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FoxForHounds
Dust
- Joined
- Jun 4, 2018
...complete, total, and abject destruction, at the hands of an utterly merciless tormentor. Someone eager to punish me, degrade me, humiliate me, and teach me the meaning of hell as I satisfy their every last desire. What do you think? Is that do-able?
I'm back to roleplaying after a long and unwilling hiatus, and so eager to dive into depravity with you. I'm a woman from the southern US, though I play via PM so time zone isn't that big of a deal; I tend to be on and offline throughout the day, responding most in the early afternoon and evening. As far as plots go, I have a few sexual nightmares that have been driving me to distraction...
The Knight's Ruin. I'm a heroine, a warrior, the kind of adventurer and legend who would make Xena envious. When my homeland went to war, it was only natural that I pledged my sword to the fight, single-handedly taking prisoners and enemy encampments one after another. My very name was whispered in fear among the enemy troops -- and that made me a priority target. I walked right into the ambush that took me down. No honorable death for me, not after the trouble I've caused. No, I've become a symbol to both sides -- fear to one, triumph to the other -- and it's time to flip those around.
I will be made an example of. Whipped. Raped. Broken. Taken from town to town and put on display as my endless punishment continues, so that all can relish my defeat and see the folly of opposing you. Degraded and publicly humiliated until my mind breaks, and I freely confess the weakness of my people and the glory of yours. Until I confess that a woman has no place on the battlefield, that I never should have been allowed to carry a sword, and that my rightful place is on my knees, in the chains of a slave.
Corporate Slave-Girl. To the world's eye, I'm a ball-busting, ice-cold corporate executive. My tailored pantsuits conceal a hidden passion for submission, one I've worked hard to conceal. My outlet, at the end of a long trail of rumors, is a secret gentlemen's club downtown. It's a club dedicated to male supremacy, where women exist to obey and worship the almighty cock. The hostesses include scantily-clad serving-girls, topless barmaids, dancers, and living urinals. I take a job there as a waitress by night, my identity concealed behind a discrete mask. I soon learn, to my horror and arousal, that many of my male peers and underlings are regulars here, even bringing our clients here for drinks when they're in town.
And that would have been fine, until the night my identity is accidentally revealed. Now my co-workers know who and what I am. And they have photographs. What happens from there? Will I be allowed to keep my executive position, or pressured into taking a lesser-paid, lower-powered job? In any event, my submissive life is no longer confined to the club. Perhaps I'll be serving men in my office behind closed doors all afternoon long. Or blatantly dressed in skimpy outfits and serving them coffee in the meetings I used to lead before dancing on the boardroom table, reduced to the company fuck-toy, slave-girl and plaything.
Submission of the Wicked Queen. (Super-eager for this one.) The world, or at least the far-flung borders of my kingdom, is at my command. The peasants labor and starve under back-breaking taxes as I dine on the finest fare and sleep under ermine furs. My will is carried out with merciless cruelty and swift, unyielding violence. Of course, there are rebels, there always are, but my soldiers put them down with brutal efficiency. All but one faction, growing underground, a constant thorn in my side. The day we capture you, their leader, I consider it a personal victory, and visit your cell in my dungeons just prior to your intended execution. My gloating fades under the onslaught of your hatred, your verbal abuse, and I feel something new sparking deep in the pit of my stomach.
Whatever you thought was going to happen tonight, hate-fucking the queen up against the wall of your cell probably wasn't it. But here we are. Obviously, your execution has been delayed. And my hunger for abuse has become your lifeline and your growing power over me. True, you could probably push me into 'letting' you escape. Or you could stay, enjoy every luxury you desire in your cell, and treat the all-powerful woman you despise as your footstool and fuck-toy during her nightly visits. Feasting on steak and wine while the queen dresses like a whore for you, eats prison slops from a dog bowl, and licks the dirt from the soles of your feet.
Your influence over me only grows with time. Perhaps you could use your influence over me to soften my reign and bring relief to your followers. Or make me humiliate myself in public. Or, why not both? Eventually I could even be pushed to the point of letting you escape and 'take me prisoner' in the process, with the promise of unthinkable torments awaiting me at your rebel headquarters. Of course, once I'm deposed from the throne and stripped of my crown at last, my real torment has just begun...
I'm back to roleplaying after a long and unwilling hiatus, and so eager to dive into depravity with you. I'm a woman from the southern US, though I play via PM so time zone isn't that big of a deal; I tend to be on and offline throughout the day, responding most in the early afternoon and evening. As far as plots go, I have a few sexual nightmares that have been driving me to distraction...
The Knight's Ruin. I'm a heroine, a warrior, the kind of adventurer and legend who would make Xena envious. When my homeland went to war, it was only natural that I pledged my sword to the fight, single-handedly taking prisoners and enemy encampments one after another. My very name was whispered in fear among the enemy troops -- and that made me a priority target. I walked right into the ambush that took me down. No honorable death for me, not after the trouble I've caused. No, I've become a symbol to both sides -- fear to one, triumph to the other -- and it's time to flip those around.
I will be made an example of. Whipped. Raped. Broken. Taken from town to town and put on display as my endless punishment continues, so that all can relish my defeat and see the folly of opposing you. Degraded and publicly humiliated until my mind breaks, and I freely confess the weakness of my people and the glory of yours. Until I confess that a woman has no place on the battlefield, that I never should have been allowed to carry a sword, and that my rightful place is on my knees, in the chains of a slave.
Corporate Slave-Girl. To the world's eye, I'm a ball-busting, ice-cold corporate executive. My tailored pantsuits conceal a hidden passion for submission, one I've worked hard to conceal. My outlet, at the end of a long trail of rumors, is a secret gentlemen's club downtown. It's a club dedicated to male supremacy, where women exist to obey and worship the almighty cock. The hostesses include scantily-clad serving-girls, topless barmaids, dancers, and living urinals. I take a job there as a waitress by night, my identity concealed behind a discrete mask. I soon learn, to my horror and arousal, that many of my male peers and underlings are regulars here, even bringing our clients here for drinks when they're in town.
And that would have been fine, until the night my identity is accidentally revealed. Now my co-workers know who and what I am. And they have photographs. What happens from there? Will I be allowed to keep my executive position, or pressured into taking a lesser-paid, lower-powered job? In any event, my submissive life is no longer confined to the club. Perhaps I'll be serving men in my office behind closed doors all afternoon long. Or blatantly dressed in skimpy outfits and serving them coffee in the meetings I used to lead before dancing on the boardroom table, reduced to the company fuck-toy, slave-girl and plaything.
Submission of the Wicked Queen. (Super-eager for this one.) The world, or at least the far-flung borders of my kingdom, is at my command. The peasants labor and starve under back-breaking taxes as I dine on the finest fare and sleep under ermine furs. My will is carried out with merciless cruelty and swift, unyielding violence. Of course, there are rebels, there always are, but my soldiers put them down with brutal efficiency. All but one faction, growing underground, a constant thorn in my side. The day we capture you, their leader, I consider it a personal victory, and visit your cell in my dungeons just prior to your intended execution. My gloating fades under the onslaught of your hatred, your verbal abuse, and I feel something new sparking deep in the pit of my stomach.
Whatever you thought was going to happen tonight, hate-fucking the queen up against the wall of your cell probably wasn't it. But here we are. Obviously, your execution has been delayed. And my hunger for abuse has become your lifeline and your growing power over me. True, you could probably push me into 'letting' you escape. Or you could stay, enjoy every luxury you desire in your cell, and treat the all-powerful woman you despise as your footstool and fuck-toy during her nightly visits. Feasting on steak and wine while the queen dresses like a whore for you, eats prison slops from a dog bowl, and licks the dirt from the soles of your feet.
Your influence over me only grows with time. Perhaps you could use your influence over me to soften my reign and bring relief to your followers. Or make me humiliate myself in public. Or, why not both? Eventually I could even be pushed to the point of letting you escape and 'take me prisoner' in the process, with the promise of unthinkable torments awaiting me at your rebel headquarters. Of course, once I'm deposed from the throne and stripped of my crown at last, my real torment has just begun...