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KassandraOfSparta
Moon
- Joined
- Oct 24, 2023
Hey there, thrill-seekers of BMR!
Dive into a pulse-pounding roleplay set in a crumbling border city near Ukraine—a lawless sprawl of shattered towers, ash-choked streets, and black-market dens where secrets and sin collide. This is your shot to shape a story dripping with intrigue, violence, and raw, unfiltered desire, centered around Ava, Specter Division's deadliest operative, and her depraved family, Mia and John.
Navigate a world of espionage, plutonium deals, and Russian EMP threats, where every choice sparks chaos or conquest. From seedy bunkers to blood-soaked safehouses, your creativity will drive the narrative, forging alliances, waging war, or unraveling deadly conspiracies. Ready to bring this gritty urban hell to life?
Ava’ Bio:
Intel from Adil, her scarred, horny informer, points to a bunker where Volkov’s auctioning EMP tech and plutonium cores to terror groups. Viktor Kozlov, ex-KGB and Ava’s obsessive ex, runs the deal, craving her family as his prize. Ava summons Mia (21, 34C-26-36, cunning minx, 63 fucks) and John (23, 6’0”, ripped, 89 fucks, Specter enforcer), along with an array of other agents, turning the mission into a depraved family slaughterfest.
The Twist: Volkov’s EMP is a prototype to cripple NATO, and Kozlov’s trap aims to claim Ava, Mia, and John as trophies. The bunker’s wired to explode, forcing them to fuck and fight through a web of lust and betrayal to secure the cores and plans before drones spark a war.
Starter:
The safehouse was a tomb of blood and desire, its concrete walls stained with the aftermath of Ava’ work—bodies slumped in corners, bullet casings scattered like confetti. The air hung heavy with gunpowder and cum, flickering LEDs casting shadows over the carnage. Ava leaned against a splintered table, her 36D tits half-out of her torn shirt, nipples hard, black lace panties clinging to her knees. Adil, her wiry informer, was behind her, his thick cock slamming into her ass with desperate rhythm, each thrust pulling a low moan from her throat. Her pussy dripped onto the table’s edge, a slick testament to her control—she’d milked Syria’s plutonium intel from him, his crew now dead at her feet, cores secured in a heavy bag nearby.
Adil’s hands gripped her juicy hips, his scarred face twisted in lust as he muttered about Volkov’s auction—Russian EMP tech, plutonium up for grabs, Kozlov’s name a venomous whisper. Ava’s eyes gleamed, filing every word, her body rocking with his thrusts, pleasure sharpening her focus. Her comm buzzed on the table, cutting through the wet slaps of flesh. She snatched it, pressing it to her ear, tits bouncing as Adil kept pounding. “Director Harper,” she rasped, voice rough from smoke and ecstasy. “Syria’s done—cores secured, Volkov’s auction’s tonight. Kozlov’s in play. What’s the brief?”
Harper’s voice was steel. “Infiltrate the bunker, steal the EMP schematics, no war. Kozlov’s dirty, Adil’s shakier. Bring Mia and John—move now.” The line died. Ava tossed the comm down, her ass clenching around Adil as she shoved him back, his cock slipping free with a wet pop. “Enough, you horny fuck,” she growled, yanking her panties up, jeans still missing. She buttoned her shirt halfway, tits spilling, and slung the plutonium bag over her shoulder. “Out—bunker’s rigged to blow.”
Adil stumbled, pants half-on, eyes glassy but trailing her. They climbed the stairs, emerging into the city’s red dusk, frost biting the air. Mia slinked from the shadows, skirt gone, 34C-26-36 frame gleaming, tits bouncing under a sheer top. John loomed behind, 6’0” of raw muscle, cock straining his pants, eyes dark with intent. “Kozlov’s mine,” Ava said, voice low, tossing Mia a pistol, John a blade. “We fuck, we fight, we win.”
The bunker waited, a pit of betrayal and fission-fueled chaos. Volkov’s auction pulsed ahead, Kozlov’s obsession a trap, the EMP’s timer ticking. The crew moved, a hurricane of cum and carnage, ready to burn the city down.
Ava’s Bio:
Starter:
The industrial zone reeked of oil and death, Warehouse 17’s concrete floor stained with the latest body in Ava’s web of cases. She leaned against her unmarked jeep, shielded from the press’s flashing cameras, her khaki shirt unbuttoned enough to tease the lush curve of her 38-32-40 bust. A cigarette glowed between her lips, smoke curling as she studied the scene—slashed throat, clean cut, drag marks barely visible in the grime. Another puzzle piece in her relentless hunt. Detective Rawlins was yelling at the uniforms, but Ava stood apart, untouchable, her sharp eyes slicing through the chaos.
Boots crunched gravel behind her. Not Jake this time, but Victor, her 28-year-old junior detective, mentored for two years into something dangerous. His lean frame filled his jacket, dark eyes sharp but too eager, jawline sharp enough to cut. “Boss,” he said, voice low, his gaze snagging on her cleavage before meeting her eyes. He wasn’t subtle—she’d taught him better than that.
“Late,” Ava said, exhaling smoke, her tone sharp but laced with heat, like a blade dipped in honey.
“Traffic,” Victor lied, stepping closer, his breath minty with a hint of ambition. “Press is losing it over you again.”
“Let ‘em choke,” she smirked, flicking ash to the ground, her hips shifting just enough to taunt. “Perimeter duty. Keep the vultures back. And don’t fuck the reporters.”
He grinned, teeth flashing, a spark of hunger in his eyes that made her pulse quicken. “Yes, ma’am.” His fingers brushed her arm as he pulled back, a calculated tease she’d drilled into him. “This one linked to the others?”
“Earn it, Victor,” she said, eyes glinting with challenge and a darker promise. He nodded, lingering a beat too long, then moved to the crowd, his loyalty to her as vivid as the blood pooling inside. Ava took another drag, the city’s pulse thrumming under her skin, ready to unravel its secrets—or burn it down trying.
Thank you for joining this filthy, high-octane adventure—reading this is a mission in itself, LOL! Whether you're here to broker deals, spill blood, or dive into depravity, your choices shape the story. Let's build a tale of twists, betrayal, and moments that hit like a slug to the chest. The city's waiting, and the possibilities are endless. Ready to jump in? Ava, Mia, and John are ready to tear it apart. Here's my kinks and limits for reference, winks winks.
Kinks: freeuse, ugly bastards, clothed sex, anal, doggystyle, reverse cowgirl, proneboned, outdoor/public, risky sex, beastiality, size/age differences, contrast difference, stag/vixen dynamics, polygamy, big/hyper sizes, pimped out, fisting, DAP/DP/TP, cuckold, cheating, bisexual, prostitution, exhibitionism, incest, agegaps, voyeurism, dry humping, hotdogging, lesbian, creampies, cumplay, cumflation, blowjobs/deepthroats, quickies, groups/gangbangs/orgies, toys, etc.
Limits: romance, humiliation/degradation, rape/non-con/dub-con, toilet stuffs, gore or vore.
Dive into a pulse-pounding roleplay set in a crumbling border city near Ukraine—a lawless sprawl of shattered towers, ash-choked streets, and black-market dens where secrets and sin collide. This is your shot to shape a story dripping with intrigue, violence, and raw, unfiltered desire, centered around Ava, Specter Division's deadliest operative, and her depraved family, Mia and John.
Navigate a world of espionage, plutonium deals, and Russian EMP threats, where every choice sparks chaos or conquest. From seedy bunkers to blood-soaked safehouses, your creativity will drive the narrative, forging alliances, waging war, or unraveling deadly conspiracies. Ready to bring this gritty urban hell to life?
The Eastern Edge Conspiracy
Ava’ Bio:
- Age: 42
- Body: 36D-30-38, 5’8” of raw seduction—sweat-slicked curves, heaving tits spilling from every top, nipples perpetually hard, a juicy ass that sways like a taunt, and thick thighs framing a dripping cunt that’s ruined empires.
- Background: Ava’s no ordinary operative—she’s Specter Division’s filthiest weapon, a cum-soaked predator forged in betrayal and desire. She fucked her way into the agency, riding a traitor’s cock until he spilled secrets, then crushed his throat mid-orgasm. Now, she stalks the globe, clothes half-torn, pussy throbbing, dismantling terror cells in a haze of blood and ecstasy. Her body count—172 kills, countless fucks—spans spies she’s drained, women she’s tongue-fucked into submission, and targets milked mid-assassination. Off-duty, she’s a nympho, fisting herself raw or ramming toys up her ass if no one’s there to wreck her. On-mission, she’s a fuck machine: throat gagged by breakfast, cunt stretched by noon, ass pounded by dusk—often all at once, screaming for more.
- Freeuse: Ava’s a living fucktoy—teammates ram her in briefings, enemies hate-fuck her mid-interrogation, strangers gangbang her in alleys. Her tits get mauled, ass spanked red, pussy a free-for-all—she cums hardest when used like a ragdoll, begging for rougher.
- Skills: Sniper precision, bone-crushing combat, and disguises that ooze sex—think a diplomat craving cock or a dancer grinding on a mark’s lap. Her genius lies in fucking secrets out of anyone: sucking a shaft dry while whispering in code, scissoring a clit until it spills, or riding so hard the truth erupts with her squirt.
Intel from Adil, her scarred, horny informer, points to a bunker where Volkov’s auctioning EMP tech and plutonium cores to terror groups. Viktor Kozlov, ex-KGB and Ava’s obsessive ex, runs the deal, craving her family as his prize. Ava summons Mia (21, 34C-26-36, cunning minx, 63 fucks) and John (23, 6’0”, ripped, 89 fucks, Specter enforcer), along with an array of other agents, turning the mission into a depraved family slaughterfest.
The Twist: Volkov’s EMP is a prototype to cripple NATO, and Kozlov’s trap aims to claim Ava, Mia, and John as trophies. The bunker’s wired to explode, forcing them to fuck and fight through a web of lust and betrayal to secure the cores and plans before drones spark a war.
Starter:
The safehouse was a tomb of blood and desire, its concrete walls stained with the aftermath of Ava’ work—bodies slumped in corners, bullet casings scattered like confetti. The air hung heavy with gunpowder and cum, flickering LEDs casting shadows over the carnage. Ava leaned against a splintered table, her 36D tits half-out of her torn shirt, nipples hard, black lace panties clinging to her knees. Adil, her wiry informer, was behind her, his thick cock slamming into her ass with desperate rhythm, each thrust pulling a low moan from her throat. Her pussy dripped onto the table’s edge, a slick testament to her control—she’d milked Syria’s plutonium intel from him, his crew now dead at her feet, cores secured in a heavy bag nearby.
Adil’s hands gripped her juicy hips, his scarred face twisted in lust as he muttered about Volkov’s auction—Russian EMP tech, plutonium up for grabs, Kozlov’s name a venomous whisper. Ava’s eyes gleamed, filing every word, her body rocking with his thrusts, pleasure sharpening her focus. Her comm buzzed on the table, cutting through the wet slaps of flesh. She snatched it, pressing it to her ear, tits bouncing as Adil kept pounding. “Director Harper,” she rasped, voice rough from smoke and ecstasy. “Syria’s done—cores secured, Volkov’s auction’s tonight. Kozlov’s in play. What’s the brief?”
Harper’s voice was steel. “Infiltrate the bunker, steal the EMP schematics, no war. Kozlov’s dirty, Adil’s shakier. Bring Mia and John—move now.” The line died. Ava tossed the comm down, her ass clenching around Adil as she shoved him back, his cock slipping free with a wet pop. “Enough, you horny fuck,” she growled, yanking her panties up, jeans still missing. She buttoned her shirt halfway, tits spilling, and slung the plutonium bag over her shoulder. “Out—bunker’s rigged to blow.”
Adil stumbled, pants half-on, eyes glassy but trailing her. They climbed the stairs, emerging into the city’s red dusk, frost biting the air. Mia slinked from the shadows, skirt gone, 34C-26-36 frame gleaming, tits bouncing under a sheer top. John loomed behind, 6’0” of raw muscle, cock straining his pants, eyes dark with intent. “Kozlov’s mine,” Ava said, voice low, tossing Mia a pistol, John a blade. “We fuck, we fight, we win.”
The bunker waited, a pit of betrayal and fission-fueled chaos. Volkov’s auction pulsed ahead, Kozlov’s obsession a trap, the EMP’s timer ticking. The crew moved, a hurricane of cum and carnage, ready to burn the city down.
Precinct Madness
Ava’s Bio:
- Age: 48
- Body: 38-32-40, 5’8” of voluptuous menace—full, heaving bust spilling from half-unbuttoned shirts, cinched waist, hips that sway like a threat. Legs that could crush dreams, cleavage a public hazard. She struts, knowing every eye’s glued to her curves.
- Background: Ava fought her way out of a dead-end rural town where women were told to stay small. She joined the police force at 22, becoming Senior Detective by outsmarting, outfighting, and outfucking the competition. Widowed at 32 when her cop husband died in a botched raid, she raised her son, Jake, to revere her untamed fire. Now a legend in the city’s underbelly, she solves cases, breaks hearts, and takes no shit. Chain-smoking, whiskey-guzzling, she fucks like it’s her last night alive. The press calls her a scandal; Jake calls her a goddess. Ava calls it living.
- Body Count: Bedroom—150+, a blur of men, women, informants, and rivals left dazed by her ferocity. On duty—35 confirmed kills, perps who drew first. Whispers say the real numbers higher, but evidence vanishes.
- Sexual Frequency: Near-daily, a raw, sweaty addiction. Quickies in precinct stalls, marathons in dive motels, or power plays with crooks who think they’re in charge. Her libido’s a freight train, no patience for bad lays or clingy lovers.
- Freeuse: Ava’s a freeuse queen, but she runs the show. Open to anyone bold enough—rookies, snitches, or bar strangers with a good jawline—she fucks on her terms, in jeep backseats, alleys, or mid-stakeout. Jake, her son, cheers her on, seeing her brazen sexuality as proof of her untouchable power.
- Skills:
- Investigation: Reads crime scenes like a bloodhound, spotting lies before forensics catches up.
- Interrogation: Breaks suspects with a sultry glare, sharp words, or a well-placed knee.
- Combat: Deadly with a pistol, knife, or fists—cracked skulls in bar brawls, dropped perps mid-draw.
- Seduction: Weaponizes her charm, making snitches spill secrets and drinks. Her cleavage is a tactical asset.
- Hustling: Plays the streets like a chessmaster, trading favors with gangsters while staying ahead.
- Charisma: Commands crime scenes, rooms, or beds with feral intensity. Her squad would kill for her; her lovers beg to.
- Stamina: Outlasts rookies in the field and lovers in bed. Sleep’s for suckers.
Starter:
The industrial zone reeked of oil and death, Warehouse 17’s concrete floor stained with the latest body in Ava’s web of cases. She leaned against her unmarked jeep, shielded from the press’s flashing cameras, her khaki shirt unbuttoned enough to tease the lush curve of her 38-32-40 bust. A cigarette glowed between her lips, smoke curling as she studied the scene—slashed throat, clean cut, drag marks barely visible in the grime. Another puzzle piece in her relentless hunt. Detective Rawlins was yelling at the uniforms, but Ava stood apart, untouchable, her sharp eyes slicing through the chaos.
Boots crunched gravel behind her. Not Jake this time, but Victor, her 28-year-old junior detective, mentored for two years into something dangerous. His lean frame filled his jacket, dark eyes sharp but too eager, jawline sharp enough to cut. “Boss,” he said, voice low, his gaze snagging on her cleavage before meeting her eyes. He wasn’t subtle—she’d taught him better than that.
“Late,” Ava said, exhaling smoke, her tone sharp but laced with heat, like a blade dipped in honey.
“Traffic,” Victor lied, stepping closer, his breath minty with a hint of ambition. “Press is losing it over you again.”
“Let ‘em choke,” she smirked, flicking ash to the ground, her hips shifting just enough to taunt. “Perimeter duty. Keep the vultures back. And don’t fuck the reporters.”
He grinned, teeth flashing, a spark of hunger in his eyes that made her pulse quicken. “Yes, ma’am.” His fingers brushed her arm as he pulled back, a calculated tease she’d drilled into him. “This one linked to the others?”
“Earn it, Victor,” she said, eyes glinting with challenge and a darker promise. He nodded, lingering a beat too long, then moved to the crowd, his loyalty to her as vivid as the blood pooling inside. Ava took another drag, the city’s pulse thrumming under her skin, ready to unravel its secrets—or burn it down trying.
Thank you for joining this filthy, high-octane adventure—reading this is a mission in itself, LOL! Whether you're here to broker deals, spill blood, or dive into depravity, your choices shape the story. Let's build a tale of twists, betrayal, and moments that hit like a slug to the chest. The city's waiting, and the possibilities are endless. Ready to jump in? Ava, Mia, and John are ready to tear it apart. Here's my kinks and limits for reference, winks winks.
Kinks: freeuse, ugly bastards, clothed sex, anal, doggystyle, reverse cowgirl, proneboned, outdoor/public, risky sex, beastiality, size/age differences, contrast difference, stag/vixen dynamics, polygamy, big/hyper sizes, pimped out, fisting, DAP/DP/TP, cuckold, cheating, bisexual, prostitution, exhibitionism, incest, agegaps, voyeurism, dry humping, hotdogging, lesbian, creampies, cumplay, cumflation, blowjobs/deepthroats, quickies, groups/gangbangs/orgies, toys, etc.
Limits: romance, humiliation/degradation, rape/non-con/dub-con, toilet stuffs, gore or vore.