lostcarnival | ⇨ THE MASQUERADE

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⇨ THE MASQUERADE

Who: Everyone! Attendance is mandatory.
When: Late Day 65
Where: The Celebration
What: The Masquerade arrives, and so does the carnival's enemies. For more info, check out the Draculas 101.
Warnings: Further party hell. Also, vampire violence, mind control, etc.

THE HOST & THE HORDE↴

The time of the Masquerade arrives. You've been given free reign of the place up till now, but a few hours before the party commences the Host will inform you that your presence will be required, and will assist you (forcibly, if need be) to sort out any last minute costuming concerns you might have if you've left it until now. When masks and outfits are sorted, you'll be left to your own devices until you are summoned on the evening of Day 65.

The Masquerade will start off normally - relative to everything else in this place, at least. Everyone in the Celebration will be called in for this event, centered in a grand hall with side rooms offered to those that need them for whatever reasons might come up. The food and drink is especially ambrosia-esque this evening, and the music will stir your soul, even if you're not usually a music person. Enjoy it if you can - the peace won't last.

► MASKS: Though the masks seemed only mundane before, once within the Masquerade atmosphere, they will magically begin obscuring people's identities beyond what a normal mask should be able to do. When a person is wearing one, it would be supernaturally difficult to figure out who they are - maybe you forget what their voice should sound like, or maybe the other details escape you. Of course, it's possible to figure out if you look for it, based on general shapes and personality traits, but unless you know someone well it could be a challenge. Of course, you can just take your mask off and remove the enchantment entirely - though the Host will hassle you if they notice you going without. Stop ruining the party!

► TEMPTATION: Though it's felt easy to be whisked away by the draw of pleasure and luxury during the rest of the week, that feeling will seem to come to a head at the actual party. If you are aware of what needs to be resisted then it's possible to fight back and ignore it, but more than ever it feels all too easy to just dance your life away. Nobody seems to be dying from it, at least, or 'burning out' any faster as a result - it's mostly just extremely distracting from other concerns. Like vampires, for instance.

VAMPIRE: THE MASQUERADE↴
It's during the latter half of the party that things will start to go bad. Though it will go unseen by the carnival, the Masquerade has gained an additional set of guests - the vampire's of the demon lord that has been chasing them for the last several months. The Host doesn't discriminate, and anyone is welcome to attend the Celebration, provided they don't start a fight.

Right. About that.

► THE KINDRED: The vampires don't like to play fair, which means that they are going to be attacking with stealth and trickery - taking advantage of the way that the party has dulled the alertness of many of the carnival's workers. They'll be using that lack of inhibition to lure individuals into places they can be attacked or turned in private - their primary goals are to capture the Supervisors and to turn as many of the Ringmaster's workers as possible before escaping back to their dimension. Some of their targets will be gone before anyone has a chance to notice.

Remembering that they will be avoiding big public confrontations, so if anyone starts one of those it will probably by the carnival members striking back. This is going to wear on the Host's patience extremely quickly.

► COLD IRON: Oh, right, and they are definitely bringing iron weapons - as pure as they could get. They'll have things like iron collars or shackles to try to trap people with, as well as iron daggers and guns with iron bullets. They'll have to be on the down low with, but they are going to exploit that weakeness as much as possible. Those that have only been in the carnival a few months will mostly just feel discomfort at the touch of it - as if they are touching something that is slightly too hot or too cold. Veterans that have been around for years will find its touch to be burningly cold - the type of temperature that would threaten to destroy flesh after prolonged contact. Those that have been here for up to three years will take it the worst. See the Transformations page for more details!

► TURNING THE TABLES: Being turned is a mixture of pleasure and pain, and is often hard for mortals to mentally reconcile as it happens to them. Being drained by these vampires is simultaneously impossibly satisfying and extremely terrifying - once they've started in on your, the way it overwhelms your mind and body can make it nearly impossible to stop them without help. Once you are dead or dying, they will feed you their blood - at which point your body will go through a painful transformation as the demon spirit takes its place inside of you and your dead body is violently resurrected.

As soon as you wake up, freshly changed, the bloodlust will set it - it will be extremely hard to control, and at first all you will think about is wanting to sate that hunger. Combined with your sire having direct control if your mind through your blood connection, new vampires will be mostly incapable of doing anything but following the whims of the rest of the vampire pack and seeking nourishment. This blood lust will begin to fade after they've fed. Killing isn't necessary to feed, but it can be hard to stop yourself, as a neonate vampire.

► CLOSING TIME: Before the party is officially over, the Host will have had enough. Before you can pursue all of the vampires or take back the people they've stolen, the lot of them will have escaped back to their dimension, and the Host will have kicked the entire carnival out for participating in so much violence. If you want to make any final moves before you go, this is the time.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[The reaction is expected, she just hadn't thought all the way through the action. As is fairly common for her. She has a reason she's doing this, and thinks very little about how Foster is going to react, except that she knows the rougher she is with treatment the less he will complain about it. It's something of a routine for her, taking charge of his ~~self~~care, and shutting down his protests of such. Her next move is to tie the cloth strip tightly around his hand. She'll double it up with a second layer in a second, and at some point they should probably get some gauze for it? He really ought to have stitches probably but whatever.

The silence is also not out of place, and even if it was abnormal she probably wouldn't notice it. 'Motormouth' is insufficient to describe what happens when Sophie really gets talking. And right now talking is honestly much better than having to think about all this so here come The Words.]

I'm from a few months later. Well like, closer to a year I guess. You didn't seem suddenly any different, after that trip, so I guess for my world you? Never went to the carnival? I don't know anybody whose really dealt with something like that so I don't know what to tell you. Grant and Chip are doing good, and no undead enforcement squad officers have busted down my door yet so there's that.

[The fact that she just effective admitted that he's living at her place doesn't really occur to her. It was just a...summary of events on her end without getting into any real Situational Details.]

Edited 2017-03-11 22:03 (UTC)

[Sophie's penchant for filling silences without concern for reciprocation is part of what makes it easy for Foster to exist in the space next to her. He doesn't mind talking--in fact, a lot of what she says can be interesting--but he dearly minds the requirement to respond.

He struggles to follow what she's saying now, though.

For several reasons. His eyes are still a little glazed, and his mind is definitely elsewhere. On the pain, and how much more he wants it. On the tight pressure of his crude bandaging. On cravings of physical nature. On a question she's inadvertently raised. And she's presenting him with a lot of information that isn't immediately relevant nor entirely asked for.

But it's mostly the concept of 'the future'--the actual existence of a future for him, one in which he is alive and even somehow both known and relevant--that he's a bit delayed to digest.

Being alive (or undead, anyway) still hasn't really sunk in yet. He'd only just begun to appreciate its reality--a reality in which he was neither dead nor in imminent decay--when he was involuntarily contracted to the carnival.]

--okay?

[His answer comes out somewhat blank.

But she's shot herself in the foot in more ways than one. It's only a few more seconds before he appends something else.]

I'd have been more concerned about vampires coming to break down my door, to be honest.

...but good to know.

Edited 2017-03-15 19:01 (UTC)

[*RECORD SCRATCH NOISE*]

[Sophie is rigid and still for a long moment while she contemplates how much of an idiot she really is. She was just thinking about how he might not even know they're living together and then she goes off and just sorta SAYS it. Fuck, shit okay so. Jfc she's an idiot. Right okay, this wasn't as bad as she's worried it is though. This Foster is from a time where they're whole...domesticity thing would cause a freaking total implosion. But just living together, he's literally from the time where he'd said yes to that. Although they hadn't really ever had an invitation and acceptance thing, it had just sort of happened. The point is though that the idea could easily seem plausible and unremarkable to him if she just went with it like how it actually started out. Convenient and casual, like everything else they did. She can do that.

She may have ran away explicitly because she wasn't sure she could do that actually, but Living with it full time was different than just describing it. So she'll just uhh, have to avoid THIS Foster too until she gets her head on straight. God shitting fuck, she should have known that nothing at the carnival could be as easy breezy beautiful as it had seemed like at first. She is an Idiot, capitol i.]

Oh uh, you never really move out after Poland. [Shrug. Normal shrug definitely.] Just more convenient this way than you traipsing back and forth. Specially now that you have to sort of wear at least some clothes cause of the- [She draws her finger across her neck and makes an exaggerated schhhhck noise.]

[Convenient...

Her choice of words gives him pause as he turns that over in his head. Convenient.

His physical existence has only two benefits to Sophie: sustenance and sex. The onus of living with someone--something--like him would be alleviated at least in part, by the elimination of his own physical needs. Food. Sleep.

Without that, he's one step closer to his ideal.]

--so I'm your live-in sex toy.

[It's an idea that would appeal to him no matter what his current state of physical arousal. Being objectified and used is all he's ever wanted. If Foster could be said to have anything like ambition... well, maybe ambition is a poor term.

It's his dream.

Or perhaps, right now, 'fantasy' would be a better term.]

That sounds.... ideal.

[He doesn't clarify who it is ideal for.

In truth, he means both of them. But--]

[Sophie clenches her jaw, draws her lips tight. The left edge of her mouth stretches backwards, shifting her whole mouth sideways. She's trying not to frown, an action she is thoroughly unfamiliar with. What's worse she can't really just Fake it by smiling either. She doesn't want to smile about this. Not now, and she wouldn't have just after Poland either.

She hadn't known that's how he thought about it initially. She should have guessed, could have guessed to be honest, but as usual she wasn't the best at remembering to consider other people's thought processes. She did with Foster more often than with other people, partially because of how unusual he was, and partially because she knew she DID understand him better than most. But even when she wasn't actively trying to puzzle out how he arrived at some conclusion, the idea that he had his own motives, just like everyone else slipped into the background.

The worst part though is that she's not sure he doesn't still think about it that way with her. Her whole THING was respecting his person-hood. Advocating simultaneously that she'll treat him how he wants BECAUSE being defective and emotionally deficient doesn't make his desires not matter. Her thoughts almost start careening into the 17 car pileup that was common whenever she tried to think about foster lately, so she cuts off that thought as soon as possible. It was a feedback loop to getting paralyzed and she couldn't afford that right now.

But it hurts, and unlike him, she can't just not feel that hurt. Which was the problem-

AUGH!

Her teeth grind. She downs her drink, then searches for another and takes a hefty swign of that one too.]

Yeah it's been going good.

[And it's not a lie. Okay bullshit it is a lie it's not going good NOW, but it had been for a while so shut up. As the booze settles in her stomach she feels what she knows to be the oncoming haze and comforting escape of drunkenness. She does manage that smile after all.]

[The more he thinks about it, the more he likes it. The more the excitement in him manifests in something he can feel. Where before he was disconnected and disoriented, suddenly he's burning with a need to know. 'Going good.' Going good? It's frustratingly nonspecific.

He wants to know--wants to know what she does with him, what she does to him, what he does for her, what is it like--? What is it like to experience the ideal--to be used, fully and at every desired opportunity? A reality, and not a bitter fascimile of it, as his contract to the Carnival.

It does answer a question he hadn't really 'asked' yet--he knows now, to at least some degree, just how functional his body is. He hadn't really tested it. There's been no opportunity, no desire... well, maybe there was, in a sense. But Atlantis isn't really relevant; his entire lower body was 90% of a whale, that doesn't tell him anything except that whales have, apparently, extremely flexible genitalia.

Regardless, Foster's perspective-taking ability is significantly weaker than Sophie's. In this regard, she has to do a lot of heavy lifting between them--they failed spectacularly at anticipating each other for a while, and it was Sophie who laid out the problem in a way Foster too could see.

It doesn't occur to him to see her sudden heavy ingestion of alcohol as anything other than 'drinking: the verb.' It does occur to him to ask a question: a question he's asked her dozens of times before. Casually. Pointedly. By text. In person. By phone.

It goes like this:]

Are you hungry?

[Foster's more intense obliviousness to any non-surface meaning actions might have is honestly a reason Sophie enjoys his company so much. (Under normal non temporally fucked circumstances anyway.) She doesn't have to worry about what her actions might be saying, either in that they're giving her away, or that they're saying something she doesn't mean. In so many ways, she can really relax around Foster, and it's a relief. Not something most people can say. It's something she hasn't really noticed or thought about. Something that, if she did notice, would stack with her other worries about becoming dependent on his presence. It's just one more way she naturally and unconsciously relaxes her guard around him. Something that she'll sorely miss when she finds herself without it.

As preoccupied as she is, as slow as the week long bender has left her thoughts, and as dense as she ever is keeps her from automatically understanding their little shorthand. She answers quickly, truthfully, and with enough desire that even Foster could pick up on it.]

Oh man yeah. This place has just about everything, but seen all the solid food around and not getting to have any is. Uuuhhg.

[She thinks about that cheesecake she saw yesterday. Holy shit she misses cheesecake. Feeling full from blood to shove that craving aside is definitely an attractive thought. And then it's other meaning between them catches up with her. Oh right.

She....really really shouldn't. Like she knows she shouldn't. But her mind and her stomach are thinking about blood now. About how it's been a bit too long since her last real meal. About how drinking on an empty stomach was bad after all, (not that that had stopped her the rest of the week). About how she could always say she wasn't up for their normal post feeding routine later. And wait okay. Why exactly shouldn't she? Like, it's clear she shouldn't she KNOWS there's some reason. But it's just?? Not really coming to mind? Where'd it go.... Feeding and Fucking between them was....well it's what they DID. Its the part of their relationship that's easy and simple and good god man he's got a READY MADE HOLE in his hand perfect for leeching off of.

mmMMggmmhgmmm. Hell, she'd already said yes and whatever the reason for her initial hesitation it's not really coming back to her so fuck it.]

Fuck. Yeah, let's go.

[She grabs his hand, (yeah, duh, the injured one). He's already bleeding through the thoroughly insufficient cloth bandage a bit, and the spatter of red all around on the table cloth is just one more nudge to her cannibalistic hungry brain. She licks her lips and heads quickly for the nearest ball room exit.]

Hhah--!

[It's a breathless sound, one of pain; it hurts--in a good way, sharp and piercing, right through his hand and down his arm. She really didn't need to say anything--after her statement of hunger, this is the equivalent of grabbing him by the crotch.

He lets her drag him out of the room, superficially no different from any other pair of masked partygoers escaping the festivities in order to have a little party of their own.]

[The hurried scuttle back to her room with Foster in tow seems to be a conveniently shorter trip compared to when she headed TO the masquerade. Party City lending a helping hand once again. Still it's not an instant transportation, and by the time they arrive her head is swimming a bit from having straight up chugged that champagne. She drops Foster's hand after it takes her more than one attempt to get the key to do the thing, but within a few more seconds the door swings in.

She doesn't grab Foster again, instead just moving forward into the room. She grabs the desk chair that is conveniently near the door, and drags it over to the side of the bed. Then she flops down onto the mattress and just lays on it with her arms spread out for a second. Sssssoft. Nice.

Then with a grunt she props herself up on her elbows and tells Foster to get his ass over here with pointed eye contact, and a jerk of her head towards the chair.]

[They probably made a comical sight. Foster has several inches on Sophie, after all; being pulled by the arm, injury or not, requires a little bit of bending on his part. Bending he was glad to do--the fact that she's pressing her grip hard into his injury included. Sophie doesn't seem inclined to let go of his hand no matter how willingly he follows--nor would he want her to; the pain is addictive, and when she finally lets go, his nerves are bitten with a renewed sharpness of it, replacing the duller but hotter throb of pull and pressure. There is nothing quite like that kind of sensation, to him.

Once the door opens, he waits impatiently. Sophie dictates this scene; he obeys her direction without a word, though his own eagerness is visible in more ways than one.

For example: the way he unwraps his hand for her with clumsy, hasty fingers, only taking the time to marvel at the sight of his opened palm once the makeshift bandage walls away, the bared muscle and ligament revealed behind by the splitting of brown skin.

And, of course, the smearing of blood.

It's not that there's anything inherently erotic about drinking blood, though he's had plenty of partners who licked blood from his wounds before--and he enjoyed it. But there's something about Sophie's hunger for his blood that drives him crazy. In a good way. It's so thorough; so sincere. It's being used in the most carnal sense.

Of course, there's also a certain association at this point; the two of them have plenty of sex outside the context of her appetite for blood, but one appetite often begets another. Not always--but often enough.]

Edited 2017-03-25 22:02 (UTC)

[When he sits in the chair she sits up with only a very slight wobble. She grabs at his wrist, and pulls his hand towards her, really looking at the wound this time. The pressure and the bandage had been fairly effective at stopping the active bleeding, and the peripheral area is covered in drying blood. She starts at the very outer edges, licking up the thin fully dried layer and working her way inwards. She's thorough about it, even to the point of pulling his arm up and away from him to clean any excess that had dripped down towards his elbow. She gets between his fingers, around his wrist, both sides of his hand, and finally she pauses and leans away.

She studies his hand for a moment, then adjusts her hold on him. Her fingers press tightly against the back. She doesn't want both sides bleeding, or half of it would wind up on the floor. When she's satisfied that she got all the pre-spilled blood and that none is going to be wasted, it's time to work at the wound itself. It starts with long flat laps of her tongue on the palm side, coaxing the blood to start flowing again. Then once she can feel the blood welling to the surface she starts digging in. There's no need for her to use her teeth, she just tilts her head, presses her lips down along the cut and sucks. It makes a super gross noise. The fact that the cut goes all the way through means there's some air coming through too, which is...pretty weird to say the least. But the flow of blood is more than enough now that she's got it going, and she alternates between filling her mouth by suction, and digging her tongue into the hole to really appreciate his flavor.]

[Sophie's tongue runs up his forearm, her teeth only occasionally grazing his flesh in harmless passage while she works him over, between his fingers and over his wrist, before returning, carefully--painfully--around and into the mouth of his wound.

It had closed, more or less; his dead body is reluctant to bleed like it did in life. Wounds clot and die, his necromantic order only able to maintain a sputtering fascimile of the real thing. But with encouragement, it flows fresh--providing them both with a kind of sustenance, in the end.

There isn't really a word or series of words to describe the feeling of it; the way it hurts, her tongue and its muscles and its rough texture and the raw opened flesh. The way it hurts, her suction of blood out through the slit, the pressure and the feeling of movement at the surface, the heat of her mouth against exposed wound--

The sound it makes it so crude, so wet and disgusting.

He watches her feed, eyes locked on the sight, mouth just slightly open--transfixed.

But his right hand, which had been sweeping back repeatedly in his hair lets go now and drops to his lap; he leans back against the chair for a second before giving up on that and pressing his palm against the base of his cock, massaging it. His hand stays outside his trousers, but there's no mistaking it for what it is: he is fondling himself while watching Sophie ~~give oral to~~ suck the blood out of his open hand.]

Edited 2017-03-26 00:52 (UTC)

[Once she's satisfied she turns his hand over, gives the other side a few broad licks, then lets go of him and begins cleaning off the blood from her own hands.

Her senses are dulled, primarily by alcohol, and secondarily by how focused she was on her hunger and now her satisfaction. So she fails to notice Foster fondling himself until she's finished. By then he'd slipped his hand under his waistband and started jerking himself off properly. Her eyes flick towards his lap, and despite her earlier insistence that a) sex would be a bad idea and b) she could refuse to follow up after the feeding, she feels more than a slight twinge of arousal. Primarily she's an angry drunk, but for her aggravation, aggression, and arousal are pretty closely linked.

And man, she sure is aggravated by this whole damn situation.

And this, this was their ROUTINE. This part of their relationship was the easy shit. The GOOD shit. This wasn't her stupid and unreasonable need for Foster to be something he wasn't, do something he couldn't. This was her wanting exactly what he wanted. This was...well. This was why it had eventually built to the stupid one sided bullshit she was in now, but. But FUCK she didn't want to make it seem like anything was wrong, especially since it was 100% her fault. Okay well like 90% her fault and 10% a fucking cruel joke of fate itself. Besides, why the FUCK not okay? He's horny, she's on her way there, this is a bed and a room they don't have to clean.

Uuuuugh yeah okay that settles it, this is happening.

She slaps him, hard.]

Quit that. Get your hand re bandaged, strip, then get on the bed.

[She herself rolls over, (rather ungracefully), to get off of the bed on the other side. Her weird not quite a dress thing has some buckles that need fiddling with, as do her boots. She gets her mask off first though, chucking it unceremoniously to the side, then gets to work on her own clothes.]

Edited 2017-03-26 22:21 (UTC)

[Foster hadn't really made a conscious decision to progress from fondling to something more purposeful; it just happened that she hadn't stopped him. It felt good, but it could feel even better; and the more he gave, the more he wanted. The building sensation, the heady mixture of servitude and indulgence. Feeling--intensifying, rising, growing out of pain and pleasure.

Until her hand cracks across his face. The impact is so hard it literally stuns him, his masturbatory hand stilled by shock--just for a moment. Then the pain--and its thrill--kick in.

Rebandaging is difficult--more difficult, even, than its reverse. One-handed, shaky from arousal and impatience; he's been drooling, a thin strand of saliva runs from the corner of his mouth as he uses his teeth to hold the makeshift bandage in his place, saliva forcing him to bite down as he pulls it tight over his wound. The flesh of his hand is ashen from being drained, the inside of the laceration glistening with Sophie's saliva and a few stray drops of blood.

The bite of pain gives him another little rush as he knots it off--he strips quickly, his erection already painfully ready as he obeys Sophie's commands. He's almost shivering with excitement.]

[As is customary for them, Sophie keeps her bra and underwear on for the time being. She's thinking about what she wants from this, and for a second, about what Foster wants. If he knew he'd be mad. There'd been some turbulence between them in the past, (his future), around that. Which, okay fine whatever, avoid the fallout by avoiding the problem. What DOES she want?

She stands with her hands on her hips, scrutinizing him. Stress relief. She's not in a huge dom mood or anything. That kind of working him over, breaking him down, she certainly enjoyed it but it was a kind of work. Definitely had effort involved and took more...thinking and stuff than she's really super able to do right now. She's just horny. Horny and drunk. And he's had plenty of foreplay as it is during the feeding so like, whatever. Just tie him up and get to it.

Oh right uh...with what? This wasn't her house, there weren't just copious restraining mechanisms lying around in basically every room. This was a standard, if fancy, hotel room basically. Oh! Duh, right sheets, that's like. Go To improvised bondage. But wait, Foster's already on the bed, shit.]

No wait, get back up again.

[This is like some weird game of Simon Says. Like...Sexy Simon Says. Strip Simon Says would just encourage fucking up though, they'd have to modify the punishment/reward system somehow but LATER. Right now the agenda is bondage. Fairly gracelessly she yanks the comforter off the bed, then the sheet. She starts winding it up into a roughly rope like shape.]

Okay NOW, lie down. Hands up at the headboard.

[Foster isn't really going to argue with her right now, although he does track her every move as he obeys. Notably, though, he does obey her command to raise his hands to the headboard; he is more than willing to cooperate on the setup in order to hasten the transition to what is--for both of them--the payoff.]

[Watching Foster hop up and then flop back down again is pretty amusing, she can't lie. A stupid drunken smile falls over her face, and her gaze is pretty clearly fixed on Foster's crotch. Dicks are pretty hilarious to her, and watching Foster's bob and flop around as he moves isn't sexy in the least, it's just plain funny.

But okay, awkward logistical stuff is out of the way time to get down to it. She straddles him across his stomach, wrapping the sheet once around both wrists, then tying it sloppily around the headboard. It's not her best job at restraint, but it's tight enough. It's not like Foster tends to go against her wishes anyway. A decent chunk of time the bondage was really more ornamental or symbolic as opposed to functional.

Now it's time to get into it. She sits, resting all her body weight on Foster's skinny gangly frame. It's a weirdly effective form of breathplay for them, and provides a unique kind of pain for him. And she likes to feel him struggle between her thighs. Normally right about now she'd start some kind of dirty talk. Humiliation, or degradation, but she doesn't really feel up to that at the moment. Her mind is a soup of booze and trying to remember what should be off limits for now... So instead she just grinds her hips down, and puts one hand on his neck. She's always had claws technically, but on returning to her own world the glammor had hidden them from him, and now she finally has the chance to show them off. The points dig in. She has no intent of mauling him (tonight anyway), but this is her way of teasing the possibility. ]

Edited 2017-03-31 22:06 (UTC)

[It's not that Foster never tries to go against her wishes; his struggles, at a certain level of pain, can get pretty pitched. More to the point, there have been times--more distant to her than to him--when he felt he wasn't being punished enough.

Then, he really did challenge her.

Now, though, he's been behaving himself fairly well. He wants what she wants; isn't that the natural ideal? Her weight comes down on his ribs, crushing breath from his dead lungs; he can feel his ribs strain, his muscles protest. As she pushes down, he pushes against her, fighting for each (unnecessary) breath, squirming for space, for his chest to rise, for freedom.

But her hand closes over his throat, piercing claws digging points into the dead flesh, and a surge of heat in his groin--excitement, anticipation, a thrill both physical and otherwise--his hips buck, just a little, twin beads of of saliva trickling down the corners of his mouth.]

More--

[He chokes, gasps wetly.]

More. Choke the life out of me! H...hhhhgk. Crush my ribs--like you mean it!

[Her smile immediately fades. Okay so maybe she CAN get in a kind of dom mood right now. All this fussing over not paying attention to what he wants, because that IS what he wants, and all these stupid feedback loops of stress and confusion, and now he's just ordering her around? No.

She takes her hand away immediately, and rises up somewhat on her knees, removing the pressure.]

Don't fucking tell me what to do.

[Through a haze of bitterness, she tries to remember again, what routine they'd had at his point in time. Had they figured out that pain as punishment didn't work for them yet? That can't be right, that was one of the first things they figured out together...Maybe he's just eager, maybe he's just forgetting. Whatever the case here's one place she's definitely not willing to start back at square one.]

I'm in charge here. If you want something you've got to earn it you shitheel.

[Oh yeah, there it is. She's getting back into it, this is gonna go fine. This is gonna go great. Foster's about to get a lesson (possibly for the first time) about trying to goad Sophie into things.]

Edited 2017-03-31 22:43 (UTC)

[Self-control is difficult for him; he can force himself to DO something, but holding back is much harder. Especially when it comes to the sensation, to feeling. He knows immediately that he's fucked up, though--in his eagerness, his excitement had taken over his knowledge of the rules.

The instant she takes that pain, that threat of real, serious injury away from him--the instant she speaks--

It's immediately effective.

A long time ago--or not so long ago, depending--he had done it on purpose, goading more and more out of her with deliberate misbehaviour. Until he pushed her to snapping; safewording herself to escape unscathed. Since then, she'd begun to punish him with something that really hurt; withholding pain, withholding sensation of any kind. A punishment worse than any, and far more explicit.

Correct contrition is a struggle; he's silent, yes, but there are a few seconds of still-heaving chest and desperate squirming before he goes still, recapturing his own control.

He meets her eyes, still silent--still drooling, hungrily, from the corners of his mouth, but obedient. Compliant. Waiting. For her command.

Even his cock stands at attention.

The strain is visible, however, so much so that she can watch him come closer to breaking with every second. He's ravenous for this, a lust for pain or pleasure or both, so his need is barely contained even under threat of losing it all.]

[He falls still with no complaint and no confusion, which is a good sign. He knows what's up, and that puts her a bit at ease. She rewards him quickly for good behavior, sitting all her weight back down on him quickly, but she denies him the thing he wants most a little longer. Her hand does not return to his neck immediately. She's not bluffing about him having to earn it after all. Instead she rakes her nails, (lightly, pointedly and most certainly frustratingly lightly), down his chest.

Watching him drool was always weirdly satisfying. It was an undeniable, uncontrollable sign that he was enjoying it. Like getting a cat to purr, but yknow. Gross and sexy. Grexy? No that's really dumb.

When she's dragged her nails down past the edge of his ribcage, she gives him a bit of what he wants.]

Good boy.

[And her hand moves, suddenly much faster, starting from the right edge of his collarbone and scratching down and across. The cuts left are long, but shallow, she did just feed after all, she doesn't want him to loose much more blood on top of that. But shallow, stinging, scrapes, ones that would just barely bead up with blood, that was perfect.]

[Ah--

Yes. There's something... perfect about that moment, the moment when Sophie takes away and in doing so, takes control, corrects him, steers him to becoming what she wants him to be. Attentive. Obedient.

His chest rises and falls--heavy breathing, ready, eager, just on the edge--her nails down his chest, he strains, shudders... but keeps a lid on it, just barely, just enough. And he is rewarded. She gets the satisfaction of a gasp and a short, sharp jerk against and beneath her as she draws dark, sluggish, stagnant blood out of him.]

[She splays her hand over her work and adds pressure. Then she drags her hand down, her skin stinging at the cuts and smearing what little blood there was. Next she shifts her weight, slowly inching herself backwards until Foster's dick is pressing up against her ass. Her hands grip either side of him, just under his ribs, the nails of her fingers digging into his sides, her thumbs pressing sharply into his abdomen. The grip is to hold him still under her, stabilize him and herself as she grinds against him, focusing primarily down and forward. This was about warming her up, giving her stimulation not about enticing him. He's plenty enticed already. Truth is she likes the heat, the stiffness, the promise behind her.

But no, she isn't the needy one, won't be. That's Foster. Foster is the desperate, dependent mess. She leans down over him, her face close to his with a pitying smirk that's only a little bit forced.]

How long's it been for you? Have you been going out of your mind without this, or did you miraculously find someone else willing to put up with your sorry ass?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

⇨ THE MASQUERADE

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and thus marks the first appearance of actual chatspeak in Sophie's internal monologue.

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We gonna move this soon, or keep it here?

WARNING: this gets super nsfw from here on

ya they nasty.

This thread was YOUR idea, all shame is on you

shame on me is water on a duck's back you know that

I don't have icons for this kind of thing. Whoops.....?

when we get to the sex part I'm probably just gonna start using her default over and over.

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