You must be 18+ to visit this website
The content on this website is AGE RESTRICTED
Please confirm you are at least 18 years old of age. Otherwise leave the website.
I am over 18 years old
You must be 18+ to view this content
You are about to access content, published by
V's Character Consulting & Development
V's Character Consulting & Development
By proceeding, you confirm that you are
at least 18 years of age.
Yes, I choose to proceed
V's Character Consulting & Development profile
V's Character Consulting & Development
V's Character Consulting & Development
Individual Roleplay and Character Development for the Discerning Submissive.
Send Message
50abbaee dd12 4db5 b348 6ed08b1dcac2 120x120 1x0 91x91
V's Character Consulting & Development

Step Into My Parlor... No Really, I Don't Bite.

Welcome to V's!  If you've been role-playing for any amount of time, you know there's a serious imbalance between Dominants and submissives.  With so few full-time RP Doms out there to give your character the emotional and story development they need, what's a sub to do?

V offers a one-on-one roleplay experience, and a catalog bursting with fully developed Dominants ready to take an active hand in your character's backstory or current RP.   Choose from a lush variety of furry, scaly, or human-adjacent options ranging from feral to civilized, from sweet to sadistic.  With so many choices, we can put your submissive character through the wringer while ensuring that you, the player, are always being treated with care and respect.  V observes Safe/Sane/Consensual guidelines with players (characters may be a different story!) and will work with you to help create the experience you're looking for.

Interaction is available via Discord and Google Docs, if you'd rather save your work for posterity.  Contributors are expected to observe reasonable standards of grammar and spelling and to be on time for their appointments!

Rules and Expectations >
Frequently Asked Questions >
Browse the Public Catalog >
Products and Price Sheet >

Subscription Tiers

per month
Ss logo sign mono back
Standing Appointment

Subscribing at this tier gets you one in-character scene per month. Additional scenes must be purchased separately.

Limited (0 out of 8) subscriptions
per month
Ss logo sign mono back
Regular Customer

Subscribing at this tier gets you one in-character scene every other week on a consistent, pre-established schedule.

Limited (0 out of 4) subscriptions
per month
Ss logo sign mono back
VIP Client

Subscribing at this level gets you one in-character scene each week at a scheduled appointment time.

Limited (0 out of 2) subscriptions


  • Get information about sales, schedules, competitions, and the occasional steamy short story.

Recent posts

50abbaee dd12 4db5 b348 6ed08b1dcac2 120x120 1x0 91x91
V's Character Consulting & Development
Public post

Ye Tavern Of A Winter's Eve

A little bit of fiction starring Jakken!  This ficlet contains: Explicit porn, forced seduction/noncon, crying, light bondage, spanking, excessive penetration, excessive cum, sensory triggers: taste/smell, face-fucking, snuggling
Eilyn sensed trouble the minute they entered the tavern, blown in on a gust of winter wind.  Rowdy, armed, flush from some battle or contest they had obviously won, they tumbled into the Rusty Jug in a tangle of green, gray, and brown limbs.  Some were full orcs, some were half-bloods, but their camaraderie was clan-thick, back-slapping and shoulder-pounding without regard for blood purity.  They took over two tables and barked for drinks, their speech distorted by tusks and underbites.  They smelled like feral musk and cured leather, and they emphasized their grunting, guttural speech by pounding the table and stomping the floor.

Eilyn ducked behind the bar and glared at Fargan Rust.  His employer was human, jowly and red-faced.  Eilyn despised his sour-smelling flesh and feared his temper, but he pleaded his case regardless.  “I won’t go upstairs with any of them.”

“You will if the coin’s good,” Rust replied.  “Or you’ll find another place to whore.”

Outside, the snow was soft but the wind was bitter.  Tavern owners hiring servers and whores were spoiled for choice in the winter - everyone wanted a job that came with a warm bed and at least one square meal.  Eilyn couldn’t work the docks in this cold.  He was skinny even for an elf, and he’d freeze.  “No orcs,” he tried to insist, but it came out a plea.

Rust stopped, shifted, lifted a hand dangerously.  Eilyn flinch back, well acquainted with his version of discipline.  “You’ll fuck who I tell you to fuck, or go sell your skinny ass on the street.  Get back to work.”

Battle lost, Eilyn did his best to avoid the orcs’ tables, but they were thirsty and they were paying.  A few leered and catcalled him, and he kept his head down, tugging at the disarrayed locks of his hair to better conceal his pointed ears.  He dodged blunt fingers and grasping hands and ignored their commentary.  Surprisingly, none of them chose to pursue the issue, and he offered a quiet thanks to the Goddess who looked after whores like him.  Their aggression had limits, it seemed, and aside from a few playful smacks to his ass, nobody manhandled him.  But one half-orc, his skin the gray-green of a mossy stone, caught Eliyn’s eye as he moved around the table.  His dark gaze was steady, and Eilyn cringed, skin prickling between his shoulder blades.  He could feel the heat of his eyes on him, even when he returned to the bar for another tray.  

When he came back loaded down with roasted chickens, bread, and roasted vegetables, a feast that made his sunken stomach whine, a full-blood with skin the green of fresh sage leaves caught his wrist.  His hand was big enough to encircle Eilyn’s bones twice.  “How much, little fairy?” he rumbled, porcine maw spread in a leering grin.

Eilyn twisted his wrist away and hustled out of reach.  The orc muttered a curse in his guttural tongue, but he didn’t pursue it, and went back to his meal.  Eilyn thanked the goddess for small favors.  The half-orc smiled, eyes following Eilyn around the table.  He had underbite fangs, not full tusks, and his nose was more human than porcine, favoring his human parent.  Probably the mother, knowing how orcs treated their conquests.  He was almost handsome in a brutish way and he was the quietest at the table, drinking his ale and just… watching Eilyn.  Not leering, more considering, like he was taking his measure.  Like he was sizing him up.

Fear burned in Eilyn’s belly. He knew that look.  He fought back tears as he moved among the tables, shifting his hips and flashing a desperate, too-bright smile at the other patrons.  He was praying another customer would buy his services first, praying he’d be upstairs letting some fat trader suck on his ears before one of the orcs could go to the owner and request his services.  But in this, the goddess did not smile upon him.  

He was fetching a meal tray from the kitchen when Rust appeared in the doorway and grabbed his upper arm.  He nearly toppled the tray, and Eilyn went up on his toes, swallowing a cry of outrage.

“You’ve got a customer,” Rust sneered.  “Upstairs.  Room three.  And if you don’t show, I’ll take his refund out of your hide.”

Eilyn’s stomach sank into his knees.

Shaking, he delivered the tray and then climbed the stairs to the upper rooms.  His legs and his guts felt heavy, dragging him down, and the pounding of his blood made the stairwell waver and narrow before his eyes.  This job was wretched most of the time, but it was usually bearable.  Customers were rude, entitled, sometimes violent, almost always a little disgusting, but they were simple.  Eilyn didn’t know how he would endure this.  There was no escape from an orc - their smell, their grunting, their roughness and their stamina flooded the senses, cut off retreat.  He’d have to try to send his mind away, to just endure it, but he knew it would not be quick.  They liked to get their money’s worth.  Rust loved it - because orcs took so long, and had so much seed to spill in any warm hole that would take them, he charged them more.  Because almost no whore really wanted orcs as customers, he could haggle up the price and count his gold while his workers suffered.  They would obey or be thrown out to starve and freeze.  Rust’s sense of human pity had been fully replaced with greed.

Eilyn reached the top of the stairs.  He passed two rooms, and heard grunting and feminine cries from one of them - Saleen, who was past her prime and motherly, and a favorite of some of the older regulars.  The door to the third room seemed to loom before him, large and distorted, and he pushed it open with a shaking hand.

The half-orc waited for him inside, back turned to the door.  He’d taken off his jerkin, but he hadn’t stripped any further, exposing a muscled and scarred physique.  The scars were livid, painful-looking… orcs took pride in their war wounds, and often irritated them during healing or rubbed dye into them to make them stand out.  This one seemed to favor blue woad, and even Eilyn had to admit it was the right compliment to the shade of his skin.  He was standing next to a washbasin on the small bedside table where an oil lamp burned, and rubbing himself down with a wet cloth.  This small courtesy surprised Eilyn… washed up and fresh, the orc would still smell, but not as badly.  There was another scent in the room, and he realized the half-orc had brought his own soap.  It was a cream-yellow bar full of bits of green, packed with common herbs to repel lice and fleas and and prevent skin afflictions.  It’s scent would further stifle the musk, making this experience less unpleasant.  Eilyn wondered if the brute kept it specifically so he wouldn’t be so repulsive to whores.

He turned when Eilyn shut the door and leaned against it, shaking.  Eilyn glared, doing his best not to show the fear and revulsion boiling in his belly.  The half-orc gave him a knowing smile, surprisingly soft, like he saw it anyway and found it amusing.  Or worse: cute.

“Take off your clothes,” he said with surprising gentleness.  “Lie on your back.”  His voice was smoother than the average orc’s, and less guttural, but not as even as a full human’s.  His protruding canines softened some of his consonants, but at least he didn’t spit.

Eilyn’s fingers shook as he struggled with the buttons on his clothing.  They were large and simple, made for easy release so his customers could get at his flesh faster, but in that moment he wished they would simply refuse to come undone.  He didn’t want to be naked for this brute.  He didn’t want that greenish skin pressed against his, forcing its stink into his pores.  He didn’t want the smear of yellowish fluid from an uncut head, or the thick, slimy drip of semen, and he prayed the half-orc wouldn’t want his mouth.  If he had to swallow that foul seed, he would vomit.  

At least the orc wasn’t trying to make it romantic.  Eilyn’s clothes fell and the cool air made his skin rise in goosebumps.  He climbed into the bed, feeling the half-orc’s eyes on him like slime sliding over his skin.  His lungs spasmed with the need to sob. He spread his legs, and begged the whore goddess that all he would want to do was mount and rut so Eilyn could hide in a dream of a deep wood, green with summer, while he was used.

“Put your hands on the headboard.” Despite the softness of his tone, this was an order.  Eilyn obeyed, gripping the rough wood.  Huge, thick hands wrapped around his wrists, holding them tight.  Then a length of rope rasped over the sheets and wound around his wrists, and Eilyn cried out, struggling, yanking at his hands, overcome by panic.  He had no leverage; the half-orc was too strong.  His other hand settled on Eilyn’s chest, easily covering him with the spread of his fingers, holding him down against the thin, stuffed mattress as he strained and whimpered.  “Shhh,” he soothed.  “Easy, little one.  I’m not going to hurt you.  I just want to take my time with you,” he said, as if that wasn’t just as bad, as if that wasn’t worse. His thumb rubbed briefly over Eilyn’s lower lip, and Eilyn’s breath caught on a sob.  Despite his struggles, the half-orc tied him down to the headboard with quick, efficient movements.  Eilyn wondered how many others he’d trussed like this.  His knots were are firm, and they didn’t slide.  Eilyn was caught, but he wouldn’t lose feeling in his fingers… small mercies.

“Shhh,” he whispered again, thumb brushing wetness from Eilyn’s cheek.  Eilyn turned away from his touch, but there was nowhere to go.  Those fingers traced the fine bones of his face, the pointed line of his jaw, the fullness of his lips.  He almost bit, but before he could resolve to it, they moved on, tugging and kneading at his ear.  “Relax,” the half-orc rumbled as he fondled him.  “You’re fine.  I know you’re scared.  I won’t hurt you.”

“I hate you!” Eilyn blurted out, gone mad for a moment, not even caring what response it might provoke.  Rust wouldn’t care if the half-orc beat him a little.  He’d just charge a little extra, since he’d be less pretty for a few nights.  But the half-orc didn’t look angry.  He just smiled and knelt between Eilyn’s legs.  His huge hands caught Eilyn’s ankles before he could coordinate enough to kick at him.  Eilyn yanked at the ties, panicking a little, sobbing in humiliation and rage.  “Get off me!”

“Shhh.” He bent down, lifting Eilyn’s legs over his powerful shoulders.  He nuzzled Eilyn’s thigh, and his tusks caught on his skin, but the kiss was soft.  It made him shiver despite himself.  “Relax.  I just want to taste you.”  His voice was nearly a purr.  His strong hands slid over Eilyn’s thighs, squeezing, keeping them snug around his head.  He nibbled, sucked, and kissed the vulnerable skin, taking his time, exploring Eilyn’s body like a connoisseur with a fine wine.  The firm, wet slide of his tongue gave way to teasing nibbles, blunt teeth pressing against his skin when he found a pulse point to suck, creating a delicious, throbbing bruise.  Eilyn whimpered, squirming - this was not what he expected, this deliberate and slow devouring, and his body betrayed him, responding with a flush of heat and a clenching ache inside.

The half-orc smiled when he saw that, and Eilyn closed his eyes, hiding from his dark gaze.  Strong hands slid under his ass and squeezed, kneading the lean muscle there, pulling Eilyn’s cheeks apart.  Blunt fingers probed him, exploring, and his stomach turned as he realized he was aroused by this; he was throbbing and shivering and starting to crave it.  His thighs had fallen further apart as a thick finger firmly circled his entrance, rubbing back and forth so the pucker opened with each pass, silently begging for that touch.  Goddess, help me….

“That’s good,” his captor rumbled, dark eyes dancing.  “Let’s see how hard you can cum.”  Those words hit Eilyn like stones, and settled just as heavily in his belly.  The half-orc’s mouth slid down Eilyn’s thigh and found his ball sack, drawn up tight with fear and anticipation, and Eilyn cried out in shock and pleasure as the wrinkled skin was drawn between his lips.  Gods, this was wrong… that mishappen mouth, that rough, slick tongue, the blunt prod of his underbite as he started to lick and suck on Eilyn’s tender sack.  His tongue probed into the crease of Eilyn’s thighs, under and around his testicles and over his sensitive taint.  Eilyn writhed in his arms, flexing, crying out in ecstasy and denial, gritting his teeth and keening with each breath.  His captor slicked his fingers in his mouth and began to work one into Eilyn’s ass, slow and firm, teasing his anus with a steady touch while he sucked hard at Eilyn’s balls.  He easily took the whole sack into his mouth and applied pressure until the root throbbed with ache.  His tongue rolled the soft spheres against the insides of his teeth, threatening him with their stinging drag, and Eilyn was coming apart, he was shattering, he was orgasming, and shame crashed over him along with the pleasure, sickness, despair - he was an elf, this was an orc, disgusting and coarse and barbaric, and Eilyn was wracked with pleasure in his arms, climaxing like the whore he was, bucking into that crude mouth and wailing like a cat in heat.  His fingers in Eilyn’s ass were blunt, thick, illicit, and drove him out of his mind, massaging the flesh inside him that quivered and clenched, almost-but-not-quite giving him what he truly needed… something to grind on, something to bruise him inside and satisfy the desperate craving in his belly.

His orgasm resolved into an aching throb, and Eilyn slumped in a disheveled heap.  Tears fell, trailing down toward his ears as he stared blankly at the rough ceiling boards, unable to see them through the burn of humiliation.  Those fingers still moved inside him, stroking the spot that ached and throbbed the most, and he moaned helplessly.  Semen trickled down his belly, tickling him, dripping down his sides toward the coarse blanket.

The half-orc didn’t let it get there.  He shrugged Eilyn’s thighs off his shoulders and wrapped them around his waist, bending down and capturing those thin, pale fluid-trails with his tongue.  He nibbled and sucked Eilyn’s skin, dragging his teeth lightly over the slight protrusion of his ribs, sucking on the divot of his navel.  Eilyn shuddered as he was devoured, breath catching on hitched sobs.  It felt good and it felt terrible.  It was a gloating act to clean him like this, to map his body with his tongue and teeth, to lap up the cum he’d forced Eilyn to spill.  Soon his hand joined in, sliding up Eilyn’s body, rough palm caressing his chest.  Eilyn lay limp, crying softly, not fighting the despair or the restraints around his wrists anymore.

He moaned when the half-orc found a nipple, and his hand found the other.  His cock, which hadn’t fully softened, began to ache and swell again as his captor licked and sucked those nubs.  He was slow, deliberate, but rough, pinching and tugging the flesh, forcing Eilyn’s nipples to harden under his touch.  Their swelling pleased him, and he slid his hand under Eilyn’s back, lifting him slightly even as the fingers of his other hand pushed deeper, scissoring inside him, stretching him with burning pleasure and circling his hidden pleasure center.  Impaled, Eilyn could do nothing but writhe and mewl in protest as the half-orc sucked one nipple until it bruised, then the other, tugging them with his teeth, flicking them with his tongue.  His hips twitched, and he gave a low moan of despair - he’d cum again from this treatment if the brute didn’t relent, rutting onto his fingers like an ovulating bitch dog.

“Stop,” he begged, arching when those fingers curled and pressed hard against his prostate.  “Gods, stop, please…”

“Does it feel good?” his captor purred, leaning up and fastening his mouth on Eilyn’s throat.  Eilyn shuddered, rocking his hips up in rhythm with the movement of those rough fingers, breath coming faster as his cock swelled to full hardness.  The nuzzle of the half-orc’s forehead pushed his jaw back, and he had no choice but to surrender his throat, letting those tusks dig into his pulse point and that tongue massage the tender skin.  “Answer me, Eilyn,” he whispered, nipping his earlobe.  Eilyn gasped, rage burning like a brand in his chest… damn Rust.  This was bad enough when it was anonymous.  To have his name whispered into his ear while he drowned in the scent of that musk mixed with lye and herbs, while thick orc fingers raped his ass and blunt orc tusks bruised his throat, was unbearable.

“Don’t call me that,” he choked, and the half-orc gave a soft chuckle.  

“Isn’t it your name?  What should I call you?”

Eilyn had no answer to that, and could only sob in rage while the half-orc nibbled and sucked the soft spot under his jaw, moving slowly upward to his ear, molesting the skin behind it.  The curse of being an elf was that his ears weren’t particularly erogenous to him, but they were to everyone else - everyone wanted to pull on them, bite them, suck them, and abuse them.  His ears were a fetish, and usually he didn’t care.  But this half-orc treated them differently, nibbling all around them, teasing him to distraction with anticipation.  Finally a tongue flicked into the canal, and he cried out, because that actually did feel good and his cock was starting to leak precum against his spit-slicked belly.  His earlobe was sucked, tugged, hand sliding up behind him to cradle and massage his head, and he found himself thrusting upward like he WANTED to cum, like he NEEDED it, pushing his cock against his captor’s weight and clenching around his fingers.

“Mmm, already?”  He still sounded amused, damn him.  The half-orc nipped his throat.  And then his fingers stopped, relaxing inside Eilyn, robbing him of the pressure that was driving him higher.  “Eager little fairy.  You pointy-ears are so fun to play with… you act all miffed and offended and then you beg to cum over and over and over….”

Eilyn shuddered, struggling against his bonds, hips squirming in the half-orc’s lap.  “J-just… just shut up and do it,” he sobbed, hating himself with every breath.

“First, tell me it feels good,” his captor said, breath hot on his throat, fingers tangling tight in his hair and keeping his head forced back.  “First, tell me you want it.”

Eilyn gave a cry of outrage.  But then those fingers moved, twisting just a little, sending a flicker of dark heat through him, and he bucked up.  “FUCK!  Fuck you,” he cried through his teeth.  “Fuck you, j-just…”

“Tell me it feels good,” he repeated firmly, dragging his teeth over Eilyn’s throat.  “Say it, beautiful.”

“I h-hate you,” Eilyn panted.  “You’re disgustinggggg…”  His words trailed into a groan when the half-orc’s fingers flicked his prostate, then spread before he could clench on the pressure.

“I can do this all night,” he murmured, flicking his tongue in Eilyn’s ear again.  “I would love to do this all night.  Feel you writhe on me, drink in those cute little whimpers… I’ll add another finger, and then another, slick up my whole hand and push it up inside you, grope you deeper than you’ve ever been touched… I could wear you like a puppet, watch that tight little fairy ass stretch wide around my arm…”

“N-NO!” Eilyn gasped, hips lurching as the half-orc tagged his prostate again, rubbing it firmly for just a couple of passes, getting him to the edge of orgasm, then stopping and letting the pleasure die while Eilyn struggled for breath.  “Damn you, please,” he forced through his teeth, and then sank back, unable to believe he’d let that happen, that he’d begged the foul brute even once.  

“Please’ is good,” his captor murmured.  “Please’ is nice.  But I want to hear the words.  Say them, Eilyn.”  He moved back down and nipped one of Eilyn’s swollen nipples.  “Say them, or I’ll take you over my knee and soften up that skinny little ass.  Would you like that?”  Eilyn keened, barely able to process those words, drowning in aching heat and writhing on his fingers.  “Do you need a good spanking before I mount you?”

Eilyn cried out in outrage, but he was helpless in the half-orc’s hands.  He panted through his teeth, trying to ride it out, trying not to writhe or respond.  But the slow, deliberate movement of his fingers wouldn’t let him escape.  He teased Eilyn’s prostate with excruciating skill, circling back and away, giving him too much stimulation to relax and not enough to climax or grow numb.  He stretched Eilyn’s anus, teasing him with that stinging burn, massaging those fingers along his other walls like he was claiming him, marking him inside.  Eilyn tried to kick, and earned another of those damned chuckles.  His captor could snap him like a twig, and no amount of resistance would get him free of this torment.

Then his head was forcibly turned, and the half-orc’s mouth came down on his.  He tried to clamp his lips shut but that hot, thick tongue thrust between them.  He bit, but it squirmed away, leaving the taste of blood in his mouth, and the half-orc laughed.  “Say it,” he ordered, and bit Eilyn’s lower lip, sucking on it hard, until his tusks dug into the soft skin.  “Say it feels good.  Say you want it.”

Eilyn clamped his eyes and mouth shut, lips pinched as tight as possible.

The half-orc kissed his mouth softly.  “All right.”  He backed off, and pulled his fingers out, and Eilyn couldn’t help groaning at the loss.  He ached all over, and his cock throbbed between his thighs, betraying him with its need.

Strong hands on his hips turned him over, and he had no will to resist.  He settled Eilyn carefully, one thick hand sliding into his hair, massaging the nape of his neck and rubbing his thumb behind Eilyn’s ear.  The bed creaked as he shifted, dragging Eilyn’s hips into his lap and arranging him over his thick thighs.  Eilyn’s cock prodded his leather pants and the hard muscle beneath, and for the first time he felt the answering hardness concealed under his breeches, an unyielding ridge that his body wanted desperately to grind against.

“My name is Jakken,” he said, still rubbing Eilyn’s head soothingly.  “When you’ve had enough spanking, I want you to say, “Please, Jakken, I want your cock.”  I won’t stop until you say it.”

Eilyn shivered in mixed arousal and horror.  That massaging touch was lulling, and he almost sank into it, dragged into submission by the ache in his core.  Then a heavy, unyielding hand smacked down against his ass, bruising him, sending a throb of pain up his spine, and he gave an undignified squawk, eyes flying wide.

The half-orc reached over him and found the oil on the table, next to the washbasin.  He uncorked it and slicked his fingers, pressing them into Eilyn’s ass again.  The new, slick slide made Eilyn moan, and he couldn’t help lifting his hips, shuddering as he silently pleaded for more.  The hand that had been rubbing his head, that delicious spot behind his ear, vanished and his whine turned to an irritated growl… until it came down like a paddle on his ass and made him jump and squeal, gasping, body throbbing with the movement of fingers in his ass and the bruises blossoming on his cheeks.  “J… Jakken,” he groaned, head spinning, and that hand came down again, pushing a scream out of him.

“That’s good,” Jakken murmured, rubbing the bruised spot he’d just struck.  “I like hearing you use my name, Eilyn.  Are you ready to tell me what I want to hear?”

Somehow, Eilyn had lost himself in a reality where Jakken was in charge and all this made sense.  It seemed perfectly reasonable for him to shake his head, like the problem was that he wasn’t ready, not that he was helpless in the hands of a sadistic monster.  Jakken spanked him again, and he mewled, fresh tears welling.  Those probing fingers found his prostate, and he bucked, drooling into the covers, toes curling in helpless pleasure.

An third oil-slicked finger pressed at his entrance, and he gave a long, shuddering moan.  The cock would be thicker, doubtless… but this stretch felt excessive, felt inhumane.  His throat closed as Jakken mercilessly pushed the third finger into him alongside the other two, making stirring motions with his hand that drove Eilyn’s brain right out of his head.

Jakken began to spank him hard and steady, kneading his ass between strikes, fingers working slowly in and out of him while his thumb rubbed along his taint.  Eilyn lost himself.  Reason fled, awareness went hazy, and he was distantly aware that he was moaning low and rough like a hungry animal and humping Jakken’s lap greedily.  He thrust back onto his fingers, arched for his hand, cried and sobbed and cursed, soaking the blanket with tears, drool, and snot.  Jakken was careful not to let him reach orgasm, but he had found something that felt even higher, a place where his entire body seemed to vibrate at a higher frequency, like he was caught in a bolt of lightning-ecstasy that burned relentlessly under his skin.  Jakken’s fingers fucked him slow, then fast and hard, bruising him, then slow again just when he’d started to rock into the rhythm.  He spanked Eilyn’s ass and thighs, covering his skin with the marks of his hand, sometimes dragging his nails lightly over the raw, reddened skin and making Eilyn scream.  The blows shook his entire body, drove the breath out of him, and soon even his sobs were captured by the rhythm, and he breathed in time with the descent of Jakken’s hand.

He was so lost when it ended that he couldn’t react.  Jakken pulled his oiled fingers free, tossed Eilyn onto his back, straddled him and pinned him with his weight, and kissed him hard.  And Eilyn’s mouth opened, falling slack, letting the brutish male claim his mouth.  Taste flushed hot against his senses - meat and ale, spices, the lingering bitterness of Eilyn’s own cum, and a thick tongue curling with his, forcing him to submit.  Iron fingers framed his jaw, keeping him from biting, but he didn’t even try.  He moaned, letting his tongue lap clumsily against Jakken’s, letting Jakken’s tongue push into the back of his throat and tickle the hanging flesh there.  It filled Eilyn’s mouth, and he relaxed with a moan, swallowing when the tip probed deep and relaxing into the bruising pain of his grip.

“That’s more like it,” Jakken whispered when he broke the kiss, nipping his lower lip.  “Ready now?”

He took a shivering breath.  “P..please,” he whispered hoarsely.  “I…”

“Mm,” Jakken murmured, finding a corner of the blanket to wipe Eilyn’s face.  “Not quite?  Maybe you need my hand up your ass…”

Eilyn shuddered and closed his eyes.  “I want your cock,” he choked.

Jakken grinned.  His eyes danced with wicked playfulness.  “That’s good, Eilyn.  That’s really good.  I’m gonna let you prove it to me.”  He kissed him again, without holding his jaw open this time, and Eilyn let him.  The taste wasn’t too bad.  It didn’t turn his stomach.

Jakken sat up and swung a leg over his chest.  He thankfully supported his own weight, because Eilyn would have suffocated if he hadn’t, and he tugged at the lacings of his breeches.  The bulge there was thick and long, straining the seam, and Eilyn shuddered, but that was all he could manage in response.  Leather parted, and Jakken dug inside, tugging out a cock as thick around as Eilyn’s wrist and almost as long as his forearm.  It was darker than the rest of him, and the tip was shiny with precum.  Thick veins wrapped around the bulging shaft, and the head was fat and blunt.  The heavy scent of musk rolled over him, but at least it smelled clean, only hints of sweat and a little of that soap.  The foreskin gleamed, trapping yellowish fluid beneath it, and Jakken rubbed it up and down over the head.

“Have you been with an orc before?” he asked.

Eilyn swallowed and looked away.  Jakken promptly gripped his chin and forced him back.  The blunt head of his cock pushed rudely against his lips, and he parted them, grunting when Jakken pushed against his mouth.  The head forced his teeth apart, and he was being held still, fighting to get a breath around the massive penis that was suddenly invading him.  Jakken didn’t warn him not to bite, and Eilyn barely even considered it.  He just held him, pushing into him, forcing him to take his thick, heavy cock deeper and deeper until his throat spasmed around the tip.  

“Swallow me, little fairy,” Jakken growled.  “Make me nice and slick so I can rut your tight little ass.”

Tears spilled from Eilyn’s eyes, both from self-hatred and from having his throat filled and bruised so rudely.  Jakken held his head up and pushed into him slowly, and it wasn’t more than he could handle, but it was so much.  He choked on it, coughed and gagged, struggling a little as his eyes watered and he fought for sips of air.  The half-orc’s cum had a sour, bitter taste.  And his damned traitorous cock bobbed like a flag in the wind, so hard it ached, leaking more of his own thin, pale precum until it dripped ticklishly down his shaft.  He pulled at the ropes, wrists burning and chafed, ass rubbing against the coarse blanket and stinging abominably.  It made him gasp through his nose while Jakken thrust into his throat, cock making wet, sucking sounds that reverberated through his distended jaw.  His cock dipped deeper each time, until Eilyn’s eyes started to roll back, white sparks and black spots overtaking his vision.

Jakken shuddered and dragged his cock back.  He left the tip in Eilyn’s mouth, and Eilyn coughed and swallowed the thick mucous pulled up by his thrusting.  He licked the tip, tongue probing clumsily under the foreskin, eyes glazed as he obediently fellated his captor.

“That’s so good,” Jakken whispered, sliding his hand into Eilyn’s hair.  “Fuck, you’re so sweet.  I want to cum in your mouth.  Show me you want to drink my cum, baby.  Open your mouth nice and wide for me.”  He rubbed the head of his cock on Eilyn’s lips and tongue until Eilyn let his head sag back, mouth hanging open, jaw ringing with the strain.  Jakken wrapped his hand around the root of his cock and began to pump it, groaning as he thrust the tip back into Eilyn’s throat.  “Ohhhh, yes,” he growled, pounding the tip into Eilyn’s throat, bruising him but not penetrating as deep.  Eilyn moaned helplessly, grateful for the air he was getting, slurping messily around the thrusting cock and shuddering in revulsion and lust.

Jakken’s breath went short and choppy, grunting through his teeth as he started to orgasm.  He pumped his cock hard and rough, pulling Eilyn’s head up so he could fuck the back of his throat, and Eilyn did his best to swallow through tears and choked breaths.  “That’s it…”  Jakken’s body arched, strong hips and belly etched in flickering light for Eilyn’s blurred vision.  “Swallow it!” he snarled, hoarse, fingers knotted tight in Eilyn’s hair, and came, thick, hot spurts of sour semen splattering the inside of his mouth, coating and filling his throat.  It came too fast to gulp down, filling the space under his tongue, seeping between his teeth and his cheeks, then finally spurting up his nose when he struggled to breathe.  Eilyn drowned in it, fighting to swallow it fast enough, writhing and kicking as it dripped from his nose and his mouth and gurgled in his throat.  Jakken groaned long and low and shifted upward, cupping his hands under Eilyn’s mouth and tipping his head back.  “Drink, come on, that’s it,” he panted as he gave slow, rolling thrusts onto Eilyn’s tongue.  And Eilyn struggled to obey, sucking that bitter, slimy fluid down, slurping around that veined cock, tongue thrusting under Jakken’s foreskin as he did his best to drink every drop.

His stomach was roiling by the time Jakken finally finished, burning, full of vinegar and acid.  Jakken rubbed his cock slowly over Eilyn’s lips, and he shuddered as he sucked and licked him clean, coughing and whimpering between breaths.  When Jakken was satisfied, he got off Eilyn, and Eilyn hacked, pushing up and swallowing thick globs of mixed mucous and semen.  They slid slowly into his rebelling stomach, and tried to come back up while Jakken took the corner of the blanket and cleaned Eilyn’s face.

Then, showing mercy Eilyn didn’t expect, he gave him a sip of clean well water from a tin cup.  Eilyn gulped it down gratefully, still coughing, and blinked up at him, eyes glazed, body shaking with a fine tremor.

“I want to untie you and hold you in my lap,” Jakken told him, pressing soft kisses marred by the hardness of his tusks across Eilyn’s face.  “I want to kiss you while you ride my cock.  Are you going to be good?”

Eilyn shuddered, nodded.  He’d be good.  Jakken clearly meant to get his money’s worth out of him.  Jakken kissed his mouth softly, and reached up to unfasten the knots he’d tied so deftly.  When they came loose, he held and rubbed Eilyn’s hands, massaging the palms until he could move his fingers again.  He kissed Eilyn over and over, and Eilyn let him - let him explore the ravaged corners of his mouth, let him taste his own semen on Eilyn’s tongue, let him confirm how thoroughly he’d conquered him.

Jakken pulled him up into his arms.  Eilyn could not have moved on his own if the tavern had been burning down.  He’d left his pants on the floor when he’d gotten Eilyn water, and he was naked, ugly and gorgeous, all hard muscle and ragged scars and a thick trail of dark hair leading down his belly, surrounding his rigid cock.  He sat up against the headboard and settled Eilyn in his lap, reaching for the oil, slicking his cock despite the coating of mucous that still clung to it.  He coaxed Eilyn’s arms around his neck and slid his hands under his ass, lifting and spreading him, fingers slipping between his cheeks to probe his still-loosened anus.  He guided his cock to Eilyn’s hole, gripping his raw, bruised cheeks, and slowly began to let him down.

He was thicker than three of his fingers.  He was thicker than Eilyn’s wrist.  He split Eilyn open, and Eilyn cried out pitifully into his shoulder, shuddering, sobbing as Jakken began to work his body down slowly on his well-slicked cock.  It didn’t burn much, thanks to all the lubrication, but his body cramped violently around the intrusion once it got deeper than most human customers ever managed to fuck him.  He convulsed, moaning, sobbing into Jakken’s shoulder as he was forced to take that hot, heavy impalement inch by inch.  Sometimes he had to squirm, and Jakken let him, writhing until the angle improved and his body shifted to accommodate that unyielding length.  Jakken’s cock nudged up against the bend of his intestine and he gave an open-mouthed moan of utter hopelessness while the half-orc gently forced him to roll his hips, holding him at an arch, coaxing and maneuvering him until it slid past and lodged painfully deep in his guts.

“Gods,” he sobbed, shaking violently against that broad chest.  “S-s-stop.  I c-can’t….”

“Shhh.”  Jakken let him stay there for a few minutes, body convulsing around his cock at all depths, alternately trying to clench, push, or relax to ease the agony.  “Shhhh.”  He rubbed his back in firm, slow strokes, kneading the spasming muscles.  “You’re all right, Eilyn.  Just breathe.”

“I can’t,” he cried, spilling tears onto his shoulder.  “I can’t, I can’t ta-ake it…”

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, rubbing his back and his neck, holding him tight, letting his body flutter and adjust around his cock.  “Just breathe.”  Eilyn dissolved in his arms, crying like a child, clinging to those muscled shoulders.  Jakken listened to his breathing and murmured soothing nonsense to him and when he started to take deeper, fuller breaths, he rocked up into him and pushed that air, and a sharp keen, right out of him.

“I can’t!” he sobbed desperately, taking whooping breaths as Jakken began to slowly, carefully thrust up into him.  “I can’t, I can’t, oh gods, please, PLEASE, Ja-a-akke-e-en…”  The half-orc’s name was a wail.  Everything hurt.  His cock had softened halfway, but the terrible penetration kept him from losing it completely, filling his head with heat and static.  “No-oo-o-OHHH!”

Jakken had pulled back enough to slip past the bend and then thrust back in, and the sensation made Eilyn’s sight go black.  His mouth hung open, and his protests dissolved into senseless, animal moans as Jakken began to fuck his body, moving impossibly deep inside him, bouncing him in slow, controlled thrusts on his cock.  It hurt, gods it hurt, but it was so arresting, the most impossible sensation, dirty and twisted and thrilling.  The veins on his cock dragged at his anus with each thrust, and clenching on it hurt but he couldn’t stop clenching, couldn’t stop gasping and writhing and trying to steal pleasure from the pain.  Jakken’s hands squeezed his sore ass, kneading the bruises, and he moaned like a bitch in heat, drooling on his shoulder a little and shuddering when his cock rubbed teasingly against Jakken’s belly.

Then Jakken slid a hand between them and gripped his cock, leaning Eilyn back just enough so he could claim his mouth in a hot, hungry kiss.

Eilyn orgasmed like an earthquake, splintering apart, shattering along deep and molten fault lines.  It hurt as much as, or more than, it pleased, and the sounds he made weren’t even human, muffled by Jakken’s mouth devouring his.  That hand was rough with callouses, strong, milking his shaft, pulling his semen up from his balls in tight, commanding pumps, until he spilled messily all over Jakken’s fingers and bucked against him in uncontrollable convulsions.  Jakken rubbed his thumb firmly over the little knot of nerves below the head, rubbed up across the tip and over the slit, handling him like he owned him.  At the peak of it, Eilyn blacked out and sagged in his arms - it was too much, the ache and the sharpness, the pain, the struggle of his body to climax when every shudder hurt.

When he came to, he was still in pain.  Jakken had pulled him upward and draped him over his shoulder.  He’d spread one of Eilyn’s legs out to open him wide, and he was fucking him with slow, deep rolls of his hips, breath stuttering in those powerful lungs, using Eilyn like a warm, obedient toy.  Eilyn shuddered, announcing his return to awareness with a whimper, and Jakken began to bite along his ribs and back, gentle bites, love bites, as he slid Eilyn’s ravaged body up and down his rigid shaft.

He came soon after, shallowly, with maybe half his cock buried in Eilyn.  He thrust hard and fast for a few moments, and Eilyn sobbed into his shoulder, clinging to the headboard while that cock bruised his inner walls.  He felt it when Jakken came in him - humans spilled barely a couple of teaspoons, and never with enough force that he really felt it, but an orc could spill as much as half a cup of semen in one orgasm, and with enough force to pelt his insides with the spray.  It dripped down, slicking their movement even further, and Eilyn cried softly as Jakken groaned and slowed his movement, settling into languid satisfaction.  He let Eilyn slide down too, let him take his full cock inside him again, squishing with the liberal coating of his semen.  Parts of him had gone numb now, and it didn’t hurt quite as much, easier to find a position that was almost comfortable to rest against Jakken’s chest with several pounds of still-hard meat buried in his lower intestine.

He curled up as much as he could.  Jakken rubbed his back and dragged his fingers through his hair.

“You feel so good,” he murmured.  “So sweet and tight around my cock.”

Eilyn’s tears stopped, finally, and he took as deep a breath as he could manage, letting it out in a stuttering sigh of exhaustion.  “I can’t take anymore,” he whispered.  “Please.”

“Just rest,” Jakken told him, nuzzling his ear, nibbling it.  “We have all night for me to get my fill of your pretty little body.”

Eilyn hitched.  “Y… you paid for the entire night?”

“Why not?  I need somewhere to sleep.  And sleeping with a soft-skinned little bed-warmer is so much more pleasant.”  He sucked on the tip of Eilyn’s ear, nipping it playfully.

Eilyn had no energy for play.  “I can’t,” he whispered, pleading.  “Jakken, I CAN’T.  Please, I hurt.”

“You’ll feel better in a bit,” Jakken told him.  “And I’ll go easy.  But I’m going to fill you a few more times before this night is over,” he promised, giving Eilyn’s sore ass a fond squeeze.  “And I’ve got a nice little carved wood plug in my pack to make sure you keep all of it inside you until dawn.”  His fingers rubbed soothing circles in his hair.  “Do you need some water?  Something to eat?  You’re so skinny…”

Eilyn’s eyes closed.  “Are you going to take it out of my pay?” he asked bitterly.

Jakken laughed.  “No.  Not at all.  I’ll even order from downstairs if you want.”  He kissed Eilyn’s neck.  “As much as I loved feeding you my cum, your stomach needs something more substantial.  I could hear it growling when I was playing with you.”

This time, Eilyn didn’t even mind the press of his tusks. He had no energy to be embarrassed about his poverty. “All right,” he acquiesced.  “I’m hungry.”  He was always hungry.  That ‘one meal’ was usually broth with the scraped leavings of paying customers’ meals, and rarely filled him up.  “But not right now.  I need…”  He sighed deeply, head on Jakken’s shoulder.  Jakken’s scent surrounded him.

It didn’t repulse him at all.

Jakken gently coaxed his head up just enough to give him soft kisses.  “Rest, beautiful,” he whispered.  “Rest and cuddle.  You feel just as good in my arms as on my cock.”

His arms were strong and warm, and Eilyn melted into them.  The alarm of knowing Jakken wasn’t done making use of him was faint and distant.  He had no say in the matter.  Bought and paid for.  The half-orc had skillfully reduced him to a dazed and obedient toy, and Eilyn couldn’t argue with his effortless command of his body.

He sank into sleep listening to the half-orc’s strong, steady heartbeat.  There’d be plenty of time to hate himself in the morning.

50abbaee dd12 4db5 b348 6ed08b1dcac2 120x120 1x0 91x91
V's Character Consulting & Development
Public post

Other Dominants

If you're looking for something a bit closer to human, look no further.  Of course, 'humanity' is in the eye of the beholder.  Introductory fiction is in-progress.

Caleb Akigawa (Psychopomp)
Setting: Paranormal
Sexuality: Pansexual
Dominant Style: Intelligent, Calculating, Mischievous, Taunting, Arrogant
Key Kinks: Hunting, Cat & Mouse, Forced Seduction/Dubcon, Corruption, Teasing, Feeding/Bloodplay, Restraints and Toys, Fear

Mutters betray him, aghast whispering and fearful, judging gossip.  Poor taste, they say, gathering at the balcony overlooking the gravel drive, ladies fanning themselves briskly.  The worst taste, a terrible joke.  Certainly, the costume must have cost… a shame to waste such meticulous effort on such an unfortunate choice.  Was he mocking them?  Was he trying to insult the host?  Or was his sense of humor so far beyond the pale that he thought it was funny to show up to the ball in the guise of the necromancer?

You crowd at the balcony with the others, drawn by the whisper of his name.  It pulls you like a hook through your heart.  You couldn’t stay away if you wanted to.  Pushing past wide skirts and fluttering fans, you catch a glimpse of a pale form ascending the stairs.

And you KNOW.  The way he moves is imprinted on the insides of your eyelids.  His posture haunts your dreams, the darkness of his laughter plays in the back of your mind.  That’s no costume.

Your stomach slams into your shoes.  It’s a pleasant night, but you feel cold, and there’s a buzzing in your head, racing pressure of your blood, that makes you feel faint.  Your feet move without feeling the floor, carrying you past the balcony, past the buffet table, down the carpeted stairs like cinderella fleeing the ball.  The light of a thousand candles gleams off the glass framing the entry.  Dressed all in white, he seems to carry his own, colder glow.  One step to the stairs he stops, pauses, and looks up.

He knows you.  As surely as you know him.

Others have gathered.  They want to know who he is.  They think he’s one of them, just a human, just a mortal man who dyed his hair white and bleached his clothes and repainted his carriage to set tongues wagging at his arrival.  They don’t know.  They don’t KNOW.  And so you stand, panting, trying to find words as he climbs the stairs to meet you.

His hand takes yours.  His touch is cool.  His arm encircles your waist, and you melt into his grip, into the strength of his touch and the firmness of his body.  Your name will be mud in this town from this day forward.  He’s eliminated any chance of popularity you had with one touch, one acknowledgment.

His mask is a skull edged with owl feathers.  Beneath it, his eyes are a deep, blood red.  They lock on yours, and you are transfixed, moving where he guides you, dancing onto the floor, forgetting the gossiping harpies and their disapproval.  You are in the arms of Death - mortal concerns all seem petty.

If he decided to feel offended by his reception, he could kill everyone in this room in the blink of an eye.  You couldn’t stop him.  But his mouth curves in an amused smile, and his movement against you is unhurried.

“Caleb,” you breathe, one of the precious few to know his first name.  “What are you doing here?”  You dread the answer, but you have to know.  He chuckles, and those owl feathers brush your cheek, catching on the edge of your mask.

“What does it look like?”  He spins you elegantly, and you find yourself moving by rote, coming back into his arms and pressing tight against him.  “I’m dancing with my favorite diversion.”

“I’m not… I don’t…” Words flee your mind.  Your tongue feels like lead but your whole body is light as air.  You think he must be mesmerizing you until you hear a shriek and realize that the crowd of dancers mills below your feet, staring upward in shock and horror.  And you… you are in his arms, dancing on air, limmed with pale, cool corpseflame.

They know he’s the real thing now.  They’ll stampede as soon as it sinks in, bolting for the exits, fleeing the effigy of Death in their midst.  He smiles wickedly, and you know he’s enjoying himself, throwing a wrench into the conviction of the wealthy that the world is under their control.  They think him a far-away concern, a ghost haunting their barrows and cemeteries,irrelevant.  They never thought he’d come here.  He’s here now.

“Don’t kill them,” you whisper, shimmers of ectoplasm under your feet, dancing above their heads.  “Don’t.  Take me, I’ll go…”

He smiles, leanes in, and bumps his forehead against yours.  It’s a surprisingly affectionate gesture.  “Oh, I will.  And you will.  As for these… I suppose that will just depend on what I get out of the bargain.”

The dance floor has been emptied by the time you descend.  You are alone in a candlelit room, and he has taken off his mask.   His arm is still tight around your waist, and his cool fingers brush your cheek, tipping the mask upward.

His kiss is the touch of the grave, and it thrills you right down to your bones.

Griss (Demon)
Setting: Flexible
Sexuality: Homosexual
Dominant Style: Gruff, Working Man, Grease and Soot, Possessive, Private, Fiery
Key Kinks: Rough Sex, Heatplay, Caretaking, 

His skin is the color of burnished bronze and he smells like soot and gasoline.  When he hides in human form, he dresses like a mechanic - oil-stained jeans and a grubby undershirt, work boots and a bandana pushed down over gleaming black hair.  Only his eyes reveal the primal heat in him, the energy of the deep and shifting earth, the forces of creation and destruction.

When he takes you in his arms, that skin blazes with heat lines.  Wings of rusted metal shards screech in unholy cacophony.  You’ve learned to love their song.  Their embrace is a ragged shelter, a symbol that even the hosts of heaven couldn’t pry you from his grasp.  He is a slow lover, like the movement of continents, inexorable, rough and tender all at once.  His eyes blaze when you touch him.  When he moves in you, the earth moves, and afterward you are shattered and reborn.

You never knew it could be this way - the steady heat, the solidity of his presence.  He speaks little, dry and caustic, but he’s kind when you need him to be.  He likes engines and scrap metal and those TV shows where they trick out classic vehicles.  He creates the most sublime metalwork you’ve ever seen… weapons, armor, sculptures and machines that put German engineering to shame.  You watch from the shadows when visitors come to purchase them.  He is quartermaster for an unseen war, and he doesn’t want to talk about it.  He just wants to live his life here on earth, far from the crushing void and relentless emptiness of Hell.  He just wants you to be warm and yielding in the small hours of the night, when eons of torment wake him with nightmares, when spectres of the past haunt his molten eyes.  That’s when he needs you, your love, your submission to rough-skinned hands that can shape metal like clay.  That’s when he needs you to whisper his name, to hold him to this world.  Compared to where he came from, this is paradise.  In your arms, he touches heaven.

You wouldn’t say no to his endless need even if you wanted to.  Together in a rickety twin bed that creaks dangerously when he gets up to speed, you are defying god, creating your own paradise.  Your skin is marked by the touch of hell.

You’re okay with it.

Jakken Unglut (Half-Orc)
Setting: Fantasy, Sword & Sorcery
Sexuality: Pansexual
Dominant Style: Playful, Humorous, Uncivilized, Possessive
Key Kinks: Oral Sex (giving), Spanking, Tickling, Hair-Pulling, Rough Sex, Dubcon, Humiliation, Beauty & Beast, Face-fucking

You sense trouble the minute they enter the tavern, blown in on a gust of winter wind.  Rowdy, armed, flush from some battle or contest they obviously won, they tumble into your workplace in a tangle of green, gray, and brown limbs.  Some are full orcs, and some are half-bloods, but their camaraderie is clan-thick.  They take over two tables and bark for drinks, their speech distorted by tusks and underbites.  They smell like feral musk and cured leather, and they emphasize their grunting, guttural speech by pounding the table and stomping the floor.

You duck behind the bar and glare at your employer.  “I won’t go upstairs with any of them.”

“You will if the coin’s good,” he replies.  “Or you’ll find another job.”

Outside, the snow is soft but the wind is bitter.  Tavern owners hiring servers and whores are spoiled for choice, and you can’t work the docks in this cold.  “No orcs,” you insist, and it comes out a plea.

He stops, shifts, lifts a hand dangerously.  You flinch back, well acquainted with his temper.  “You’ll fuck who I tell you to fuck, or go sell your hole on the street.  Get back to work.”

You do your best to avoid the orcs’ tables, but they are thirsty and they are paying.  A few leer and catcall you, and you keep your head down, pulling your hair to try and better conceal your pointed ears.  You dodge blunt fingers and grasping hands and ignore their commentary, and offer a thankful prayer to the goddess of whores that they don’t pursue the issue.  Their aggression has limits, it seems, and aside from a few playful smacks to your ass, nobody manhandles you.  But one half-orc, his skin the gray-green of a mossy stone, watches you as you move around the table.  You can feel the heat of his eyes on you, even when you return to the bar for another tray.  When you return a full-blood, his skin the green of fresh sage leaves, catches your wrist.  “How much, little fairy?”

You twist your wrist away and hustle out of reach.  He curses, but doesn’t pursue you, and you thank the goddess for small favors.  The half-orc smiles.  He has underbitten fangs, not full tusks, and his nose is more human than porcine, favoring his human parent.  He’s almost handsome in a brutish way and he’s the quietest at the table, drinking his ale and just watching you.

Fear burns in your belly.  You know that look.  You fight back tears as you move among the tables, praying another customer will buy your services first, praying you’ll be upstairs letting some fat trader fondle your ears before he can go to the owner and request your services.  But in this, the goddess does not smile upon you.  You are fetching a meal tray from the kitchen when the owner appears in the doorway and grabs your arm.

“You’ve got a customer,” he sneers.  “Upstairs.  Room three.  And if you don’t show, I’ll take his refund out of your hide.”

Shaking, you deliver the tray and then climb the stairs to the upper rooms.  This job is wretched most of the time, but it’s bearable.  You don’t know how you’ll endure this.  There’s no escape from an orc - their smell, their grunting, their roughness and their stamina.  You will have to try to send your mind away, to just endure it, but you know it will not be quick.  They like to get their money’s worth.

The half-orc waits for you when you push the door open with trembling hands.  He’s taken off his jerkin, but he hasn’t stripped any further, exposing a muscled and scarred physique.  The scars are livid, painful-looking… orcs take pride in their war wounds, and often irritate them in healing or rub dye into them to make them stand out further.  He is standing next to a washbasin on the small bedside table where a lantern burns, and rubbing himself down with a wet cloth.  This small courtesy surprises you.

He turns when you shut the door, leaning against it, shaking.  You glare, doing your best not to show the fear and revulsion boiling in your belly, but he gives you a knowing smile that’s surprisingly soft, like he sees it anyway.

“Take off your clothes,” he says with surprising gentleness.  “Lie on your back.”

Your fingers shake as you struggle with the ties on your clothing.  At least he’s not trying to make it romantic.  You pray he doesn’t want to kiss you - that deformed mouth against yours, the taste of his breath, will make you vomit.  Your clothes fall and the cool air makes your skin rise in goosebumps.  You climb into the bed, lungs spasming, wanting to sob.  You spread your legs, and pray all he wants to do is rut, and you can dream of a deep wood green with summer while he uses you.

“Put your hands on the headboard,” he says, soft but firm.  You obey, gripping the wood.  His hands find your wrists and hold them, and then you feel the rough drag of rope and a cry escapes you as you fight for freedom.  You have no leverage, and he is too strong.  His other hand settles on your chest.  “Shhh,” he soothes.  “It’s all right.  I’m not going to hurt you.  I just want to take my time with you.”  His thumb rubs briefly over your lower lip, and your breath catches on a sob.  Despite your pulling, he gets your wrists tied with quick, efficient movements.  You wonder how many others he’s trussed like this.  His knots are firm, and they don’t slide.  You are caught, but you won’t lose feeling in your fingers.

“Shhh,” he whispers again, thumb brushing wetness from your eye.  “Relax.  You’re fine.  I know you’re scared.  I won’t hurt you.”

“I hate you!” you blurt out, gone mad for a moment, not even caring what response it might provoke.  Your employer won’t care if he beats you a little.  He’ll just charge a little extra, since you’ll be less pretty for a few nights.  But he doesn’t look angry.  He just smiles and kneels between your legs.  His huge hands catch your ankles before you can coordinate enough to kick at him.  You yank at the ties, panicking a little, sobbing in humiliation and rage.  “Get off me!”

“Shhh.” He bends down, lifting your legs over his powerful shoulders.  He nuzzles your thigh, and his tusks catch on your skin, but the kiss is soft.  It makes you shiver despite yourself.  “Relax.  I just want to taste you.”  His strong hands slide over your thighs, keeping them snug around his head.  He nibbles, sucks, and kisses the vulnerable skin, taking his time, exploring you like a connoisseur with a fine wine.  This is not what you expected, this deliberate and slow devouring, and your body betrays you, responding to his teasing with a flush of heat and a clenching ache.

He smiles when he sees that, and you close your eyes, hiding from his dark gaze.  His hands slide under your ass and squeeze, kneading the lean muscle there, pulling your cheeks apart.  Blunt fingers probe you, exploring, and your stomach turns as you realize you are aroused by this, you are throbbing and shivering and starting to crave it.

“That’s good,” he rumbles, dark eyes dancing.  “Let’s see how hard you can cum.”  His mouth slides down your thigh and finds your genitals, and you cry out in shock and pleasure.  Gods, it’s wrong… that mishappen mouth, that rough, slick tongue, the blunt prod of his underbite as he starts to lick and suck you.  His tongue probes into the crease of your thighs, under and around your sensitive flesh, and you’re writhing in his arms, flexing, crying out in shock, ecstasy, and denial.  He slicks his fingers in his mouth and starts to work one into your ass, slow and firm, teasing your anus with a steady touch while he molests your genitals with his mouth, sucking hard at your most sensitive parts, and you are coming apart, you are shattering, you are orgasming, and shame crashes over you along with the pleasure, sickness, despair - you are an elf, and he is an orc, and he is disgusting and coarse and barbaric, and you are wracked with pleasure in his arms, climaxing like the whore you are, bucking into that crude mouth and crying out like a cat in heat.  His fingers in your ass are blunt, thick, illicit, and drive you out of your mind, massaging the flesh inside you that quivers and clenches from the wrong side, almost-but-not-quite giving you what you truly need… something to grind on, something to bruise you inside and satisfy this desperate craving in your belly.

When he finishes and licks you clean, you slump in a quivering heap.  Tears fall, trailing down toward your ears as you stare blankly at the rough ceiling boards.  Your body shudders as he devours you, licking up every drop of your fluids, nibbling at your soft flesh with those blunt lower canines.

He turns you over, and you have no will to resist.  He settles you carefully, one thick hand sliding into your hair, massaging the nape of your neck and rubbing his thumb behind your ear.  He tugs your hips up, and your core aches, and you find yourself anticipating him mounting you, the thick, hard fullness of the cock you haven’t even seen yet.

Instead, one hand settles over your genitals and the other pries your ass cheeks apart.  The thrust of his tongue makes you moan like the animal in heat he’s reduced you to.  His fingers rub and explore you, teasing you with an unexpectedly measured touch as he seals his mouth against your ass and thrusts his tongue into that tight little hole.

Writhing in his arms, you realize he has beaten you.  His cock will be ugly, marred with thick veins, uncut, and stinking of orc musk.  You will ride it anyway, and you will shudder in pleasure as he buries it deep in your body.  You will arch into his hands.  You will cry out for him.  You will even submit to his kisses, if he tries to claim your mouth.

You have no choice.  You are bought and paid for, and he is determined to get his money’s worth.

Rath Ja’Aku (Gargoyle)
Setting: Flexible, Fantasy works best
Sexuality: Pansexual (Hermaphroditic)
Dominant Style: Feral, Jealous, Teasing, Possessive, Demanding
Key Kinks: Impregnation/Mating, Rut/Heat, Biting/Scratching, Tail Sex, Dubcon, Forced Seduction, Nesting, Hunting

For some reason, it didn’t occur to you that gargoyles came in colors other than gray.  This one is a deep, burnt orange, like earth turned from the deep mines, like the heartwood of exotic trees.  His wild mane of hair is black and so are the ridged horns that arch back over his head.  His wings block out the sky, sturdy and leathery, though you’ve heard they aren’t capable of true flight.

His long tail swishes behind him as he prowls a cautious circle around you.  The rock provides no shelter, nowhere to hide.  Your people didn’t restrain you, trusting that you knew your duty, but your courage is beginning to fade, especially when a deep, throbbing growl rumbles in the air.  Knees hugged to your chest, you try to make yourself small.

You’re shocked to hear him speak.  In your head, you knew they were intelligent creatures, these masters of the mountain peaks, dwellers in deep caves, proud hunters where eagles dared not fly.  But he seems to you like such a terrible beast that his voice hits you like a sledgehammer.  Low and growling, but perfectly enunciated, it is both feral and civilized, and that strikes you as a terrible thing.

“You’re pretty enough, for a groundling thin-skin,” he says, and you think you’ve just been insulted, or at least denigrated.  Claws sharp enough to carve stone tangle in your hair and fondle it, testing its texture.  “And frightened.  Cute.”  You startle, as that last growl comes from right next to your ear.  He is scenting you, leaning in to get a good whiff of your terror, savoring it like fine wine.  “You seem young.  Have you been mated before?”

Something in the back of your head starts screaming in mixed fear and embarrassment.  You manage to shake your head, and he snorts.

“Typical.  I wanted something I could rut when I feel the urge.  Something I could fuck deep and hard and plant my seed in.”  You’re not sure if he’s speaking this way just to make you flush, but if he is, it’s working.  He circles in front of you, deep, golden eyes gleaming, and you catch a glimpse of the cock swinging heavy and free between his powerful thighs.

No.  There’s no way.  That will break you.

You whimper, and he snorts again, shaking himself from shoulders to tail like a wet dog.  “I’ll just have to train you to it.  Your kind are flexible, you’ll probably survive.”  The mad clanging of fear in your head drowns out everything else.

When he gathers you in his arms, you don’t resist.  He smells wild, like mountain air, like conifer trees and musky heat.  His skin feels like suede, and the muscles flexing under it could crush you like an insect.

“Please don’t hurt me,” you whisper, unable to get a full breath.

His wings snap out with a sound like canvas flapping in the wind, but he pauses, golden eyes meeting yours.  “Obey me,” he says simply, “and I won’t have to.”

Sief Isabjorn (Vampire, Psychic or Blood-drinking)
Setting: Fantasy, Sword & Sorcery, Sci-Fi
Sexuality: Pansexual
Dominant Style: Conquering Warrior, Cool, Disciplined, Remote, Demanding
Key Kinks: Master/Slave, Feeding/Bloodplay, Kidnapping, Non/Dubcon, Physical Punishment, Branding/Marking

The conquered shuffle in a dejected line, chains clinking as they take their steps in clumsy unison.  The wind bites like a wolf, tearing at your thin clothing, raking across your skin.  Ahead of you, a square of light marks the entrance to the Ice-born’s Hall… there will be heat there, and possibly food.  The need for those things cuts through your dread.

Inside, the conquered cluster up, crowding against one another for additional warmth.  Fires blaze in coal-laden braziers, and the Ice-born’s warriors celebrate loudly, feasting on their spoils, pouring ale and dragging the servers into their laps for groping.  At the head of the hall, a throne of antler and bone is draped with thick layers of wolf and polar bear furs.  On it, the Ice-born reclines, and his cold gaze seems to sap the heat from the hall.  His people aren’t daunted - they have found great fortune following his leadership.  The slaves quiver and hide from his gaze, but he shows no interest.  You can only imagine what it would be like to meet his eyes.  If you were not so empty, body and soul, your bladder would quiver at the thought.

Others press up behind you, cold to the touch, but warming.  The feast continues, and your stomach gnaws.  If they would toss even a scrap, a morsel… it’s your food anyway, your animals they’re slaughtering and eating, your faithful milk goats and carefully tended piglets…

The Ice-born makes a gesture.  One of his lieutenants moves at once, crossing to the huddle of miserable prisoners.  He finds the beginning of the line and uses a hammer to remove the manacles from a man you know, a neighbor, a respected member of your community.  The man grunts as his bruised ankles protest the treatment.  He is dragged out in front of the hall, and the barbarian speaks his heathen tongue, roaring over the noise.  The crowd settles, eager, avaricious, and individuals begin shouting back and forth.  Challenging each other.

They are making bids to own him.  Once he is claimed, he will be a slave of these barbarians.  That will be your fate too.

The auction continues.  Some contest each others bids.  There are impromptu contests - arm wrestling, drinking, head-butting like wild rams.  There is some grumbling and muttering from the losers, but these warriors are in good spirits.  Why shouldn’t they be?  They’ve won.

You shrink back against your neighbors and friends, but there is nowhere to go.  When it’s your turn, you are dragged before the crowd, leered at, and catcalled.  The auctioneer manages to ask, in a broken facsimile of your language, what your trade is.  When you hesitate, he raises a hand to strike you.

A footfall stops everything.  The crowd goes silent.  The auctioneer freezes.  Ice-born is standing, leaving his sword against the arm of his throne, descending toward you.  His eyes are the color of the tundra in winter and just as warm.  There is a gauntness to him despite his muscular frame, and you remember the stories you’ve heard.  This creature is the howling wind in the wastes.  He is the endless hunger, the depthless void.  He cannot bleed, cannot be killed, and his only food is the warmth and life of other creatures…

His grip is less frigid than you thought it would be.  Merely cool, less so than those frozen wretches crowding in through the door.  He forces your chin up, and you are lost in those eyes.  You can see snow in them - you can see the mile-deep lakes at the heart of the glaciers.  Are they blue?  Are they gray?  White and translucent, like the snow itself?  In that moment, you couldn’t say.  You only know that he is the soul of the winter, and if he takes you away from your family, you will die.

The will to resist dribbles out of you.  Your shoulders relax.  The howl of the wind fills your ears.  You are terrified, but the terror does not touch you, shivering deep in your bones while your mind drifts in the vast, empty storm of his eyes.

Do not resist, he whispers to you, and you find yourself nodding.  Yes, of course, you won’t resist.  The power of those eyes sinks into your soul and twists it around his fingers.

He gives a command to the auctioneer.  Others are summoned, commoners.  They hustle you away from your loved ones.  You hear them calling distantly, but it doesn’t matter.  Nothing matters except obeying the power of those eyes.

You are bathed, and the water is blissfully hot.  Your hair is combed and arranged.  Rough spots are scrubbed from your hands and feet with scourstones, and your skin is softened with mildly scented oil.  The hair between your legs is trimmed.  You allow all of this without a struggle, languid.  Even the part of you buried deep, the part that kicks and screams, cannot damage the calm those eyes have placed upon you.  You are hypnotized, and you move as if in a dream.

They place jewelry on your wrists and ankles.  They weave tiny ornaments into your hair.  You would never have been so beautiful, even on your wedding day.  You are being prepared for him, a sacrifice to his bottomless hunger.  A simple piece of white linen keeps you modest, and you sit on a weathered, iron-bound chest at the foot of his bed.  It is rich, piled with furs and woolen blankets, spoils of war, but you think it is irrelevant.  He will not take you to his bed.  He will simply take you, however monsters like him take people, and leave you a dessicated husk.

You are a sacrifice.  There is no fear attached to the thought.

When he enters, your skin breaks out in goosebumps.  You sit quietly, and wait for him to come to you.  He sheds his clothes on the way, leaving them draped over a large, antler chair.  His body is pale as the snow, scarred from battle, which takes you by surprise - you thought he couldn’t bleed.  The monster CAN be cut, CAN be harmed… and you will not survive to take that news to your people.  He sheds his pants, and he is perfect all the way down, a monstrously gorgeous figure of a man, terrible and beautiful.  You wonder, belly quivering, if you dismissed the possibility of being taken to his bed too soon.

He touches your chin again, lifting you, coaxing you to your feet.  You move obediently to the side of the bed.  You let his hands slide up your trembling frame, pushing the linen away, stripping you naked.  Your nipples harden in anticipation, heart beating beneath your skin in a dozen places.  He lays you down, and your legs are spread, willing, waiting…

You see the gleam of white fangs an instant before they strike.
50abbaee dd12 4db5 b348 6ed08b1dcac2 120x120 1x0 91x91
V's Character Consulting & Development
Public post

Feathered Dominants

Introductory fiction is in-progress.

Gavyn Torhawk (Harpy, Rough-Legged Hawk)
Setting: Wilds, Remote, Flexible
Sexuality: Pansexual
Dominant Style: Predatory, Mischievous, Experimental, Cruel
Key Kinks: Experimentation/Torture, Kidnapping, Non/Dubcon, Master/pet, Scratching/Biting, Fear

The boy who stumbled back into town, clothes torn, eyes hollow, set tongues to wagging.  The entire village was outraged, and argued over the right tactic to take to punish this monstrous infringement.  They formed a posse and spread out across the northern wood, moving in a staggered line across the mountainous foothills, hunting the culprit.

You knew better.  Harpies can only be hunted on the highest peaks.  Your mistake was going alone.

You heard only a rustle of air when he descended on you.  His claws bit into your shoulders, wrapping around your arms, talons piercing deep.  Your body twisted in the air, feet kicking, and vertigo sucked your stomach down until he finally deposited you on a sheer promontory.  

You dared not draw your dagger while in the air.  You draw it now, but looking beneath you, you see the deadly truth that the poor, ravished boy before you saw - there is only one way down.

You can’t kill the beast.  You have to bargain.  His wicked grin says he knows it, the dancing of his bone-colored eyes, and the way he reaches down to rub at his dark, flushed cock.  His nakedness makes you cringe against the cliff face, but there is no escape from that lascivious gaze.

“You’re cute,” he says, trilling softly like a bird behind his words.  “Oh, very pretty.  I might keep you.  Especially if your hole is sweet…” His wings rise and fluff, blocking your view of the drop.  His cock stands out hard now, leaking at the tip, strangely shaped but recognizable enough.  You swallow.

“Which will you give me first?” he wonders, taloned feet scraping slightly on the rock as he shifts closer.  He’s hunger-lean, leading with his hips.  The wild beauty of his form is marred only by a handful of scars.  “I’ll be taking all of them, of course… see which I like best.  You probably want me to fuck your mouth, though.  If I fuck your ass first, it’s disgusting.  Unless, of course… you like that.”

You angle your dagger downward, at that turgid, swollen length, threatening him without a word.  He merely laughs.

Fast as… well, fast as a diving hawk, he seizes your wrist and twists the blade free.  You are pinned before you can struggle, and his strength is far beyond his frame, wiry muscles like steel nailing you against the rock.  You gasp, and he claims your mouth.  His kiss tastes of raw meat and metal.  His cock pokes hard against your belly.

“Maybe you like it disgusting,” he trills, biting your lower lip hard, earning a grunt of pain.  “Maybe you like to be a dirty little whore.  We’ll see.  I’ll find out.  Your body will tell me the truth.”

“Mouth!” you blurt out, head spinning from those threats.  “Just… please, I’ll suck you.  Just carry me down.”

“You’ll suck me,” he agrees, smiling like the devil himself.  “You’ll swallow my seed and then you’ll climb in my lap and use my cock.  You’ll kiss me and moan in pleasure while I mate you.  And when I’m done, MAYBE I’ll take you back safely to your idiot kind.  Maybe,” he reiterates, one hand in your hair, forcing your head back so he can scent and nip at your throat.  “Or maybe I’ll keep you a while longer.  You’re prettier than that little goatherd.  Sturdier, too.”

His hands find buckles, his claws tear fabric.  Your skin chills, exposed to the wind, until his wings engulf you.  Then there is only heat - the struggle, the bite of rock into your knees, the thrust of his cock and the pull of his claws in your hair.  He tastes feral, and he’s rough.  Your throat is bruised, and it burns when he cums in you, forcing you to drink down the thin, salt-bitter fluid.

When he finishes, you’re in no mood to take any more orders.  But he settles against the rock face, preening, rubbing his spit-slicked cock.  A glance behind you makes your choices stark. 

You climb into his lap, into his arms, into his purr of triumph.  It’s a long way down.

Orren Rimecliff (Harpy, Gyrfalcon)
Setting: Flexible
Sexuality: Pansexual
Dominant Style: Commanding, Arrogant, Remote, Sarcastic
Key Kinks: Master/Slave, Restraints, Ice, Scratching/Biting, Service, Humiliation, Commands

The rock is unyielding and bites you when you slump forward, scratching grooves in your head that seep blood.  Your knees have already scabbed.  This high, there’s no warmth in the shadow of the cave, and you shiver in your torn clothes as you try in vain to find a comfortable position on the undressed stone.

Your captor stalks past you, feathers ruffling.  If your hands weren’t bound, rough hempen rope sawing grooves into your wrists, you might try to pull those feathers out by the handful.  As it is, you have no option but to sullenly train your eyes on the ground when he turns to face you.

He is beautiful, his face aqualine, his feathers resplendent in white and gray with delicate lines of black.  He is as wild as the true raptors who circle these peaks.  His eyes contain no pity for you.  They give you no hope about your future.

“If you try to escape, I’ll throw you off the edge.”  His voice is oddly rough, like he doesn’t use it often, or like it’s better suited to a predatory screech than human speech.  “You’ll do as you’re told, or you’ll be punished.  You’ll earn your food and keep.  If you don’t work hard, I’ll eat your liver while you watch.”

“Fuck you,” you breathe, unable to contain your rage.

“Later,” he says coolly, and your stomach flips.  He approaches where you kneel, plants one taloned foot on the back of your neck, and neatly shears through the rope around your wrists.  Your hands flood with feeling and pain.  You can get up now, when he moves off, but your ankles are still hobbled.  “Are you hungry?”

You stand mute, but your stomach betrays you with a loud gurgle.  You grimace, but he only nods toward the entrance of the cave.  “Gather firewood.  Feed the fire, and I’ll feed you.”

Outside the cave, the wind howls against the mountain face. Beyond it is a sheer drop, and a narrow path that leads in the wrong direction - up the mountain, not down.  Still, a slim chance is better than none.  You slink to the entrance and pause, but he does nothing to prevent you from edging your way out.

The wind instantly numbs your fingers.  This high, snow kisses the variations in the rock face.  The trees bear cones and needles, and the litter is sharp and crunchy under your bare feet.  The rope doesn’t let you move faster than a shuffle.  If you can find a sharp rock…

The mountain has plenty of rocks.  You manage to wear through the rope, and run for the nearest slope.  You are greeted by a long and treacherous slope, far too steep to descend, gravelly and prone to giving way.  Ignoring the pain and numbness in your feet, you cross jagged tor and find a craggy drop on the other side.  That leaves only one direction… up.

He finds you when you pause for rest, trying to rub feeling back into your frozen and battered feet.  You scream, kick, and struggle, and it makes no difference.  He doesn’t need your help to get you back, talons hooking under your arms and bearing you aloft.

There is no wood for the fire.  You didn’t obey your orders.  He gives you no warmth, no padding for the cold stone, and no food.

Hours later, frozen and near-senseless, you try to sneak closer to him as he roosts in a nest of furs.  One black eye snaps open, and you have no answer, no excuse beyond your utter misery.

“You may join me in my bed,” he says.  “But there will be a price.”  His feathers ruffle.  They look soft.  His body is lean and hard.  His cock is soft against his thigh.

Outside, the wind howls.  He simply watches you, letting you do the work of convincing yourself.

You have to survive tonight.  Survive tonight, and you’ll be able to try to escape again tomorrow.  Surely, you can handle a night with this creature.  Surely…

He doesn’t smile when you crawl, shaking, into his nest.  But you imagine a gleam of triumph in his eye.  His wings envelop you in warmth and darkness, and even as you shudder, the relief he offers is something you desperately need.  You can worry about the rest later.  You can waste your time debating if what he gave you was worth what he took.


50abbaee dd12 4db5 b348 6ed08b1dcac2 120x120 1x0 91x91
V's Character Consulting & Development
Public post

Scaly Dominants

If you love that scaly texture, these boys can make you squeal.

Caesinirthos e’Kethend (Dragon)
Setting: Fantasy, Swords & Sorcery
Sexuality: Homosexual
Dominant Style: Wealthy/Elegant, Playful, Commanding, Nesting, Experimental
Key Kinks: Size Difference, Cum Inflation, Master/Pet, Kidnapping, Dub/Noncon, Breeding/Impregnation, Master Worship

The Chatelaine who received you treated you with barely-concealed disdain.  He handled you like an object and snapped a crop against your ass if you didn’t move fast enough for his taste, giving orders in sharp monosyllables.  You’ve been scrubbed, your hair and nails trimmed, your skin made hairless with a spell that fizzed and popped as it traveled your body.  You’ve been decorated with jewelry that would have cost a lifetime’s earnings, with ticklish strokes of paint that itch now as it dries on your cheeks.  The metal cuffs on your wrists and ankles have shimmering inscriptions and a single chain link each.  And worst, or maybe best, is the collar resting around your neck - metal backed with leather, embossed, with a large ring hanging against the hollow of your throat.  A wrap of the thinnest cotton barely preserves your modesty as you kneel, waiting, nervously mapping a bed big enough for a small army and the… acrobatics… that implies.

You knew.  You were told.  But you still tremble, and the primitive part of your brain wants to melt into the floor when he makes his appearance.  His feet are elegant and move softly on the stone floor, like a cat’s.  His scales are finely textured, a glorious swirl of every shade of green imaginable from near-black fading into gold.  He moves with graceful deliberation, unbelievably huge and yet completely self-contained; a master of his environment, an effortless predator.  The curtains flutter behind him, flicked by the passing of his tail. 

He could pick you up with one forepaw.  Your entire body, head to knees, would fit in his mouth.  His wings rustle as he preens, neck arched proudly, settling on a bed you now realize must fit a small army just to be a comfortable size for him.  Finally, when he has settled, forelegs neatly crossed and one claw tapping idly against the furs, he regards you with a gaze that holds the weight of centuries.  His voice shakes you down to your bones, thrumming against the stone walls and floors like summer thunder.

“I am Caesinirthos e’Kethend.  Your life is now mine.  You have many duties, but each day your most important job is this: convince me you are more valuable as a servant than as a snack.  If you fail, I will eat you and move on to the next plaything.  If you succeed, you may find comfort and satisfaction here beyond your wildest dreams.  I am a generous master,” he purrs, and one pale claw as long as your forearm extends, flexes, and settles under your chin.  He forces you to lift your head, claw digging into the soft flesh under your jaw.  His eyes are like the sun through spring leaves - elemental, endless, and wise.  You cannot look into them for too long.  Your knees shake violently, and a drop of blood wells around his claw as you sag against his touch.  “But I am not a patient one.  Speak, so I know you understand.”

Even if you wanted to struggle, there is only one thing you can say in the face of a creature like this.  Only one response could possibly be right.  From far away, as if through deep water, you hear yourself whisper.

“Yes, Master.”

Diem (Merman, River Trout, Feral)
Setting: Flexible
Sexuality: Pansexual
Dominant Style: Feral, Wild, Possessive, Minimally Verbal
Key Kinks: Mating/Rut, Taming/Domestication, Dub/Noncon, Beauty & Beast Romance

The summer night is alive with crickets and cicadas, stars spread above you like a thousand diamonds.  Despite the thinness of the moon, you can see enough to make your way down the embankment at the edge of the lake.  Your feet slide once or twice in the mud, cheap flip-flops failing to keep a firm grip, but the water will wash away all sins.

The cooler in your hand is heavy.  Your knuckles whiten on the handle as dead leaves slip under your feet, announcing your presence.  Fireflies dance in the undergrowth, their tiny lights calling to their mates.  And you… it’s time for you to call yours.

There’s a log at the water’s edge, soft with age and decomposition.  You sit there, tucking the thin fabric of your long shirt under your ass.  He’s torn enough pants off you by now, you know better than to wear them.  You dangle your feet in the cool water, disturbing tiny little minnows who flee from your toes in silvery, darting schools.  You wonder if he’s watching you even now, if he heard your approach or tasted your skin in the water.

You shiver.

The first raw fish hits with a gulping splash, hollow as it displaces the water and sinks into the blackness.  You wait, heart tripping over itself, gooseflesh rising on your arms and legs - he likes to say ‘hello’ by grabbing your ankle from out of the darkness.  He’s scared the shit out of you that way more than once.  When nothing grabs you, you lob the second fish.  This one spins a little and skips across the lake’s small, rippling waves before sinking.

This time, you see it - a shivering disturbance in the water.

You toss an anchovy a dozen feet out or so.  The water ripples underneath it.  You dangle a second under the water, primed to snatch your hand away fast - his teeth could snip your fingers off cleaner than a surgeon’s bone shears.  But it isn’t his teeth that meet your dangling hand.  Cold, clammy, wet fingers slide against yours.  The webbing between them pulls tight over your knuckles.  You let go of the fish, but he doesn’t let go of you, and your shirt billows around you like a jellyfish as you slide into the water.  You kick for buoyancy, but his arm slides around your waist, holding you tight against his cold, hard-muscled body.  His head breaks the water, bone-pale hair gleaming wet in the darkness, eyes black as the lake.  His mouth is full of razor-sharp teeth.

When you wrap your legs around his hips, the bulge at his sheath is swollen against your groin.  He’ll be ready in no time, and you’ve been ready, craving his carelessly strong grip, the texture of his impossibly fine scales, the soft, clicking growl-purr as he leans in to scent your throat.  He only knows a few words in your language.  He doesn’t know any of the traditional niceties of courting or foreplay.  What he knows is this: you smell like heat, like a mate.  He knows if he pins you down in the shallows and ruts you, you’ll give sweet cries of satisfaction and undulate beneath him, and take all the seed he can spill.  He knows he wants you, and you keep coming to him, and that means you are his.  He knows you are fragile, that he can break your bones with a twist, that he could tear chunks out of you with his teeth.  He knows you can drown.

You know those things too.  You know he is a creature of instinct, and he may forget one night, and be too rough, and leave you just another of the lake’s hidden dead.  You know, and you come anyway, and you whimper when his teeth find your shoulder and drag raw grooves into the skin.  You gasp when his back fin chafes your ankle, when the supporting spines jab your feet.  You’ll go home scratched and bruised, waterlogged, your hair a sodden tangle, your eyes wild.

It’s worth it.  It’s so, SO worth it.

Erynion (Snake-Person)
Setting: Fantasy, Swords & Sorcery, Sci-Fi
Sexuality: Homosexual
Dominant Style: Cruel, Sadistic, Creative, Arrogant
Key Kinks: Non/DubCon, Master/Slave, Piercing, Restraints, Sexual Training, Humiliation, Psychological Torture

The width of the O-gag bites into your mouth, bruising your palate and the soft flesh under your tongue.  You want to pad it with your tongue, but the ring is too big, and your jaw already aches from being forced so far open.  Drool trails down over your chin, dangling in disgusting strings, and there’s nothing you can do to stop the humiliation - your arms are tied, your legs are hobbled, and your knees grind uncomfortably against a polished wood floor.

His hands slide through your hair, brushing it back from your face.  He’s gentle now, because you’re not fighting him.  You thought, in the past, that if you stopped fighting he would go easier on you.  That if you gave in, if you tried to please him, he wouldn’t leave you bruised and aching, stomach full of acid, limbs cramped and head throbbing when he was done with you.

You were wrong.

His sheath is puffed, and you can see the twin penii tucked inside writhing against each other, pushing glistening slick out of the opening.  The musky scent of them fills your nose and mouth, and he pulls you in, silently commanding you to lick that swollen flesh.  It’s fine.  The taste is fine.  You can do this part.  It’s what comes later…

You know it’s time when his grip on your hair tightens, pulling at the roots.  You can’t help whimpering as those cocks, now half-emerged, push through the ring and into your throat.  Relax, you tell yourself.  Relax, relax… if you relax you don’t need quite as much air.  If you relax, you’re less likely to black out.  If you can relax, and endure this, and just take it passively, he might not suffocate you with his cocks.

And you try.  Gods, you try.  You swallow and choke, you whimper, and he fucks your throat with abandon, bruising your nose against his hips, cutting off your air, stretching your esophagus with the squirm of his pricks until your stomach threatens to rebel.  When he cums down your throat you try to swallow, but there’s so much, so fast… it spills out the corners of your mouth, gets pushed up your nose by your reflexive cough, and hits your stomach like acid.  Your ears fill with tears.  You sway on your knees, trying SO hard to keep it together, to please him, to be good… but he doesn’t pull back, and your lungs convulse, and black spots crawl around the edges of your tear-stained vision.

When you wake, the O-ring is at least out of your mouth.  Your face has been cleaned, but you can still taste his cum everywhere - in your mouth, your throat, your nose.  Your nose aches like someone punched you.  Your throat feels like he fucked you with sandpaper.  His scales are warm under your cheek, and his fingers move in your hair, and you take a moment just to be grateful… you MUST have pleased him, if he’s being this nice to you.  You must have made him happy for him to let you rest, to rub your neck the way he’s doing now, like a good pet.  An obedient slave.

You shift your un-hobbled legs, betraying your return to awareness.  Your hands are still cuffed behind you.  And that collar, the one he forced onto you on that first day, when you still had fight in you - his fingers toy with it, slipping underneath it, tugging and rubbing it.  He likes that physical symbol of his ownership.  He likes to gloat.

“Welcome back, slut,” he says, voice dancing with a manic, playful glee.  “Did you like your breakfast?”

Unable to summon words, you nod, cheek rubbing against the glossy softness of those scales. 

He’s not that merciful.  His fingers knot in your hair.  “Oh, no you don’t, pet. You know better.  What do we say?”

You shudder, hacking, shuddering at the globs of deep-throat mucous and semen that come up.  You have no choice but to swallow it back down, managing only a cracked whisper.

“Please master, may I have some more?”

Evarke (Shadow/Serpent Demon)
Setting: Flexible
Sexuality: Pansexual
Dominant Style: Cruel, Playful, Humorous, Cuddly, Possessive
Key Kinks: Extreme Size, Bulging Belly/Cum Inflation, Face-fucking, Restraints, Master/Pet, Tail Sex, Sexual Exhaustion, Worship

Far-away screams echo off black stone walls, but they can’t hold your attention.  Nothing could, when he’s in the same room - tall and sinuous, easing across the floor with the soft hiss of dragging scales.  His body is at least eight times as long as yours, black as ink from horns to tail.  Four powerful arms hang casually as his body winds toward you, muscle rippling under night-dark skin and scales.  Gold adorns his horns like a crown, wraps around his chest, arms, and wrists, so he can’t truly be called ‘naked’.  But it’s the place he isn’t covered that draws your eye.  Several inches below the line where scales turn to flesh, a vivid red slit has swollen open, glistening with natural lubrication.  Near the top, the very tip of a bulging, triangular cockhead peeks free of restraining flesh.

His bed is big enough for an orgy.  Ringed with stone columns, you spot cuffs and lengths of chain dangling from hitch points, a silent promise that he knows more about what to do with your body than you do.  More hitch points decorate the domed ceiling, and a few still have straps dangling for ease of restraint.  It’s all so quiet, waiting like a dangling web for a hapless fly to bumble along.

His smile is heaven and hell, the gleam of white teeth marked by small, slender fangs.  “There are three types of people here,” he murmurs, his voice a purring thrum.  “My soldiers, my pets, and my prisoners.  Which would you like to be?”

Ryder Tremain (Merman)
Setting: Flexible
Sexuality: Pansexual
Dominant Style: Strong & Quiet, Grim, Privately Soft, Protective, Passionate
Key Kinks: Rough Sex, Mating/Rut, Multiple Orgasms, Electricity, Biting/Scratching/Bruising/Marking, Water,

His hands slide around you as you look out over the ocean.  Gray and turbulent, the water is as dark as the clouds, and the surf pounds the cliffs like a drum.  You have shelter in this little pavilion built of stone, but if the rain drives hard enough, it will soak you even here.  That thought brings no fear as his heat presses against your back, hard and muscled, breath warm against your neck.

The electricity in his body mimicks that of the storm.  Far away, thunder rolls across the horizon and your heartbeat echoes it.

“Here?” you whisper as his fingers slip between your thighs, lighting up your nerves.

“If you’ll allow,” he murmurs, a low rumble against the soft skin behind your ear.  “The storm won’t hurt you while you’re with me.  And I want you…”

He would back off if you asked him to.  He’d take you somewhere warm and dry, make love to you on a bed and hold you while you sleep.  But that would take the wildness out of his gray-green eyes, and that wildness sizzles like lightning along your spine.  If you consent, he will be rough.  He will be wild.  There will be stone at your back and ache between your thighs, and the storm will swallow your cries.  Your wrists will bruise in his hands, and your thighs will bruise against his driving hips.

You shiver in the salt wind, and turn to nuzzle a broad, strong chest.  “Please, Ry… ”

A soft, predatory click rattles in his throat.  And you are off your feet, wrapped around his body, crying out as his teeth find your throat and his hands grip your ass.  Your back hits the stone, his hand behind your head to protect it, and you smile at that hint of thoughtfulness even as your clothes tear at the seams.

You’ve got to stop wearing expensive things to the cliffs….

50abbaee dd12 4db5 b348 6ed08b1dcac2 120x120 1x0 91x91
V's Character Consulting & Development
Public post

Furry Dominants

Fluffy for your pleasure.

Illatyrr (Werespider)
Setting: Flexible
Sexuality: Pansexual
Dominant Style: Sadistic, Creative, Subtle, Arrogant, Experimental
Key Kinks: Psychological and Physical Torture, Dungeon, Poison/Substances, Object Penetration, Humiliation, Non/DubCon, Kidnapping

It’s cold.  Everything is cold - the air that draws your flesh into goosepimples, the metal table at your back, the cuffs around your wrists and ankles that refuse to warm from your body heat.  Even the soft, chittering echoes that whisper at the corners of the room, beyond your sight, are cruelly chilly.  His hand is cool when it slides over your thigh, fine-boned and delicate, hiding the awful strength that left purpling bruises scattered across your body.

His hand reaches your hip, and something else touches you… something sharp and bristling with hairs that both poke and tickle, something that makes you shudder and turns your stomach.  Your thighs won’t close against the restraints.  If that chitinous limb touches you any more intimately, you think you might vomit.

His eyes are deep, blood red.  There are eight of them.  Something alien moves behind his teeth when he talks, shifting like hidden chelicerae.  He smiles at you, and you close your eyes against the sight.

“Oh, no.”  His voice is as delicate as his bones, soft and accented with a wealthy lilt.  “That won’t do.  I can’t assess you properly when you do that.”  His tone chides you, and you just want to curl up and hide from the horror of being awake.  Then those slender fingers are on your face, prying your eyes open, and you see a glint of silver that slams adrenaline into your throat.  You hear yourself screaming as if it’s someone else, struggling in vain against the clamps holding your head in place as the tiny metal hook pierces your eyelid.  That cold air rushes in and surrounds your twitching eyeball, dries it, and drives you momentarily insane with the desperate need to blink.  Blood seeps from the wound and reddens your vision as you tear up.  His face blurs, but you can still count the long, segmented limbs stretching over you - one, two, three, four, five, SIX …

The skin at your eyebrow is pierced.  When he lets go, your eyelid is held wide open, and you can’t close your eye no matter how you move your head.  Your heart pounds like war drums in your ears.  Your blood rushes like the surf, and you can’t breathe, you can’t see; you’re going to drown.

“Shhh,” he whispers, and a soft chitter underscores his words.  “Now, now.  We’re just getting started.  The eyes are the window to the soul, have you heard that?”  His fingers touch your other eyelid, and you choke out a cry of protest.  This isn’t happening.  This CAN’T be happening.

As he slides another hook into your flesh, his voice caresses your ears like fine silk.  “Don’t worry, little one.  We’re going to have so much fun together.”

Mynakos Thornfist (Minotaur, fawn-colored fur with cream brindle)
Setting: Fantasy, Sci-Fi
Sexuality: Pansexual
Dominant Style: Bravado, Physical Intimidation, Wild/Feral
Key Kinks: Hunting, Master/pet, Kidnapping, Non/dubcon, Extreme Size, Cum Inflation, Musk, Face-Fucking, Branding/Marking, Punishment, Public Sex/Humiliation

The bellow that echoes off the labyrinthine walls makes your stomach fall.  Air comes thinly - you’ve been running for what feels like hours, and the pursuit never seems to fall behind.  Another sound reaches you; heavy, bellows breathing, and the soft clop of split hooves on broken flagstones.

The creature that rounds the corner holds an ax bigger than you are.  Its proud, forward-sweeping horns still have bloodstains on them.  Breath steams from its pierced nostrils, and gore mats its fawn-colored fur.  Swinging between its legs, a bulbous black cock glistens with its own lubrication, uncut and as thick as your forearm.  

You find the strength for one last desperate sprint.  Braying, it follows you, and its steps shake the ground.  Dodging at random between twists and turns in the maze, you hear the distant roar of a crowd.  When it catches you, you think, it will kill you, and then they’ll REALLY go wild.

A wall appears out of nowhere, and you skid so hard you hit the ground and scrape your hands raw.  Dead end.  Is there time to backtrack?  Even as you think it, the shape of the minotaur fills the corridor.  It approaches, and the weight of its steps turn your knees to water.  You close your eyes, waiting for the ax, or maybe the horns, waiting for the pain.

The ax hits the ground.  Before you can process that, you are seized by immense hands, strong enough to rip your arms out of their sockets.  You are spun, shoved against the nearest wall.  Your clothes are torn from you, and the crowd roars in the distance.  As the beast presses up behind you, hot and musky, grunting as it shoves its erection clumsily between your thighs, you realize your fate is not to die.  It is to be owned, conquered, and claimed as spoils.  You can resist if you like.  It makes no difference - this monstrous cock is your life now.

Rainier Larson (Werewolf, Red Wolf, White Socks)
Setting: Flexible
Sexuality: Pansexual
Dominant Style: Playful, Happy, Affectionate, Cuddly, Bestial, Bit of a Jock
Key Kinks: Hunting, Knotting, Outdoor Sex, Face-fucking, Biting/Scratching, Breeding/Impregnation, Mating/Heat, 

It’s true, you couldn’t help staring when he emerged from the water.  His auburn hair, his sun-kissed skin, all that muscle… you’re only human.  And he isn’t, you can’t help but notice as he mingles with the others at the party, effortlessly comfortable in his swimsuit, barefoot, a beer in hand.  The wolves you recognize welcome him as an equal, as pack, and the feral light in those tawny gold eyes catches the firelight.  Still, there’s something intoxicating about the soft trail of hair that vanishes beneath his waistband, about the lazy power in his shoulders and chest, that playful smile…

The wolves can see into the infrared, you’ve heard, so both hands come up to cover your face when he appears at your shoulder with a drink.  Your blush must be visible from space.  He laughs, and there’s a gentleness in it that reassures you even as he coaxes one hand down and wraps it around a beer.

“I’m Rain,” he says, and for a moment you can’t remember your own name, caught in the animal gleam of those eyes.  He smiles.  “It doesn’t look like your people are here… can I keep you company?”

He can do a whole lot more than that.  You’re sure he can smell the want on you.  But he’s a gentleman, disarming your anxiety, teasing you a little and keeping his hands to himself… right up until you press against him hip to hip, and your breath catches when his arm slides around your waist.

“Want to take a walk?” he murmurs, and from the look in his eyes, you know exactly what you’re in for.

Yes, you respond, and his grip tightens, darkness swallowing you as you slip away into the woods.  

You repeat it when he pushes his knot inside you, strong arms holding you as you undulate in his lap.  Yes, yes… OH, please, YES… coherence slips.  You beg him not to stop, and his chuckle rumbles against your cheek.  

“No worries,” he growls against your throat.  “For a sweet little thing like you, I can go all night.”

50abbaee dd12 4db5 b348 6ed08b1dcac2 120x120 1x0 91x91
V's Character Consulting & Development
Public post

Dominant Catalog

For ease of browsing, I have divided my Dominant characters into groups based on species affinity.  Each Dominant is presented with a short profile that includes:

Setting: This is the type of setting where this character can be encountered.  For instance, a Dominant in the Sword & Sorcery setting would fit with a character based on generalized medieval fantasy.  If the setting says 'flexible', the Dominant can be placed in a setting appropriate to most submissive characters.
Sexuality: The character's gender preference.
Dominant Style: This describes what sort of behavior you can expect from the Dominant.  A 'feral' dominant may be animalistic or uncivilized.  A 'verbal' dominant enjoys giving orders and using dirty talk.  A 'humorous' Dominant won't be so serious all the time, and will want to make your character laugh.
Key Kinks: This does NOT describe every kink a Dominant is willing to engage in.  This is a 'greatest hits' list, describing their favorite kinks and the ones they perform the best.  Specific content of scenes will be discussed during consultation.
Introductory Short Fiction: This brief introduction is written in 2nd person and allows you to get a taste for how the Dominant introduces and conducts himself.

Artwork for each Dominant is in the works.  The more money this side business earns, the sooner I can commission artists, so if you want to see your favorite Dominant, buy a session!

50abbaee dd12 4db5 b348 6ed08b1dcac2 120x120 1x0 91x91
V's Character Consulting & Development
Public post

Frequently Asked Questions

Who are you, V?
I am an amateur writer with two decades of experience in writing and freelance editing.  I have plenty of fanfiction under my belt, but I have also created programs for PFLAG and foster agencies placing LGBTQ+ teens in my home state.  I have a full-time job and a family, and I think Dungeon Masters should be able to claim their players as dependents on their tax returns.  I've been role-playing in the kink community for almost 20 years.  I may not be the most cutting-edge partner, but I've got the chops where it counts.

Did you take your name from V for Vendetta?
It's a lovely story, but I took it from the first initial of my last name.  It does offer a comforting level of anonymity though, doesn't it?  I'm sure the title character would agree.

What services do you offer?
I offer role-playing interactions with a Dominant character for the purposes of:
  • Fleshing out your character's backstory
  • Helping you understand your character's personality, needs, and responses
  • Exploring kink and submission in a safe environment using a proxy
  • Personal enjoyment
You present an original character to be played with one of my Dominants, and we will role-play together or write collaboratively based on the amount of time or material you have paid for.  These in-character interactions are called 'scenes'.  Before we start in-character scenes, I will conduct a consultation with you.  During this consultation, we will discuss the characters, your desires, the character's needs, and any limits or special requirements that you may have.  The purpose of this consultation is to make sure that we both understand your desires for your character, to ensure that I can give you a satisfying experience.

How do we communicate with each other?
There are a variety of methods we can use to conduct scenes.  Discord is my preferred messaging service.  We can also share a Google Document, which allows you to preserve the scenes we've done for your own records and use.  In a Google Document, we would simply choose different font colors for clarity.  These can be removed later if you wish, but they help keep things straight in active role-play.

Can I use a character from a TV Show / Comic Book / Anime / Etc?
No.  For copyright purposes, since payment is involved, I will only accept original characters as submissives.  If your original character exists in a copyrighted universe, please be sure to file off the serial numbers during our interactions for the protection of all involved.

Can I share or publish our scenes for other people?
Any scenes we write together are for your personal use.  It's okay to show them to your friends, but you shouldn't be posting them for public viewing, and I definitely better not find them on AO3 or FF.Net.  Why?  It's simple - my characters are under my copyright.  You can't take my copyrighted characters and writing into public use without my express permission.  So, sharing is a qualified yes.  Publishing is a hard no.  Anything you do share with others should be shared with my copyright disclaimers and credit/attributions intact.  If you violate these requirements, I'm afraid I'll have to discontinue services and issue a DMCA takedown notice.  Yes, it's that serious.

I have a great idea for a Dominant, can you make him just like I describe him?
Sorry, hon.  I have a diverse stable full of Dominant boys.  You need to pick one of them, and whichever one you choose will exhibit his own personality and goals.  I'll do my best to tailor the scene itself to your preferences, but you will be working with an established character who knows his own mind, so to speak.  If I think you've chosen a Dominant who's unsuitable, I'll be happy to assist you in picking a better option.

Why are all your Dominants male?  Do you have any female Dommes?
Male Dominant services are the only ones I offer at this time.  I have no interest in running a Domme, and my reasons for that are my own.  Each Dom's profile will tell you what gender he will accept in his submissive. If you have a trans character, please rest assured they will be treated as their actual gender, not their assigned gender.

Can my character have a child with your Dominant?
Qualified yes.  Breeding and pregnancy are kinks I'm happy to engage in.  However, I'm not interested in role-playing child-rearing and domesticity.  If you plan to publish any material that involves the child, you'll have to file off their serial numbers and avoid referencing my characters' names or specific histories.  If it's just your D&D or Discord group, feel free to say, "This one is the son of V's character, Evarke... you should go pay them for a scene!"  I'm happy to accept personal referrals.

Can I have multiple submissives involved in a scene?
I must agree and approve it beforehand, and the maximum number of characters you can run in any scene is two. 

Can other people watch / participate in our scenes?
My role-play is strictly one-on-one.  I don't mind if you show it to people after the fact, but I won't accept active watchers or additional participants.  There may be a time in the future when I agree to host a scene party, and allow two or more players to submit to one of my Dominants at once, but that's further down the line and will have its own pricing sheet.

You said something offensive and I don't know how to talk to you about it.
Please tell me.  I understand that I am not free of prejudice, and I am working every day to get better about it.  I will not snap at you or retaliate if you point something out to me.

I know you said no, but I want to do it.  What if we...?
No means no.  Attempts to renegotiate a hard no will result in discontinuing of services.

You discontinued my service because I broke the rules.  I want my money back.
No refunds will be offered for willful violation of the rules resulting in discontinuation of services.  I don't play games.

What if I'm not satisfied with the service?  Can I get a refund?
In most cases, no.  The reason is this: I showed up, I did my part, and I made a good-faith effort to give you what you wanted. However, if something's just not clicking and you and I aren't a good match, we can have a discussion about either trying to fix things going forward, or refunding a scene we couldn't complete because of insurmountable issues.  If you're just generally unsatisfied, the solution is to stop using my services.  I won't be offended if you unsubscribe.
50abbaee dd12 4db5 b348 6ed08b1dcac2 120x120 1x0 91x91
V's Character Consulting & Development
Public post

Rules & Expectations

  1. Be polite to the Dom.  I am not a corporation, and I do not depend on your subscription.  This means that if you are rude, or cause a problem, I can tell you straight-up why you're wrong and what the consequences will be.  It's not necessary to call me 'master' or anything like that, but I do expect that you'll interact with me as a human being who deserves respect.  Failure to meet standards of courtesy may result in services being discontinued.
  2. Be truthful.  If you struggle with something social and you're concerned I'll take it wrong, please tell me!  If you need an accommodation due to a physical or mental disability, let me know!  If something scares you, approaches your hard limits, or even just makes you uncomfortable, please talk to me about it.  Give me the tools I need to take proper care of you, so we can maintain a positive working relationship.  All information is 100% confidential and will not be shared with ANY party under any circumstances.  Seriously, if the FBI comes knocking on my door asking about your kinks, they better have a subpoena.  I take your trust seriously, and will not abuse it.
  3. Keep RP where it belongs.  There is a reason I operate anonymously; this relationship has limits.  As such, don't try to hunt down my personal information or take the relationship into real life.  I am a player working with you, another player, to concoct a story.  Your character is welcome to fall head over heels in love with mine, but those feelings cannot spill over into real life.  If my privacy is violated, I will discontinue services and end all communications.  Seriously, I'm not available.  Not even a little bit.  Don't ask.
  4.  Observe reasonable standards of grammar and spelling.  I know these are things people sometimes struggle with, and I am not asking for perfection.  I'm not perfect either!  Both Discord and Google Docs have spellcheck functions.  Please make use of them, and if you make a mistake, edit your existing post rather than making a series of correction posts.  V prefers past-tense, 3rd person, paragraph format RP, but I am open to present tense and script format.  Once a format is decided upon, please stick to it.  If you're confused about what the different formats mean, check the FAQs or ask me during consult!  I'm happy to explain the nuts and bolts.
  5.  Be on time for your consultation or scene.  If you have a scheduling conflict, please let me know at least 24 hours in advance.  I will do the same.  Even if something unexpected happens, and you can only tell me 5 minutes before, it is 100% better and less frustrating to let me know as soon as you can than to keep me waiting.  Life happens, and I will not be upset unless you make a habit of it.
  6. Pay before you play.  All services are dependent on payment.  It's okay to chat with me in DMs or messages if you have questions specifically relating to my services, or need to reschedule, but we will not discuss your scenes or do any role-playing unless you've paid for the time.  It should go without saying at this point that we will also not chat about our personal lives, our pets, our coworkers, or our weekly D&D games.
  7. Don't be a bigot.  I will discontinue services and communications if you come at me with racism, homophobia, ableism, misogyny, or any other sort of prejudice that involves active disenfranchisement of other people.  Unintentional slip-ups happen, since nobody is 100% unproblematic - those aren't what I'm talking about.  If you are comfortable expressing your opinion that the world would be better off without xXx group of marginalized people, don't even talk to me.  Pass on my services and find someone else to get your jollies with.  Please refer to rule 1, and remember I am not a business, and I don't have to care what you think of me.  There will be no 'customer service filter' on my opinions.
  8. Keep it Safe, Sane, and Consensual.  I have feelings and limits too. Staying in control is one of my talents, but it is still possible to hurt me by disregarding my limits.  Throwing curve-balls in the middle of a scene isn't good for anybody.  Please use the consultation process to make sure the things you want to do are okay with me, and I will do the same with you.  A satisfying, fulfilling scene is much better than any sudden plot twist.  I am not an audience - it isn't your job to keep me on the edge of my seat.  Remember, we are working together to create something that is satisfying to YOU.

The subscription gives you:
  • Full, unlimited access to Creator's profile content - to view it online or to download it to future use.
  • Support your Creator by contributing – one-time or recurring.
  • You can cancel this subscription at any time.
This website uses cookies to improve your experience while you navigate through this website. Continue to use this website as normal if you agree to the use of cookies. View our Privacy Policy for the details. By choosing "I Accept", you consent to our use of cookies.