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Xmasters
Moon
- Joined
- Jul 14, 2023
- Location
- The Great Lakes region
There are many sources for the finest, hand-crafted juicy smut. Thank you for considering my offerings for your enjoyment.
- Ghost Friendly
- All Genders Welcome
- OOC Chat
- Meme Lord
I guess I should start off by saying I'm a normal guy for the most part. Now, I know what you're thinking, "that's exactly what a complete lunatic would say," and to be honest, the jury is still out on that trial. The thing that your momma never told you is this: the best sex isn't vanilla. It doesn't matter how much you mash your naughty bits against another set of naughty bits.
The largest and best sex organ is the brain, so let's try and get that baby working overtime to squirt all of its mind jizz. Mind jizz makes you happy.
Also, please do not ever use the word "nut" to describe an orgasm. It's horrific when males say it, and even worse for the feminine crowd. If you mention this little factoid in your message to me, we stand a much better chance of hitting it off. I like those who enjoy reading the details.
I've played online. A lot. Even back in the dial-up days when I wasn't supposed to be. So, I'm really burned out on the types that prefer to describe sex like a set of stereo installation instructions. I want there to be life. Quirk. An experience seen from a truly unique set of eyes. Don't get me wrong, archetypes are great templates for characters, but I'm looking for someone that enjoys putting personal touches on their avatars. Someone that knows their girl could never drop that skirt without blushing and shifting around nervously.
It's these little details that give the words the steam for me, and if that sounds familiar I hope you continue reading on.
1. Length. I usually write multiple paragraphs on each reply, most likely not exceeding a page length in total. Inspiration is a cruel mistress that strikes at times, so when she struts her late ass through a response can be longer. Sometimes a tense argument can ensue, and in that case, replies would be shorter dialogue to move the conversation along. I don't demand immaculately obsessive prose, just the same honest effort I am also putting forth.
2. Story vs Smut. I am very interested in thought processes from characters in roleplay. So, that is something I try to always include in my reseponses. I'm more interested in the actions and responses that are driving these two characters on a collision course of lust. So, we'll call it 70/30 - 75/25 on the ratio.
3. Limits. For now, I draw my lines at scat and diaper fetishes, foot play, and vomit play. This may change in the future but if/when it does, I'll update this.
4. What do you not tolerate in a partner? I'm ghost friendly. I understand life happens. Reply when you can. I am sometimes on the opposite side of that. So, I have little patience for those that feel the need to pester for a faster response. I view life from a perspective that it is rather silly most of the time and I, we, take it far too seriously. I'm a light-hearted person that enjoys playful banter both in and out of play. So please don't talk to me like this is some sort of serious profession. We're here to have fun, let's have fun.
5. Who are you in real life? I'm thirty-eight years old and married to my submissive in a BDSM lifestyle. We play with each other as well as others online for fun in our downtime. If you're interested in casually chatting outside of roleplay about life, gaming, or whatever, I'm always up for making new friends that share the same kinks as I. Hit me up here or on discord.
Scenarios:
Thank you for taking the time to read my ideas. Some of these are not very detailed. That is intentional. I adore filling in the details with my partners. These are simply launching off points, not the gospel.
There are examples of my writing in the link of my bio if you want to see what my style is generally like.
Or, if you're just looking for someone to have a fun chat with feel free to reach out anytime.
My discord is: nerdwithasafeword
Send a message if interested. All genders welcome. I'm attracted to femininity, so it doesn't bother me what's between your legs as long as you look good in a dress.[/SPOILER]
- Ghost Friendly
- All Genders Welcome
- OOC Chat
- Meme Lord
I guess I should start off by saying I'm a normal guy for the most part. Now, I know what you're thinking, "that's exactly what a complete lunatic would say," and to be honest, the jury is still out on that trial. The thing that your momma never told you is this: the best sex isn't vanilla. It doesn't matter how much you mash your naughty bits against another set of naughty bits.
The largest and best sex organ is the brain, so let's try and get that baby working overtime to squirt all of its mind jizz. Mind jizz makes you happy.
Also, please do not ever use the word "nut" to describe an orgasm. It's horrific when males say it, and even worse for the feminine crowd. If you mention this little factoid in your message to me, we stand a much better chance of hitting it off. I like those who enjoy reading the details.
I've played online. A lot. Even back in the dial-up days when I wasn't supposed to be. So, I'm really burned out on the types that prefer to describe sex like a set of stereo installation instructions. I want there to be life. Quirk. An experience seen from a truly unique set of eyes. Don't get me wrong, archetypes are great templates for characters, but I'm looking for someone that enjoys putting personal touches on their avatars. Someone that knows their girl could never drop that skirt without blushing and shifting around nervously.
It's these little details that give the words the steam for me, and if that sounds familiar I hope you continue reading on.
1. Length. I usually write multiple paragraphs on each reply, most likely not exceeding a page length in total. Inspiration is a cruel mistress that strikes at times, so when she struts her late ass through a response can be longer. Sometimes a tense argument can ensue, and in that case, replies would be shorter dialogue to move the conversation along. I don't demand immaculately obsessive prose, just the same honest effort I am also putting forth.
2. Story vs Smut. I am very interested in thought processes from characters in roleplay. So, that is something I try to always include in my reseponses. I'm more interested in the actions and responses that are driving these two characters on a collision course of lust. So, we'll call it 70/30 - 75/25 on the ratio.
3. Limits. For now, I draw my lines at scat and diaper fetishes, foot play, and vomit play. This may change in the future but if/when it does, I'll update this.
4. What do you not tolerate in a partner? I'm ghost friendly. I understand life happens. Reply when you can. I am sometimes on the opposite side of that. So, I have little patience for those that feel the need to pester for a faster response. I view life from a perspective that it is rather silly most of the time and I, we, take it far too seriously. I'm a light-hearted person that enjoys playful banter both in and out of play. So please don't talk to me like this is some sort of serious profession. We're here to have fun, let's have fun.
5. Who are you in real life? I'm thirty-eight years old and married to my submissive in a BDSM lifestyle. We play with each other as well as others online for fun in our downtime. If you're interested in casually chatting outside of roleplay about life, gaming, or whatever, I'm always up for making new friends that share the same kinks as I. Hit me up here or on discord.
Scenarios:
Thank you for taking the time to read my ideas. Some of these are not very detailed. That is intentional. I adore filling in the details with my partners. These are simply launching off points, not the gospel.
Story beginning for a relative of YC who has sacrificed themselves to keep you safe from a lord who is abducting all with a trait YC has.
The moon hung low in the ink-black sky, casting elongated shadows through the gnarled branches of the ancient oak trees. The air was thick with dampness, and the scent of decay clung to every leaf and blade of grass. This was no ordinary forest; it was the Whispering Woods—a place where time stood still, and the veil between worlds grew thin.
Weaved inside of its haunting whistle was the knowledge of thousands of secrets. If they knew how to listen, one could learn anything they wanted in the high pitches, the leaves rattling, and the chatter of rodents.
It only costs everything you are.
Evelyn Hawthorne, a young botanist with a penchant for unraveling mysteries, had heard tales of the woods since childhood. Her grandmother, Agnes, would sit by the fireplace, her rheumy eyes wide, and recount stories of lost souls, spectral figures, and the haunting melody that echoed through the twisted trunks.
"Never venture too deep," Agnes would warn, her voice trembling. "For the Whispering Woods remembers. It remembers every sin committed, every secret whispered. And it hungers for more."
But Evelyn was drawn to the forbidden. Drawn to right. If this was the only way to stop the pain, she would endure. Armed with her leather-bound journal and a lantern, she stepped off the well-trodden path and into the heart of the forest.
If she hadn't known better, this would have been any of the other patches of wood behind the home her and her sister grew up in. The same thrush birds. The same bright green moss. Just as her comfort was rising, a line of already broken branches gave way to something entirely different to any piece of nature.
The once-solid ground now squelched beneath her boots, and these trees didn't stand straight. They leaned in, their bark etched with cryptic symbols. She turned her head away from them. How could they be seen so easily in the pale night?
As she walked, the air grew colder, and the moonlight danced on the dew-kissed spiderwebs. Shapes moved at the edge of her vision—phantoms, perhaps, or figments of her imagination. She pressed forward, guided by an inexplicable force. The path twisted, forked, and reformed, leading her deeper into the heart of darkness.
The wind carried a mournful tune—a chorus of voices long silenced. It was simple air until it wasn't. The whisper. It slithered through the leaves, insinuating itself into her mind. Words she couldn't comprehend, yet they clawed at her sanity. Was it a plea? A curse? Or something far more sinister?
"Evelyn…"
She stumbled, her lantern flickering. The trees leaned closer, their branches intertwining like skeletal fingers. The ground pulsed beneath her feet, as if the forest itself had a heartbeat. She clutched her journal, desperate to record her findings, but the ink bled into gibberish.
"Remember." The whisper grew louder, more urgent. "Remember what you've forgotten."
And then, from the shadows, emerged a figure—a woman draped in moss and decaying leaves. Her eyes were hollow, her lips stitched shut. She reached out, and Evelyn's breath caught. Was this the ghost of a lost soul, or something older, hungrier?
"One does not wander this soil with words unspoken," the woman spoke into her mind, a single twitching finger pointing at her journal. How did she speak without moving her sewn lips? "The only complete truth is said to the woods, for they do not have eyes." She shook her head, old vines and leaves crunching against each other. "But they hear all."
Evelyn's heart raced as she faced the spectral woman—the one who emerged from the shadows, her eyes like twin voids, her lips stitched shut. The pressure on her chest was as if the forest itself held its breath, waiting for Evelyn's answer.
All she could manage was to drop the book. Sounds ceased. Everything was quiet until a small movement under her foot. Thick ropes of vines smothers her journal, dirt flew upward and she shielded her eyes from the soul and clay.
"What will you sacrifice to know the truth?" the woman said, her voice echoing through the twisted trees, returning the noises of life.
Evelyn's mind raced. She had come seeking answers, driven by rage and a hunger for justice. But now, faced with this otherworldly figure, she realized the Whispering Woods demanded more than mere curiosity. It hungered for a pact—a bargain sealed in lunar and blood.
"Before I give you my offer, can the truth be given to someone else in my stead?" she asked.
The old woman nodded her head.
"Then, you can have it all. Every part of me. Just tell me who is kidnapping the women in the village of Falders Lake before my sister is hurt."
The old woman shook her head.
"She can have this. Every detail. But your offering is unworthy. We don't demand all of you. We demand all you've ever been, all you could ever become. Remember what you've forgotten. Know what you will know."
Evelyn's memories flickered—a childhood rhyme, her grandmother's warnings, fragments of dreams that slipped through her fingers like mist. What had she forgotten? What secrets lay buried within her?
The whisper echoed once more, insistent and haunting. "Remember what you've forgotten. Know what you will know."
Evelyn's lantern flickered, casting elongated shadows on the forest floor. The woman's eyes bore into hers, and Evelyn felt the weight of centuries. She had glimpsed the veil between worlds, and now it beckoned her.
"The woods remember." The spectral woman stepped closer, her moss-clad fingers brushing Evelyn's cheek. "They remember every heartbeat, every tear shed. They crave stories—the forgotten, the forbidden, the forsaken, the yet-to-happen."
Evelyn's mind raced. She could turn back, flee the woods. Figure out a way to move somewhere safe. Or, she finally conceded, she could do whatever it took to keep her safe.
"I offer my memories." The words slipped from her lips, surprising even herself. "My forgotten past—the pictures in my head of times that elude me. I offer what the world can become in my soul."
The spectral woman's eyes glimmered. She extended her hand, and Evelyn hesitated only briefly before placing her palm against the woman's cold skin. The world blurred—a kaleidoscope of memories, half-forgotten faces, and lost moments.
And then it happened—the stitching on the woman's lips unraveled. She opened her mouth, and a torrent of whispers spilled forth. Evelyn listened, her mind reeling, as the forest absorbed her memories—the laughter of childhood, the scent of rain-soaked earth, the taste of forbidden fruit.
She now craved sunlight and rain.
The moon hung low in the ink-black sky, casting elongated shadows through the gnarled branches of the ancient oak trees. The air was thick with dampness, and the scent of decay clung to every leaf and blade of grass. This was no ordinary forest; it was the Whispering Woods—a place where time stood still, and the veil between worlds grew thin.
Weaved inside of its haunting whistle was the knowledge of thousands of secrets. If they knew how to listen, one could learn anything they wanted in the high pitches, the leaves rattling, and the chatter of rodents.
It only costs everything you are.
Evelyn Hawthorne, a young botanist with a penchant for unraveling mysteries, had heard tales of the woods since childhood. Her grandmother, Agnes, would sit by the fireplace, her rheumy eyes wide, and recount stories of lost souls, spectral figures, and the haunting melody that echoed through the twisted trunks.
"Never venture too deep," Agnes would warn, her voice trembling. "For the Whispering Woods remembers. It remembers every sin committed, every secret whispered. And it hungers for more."
But Evelyn was drawn to the forbidden. Drawn to right. If this was the only way to stop the pain, she would endure. Armed with her leather-bound journal and a lantern, she stepped off the well-trodden path and into the heart of the forest.
If she hadn't known better, this would have been any of the other patches of wood behind the home her and her sister grew up in. The same thrush birds. The same bright green moss. Just as her comfort was rising, a line of already broken branches gave way to something entirely different to any piece of nature.
The once-solid ground now squelched beneath her boots, and these trees didn't stand straight. They leaned in, their bark etched with cryptic symbols. She turned her head away from them. How could they be seen so easily in the pale night?
As she walked, the air grew colder, and the moonlight danced on the dew-kissed spiderwebs. Shapes moved at the edge of her vision—phantoms, perhaps, or figments of her imagination. She pressed forward, guided by an inexplicable force. The path twisted, forked, and reformed, leading her deeper into the heart of darkness.
The wind carried a mournful tune—a chorus of voices long silenced. It was simple air until it wasn't. The whisper. It slithered through the leaves, insinuating itself into her mind. Words she couldn't comprehend, yet they clawed at her sanity. Was it a plea? A curse? Or something far more sinister?
"Evelyn…"
She stumbled, her lantern flickering. The trees leaned closer, their branches intertwining like skeletal fingers. The ground pulsed beneath her feet, as if the forest itself had a heartbeat. She clutched her journal, desperate to record her findings, but the ink bled into gibberish.
"Remember." The whisper grew louder, more urgent. "Remember what you've forgotten."
And then, from the shadows, emerged a figure—a woman draped in moss and decaying leaves. Her eyes were hollow, her lips stitched shut. She reached out, and Evelyn's breath caught. Was this the ghost of a lost soul, or something older, hungrier?
"One does not wander this soil with words unspoken," the woman spoke into her mind, a single twitching finger pointing at her journal. How did she speak without moving her sewn lips? "The only complete truth is said to the woods, for they do not have eyes." She shook her head, old vines and leaves crunching against each other. "But they hear all."
Evelyn's heart raced as she faced the spectral woman—the one who emerged from the shadows, her eyes like twin voids, her lips stitched shut. The pressure on her chest was as if the forest itself held its breath, waiting for Evelyn's answer.
All she could manage was to drop the book. Sounds ceased. Everything was quiet until a small movement under her foot. Thick ropes of vines smothers her journal, dirt flew upward and she shielded her eyes from the soul and clay.
"What will you sacrifice to know the truth?" the woman said, her voice echoing through the twisted trees, returning the noises of life.
Evelyn's mind raced. She had come seeking answers, driven by rage and a hunger for justice. But now, faced with this otherworldly figure, she realized the Whispering Woods demanded more than mere curiosity. It hungered for a pact—a bargain sealed in lunar and blood.
"Before I give you my offer, can the truth be given to someone else in my stead?" she asked.
The old woman nodded her head.
"Then, you can have it all. Every part of me. Just tell me who is kidnapping the women in the village of Falders Lake before my sister is hurt."
The old woman shook her head.
"She can have this. Every detail. But your offering is unworthy. We don't demand all of you. We demand all you've ever been, all you could ever become. Remember what you've forgotten. Know what you will know."
Evelyn's memories flickered—a childhood rhyme, her grandmother's warnings, fragments of dreams that slipped through her fingers like mist. What had she forgotten? What secrets lay buried within her?
The whisper echoed once more, insistent and haunting. "Remember what you've forgotten. Know what you will know."
Evelyn's lantern flickered, casting elongated shadows on the forest floor. The woman's eyes bore into hers, and Evelyn felt the weight of centuries. She had glimpsed the veil between worlds, and now it beckoned her.
"The woods remember." The spectral woman stepped closer, her moss-clad fingers brushing Evelyn's cheek. "They remember every heartbeat, every tear shed. They crave stories—the forgotten, the forbidden, the forsaken, the yet-to-happen."
Evelyn's mind raced. She could turn back, flee the woods. Figure out a way to move somewhere safe. Or, she finally conceded, she could do whatever it took to keep her safe.
"I offer my memories." The words slipped from her lips, surprising even herself. "My forgotten past—the pictures in my head of times that elude me. I offer what the world can become in my soul."
The spectral woman's eyes glimmered. She extended her hand, and Evelyn hesitated only briefly before placing her palm against the woman's cold skin. The world blurred—a kaleidoscope of memories, half-forgotten faces, and lost moments.
And then it happened—the stitching on the woman's lips unraveled. She opened her mouth, and a torrent of whispers spilled forth. Evelyn listened, her mind reeling, as the forest absorbed her memories—the laughter of childhood, the scent of rain-soaked earth, the taste of forbidden fruit.
She now craved sunlight and rain.
The return of the aristocracy is in its height thirty years in the future. Only a few hundred corporations owned by the wealthy are what's keeping the world economy alive, and thanks to their influence, they have manipulated the laws to allow for free transfer of resources. Total class warfare. Us versus them.
In 2041, if someone dies with no heir, their assets become government property to spread among the masses. A resistance group is gaining hold by executing a simple plan: kill the rich, and wait. Entire families have become targets, but not the names and faces of the patriarchs.
To kill an entire bloodline, simpler targets are more appropriate.
The women, that is.
Family names are everything. Want to eliminate a legacy? Take out the ones who keep the bloodline alive, and in a world where only 1 in 8 children are females, it's proven to be an effective strategy.
This has forced families to keep extreme precautions to ensure the continuation of the elites. Pictures of wives or daughters are scrubbed out of the media, but extremists didn't care about killing innocent women. If they were in the social circle it was a risk worth taking.
This causes a problem, however. The men who must engage socially more than ever are left out of the nurturing and conversation of their wives.
Enter, The Consorts.
Sex slaves who serve in the absence of wives. These associates can't simply be whores. They must have whit, charm and the ability to manage the most desired and busy men in the world.
A job which seems to always end in tragedy. This is why they aren't hired, rather "extracted" by scouts always on constant scouts for potential beauty and intelligence.
Structure:
I'm hoping for a long-term play following the abduction, sale and life of a black-market sex slave (you) to its owner. (Me)
The details such as our exact jobs and personalities are aspects, I'd love to get input from. Also, I am looking for partners who want their characters to evolve and devolve in this world. The focus of this roleplay is just as much about random orgies as it is a Tuesday in March. We often see the highlights, but slaves are slaves during those fits of boredom as well. What happens on those days? How would a man of unlimited power treat toy who is disposable when he's bored? How does the relationship develop? What happens if the toy becomes to important?
I'd like to experience traveling scenarios, gala parties. The full social life of the mogul.
In 2041, if someone dies with no heir, their assets become government property to spread among the masses. A resistance group is gaining hold by executing a simple plan: kill the rich, and wait. Entire families have become targets, but not the names and faces of the patriarchs.
To kill an entire bloodline, simpler targets are more appropriate.
The women, that is.
Family names are everything. Want to eliminate a legacy? Take out the ones who keep the bloodline alive, and in a world where only 1 in 8 children are females, it's proven to be an effective strategy.
This has forced families to keep extreme precautions to ensure the continuation of the elites. Pictures of wives or daughters are scrubbed out of the media, but extremists didn't care about killing innocent women. If they were in the social circle it was a risk worth taking.
This causes a problem, however. The men who must engage socially more than ever are left out of the nurturing and conversation of their wives.
Enter, The Consorts.
Sex slaves who serve in the absence of wives. These associates can't simply be whores. They must have whit, charm and the ability to manage the most desired and busy men in the world.
A job which seems to always end in tragedy. This is why they aren't hired, rather "extracted" by scouts always on constant scouts for potential beauty and intelligence.
Structure:
I'm hoping for a long-term play following the abduction, sale and life of a black-market sex slave (you) to its owner. (Me)
The details such as our exact jobs and personalities are aspects, I'd love to get input from. Also, I am looking for partners who want their characters to evolve and devolve in this world. The focus of this roleplay is just as much about random orgies as it is a Tuesday in March. We often see the highlights, but slaves are slaves during those fits of boredom as well. What happens on those days? How would a man of unlimited power treat toy who is disposable when he's bored? How does the relationship develop? What happens if the toy becomes to important?
I'd like to experience traveling scenarios, gala parties. The full social life of the mogul.
You're out of time to become a professional influencer, and now your family has forced you to start college mid-semester through a loophole that you must be housed in a sorority. But when all of them are full, a fraternity figures out a way to get you admitted to them. It doesn't take long for them to blackmail you and become the houses fuckdoll. I'll play as the four guys in the house, each with a different perspective and set of kinks. For example, one of them is a med student and convinces you to accept body mods, etc. All of the finer details are far from set in stone so feel free to suggest your own touches.
I'm a sorcerer in modern times who places a spell on my bully (you) that makes you obsessed with me. Slowly you become lewder and more desperate in your attempts to get with me, and I take this time to erode your reputation and either feminize you or turn you into a bimbo type. This can work for females and non-binaries.
There are examples of my writing in the link of my bio if you want to see what my style is generally like.
Or, if you're just looking for someone to have a fun chat with feel free to reach out anytime.
My discord is: nerdwithasafeword
Send a message if interested. All genders welcome. I'm attracted to femininity, so it doesn't bother me what's between your legs as long as you look good in a dress.[/SPOILER]
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