I'm fine with interracial and fantasy racism, but not real-life. Race play just far too often ventures off into racism.
⋟ BLASÉ AND MEANINGLESS NON-CON
It's rape, and it has serious consequences for the victim - if not also the rapist. If you can't handle portraying it realistically, don't ask for non-con.
I will always welcome trans and intersex characters, but I don't write opposite of "futanari" characters. It feels a little too fetish-y for my tastes.
Nothing against this particular kink; I'm just not interested in playing bimbos or playing against them.
Even though the site rules lets you go as young as 16, I require all characters be 18 or older. Underage side characters are fine, as long as they aren't presented in any sexually-charged situations, even just as observers.
Again, nothing against this particular kink; it's just not my thing. Just imagine my characters' pubic hair being in whatever style you want and leave it at that, please.
Breeding, impregnation, and pregnancy are all fine - but I will not write out birthing scenes.
Both of these are gross to me. Under absolutely no circumstances.
⋟ CORRUPTION
My favorite corruption tropes:
Good Girl Gone Bad - Take a good girl and ruin her until she becomes just like the monster who made her.
Bad Girl Gone Worse - Take a god-awful woman and bring out the absolute worst in her.
Bad Man Gone Worse - Take a god-awful man and bring out the absolute worst in him.
While I'm fine with oral and anal, nothing is better than the vagina.
⋟ PLAYING (REALISTIC) SEX ADDICTS
Characters who struggle with their sexual impulses are my absolute favorite to play. Please note that when I say these characters are realistic, I mean that their hypersexuality is an actual dysfunction that causes them major issues. They typically experience great bouts of shame and guilt after sexual encounters, and relapse tends to result in extreme sexual behavior.
Nothing turns me on more than an experienced woman finding out that she bit off more than she can chew. If the neighbors can't hear her begging for mercy, then fuck her harder.
Older Man / Younger Woman - Men 40+ paired with women 18-35
Older Woman / Younger Woman - Women 30+ paired with women 18-25
Only if it's actually good. Screaming / moaning the same five phrases just doesn't do it for me.
⋟ TRAUMA
Not just causing trauma, but also exploiting it and getting off to mentions of it. (No childhood trauma for the sake of this kink.)
⋟ DD/lg
When men who aren't a woman's father take on a paternal role - even in the bedroom. (No age play involved.)
⋟ (some) INCEST
I enjoy sibling and Father / Daughter incest, but Mother / Son or Mother / Daughter aren't my cups of tea.
⋟ FINGERING
Perhaps my favorite form of foreplay.
I hate it when it's meaningless, though. If it's not being used for something - like to show how vile the rapist is, or to punish the victim - then I'm not interested. Male and female victims, male and female perpetrators.
This could be categorized under watersports - but it feels vastly different and serves a different purpose, so I'm categorizing it differently.
RECEIVING: No drinking, but I enjoy my characters receiving it on / inside, especially as a tool of degradation.
GIVING: No limits (that I know of) so let me know yours.
Margaret Sutton had been a naughty, naughty girl - or so the law liked to say. It tickled Ruby pink how terrified this god-forsaken country was of a disobedient woman who refused to be owned. And it hadn't been that difficult either, finding out about little Miss Sutton's particular brand of disobedience. It had been a matter of seeing her wanted poster and doing a little digging around - if it could even be called digging. Most of Miss Sutton's life had been laid out on the surface. She'd been a simple farming girl from a simple farming family, and she'd killed her husband. Basic, boring, and run-of-the-mill stuff.
That should have been enough for Ruby to go off of, but it never was. There was something thrilling to her about unlocking the little secrets. It made her feel powerful. She always wanted to dig deeper, always wanted to understand the why. Of course, she already knew why; undoubtedly, the man had been intolerably abusive, as was usually the case when a woman murdered her own husband. But what, precisely, had been the finer details? What were the motivating and mitigating factors?
What could she find to exploit?
As Ruby had soon come to discover over the course of her investigation into Margaret Sutton, there was plenty - and all found within a singular role: a sister, dead by suicide, and previously engaged to the same man Margaret soon after married. Intriguing. Ruby couldn't have cared less about circling the rumor mill after that; she wanted to get the rest right from the source. She wanted to see the look in Miss Sutton's eyes when Ruby mentioned that dear, darling, dead sibling.
Anything for that look.
And the best part of it? Ruby had it on pretty good authority (a little rat masquerading as a deputy) that Miss Sutton was being transported to another county on a very specific day, at a very specific time - and taking a very specific route. It was almost as if everything had lined up perfectly for Ruby. A little too perfectly, she'd noticed - but nothing ventured, nothing gained. And so when the time presented itself for her to wait atop a hill for a lawman's wagon to come rolling through the valley below, she didn't hesitate. Nor did she hesitate to pull the trigger.
The gunfire spooked his horses, but they didn't barrel off. Good. Ruby would have killed them too, if she had to - but she'd rather not waste the ammunition. She returned her sniper rifle to its spot on her Shire's saddle and said to him, "C'mon, LaFayette - let's go meet our new friend." She drove down the hill at a full and steady gallop, her horse kicking up dirt and grass as it barrelled onward. They slowed to a trot a few meters away from the wagon before stopping altogether. Ruby dismounted and approached.
"Good evenin', ma'am," she drawled, speaking loudly so as to be heard over the spooked horses' whinnying and stomping. "You must be Margaret Sutton. Don't you worry none - I ain't here to cause you no harm. The name's Ruby." Upon reaching the wagon, she palmed at an interior pocket of her leather duster and withdrew a lockpick from its depths. "I'm in the business of rescuin' damsels such as yourself from these vicious bastards of the law. Now you just hold on tight while I get that door open for you." With a click, the lock came undone. Ruby swung the door open, and Margaret was once again a free woman.
Annabelle Simmons - alias: Annie Rhoades
Hunting animals with Amos Ripley had been one thing. Hunting humans on her own was another entirely.
For one, Annabelle hadn't expected murder to feel like nothing. The adrenaline of taking a man down was a high unlike any other - but looking at him after and reflecting on what she should feel about the art of killing itself yielded absolutely nothing. She'd been told it was supposed to bring about a gut-sinking feeling that compelled strong men into grief and even stronger women into madness, but each time she did it, all Annabelle felt compelled to do was move on. It confused her.
She'd killed three men so far, and planned to kill at least one more. This premeditated victim was her current target - a man that she'd been following for months now, who went by the name of Phantom. She would have pulled her gun on him by now if it weren't for one unfortunate truth calling her to caution: Phantom was dangerous, and despite her bravery in pursuing him for so long, Annabelle was still scared of what he could do to her if she made the wrong move. But beyond that, she was scared of losing her chance for revenge if it meant she jumped the gun and alerted him to her presence before she was ready.
So for the past few weeks, Annabelle kept her distance by staying on the boundaries of where she knew Phantom's general location to be. She'd narrowed it down to two or three towns that he could have been staying at or around, and she only stayed in towns that she knew he'd already left. When she had to, Annabelle paid for hotel rooms with money collected from previous bounties she'd turned in, but she normally preferred to let men looking for company pay for them. She slept, the entire time, with one eye open - haunted by nightmares of what would await her once she finally met Phantom face-to-face. In her waking hours, Annabelle read newspapers and relied on word-of-mouth to pinpoint exactly where her target was, and eventually she found it: Hanging Valley, a town that felt too small for a man like him. He'd only been there for a day when she heard about it, and she didn't want to miss the opportunity. Now was the time; she could feel it in her heart. She stayed one more night in the hotel - alone, and with knots twisting in her stomach. At sun's first light, Annabelle mounted her golden palomino horse and rode through sunset to Hanging Valley. She arrived close to nine at night and, exhausted from the travel, checked herself into the hotel under the alias Annie Rhoades and promptly went to sleep.
The next day, around eleven in the morning, Annabelle made her way down to the town's general store and bought herself some cigarettes and a newspaper. She spent the next few hours reading the newspaper and smoking cigarettes outside the saloon, then headed inside of it when her pocket watch read three-seventeen in the afternoon. Several rounds of poker called her attention for the next two hours, after which she settled in at the bar and ordered a glass of red wine. Not long after, the door opened, and the setting sun cast a man-shaped longshadow along the saloon's well-worn wooden floors. Once he stepped fully inside and his features settled in the dim lighting, any hope of comfort in potential denial fled Annabelle altogether. This was real, and it was really happening.
Those were his eyes.
She'd only seen him a few times as a child; her parents didn't like her being around him. Though she'd been an obedient girl and never questioned their reasons at the time, Annabelle always wondered in hindsight why her parents had always forbidden it. Undoubtedly it was because he'd been a bad man then too. But that was precisely it - the man who had caused the greatest tragedy in Annabelle's life had also been her greatest mystery, despite knowing exactly who he was: he was the man who murdered her father. But by keeping her in the dark, Annabelle's parents had inadvertently prolonged her suffering. She mourned with no closure. Her mother would not answer any questions about who her father's murderer was - not his name, not what he'd killed her father for, and not even why he would sometimes show up at the farm when she was a little girl. And then her mother died of typhoid fever, leaving Annabelle orphaned at sixteen - still with no answers, still torn apart by grief, and old enough to navigate life as a streetwalker until Amos came along and saved her from it.
The sheriff's son screamed in his father's defense; it pulled Annabelle out of her thoughts and into the gut-wrenching reality of the moment: he'd taken another man's life, and a broken family would be left to pick up the pieces for it. She wanted to scream, too. Annabelle never really properly grieved her own father's death. She bitterly hoped that if she failed in her mission, the dead sheriff's boy would grow up and finish what she couldn't. That was all she could do; trying to help the child now would not only compromise her cover, but it would be incredibly stupid. Phantom was a widow-maker. Annabelle wasn't the only woman scorned who'd come seeking revenge, she knew it. And despite his claims that he didn't kill women or children, he'd yet to meet her. If he thought a woman's vengeance wasn't good enough reason to kill her before it bit him in the ass, then fine. But Annabelle wasn't so stupid, and she saw it for what it was: a weakness that would get him killed. If not by her, then by one of the many other women or children he so mercilessly left alive to rot in the despair of his ruination.
She turned her gaze back forward as the late sheriff's family fled the saloon, and kept her brown eyes practically glued to her wine glass. Her whole body buzzed as his boots thudded against the wood floor, each footstep punctuated under his weight like a heavy threat. Her heart sprung sharply into her throat. Nerves threatened to set her body on fire. Whether it was rage or fear that had her rooted to the spot, she couldn't tell - but it had blood rushing in her ears and the hair on her arms standing on end. He introduced himself to the saloon like killing the sheriff made him some kind of hotshot - but it wasn't about the killing. Not really. It was about the power that came with fear. It always was, with people like Phantom. But Annabelle could tell just from the way he talked: the man was Icarus, flying too close to the sun. And he'd said it himself - the only thing keeping people from gunning him down now was fear of his crew's retaliation. It wasn't because he was immortal, or any harder to kill from a bullet 'tween the eyes. It was just because his crew would hunt Phantom's murderers down like dogs. He was hubris personified for bragging so openly about such an obvious weakness. As Annabelle knew good and well, anyone who really wanted to kill someone would find a way to do it, consequences be damned. Despite the primal fear Phantom's proximity to her ignited within Annabelle, she wasn't afraid of being hunted, killed, raped, or even tortured. If she was, she wouldn't have followed the most dangerous man in the West to a town where no one could save her if she needed help. The pain that he and his crew could inflict was all temporary in the end, after all - and when it was over, she'd be just as dead as Phantom.
And truth be told, nothing else really mattered.
A small bit of pride welled up in her chest when the sarsaparilla bottle Phantom ordered landed its way in front of her, and he sidled on over to strike up a conversation. The pulse in her neck throbbed in time with her racing heart as fear melded with excitement. This was the most important man she would ever try to manipulate, and the game was about to begin. "Family?" she asked, her voice flat and unimpressed. She still didn't look at him. "No sir, ain't got no family. My daddy died when I was little, and my mother passed of typhoid not long after." Annabelle had learned that the best way to avoid getting caught in a lie was to stick to the truth - but make it so goddamn boring, no one would care to remember the details later. Besides, men like Phantom rarely held any real interest in a woman's life. Lying to them by omission was always painfully easy.
She finally grabbed the bottle of sarsaparilla and took a sip. Only then did she force herself to look at him, and she hated every moment of it. Though he'd aged, the cold look in his eyes that always frightened her as a child never changed. It was momentarily disarming, but Annabelle disguised it as being caught off-guard. When she spoke again, her tone shifted to easy teasing and shameless flirtation. "Pardon my being bashful, mister. I didn't get a good look at you when you came in, that's the problem. All those shadows by the door made you look like a great, hulking ape - but here, under these shadows? You look like a good enough time."
Despite physical evidence of recent hardship, Annabelle spoke as if she'd lived decently enough. She was articulate and witty, which hinted to some measure of her intellect. Her tone was confident and even-paced, as if she knew exactly what she wanted to say just as she was saying it. And when she looked at Phantom, it seemed almost as if she wanted to make it clear that he did not intimidate her - a point further evidenced by the gentle teasing aimed to test his boundaries. Accompanying her headstrong and playful demeanor was a youthful countenance. Though she looked like she could have been anywhere from her late-teens to her early-twenties, Annabelle was really only a few months shy of her twenty-seventh birthday. Her skin was not yet stained with dirt, and still contained a porcelain, timeless aspect to it after a lifetime spent indoors and away from sun damage. She looked comfortably-fed as well, and if not for the recent months of sleepless nights, she would seem well-rested. Annabelle's dark brown hair still held the same smooth quality as silk, and her wide, expressive eyes betrayed constant accusation - as if she were somehow angry but insisted on smiling through it. Any person who saw it could easily mistake it as an addition to her playfulness - a stare of haughty indignation, designed to instigate and ignite a reaction.
"I normally don't associate myself with widow-makers," she continued, "on account of my mother having been a widow herself - but I've got weak morals around men like you. You can blame that on me having a dead daddy. Thank you for the drink." She hated him more than words could say, but Annabelle swallowed it down with more sarsaparilla. "To answer your question, I'm not here long. Work opportunities don't present themselves in places like Hanging Valley very often, I noticed, so I'm just passing through." She pulled a cigarette case from her trouser pocket and withdrew from it two cigarettes. The first, she lit for herself, despite the No Smoking sign above the bar. She doubted anyone would make a fuss about it, given who her current company was.
The second, she offered to Phantom. As much as she loathed him, Annabelle had to at least seem like she didn't mind his company. At least for now. Inevitably, she would have to start pretending to genuinely like him - and that would be infinitely more difficult to manage. By comparison, offering him a cigarette didn't feel like such an issue. "You said you got yourself a crew?" She blew smoke out the corner of her mouth, pretending like she knew nothing about him. Like she hadn't been spending the past few months obsessively hunting down every rumor ever uttered about him. "'Man with a crew' usually means 'man with work to give,' right? I'm decent with these pistols, but even meaner with my rifle. And I'm not against giving you or your boys what you want, neither. Well, maybe not your boys. It depends on what they look like." She spoke like it was a casual ordeal, and not like she was bargaining the value of her soul and dignity with the devil of the Wild West. Perhaps unabashedly flirting with the man who'd just killed the sheriff and threatened to rape the dead man's wife wasn't winning Annabelle any favors among the general populace of Hanging Valley, as people were already shooting her dirty looks - but she pretended not to care. She wasn't going to earn his trust by behaving like a coward, after all.
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