- Joined
- Apr 1, 2015
I have been gone awhile due to RL, but those issues are resolved and I have been craving RP lately. So I came back to this amazing website and it's like coming back home!
Hello there!
I am a long term, multi-para RPer who adores plotting and planning RPs. I am friendly, and even if I think we won't work well together I still will try to let you down gently. I love a lot of different kinks and settings, and enjoy everything from sappy romance with protective alphas to hardcore brutal rape. I would prefer all my RPs be done in threads or discord. While I can't promise daily responses (damn real life!), I can promise a minimum of two responses per week, usually three to four. Generally you can expect at least 3-4 full paragraphs in a response (I do not necessarily require the same), though it can be shorter or longer depending on what is needed/what I am given to work with.
What I DO NOT like:
-Being your characters mommy.
-Being with a female/futa full time. I don't mind playing in a threesome as long as the main character opposite mine is male.
-Furries
-Younger/smaller partners. I prefer my character be the younger/smaller one.
-1st/2nd person RP. Third person only, please.
-Consistent lack of proper capitalization, punctuation. Mistakes happen, I understand that. Hell I am not a perfect typer myself. Nor am I a grammar nazi. I do, however, prefer RPing with people who take some pride in their posts. There is a difference between "She cracked the door, slid inside the room and pressed against the wall" vs "she cracked the door and slid in the room and pressed against the wall". Please punctuate and captitalize properly.
Things I especially like:
-Dystopian, non zombie settings. Zombies are just too overdone.
-Brutal men who aren't brutal to be brutal. It's just the way they are.
-Historical settings. LOVE LOVE LOVE
-Love (or obsession) at first sight.
-Plot. This is, perhaps, at first face a stupid thing to say. Of course we are going to have a plot, right? In my experience, many erotic RPers tend to gloss over plot in favor of sex scenes. They prefer 20% story, 80% sex. I am just the opposite. I prefer story over sex, though I do like there to BE sex. Just not at the expense of plot.
-Protection. A very odd kink of mine that can even be done with more dark-oriented RPs. I love to feel protected, even cherished.
-Plot bombs. Expect these. These are little surprises I throw out there just to keep things interesting. I love receiving them as much as I like getting them. Usually they are not plot transformers - thats another thing entirely. These are just little things to shake things up. Did you let my character scream too loud in that suburban house while you were raping her? Oh...is that the cops knocking on your door? Welp, better think of a way out of this one!
Insta-Death to any potential RP:
-Meta gaming
-God modding
-Being a jerk
Meet my characters:
While I have unique characters for each RP, my characters tend to follow a certain typeset.
-Young - though physically mature. Usually late highschool, early college years. I have occasionally done mid 20s, but not often.
-Intelligent - I have on occasion done more dimwitted characters, but for the most part my characters are sharp, witty, intelligent girls.
-Goal oriented - my characters do not live to be married and have babies. They may want a man, they may be married, they may have or want babies, but they want other things in life too.
-Submissively oriented. They may not be aware of it - as a matter of fact they rarely are. They are not doormats. They won't bend over and pull up their skirt on command. But they do have submissive instincts. That doesn't mean they can't be a ballbuster on occasion though!
-Cooks. I know this is odd. But I love cooking, and my characters do as well. Expect a bit of food porn with your real porn. It's gonna happen.
Plot Ideas & Characters:
Sometimes you hear the horror stories on the news about cults being raided by the FBI or some other alphabet agency. The talking heads on tv seem to love nothing more then rehashing the lurid tales of sex and violence and weirdness. Then in a day or so, the story vanishes from the news and the world moves on.
But Mila Navvaro couldn’t move on. She had been fourteen years old when the cult compound her parents were a part of was raided. There had been no lurid tales of sex with her cult, sex was a forbidden act unless within the office of a marriage officiated by the cult leader. Even though Mila’s parents had been married by the state when they came into the cult with their four year old daughter, the cult leader had refused to allow that marriage to be recognized. Instead he had taken Mila’s mother as his wife, handing little Mila over to another cult member to be raised.
It had been a life of cruel depravation and abuse, with hours of religious indoctrination every day. The children were fed one meal a day, usually just bread, a hardboiled egg, and a thin lentil vegetable soup. The adults fared little better. When she was rescued by the FBI she was so starved and ill she spent two weeks in the hospital to recover from the years of malnutrition.
And then, with no other family in sight except the ones now in jail, Mila was placed into foster care.
The world outside of the cult she had been raised in was a bewildering one. Since the age of four, she had been isolated on a desert compound. She had never seen a woman wear pants. Never seen a television. Never spoken with a male, because in the cult the girls were kept separate from the boys and men until they married. She had never read a book except certain permitted sections of the bible, and pamphlets written by the cult leader. She had never ridden in a car, never surfed the internet, never seen the ocean or even a large lake, never flown in a plane, never eaten meat, never even been to a restaurant.
This new world was terrifying.
But Mila had a good foster family, and she slowly adjusted. She learned that she loved reading, loved cooking even more. Though still shy and withdrawn around men, she no longer feared them and learned how to have a conversation. Her foster parents gently but firmly pushed her into new experience after new experience. Learning to drive was both terrifying and exhilarating. It – more than anything else – gave her a taste of freedom she had never experienced before. She was extremely intelligent, and rapidly caught up with her education under the care of special tutors the state paid for.
But at the age of 18, Mila was woefully unprepared to be on her own. She had not yet graduated high school. Her foster parents were planning a move to Japan, and could not take her with them. But they worked hard, helping Mila get a job in a cleaning business and a small apartment. They helped her get on government assistance, paid her electricity deposit, helped her get her bank account started, taught her how to read the city bus schedules, and helped her get a library card. Before they left, they gifted her a cheap laptop and pre-paid her internet bill for six months.
And then she was on her own.
Being on her own was, probably, the scariest thing Mila had ever dealt with. She had never been alone, and though her tiny one bedroom apartment was cozy and neat, it’s silence was deafening. Following her former foster mother’s advice, Mila went to the local college and requested assistance getting her GED.
The registrar of the college was captivated by her story, and told a friend at the local news station. Before she knew what was happening, Mila was sitting in front of a television camera stuttering out her story with wide, frightened eyes.
If the story had stayed local, Mila probably would have been ok. But it didn’t. It went viral, with hundreds of thousands seeing the beautiful young woman telling her tale of horrific abuse and neglect. She didn’t understand what kind of impact this would have on her until the first male stranger showed up at her door two days after the interview, declaring his love for her and insisting on taking her out for dinner. She called the police on him when he would not leave.
But then CNN found out the leader of the cult that Mila had been a part of was out of prison, living in a mansion in New Mexico. They swept in to interview him and though the man carried himself off well, he was angry. And unfortunately for Mila, Ignacio Aguado was wealthy and friends with powerful people.
This is Mila. And who is your character? Is he the dastardly villain Ignacio Aguado? Is he an enemy of Aguado who now sees a way to bring the bastard down, moving to protect the vulnerable Mila? Is he someone who saw her viral interview and was instantly captivated, contacting her and offering protection?
The very picture of innocence and sweetness, Hoa Pham is anything but. The only daughter of poor Vietnamese immigrants, Hoa was spoiled as a child. Her father worked two jobs – as a high school teacher by day and a janitor by night. Her mother was a seamstress. Neither made much money, but they poured what they had on their dainty, vivacious, demanding daughter.
She repaid them by running away when she was eighteen. She worked as a stripper for a little over six months, raking in the cash. Then she found her first victim. A successful attorney delightedly moved her into his home, showering her with expensive clothes and pretty things. Three months and five hundred thousand dollars later, both his savings and his favorite stripper was gone. His cousin, an engineer, had a lot of money and a hard dick. She went to him, and stayed with him only two months before moving on - wealthier than she came to him.
Halfway through her nineteenth year, Hoa was arrested when she stole $30,000 cash out of the safe of her last victim. Due to her age and pretty eyes, she was given a sentence of six months in jail, a year probation, and to pay restitution and court fees. She served four months out of the six, but those four months were put to good use. She learned how to be much better at theft while she ate the pussy of her lesbian lover who excelled at larceny and disguise. After she was released, Hoa never reported to her probation officer. She disappeared.
She would never be known as Hoa again. She obtained fake IDs and began hunting her favorite places. Hotel restaurants, country clubs, and of course the internet. Searching out thirsty male victims. She befriended them, fucked them, sometimes even got engaged to them. All while milking them dry, and finally disappearing after stealing thousands of dollars from their bank accounts. She did not just hunt in America, but travelled the world seeking out her prey.
The only place she never hunted was Portugal, the country she decided to call home. There she bought a quaint little villa in the peaceful countryside, spending several months out of the year there. At the age of twenty she was a wealthy woman and could have left her life of crime and lived comfortably for the rest of her lie on her ill-gotten goods. But she enjoyed the hunt.
That is Hoa. But who is your character? Is he one of Hoa’s intended victim’s, but more clever than she thinks? Is he a relative or friend of one of her victims who committed suicide, and is out for revenge? Is he one of her former victims? Perhaps a man of the law hunting down his fugitive? Or perhaps a fellow criminal who has seen her and becomes obsessed? Either way, I want romance for Hoa. It doesn’t have to be vanilla romance though….
Annemarie Fowler was born in 1873 in Boston, Massachusetts to a poor but earnest and kindly Methodist preacher named John Fowler and his sickly wife, Pearl. They lived a happy life in a tiny three room house two doors down from the church where her father preached. For the first five years of her life, there was a steady round of church women in and out of the home, helping take care of the baby and the house. But as Annemarie got older, more and more of the work fell to her. By the age of eight she was running the household with graceful efficiency, coached and trained by her mother – even if it was from the poor woman’s bed.
Annemarie inherited good things from her family. She inherited her beauty from her mother. Not a cold serene and dignified beauty, but a lively vivacious smiling beauty that brought a sense of brightness and freshness wherever she went. Her parents were somewhat alarmed, worrying their daughter’s beauty would bring an unwelcome sense of pride into her heart, so they were always careful to praise her good traits, not her looks.
She inherited her gentleness and generosity from her father. John was a tender-hearted man who loved everyone he met with all the best that religion had to offer. He gave lavishly of his miniscule funds to those in greater need. That meant his own family eked out a living on pennies, but the faithful insisted God would provide for their needs – and somehow they never suffered from want. Whenever John went to visit the poor or ill in his parish, Annemarie came tripping along behind him, always carrying something for the unfortunate souls. A loaf of fresh bread, a handful of flowers, a jar of golden broth. Several times John left her behind to tend to the sick there. Her hand was always cool on a fevered brow, her voice always gentle and coaxing, her eyes always kind and patient.
She inherited her work ethic from her paternal grandmother, a woman who had died three weeks before she was born. Though Annemarie never once met her grandmother, she knew all about her. Her father loved to talk about his mother. And he always said that Annemarie worked like his mother. Quick to learn skills, energetic and efficient, always busy doing something.
No one quite knew where Annemarie got her love of reading from. The poor family could not afford many books, but fellow church members lent the few books they had to the eager girl, who read them hungrily. Books were her delight – a delight that concerned her father. He did not approve of her reading novels, but he did not have the heart to forbid it.
But the golden glow of childhood died a swift death along with her mother when Annemarie was 13 years old. Her mother had been ill and in bed for over a month. They had even found enough money to summon a doctor, who had looked sadly at the pale thin woman and shook his head. A week later, Annemarie’s mother was dead.
Annemarie struggled on, mourning her mother. But her father lost all heart, walking around as if in a daze. Unable to preach, he left the church. Unable to take care of his daughter, he went to his father in law.
Pearl Fowler’s father was a rich man. He detested his poor son in law for being unable to provide for Pearl like her father felt she deserved. At first he refused to take in his grand daughter, until he saw her. Annemarie was the spitting image of her mother. So he agreed to take the child in and raise her, on the condition that John leave and never return. The broken hearted father agreed, and less than a year later was dead.
But Annemarie never heard anything about her father again. Her grandfather was a stern, implacable man who demanded complete obedience. He brought in tutors who taught the bewildered girl the proper way to conduct herself at parties, how to dance, how to dress, how to walk. Her life was regimented by an army of servants, tutors, and nannies. She was forbidden the housework she formerly enjoyed. Every day her grandfather called her into his intimidating office and interrogated her as to her day, demanding an accounting of every minute. She was terrified of the gruff older man, but faithfully gave him the obedience he insisted on. It was he that forbade her the reading of novels, forbade her the reading of anything. Women’s brains were injured by too much learning, he insisted.
Three years later, Annemarie was unrecognizable from the warm, smiling little girl of her home. She was a serene, cool girl now. By all appearances perfectly poised, perfectly dressed, perfectly behaved. Her grandfather was pleased – so pleased that when he died, he left her his fortune.
And that is Annemarie. Now alone, left to the wolves of the world – totally unprepared for it. Only sixteen years old. There are a lot of bad people out there in the world – and Annemarie is going to be stalked on all sides by predators out for her youth, her beauty, and most of all – her money. Is your character one of those predators? Does he seek to save her from them? Do they meet by chance?
Either way, I want danger and romance for Annemarie.
Hello there!
I am a long term, multi-para RPer who adores plotting and planning RPs. I am friendly, and even if I think we won't work well together I still will try to let you down gently. I love a lot of different kinks and settings, and enjoy everything from sappy romance with protective alphas to hardcore brutal rape. I would prefer all my RPs be done in threads or discord. While I can't promise daily responses (damn real life!), I can promise a minimum of two responses per week, usually three to four. Generally you can expect at least 3-4 full paragraphs in a response (I do not necessarily require the same), though it can be shorter or longer depending on what is needed/what I am given to work with.
What I DO NOT like:
-Being your characters mommy.
-Being with a female/futa full time. I don't mind playing in a threesome as long as the main character opposite mine is male.
-Furries
-Younger/smaller partners. I prefer my character be the younger/smaller one.
-1st/2nd person RP. Third person only, please.
-Consistent lack of proper capitalization, punctuation. Mistakes happen, I understand that. Hell I am not a perfect typer myself. Nor am I a grammar nazi. I do, however, prefer RPing with people who take some pride in their posts. There is a difference between "She cracked the door, slid inside the room and pressed against the wall" vs "she cracked the door and slid in the room and pressed against the wall". Please punctuate and captitalize properly.
Things I especially like:
-Dystopian, non zombie settings. Zombies are just too overdone.
-Brutal men who aren't brutal to be brutal. It's just the way they are.
-Historical settings. LOVE LOVE LOVE
-Love (or obsession) at first sight.
-Plot. This is, perhaps, at first face a stupid thing to say. Of course we are going to have a plot, right? In my experience, many erotic RPers tend to gloss over plot in favor of sex scenes. They prefer 20% story, 80% sex. I am just the opposite. I prefer story over sex, though I do like there to BE sex. Just not at the expense of plot.
-Protection. A very odd kink of mine that can even be done with more dark-oriented RPs. I love to feel protected, even cherished.
-Plot bombs. Expect these. These are little surprises I throw out there just to keep things interesting. I love receiving them as much as I like getting them. Usually they are not plot transformers - thats another thing entirely. These are just little things to shake things up. Did you let my character scream too loud in that suburban house while you were raping her? Oh...is that the cops knocking on your door? Welp, better think of a way out of this one!
Insta-Death to any potential RP:
-Meta gaming
-God modding
-Being a jerk
Meet my characters:
While I have unique characters for each RP, my characters tend to follow a certain typeset.
-Young - though physically mature. Usually late highschool, early college years. I have occasionally done mid 20s, but not often.
-Intelligent - I have on occasion done more dimwitted characters, but for the most part my characters are sharp, witty, intelligent girls.
-Goal oriented - my characters do not live to be married and have babies. They may want a man, they may be married, they may have or want babies, but they want other things in life too.
-Submissively oriented. They may not be aware of it - as a matter of fact they rarely are. They are not doormats. They won't bend over and pull up their skirt on command. But they do have submissive instincts. That doesn't mean they can't be a ballbuster on occasion though!
-Cooks. I know this is odd. But I love cooking, and my characters do as well. Expect a bit of food porn with your real porn. It's gonna happen.
Plot Ideas & Characters:
Sometimes you hear the horror stories on the news about cults being raided by the FBI or some other alphabet agency. The talking heads on tv seem to love nothing more then rehashing the lurid tales of sex and violence and weirdness. Then in a day or so, the story vanishes from the news and the world moves on.
But Mila Navvaro couldn’t move on. She had been fourteen years old when the cult compound her parents were a part of was raided. There had been no lurid tales of sex with her cult, sex was a forbidden act unless within the office of a marriage officiated by the cult leader. Even though Mila’s parents had been married by the state when they came into the cult with their four year old daughter, the cult leader had refused to allow that marriage to be recognized. Instead he had taken Mila’s mother as his wife, handing little Mila over to another cult member to be raised.
It had been a life of cruel depravation and abuse, with hours of religious indoctrination every day. The children were fed one meal a day, usually just bread, a hardboiled egg, and a thin lentil vegetable soup. The adults fared little better. When she was rescued by the FBI she was so starved and ill she spent two weeks in the hospital to recover from the years of malnutrition.
And then, with no other family in sight except the ones now in jail, Mila was placed into foster care.
The world outside of the cult she had been raised in was a bewildering one. Since the age of four, she had been isolated on a desert compound. She had never seen a woman wear pants. Never seen a television. Never spoken with a male, because in the cult the girls were kept separate from the boys and men until they married. She had never read a book except certain permitted sections of the bible, and pamphlets written by the cult leader. She had never ridden in a car, never surfed the internet, never seen the ocean or even a large lake, never flown in a plane, never eaten meat, never even been to a restaurant.
This new world was terrifying.
But Mila had a good foster family, and she slowly adjusted. She learned that she loved reading, loved cooking even more. Though still shy and withdrawn around men, she no longer feared them and learned how to have a conversation. Her foster parents gently but firmly pushed her into new experience after new experience. Learning to drive was both terrifying and exhilarating. It – more than anything else – gave her a taste of freedom she had never experienced before. She was extremely intelligent, and rapidly caught up with her education under the care of special tutors the state paid for.
But at the age of 18, Mila was woefully unprepared to be on her own. She had not yet graduated high school. Her foster parents were planning a move to Japan, and could not take her with them. But they worked hard, helping Mila get a job in a cleaning business and a small apartment. They helped her get on government assistance, paid her electricity deposit, helped her get her bank account started, taught her how to read the city bus schedules, and helped her get a library card. Before they left, they gifted her a cheap laptop and pre-paid her internet bill for six months.
And then she was on her own.
Being on her own was, probably, the scariest thing Mila had ever dealt with. She had never been alone, and though her tiny one bedroom apartment was cozy and neat, it’s silence was deafening. Following her former foster mother’s advice, Mila went to the local college and requested assistance getting her GED.
The registrar of the college was captivated by her story, and told a friend at the local news station. Before she knew what was happening, Mila was sitting in front of a television camera stuttering out her story with wide, frightened eyes.
If the story had stayed local, Mila probably would have been ok. But it didn’t. It went viral, with hundreds of thousands seeing the beautiful young woman telling her tale of horrific abuse and neglect. She didn’t understand what kind of impact this would have on her until the first male stranger showed up at her door two days after the interview, declaring his love for her and insisting on taking her out for dinner. She called the police on him when he would not leave.
But then CNN found out the leader of the cult that Mila had been a part of was out of prison, living in a mansion in New Mexico. They swept in to interview him and though the man carried himself off well, he was angry. And unfortunately for Mila, Ignacio Aguado was wealthy and friends with powerful people.
This is Mila. And who is your character? Is he the dastardly villain Ignacio Aguado? Is he an enemy of Aguado who now sees a way to bring the bastard down, moving to protect the vulnerable Mila? Is he someone who saw her viral interview and was instantly captivated, contacting her and offering protection?
The very picture of innocence and sweetness, Hoa Pham is anything but. The only daughter of poor Vietnamese immigrants, Hoa was spoiled as a child. Her father worked two jobs – as a high school teacher by day and a janitor by night. Her mother was a seamstress. Neither made much money, but they poured what they had on their dainty, vivacious, demanding daughter.She repaid them by running away when she was eighteen. She worked as a stripper for a little over six months, raking in the cash. Then she found her first victim. A successful attorney delightedly moved her into his home, showering her with expensive clothes and pretty things. Three months and five hundred thousand dollars later, both his savings and his favorite stripper was gone. His cousin, an engineer, had a lot of money and a hard dick. She went to him, and stayed with him only two months before moving on - wealthier than she came to him.
Halfway through her nineteenth year, Hoa was arrested when she stole $30,000 cash out of the safe of her last victim. Due to her age and pretty eyes, she was given a sentence of six months in jail, a year probation, and to pay restitution and court fees. She served four months out of the six, but those four months were put to good use. She learned how to be much better at theft while she ate the pussy of her lesbian lover who excelled at larceny and disguise. After she was released, Hoa never reported to her probation officer. She disappeared.
She would never be known as Hoa again. She obtained fake IDs and began hunting her favorite places. Hotel restaurants, country clubs, and of course the internet. Searching out thirsty male victims. She befriended them, fucked them, sometimes even got engaged to them. All while milking them dry, and finally disappearing after stealing thousands of dollars from their bank accounts. She did not just hunt in America, but travelled the world seeking out her prey.
The only place she never hunted was Portugal, the country she decided to call home. There she bought a quaint little villa in the peaceful countryside, spending several months out of the year there. At the age of twenty she was a wealthy woman and could have left her life of crime and lived comfortably for the rest of her lie on her ill-gotten goods. But she enjoyed the hunt.
That is Hoa. But who is your character? Is he one of Hoa’s intended victim’s, but more clever than she thinks? Is he a relative or friend of one of her victims who committed suicide, and is out for revenge? Is he one of her former victims? Perhaps a man of the law hunting down his fugitive? Or perhaps a fellow criminal who has seen her and becomes obsessed? Either way, I want romance for Hoa. It doesn’t have to be vanilla romance though….
Annemarie Fowler was born in 1873 in Boston, Massachusetts to a poor but earnest and kindly Methodist preacher named John Fowler and his sickly wife, Pearl. They lived a happy life in a tiny three room house two doors down from the church where her father preached. For the first five years of her life, there was a steady round of church women in and out of the home, helping take care of the baby and the house. But as Annemarie got older, more and more of the work fell to her. By the age of eight she was running the household with graceful efficiency, coached and trained by her mother – even if it was from the poor woman’s bed.
Annemarie inherited good things from her family. She inherited her beauty from her mother. Not a cold serene and dignified beauty, but a lively vivacious smiling beauty that brought a sense of brightness and freshness wherever she went. Her parents were somewhat alarmed, worrying their daughter’s beauty would bring an unwelcome sense of pride into her heart, so they were always careful to praise her good traits, not her looks.
She inherited her gentleness and generosity from her father. John was a tender-hearted man who loved everyone he met with all the best that religion had to offer. He gave lavishly of his miniscule funds to those in greater need. That meant his own family eked out a living on pennies, but the faithful insisted God would provide for their needs – and somehow they never suffered from want. Whenever John went to visit the poor or ill in his parish, Annemarie came tripping along behind him, always carrying something for the unfortunate souls. A loaf of fresh bread, a handful of flowers, a jar of golden broth. Several times John left her behind to tend to the sick there. Her hand was always cool on a fevered brow, her voice always gentle and coaxing, her eyes always kind and patient.
She inherited her work ethic from her paternal grandmother, a woman who had died three weeks before she was born. Though Annemarie never once met her grandmother, she knew all about her. Her father loved to talk about his mother. And he always said that Annemarie worked like his mother. Quick to learn skills, energetic and efficient, always busy doing something.
No one quite knew where Annemarie got her love of reading from. The poor family could not afford many books, but fellow church members lent the few books they had to the eager girl, who read them hungrily. Books were her delight – a delight that concerned her father. He did not approve of her reading novels, but he did not have the heart to forbid it.
But the golden glow of childhood died a swift death along with her mother when Annemarie was 13 years old. Her mother had been ill and in bed for over a month. They had even found enough money to summon a doctor, who had looked sadly at the pale thin woman and shook his head. A week later, Annemarie’s mother was dead.
Annemarie struggled on, mourning her mother. But her father lost all heart, walking around as if in a daze. Unable to preach, he left the church. Unable to take care of his daughter, he went to his father in law.
Pearl Fowler’s father was a rich man. He detested his poor son in law for being unable to provide for Pearl like her father felt she deserved. At first he refused to take in his grand daughter, until he saw her. Annemarie was the spitting image of her mother. So he agreed to take the child in and raise her, on the condition that John leave and never return. The broken hearted father agreed, and less than a year later was dead.
But Annemarie never heard anything about her father again. Her grandfather was a stern, implacable man who demanded complete obedience. He brought in tutors who taught the bewildered girl the proper way to conduct herself at parties, how to dance, how to dress, how to walk. Her life was regimented by an army of servants, tutors, and nannies. She was forbidden the housework she formerly enjoyed. Every day her grandfather called her into his intimidating office and interrogated her as to her day, demanding an accounting of every minute. She was terrified of the gruff older man, but faithfully gave him the obedience he insisted on. It was he that forbade her the reading of novels, forbade her the reading of anything. Women’s brains were injured by too much learning, he insisted.
Three years later, Annemarie was unrecognizable from the warm, smiling little girl of her home. She was a serene, cool girl now. By all appearances perfectly poised, perfectly dressed, perfectly behaved. Her grandfather was pleased – so pleased that when he died, he left her his fortune.
And that is Annemarie. Now alone, left to the wolves of the world – totally unprepared for it. Only sixteen years old. There are a lot of bad people out there in the world – and Annemarie is going to be stalked on all sides by predators out for her youth, her beauty, and most of all – her money. Is your character one of those predators? Does he seek to save her from them? Do they meet by chance?
Either way, I want danger and romance for Annemarie.
Lana Holland figured that what they said about gingers being born with no soul was true. God knows, she was the only one in her family without a soul. Her father – the one she inherited her hair and temperament from – was dead before she was born. In her grief, her pretty blonde mother fell under the sway of a hellfire and brimstone fundamentalist Baptist preacher. He had brown hair, and all of their subsequent children were brown haired. Obedient, respectful, GOOD children.
But not Lana. Lana had never been good. As a child she was far too curious, far too energetic. Far too rambunctious. As a teenager it was even worse. She was far too quick to pop off at the mouth, far too resentful of the rules laid down for her, and later in her teen years – far too sensual.
It wasn’t anything she could help. She had her father’s thick lips and eyelashes, her mother’s curvy figure. Her hips just naturally rolled when she walked. Her tits bounced happily no matter how tight a bra her mother forced her into.
Her mother and stepfather tried. They really did. They forbade her to be friends with any of the opposite sex – even at church. They forced her to wear baggy clothes that covered her from neck to ankles. They forbade her makeup. There was no television in the house. No music except hymns. No books except dry Christian reading.
But they couldn’t stop her nature. At the age of seventeen her mother went hunting for her when she was in the church bathroom a bit too long. She was caught on her knees in front of one of the church boys, his cock sliding in and out of those luscious thick lips.
Her mother fainted. Her father made some calls, and within 48 hours Lana was being shipped to a home for wayward Christian girls – though she had never made a profession of faith. Her parents had been assured the results of a year or two in this school were nothing short of remarkable.
So this is Lana. And while I know she will find YC at this home for unfortunate girls, I don’t know if she will be turned into a mindless, beaten cockslave, or allowed to turn into what she naturally is – a vibrant, happy little fuckpet. It’s a slow year, by the way. There are no other girls at the home at this time. She will be the only “student”
But not Lana. Lana had never been good. As a child she was far too curious, far too energetic. Far too rambunctious. As a teenager it was even worse. She was far too quick to pop off at the mouth, far too resentful of the rules laid down for her, and later in her teen years – far too sensual.
It wasn’t anything she could help. She had her father’s thick lips and eyelashes, her mother’s curvy figure. Her hips just naturally rolled when she walked. Her tits bounced happily no matter how tight a bra her mother forced her into.
Her mother and stepfather tried. They really did. They forbade her to be friends with any of the opposite sex – even at church. They forced her to wear baggy clothes that covered her from neck to ankles. They forbade her makeup. There was no television in the house. No music except hymns. No books except dry Christian reading.
But they couldn’t stop her nature. At the age of seventeen her mother went hunting for her when she was in the church bathroom a bit too long. She was caught on her knees in front of one of the church boys, his cock sliding in and out of those luscious thick lips.
Her mother fainted. Her father made some calls, and within 48 hours Lana was being shipped to a home for wayward Christian girls – though she had never made a profession of faith. Her parents had been assured the results of a year or two in this school were nothing short of remarkable.
So this is Lana. And while I know she will find YC at this home for unfortunate girls, I don’t know if she will be turned into a mindless, beaten cockslave, or allowed to turn into what she naturally is – a vibrant, happy little fuckpet. It’s a slow year, by the way. There are no other girls at the home at this time. She will be the only “student”
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