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buckyismybicycle · 1 year

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Title: “I wanna be your slave, I wanna be your master” [AO3 Link] Originally written as part of: Bucky Barnes As… a Rockstar SERIES MASTERLIST Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Rating: Mature Summary/Notes: This is, pretty much, exactly what it looks like. Rockstar Bucky, Flirting, etc. EDIT: Now! I’m happy to announce that this is now IT’S OWN SERIES that I have the honour of writing with @rookthorne! More rockstar!Bucky for everyone!

“𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐨𝐧 𝐇𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐲𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐁𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐫𝐝” Series Masterlist | Part 2 »

The crowd is already worked up from the band on stage and Bucky is grinning maniacally behind the stage. Nat, his bassist, looks at him like he’s grown a second head.

“You good, Buck?”

“Fucking fantastic, Natalia. I’m fucking fantastic. You see ‘em? It’s packed out there.”

“Your shows have been sold out all week,” Sharon reminds him while fixing Scott’s guitar strap.

“Iunno, Shar, it’s just different. Somethin’ about this place.” His blood is pumping from the heavy bass, the Cap Quartet rocking out on stage. He’s played shows with them before - Sam, Steve, Joaquin and Riley are all cool dudes. They’d become friends pretty easily, so it was a no-brainer that they were the first band Bucky asked to co-headline his tour.

—

“Thank you, you beautiful bastards!” Riley’s voice booms, followed by a loud screeching of the crowd. “Hang onto your panties if you still got ‘em, because the final act is gonna knock you dead. Yeah, you know who I’m talking about, the band you’ve all been waiting for — let me hear you fuckers!”

Bucky closes his eyes and lets the thrum of the audience's cheer work its way all the way into his bones. Fuck, he almost has a boner.

“Where’s Clint?” He asks, eager to get on stage. Natasha jerks a finger behind her where Clint is downing a bag of Cheerios between sips of Mountain Dew. Bucky grins, because it means Clint will be amped. Bucky can’t help but strum his own guitar a few times, the calluses on his fingers a permanent fixture by now.

Natasha hauls both Scott and Clint over practically by the ear, her studded combat boots thumping with each step.

“Ready?” Bucky asks with a wicked smile.

“Ready,” the three return in their usual manner, with grins and lazy salutes. Then it’s blinding lights and deafening roars.

Bucky wastes no time in getting the crowd amped.

“C’mon, are we asleep out here?! Let’s gooooo bay-beeeeeeeee!” While Bucky is loud, the crowd is louder and they are on their feet from the first strum of his guitar, and Bucky feels high as a kite.

It’s not your first show at the Kathedral, but it’s certainly the loudest. You’d never heard of this particular band, but Misty’s best friends make up the Cap Quartet, so you had to support them, of course. And they were good, you actually liked when they popped up on your shuffle.

Originally, you thought you’d maybe dip after they were done - sitting for two opening acts and the Cap Quartet’s set already had your feet aching. But the moment the next band stepped out, and Misty starts jumping up and down beside you, you have no choice but to stay. The energy was infectious and you kind of missed just letting go. You may not be a rebellious teenager anymore, but the atmosphere of being at a rock concert makes you feel young and reckless again. Even the smell of spilled beer and sweat brings back a bit of nostalgia, back to when you were sixteen and had ‘X’s drawn on your hands just to get in the venue.

“C’mon, are we asleep out here?!” You hear the singer shout, and you can’t help but think how beautiful the whole band is.

There’s a redhead rocking heeled boots that look like they could kill a man, her bass guitar plastered with stickers. The drummer is wearing a sleeveless muscle tank that does wonders for his arms and the other guitarist has a dazzling smile when he looks out into the crowd.

But the lead singer - he’s rocking black leather pants that bunch above his combat boots like he’d haphazardly stuck his feet in, but they’re tight across his thighs. You can see every flex in his muscles as he jumps around on stage. His hair whips around his face as he throws his whole body into his performance. It’s a small miracle he even manages to hit any notes on his guitar. His black t-shirt stretches across his shoulders and chest, hugging his biceps, which makes your mouth water, but what really hits you is his voice.

The opening notes of his song are the epitome of zero to one hundred. Your throat almost hurts just from watching him, but he’s nothing but smiles, clearly lost in what he loves.

I know I'm out of sight But am I out of mind? And when I close my eyes I dream I'll see you in the afterlife

He gets a moment of reprieve when the next part comes up, before he ramps up again, the veins in his neck prominent, making you wanna lick them. A glint of metal flashes in his mouth when he sings — a tongue piercing, probably.

One at a time I know this bridge we built won't last But it'll hold for at least a while Even when the life leaves your bones Your soul will follow me wherever I go It's in the way I feel your fire even when I sleep at night I stay inside your glow

He hits the chorus again, just as hard as he did at the beginning and you swear the floor shakes as everyone jumps.

I know I'm out of sight But am I out of mind? And when I close my eyes I dream I'll see you in the afterlife

Then he faces the audience and hops on the speaker in front, leaning forward with his microphone, his other hand waving for the crowd to sing it back to him. You’re captivated by his crystal-like eyes as the lights bounce off them.

I know I'm out of sight But am I out of mind? And when I close my eyes I dream I'll see you in the afterlife

You even find yourself shouting along, the song is so catchy that you’re into it from the moment it started. As you shout the last line, he looks right at you and it’s like an electrifying bolt through your body as he holds the look for the next line before he bounds off to the sides of the stage that he’s been neglecting.

You’re in awe as his voice changes to something smooth and soft, the instruments that were near deafening slowing down with him. He sways in the middle of the stage, face turned up as though in prayer, the bassist even hitting a few notes on the keyboard to her side as she backs him up, vocally.

I dream I'll see you in the I dream I'll see you in the I dream I'll see you in the I dream I'll see you in the I lost a vital part of me (I dream I'll see you in the) Lost a vital part of me (I dream I'll see you in the) Lost a vital part of me (I dream I'll see you in the) Lost a vital part of me (I dream I'll see you in the)

And in perfect sync, the band picks up, hard again, all of them (except the drummer) jumping as well and the crowd goes wild. You narrowly miss getting kicked in the head by a crowdsurfer, who gets a fistbump from the singer over the side of the stage.

I know I'm out of sight But am I out of mind? And when I close my eyes I dream I'll see you in the afterlife Lost a vital part of me Lost a vital part of me Now there's nothing left I dream I'll see you in the afterlife

You’re in a trance when he ends the song, holding the note so long you’re sure his lungs should burst. Maybe it’s the heat, or the adrenaline, or just your heart pumping out of your chest as you bounce for the rest of the set, but you could swear that the lead singer kept catching your eye.

You feel like you’re flying, on cloud nine, so maybe it’s all in your head, but goddamn if you didn’t twitch with want every time you met his eyes. How this crowd still had energy was beyond you, you knew that you were dead on your feet, hair plastered to your neck with sweat but grinning wildly.

“Alright you hellions, this is the last one.” When the crowd starts chanting ‘encore, encore’ he just laughs into the mic, his voice a little raspy from his performance.

“If we could, we’d play all fuckin’ night, you know that! But some of us gotta get to Indiana by tomorrow night. So we gotta make this last one count. Let’s get sexy, folks.”

His husky voice makes it absolutely devastating as he starts off by smirking at you.

I wanna be your slave I wanna be your master I wanna make your heart beat Run like rollercoasters I wanna be a good boy I wanna be a gangster 'Cause you can be the beauty And I could be the monster

It’s as though each line sent a new wave of desire through you. You picture calling him a good boy, wonder if he’d flush just as beautifully as he did now under the heat of the lights.

I love you since this morning Not just for aesthetic I wanna touch your body So fucking electric

The crowd loses its collective mind as he starts to ruck up his shirt, as each line gets progressively more seductive, and his shirt rides further and further up. You can’t help but ogle his washboard abs glistening with sweat since he was right there.

I know you scared of me You said that I'm too eccentric I'm crying all my tears And that's fucking pathetic I wanna make you hungry Then I wanna feed ya I wanna paint your face Like you're my Mona Lisa

Fuck, if that wasn’t the hottest image you’d had all night. His shirt comes off over his head and he twirls it, throwing behind him.

I wanna be a champion I wanna be a loser I'll even be a clown Cause I just wanna amuse ya I wanna be your sex toy I wanna be your teacher I wanna be your sin I wanna be a preacher

You lick your lips just as he turns to you and if possible, his smile grows even bigger, feral, as he sings right at you. The lyrics made your head spin with want.

I wanna make you love me Then I wanna leave ya 'Cause baby I'm your David And you're my Goliath

He winks before strutting off, his muscles tight and taunting. The sway of his hips, intentional or not, entices you, and you’d give anything to bite down on them. The stupid pants are just taunting you at this point.

Ah-ha… Mhm, ah-ha\ Because I'm the devil Who's searching for redemption And I'm a lawyer Who's searching for redemption And I'm a killer Who's searching for redemption I'm a motherfucking monster Who's searching for redemption

He sinks to his knees on the stage as steam hisses in the back in billow pillars. The lights change, flashing reds and oranges, yellows and pinks. They dance magically across his skin.

And I'm a bad guy Who's searching for redemption And I'm a blonde girl Who's searching for redemption I'm a freak that Is searching for redemption I'm a motherfucking monster Who's searching for redemption I wanna be your slave I wanna be your master

You’re going to die - straight to heaven or hell, it doesn’t matter at this point, because he’s honest-to-god crawling across the stage on his arms and knees, his mic still in one hand.

I wanna make your heart beat Run like rollercoasters I wanna be a good boy I wanna be a gangster Cause you can be the beauty And I could be the monster I wanna make you quiet I wanna make you nervous I wanna set you free But I'm too fucking jealous I wanna pull your strings Like you're my telecaster And if you want to use me I could be your puppet 'Cause I'm the devil Who's searching for redemption I'm a motherfucking monster Who's searching for redemption

He ends at the edge of the stage, his torturous crawl making your throat go dry from more than just your screaming. Then, he flips on his back, lets his head hang over the side of the stage.

I wanna be your slave I wanna be your master

The last line is but a whisper, and then he finally lets the mic drop, his arms stretched like he’s going for a backwards dive and his chest is heaving. He’s a sweaty mess, body on display and licks his lips while staring a hole into your soul.

—

The venue slowly begins to empty, stragglers buying merch or finishing their drinks. You feel dizzy when Misty drags you outside, saying that her friends want to hang out for a bit before they leave for the next town. You stumble along because, yeah, alright, her friends are cool.

They’re by their tour bus, all of them outside with drinks in their hands and they wave you both over.

“Excellent show, boys,” you greet as everyone takes turns hugging both you and Misty.

“Yeah, you guys killed it!” Misty agrees enthusiastically.

“What’d you think of the other bands?” Sam asks. “Parasite Fears has never been on the road like this.”

“That was the first band, right? They were really good! And the set was fun,” you say honestly. Now that you’re outside and it’s getting late, the sweat on your body is cooling, causing you to shiver a bit. Riley hands you a cup and when you ask what it is, he just smiles. You drink it anyway, because why not. They spend a few minutes chatting before a warm arm wraps around your shoulders, and your breath catches at the sight of bright crystal-like eyes beside you. His other arm is thrown over Joaquin as he stands between you.

“Hi, I’m Bucky,” he smiles blindingly at you.

“Hi,” you say back, still a little stunned at how at ease he seemed to be, even as he retracts his arm. He’s changed into basketball shorts of all things, which makes you even chillier just looking at him. This close, you can see the intricate lines of his tattoos - metal plates from shoulder to fingers on his left arm, swirls of black script along his other.

“You look cold, sweetheart,” he observes. “Couldn’t you guys have taken this party into the tour bus?”

“They’re fixing the bus,” Steve says. “Told us to stay outta the way.”

“You sure you’re gonna be alright to head out?” Bucky asks, his brows furrowed in concern.

“Should be,” Steve shrugs. “Tones said we’d be fine, or else he’d find another way. We’ll know in about two hours or so.”

“Ehhh, tell Tones to relax for once. If anything, you can divvy yourselves up and the rest of us could shuttle you the rest o’ the way.”

“Thanks, Buck,” Steve claps him on the shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah, can’t have you ruining the tour, punk.”

Something about their easy camaraderie makes you smile. But you’re still cold, and Bucky still notices.

“If I had a jacket, I’d offer it to you,” he looks back at you. “Next best thing, I can offer our unbroken tour bus?” He jerks his head behind and you see the redheaded bassist leaning against the side smoking a cigarette, chatting with the drummer who appears to be double-fisting drinks.

You look at Misty who is being introduced around to the other bands by Sam and Riley and there’s no way she’s going to be anytime soon.

“Um. You don’t have to,” you say, because he’s a stranger. He cocks his head to study you. It looks like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t push.

“Offer’s open, doll,” he shrugs. Some other members come up to him, Steve, and Joaquin and congratulate them on their set so you quietly slip away.

You don’t know anyone else here, and it’s kind of awkward to be by yourself so you start wandering around. When you round a bus, you nearly smack into the drummer from Bucky’s band and you yelp as you both jump back.

“Sorry!” you both say at the same time before the sandy-haired man smiles and waves before walking past you. You notice that he’d dropped something - though it was small and black making it hard to tell what it was.

“Hey!” you shout at him, but he doesn’t turn around, instead heading back to his bus. You pick up the item, a transmitter of some sort, and try to catch up to him. You can’t seem to find him and the bassist had also left her spot so you approach the bus. The door is completely open but you knock on the frame anyway.

“Hello?” There’s no sound inside so you think about leaving it where he can find it easily.

“Takin’ me up on my offer?” You startle at the sudden voice behind you.

“Actually, your dummer dropped this,” you explain, thankful to at least hand it back to someone. “I tried to get his attention but I don’t think he could hear me, and then I kinda lost him in the crowd.”

“Don’t be offended, he probably took his hearing aids out,” Bucky tells you easily. “Thanks for bringing this back though, Sharon woulda fuckin’ killed him.”

“Hearing aids?” You can’t help but blurt out. “Wow.”

Bucky beams proudly as he tells you about his friend, Clint, how gifted of a drummer he is and how even losing most of his hearing never stopped him.

“That’s amazing,” you say, a genuine smile for his story and how much he was beaming just talking about Clint. Just then a gust of wind blows, and your jean shorts and t-shirt aren’t cutting it.

“C’mon, before you freeze,” Bucky jerks his head toward the tour bus and fuck it. You hop aboard, Bucky following you. He places the transmitter on the kitchenette table, looking hilariously giant in the cramped space.

“You come here often?”

“Did you just use the oldest pick up line of all time?” You scrunch your nose at him, liking the sound of his laugh.

“Is it working?”

“Not at all.”

“Then I’m just asking out of genuine curiosity,” he bats his eyelashes. They’re so pretty, you think to yourself.

“I used to. Less often now, but when I hear someone good is playing, I show up.”

He arches an eyebrow at you.

“Cap Quartet, I mean. Obviously. They don’t scream as much as you do,” you add, and you find yourself relaxing with Bucky as he takes all your jokes and jabs in stride as he tickles you for the slight.

“You hurt my feelings, doll,” he says, all smiles and sharp teeth.

“How ever could I make it up to you?” You find yourself flirting with him.

“Maybe you could scream for me this time,” he suggests, leaning in closer with a tilt of his head, eyes searching yours for a sign.

“Yeah?” You ask a little breathlessly, forgetting how to breathe as you two inch into each other’s spaces now.

“Yeah,” his lips just grazing against your neck. “Didn’t you enjoy that last song I sang for you?”

“For me?” You ask incredulously, making Bucky grin at you.

“Ya heard me, doll. For you,” he repeats. “It seemed like you enjoyed it..”

Whatever thought you’d had about him flirting with you was more or less solidified now, and it was making your body rebel against you. You lick your lips subconsciously before you answer. “Maybe.”

“Especially that bit… about wanting to be your master.”

You involuntarily hold your breath, legs squeezing together. It’s impossible not to imagine Bucky over you, pinning you down as he commands you to do as he wants.

“Or… maybe it was that bit about wanting to be your slave?”

The breath you let out is shaky, matching your trembling hands that are balled into fists across your lap.

Bucky’s eyes darken, and you’re not really sure who made the first move, but you’re suddenly kissing furiously, hands tangled in each other’s hair and clothes.

“Christ, I’ve wanted this since I first fuckin’ saw you,” Bucky tells you, pulling you into his lap, where you can feel his dick hardening through his shorts. It’s embarrassing how fast you get on board, your pussy quivering at the thought of being touched for the first time in too long.

“Tell me what you need, pretty little thing,” he nibbles at your bottom lip. “God, I wanna take you apart, wanna do anythin’ you want.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “That. Want that, too. Want you to fuck me.”

His lips curl into a smile against yours as he lifts you easily to tumble into a bottom bunk. “Yes, master.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes as...#my works #bucky barnes fanfic #rockstar bucky #feat hold absence and maneskin lol #music taste

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orangelemonsstuff · 2 years

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Twst Runaway Noble Au!

Chapter I

GN!Reader

Summary: Your father had announced your marriage you nor he clearly do not want, thus he made your escape successfully.

tags: Forced Marriage, Mentions of Treachery, Angst, Not Proofreaded and Running awah

your teacup clicked its saucer rather loud for someone who should be doing it carefully and slowly if not wanting to damage the cup

"huh?" a question escaped your lips as your jaw dropped open on your father's news.

"a contract marriage to the Baron of Pigeoniel, your hand is already promised, we are to depart in two days from now." your eyes widen, your lips couldn't help but tremble and anger dwelled up your brain

"he already had returned to his own kingdom before us, now he is currently waiting for yo--"

"father, you never consulted me in this..." you argued refusing to believe your father had sold you calling it as a marital contract to a person you haven't even met once.

"im sorry my child, but i h-have to, it's for our househo--"

"Father." your chair scooted backwards making a deep screeching sound on the mahogany floor, your voice was shaking in distress yet still interrupting him making him quite alarmed with your tone.

"You have sold me?" your eyebrows scrunched up and your knuckles turned white gripping into nothingness. the upsetting word had sour your mood.

"Hatchling... i had not sold you to anyone, it's a marriage contract, you are not sold like a filthy slave." your ears wanted to fool you as if there's a truth in his words

"What's the difference of it, father..?" you stare at him in dismay and outrage, doesn't know what to feel whether betrayal or fury, perhaps both

"You had sold your own child calling it a marriage to someone they don't love or haven't even met once!?" your yell rang around the fancy room making the two servants inside with you flinch in surprise

"Child, please calm down" he shifted out of his seat and stood, put his hands up as he headed closer to your position.

he puts both of his hands on your shoulders trying to calm you

your expression carried the disapproval of the decision your father had made for you, a decision for you that you don't even had to say in it

"I'm doing this for you." liar

"It's for the better." LIAR

it's all for this ramshackle of a home

all for your father of a noble falling from his position yet not willing to give up his riches and land but has all the nerve to decide who's his child is going to marry without their will.

All for the money

you slapped his hands off your shoulders and turned your head back to his masked face, looking directly at his golden eyes with discontent.

"you can stop pretending now. i am not used at you using me as an excuse for your own benefit, my generous father." you throw his hands harshly back to his own body and stormed out.

you did not notice the teardrop dwelling up on your eye as your studded shoe walked on the marble floor of the luxuriant hallway of your home.

your household might be getting a small fund to keep the manor up or even still live at the manor but it sure didn't lose its elegance and damascene.

you're not sure if you lose the mansion and the life as a noble, you are ready to live a peasant life but you're sure your father can't. he is not used at being penniless nor even live as a lower ranking noble, after all he is a tad bit greedy as a crow for shiny things and already had married you off to some noble you don't even know the name of other than his title as a Baron.

you stopped your hurried steps to your chambers and looked back at previous ones you have taken before, your eyes bore into the woodsn door of office again.

the office you used to play when you were smaller, the office where you and your father had a lots of fun hanging out for breaks and tea.

the office where he told his own child that he is going to marry them off.

the upsetting feeling is stirring inside you again making it harder to prevent a sad sniffle coming from your mouth.

your hand aggressively flinged the door of your room to open and threw yourself right after to your bed, weeping on the silken sheets with sorrow, in the next two days you are off to be with a husband your heart don't desire.

•••

Dire plopped back on his chair, shaking his head and massaging his temples, he does not know what he'd do to a kid like you but after all you had a right to be mad, after all it is you that is going to be wedded to a unknown man you don't hold an affection for.

Dire doesn't like the fact that he had to marry off his own child to save his plummetting life, but he wanted to give you a good life, yes the Baron of Pigeoniel might have a shady background but he promised he'll keep sponsoring Dire and give you a "good" life once he gets your hand in marriage.

the moment that condition was mentioned, it felt like heaven and earth turned their backs at Dire, he didn't want you to be with someone against your will but he was also determined to save your names as nobles.

the Baron who happened to be staying at one of the patrician of the kingdom. called Dire into the villa, Dire was offered the contract immediately soon as he arrives, of course money is involved the Baron had it already prepared for him and he had to sign the paper on his face immediately for the Baron doesn't have that much time nor likes waiting.

you can't blame him, he was being pressured to make a decision fast, wether its you or the house, and though without your consent he took the pen and wrote your signature.

"aren't you so generous now Viscount Dire? i appreciate your loyalty to our allegiance." he smirked as he took the signed paperwork back staring at Dire's golden shifty eyes and forced smile plastered on his face yet sensing the guilt of a decision he made.

he have heard about the rumors circling the noble infront of him, a letch who knew nothing more than to have a taste of people that catches his eye and then abandoning them after he was done with them. rumors might be true to this one but he is still a supporter of Crows, Dire had to oblige

but who was he kidding? all this time he had been a selfish person, signing a marital contract for his child who did not consent or know anything about it, he just want to... save his title... unwanting to be stripped from being a noble... just for his own sake.

he sighed in guilt seeing you wearing an unhappy and so wistful of an expression, he never meant bad, it was unintentional to hurt you. no, he does not want hurt you.

what he wanted was just for his only loved child live a good and prosperous life unlike him. he wanted a good future for you even a happy one.

still he clearly did not want you to leave him for you are his dearest child and only relative left to also lift up and held the pride for the sake name of Crows. the only one who can continue the legacy of Crows.

the only one left who is rightful for the whole heritage of his bloodline. the only one he had left to love and always would held close dearly to his heart, about to be restrained, imprisoned in a unfaithful and lonely cage called marriage.

he doesn't want that to happen.

a idea sparked on the bird's mind, a plan.

he would not let that happen.

he called one of his advisors and some of the specific attendants

not to his precious one.

•••

Two days before you and your father to be shipped at the Kingdom of the Pigeoniel and be wedded to your future husband, you ordered your informat and other servants to gather intellect about the said Baron and their kingdom, apparently he is a dirty lecher, a scumbag who collects lovers and consorts of other people whether be it a man or a woman just to pleasure him.

the kingdom of pigeoniel allows nobles to have multiple partners and concubine meaning its filled with nymphomaniac like him.

you have caught his eye on a banquet you attended two months ago, for a reason he was also invited too, and that time you just happen to steal a glimpse of his eye and sparkle like gem you are in a bunch of gray plain rocks. he knew he wanted you.

not to mention he is vile and evil, anyone who dares to refuse his wishes gets harm or live no more the moment they displease him.

you groaned in disgust, he was a loathsome atrocious thing, after what you've heard on what he'd done to get rid other people who had distasted him, it nauseated you, it was too wicked.

why would your father wanted you to marry such a sick freak? did he hated you secretly? no, that can't be right... your father gave you affection and love ever since you were small.

ah that's right the baron is also known for it's wealth and assets, his connections, sponsoring merchants, nobles, and other aristocrats

including your father

he had him tied on his palm meaning he cannot refuse the Baron unless he wants the sponsoring to stop.

and if it did he'll still won and the both of you will lose the life you are used to

what a sick man.

you gritted your teeth as you raised your hand to send off the servants in your room, they make their way out as your silhouette casted a shadow of your canopy window, the sun of mid afternoon warmed your skin and the hot breeze flushed your face, the branches of a nearby tree of swayed with the breeze.

you inhale the warm air to calm yourself, you looked around your room and how are you going to yearn for it once you're gone on another kingdom.

the things you treasure and pine for have been in luggage preparing for the departure two days from now

this room was what you would call a comfort place since you have all the privacy you wanted, although it'll be taken away from you with two more suns to go down.

you'll miss it

•••

two days had gone by and you finally got out of your room after sulking at your father. still ignoring him even after the servants persuade you to see him.

the whole ride on the carriage was awkward, he kept talking and rambling about certain stuff even asking you questions you don't answer nor look at him in the face prior to be stil angry to him, though it didn't stop him to squawk the whole time.

the moment you arrive at the port, a big full rigged ship loomed over you and multiple passengers that is happy to their leave, but of course not you.

he offered you a hand, a help for you to up the metallic stairs and you, forgiving him a little bit, accepted it making him beam as you two climb the metal stairs.

what seemed weird is some of your few servants came with you and your father, you think it's some business stuff he needed to deal with even while travelling on the ocean, your father seemed to be always looking at a pocket watch as soon as the boat started to depart.

the travel on a ship was exhausting, the floating feeling is nauseating it made you felt like you need to throw up, what's worse is you have you deal with it and get used to it for the whole day of your journey, the room assigned to you is a tad bit dirty and the only view you can see from your window is open blue sea making this whole experience all pretty boring and tiring.

of course it was a travelling ship, there isn't a banquet or a party held in it since it's not a fancy one like you and your father used to go to, so all you could do was stay in your room while your father do his work on a separate office. your room isn't that big in comparison in the one back in your home but it's close enough to make you comfortable.

however, the new life you are about to have once you arrived at your destination won't be comfortable as it is now. (you just hope that sleazebag doesn't force himself to you)

after a few hours of boredom and sitting quitely in your room, night had started to fall deep in the sky.

you can't sleep, the thought of being married to to a lowlife of a baron is making you feel overwhelmed and weary.

you sat up and scooted over to the only window near the bed, you sighed as your hand traced the wooden windowframe, you lean on the slightly squalid glass and gazed at the dark sky being lit with little stars, what a beautiful scene, you look back at the dark sea, the moon reflected on the darkest pit of salt water.

suddenly a knock was hit on the wooden carved door of your room, curious, you stood up and walked to check who it is

"its me" your father's voice, you sighed and roll your eyes as your door click open for the man to enter.

"come in--" your father seemed to be drooping, like a crow taken away from its shiny trinkets

"go and quickly change my dear, to a plain clothing, a attire a commoner would wear" his voice was raspy and breathless as if he just cried is he okay?

still, scoffing at the man, you stomped and sat back down at your bed and crossed your arm

"What do you mean? first you arrange a marriage on me, now you want me to dress like a peasant?" you turn your head away from him like a child sulking after getting yelled at

a moment of silence, he walked over to your sitting figure, making you stand up quickly to hear his scold as he pulled your hand and held you close to him, hugging you in a warm embrace, you didn't push away but that doesn't mean you are return the hug

you heard a sniffle as he caress your hair, holding you warmly as if he never want to let go.

"I've found a way for you to flee, to be free"

"...what?"

he leaned back to look at your face that wears the confusion and caressed your cheek with his gloved leather hand.

"once you get married to the Baron Pigeoniel, you would be a Pigeon and Crows will be forgotten as a name of a aristocrat." that's right, he still prioritize the family's pride even after getting hooked on a bait of some rich noble

he broke free from the hug and to your luggages

"our inherited name will go downhill if you are to lose it for a last name such as pigeoniel. i don't want that happen and--" he hooped his hand at the handle to carry the luggage and placing it on your bed, clicking both strap hinges of the antique suitcase pulling out

"i want you to still live on your life carrying our name, and... live happily dear child, i want you to live your life the way you wanted and not to be bounded to a marriage with no love and happiness like you say."

"Father--"

"Hush now my little crow... go change for your own departure, you have to be free even if you have to leave without me." he leaded you to the cheap dressing screen, you follow his order by taking the walking inside the three-fold, choosing called plain clothing if it was worn in a social gathering, you tear its accessories and design, wasting no time to make it look ragged.

you step out the dressing screen, holding your previous clothing and handing it over to your father, he let the ruffled and laced frilled fabric placed inside the suitcase in a hurry, he pulled out a blue cloak from the suitcase and robed it over you.

worry and confusion flooded your brain with all that is happening, you knew your father doing this to let you flee you will lead to a undesired consequence.

before you could ask a question he already had grabbed your hand rapidly and pulled you by walking, you two tread the wooden floorboard of the deck with hurry making it creak in a hush, his grip was tender but his steps are in speed while he continuously looked at his pocket watch.

the whole ship was dark except for some lighting the stars provided sl you can make some of its obvious details, like the ropes, the huge carriages, and the sail winding up wide to catch the wind,

the cold wind hit, unhooding you from the cover from your identity yet not stopping the rushed walking your father is guiding you

another ship stopped infront of you, more ragged and rusty as if a boat for shipping cargos and peasants who can't afford to travel in a cruise

two men appeared placing a big plank big enough to make way for you between the two boat

you halted and he responds in stopping his steps and turning his attention to you

"what about the fortune he promised you? do you not desire it anymore?" you have always knew that your father loves money and if that's the only thing making him happy you don't want to take that away

"what is money or spoils to me? if you are the one suffering for it?" your heart felt warm, you still realize the fatherly love he had for you still exists

"treasures, aristocracy, prosperity is nothing if you are not the one to be happy." he looked at your eyes with a loving look, caressing you face, still holding your hand he guided you to go down.

"but father i have learnt a news, the baron of pigeoniel is a cruel viscous man who does not forgive nor merciful, what would he do to you once he founds out you broke a promise, the contract? i don't want any danger to you for my sake"

by the pitiful look you are giving him, his heart strucked by a he held you close and whispered to your ear

"why can't you come with me? we could escape together...!"

"it is not an option for me my hatchling, if neither of us arrived at Pigeoniel, he'll have an order to find us and we'll never live in peace, and if they did find us somewhere, i do not what they'll do."

"i know what punishment is waiting for me as soon as i arrive at Pigeoniel but it'll be alright dear, do not worry about me." he kissed your forehead as he pulled down your hood to hide your face, handing you the suitcase that is now lighter without the expensive accessories you had bought with you

he nodded his head at the men behind you as they walked the plank instead to take your arm and pull you harshly to break away from your beloved father

you tried to struggle still wanting to bathe in his love for this might be the last time you'll see him smiling

"i would make sure no one will know that you got away..."

you muttered the word father as the plank let go of both sides and dropped on the vast dark sea, completely getting rid of the evidence you had run away with his help

fog emanating from the dark, blurring your vision as well as the ship you have been into

he is facing you yet the fog made his features blurry, you knew he is still looking out for you

you look at your father one last time as guilt and concern to him painted your face

a/n: this is way too long lmao sorry if mc/reader sounds a bit spoiled jere but that's how i think nobels or normal people act when they get married off without their consent (also Dire and Crowley are gunna be two different people)

(if some words don't make sense, English is not my first language pls understand)

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst fanfic #twst x reader #twst mc #twst runaway noble au #twst crowley #twst angst #gender neutral reader

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hotsexycowboysandcountryboys · 8 months

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Okay you have studs this is what happens you guys trade places for one day he goes to your job and you go to his yeah see his boss has to ask for him and you have the hospital your boss so what it is the bosses don't know what's going to happen the boss calls you into the office your brother's boss along with that the boss's son and your brother was dating just like your boss's son and you was dating yeah see as soon as you see the boss's son his boss's son more or less you're wondering about something you're saying to yourself he looks like my boyfriend and he says the same thing the same thing to himself your brother does but the thing about you and your brother's boss is that the boss says he wants you to bend over his desk and you're saying oh hell no boss I don't bend over for nobody if anybody's going to bend over that desk it's going to be you and his son walks in as this is going down yeah his son walks in and catches you too together but the sun gets involved it's not his real son that's his brother's son yeah you're really giving it to the boss yeah and that boy is enjoying it see your brother was giving us give him a dinner his boss like you did now about your brother your boss told your brother to get on his knees and to lick his shoes and your brother says oh no this is not happening and your brother has boots on but he also told your brother to bend over the desk your boss did and your brother said no I will not bend over your desk if anybody's got better with that desk it's going to be your son and you had your brother is pumping his load into your boss and I suppose that was in that boy walks in and sees it that boy definitely got involved he was at his knees servicing his uncle and he's taking your brother's cock inside him yeah what's your brother shut your load inside the boss the boy gets down behind the boss and starts looking and his cock into the boss he goes okay uncle it is time for you to take me since you like treat me like a little dog or a little slave I'm not going to be a slave no more now you're going to take it from me from now on when you're two are done with the boss you zipped up after you put your pants up and you gave each other a high five you invited your brother's boss too and he did the same you invited the boss and his son to dinner and you called your brother's work message at work and told your boss and told him to tell his stepson that he's invited for dinner you called your brother after that and said we are going to have a ball tonight you both are going to make the boss to have them underneath licking your boots as the boys watch cuz they need to see this happen and you and your brother be happy because you got the boys and the guys don't the bosses they don't have them no more cuz they are yours now they treat you better than the boss he hasn't been happily ever after but you still have the bosses as your slaves yeah they even got to service the boys cuz you got the boys looking good nice pair of tight jeans cowboy boots a hat oh hell yeah you got them looking just like you and they treat the boss just like nature to do and I'm talking about your boss and you don't trade partners either you have the highest cowboy around as a partner and your brother's partner has the highest return the hottest cowboy around which is your brother too that's to him to see so go out and enjoy yourself tonight at the bar if they pick on your dates you know what to do you got Big bubba behind the bar as bartender let him take care of the business like he always does but remember you too got to take Big bubba and his buddy in the back room you got to do them the same way you did the bosses

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ytptennis · 4 months

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thinking abt more return to oz parallels & how roy & linda could mirror the nome king & mombi/langwidere

[...]the Gnome King represents materialist greed. He is driven by a lust for power for the sake of power.[8] Once defeated, the King gains a new sinister motivation, revenge. He and his allies want to enslave people to attain wealth and power. [...] the Nome King enjoys keeping surface-dwellers as slaves—not for their labor but simply to have them. [...] The Nomes' greatest fear are eggs. Sally Roesch Wagner, in her pamphlet The Wonderful Mother of Oz suggests that Matilda Joslyn Gage had made Baum aware that the egg is an important symbol of matriarchy, and that it is this that the Nomes, among whom no females are seen in any canonical text,[4] actually fear.

getting a bit bioessentialist towards the end there but the behaviors between the two characters are very similar, even though the nome king is also similar to lorraine, but again, the parallels arent meant to be literal all the time.

Princess Langwidere (a pun on the term "languid air", as enabled by her wealthy status and lazy carefree manner) appears in Baum's third Oz book Ozma of Oz (1907) as a secondary villain. She is the vain and spoiled princess whom Dorothy and her company encounter when she visits the Land of Ev which neighbors Oz. Langwidere has a collection of 30 exchangeable heads she keeps in a cabinet constructed of solid gold and studded with gems.[...] Langwidere has a meek-natured dutiful maid named Nanda. Upon spotting Nanda going about her duties around the castle, the Hungry Tiger regards her as exceptionally tasty-looking and eagerly requests her permission to eat her; being denied this privilege, he instead asks Nanda to whip up a sumptuous beef-and-potatoes feast for him, which she shakily agrees to, as her doing so will mean that she will both escape undevoured and temporarily take the edge off the Tiger's voracious appetite.

i see this in the linda commune, where saint linda surrounds herself with the "heads" of other abused women to prop herself up as the sovereign, even though shes the one that groomed nadine/dot. each head extends from saint linda like a hydra, parroting sanctimonious bullshit that, in the end, just reveals the extent of linda's duplicity rather than providing dot with catharsis. the part at the end with the made is very reminiscent of that too (nadine/nanda?). im mostly basing all of this off of the movie rather than the source text since im aware langwidere & mombi were different ppl, but the combination of the two makes the comparisons more convenient & consistent. i think its also worth noting that yes, the lindas all wearing green echoes lorne malvo's riddle about shades of green from season 1, but it also gives off the idea that the commune was emerald city, and, because there was no catharsis found, that the idea of utopia in the real world is not realistic, microcosmic or otherwise. the only real "utopian" ideals we can uphold are that of self-respect, love, and community.

#fargo fx #roy tillman #dot lyon

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no-more-tales-tavern · 8 months

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Twisted Specials Made for sex 2B: Weiss had wanted to accompany Jaune on his next adventure in hopes of learning more about paladin magic. Little did she know she'd be getting far more than her body or mind could handle.

Made for Sex: 2B

She hadn't gone into this adventure looking to have sex with Jaune. Sure, he was handsome in his own dorkishly charming way, but she was still an heiress, and a proud one at that—she wouldn't dare cross such a line. She was just interested in the ways of paladin magic, interested in how he used it in his battles.

That was her intention...until she caught him bathing, one night on the road. After that...things changed.

"Ohhh godddsss fuck, Jaune~" Weiss moaned out wantonly, biting at her lip as she stared down at his cock plowing so hard and deep into her folds. Her body quivered around him at the lewd sight and sensations, and if she weren't so thoroughly pinned under him, her limbs would've latched tight around him and refused to let him go. "Fuckkk~ you're so deep~"

"Told you it'd feel even better like this~ and I knew your pretty little body could fold up just right to do it too~" the knight murmured in a husky reply, chuckling down at her as he held her wrists and ankles firmly down over her head, her body twisted like a pretzel under him as he plowed steadily away into her. "Fuck~ it's like you were made for this~!"

"Maybe I was~" the songstress moaned out, her head rolling back as she felt his cockhead kiss her cervix with a sudden deep thrust, biting her lip even harder as she felt herself close to release. "Nhhh~ Maybe I was made to be yours, you handsome~ hot~ big-dicked stud~!"

The sudden declaration made Jaune pause between his thrusts, before a broad smirk spread across his face. With sudden force, his hips smacked harder into hers, pummeling away down into her, as one hand now held her wrists and ankles down, and his freed hand dropped to wrap around her slender throat—the action making Weiss cry out in surprise.

"If that's what you want~ then let me give it to you~" he murmured, growling almost into her ear.

Weiss didn't have a chance to reply before she felt his hand grow tighter, and warmer—hot, hot, so hot! Her eyes rolled back, and she let out a cry, as the burning heat was enough to send her hurtling over her climax, her pussy gripping his cock tight like a vice. With a gasping moan, she shuddered—eyes blank with pure pleasure.

With a grin, Jaune slowly pulled away, reveling in the mark of conquest that now wrapped around the heiress' neck. His grin grew wider, and he leaned close. "Now~ you belong to me~"

His lips claimed hers in a sudden deep kiss—one his new sex pet slave was all too eager to return, as her now mind-broken state could do nothing else but submit happily to her master's desires. Mewling desperately into him again, as she felt his hips crash with growing intensity as he approached his release as well.

#a twisted tale (nsft snippet)#a different sort of fairy tale (rwby au)#the dishonored heiress (weiss schnee)#burdened by expectations (jaune arc)

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libidomechanica · 17 days

Text

“And my recognise to”

Tea and wends upon our eyes were for Adonais? Wet with moth were wakes by naturally— impossible and brute each other, because the Shadowing jest? Whether dreams, too precious to the paired but that’s to dearest the last, over stood wild birds flew, and heart and the

brazen tears. Blown, I scarce upon her air,—haste away; if Susan she uphold jar with they have loves, the but with scarce extender day to sink to me: I bring idle dream’d at lass, she roll a wood. Light I needs that mate; for in nor will yet Men with whoever befalls,

or limb, whether Johnny goes a quick Dreams: the heaven, and of him, calls! Why art winne of earthly give alone hanging men: They despise meet a wife—I lie, to reachably death the port and poet’s smile, nor peace. Still usher’d I have the death rose upon thy roved,

and cross my lost in and West, I should at thy Son of courted wrong: we sentence, as more. Not at ease to him from the hope, than be his doubts if all not in this glimpsed here we sent, tell me when fate spray you mountains, spits flash, and none, Now telligence, they ever-after

his know not: one glance the grots true: so after vows; she cast thou, like the golden disappears, a trenched when Science and opposit. No life; rever tail quick despair innocence between the flowery oleander’s chiefe prays, at letting trust, or some straight have

sun? On song to seized it would now depart is mother tell, the pony too merry: that is love you do now? Witch-elms thy faire apology, and lived with his head upon our died. On think ye hill awake in a wife, he tomb, to die; twere days—thyrsis thighs, and doubts

if in Susan Gale. Thy convulse or could droop’d light quite so muse along, and lazy length, tho’ as yet society of which below the griefs I lean and watch attire, ye cave, and round. It; her feeds of graceful bee; and word to see the cubless! And die, mine of

this never nimble, meek St. Repentance on thinks— home. And twilight. Slave thing to lover. I hear; ’ more globe; old set. Leaps of snowing far and she heart, must, or in the skull wish, but new. And herald aim a fervent for aye unstain, magnetic gloom the lark hung over,

and lift thee all are? Ye lived no unlike slow pomp might a hollow’d, having stress’d, he quite all too have I say? Paris while she from climb, and affection ware all moved to her Delight, she playful Hero shine with God comes back to thee doth for throw light the dead, returning

from piety count there as they run; death: yea having smiles, by so fair, poor guidance in bush again to roam the patron brief minutive. Me, weary, wayworn bosom assays, to write away, and wood, descent. That to its wreath, amid heraldries, arise! The

epopee, that steel us as still see there, ye’re ripe, the earn’d in the spirit as I cannot his all ring to deep lost in the ground: calm in a message knight, that haven’s growing written poets round of stone. Death the bright the healthy Son’s trance ages to burst of them

and the said she water play at anchor an altars whom a tract for thee so find there must friend, a lords, day, without; the half a heav’n seize and tremble creeps the mouth, forsoothe ape and for though he observile close the Poet the wildly: let men and that doth not,

where was pleasure I? When paper—even as Gods decrees, they do thee with whom they sight. With light-blue is darkness, that I am no Womb of fall; all we must has man will lisp, though the song these hand, tumbling, and hew the dale, and join’d each draw so lose world’s wife—to scorn

em all, at with me? The blow, and fears should have come into those wore he had he wakes; for ever yet, alas! From on the moor. And my recognise to gainst your sweet springs from the studding the same cliffs, and whose master—not till galloping smile, I’ve might, from orb of

fix’d with that I countenance, no, never tower is to the Shah Salámán have not but breaking the summer into the moor. His tender bands so much the appeare: but some had I every face: now degrading still not I trust is those where must be; but mine.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 5 #118 texts #ballad

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catkittens · 11 months

Text

Anais Nin: Artists and Models

Artist and Models by Anaïs Nin

One morning I was called to a studio in Greenwich Village, where a sculptor was beginning a statuette. His name was Mil- lard. He already had a rough version of the figure he wanted and had reached the stage where he needed a model.

The statuette was wearing a clinging dress, and the body showed through in every line and curve. The sculptor asked me to undress completely because he could not work otherwise. He seemed so absorbed by the statuette and looked at me so ab- sently that I was able to undress and take the pose without hesitation. Although I was quite innocent at that time, he made me feel as if my body were no different than my face, as if I were the same as the statuette.

As Millard worked, he talked about his former life in Montparnasse, and the time passed quickly. I didn't know if his stories were meant to affect my imagination, but he showed no signs of being interested in me. He enjoyed recreating the atmo- sphere of Montparnasse for his own sake. This is one of the stories he told me:

"The wife of one of the modern painters was a nymphomaniac. She was tubercular, I believe. She had a chalk-white face, burning black eyes deeply sunk in her face, with eyelids painted green. She had a voluptuous figure, which she covered very sleekly in black satin. Her waist was small in proportion to the rest of her body. Around her waist she wore a huge Greek silver belt, about six inches wide, studded with stones. This belt was fascinating. It was like the belt of a slave. One felt that deep down she was a slave—to her sexual hunger. One felt that all one had to do was to grip the belt and open it for her to

fall into one's arms. It was very much like the chastity belt they showed in the Musée Cluny, which the crusaders were said to have put on their wives, a very wide silver belt with a hanging appendage that covered the sex and locked it up for the duration of their crusades. Someone told me the delightful story of a crusader who had put a chastity belt on his wife and left the key in care of his best friend in case of his death. He had barely ridden away a few miles when he saw his friend riding furiously after him, calling out: 'You gave me the wrong key!'

"Such were the feelings that the belt of Louise inspired in everyone. Seeing her arrive at a café, her hungry eyes looking us over, searching for a response, an invitation to sit down, we knew she was out on a hunt for the day. Her husband could not help knowing about this. He was a pitiful figure, always looking for her, being told by his friends that she was at another café and then another, where he would go, which gave her time to steal off to a hotel room with someone. Then everyone would try to let her know where her husband was looking for her. Finally, in desperation, he began to beg his best friends to take her, so that at least she would not fall into strangers' hands.

"He had a fear of strangers, of South Americans in particular, and of Negroes and Cubans. He had heard remarks about their extraordinary sexual powers and felt that, if his wife fell into their hands, she would never return to him. Louise, how- ever, after having slept with all his best friends, finally did meet one of the strangers.

"He was a Cuban, a tremendous brown man, extraordinarily handsome, with long, straight hair like a Hindu's and beautifully full, noble features. He would practically live at the Dome until he found a woman he wanted. And then they would disappear for two or three days, locked up in a hotel room, and not reappear until they were both satiated. He believed in making such a thorough feast of a woman that neither one wanted to see the other again. Only when this was over would he be seen sitting in the café again, conversing brilliantly. He was, in addition, a remarkable fresco painter.

"When he and Louise met, they immediately went off to- gether. Antonio was powerfully fascinated by the whiteness of her skin, the abundance of her breasts, her slender waist, her long, straight, heavy blond hair. And she was fascinated by his head and powerful body, by his slowness and ease. Everything made him laugh. He gave one the feeling that the whole world was now shut out and only this sensual feast existed, that there would be no tomorrows, no meetings with anyone else—that there was only this room, this afternoon, this bed.

"When she stood by the big iron bed, waiting, he said,

'Keep your belt on.' And he began by slowly tearing her dress from around it. Calmly and with no effort, he tore it into shreds as if it were made of paper. Louise was trembling at the strength of his hands. She stood naked now except for the heavy silver belt. He loosened her hair over her shoulders. And only then did he bend her back on the bed and kiss her interminably, his hands over her breasts. She felt the painful weight both of the silver belt and of his hands pressing so hard on her naked flesh. Her sexual hunger was rising like madness to her head, blinding her. It was so urgent that she could not wait. She could not even wait until he undressed. But Antonio ignored her movements of impatience. He not only continued to kiss her as if he were drinking her whole mouth, tongue, breath, into his big dark mouth, but his hands mauled her, pressed deeply into her flesh, leaving marks and pain everywhere. She was moist and trem- bling, opening her legs and trying to climb over him. She tried to open his pants.

" There is time,' he said. There is plenty of time. We are going to stay in this room for days. There is a lot of time for both of us.'

"Then he turned away and got undressed. He had a golden- brown body, a penis as smooth as the rest of his body, big, firm as a polished wood baton. She fell on him and took it into her mouth. His fingers went everywhere, into her anus, into her sex; his tongue, into her mouth, into her ears. He bit at her nipples, he kissed and bit her belly. She was trying to satisfy her hunger by rubbing against his leg, but he would not let her. He bent her as if she were made of rubber, twisted her into every position. With his two strong hands he took whatever part of her he was hungry for and brought it up to his mouth like a morsel of food, not caring how the rest of her body fell into space. Just so, he took her ass between his two hands, held it to his mouth, and bit and kissed her. She begged, Take me, Antonio, take me, I can't wait!' He would not take her.

"By this time the hunger in her womb was like a raging fire. She thought that it would drive her insane. Whatever she tried to do to bring herself to an orgasm, he defeated. If she even kissed him too long he would break away. As she moved, the big belt made a clinking sound, like the chain of a slave. She was now indeed the slave of this enormous brown man. He ruled like a king. Her pleasure was subordinated to his. She realized she could do nothing against his force and will. He demanded sub- mission. Her desire died in her from sheer exhaustion. All the tautness left her body. She became as soft as cotton. Into this he delved with greater exultancy. His slave, his possession, a broken body, panting, malleable, growing softer under his fingers. His hands searched every nook of her body, leaving nothing untouched, kneading it, kneading it to suit his fancy, bending it to suit his mouth, his tongue, pressing it against his big shining white teeth, marking her as his.

"For the first time, the hunger that had been on the surface of her skin like an irritation, retreated into a deeper part of her body. It retreated and accumulated, and it became a core of fire that waited to be exploded by his time and his rhythm. His touching was like a dance in which the two bodies turned and deformed themselves into new shapes, new arrangements, new designs. Now they were cupped like twins, spoon-fashion, his penis against her ass, her breasts undulating like waves under his hands, painfully awake, aware, sensitive. Now he was crouching over her prone body like some great lion, as she placed her two fists under her ass to raise herself to his penis. He entered for the first time and filled her as none other had, touching the very depths of the womb.

"The honey was pouring from her. As he pushed, his penis made little sucking sounds. All the air was drawn from the womb, the way his penis filled it, and he swung in and out of the honey endlessly, touching the tip of the womb, but as soon as her breathing hastened, he would draw it out, all glistening, and take up another form of caress. He lay back on the bed, legs apart, his penis raised, and he made her sit upon it, swallow it up to the hilt, so that her pubic hair rubbed against his. As he held her, he made her dance circles around his penis. She would fall on him and rub her breasts against his chest, and seek his mouth, then straighten up again and resume her motions around the penis. Sometimes she raised herself a little so that she kept only the head of the penis in her sex, and she moved lightly, very lightly, just enough to keep it inside, touching the edges of her sex, which were red and swollen, and clasped the penis like a mouth. Then suddenly moving downwards, engulfing the whole penis, and gasping with the joy, she would fall over his body and seek his mouth again. His hands remained on her ass all the time, gripping her to force her movements so that she could not suddenly accelerate them and come.

"He took her off the bed, laid her on the floor, on her hands and knees, and said, 'Move.' She began to crawl about the room, her long blond hair half-covering her, her belt weighing her waist down. Then he knelt behind her and inserted his penis, his whole body over hers, also moving on its iron knees and long arms. After he had enjoyed her from behind, he slipped his head under her so that he could suckle at her luxuriant breasts, as if she were an animal, holding her in place with his hands and mouth. They were both panting and twisting, and only then did he lift her up, carry her to the bed, and put her legs around his shoulders. He took her violently and they shook and trembled as they came together. She fell away suddenly and sobbed hysteri- cally. The orgasm had been so strong that she had thought she would go insane, with a hatred and a joy like nothing she had ever known. He was smiling, panting; they lay back and fell asleep."

The next day Millard told me about the artist Mafouka, the man- woman of Montparnasse.

"No one knew exactly what she was. She dressed like a man. She was small, lean, flat-chested. She wore her hair short, straight. She had the face of a boy. She played billiards like a man. She drank like a man, with her foot on the bar railing. She told obscene stories like a man. Her drawing had a strength not found in a woman's work. But her name had a feminine sound, her walk was feminine, and she was said not to have a penis.

* * *

The men did not know quite how to treat her. Sometimes they slapped her on the back with fraternal feelings.

"She lived with two girls in a studio. One of them was a model, the other, a nightclub singer. But no one knew what relationship there was among them. The two girls seemed to have a relationship like that of a husband and a wife. What was Mafouka to them? They would never answer any questions. Montparnasse always liked to know such things, and in detail.

A few homosexuals had been attracted to Mafouka and had made advances towards her or him. But she had repulsed them. She quarreled willingly and struck out with force.

"One day I was quite a little drunk and I dropped into Mafouka's studio. The door was open. As I entered I heard giggling up on the balcony. The two girls were obviously making love. The voices would get soft and tender, then violent and unintelligible, and become moans and sighs. Then there would be silences.

"Mafouka came in and found me with my ear cocked, listening. I said to her, 'Please let me go and see them.'

"I don't mind,' said Mafouka. 'Come up after me, slowly. They won't stop if they think it is just me. They like me to watch them.'

"We went up the narrow stairs. Mafouka called, 'It's I.'

There was no interruption of the noises. As we went up, I bent over so that they could not see me. Mafouka went to the bed. The two girls were naked. They were pressing their bodies against each other and rubbing together. The friction gave them pleasure. Mafouka leaned over them, caressed them. They said, 'Come on, Mafouka, lie with us.' But she left them and took me downstairs again.

"'Mafouka,' I said, 'What are you? Are you a man or a woman? Why do you live with these two girls? If you are a man, why don't you have a girl of your own? If you are a woman, why don't you have a man occasionally?'

"Mafouka smiled at me.

" 'Everybody wants to know. Everybody feels that I am not a boy. The women feel it. The men don't know for sure. I am an artist.'

" 'What do you mean, Mafouka?'

"T mean that I am, like many artists, bisexual.'

"'Yes, but the bisexuality of artists is in their nature. They may be a man with the nature of a woman, but not with such an equivocal physique as you have.'

"'I have an hermaphrodite's body.' "'Oh, Mafouka, let me see your body.' " 'You won't make love to me?'

" 'I promise.'

"She took her shirt off first and showed a young boy’s torso. She had no breasts, just the nipples, marked as they would be on a young boy. Then she slipped down her slacks. She was wearing a woman's panties, flesh-colored, with lace. She had a woman's legs and thighs. They were beautifully curved, full. She was wearing women's stockings and garters. I said, 'Let me take the garters off. I love garters.' She handed me her leg very elegantly with the movement of a ballet dancer. I slowly rolled down the garter. I held a dainty foot in my hand. I looked up at her legs, which were perfect. I rolled down the stocking and saw beautiful, smooth, woman's skin. Her feet were dainty and carefully pedicured. Her nails were covered with red lac- quer. I was more and more intrigued. I caressed her leg. She said, 'You promised you would not make love to me.'

"I stood up. Then she slipped down her panties. And I saw below the delicate curled pubic hair, shaped like a woman's, that she carried a small atrophied penis, like a child's. She let me look at her—or at him, as I felt I now should say.

" 'Why do you call yourself by a woman's name, Mafouka?

You are really like a young boy except for the shape of your legs and arms.'

"Then Mafouka laughed, this time a woman's laugh, very light and pleasant. She said, 'Come and see.' She lay back on the couch, opened her legs and showed me a perfect vulva mouth, rosy and tender, behind the penis.

'"Mafouka!'

"My desire was aroused. The strangest desire. The feeling of wanting to take both a man and woman in one person. She saw the stirring of it in me and sat up. I tried to win her by a caress, but she eluded me.

"'Don't you like men?' I asked her. 'Haven't you ever had a man?'

"'I'm a virgin. I don't like men. I feel a desire for women only, but I can't take them as a man could. My penis is like a child's—I cannot have an erection.'

" 'You are a real hermaphrodite, Mafouka,' I said. That is what our age is supposed to have produced because the tension between the masculine and the feminine has broken down, people are mostly half of one and half of the other. But I have never seen it before—actually, physically. It must make you very unhappy. Are you happy with women?'

'"I desire women, but I do suffer, because I cannot take them like a man, and also because when they have taken me like Lesbians, I still feel some dissatisfaction. But I am not attracted to men. I fell in love with Matilda, the model. But I could not keep her. She found a real Lesbian for herself, one that she feels she can satisfy. This penis of mine always gives her the feeling that I am not a real Lesbian. And she knows she has no power over me, even though I was attracted to her. So you see, the two girls have formed another link together. I stand between them, perpetually dissatisfied. Also, I do not like the companionship of women. They are petty and personal. They hang on to their mysteries and secrets, they act and pretend. I like the character of men better.'

" 'Poor Mafouka.'

" 'Poor Mafouka. Yes, when I was born they did not know how to name me. I was born in a small village in Russia. They thought I was a monster and should perhaps be destroyed, for my own sake. When I came to Paris I suffered less. I found I was a good artist.' "

Whenever I left the sculptor's studio, I would always stop in a coffee shop nearby and ponder all that Millard had told me. I wondered whether anything like this were happening around me, here in Greenwich Village, for instance. I began to love posing, for the adventurous aspect of it. I decided to attend a party one Saturday evening that a painter named Brown had invited me to. I was hungry and curious about everything.

I rented an evening dress from the costume department of the Art Model Club, with an evening cape and shoes. Two of the models came with me, a red-haired girl, Mollie, and a statuesque one, Ethel, who was the favorite of the sculptors.

What was passing through my head all the time were the stories of Montparnasse life told to me by the sculptor, and now I felt that I was entering this realm. My first disappointment was seeing that the studio was quite poor and bare, the two couches without pillows, the lighting crude, with none of the trappings I had imagined necessary for a party.

Bottles were on the floor, along with glasses and chipped cups. A ladder led to a balcony where Brown kept his paintings. A thin curtain concealed the washstand and a little gas stove. At the front of the room was an erotic painting of a woman being possessed by two men. She was in a state of convulsion, her body arched, her eyes showing the whites. The men were cover- ing her, one with his penis inside of her and the other with his penis in her mouth. It was a life-size painting and very bestial. Everyone was looking at it, admiring it. I was fascinated. It was the first picture of the sort I had seen, and it gave me a tremendous shock of mixed feelings.

Next to it stood another which was even more striking. It showed a poorly furnished room, filled by a big iron bed. Sitting on this bed was a man of about forty or so, in old clothes, with an unshaved face, a slobbering mouth, loose eyelids, loose jaws, a completely degenerate expression. He had taken his pants down halfway, and on his bare knees sat a little girl with very short skirts, to whom he was feeding a bar of candy. Her little bare legs rested on his bare hairy ones.

What I felt after seeing these two paintings was what one feels when drinking, a sudden dizziness of the head, a warmth through the body, a confusion of the senses. Something awakens in the body, foggy and dim, a new sensation, a new kind of hunger and restlessness.

I looked at the other people in the room. But they had seen so much of this that it did not affect them. They laughed and commented.

One model was talking about her experiences at an under- wear shop:

"I had answered an advertisement for a model to pose in under- wear for sketches. I had done this many times before and was paid the normal price of a dollar an hour. Usually several artists sketched me at the same time, and there were many people around—secretaries, stenographers, errand boys. This time the place was empty. It was just an office with a desk, files and drawing materials. A man sat waiting for me in front of his drawing board. I was given a pile of underwear and found a screen placed where I could change. I began by wearing a slip. I posed for fifteen minutes at a time while he made sketches.

"We worked quietly. When he gave the signal, I went behind the screen and changed. They were satin underthings of lovely designs, with lace tops and fine embroidery. I wore a brassiere and panties. The man smoked and sketched. At the bottom of the pile were panties and a brassiere made entirely of black lace. I had posed in the nude often and did not mind wearing these. They were quite beautiful.

"I looked out of the window most of the time, not at the man sketching. After a while I did not hear the pencil working any longer and I turned slightly towards him, not wanting to lose the pose. He was sitting there behind his drawing board staring at me. Then I realized that he had his penis out and that he was in a kind of trance.

"Thinking this would mean trouble for me since we were alone in the office, I started to go behind the screen and dress.

"He said, 'Don't go. I won't touch you. I just love to see women in lovely underwear. I won't move from here. And if you want me to pay you more, all you have to do is wear my favorite piece of underwear and pose for fifteen minutes. I will give you five dollars more. You can reach for it yourself. It is right above your head on the shelf there.'

"Well, I did reach for the package. It was the loveliest piece of underwear you ever saw—the finest black lace, like a spider web really, and the panties were slit back and front, slit and edged with fine lace. The brassiere was cut in such a way as to expose the nipples through triangles. I hesitated because I was wondering if this would not excite the man too much, if he would attack me.

"He said, 'Don't worry. I don't really like women. I never touch them. I like only underwear. I just like to see women in lovely underwear. If I tried to touch you I would immediately become impotent. I won't move from here.'

"He put aside the drawing board and sat there with his penis out. Now and then it shook. But he did not move from his chair.

"I decided to put on the underwear. The five dollars tempted me. He was not very strong and I felt that I could defend myself. So I stood there in the slit panties, turning around for him to see me on all sides.

"Then he said, 'That's enough.' He seemed unsettled and his face was congested. He told me to dress quickly and leave. He handed me the money in a great hurry, and I left. I had a feeling that he was only waiting for me to leave to masturbate.

"I have known men like this, who steal a shoe from some- one, from an attractive woman, so they can hold it and mastur- bate while looking at it."

Everyone was laughing at her story. "I think," said Brown, "that when we are children we are much more inclined to be fetishists of one kind or another. I remember hiding inside of my mother's closet and feeling ecstasy at smelling her clothes and feeling them. Even today I cannot resist a woman who is wearing a veil or tulle or feathers, because it awakens the strange feelings I had in that closet."

As he said this I remembered how I hid in the closet of a young man when I was only thirteen, for the same reason. He was twenty-five and he treated me like a little girl. I was in love with him. Sitting next to him in a car in which he took all of us for long rides, I was ecstatic just feeling his leg alongside mine. At night I would get into bed and, after turning out the light, take out a can of condensed milk in which I had punctured a little hole. I would sit in the dark sucking at the sweet milk with a voluptuous feeling all over my body that I could not explain. I thought then that being in love and sucking at the sweet milk were related. Much later I remembered this when I tasted sperm for the first time.

Mollie remembered that at the same age she liked to eat ginger while she smelled camphor balls. The ginger made her body feel warm and languid and the camphor balls made her a little dizzy. She would get herself in a sort of drugged state this way, lying there for hours.

Ethel turned to me and said, "I hope you never marry a man you don't love sexually. That is what I have done. I love everything about him, the way he behaves, his face, his body, the way he works, treats me, his thoughts, his way of smiling, talking, everything except the sexual man in him. I thought I did, before we married. There is absolutely nothing wrong with him. He is a perfect lover. He is emotional and romantic, he shows great feeling and great enjoyment. He is sensitive and adoring. Last night while I was asleep he came into my bed. I was half-asleep so I could not control myself, as I usually do, because I do not want to hurt his feelings. He got in beside me and began to take me very slowly and lingeringly. Usually it is all over quickly, which makes it possible to bear. I do not even let him kiss me if I can help it. I hate his mouth on mine. I usually turn my face away, which is what I did last night. Well, there he was, and what do you think I did? I suddenly began to strike him with my closed fists, on the shoulder, while he was enjoying himself, to dig my nails into him, and he took it as a sign that I was enjoying it, growing rather wild with pleasure, and he went on. Then I whispered as low as I could, 'I hate you.' And then I asked myself if he had heard me. What would he think? Was he hurt? As he was himself partly asleep, he merely kissed me good night when it was over and went back to his bed. The next morning I was waiting for what he would say. I still thought perhaps he had heard me say, 'I hate you.' But no, I must have formed the words without saying them. And all he said was, 'You got quite wild lastnight, you know,' and smiled, as if it pleased him."

Brown started the phonograph and we began to dance. The little alcohol I had taken had gone to my head. I felt a dilation of the whole universe. Everything seemed very smooth and simple. Everything, in fact, ran downwards like a snowy hill on which I could slide without effort. I felt a great friendliness, as if I knew all these people intimately. But I chose the most timid of the painters to dance with. I felt that he was pretending somewhat, as I was, to be very familiar with all of this. I felt that deep down he was a little uneasy. The other painters were caressing Ethel and Mollie as they danced. This one did not dare. I was laughing to myself at having discovered him. Brown saw that my painter was not making any advances, and he cut in for a dance. He was making sly remarks about virgins. I wondered whether he was alluding to me. How could he know? He pressed against me, and I drew away from him. I went back to the timid young painter. A woman illustrator was flirting with him, teas- ing him. He was equally glad that I came back to him. So we danced together, retreating into our own timidity. All around us people were kissing now, embracing.

The woman illustrator had thrown off her blouse and was dancing in her slip. The timid painter said, "If we stay here we will soon have to lie on the floor and make love. Do you want to leave?"

"Yes, I want to leave," I said.

We went out. Instead of making love, he was talking, talking. I was listening to him in a daze. He had a plan for a picture of me. He wanted to paint me as an undersea woman, nebulous, transparent, green, watery except for the very red mouth and the very red flower I was wearing in my hair. Would I pose for him? I did not respond very quickly because of the effects of the liquor, and he said apologetically, "Are you sorry that I was not brutal?"

"No, I'm not sorry. I chose you myself because I knew you would not be."

"It's my first party," he said humbly, "and you're not the kind of woman one can treat—that way. How did you ever become a model? What did you do before this? A model does not have to be a prostitute, I know, but she has to bear a lot of handling and attempts."

"I manage quite well," I said, not enjoying this conversation at all.

"I will be worrying about you. I know some artists are objective while they work, I know all that. I feel that way myself. But there is always a moment before and after, when the model is undressing and dressing, that does disturb me. It's the first surprise of seeing the body. What did you feel the first time?"

"Nothing at all. I felt as if I were a painting already. Or a statue. I looked down at my own body like some object, some impersonal object."

I was growing sad, sad with restlessness and hunger. I felt that nothing would happen to me. I felt desperate with desire to be a woman, to plunge into living. Why was I enslaved by this need of being in love first? Where would my life begin? I would enter each studio expecting a miracle which did not take place. It seemed to me that a great current was passing all around me and that I was left out. I would have to find someone who felt as I did. But where? Where?

The sculptor was watched by his wife, I could see that. She came into the studio so often, unexpectedly. And he was fright- ened. I did not know what frightened him. They invited me to spend two weeks at their country house where I would continue to pose—or rather, she invited me. She said that her husband did not like to stop work during vacations. But as soon as she left he turned to me and said, "You must find an excuse not to go. She will make you miserable. She is not well—she has obsessions. She thinks that every woman who poses for me is my mistress."

There were hectic days of running from studio to studio with very little time for lunch, posing for magazine covers, illustrations for magazine stories, and advertisements. I could see my face everywhere, even in the subway. I wondered if people recognized me.

The sculptor had become my best friend. I was anxiously watching his statuette coming to a finish. Then one morning when I arrived I saw that he had ruined it. He said that he had tried to work on it without me. But he did not seem unhappy or worried. I was quite sad, and to me it looked very much like sabotage, because it seemed spoiled with such awkwardness. I saw that he was happy to be beginning it all over again.

It was at the theatre that I met John and discovered the power of a voice. It rolled over me like the tones of a pipe organ, making me vibrate. When he repeated my name and mispro- nounced it, it sounded to me like a caress. It was the deepest, richest voice I had ever heard. I could scarcely look at him. I knew that his eyes were big, of an intense, magnetic blue, that he was large, rather restless. His foot moved nervously like that of a race horse. I felt his presence blurring everything else—the theatre, the friend sitting at my right. And he behaved as if I had enchanted him, hypnotized him. He talked on, looking at me, but I was not listening. In one moment I was no longer a young girl. Every time he spoke, I felt myself falling into some dizzy spiral, falling into the meshes of a beautiful voice. It was truly a drug. When he had finally "stolen" me, as he said, he hailed a taxi.

We did not say another word until we reached his apartment. He had not touched me. He did not need to. His presence had affected me in such a way that I felt as if he had caressed me for a long time.

He merely said my name twice, as if he thought it sufficiently beautiful to repeat. He was tall, glowing. His eyes were so intensely blue that when they blinked, for a second it was like some tiny flash of lightning, giving one a sense of fear, a fear of a storm that would completely engulf one.

Then he kissed me. His tongue went around mine, around and around, and then it stopped to touch the tip only. As he kissed me he slowly lifted my skirt. He unrolled my garters, my stockings. Then he lifted me up and carried me to the bed. I was so dissolved that I felt he had already penetrated me. It seemed to me that his voice had opened me, opened my whole body to him. He sensed this, and so he was amazed by the resistance to his penis that he felt.

He stopped to look at my face. He saw the great emotional receptiveness, and then he pressed harder. I felt the tear and the pain, but the warmth melted everything, the warmth of his voice in my ear saying, "Do you want me as I want you?"

Then his pleasure made him groan. His whole weight upon me, pressing against my body, the shaft of pain vanished. I felt the joy of being opened. I lay there in a semidream.

John said, "I hurt you. You did not enjoy it." I could not say, "I want it again." My hand touched his penis. I caressed it. It sprung up, so hard. He kissed me until I felt a new wave of desire, a desire to respond completely. But he said, "It will hurt now. Wait a little while. Can you stay with me, all night? Will you stay?"

I saw that there was blood on my leg. I went to wash it off. I felt that I had not been taken yet, that this was only a small part of the breaking through. I wanted to be possessed and know blinding joys. I walked unsteadily and fell on the bed again.

John was asleep, his big body still curved as when he was lying against me, his arm thrown out where my head had been resting. I slipped in at his side and fell half-asleep. I wanted to touch his penis again. I did so gently, not wanting to wake him. Then I slept and was awakened by his kisses. We were floating in a dark world of flesh, feeling only the soft flesh vibrating, and every touch was a joy. He gripped my hips tautly against him. He was afraid to wound me. I parted my legs. When he inserted his penis it hurt, but the pleasure was greater. There was a little outer rim of pain and, deeper in, a pleasure at the presence of his penis moving there. I pressed forwards, to meet it.

This time he was passive. He said, "You move, you enjoy it now." So as not to feel the pain, I moved gently around his penis. I put my closed fists under my backside to raise myself towards him. He placed my legs on his shoulders. Then the pain grew greater and he withdrew.

I left him in the morning, dazed, but with a new joy of feeling that I was growing nearer to passion. I went home and slept until he telephoned.

"When are you coming?" he said. "I must see you again. Soon. Are you posing today?"

"Yes, I must. I'll come after the pose."

"Please don't pose," he said, "please don't pose. It makes me desperate to think of it. Come and see me first. I want to talk to you. Please come and see me first."

I went to him. "Oh," he said, burning my face with the breath of his desire, "I can't bear to think of you posing now, exposing yourself. You can't do that anymore. You must let me take care of you. I cannot marry you because I have a wife and children. Let me take care of you until we know how we can escape. Let me get a little place where I can come and see you. You should not be posing. You belong to me."

* * *

So I entered a secret life, and when I was supposed to be posing for everyone else in the world, I was really waiting in a beautiful room for John. Each time he came, he brought a gift, a book, colored stationery for me to write on. I was restless, waiting.

The only one who was taken into the secret was the sculptor because he sensed what was happening. He would not let me stop posing, and he questioned me. He had predicted how my life would be.

The first time I felt an orgasm with John, I wept because it was so strong and so marvelous that I did not believe it could happen over and over again. The only painful moments were the ones spent waiting. I would bathe myself, spread polish on my nails, perfume myself, rouge my nipples, brush my hair, put on a negligee, and all the preparations would turn my imagination to the scenes to come.

I wanted him to find me in the bath. He would say he was on his way. But he would not arrive. He was often detained. By the time he arrived I would be cold, resentful. The waiting wore out my feelings. I would rebel. Once I would not answer when he rang the doorbell. Then he knocked gently, humbly, and that touched me, so I opened the door. But I was angry and wanted to hurt him. I did not respond to his kiss. He was hurt until his hand slipped under my negligee and he found that I was wet, in spite of the fact that I kept my legs tightly closed. He was joyous again and he forced his way.

Then I punished him by not responding sexually and he was hurt again, for he enjoyed my pleasure. He knew by the violent heartbeats, by the changes in the voice, by the contrac- tion of my legs, how I had enjoyed him. And this time I lay like a whore. That really hurt him.

We could never go out together. He was too well known, as was his wife. He was a producer. His wife was a playwright.

When John discovered how angry it would make me to wait for him, he did not try to remedy it. He came later and later. He would say that he was arriving at ten o'clock and then come at midnight. So one day he found that I was not there when he came. This put him in a frenzy. He thought I would not come back. I felt that he was doing this deliberately, that he liked my being angry. After two days he pleaded with me and

I returned. We were both very keyed up and angry.

He said, "You've gone back to pose. You like it. You like to show yourself."

"Why do you make me wait so long? You know that it kills my desire for you. I feel cold when you come late."

"Not so very cold," he said.

I closed my legs tightly against him, he could not even touch me. But then he slipped in quickly from behind and caressed me. "Not so cold," he said.

On the bed he pushed his knee between my legs and forced them open. "When you are angry," he said, "I feel that I am raping you. I feel then that you love me so much you cannot resist me, I see that you are wet, and I like your resistance and your defeat too."

"John, you will make me so angry that I will leave you."

Then he was frightened. He kissed me. He promised not to repeat this.

What I could not understand was that, despite our quarrels, being made love to by John made me only more sensitive. He had awakened my body. Now I had even a greater desire to abandon myself to all whims. He must have known this, because the more he caressed me, awakened me, the more he feared that I would return to posing. Slowly, I did return. I had too much time to myself, I was too much alone with my thoughts of John.

Millard particularly was happy to see me. He must have spoiled the statuette again, purposely I knew now, so he could keep me in the pose he liked.

The night before, he had smoked marijuana with friends.

He said, "Did you know that very often it gives people the feeling that they are transformed into animals? Last night there was a woman who was completely taken by this transformation. She fell on her hands and knees and walked around like a dog. We took her clothes off. She wanted to give milk. She wanted us to act like puppies, sprawl on the floor and suckle at her breasts. She kept on her hands and knees and offered her breasts to all of us. She wanted us to walk like dogs—after her. She insisted on our taking her in this position, from behind, and I did, but then I was terribly tempted to bite her as I crouched over her. I bit into her shoulder harder than I have ever bitten anyone. The woman did not get frightened. I did. It sobered me.

I stood up and then I saw that a friend of mine was following her on his hands and knees, not caressing her or taking her, but merely smelling exactly as a dog would do, and this reminded me so much of my first sexual impression that it gave me a painful hard-on.

"As children we had a big servant girl in the country who came from Martinique. She wore voluminous skirts and a colored kerchief on her head. She was a rather pale mulatto, very beautiful. She would make us play hide-and-seek. When it was my turn to hide she would hide me under her skirt, sitting down. And there I was, half-suffocated, hiding between her legs. I remember the sexual odor that came from her and that stirred me even as a boy. Once I tried to touch her, but she slapped my hand."

I was posing quietly and he came over to measure me with an instrument. Then I felt his hand on my thighs, caressing me so lightly. I smiled at him. I stood on the model's stand, and he was caressing my legs now, as if he were modeling me out of clay. He kissed my feet, he ran his hands up my legs again and again, and around my ass. He leaned against my legs and kissed me. He lifted me up and brought me down to the floor. He held me tightly against him, caressing my back and shoulders and neck. I shivered a little. His hands were smooth and supple. He touched me as he touched the statuette, so caressingly, all over.

Then we walked towards the couch. He lay me there on my stomach. He took his clothes off and fell on me. I felt his penis against my ass. He slipped his hands around my waist and lifted me up slightly so that he could penetrate me. He lifted me up towards him rhythmically. I closed my eyes to feel him better and to listen to the sound of the penis sliding in and out of the moisture. He pushed so violently that it made tiny clicks, which delighted me.

His fingers dug into my flesh. His nails were sharp and hurt. He aroused me so much with his vigorous thrusts that my mouth opened and I was biting into the couch cover. Then at the same time we both heard a sound. Millard rose swiftly, picked up his clothes and ran up the ladder to the balcony where he kept his scupture. I slipped behind the screen.

There came a second knock on the studio door, and his wife came in. I was trembling, not with fear, but the shock of having stopped in the middle of our enjoyment. Millard's wife saw the studio empty and left. Millard came out dressed. I said, "Wait for me a minute," and began to dress too. The moment was destroyed. I was still wet and shivering. When I slipped on my panties the silk touch affected me like a hand. I could not bear the tension and desire any longer. I put my two hands over my sex as Millard had done and pressed against it, closing my eyes and imagining Millard was caressing me. And I came, shaking from head to foot.

Millard wanted to be with me again, but not in his studio where we might be surprised by his wife, so I let him find another place. It belonged to a friend. The bed was set in a deep alcove and there were mirrors above the bed and small dim lamps. Millard wanted all the lights out, he said he wanted to be in the dark with me.

"I have seen your body and I know it so well, now I want to feel it, with my eyes closed, just to feel the skin and the softness of the flesh. Your legs are so firm and strong, but so soft to the touch. I love your feet with the toes free and set apart like the fingers of a hand, not cramped—and the toenails so beautifully lacquered—and the down on your legs." He passed his hand all over my body, slowly, pressing into the flesh, feeling every curve. "If my hand stays here between the legs," he said, "do you feel it, do you like it, do you want it nearer?"

"Nearer, nearer," I said.

"I want to teach you something," said Millard. "Do you want to let me do it?"

He inserted his finger inside my sex. "Now, I want you to contract around my finger. There is a muscle there that can be made to contract and expand around the penis. Try."

I tried. His finger there was tantalizing. Since he was not moving it, I tried to move inside of my womb, and I felt the muscle that he mentioned, weakly at first, opening and closing around the finger.

Millard said, "Yes, like that. Do it stronger, stronger."

So I did, opening, closing, opening, closing. It was like a little mouth inside, tightening around the finger. I wanted to take it in, suckle at it and so I continued to try.

Then Millard said that he would insert his penis and not move and that I should continue to move inside. I tried with more and more strength to clutch at him. The motion was exciting me, and I felt that at any moment I would reach the orgasm, but after I had clutched at him several times, sucking his penis in, he suddenly groaned with pleasure and began to push quickly, as he himself could not hold back the orgasm. I merely continued the inner motion and I felt the orgasm, too, in the most marvelous deep way, deep inside of the womb.

He said, "Did John ever show you this?" "No."

"What has he shown you?"

"This," I said. "You kneel over me and push."

Millard obeyed. His penis did not have much strength, for it was too soon after the first orgasm, but he slipped it in, pushing it with his hand. Then I reached out with my two hands and caressed the balls and put two fingers at the basis of the penis and rubbed as he moved. Millard was instantly aroused, his penis hardened, and he began to move in and out again. Then he stopped himself.

"I must not be so demanding," he said in a strange tone. "You will be tired out for John."

We lay back and rested, smoking. I was wondering if Millard had felt more than sensual desire, whether my love for John weighed on him. But although there was always a hurt sound to his words, he continued to ask me questions.

"Did John have you today? Did he take you more than once? How did he take you?"

In the weeks to come, Millard taught me many things I had not done with John, and as soon as I learned them I tried them with John. Finally he became suspicious of where I was learning new positions. He knew I had not made love before I met him. The first time I tightened my muscles to clutch at the penis, he was amazed.

The two secret relationships became difficult for me, but I enjoyed the danger and the intensity.

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passionatemuslimaah · 1 year

Text

Repost.. subhanaAllah this is heavy.

The story of Malik bin Dinar, how he came to repent!!

He was a very pious and learned man. He was not a companion of the Holy Prophet (peace be upon him), but a Taabeii (successor of the Sahaba). He met Abdullah bin Abbas, Imam Maalik and Hasan Basri. His family was from Sijistan (or Kabul) who later embraced Islam. He lived a very austere life and earned his livelihood by writing the Holy Qur’an. He learned Hadith from leading scholar and narrated few Hadith from Hasan Al Basri. He died in 127 A.H. He was a beacon of light for new Muslims.

Malik bin Dinar narrates his story in the following way: “I was a policeman and very fond of drinking. I led a care-free life. I bought a beautiful slave girl whom I loved dearly. I had a daughter from her, a lovely child. When my daughter began to walk, I loved her all the more and she remained with me all the time. The innocent child had a strange habit. When she saw a glass of wine in my hands, she would snatch it and spill it on my clothes. Being fond of her, I never scolded her. As fate would have it, my child died when she was two years old and I was shocked and sorely grieved.

“One the night of 15th of Shaaban, I was drunk and went to sleep without performing Isha prayers. I had a horrible dream. I saw myself among those bring driven to the assembly of people on the Day of Resurrection. I heard a noise and felt something following me. When I looked back, I saw a huge snake chasing me. Ah! It was a horrible sight; the snake had blue catlike eyes, its mouth was wide open and it was rushing toward me furiously! I ran faster in terror, desperate for my life, the horrible snake still running after me and drawing closer.

“I saw an old man, dressed in elegant clothes with rich perfumes wafting all around his person, I greeted him saying, “Assallam-o-Alaikum” and he returned my greetings. I said, “For the sake of Allah, help me in my misery”. He said “I am too weak to help you against such a mighty foe; it is beyond my powers. But you must go on running; perhaps you may find some help”. Running wildly I saw a cliff in front of me and climbed it, but on reaching its top, I saw, beyond it, the raging fire of hell. Meanwhile, I heard a voice calling aloud, “Get back, for, you are not one of them (the dwellers of hell).

“I turned and began to run in the opposite direction. The snake also turned around and came after me. I saw again the old man in white robes and said, “Old man, can’t you save me from this python.” The man began to cry and said, “I am too weak to help you against such a mighty snake, but I can tell you that there is a hill nearby where they keep the ‘sacred trusts’ of the Muslims. If you go up that hill, you might find something of yours, kept in trust, which might save you from the snake.” I rushed toward the hill, which was round in shape, with a large number of open curtailed casements. The casements had golden shutters studded with rich rubies, and most precious jewels; on each shutter hung a curtain made of the rarest silk.

“When I was going to climb the hill, the angels called aloud, “Open the windows and raise the curtains and come out of your closets! Here is an unfortunate man in misery; may be you have with you some ‘trust’ of his, that might help him in his distress.” The windows opened at once, the curtains went up, and there issued forth from the casements a host of innocent children, with faces bright as the full moon. By this time I was utterly despondent, for the snake had drawn very close to me. Now the children called their friends, “Come out quickly, all of you, for the snake has come very close to him.”

Hearing this, more children came out of their windows, in large crowds, and among them I saw my own dear daughter who had died some time ago. She also espied me and began to weep, exclaiming, “By Allah! He is my own dear father.” She jumped on a swinging cradle, which seemed to be made from heavenly light (Noor) and darted across to me. Next moment, she was standing by my side and I took her to my bosom; she lifted her left hand towards me and with her right hand motioned the snake away.

The snake went away immediately. Then she gave me a seat and sat in my lap and began to stroke my beard with her right hand saying, “My dear father, ‘Has not the time come for the believers (who indulge in sins) that their hearts should submit in all humility to the remembrance of Allah and to the truth which is revealed’ (Al-Hadeed:16)”. I was moved to tears and asked her, “My daughter, do all of you know the meanings of the Qur’an? She replied “We understand the Holy Quran even better than you.”

I asked her “My dear child, what was this snake?” She said “It was your own evil deeds which had made it so strong that it was about to push you into Jahannam”. I asked “And who was that white-robed old man?” She replied “That were your good deeds and you had made them so weak with your scanty good deeds that he could not help you against the snake (though he suggested to you a means of escape.)”

I asked “What are all of you doing on this hill?” She replied “We are children of Muslims, who died in infancy. We shall live here till the Day of Resurrection, waiting to be reunited with you when you come to us at last and we shall intercede for you with our Lord”. And then I awoke from the dream, with the fright (of the snake) still heavy on my heart. I turned to Allah in repentance, as soon as I arose; and abandoned all my evil ways.

#storiesofsahaba salaf muslim Maalik bin Dinar repentance #jannah

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chiefatticcreator · 2 days

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I feel like I can't tell where he ends and where I begin. Our bodies so close and the heat we both radiate is mixing too much. His with powerful hungry energy, mine just growing need and the dying attempt to resist. I force myself to look past him, not look down and eye his cock. As long as I don't see it or him, it hopefully can't overwhelm me.

Nontheless, I feel a heat like it used zo radiate from his cock, between my legs. My cunt is throbbing and I can't help but buck my hips against the emptiness. I want to grind against it. Want to rub my growing, puffed clit against it and smear his cock with my leaking juices, mark him and get him ready to fuck me.

Fuck.

Fuck me.

I bite my lips. I can't help the tiny moan when I feel those big hands at my ass. Electricity sparks through my body, makes me shiver and arch my back slightly, presenting my tits and hard nipples to him. "I-", I say and it feels hard forming words. "yes, can't let you win again." The words and my voice are weak, one last attempt to break free while my hands already trail over his body.

He smiles at you. He knows this is yoru last attempt, he can hear the need in your voice, the desire. Your nipples are hard, and he can feel your body shiver against him.

"But I've won." He smirks, leaning in to kiss you again. "And you know it. You know you're mine, that you want me, that you can't live without my cock, that you would do anything for it."

Adn with that, he nudge his hips. And his cocktip is rubbing against your slit, teasing you, feeling how your wetness coats it, how your entrance wants it.

"You're mine." And he pushes his cock inside you.

#return of the stud slave #Return of the stud slave #overwatch #soldier: 76

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yarnreader · 1 year

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Episode 19: "Tongue Tied." (9/30/15)

https://youtu.be/SMCJ576EJdE

Here's a new episode for you to enjoy! Books:Yes Please by Amy Poehler(Summery from Goodreads.com)Amy Poehler is hosting a dinner party and you're invited! Welcome to the audiobook edition of Amy Poehler's Yes Please. The guest list is star-studded with vocal appearances from Carol Burnett, Seth Meyers, Michael Schur, Patrick Stewart, Kathleen Turner, and even Amy's parents- Yes Please is the ultimate audiobook extravaganza. Also included? A one night only live performance at Poehler's Upright Citizens Brigade Theater. Hear Amy read a chapter live in front of a young and attractive Los Angeles audience. While listening to Yes Please, you'll laugh, you'll cry, and you'll become convinced that your phone is trying to kill you. Don't miss this collection of stories, thoughts, ideas, lists, and haikus from the mind of one of our most beloved entertainers. Offering Amy's thoughts on everything from her "too safe" childhood outside of Boston to her early days in New York City, her ideas about Hollywood and 'the biz,' the demon that looks back at all of us in the mirror, and her joy at being told she has a "face for wigs" - Yes Please is chock-full of words, and wisdom, to live by." In the Belly of the Bloodhound: Being an Account of a Particularly Peculiar Adventure in the Life of Jacky Faber (Bloody Jack #4) by L. A. Meyer(Summery from Goodreads.com)The British crown has placed a price on Jacky's head, so she returns to the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls in Boston to lay low. But the safe haven doesn't last--a school outing goes awry as Jacky and her classmates are abducted and forced into the hold of the "Bloodhound," a ship bound for the slave markets on the Barbary Coast. All of Jacky's ingenuity, determination, and plain old good luck will be put to the test as she rallies her delicate classmates to fight together and become their "own" rescuers. Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand Mississippi Jack by L.A. Meyer Love is Hell Stitch 'n Bitch Superstar Knitting by Debbie Stoller WIPs:Knitted Patchwork Blanket Knitted Patchwork Blanket Dos Harry Potter Blanket Flax The Easy Ombre Slouch Hat FOs:Two blocks for my Harry Potter Blanket Owl cross-stitch Spinning:Ashland bay Corrie Cross on the wheel. Voolenvine SW Merino in Poison Orchid on the 7yaks spindle. Things added to the pile:Goosebumps books

#crafter #reader

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baker63farley · 2 years

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Earsense October Birthstone Stud Earrings

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chiefbasementcreator · 3 years

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(Yeeees :D)

As much as I enjoy the slow burn of his thrusts and I know that he can keep going forever without coming, I know that I can't. With every thrust the tingle in me rises, I feel the pleasure growing and my body aching for the sweet release. Probably the first of many. My body knows and wants it while my mind clings to the fact that I shall not make any sound. But it's getting more difficult with every deep drive inside me. Evee thrust that shakes me makes it harder for me. I feel my mouth opening, not biting my lips to hold back any more and I breath heavily under ever thrust against me. No real sound yet, but so close. Every breath gets forced out of me. I close my eyes and my cunt graps Jack tighter more often than before. And then with one thrust I can't hold back the one soft, high moan. It's not much. Just a soft, almost shy 'aaah' that accompanies his thrust but it feels like opening the vocal gate that I can't contain now any more as much as I would like to.

Just as you make a sound, Jack completely stops fucking you, remaining motionless mid-thrust.

He contemplates punishing you, but instead he smirks, and starts fucking you, rougher.

"What was that, Jack?" one of the woman says on the phone, her tone innapropriate for a head of state talking to the commander of Overwatch.

"Nothing, just a fucktoy making some noises." he shrugs.

#return of the stud slave #soldier: 76 #soldier: 76 x female reader

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libidomechanica · 10 months

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Or by loved, closing down

Twinkle, unto us story. And on our sweet, when her side of great night and would spright and dreaming. Delight and Life, that thee tops shall soft babes? In California we will fair

hearing cool-roof! Wilt thou among the blood, wanders would feign, and your eyes are write, plain, a cares do I roaming. Pass; man’s brighted her wine, farewell; only Friendship is cleft the yellow

return, and showers. Tis Phillingsgate made every Káfir in my hair. The bloom of music, with flowers and arms, to keepe, to speak grief lay call’d in the earring Past which cannot

know I am you off by thy place, at leave immortal, nor cardamom rubbed carriages, her Tablet—Yes—’tis undo me. His lectual, my soul of the decay, and a

kitchers, and come times her poor: how pure lives, weepe; vouch entertain, with good pigeon throught; but only, you love not so late at lengthened, to Truth and passed here. Or by loved, closing down

land, they are that the salt, of the sublimely, now evasive, treasures are not ashen grew grey have and fields that light, where to preach’d on my studs; and Thou discover, help my

dreaming. Over the way at hollow, yellowship divine, for one to those of the friendship’s judgments with me and got my buffeting black gone into the fly, she sickness and

so is best blue-bells in velvets, enthralment: for young completed as well-a-day, the Bankrupt my arms. ’ If thou never will regale and hare over agree this hood, its

broke. What distant or Vesper, and some in the flocks our life is the study with swift doth feathe, then canvas foraged eye: but on my bells, and picnics, do though alters, with a

sad authority—the shore. Be she doom, wipe as Mozart’s scope, they only gods shook their pleasant sure priest ’mong coy, keep chamber spirit never, or whom all the night doat upon

they else carrying to a song, and the space or else to spear to resto! Ask me thick a new, grows lushes us light, shall I return of all work of Fancy, till excursive,

who from their pivot her side, althought I smell and just to me. But her skilled me, heavy within my life from their artiller, I seems it sink. One, when your beds of moist earnest

whitely love, the the air. Glittering where’s Whither love was, all all madness, I lost seek in thou no pray forth and could giving pure many, can hopes to me out of the

ragged hand like two being a little urn.—And yet waste wicks, to as first-fruit thou in spite, bequeath those dark was girls, and hard to be so: let on, the air, which stands so fair and

yet fades. Can hour and Slave. Do ease my spite, which is a praysen border of race? Sometimes; but i just die in such as flocks play, pierce to an earth fear the faded earn the very

fail? Then I say I heart, my face; thou pleasant Spring in the lay sickens our sprung; and the gates the cape’s weighty—’Where is overtop yours, the brush of Rockport. Sweetheart heart? Thy

spirit neuer death, for the fair fame, dost soft babes to pass, as it so. Who them from whence save youth, mine with was, as already two years and rave Caledonian view, so well

love us, plushes, and lifelonging immortal, and haunted, and laught for Bess cleft behind his true life of his great cats close rarity, mid Till to a silent woods!

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 5 #214 texts #ballad

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istumpysk · 2 years

Text

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ASOS: Daenerys III (Chapter 27)

She had chosen a Qartheen gown today. The deep violet silk brought out the purple of her eyes. The cut of it bared her left breast.

Day one, she's dressed in a Qartheen gown.

+.+.+

So as not to seem a beggar, Dany had brought her own attendants; Irri and Jhiqui in their sandsilk trousers and painted vests, old Whitebeard and mighty Belwas, her bloodriders.

Love how preoccupied she is over not seeming like a beggar.

+.+.+

Ser Jorah stood behind her sweltering in his green surcoat with the black bear of Mormont embroidered upon it. The smell of his sweat was an earthy answer to the sweet perfumes that drenched the Astapori.

Day one, he's wearing a surcoat.

I'm not touching the sweaty earthly answer.

+.+.+

Dany let them argue, sipping the tart persimmon wine and trying to keep her face blank and ignorant. I will have them all, no matter the price, she told herself.

Keep in mind Daenerys has already decided she's not paying for them, so the price she's referring to is the blood and carnage.

+.+.+

The bricks of Astapor are red with the blood of the slaves who make them. - Daenerys II, ASOS

Brick and blood built Astapor, and brick and blood her people.

I continue to be sickened by the Old Empire of Ghis. These cruel red and black-haired slavers, who build red-brick cities with the blood of their people... awful.

And above it all, frowning down from Aegon's high hill, was the Red Keep; seven huge drum-towers crowned with iron ramparts, an immense grim barbican, vaulted halls and covered bridges, barracks and dungeons and granaries, massive curtain walls studded with archers' nests, all fashioned of pale red stone. Aegon the Conqueror had commanded it built. His son Maegor the Cruel had seen it completed. Afterward he had taken the heads of every stonemason, woodworker, and builder who had labored on it. Only the blood of the dragon would ever know the secrets of the fortress the Dragonlords had built, he vowed. - Catelyn IV, AGOT

+.+.+

Dany waited for his words to be translated. "My crown is not for sale." When Viserys sold their mother's crown, the last joy had gone from him, leaving only rage.

I love that she already has a crown. What are you even queen of right now?

+.+.+

Two thousand would never serve for what she meant to do. I must have them all. Dany knew what she must do now, though the taste of it was so bitter that even the persimmon wine could not cleanse it from her month. She had considered long and hard and found no other way. It is my only choice. "Give me all," she said, "and you may have a dragon."

+.+.+

Whitebeard stared in shocked disbelief. His hand trembled where it grasped the staff. "No." He went to one knee before her. "Your Grace, I beg you, win your throne with dragons, not slaves. You must not do this thing—"

Please don't use slaves, scorch the land and the people instead.

+.+.+

"Yet even queens can err. The Astapori have cheated you, Your Grace. A dragon is worth more than any army. Aegon proved that three hundred years ago, upon the Field of Fire."

"I know what Aegon proved. I mean to prove a few things of my own."

+.+.+

"Missandei is no longer a slave. I free you, from this instant. Come ride with me in the litter, I wish to talk."

[...]

"If you stay with me you will serve as one of my handmaids," she said as they set off. "I shall keep you by my side to speak for me as you spoke for Kraznys. But you may leave my service whenever you choose, if you have father or mother you would sooner return to."

"This one will stay," the girl said. "This one . . . I . . . there is no place for me to go. This . . . I will serve you, gladly."

Perfect. I'm so happy for her. She's free! Everyone come look at how free she is.

+.+.+

"I can give you freedom, but not safety," Dany warned. "I have a world to cross and wars to fight. You may go hungry. You may grow sick. You may be killed."

I don't think she dies, but I really didn't enjoy reading this.

+.+.+

"Valar morghulis," said Missandei, in High Valyrian.

"All men must die," Dany agreed, "but not for a long while, we may pray."

Woah, is that what that means? Not surprised we're finally given the definition in your chapter, given those words keep following you around.

+.+.+

"You serve me now. Is it true they feel no pain?"

"The wine of courage kills such feelings. By the time they slay their sucklings, they have been drinking it for years."

Why are we revisiting this? Is this going somewhere? I swear they don't drink it anymore.

+.+.+

"When I have won my war and claimed the throne that was my father's, my knights will sheathe their swords and return to their keeps, to their wives and children and mothers . . . to their lives. But these eunuchs have no lives. What am I to do with eight thousand eunuchs when there are no more battles to be fought?"

An easy solution to that is to never be done fighting battles.

+.+.+

"If I did resell them, how would I know they could not be used against me?" Dany asked pointedly. "Would they do that? Fight against me, even do me harm?"

"If their master commanded. They do not question, Your Grace. All the questions have been culled from them. They obey."

This looks like more paranoia, but she's making sure the Unsullied will follow her orders once the deal is complete.

+.+.+

The girl lowered her eyes. "Three of them were my brothers once, Your Grace."

I see potential!

But you may leave my service whenever you choose, if you have father or mother you would sooner return to. - Daenerys III, ASOS

"Eight thousand fully trained and available at present. We sell them only by the unit, she should know. By the thousand or the century. Once we sold by the ten, as household guards, but that proved unsound. Ten is too few. They mingle with other slaves, even freemen, and forget who and what they are." - Daenerys II, ASOS

One brother left.

+.+.+

"I was alone for a long time, Jorah. All alone but for my brother. I was such a small scared thing. Viserys should have protected me, but instead he hurt me and scared me worse. He shouldn't have done that. He wasn't just my brother, he was my king. Why do the gods make kings and queens, if not to protect the ones who can't protect themselves?"

"Some kings make themselves. Robert did."

"He was no true king," Dany said scornfully. "He did no justice. Justice . . . that's what kings are for."

Ser Jorah had no answer. He only smiled, and touched her hair, so lightly. It was enough.

Careful with that word, it can make you justify appalling things.

But if truth be told, I would sooner have my daughters back, and leave justice to the gods. - Catelyn III, ACOK

+.+.+

That night she dreamt that she was Rhaegar, riding to the Trident. But she was mounted on a dragon, not a horse. When she saw the Usurper's rebel host across the river they were armored all in ice, but she bathed them in dragonfire and they melted away like dew and turned the Trident into a torrent. Some small part of her knew that she was dreaming, but another part exulted. This is how it was meant to be. The other was a nightmare, and I have only now awakened.

I've been around long enough to know which rebel host that is.

Burning shafts hissed upward, trailing tongues of fire. Scarecrow brothers tumbled down, black cloaks ablaze. "Snow," an eagle cried, as foemen scuttled up the ice like spiders. Jon was armored in black ice, but his blade burned red in his fist. As the dead men reached the top of the Wall he sent them down to die again. He slew a greybeard and a beardless boy, a giant, a gaunt man with filed teeth, a girl with thick red hair. Too late he recognized Ygritte. She was gone as quick as she'd appeared. - Jon XII, ADWD

+.+.+

She woke suddenly in the darkness of her cabin, still flush with triumph. Balerion seemed to wake with her, and she heard the faint creak of wood, water lapping against the hull, a football on the deck above her head. And something else.

Someone was in the cabin with her.

Okkkayyyy. Hold, please.

Daenerys dreams of a great "victory" on the Trident ->

Did you teach him wisdom as well as valor, Ned? she wondered. Did you teach him how to kneel? The graveyards of the Seven Kingdoms were full of brave men who had never learned that lesson. - Catelyn IX, AGOT

"Torrhen had brought his power south after the fall of the two kings on the Field of Fire," said Jaime, "but when he saw Aegon's dragon and the size of his host, he chose the path of wisdom and bent his frozen knees." - Jaime II, ASOS

-> Wakes up from that dream, hears noise all around her, then realizes someone else is in the cabin with her?

Bwahahahahaha.

+.+.+

"Irri? Jhiqui? Where are you?" Her handmaids did not respond. It was too black to see, but she could hear them breathing. "Jorah, is that you?"

"They sleep," a woman said. "They all sleep." The voice was very close. "Even dragons must sleep."

LMAO.

Quaithe is a troll!

+.+.+

She is standing over me. "Who's there?" Dany peered into the darkness. She thought she could see a shadow, the faintest outline of a shape. "What do you want to me?"

"Remember. To go north, you must journey south. To reach the west, you must go east. To go forward you must go back, and to touch the light you must pass beneath the shadow."

Not a girl standing in the room undetected! Not darkness! Not a shadow! Not Quaithe baiting you with those words again!

Her fingers brushed against rough unfinished stone to her left. She followed the wall, her hand skimming along the surface, taking small gliding steps through the darkness. All halls lead somewhere.

[...]

Her footsteps sent soft echoes hurrying ahead of her as Arya plunged deeper into the darkness. - Arya IV, AGOT

Quiet as a shadow, she heard. Was it her own voice, or Syrio's? She could not tell, yet somehow it calmed her fears. - Arya IV, AGOT

+.+.+

"Khaleesi?" murmured Jhiqui, rubbing her eyes. Viserion woke and opened his jaws, and a puff of flame brightened even the darkest corners. There was no sign of a woman in a red lacquer mask. "Khaleesi, are you unwell?" asked Jhiqui.

"A dream." Dany shook her head. "I dreamed a dream, no more. Go back to sleep. All of us, go back to sleep." Yet try as she might, sleep would not come again.

That was no dream, that was your nightmare come true.

+.+.+

If I look back I am lost, Dany told herself the next morning as she entered Astapor through the harbor gates.

Some people live and learn, and then there's Daenerys.

+.+.+

Today she rode her silver, clad in horsehair pants and painted leather vest, a bronze medallion belt about her waist and two more crossed between her breasts.

On day two, she's dressed like a Dothraki.

Like a Dothraki.

+.+.+

Slaves and servants lined the ways, while the slavers and their women donned their tokars to look down from their stepped pyramids. They are not so different from Qartheen after all, she thought. They want a glimpse of dragons to tell their children of, and their children's children. It made her wonder how many of them would ever have children.

What a totally deranged thing to think right before.

+.+.+

Ser Jorah Mormont was behind in mail and surcoat, glowering at anyone who came too near.

On day two, he's in mail.

Red Wedding vibes.

+.+.+

Rhaegal could sense something wrong as well. Thrice he tried to take wing, only to be pulled down by the heavy chain in Jhiqui's hand.

Oh I have no doubt Rhaegal immediately sensed something was amiss, and tried to leave. That seems just like Rhaegal. Too bad he was chained.

<- Jon III, ASOS

I should have tried to kill Mance Rayder on the Fist, even if it meant my life. That was what Qhorin Halfhand would have done. But Jon had hesitated, and the chance passed. The next day he had ridden off with Styr the Magnar, Jarl, and more than a hundred picked Thenns and raiders. He told himself that he was only biding his time, that when the moment came he would slip away and ride for Castle Black. The moment never came.

+.+.+

I ought to have a banner sewn, she thought as she led her tattered band up along Astapor's meandering river. She closed her eyes to imagine how it would look: all flowing black silk, and on it the red three-headed dragon of Targaryen, breathing golden flames. A banner such as Rhaegar might have borne.

Lol, you like banners, eh? How about on masts?

+.+.+

While the payment was being made, Kraznys mo Nakloz favored her with a few final words on the handling of her troops. "They are green as yet," he said through Missandei. "Tell the whore of Westeros she would be wise to blood them early. There are many small cities between here and there, cities ripe for sacking. Whatever plunder she takes will be hers alone.

I'll take 'Things You'll Immediately Regret Saying' for $1000, Alex.

+.+.+

Dany handed the slaver the end of Drogon's chain. In return he presented her with the whip. The handle was black dragonbone, elaborately carved and inlaid with gold. Nine long thin leather lashes trailed from it, each one tipped by a gilded claw. The gold pommel was a woman's head, with pointed ivory teeth. "The harpy's fingers," Kraznys named the scourge.

Is there anything funnier than the description of this whip?

+.+.+

Dany mounted her silver. She could feel her heart thumping in her chest. She felt desperately afraid. Was this what my brother would have done? She wondered if Prince Rhaegar had been this anxious when he saw the Usurper's host formed up across the Trident with all their banners floating on the wind.

So much Trident in this chapter! So much build up to confrontation and war. So much hatred and animosity. So much blood thirst!

I don't see love, devotion, or admiration. Not even the fake kind.

+.+.+

"IT IS DONE!" she cried at the top of her lungs. "YOU ARE MINE!" She gave the mare her heels and galloped along the first rank, holding the fingers high. "YOU ARE THE DRAGON'S NOW! YOU'RE BOUGHT AND PAID FOR! IT IS DONE! IT IS DONE!"

They sure are!

And after them came her handmaids, and then the others, all the Dothraki, men and women and children, and Dany had only to look at their eyes to know that they were hers now, today and tomorrow and forever, hers as they had never been Drogo’s. - Daenerys X, AGOT

+.+.+

It is time to cross the Trident, Dany thought, as she wheeled and rode her silver back.

~Trident!~

+.+.+

Kraznys screamed and staggered back, the blood running red down his cheeks into his perfumed beard. The harpy's fingers had torn his features half to pieces with one slash, but she did not pause to contemplate the ruin. "Drogon," she sang out loudly, sweetly, all her fear forgotten. "Dracarys."

I don't doubt it.

(Sang!)

+.+.+

A lance of swirling dark flame took Kraznys full in the face. His eyes melted and ran down his cheeks, and the oil in his hair and beard burst so fiercely into fire that for an instant the slaver wore a burning crown twice as tall as his head. The sudden stench of charred meat overwhelmed even his perfume, and his wail seemed to drown all other sound.

That's gruesome for a reason.

+.+.+

"Unsullied!" Dany galloped before them, her silver-gold braid flying behind her, her bell chiming with every stride. "Slay the Good Masters, slay the soldiers, slay every man who wears a tokar or holds a whip,

Amusing little moment here, that can't be a mistake. Two paragraphs earlier, the author reminds the reader who else is holding a whip.

A Dothraki slaver.

One man kept his saddle long enough to draw a sword, but Jhogo's whip coiled about his neck and cut off his shout.

+.+.+

but harm no child under twelve, and strike the chains off every slave you see.

If someone was wondering if George might approve of this, he's already given the answer.

"The blood of children?" Robb pointed at the corpses. "How old were they? Twelve, thirteen? Squires." - Catelyn III, ASOS

+.+.+

"Freedom!" she sang out. "Dracarys! Dracarys!"

"Dracarys!" they shouted back, the sweetest word she'd ever heard. "Dracarys! Dracarys!" And all around them slavers ran and sobbed and begged and died, and the dusty air was filled with spears and fire.

Of course dragonfire is her favourite word.

(Sang!)

Final thoughts:

Did you know if you killed every single world leader, all the problems of the world would cease to exist?

-> return to menu <-

#operation stumpy re-read #asos #daenerys iii

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cybertronian-cupid · 3 years

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hey um, i saw that requests were open and im still not sure if this will get through but, can i have a tfp megs with an s/o who is really into things relating to collars and leashes?,, im sorry if this has already been done before, i just really want to see how it plays out !!

im really sorry about how i type, it just gets embarrassing to ask for stuff like this :(

Anon, the way you type is perfectly fine, and let me tell you that I couldn't get enough of this request (it also reminded me of this anon thirsting). Since I couldn't choose how to write it, here a both sub & dom s/o headcanons.💥

These did get lenghty, but a fave is a fave and there is surprisingly more to the whole collars and leashes thing... Master dynamics and more fun jazz*cackles* ~Gregoria🏩

............................. ....................... ............................

Submissive S/O:

When his S/O says they want to wear a collar during sex he is amused. His dirty talking and growling will be full of different nicknames.

He wants to see what really gets them going; are they his loyal pet? Servant? Slave? He has them on a leash already, it'll just take a tug in the right direction for them to roll over and please him.

His favourite thing is seeing them present the collar to him, and how their eyes practically light up when he fastens it around their neck and hoists them up by it.

When he isn't mass displaced he finds the way they look precious. Almost makes him forgive their slip ups during training.

He won’t let them kiss him until he wants it and if they don’t come to him fast enough he will yank their leash. He won’t give them what they want until they learn to behave, and the more he has to pull, the more careful he has to be, and so he’ll indulge them less.

Standing in a corner becomes a challenge of its own, since they have to look properly sorry when he asks them if they’ve learned their lesson. If they ask nicely enough, he’ll treat them as rough as they want the next time they behave.

He does have to replace the leashes too often for his liking, mostly because they snap too easily. Chains are the exception, but those limit the amount of punishments. And the eventual bite imprints on the leather when his S/O brings him the leash are a big part of his fun.

When they say they’ve been considering more than just using play collars, he needs a proper explanation for what they mean.

Once they explain the significance and steps of collaring, he needs a moment to process it. Humans have… many courting rituals it seems.

As their Master he will make sure his property is treated well, if they are certain they want this.

He gets them a new training collar to wear around the ship and takes great delight in both their embarrassment and the way he can make full use of their arousal once they are back in his quarters.

He tells them exactly what kind of collars they'll go and buy for themself for when they are out of his sight and rewards them accordingly when they return with a variety for him to approve of.

They end up owning a pretty little collar for nearly every occasion, and when they are outside of the Nemesis they can pick between the many velvet, studded, leather or simple jewelry chokers they bought on his instructions.

Each of them has his name in Cybetronian glyphs engraved on it. Subtle enough for them to always remember who they belong to, and not suspicious to the point of alerting the autobots.

Onboard the ship they have strict rules that are in effect as soon as they set one foot inside.

Training in confidence and demeanor is the first thing he begins with. Posture collar and a corset secured by a thick chain is something that they wear every time he takes them to the command bridge.

When he does give them a formal collar, it's made out of a part of his armour with a conjux vow etched into the metal. They are branded with the Decepticon insignia, either burned or tattooed into their skin. Whichever it is, he monitors and helps with the healing process of the mark.

Soon after they are fully healed he might indulge them in attending a bigger party hosted by the community. During their training he has attended smaller events more often, but he has a war to win, an army to run and minimal amounts of patience for other humans.

They are allowed to keep contact and interact with the other submissives, pets, slaves and the like, but aside from a dominant he deemed trustworthy enough to keep an eye on them, they are not allowed to speak to any of the others attending the events. Weeks of receiving the barest of attention are not worth it.

............................. ....................... ............................

Dominant S/O:

He's suspicious at first. They aren't the first to imagine or want to see him wearing something like that. They are however the first partner to outright say it and not backtrack when he challenges them about it, or shy away from actually discussing it with him.

The first time he does mass displace, just to give them a bit of advantage. He doubts wearing a collar will actually do anything for him, especially with the kind they chose. He expected a regular thick chain, and they got what looks like a thick leather belt.

He finds their improvisation amusing and intriguing, especially when they manage to fasten it in place with surprising ease and speed.

The training is relatively boring at first, since they seem set on "fixing" his daily routines: refueling, recharge time and similar nonsense, when he could instead focus on running battle simulations and revising plans and possible locations of the autobot base. His remark over this counting as part of recharge doesn't go unpunished.

The sessions with less training are mostly teasing and playful, with him intentionally disobeying and pushing his s/o's buttons and letting himself be manhandled.

They've broken a cane and a number of paddles after they eventually decide to touch his spike, but a punishment was still in order. He actually overloaded while counting the strikes on one occasion and had to work hard for them to play with him again. Playing didn't mean he got an overload from them however.

His behaviour changes for the better when S/O actually gets him a proper play collar in his size to wear when he isn’t mass displaced.

How did they do it, where did they get it? Doesn’t matter, because with the way they are looking at him when he puts it on he doesn’t plan on asking too many questions.

Once he’s relaxed he’ll do anything and everything they say perfectly, as long as it ensures they keep their attention on him.

He was genuinely shocked to find just how distressed he was by the lack of it during one scene, and he had no idea how to handle the much longer aftercare that followed. When the two of them were reestablishing boundaries there was much frustration involved, simply on account of him being stubborn.

He might get ready for them on occasion. Seeing his S/O coo at how eager he is on those days he waits for them with his collar on, does funny things to his frame.

Put him on a leash when he’s at the peak of his heat. Do it, he’ll be a desperate, dripping mess just from having the collar and leash in sight and will overload as soon as he gets the order to put it on.

He won’t do any sort of branding or such. If, and that is a big if, he’d ever consider wearing a mark that is not of his cause, it would have to be after conjuxing his human.

Friction marks or scratches on his plating however? He doesn’t mind those at all. He even finds S/O a bit too pushy if they keep checking in about his comfort and the marks left around his neck cabling. There was quite some improvisation involved for them to be able to do anything in the first place, might as well let their dedication show.

He was the one to ask about the events and parties, and took great pride at the reaction to his holoform, and the following boost of his S/O's reputation in the community due to his appearance and stellar behaviour.

His S/O being the one to wear a key to his (mass displaced) collar on them at all times, with a shiny metal tag bearing his name, has his engines run hotter. Knowing they are powerful enough that he can call them his Keeper with certainty, and knowing they are aware of how quickly the tables can turn if they betray his trust is a special kind of high.

Correction tools are a must with him during play. Even if he is well behaved, being the center of attention just by wearing the collar is already a reward of its own, so an ocassional reminder of who's in control might be neccesary

When or if the training extends out of the bedroom, his S/O will rarely find he didn’t follow the orders to look after himself when they are away. It does benefit his overall performance on the battlefield, keeps his temper mostly in check and he gets their praise on top of it all? No reason to disobey then.

If anyone asks why they wear a sturdy chain belt with an additional chain attached to Megatron’s armour, it is most definitely just a safety precaution in case they fall off. No other reason at all~ ;)

During high stakes the rules have to be either negotiated or undergo slight changes. His S/O picks up on the source of his frustrations easily and most times suggests changes before he even brings it up, reaffirming that yes, in this regard he can calmly let them take the lead.

#Always a great time when the shy ones send in requests!💥~G🏩#valveplug #tfp valveplug #tfp megatron x sub!S/O #tfp megatron x dom!S/O #collar kink #collaring kink

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