "That was the fast one. Now go slow, slower than you think you can. Find the bottom of it." She lifted her head, looked at him. She could not understand this thing she rode, this creature of timelessness, of lust and more. His eyes were black and patient and hungry and he had not moved once, had not thrust once, had given her the whole thing, and now he was asking her to go deeper. She started again, slow, slower than the first time. Each stroke was a long deliberate slide, and at the bottom of each one there was a place she hadn't found before, a place where the pleasure stopped being sharp and started being heavy, where it pooled and gathered and didn't release, where she could feel it building behind a wall she hadn't known was there. She moved even slower, and her breath went ragged. Her thighs were shaking. The heels had gone slick with sweat, the dress was a ruin, and she didn't care, she didn't care about any of it, she was chasing something at the bottom of the slow strokes and it was right there, it was just behind the wall, and every time she got close he'd shift by a fraction and move the wall. "Slower," he said. Barely a whisper. "You're almost there. Don't rush it." She went slower, so slow it was almost stillness. Each stroke took ten seconds, twenty, and on each one the thing behind the wall pressed closer, and on the fifth one, or maybe the fiftieth, she'd lost track of time, but after all the slowness, the wall gave, and Isabella broke. It was not like the first time. The first time had been a shattering, sharp and bright and over. This was a collapse. It came up from the bottom of her and took everything with it, her body, her breath, her thoughts, her name, the whole two days, the whole of her old life, all of it folding into one long rolling wave that went on and on and would not stop. She heard herself make a sound she'd never made. She felt her hands claw at his chest. She felt him finally, finally move under her, one slow deep thrust to meet her at the bottom of it, and that was the thing that finished it. She came apart in his lap by the fire in a house older than the city. When it was over, when the wave finally receded and left her wrecked and shaking and empty in a way that felt like full, the world was different. She couldn't explain it. She didn't try. Something had shifted. Something had turned over. The room was the same room, the fire was the same fire, he was the same man, but Isabella looked at all of it and it was not the same. She understood that she had crossed something, that there was a before and an after, and that she was on the far side of it now and there was no going back. She looked at him. He was looking at her. There was still blood on his lip from the first time, there was sweat on his brow from the second, and his face had done something she hadn't seen on it before. It was neither the hunger nor the pleasure. It was something quieter and older and, she would have sworn, almost tender. "There," he said softly. "Now you know." "Know what?" "The difference." His hand came up and cupped her face, and his thumb moved once across her cheek. "The first one was mine. This one was yours. You'll have both, for as long as you're here, but you'll always know which is which. That's being kept." Isabella leaned into his hand. Her eyes were closing without her permission. The fire was warm and the night was deep and she was utterly, completely, terrifyingly his, and some small clear part of her that was still awake understood that she had not been conquered. She had been chosen, and she had chosen back. "Sleep," he said. "I'll carry you." And he did.

The Aftermath He didn't let go of her. That was the first thing she registered, coming back up through the haze, that he was still there, holding her, still inside of her. He had not done what she'd half-expected, which was to stand up, straighten his clothes, and become the overlord again. He had stayed, and he still stayed, longer than she expected. Eventually, he eased out of her slowly. She felt every inch of him slide out and wished he would stay inside her forever. The absence of him was a thing, but before she could dissect it in her mind, he gathered her up, actually gathered her, one arm under her shoulders, one under her knees, and lifted her off the settee like she weighed nothing. He carried her the three steps to the chair by the fire, sat down, arranged her across his lap, and held her. Isabella's head found his shoulder without guidance. Her body was doing things without her, trembling in small waves, breath coming shallow and fast and then slow and deep and then shallow again. Her hands curled into the fabric of his shirt like a child. The fire was warm, his chest was cold, and the contrast was the most comfortable thing she'd ever felt. She tried to speak and made a sound instead. "Shh, give it a minute." His voice was different now, softer. It was neither the hall voice nor the interrogation voice, it was something underneath both of them. She gave it a minute, then two. The trembling eased as the fire cracked. Somewhere in the house, very far away, she heard the tick of the old walls settling, and she understood that the night was still going, that dawn was still hours off, that the world had not ended. She lifted her head and looked at him. There was still blood on his lip, her blood. He hadn't wiped it off. "How do you feel?" he said. "Like I've been taken apart." Her voice was hoarse. "And put back wrong." "You have been taken apart, in a way." He reached up and brushed a strand of hair off her face, and the gesture was so casual, so domestic, that it undid her a little. "But not put back wrong, put back new. There's a difference. Everything you're feeling right now is the shape of me settling into you." "You'll always be able to feel me there." He looked at her steadily. "That's what the first bite does. It creates the shape of things." Isabella's hand went to her own throat to find the wound closed. She could feel the smooth place where his mouth had been, but there was no scab, no mark, just a faint coolness. She pressed it. He watched her. "It doesn't hurt," she said. "It won't. Not from me. It'll ache from others, if another feeds on you. You'll feel it there, and you'll know it wasn't me." He said it flatly. She wondered if that meant he would let others feed on her. She wondered if sharing was normal. She filed it away as a question for the future. Then, because her body had started to come back online and her body had opinions, she noticed something else. She wanted it again. It wasn't an abstract want, not a soon or eventually thing. She was sitting in his lap with her dress still bunched at her waist, her legs still bare, the warmth of the fire on her skin, and some deep part of her, some part that had nothing to do with her brain, some part that had been opened, was already leaning toward him, already wanting, already, absurdly, ready. She looked at him. He was watching her face, and she saw the corner of his mouth move. "You feel it," he said. "Yes." "Tell me." "I want..." She stopped. Tried again. "I want it again. Already. And it terrifies me, because I've been here two days and I'm already..." "Already what?" "Already yours." The words came out before she could stop them, and once they was out they hung there in the air between them, and Isabella felt her face go hot. "I don't even know your name. You've never told me your name. And I'm sitting in your lap with my blood in your mouth, and I want you to do it again, and I don't know your name..." He laughed, low, brief, and real. It was the second real laugh she'd heard from him, and she'd caused both of them. "Names," he said, "are for people who might leave." He adjusted her in his lap, settled her more firmly against him. His hand came up and rested on the back of her neck, the sure hand, the claiming hand. "You're not going anywhere." "That's not an answer." "No," he agreed. "It isn't." She glared at him. He looked pleased about it. "Fine," she said. "What does kept actually mean. You keep saying it. The lackeys say it. The attendants said it. Nobody's told me what it means." He was quiet for a moment. The fire moved. "It means you live here," he said. "It means you eat at my table, sleep in a room that's yours, sometimes in one that's mine, wear what I give you, and go where I send you. It means the lackeys serve you and the court knows your face. It means you're mine, publicly, permanently." "And what have I given up?" "Your old life, mostly. You can keep pieces of it if you're clever, if you please me. The museum, if you want it, if you can make it work. But the center of you moves here." He looked at her. "You'll be fed on. You'll be shown. You'll be seen. And because of the feeding, you'll age slowly, you'll stay beautiful. One day you'll look in a mirror and realize everyone you knew is old and you're not." Isabella thought about that, about her apartment, about the west wing, about the board meeting she'd missed. "That's a lot," she said. "It is." "And the wanting." She said it carefully. "The wanting... you... wanting this... is that me, or is that you?" He looked at her for a long moment. Longer than he'd looked at her all night. "Both," he said finally. "The bite takes, it opens the door. But you walk through it. That's part of being kept. You chose to want, and you will keep choosing, every day, for as long as it lasts." He tilted his head. "That's why I asked you the questions. That's why I gave you the whole night. When I take a thing, I take the whole thing." He shifted her, and she felt him again, felt the shape of him under her, felt her own body respond, felt the want flare back up through the haze like a second wind. She made a small sound. He heard it. "You want it again," he said. It was not a question. "Yes." "Say it properly." Isabella looked at him, then at the fire, around the study, back at him, at the blood still on his lip. "Take me again," she said. "Please." He smiled the real smile. "Good girl," he said, and lifted her.

sensation play

ass kissing

shoe fetish

The Seduction He didn't bite her. His teeth touched her throat and rested there, four points of cold pressure against her pulse, and then he pulled back and looked at her with the hunger banked behind his eyes and said, "Not yet." "Not yet?" "Not yet." He stepped back a pace, seemed to gather himself, and let her breathe. "I told you the first bite sets the shape of everything after. So I'm going to set the shape properly." His eyes went down her body and back up, slow, and Isabella felt his gaze like a touch. "The bite is the last thing, not the first." She stared at him. "I'm going to make you quake," he said. "And then I'm going to fuck you. And at the exact moment you can't hold it anymore, I'm going to bite you. So that the bite and the climax are the same event." He tilted his head. "You'll never separate them again, not for the rest of your life. That's the shape." Isabella's mouth was dry. "That's cruel." "That's the shape I intend to make." He crossed to the settee and sat, and patted the cushion beside him. "Come here." She came. The dress rustled, the heels clicked, and then she sat. He turned to her, and his hand found the back of her neck again, the sure hand, the one that had stopped asking, and he drew her in and kissed her. It was not a polite kiss. It was the kiss of something that had been waiting days, and it went on and on. His other hand was already moving, finding the slit in the dress, sliding up the inside of her thigh. She made a sound into his mouth. He swallowed it as if she hadn't made it and his hand kept going, up and up, until his fingers found the place the razor had been, and then they stopped briefly and slid along the hairless flesh. He slid off the settee, knelt on the floor in front of her, and when Isabella looked down at him she felt her whole body go tight. "Lift." She lifted. He hiked the dress up over her hips, bunched it at her waist, and then looked at her, kneeling between her legs, staring at her hairless femininity, like a child, like a girl. She was as embarrassed as a schoolgirl, as excited as her first time. The hunger in his face was naked now, no longer held back. He was looking at her like this was the meal and the blood was a bonus. "Open," he said. She opened her legs slowly, and he leaned in. The first touch of his mouth made her gasp and straighten like a statue. The second made her hands go to his hair. The third made her forget the room, the house, the city, her own name. He was good, impossibly, unfairly, centuries-of-practice good, and he did not hurry. He worked her with his tongue in slow, deliberate strokes, and every time she got close he'd ease off, and every time she thought she'd caught her breath he'd find a new angle, a new pressure, a new thing she hadn't known her body could do. Her heels dug into the floor. The straps bit her calves. She was gripping his hair hard enough to hurt but he didn't seem to mind, in fact he seemed to like it. When she finally broke, when the wave came up and over and she came with a cry that echoed off the study walls, he didn't stop. He rode her through it, mouth still working, until she was shaking and oversensitive and pushing at his head, and only then did he pull back and look up at her with his mouth wet and his eyes black. "Good," he said. "Now." He stood and undid his trousers. This was not ceremony or performance, and Isabella barely had time to look before he was over her, easing her back onto the settee, one knee on the cushion, one hand braced on the arm. She was still trembling, her dress bunched at her waist. The jewelry was cold on her skin and he was right there, and he paused, one last time, looking down at her a question that was no longer really a question in his dark eyes. He entered her, and Isabella felt it, all of it. It was physical, yes, the stretch, the fullness, the slow deep slide of him. But it was emotional too, and she hadn't expected that, hadn't braced for it, the sense of being chosen, of being the thing he'd picked out of a line of thirty, the one he'd dressed in his mother's ring and walked down a hall in front of a hundred of his kind. There was something else she hadn't expected, either, a spiritual aspect, the sense that this was old, that this had happened in this house a thousand times before and would happen a thousand times after, that she was a link in a chain that went back further than the city. He moved, slow at first, then deeper, and his hand came up and found her throat. It was not the bite, not yet, just a hold, his thumb pressing her pulse the way it had all night, counting. Isabella looked up at him and saw the hunger right there, inches from the surface, and understood that he was waiting, for her, for the exact moment. She felt it build. The second wave, the real one, coming up from somewhere deep and gathering everything with it, the fear, the wanting, two days of being handled and appraised and dressed like a doll, all of it folding into one rising thing. She felt her breath speeding up, her heart rate along with it, he body matching the pace of his thrusts. "Oh," she gasped. "Oh, God..." He put his mouth to her throat, waited, and as she began to clench around him, he bit. The teeth went in at the exact moment the wave broke, and Isabella shattered. The climax and the bite were the same event, she'd never be able to tell them apart again, he'd made it that way, and the pleasure and the pain and the pull all hit her at once. She felt him drinking her, felt the blood leaving her body and something else coming back in, felt her hands claw at his back and her heels lock around his legs and a sound come out of her that she'd never made before. He drank and he kept moving. He held her through it, and when she finally went limp, when the last of the wave receded and her body was shaking in the aftermath, he pulled his mouth away from her throat, licked the wound once, gently, closing it, and lifted his head and looked at her. There was blood on his lip. Her blood. He was smiling, the real smile, the brief one. "Now," he said quietly, "you know what you're for."

food critic