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JimmyD
erotic kinkster
- Joined
- Feb 18, 2019
Normally I enjoy playing the strong, muscular dom. But like many young men, in my youth, I dabbled with cross dressing. It was relatively short lived and highly sexual, I used to even tie myself up a little. It's not something I've indulged in since, but it's always lurked there a little in my psyche. I'm a British guy in his forties now, and I like to think I can write pretty well. I've managed to have a few short stories published, that sort of thing, and I have several novels that one day I hope to clean up enough to try and publish. I can offer samples if you wish. (see below)
I'd love to try a story where my young male character gets tricked, manipulated, coerced, seduced into gradual feminisation. This is not a sudden thing, no magic spells or potions. it's the manipulation side of things, the domination through a host of small things till my poor character is on their knees. Literally bound and helpless, dressed in pretty lingerie and slutty clothes.
Things could get more and more permanent. Hormones in their food and drink, top surgery... however far you might like this to go.
Because I am naturally a bit on the dom side, I would be OK with MC at some point, to start to turn the tables and become the domme in the relationship a true power switch as MC becomes more and more enmeshed in her feminine side. Bu this would be a long way down the road after many shocking and humiliating episodes.
Themes and Kinks:
Manipulation, gaslighting, tricks, deceit, mind games.
Gradual Feminisation
Blackmail perhaps? through images, video etc.
bondage - yum! I am a real bondage junkie so you can tie me up as much as you like, ropes,. straps, binders, latex... go to town!
increasingly degrading sex acts, from bound games to blowjobs, to anal fuckery with toys, then bound for use by men, gangbangs even..
lingerie, stockings, garters, corsets, uniforms, latex..
Physical changes through hormones, surgery... maybe quick fixes such as miracle drugs etc? Quick and easy surgery so we do not need to dwell on the icky bits?
dubcon/noncon to begin with, gradually becoming more and more consensual.
MC as the victim/submissive - this could eventually start to shift as the fem persona takes hold, but not essential.
Limits:
Toilet stuff, poo/pee
Blood and gore - not really into pain.
ageplay, let's stay 17 and up please.
What I hope for:
Contribution to Scene: I love helping to set up a scene, but I also love getting input from my partner on what they'll like/not like. Let's work together and build something good.
Activity: I don't expect my partner to be on that much, but I do want said partner to reply at least once every few days in an ideal world. I can write daily, sometimes hourly depending on work etc, but sometimes I can't write for a while. I'll try and use status to let people now.
Grammar: Mistakes are a given, but I look for a certain level of literacy and understanding of the English language if we're going to be having a lot of back and forth.
Inspiration
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1.
Guardian Mountain was even higher than it looked from the ground below, Neela decided. Her hands were raw from grasping the hard stone surfaces and her breeches were torn where, for a heart stopping few seconds, she had slid back down the slope a short way. The narrow ledge on which she now rested offered her an amazing view across the valley. The town sat cradled in a bend of the river, so small from this dizzy height. It was hard to imagine that over a thousand souls lived there. There were fourteen less, as of last night. There would be fewer still by tomorrow. The plague was spreading rapidly. The healers had tried their best, but the disease resisted all treatments. In despair the faithful had looked to the skies, hoping that Ardiel the Angel would appear. a hope which dwindled with each new death.
That was what had driven Neela to do the unthinkable. To scale the mountain to where legend said the Angel slept. Her father had tried to stop her of course.
"A fool's quest." His gruff voice had said.
Her brother, had another opinion. "The Angel is just an old wives tale. Like the stories about the Founders. This is all there is, us, this town and this land. We're on our own. You'll just be wasting your time. The healers will come up with something."
Her sister shook her head. "No, Ardiel is real, but he has forsaken us because of our unworthiness."
Neela had her doubts. But she believed the old tales. She believed in the Founding. She had even, once, climbed the rough crags of the circle wall and seen the overgrown mound that myth said was the Founders chariot. Now it looked like most other hills except, if you used your imagination you could say it was a little too round, a little too regular.
Nella opened her pack and munched on a sandwich. The sun was shining brightly, There were few cold places in the world, and the wind that whisked around the mountainside felt refreshing and welcome. A few minutes later Neela was ready to start climbing again. She settled into a steady rhythm. Her sure feet found sure holds as her hands sought the next secure place. This was Neela's gift. No one could climb like her, and no one but she had ever attempted a climb like this.
The sun was beginning it long descent as Neela approached the summit. There was an awkward overhang which she needed to deal with. There seemed no easy way of going around. Gingerly she reached up and grasped the edge. Her eyes widened in shock. Her fingertips were tinged with what appeared to be ugly blue-black bruising. In horror she stared at the first, noticeable signs of the plague. So shocked was she, that she almost lost her grip. Straining upwards she managed to get an arm over the edge, her fingers sought purchase. This was potentially the most dangerous part of the climb. Swallowing hard she pushed herself up and grabbed the edge with her other hand leaving her legs dangling in air. Grunting she levered herself up and leaned forwards. Inching her tummy over the edge, her arms straining she reached out for a jutting piece of rock and dragged herself over the precipice.
From the valley floor it had been hard to imagine what lay at the top of the Guardian. But even her imagination had not considered this; a flat expanse around single stone which looked hewn from the rock itself. Everything was overgrown in a carpet of dense grass, clingweed and wildflowers. She stepped away from the precipice and looked around.
A strange mound lay beside the cliff edge, mostly covered in clingweed. Something about it's shape made Neela wonder, and she tore are the stubborn weed, pulling off clumps. Underneath was a wonder. The clingweed covered a statue, a statue of a beautiful winged figure.
"The Angel," Neela whispered to herself.
Sample 2
David Scarrow stared out of the window. It was a very different view from what he had been used to back home. His study at their old house had looked out over a large back garden that was edged with woodland. He had liked to walk in those woods, he had played there with is kids. But that was a long way away from here, in both time and distance.
His view from the large window of his studio apartments looked out over the city. There was a little greenery here and there. But for the most part all he could see were buildings. Apartment blocks and shops, a few larger buildings, and beyond, skyscrapers towards the business district.
The apartment was his place of exile. His hermitage, his fortress of solitude.
His prison.
The divorce had been, ugly. But he was fortunate enough to be quite well off. The Marcus Masters series of thrillers had done well. Master's choice had made the New York Times bestseller for fourteen weeks straight beating out James Patterson and a Richard Castle who had both published around the same time. So even with a hefty payout to Elizabeth, he was hardly going to struggle. Well not for a while anyway, although his wealth was a long way from limitless. Sooner or later he was going to have to get something finished. His publisher, Harriers, had been [patient but that patience was wearing very thin.
Fuck them. Fuck all of them.
Fuck me, most of all.
He poured another glass of Macallan. The bottle was almost empty, but there was always another bottle. He drank it down in one air hissing between gritted teeth as the booze went down. He put the glass down and stretched. He was large man, tall, but that was only part of it. Years in the British Army had given him strength and muscle tone. Impressively built he had had the nickname 'Erik' in the Paras, named for Erik the Red, a famous Viking. He had looked the part back then. Now that build was showing signs of neglect, just the suggestion of a paunch developing and a slight softening of the muscles. He had not used his gym equipment for weeks now, and he was getting lazy about eating. All those good habits swept away when Lizzy had left him for a man who knew how to be gentle.
He couldn't blame her. He was all too aware of the darkness in him. He still got off to bondage porn, when he could summon the energy. He hated himself for it, but he didn't know how to stop. When he fantasised about sex, he was rough. He had tried to keep it suppressed. For almost twelve years he had tried to keep his darkness under control. Lizzy knew what he wanted, he had had… well one could call it an affair, but in reality, he had hired a girl, on three occasions, to live out some of his fantasies. He had hated himself and, in a drunken fit, had confessed it all to Lizzy. For another four years they had tried to make it work, she tried to give him a little of what he wanted, they tried a little bondage, some roleplay, but he knew she was only doing it to try and keep him happy, and eventually she was repulsed by it and turned away.
His girls. Sarah and Willow, eighteen and sixteen respectively, blamed him for the break up, though Lizzy had tried to say it was not all his fault. But David agreed with them. This was all his fault. The fact Lizzy had had the actual affair, had given her heart to another man, was just another thing he had forced her to do, she had no choice, she craved affection and someone who could be kind all the time, not just when it suited.
So now he was alone. Alone with his darkness, hating himself, not writing, not working out, not doing much of anything but drinking and reflecting on all the he had lost.
Guardian Mountain was even higher than it looked from the ground below, Neela decided. Her hands were raw from grasping the hard stone surfaces and her breeches were torn where, for a heart stopping few seconds, she had slid back down the slope a short way. The narrow ledge on which she now rested offered her an amazing view across the valley. The town sat cradled in a bend of the river, so small from this dizzy height. It was hard to imagine that over a thousand souls lived there. There were fourteen less, as of last night. There would be fewer still by tomorrow. The plague was spreading rapidly. The healers had tried their best, but the disease resisted all treatments. In despair the faithful had looked to the skies, hoping that Ardiel the Angel would appear. a hope which dwindled with each new death.
That was what had driven Neela to do the unthinkable. To scale the mountain to where legend said the Angel slept. Her father had tried to stop her of course.
"A fool's quest." His gruff voice had said.
Her brother, had another opinion. "The Angel is just an old wives tale. Like the stories about the Founders. This is all there is, us, this town and this land. We're on our own. You'll just be wasting your time. The healers will come up with something."
Her sister shook her head. "No, Ardiel is real, but he has forsaken us because of our unworthiness."
Neela had her doubts. But she believed the old tales. She believed in the Founding. She had even, once, climbed the rough crags of the circle wall and seen the overgrown mound that myth said was the Founders chariot. Now it looked like most other hills except, if you used your imagination you could say it was a little too round, a little too regular.
Nella opened her pack and munched on a sandwich. The sun was shining brightly, There were few cold places in the world, and the wind that whisked around the mountainside felt refreshing and welcome. A few minutes later Neela was ready to start climbing again. She settled into a steady rhythm. Her sure feet found sure holds as her hands sought the next secure place. This was Neela's gift. No one could climb like her, and no one but she had ever attempted a climb like this.
The sun was beginning it long descent as Neela approached the summit. There was an awkward overhang which she needed to deal with. There seemed no easy way of going around. Gingerly she reached up and grasped the edge. Her eyes widened in shock. Her fingertips were tinged with what appeared to be ugly blue-black bruising. In horror she stared at the first, noticeable signs of the plague. So shocked was she, that she almost lost her grip. Straining upwards she managed to get an arm over the edge, her fingers sought purchase. This was potentially the most dangerous part of the climb. Swallowing hard she pushed herself up and grabbed the edge with her other hand leaving her legs dangling in air. Grunting she levered herself up and leaned forwards. Inching her tummy over the edge, her arms straining she reached out for a jutting piece of rock and dragged herself over the precipice.
From the valley floor it had been hard to imagine what lay at the top of the Guardian. But even her imagination had not considered this; a flat expanse around single stone which looked hewn from the rock itself. Everything was overgrown in a carpet of dense grass, clingweed and wildflowers. She stepped away from the precipice and looked around.
A strange mound lay beside the cliff edge, mostly covered in clingweed. Something about it's shape made Neela wonder, and she tore are the stubborn weed, pulling off clumps. Underneath was a wonder. The clingweed covered a statue, a statue of a beautiful winged figure.
"The Angel," Neela whispered to herself.
Sample 2
David Scarrow stared out of the window. It was a very different view from what he had been used to back home. His study at their old house had looked out over a large back garden that was edged with woodland. He had liked to walk in those woods, he had played there with is kids. But that was a long way away from here, in both time and distance.
His view from the large window of his studio apartments looked out over the city. There was a little greenery here and there. But for the most part all he could see were buildings. Apartment blocks and shops, a few larger buildings, and beyond, skyscrapers towards the business district.
The apartment was his place of exile. His hermitage, his fortress of solitude.
His prison.
The divorce had been, ugly. But he was fortunate enough to be quite well off. The Marcus Masters series of thrillers had done well. Master's choice had made the New York Times bestseller for fourteen weeks straight beating out James Patterson and a Richard Castle who had both published around the same time. So even with a hefty payout to Elizabeth, he was hardly going to struggle. Well not for a while anyway, although his wealth was a long way from limitless. Sooner or later he was going to have to get something finished. His publisher, Harriers, had been [patient but that patience was wearing very thin.
Fuck them. Fuck all of them.
Fuck me, most of all.
He poured another glass of Macallan. The bottle was almost empty, but there was always another bottle. He drank it down in one air hissing between gritted teeth as the booze went down. He put the glass down and stretched. He was large man, tall, but that was only part of it. Years in the British Army had given him strength and muscle tone. Impressively built he had had the nickname 'Erik' in the Paras, named for Erik the Red, a famous Viking. He had looked the part back then. Now that build was showing signs of neglect, just the suggestion of a paunch developing and a slight softening of the muscles. He had not used his gym equipment for weeks now, and he was getting lazy about eating. All those good habits swept away when Lizzy had left him for a man who knew how to be gentle.
He couldn't blame her. He was all too aware of the darkness in him. He still got off to bondage porn, when he could summon the energy. He hated himself for it, but he didn't know how to stop. When he fantasised about sex, he was rough. He had tried to keep it suppressed. For almost twelve years he had tried to keep his darkness under control. Lizzy knew what he wanted, he had had… well one could call it an affair, but in reality, he had hired a girl, on three occasions, to live out some of his fantasies. He had hated himself and, in a drunken fit, had confessed it all to Lizzy. For another four years they had tried to make it work, she tried to give him a little of what he wanted, they tried a little bondage, some roleplay, but he knew she was only doing it to try and keep him happy, and eventually she was repulsed by it and turned away.
His girls. Sarah and Willow, eighteen and sixteen respectively, blamed him for the break up, though Lizzy had tried to say it was not all his fault. But David agreed with them. This was all his fault. The fact Lizzy had had the actual affair, had given her heart to another man, was just another thing he had forced her to do, she had no choice, she craved affection and someone who could be kind all the time, not just when it suited.
So now he was alone. Alone with his darkness, hating himself, not writing, not working out, not doing much of anything but drinking and reflecting on all the he had lost.
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