IsabellaRose

The shuttle ride to the Blue Lagoon felt like crossing into a different realm. The stark, moss-dusted lava fields surrounding the road gave way to plumes of steam rising from the earth, a landscape that felt primordial and alive. By the time the sleek, low-slung building of dark wood and glass that was the complex came into view, Seraphina felt a quiet thrill of anticipation. This wasn't just a tourist checkmark; it was a ritual. Inside, the efficiency was bracing. She was given a electronic wristband for lockers and purchases, pointed towards the changing rooms. The space was all clean, minimalist Scandinavian design, a hum of muted voices in a dozen languages. In her private changing stall, she hung up her carefully chosen jeans and cashmere, folding them with a strange tenderness. She stood for a moment in just her provided towel, looking at her reflection in the mirror. I'm going into the water alone in a bikini, she thought, a simple, profound fact. Wrapped in the towel, she walked through the obligatory pre-dip shower area, a ritual of cleanliness that felt oddly purifying in itself. Then, she pushed open the heavy door to the outdoors. The cold hit her first, a sharp slap of Icelandic air that stole her breath and made her shoulders hunch. Then, three steps later, her feet found the ramp descending into the milky, opaque blue water. The warmth was shocking, immediate, and total. It wasn't a hot tub heat; it was a deep, mineral-rich, all-enveloping warmth that seeped into her bones the moment she slid fully under the surface. She let out a sigh that was half gasp, half utter relief. The contrast was the entire point, the icy air on her face and shoulders, the celestial warmth wrapped around everything else. She waded out, deeper into the lagoon, the soft, silty silica bottom squishing between her toes. The water was the color of a diluted tropical sea, a milky, opalescent blue that hid her body completely just inches below the surface. Steam curled and danced over the surface, obscuring other bathers, creating pockets of privacy. She found a quieter spot near a built-in seat of rough lava rock, submerged just enough to let the water lap at her collarbones. Leaning back, she looked up. The sky was a vast, pale dome of gray-white, the low clouds seeming to press down just enough to feel cozy, not oppressive. She closed her eyes, letting the mineral warmth work on the last knots of travel stiffness in her neck, on the low-grade hum of anxiety that was her constant companion. Here, it quieted. After a time, she paddled over to the silica mud station, a large wooden box submerged in the water, filled with the famous white paste. She scooped a handful. The mud was cool and smooth, with a slight grittiness. She applied it to her face carefully, avoiding her eyes, then smoothed it over her shoulders and arms. As it dried, tightening slightly on her skin, she felt absurd and ancient and wonderful... a woman in a blue lagoon, wearing a mask of earth. Floating on her back, the mud mask hardening on her face, she observed the other people. Couples whispering in languages she didn't know, their fingers interlaced under the water. Families laughing as children tried to smear mud on each other. Solo travelers like her, eyes closed, faces tilted to the sky, adrift in the warmth. There was a shared, unspoken reverence to it. A silent agreement that this was a special place, a pause. She thought of herself before, back home, with her stiff shoulders and perpetual low-grade dissatisfaction. Old her would have hated this. She would have complained about the price, the crowds, the "gimmick" of it. She would have stood rigidly in the water, unable to surrender to the warmth, her mind racing with everything back home. The contrast was so complete it was almost funny. Seraphina floated, and her old self evaporated in the steam. When the mud had dried to a faint crackle, she dipped under the surface to rinse it off. She emerged, wiping the water from her eyes, her skin tingling and impossibly soft. She lingered until her fingers were pruned and the cool air began to bite a little too keenly at her exposed cheeks. Reluctantly, she waded back to the steps, the warmth clinging to her like a second skin as she ascended into the chill. The walk back to the showers was a shivering pilgrimage. Under the hot, fresh water, she washed the lagoon from her hair, watching the milky blue swirl down the drain, taking the last physical remnant of her tension with it. Dressed again in her own clothes, the soft fabrics feeling luxurious against her clean, warm skin, she bought a bottle of water from the café with her wristband and sat by a window, looking back out at the steamy, blue expanse. She didn't take a single photo. She didn't need to... the feeling was imprinted on her: the shock of cold, the embrace of warmth, the weightless silence, the soft mud, the pristine clean. On the shuttle back to Reykjavík, as the darkening lava fields rolled by, she took out her notebook. Under her earlier entry, she wrote: The Blue Lagoon. Steam on my face, silica under my nails. Warmth from the inside out. I floated, and for the first time, nothing in me was fighting the float. I sat in hot water and felt new. No deeper metaphor needed. She closed the book, leaned her head against the cool glass, and watched the alien, beautiful world pass by, feeling, from her core, quietly and completely, settled.

added "One Night at a Crowded Bar"

removed a bunch of uninteresting options

The crisp, otherworldly air of Keflavík still filled her lungs as the airport shuttle dropped her outside the Exeter Hotel. The building was modern and angular, all clean lines and dark wood, nestled right in the bustle of the Old Harbor. The front desk was a welcome sight, and the check-in process was swift, her passport accepted with a polite nod. Before she knew it she was sliding her keycard into the lock of a third-floor room. It was perfect. Not lavish, but thoughtfully designed. A comfortable bed with crisp white linens, a small desk, and a balcony overlooking the colorful, corrugated-metal rooftops of Reykjavík, with a sliver of the steel-gray sea visible between buildings. She dropped her bags, shrugged off her jacket, and stood for a moment in the quiet. This is my room in Iceland. For three weeks. The thought was a quiet thrill. She unpacked with efficient movements, hanging a few things in the closet, placing her skincare products in the bathroom. The ritual was grounding. By the time she zipped up the empty suitcase and slid it under the bed, she felt settled. The room was hers. Jet lag was a distant, buzzing hum at the back of her skull, held at bay by adrenaline. She took a quick shower, did her hair, and got dressed in something deliberately chosen for her first venture out. Dark, high-waisted jeans, a cream-colored cashmere turtleneck, and a quality charcoal wool coat. The boots were more stylish than practical for the October chill but she liked them. The look was casual, but put-together. A glance at her phone told her it was just past 11 AM. Lunchtime. Her stomach agreed. She grabbed her crossbody bag with her passport, wallet, phone, and lip balm, and headed out, locking the door behind her with a solid click. The wind bit through her coat immediately, a sharp, clean cold that smelled of salt and wet stone. It was invigorating. She turned not towards the main tourist drag, but towards the harbor, drawn by the cry of gulls and the gentle clinking of boat rigging. She passed the imposing, geometric facade of the Harpa concert hall, its glass panels reflecting the low, diffuse cloud cover. Just a few blocks down, she found it: a small, unassuming café tucked between a fishmonger and a marine supply store. Kaffi Már was painted in no-nonsense lettering on the window. It looked like a place for fishermen and dockworkers, not tourists. It was perfect. A bell jingled as she pushed the door open. Warmth, the rich scent of fresh coffee, and the low murmur of Icelandic conversation washed over her. A few older men in heavy sweaters sat at small tables, nursing mugs and reading newspapers. A young couple in outdoor gear huddled over a map. She approached the counter, where a woman with a long blonde braid and a no-nonsense expression gave her a brief, assessing glance. “Hello,” Seraphina said, meeting her eyes and smiling. “Hello,” the woman replied, her English fluent but accented. “What can I get for you?” “Coffee, please. And… what’s good for lunch?” “Soup today is lamb stew. Homemade bread.” “That sounds perfect. The soup, please.” She paid, took the numbered wooden block, and found a small table by the window overlooking the dock. She watched a trawler being unloaded, the fishermen moving with practiced, economical grace. This was it... not a tour, not a sight, just a normal lunch in a normal place. She was just a woman in a café. The thought was profoundly liberating. Her coffee arrived first, black and strong. She took a tentative sip. It was excellent, robust and smooth. A few minutes later, a deep bowl of aromatic stew was placed before her, alongside a thick slice of dark rye bread. The stew was rich, tender lamb and root vegetables in a savory broth. It was the best thing she’d ever tasted, or maybe she was just that present, that hungry, that happy. She ate slowly, watching the life of the harbor. A man at the next table caught her eye and offered a slight, friendly nod. She nodded back, then returned to her meal, a quiet smile on her lips. No one bothered her, no one stared, she was just another person in the café. As she finished her coffee, she pulled out her small notebook. On a fresh page, she wrote: Day 1. Reykjavík. Lamb stew. Coffee. Harbor sounds. I am here. I'm just a woman having lunch. That is all, and it is everything. She paid her bill, leaving a few extra krónur on the table, and stepped back out into the brisk air. The planned tour to the Blue Lagoon was later that afternoon, a purposeful baptism in geothermal milk. But for now, she had nothing to do but walk. She turned away from the water, aiming vaguely uphill, letting the winding streets pull her where they would. She was here. She was alone. She was, utterly and completely, herself.

The plane touched down with a firm, confident thump, the tires chirping against the tarmac of a world made of rock and moss. Dawn was a thin, gray line on the horizon, bleeding light over a landscape so stark it looked sketched in charcoal. As they taxied, Seraphina watched the alien scenery scroll past her window, lava fields like frozen black waves, low buildings hunkered against the wind. The moment the seatbelt sign chimed off, the cabin erupted into the familiar symphony of unbuckling, stretching, and overhead bin doors clacking open. The energy shifted from drowsy to eager. “Told you,” Elara said, nodding toward the window as she focused back inside the plane. “Another planet.” “You undersold it,” Seraphina breathed, shoving her book into her backpack. “It’s like the moon decided to have a little greenery.” Elara laughed, gathering her things. “Just wait until you see the colors in the daylight. It’s… audacious.” She stood, pulling her carry-on from the bin. The line to disembark began to shuffle forward. “So, pizza first? Or the sea?” “Definitely the sea.” Seraphina slung her backpack over one shoulder. “The panic pizza can come later.” “Smart girl.” They joined the queue, inching toward the door. The Icelandic air now funneled into the bridge was crisp and smelled of cold stone and salt. “Well,” Elara said, turning to her as they reached the jet bridge entrance, “this is where I lose you to the tourist hordes.” “Not necessarily,” Seraphina said, the impulse bright and clear. She pulled out her phone. “Give me your number. If you find yourself alone and want to compare notes on being solo in the land of fire and ice… call me. We’ll get that pizza... or soup. I hear the soup here is life-changing.” Elara’s face softened with surprise, then delight. “You’re brave. I like that.” She recited her number, and Seraphina typed it in, sending a quick text so Elara would have hers. It’s Seraphina. From the plane. For soup or emergencies. Elara’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, smiled at the screen, and tucked it away. “Soup or emergencies. I’ll hold you to that.” Seraphina smiled. Elara gave her a quick, warm squeeze on the arm, a compact, travel-friendly hug. “Go breathe your sea air, Seraphina. And welcome to your beginning.” And with that, Elara melted into the stream of passengers flowing toward baggage claim. Seraphina took a deep breath of the sharp, foreign air, her phone warm in her hand, a new number in the contacts, a new thread of possibility spun in the Icelandic dawn. She turned, alone but not lonely, and let the current of arrivals carry her out into her new world.

The cabin lights had been dimmed to a soft, drowsy blue. Outside Seraphina’s window, an endless black ocean slid beneath the wing, pierced only by the steady green glow of the navigation light. The rhythmic thrum of the engines was a hypnotic lullaby most passengers had surrendered to, their necks crooked against neck pillows, mouths slightly open. Seraphina couldn’t sleep. A fizzy, electric alertness buzzed just beneath her skin. She traced a finger on the cold glass, marking an invisible path over the invisible sea below. A gentle bump of turbulence jostled the cabin. The woman in the middle seat, who had been dozing with a paperback open on her chest, startled awake. “Sorry,” Seraphina murmured instinctively, as if she were responsible for the weather. The woman blinked, adjusting her glasses. She had a kind, tired face framed by silver-streaked brown hair pulled into a loose knot. “Not your fault,” she said, her voice warm and sandpaper-soft from sleep. “I was only pretending to read anyway. My eyes gave up an hour ago.” She nodded toward the book. “The words started swimming.” “I know the feeling,” Seraphina said, offering a smile. “You can’t sleep?” “Oh, I can sleep anywhere. Planes, trains, waiting rooms. My daughter says it’s a superpower.” The woman closed her book and set it on the tray table. “But tonight… tonight I didn't want to, although I guess I need it. But still, it feels like skipping part of the journey.” Seraphina felt a spark of recognition. “Yes, exactly.” The woman shifted slightly, turning her body toward Seraphina in the intimate space. “First time traveling alone?” “Is it obvious?” “A little.” The woman’s eyes crinkled. “You have the look. Not that frantic, guidebook-clutching look... the other look. The quiet, wide-open look. Like you’re absorbing every molecule of air before we’ve even landed.” Seraphina laughed, a soft, genuine sound. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me on an airplane.” “I’m Elara,” the woman said, extending a hand over the empty seat between them. Seraphina shook it. “Seraphina.” “Beautiful name. It suits you.” Elara settled back, pulling the airline blanket a little higher. “So, Seraphina-with-the-wide-open-look. Why Iceland? Most people choose Paris or Rome for their first solo adventure.” The question was simple, but the answer felt complex enough to fill the remaining flight time. Seraphina considered the truths she could share. “It felt… honest,” she finally said. “Iceland doesn’t seem to pretend to be anything other than what it is. Rock and ice and fire and sky. I think I need a little of that honesty right now.” Elara studied her for a long moment, her gaze thoughtful but not intrusive. “A reset,” she stated. “A beginning,” Seraphina corrected gently. “Ah. Even better.” Elara smiled. “I’m going for a reset, I’m afraid. The clichéd kind. My husband passed last year. This trip was… ours. We planned it for a milestone anniversary. It felt wrong to come, but it felt worse not to.” The raw confession in the dark, humming cabin was a gift. Seraphina knew what to do with it. “I think he’d be glad you’re going,” she said softly. “Carrying the trip for both of you.” Elara’s eyes glistened in the blue light. She nodded, a quick, tight movement. “Thank you. I think so too.” She took a steadying breath. “And your beginning? Is someone waiting for you to come back?” The image arose unbidden: Jess’s fierce blue eyes, Eli’s patient smile, the warm lamp in her apartment, the Thursday-night constellation of her friends on the sectional. “Sort of,” Seraphina said. “Not one person. A few. They’re… my village.” Elara’s expression softened. “A village. How lovely. That’s what we all need, isn’t it? Not just a person, but a place to belong. A home in people.” She paused. “I bet they're wonderful.” “They are.” Seraphina looked back out at the darkness, now feeling less like an void and more like a velvet bridge between one life and another. “They taught me how to want things. And then they told me to go get them.” “Good villagers,” Elara declared. She was quiet for a while. The flight attendant passed with a cart, and they each took a bottle of water. “You know,” Elara said after a sip, “I was so afraid of this trip, of the loneliness, of doing something we were supposed to do together, alone.” She gestured vaguely around the quiet cabin. “But talking to a stranger… it helps. It’s a reminder that you’re not alone on the plane. You’re just alone in your seat.” Seraphina felt the truth of it settle into her bones. That fit for her, too. She wasn’t isolating herself; she was expanding her world. A conversation with a stranger on a plane was part of that expansion. The old her would have put in headphones and stared rigidly ahead. But now she could reach across the empty seat and connect. “What’s the first thing you’ll do?” Elara asked. “In Reykjavik.” “Drop my bags. Find the sea. Breathe the air. Then probably panic and order a pizza.” Elara’s laugh was a bright, crackling sound in the dim cabin. “Perfect... absolutely perfect. The grand adventure, immediately followed by the utterly familiar. It’s the best way to do it.” She peered at Seraphina again. “You’re going to be just fine, you know.” “I’m starting to believe it.” “Good.” Elara pulled her blanket up to her chin, her movements signaling a return to her own private journey. “Wake me when we land? I don’t want to miss the descent over the lava fields.” “I promise.” As Elara’s breathing evened out into sleep, Seraphina returned her gaze to the window. The endless dark outside was no longer intimidating, it was simply space... beautiful, empty space she was moving through. She wasn’t fleeing; she was traveling. She pulled out her phone, its screen a small square of light in the dark. She opened her notes app and began to type, her thumbs moving swiftly. Things Old Me Never Did 1. Talked to a stranger on a plane. 2. Flew over an ocean at night. 3. Believed I would be just fine. She saved the note, titled it The List, and powered the phone off. The blue cabin light glinted off the window, and for a fleeting second, she saw her own reflection superimposed on the blackness, a young woman’s face, calm and expectant, hurtling toward the dawn.

It should come as no surprise that I'm a fan of giving oral sex to men. It's something of a skill, perhaps even a bit of innate talent, to be able to do it well. It's obviously more enjoyable for the man, but there's a certain sense of satisfaction and even arousal for the woman, too. I recently posted a couple status updates about a woman who was driven by desperate carnal desire and another about a woman who used a blowjob to get in with a guy and get him to buy her things. I have a couple other versions I've been working on - the inexperienced first timer, the old professional prostitute, and I might even do one about being forced against her will. I've been thinking about it a lot lately, mostly because I'm in the best relationship I've ever had but it's with a woman and this isn't a thing we can do. I was going to post a question as a status, but I thought this might be a more appropriate forum, and being here, I can ask a lot more questions and hopefully learn a lot more. Plus I might get to hear some great blowjob stories and maybe get a little bit excited. So, without further ado, I have questions for the recipients of blowjobs among you. Answer as many or as few as you like. Her Experience Do you think about whether she's actually enjoying it, or does it not cross your mind in the moment? Have you ever asked a woman honestly what it feels like from her side? Would you want to know? Can you tell the difference between a performed moan and a real one? Does it matter? Have you ever been with a woman who clearly didn't want to be doing it but did it anyway? Did that register? Did it change anything? Do you think most women genuinely enjoy giving head, or do you suspect they're performing more than they let on? Power What goes through your head when you're standing over a woman on her knees about to give you head? Do you feel powerful? Is the power part of the pleasure? Have you ever put your hands on her head? What were you thinking about when you did? Has a woman ever told you to stop or slow down during one? How did you react? Do you think about the vulnerability of her position: on her knees, mouth full, unable to speak? Transactional Have you ever felt like a blowjob was something you were owed? Have you ever been more generous, giving gifts, attention, or even commitment, after a woman gave you particularly good head? Do you think there's a connection between how good the head was and how you treat a woman afterward? Would you break up with a woman who refused to give blowjobs? Would it be a dealbreaker? Finishing Do you prefer to finish in her mouth? Why? Does swallowing matter to you? What do you think it means to her? Have you ever thought about what it actually tastes and feels like for her to swallow? Has a woman ever spit it out? How did you feel about it? Do you prefer to finish on her face or body? What's the appeal? Real vs. Performance What made the best blowjob you've ever had the best? Was it the physical sensation, or was it something else, like the way she looked at you, the things she said, how she made you feel? Have you ever had a technically skilled blowjob that wasn't as good? What was missing? How much of the pleasure is physical versus psychological? Do you need to feel like she wants it for it to be good? Comparison Do you rank the women you've been with by how good they were at this? Have you ever told your friends about a specific blowjob? What did you say? Do you think blowjobs are more intimate than intercourse or less? Have you ever had a blowjob that made you fall for someone? Or fall out of love with someone? First Time Do you remember your first blowjob? What did it feel like? Did you know what to expect? Were you surprised by anything: the warmth, the wetness, the sight of it? Did you feel guilty afterward? Grateful? Both? Discomfort and Degradation Have you ever held a woman's head down longer than she wanted? Have you ever ignored signs that she was uncomfortable? Have you ever thought about it afterward and felt like you took something? If you could be on your knees in front of someone with their hands on your head, would you want to know what it feels like? Do you think the act is inherently degrading to women?

Honestly, I think this overwhelming sense of end times dread I feel has made me less inclined to play lewd roleplay. Since my mother passed, I’ve been having a really hard time facing some family stuff and silent depression has been my constant companion. I’ve been drifting away from collaborative lewd content for a while now and focusing my writing on just things I want to say for myself. I do want to come back to this, but I don’t know… I can’t write much, especially not for a roleplay. I’ve tried. I have a couple that I’d love to continue but the words just won’t come. Then when I sit down to write I get a page and a half about giving a blowjob. So who even knows? I keep thinking I’m ready to comes back and then apparently I’m not. As far as plans or ideas… i always have ideas. But I wouldn’t want to spout them out now and get anyone’s hopes up.

I fully understand that. It's been a bit sucky irl for me lately, too. I really hope we get to play together, though. I've always loved everything you've written when I get a chance to read it.

Yeah, it's definitely not adding Dreams that would be the issue. I hope you didn't take it that way! I'd love to restart with Ramona as a player!

I think it would be a great idea! I just hope I have the whatever-it-is-that-makes-me-halfway-decent-at-this in me to do it!

It sounds like there would be room. But from a GM perspective I'd have to rework a lot of the plots and antagonist connections I had worked out without several of the starting characters.

I miss them both terribly. I know that feeling, not wanting to write. I want to, but I can't really force myself to sit down and do it... it feels like a chore. But I've had a few times where fiction finally came out recently. I really hope I'm turning a corner.