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draino2025-11-01 09:00 am
saltburntmods) wrote in draino2025-11-01 09:00 am
Entry tags:
𝐈'𝐌 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍 ▣ NOVEMBER TDM
NOVEMBER 2025 TDM: INDULGENCE
Welcome to SALTBURNT, a panfandom smut/thriller game based off the film Saltburn, where characters are encouraged to indulge their deepest desires. The money never runs out and the liquor never stops pouring, so you may as well indulge from the bounty. Of course, things are rarely what they seem, and the manor itself seems to have a consciousness of its own. Throw parties, trash the house, engage in youthful merriment, but remember — dangers come out at night, and no one, no matter how rich you are, is safe from demons lurking in the shadows.
Threads can be considered game canon, provided the players agree. Players can also start fresh upon acceptance into the game. In game characters can post to the TDM directly, using « NEW CHARACTER/IN GAME» in the header. There will be a spot below for new characters to link their toplevels for easy access. Alternatively, prompts on the Test Drive can be used for in game logs.
WELCOME TO SALTBURNT
CONTENT WARNINGS: n/a.
It's the hangover more than the light streaming in through half drawn curtains that wakes you up, your brain rattling in your skull, your mouth dry and cottony, your stomach churning with whatever it is you drank last night. If self preservation is your strong suit, you might turn over in bed and see a few painkillers laid out for you on a silver dish, accompanied by a glass of water. If it isn’t, stay in bed and wallow — eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe it’s normal for you. Maybe it isn’t.
You're drawn from the room, either by the mystery, or an undefinable urge that could be supernatural in origin, or could be your hunger catching up to you. It's almost nostalgic, the walk to the dining room — have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Haven’t you done all this already? Maybe you mosey around a library, maybe you run into your suite mate in your adjoining bathroom. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks and ancient relics from times long past, lead to the dining room, where a comically long table houses the Balfours and their many guests, who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "The breakfast is self-serve," they say. But not the eggs.
If you want to leave, you’ll have to tell Giles, the housekeeper, who will arrange a car for you that mysteriously, or perhaps suspiciously, never arrives. Unfortunately, confronting Giles about it is near impossible, as he’s as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, there’s no reason why you can’t just walk out. The front gates are easy enough to jump over, even if the walk towards them gives you a strange sense of foreboding, or just outright discomfort, as if the ground itself doesn’t want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they can’t make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesn’t dissipate, though — this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The painkillers are there, just like you remember. In fact, it’s all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time, or any mess you made was cleared away while your back was turned. Walk to the dining room, find everyone there eating away at their breakfast. It’s self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
It's the hangover more than the light streaming in through half drawn curtains that wakes you up, your brain rattling in your skull, your mouth dry and cottony, your stomach churning with whatever it is you drank last night. If self preservation is your strong suit, you might turn over in bed and see a few painkillers laid out for you on a silver dish, accompanied by a glass of water. If it isn’t, stay in bed and wallow — eventually a maid will be in to tear your curtains open, saying, "Breakfast is served," and scurrying out quietly, invisibly. Breakfast? Maybe it’s normal for you. Maybe it isn’t.
You're drawn from the room, either by the mystery, or an undefinable urge that could be supernatural in origin, or could be your hunger catching up to you. It's almost nostalgic, the walk to the dining room — have you been here before? Were you drawn up to this estate in a car? Haven’t you done all this already? Maybe you mosey around a library, maybe you run into your suite mate in your adjoining bathroom. Regardless, seemingly all hallways, covered in priceless artworks and ancient relics from times long past, lead to the dining room, where a comically long table houses the Balfours and their many guests, who seem just as disgruntled and confused as you. No matter. "The breakfast is self-serve," they say. But not the eggs.
If you want to leave, you’ll have to tell Giles, the housekeeper, who will arrange a car for you that mysteriously, or perhaps suspiciously, never arrives. Unfortunately, confronting Giles about it is near impossible, as he’s as good at being invisible as the rest of the house staff. Of course, there’s no reason why you can’t just walk out. The front gates are easy enough to jump over, even if the walk towards them gives you a strange sense of foreboding, or just outright discomfort, as if the ground itself doesn’t want you to leave. Those more sensitive or fragile might find they can’t make the jump, no matter how physically able, or desperately wanting. Still, a strong person could continue on, over the fence and into the lush English countryside. The feeling doesn’t dissipate, though — this sense of wrongness, almost sickness, like a weight on your back. Walk into the evergreen, carry on, but the strongest will make it perhaps a mile or so before the weight of dread and paranoia brings you to your knees, and then to your face, flat in the middle of a dirt road. What were you thinking? Is this really better?
Wake up with a hangover, in a bed, the curtains drawn, the maid saying, "Breakfast is served," before scurrying out. The painkillers are there, just like you remember. In fact, it’s all exactly how you remember, as if you never left an imprint the first time, or any mess you made was cleared away while your back was turned. Walk to the dining room, find everyone there eating away at their breakfast. It’s self serve, naturally. Just not the eggs.
"We dress for dinner," says Portia, with a kind, if discerning smile. "Black tie."
TREAT YOURSELF
CONTENT WARNINGS: pressing of hard limits (examples including suffocation & drowning)
On the questionable hideous backside of the manor is a strangely modern addition — new to Saltburnt is MALICE, an all-inclusive spa experience available to meet the needs of any guest who requires an additional pick-me-up. Upon opening a set of heavy doors marked only with an M., cool air bundled with the delicate fragrance of white tea and artemisia immediately envelops your skin. Gleaming marble floors glitter across the lobby, staff dressed in identical red stepping forward to serve you your choice of fruit-infused sparkling water, each glass tinted with the barest hint of color — finger lime green to boost your energy levels, dragon fruit pink to warm your cheeks (and other areas), golden starfruit for a shimmering veil of calm to settle upon your troubled mind. The lobby itself is open for mingling, live piano music providing a backdrop as you decide on your services, with gentle massages available for your shoulders and feet as you wait, and staff members on standby to offer complimentary manicures for those ragged cuticles. It seems they’re willing to do anything to provide both comfort and preserve good taste — they’ll silently come forward to shine your shoes, lint roll your clothes, or offer a selection of creams for any hands they deem too dry.
A glistening spiral staircase leads to the upper floor, where full services are rendered in various rooms — and there are so many to choose from. In fact, Malice seems like a timely addition for the guests who’ve been away from the luxuries of the manor and might be feeling a little rough around the edges, both in body and mind. You can undress into your choice of robe, slip, or breezy linen set, both fluffy and silken options available in several pastel colors, with matching slippers. A steamy bath house beckons anyone looking for a warm, relaxing soak, creamy soaps and sweet oils lined up neatly for your use. If that’s not hot enough, the sauna is right next door, where you can feel free to sweat out your inner demons by any means necessary. Still not right for you? The hot tubs and jacuzzis provide a stunningly high view of the gardens, an especially beautiful sight when glimmering at night, the perfect scene to enjoy a heated soak — or the expertly percussive jets beneath the water. Order a drink from the staff, sit back, and relax, with or without a partner (or two, or three).
Once you’re done with a soak or a sweat, head to the expansive massage area, broken up into various rooms and spaces to meet individual needs. A deep tissue massage from the highly trained staff will have your muscles purring, but for those in search of something more, there are options aplenty. A hot stone massage to release that muscular tension you’ve been carrying, or maybe you’d prefer ice? Or wax? Choose from a curated selection of scents for your aromatherapy experience, each fragrance stimulating an urgent desire to be touched in a new place. The massage oils only enhance the experience further, the warm glide of it awakening and emboldening you to pursue a pleasure you’ve been dreaming about for too long. A discreet package called A Sacred Time for Two allows you and a guest of your choice to experience a massage together, either from the staff, or left to your own devices in a private room. Speaking of private rooms, there’s an even more illicit package available to those in the know — The Sacred Eye, which will allow you to watch any massage of your choice through an enclosed, one way mirror. The show gets good once inhibitions are lowered to indulge in private desires, so you’ll certainly want to consider it.
For those who really went through it under the Shepherd’s questionable care, there are a variety of skin enhancements on the menu. Come in for a cooling facial or full-body exfoliation that will leave you polished, gleaming, and unnaturally desirable to those who might have never looked at you before. For those seeking a bit more sensory deprivation, a warming marine body wrap and eye mask will leave you cleansed and refreshed, inside and out. And don’t be shy — the staff has seen it all, including the jagged scars you’ve been carrying from your recent ordeal or any earlier traumas. The first scar treatment can be done in house, and you’ll be sent along your way with a glass jar of the creamy, tingling ointment to be applied daily over the next several weeks — with the understanding that your results will be poor if you apply it yourself. Make sure you find a trusted set of hands to smooth over your scars each night for the most effective results.
The staff is happy to provide all these services and more, making you as comfortable as possible and catering to all special wellness requests. Enjoy the offerings — you’ve earned the luxury of solace and leisurely relief, after surviving this long. And for those of you who wander deeper into Malice, there are a few more experiences to be had, though these are not for the faint of heart.
Welcome to the Iron Rooms of Malice, where wellness takes on a much fiercer meaning. The services in the Iron Rooms are for those looking for a deeper, more profound relief than an orgasmic massage or an intense sauna session can provide. No room is the same as the next, because each room is tailored to the guest that checks in — and the moment you cross the threshold, a signed release automatically populates at the lobby’s reception desk, absolving Malice of any harm, mental, physical, or emotional, that you might sustain. Distantly, you think you hear faraway screams, moans, scratching and banging. Still, your need propels you forward, a deep, wrenching ache to shed your identity, to tap into something darker, something that washes you clean in a way that the previous spa rooms couldn’t. But cleansing requires a price, and the Iron Rooms will demand payment.
Entering is a shock to the system, the room personalized for you and only you — that is to say, the room takes the form of one of your hard limits or deepest fears, wrested to the surface and made manifest before you. If you dread restraints, gags, or deprivation, you’ll find any variety of these waiting for you, your limbs powerless as you’re bound or roped, your sight hidden behind a blindfold. If drowning plagues your nightmares, you’ll feel the sensation of rising waters, the room shaking as the walls grow closer, shimmering with the rush of the sea waiting to swallow you. If you fear death, the room becomes your own coffin, sealed with iron, the air running out despite your efforts to tear your way free. Whether you’re surrounded by gunfire and smoke, chained to a hospital bed, screaming in a cage, enduring the brush of lips from a person long dead, or suffering blows that leave you bruised, your fears and limits are yours to face. Yours to take on. And yours to master, in whatever way you can survive.
The cleansing comes when you divest yourself of your fears, even for just a moment, to reach the relief you’re searching for within the walls of Malice. Ask for the aid of a loved one or even a stranger to listen to your undisclosed confessions, or to help you push even further to find the agony of pleasure in your fear, tapping into your darkest desires and stretching yourself to your deepest, most intimate limits. The screaming and scratching you heard earlier? Maybe some people are still trapped in their fears. And yet, also to be heard are the sounds of ecstasy, of moans and sobs of euphoria, of overwhelming pleasure and relief. The room will shift to your needs, if your intentions are true. But the longer you cower, the worse your fear will grow — and the Iron Rooms will hold you captive until you face the truth.
On the questionable hideous backside of the manor is a strangely modern addition — new to Saltburnt is MALICE, an all-inclusive spa experience available to meet the needs of any guest who requires an additional pick-me-up. Upon opening a set of heavy doors marked only with an M., cool air bundled with the delicate fragrance of white tea and artemisia immediately envelops your skin. Gleaming marble floors glitter across the lobby, staff dressed in identical red stepping forward to serve you your choice of fruit-infused sparkling water, each glass tinted with the barest hint of color — finger lime green to boost your energy levels, dragon fruit pink to warm your cheeks (and other areas), golden starfruit for a shimmering veil of calm to settle upon your troubled mind. The lobby itself is open for mingling, live piano music providing a backdrop as you decide on your services, with gentle massages available for your shoulders and feet as you wait, and staff members on standby to offer complimentary manicures for those ragged cuticles. It seems they’re willing to do anything to provide both comfort and preserve good taste — they’ll silently come forward to shine your shoes, lint roll your clothes, or offer a selection of creams for any hands they deem too dry.
A glistening spiral staircase leads to the upper floor, where full services are rendered in various rooms — and there are so many to choose from. In fact, Malice seems like a timely addition for the guests who’ve been away from the luxuries of the manor and might be feeling a little rough around the edges, both in body and mind. You can undress into your choice of robe, slip, or breezy linen set, both fluffy and silken options available in several pastel colors, with matching slippers. A steamy bath house beckons anyone looking for a warm, relaxing soak, creamy soaps and sweet oils lined up neatly for your use. If that’s not hot enough, the sauna is right next door, where you can feel free to sweat out your inner demons by any means necessary. Still not right for you? The hot tubs and jacuzzis provide a stunningly high view of the gardens, an especially beautiful sight when glimmering at night, the perfect scene to enjoy a heated soak — or the expertly percussive jets beneath the water. Order a drink from the staff, sit back, and relax, with or without a partner (or two, or three).
Once you’re done with a soak or a sweat, head to the expansive massage area, broken up into various rooms and spaces to meet individual needs. A deep tissue massage from the highly trained staff will have your muscles purring, but for those in search of something more, there are options aplenty. A hot stone massage to release that muscular tension you’ve been carrying, or maybe you’d prefer ice? Or wax? Choose from a curated selection of scents for your aromatherapy experience, each fragrance stimulating an urgent desire to be touched in a new place. The massage oils only enhance the experience further, the warm glide of it awakening and emboldening you to pursue a pleasure you’ve been dreaming about for too long. A discreet package called A Sacred Time for Two allows you and a guest of your choice to experience a massage together, either from the staff, or left to your own devices in a private room. Speaking of private rooms, there’s an even more illicit package available to those in the know — The Sacred Eye, which will allow you to watch any massage of your choice through an enclosed, one way mirror. The show gets good once inhibitions are lowered to indulge in private desires, so you’ll certainly want to consider it.
For those who really went through it under the Shepherd’s questionable care, there are a variety of skin enhancements on the menu. Come in for a cooling facial or full-body exfoliation that will leave you polished, gleaming, and unnaturally desirable to those who might have never looked at you before. For those seeking a bit more sensory deprivation, a warming marine body wrap and eye mask will leave you cleansed and refreshed, inside and out. And don’t be shy — the staff has seen it all, including the jagged scars you’ve been carrying from your recent ordeal or any earlier traumas. The first scar treatment can be done in house, and you’ll be sent along your way with a glass jar of the creamy, tingling ointment to be applied daily over the next several weeks — with the understanding that your results will be poor if you apply it yourself. Make sure you find a trusted set of hands to smooth over your scars each night for the most effective results.
The staff is happy to provide all these services and more, making you as comfortable as possible and catering to all special wellness requests. Enjoy the offerings — you’ve earned the luxury of solace and leisurely relief, after surviving this long. And for those of you who wander deeper into Malice, there are a few more experiences to be had, though these are not for the faint of heart.
Welcome to the Iron Rooms of Malice, where wellness takes on a much fiercer meaning. The services in the Iron Rooms are for those looking for a deeper, more profound relief than an orgasmic massage or an intense sauna session can provide. No room is the same as the next, because each room is tailored to the guest that checks in — and the moment you cross the threshold, a signed release automatically populates at the lobby’s reception desk, absolving Malice of any harm, mental, physical, or emotional, that you might sustain. Distantly, you think you hear faraway screams, moans, scratching and banging. Still, your need propels you forward, a deep, wrenching ache to shed your identity, to tap into something darker, something that washes you clean in a way that the previous spa rooms couldn’t. But cleansing requires a price, and the Iron Rooms will demand payment.
Entering is a shock to the system, the room personalized for you and only you — that is to say, the room takes the form of one of your hard limits or deepest fears, wrested to the surface and made manifest before you. If you dread restraints, gags, or deprivation, you’ll find any variety of these waiting for you, your limbs powerless as you’re bound or roped, your sight hidden behind a blindfold. If drowning plagues your nightmares, you’ll feel the sensation of rising waters, the room shaking as the walls grow closer, shimmering with the rush of the sea waiting to swallow you. If you fear death, the room becomes your own coffin, sealed with iron, the air running out despite your efforts to tear your way free. Whether you’re surrounded by gunfire and smoke, chained to a hospital bed, screaming in a cage, enduring the brush of lips from a person long dead, or suffering blows that leave you bruised, your fears and limits are yours to face. Yours to take on. And yours to master, in whatever way you can survive.
The cleansing comes when you divest yourself of your fears, even for just a moment, to reach the relief you’re searching for within the walls of Malice. Ask for the aid of a loved one or even a stranger to listen to your undisclosed confessions, or to help you push even further to find the agony of pleasure in your fear, tapping into your darkest desires and stretching yourself to your deepest, most intimate limits. The screaming and scratching you heard earlier? Maybe some people are still trapped in their fears. And yet, also to be heard are the sounds of ecstasy, of moans and sobs of euphoria, of overwhelming pleasure and relief. The room will shift to your needs, if your intentions are true. But the longer you cower, the worse your fear will grow — and the Iron Rooms will hold you captive until you face the truth.
REDRUM
CONTENT WARNINGS: n/a
As you take your time to recover, the Balfours move full steam ahead to catch up with the social season — it’s so tacky to miss certain holidays on account of some crazed man’s murder games, after all. The announcement of the very prestigious COUPLES COSTUME CONTEST comes with the expectation of mass participation, or else endure Portia’s cold stares for the rest of the month. It doesn’t matter if you’re actually a couple, since the overall sordid state of romance is both expected and understood. It does matter if you’re fashionable. Dynamic. A visionary with the ingenuity to think Canadian tuxedos are the height of fashion. Luckily, the Halloween gods have smiled down upon you, or Bunny just threw a fit until Portia and Jonty relented to his demented ideas, but you reap the benefits — there’s a never before seen Spirit Halloween popup towering in the lawn. Shop to your heart’s content as you put together a costume fit to win. It’s all on the Balfours’ tab, after all. (Submit to the couples costume contest here, where a winner will be randomly selected!)
In the evening, a portion of the manor is transformed into Saltburnt’s very own haunted house, despite the complaints of certain guests that “we’ve already lived through enough horror.” It seems that’s your own fault, and has nothing to do with Portia’s party agenda, which leans into the Victorian romantic gothic aesthetic (someone told her was very trendy at the moment). Dress to impress as you traverse the maze-like rooms of the manor, drenched in crushed velvet and cobwebs, flickering candles leaving each space in perpetual gloam. With no expense spared, there are attractions in every room.
Adorning the walls are paintings of Balfour ancestors whose eyes seem to not only watch you, but undress you, warming your body with a phantom touch beneath your clothes. As if it wasn’t uncomfortable enough to have the feeling of a stranger groping you, you don’t know what’s hiding around each corner — a shambling mummy, a guy wearing flannel and wielding a chainsaw, a bespectacled doctor holding vials of poison that will leave you paralyzed. Of course, these are paid actors that the Balfours have hired for the festivities — aren’t they? They’re not actually trying to kill you. Right? Jonty was the one who was supposed to make sure the background checks actually checked out. In any case, you really don’t want to find out what happens when one of them catches you, so hopefully you wore shoes you can run in. Fast.
And there are so many places to run. Some of you stumble upon a heavy door, dragging it open to escape the freak chasing you, only to be thrust into an unruly crowd of even freakier-looking people. In the center? A makeshift ring, with two banged-up people inside. Congratulations, you’ve found The Pound, a fight club where you can pummel the monsters of the haunted house. Go ahead and get in the ring and take out some of those frustrations on the nearest reanimated corpse or Frankensteinian monster. For those who keep running, you might burst into a hot house of psychedelic plants and mutated butterflies. Ingesting or even touching some of these flowers, leaves, or thorns can leave you dizzy, flushed, touch-starved, and with an extreme desire to confess a secret — or else you’ll overheat and lose consciousness. What happens in the hot house stays in the hot house.
If you’re looking for a more refined and less bloody experience, visit the tea room for a crimson cup and a plate of sugar-dusted ladyfingers. As you settle into your chair, steel touches your ankles and wrists as manacles slither over you and clamp shut, trapping you to your seat and sapping you of your strength, your eyelids drooping. When you look up again, you recognize the person sitting right across from you, trapped in the same position — a friend, a lover, an enemy, or anything in between. Two staff members dressed as clowns stand beside you, teacups in hand, ready to serve you your sips since you’re presently rendered immobile. You want to leave? You are the room’s entertainment, and the scene you set will be judged in terms of performance value. Air some dirty laundry, have that argument you’ve been meaning to bring up, confront your killer or the person you love with the truth of how you feel — just make sure it’s honest and juicy.
The haunted house, thankfully, doesn’t seem to extend to the garden, where you can make an escape for popcorn, gummy worms, and your choice of fresh cranberry-apple punch with rum or straight blood orange whiskey. Grab a blanket and stretch out on the lawn with a cuddle buddy or three for an evening of scary movies projected onto a giant inflatable screen, or take a nighttime stroll through the maze, which, oddly enough, is growing corn now. For those of you who really don’t know how to sit still, you can go bobbing for apples, explore the art station for face or body painting (does it tingle a little?), or carve a pumpkin to display along the garden’s edge. Portia will not entertain any protests that it’s “too soon” for pumpkins — it’s tradition, after all. If you're in the mood for a cozier kind of quiet, hay rides loop along the grounds from sunset to moonlit midnights, each wagon lined with a soft quilt for couples to huddle under. The driver promises absolute discretion for mouths that steal kisses and hands that wander beneath blankets, riding slowly along the lantern-lit paths to give you all the alone time you need with your sweetheart.
Sparkling with fairy lights and decorated with lace is the extremely popular pumpkin spice latte booth, where you can order something ready-made or take a stool to concoct your own personalized latte. Behind the booth, there’s a more illicit version of bobbing for apples going on, where some of the drunker guests are bobbing for the shiny fruit squeezed between a pair of breasts. Feeling a little more rambunctious as the night carries on? Some guests have gotten ahold of cartons of eggs and have decided to pelt the southernmost wall of the manor, well out of Portia’s eyesight in a form of protest. That, or just to honor the trick part in Trick-or-Treat.
As you take your time to recover, the Balfours move full steam ahead to catch up with the social season — it’s so tacky to miss certain holidays on account of some crazed man’s murder games, after all. The announcement of the very prestigious COUPLES COSTUME CONTEST comes with the expectation of mass participation, or else endure Portia’s cold stares for the rest of the month. It doesn’t matter if you’re actually a couple, since the overall sordid state of romance is both expected and understood. It does matter if you’re fashionable. Dynamic. A visionary with the ingenuity to think Canadian tuxedos are the height of fashion. Luckily, the Halloween gods have smiled down upon you, or Bunny just threw a fit until Portia and Jonty relented to his demented ideas, but you reap the benefits — there’s a never before seen Spirit Halloween popup towering in the lawn. Shop to your heart’s content as you put together a costume fit to win. It’s all on the Balfours’ tab, after all. (Submit to the couples costume contest here, where a winner will be randomly selected!)
In the evening, a portion of the manor is transformed into Saltburnt’s very own haunted house, despite the complaints of certain guests that “we’ve already lived through enough horror.” It seems that’s your own fault, and has nothing to do with Portia’s party agenda, which leans into the Victorian romantic gothic aesthetic (someone told her was very trendy at the moment). Dress to impress as you traverse the maze-like rooms of the manor, drenched in crushed velvet and cobwebs, flickering candles leaving each space in perpetual gloam. With no expense spared, there are attractions in every room.
Adorning the walls are paintings of Balfour ancestors whose eyes seem to not only watch you, but undress you, warming your body with a phantom touch beneath your clothes. As if it wasn’t uncomfortable enough to have the feeling of a stranger groping you, you don’t know what’s hiding around each corner — a shambling mummy, a guy wearing flannel and wielding a chainsaw, a bespectacled doctor holding vials of poison that will leave you paralyzed. Of course, these are paid actors that the Balfours have hired for the festivities — aren’t they? They’re not actually trying to kill you. Right? Jonty was the one who was supposed to make sure the background checks actually checked out. In any case, you really don’t want to find out what happens when one of them catches you, so hopefully you wore shoes you can run in. Fast.
And there are so many places to run. Some of you stumble upon a heavy door, dragging it open to escape the freak chasing you, only to be thrust into an unruly crowd of even freakier-looking people. In the center? A makeshift ring, with two banged-up people inside. Congratulations, you’ve found The Pound, a fight club where you can pummel the monsters of the haunted house. Go ahead and get in the ring and take out some of those frustrations on the nearest reanimated corpse or Frankensteinian monster. For those who keep running, you might burst into a hot house of psychedelic plants and mutated butterflies. Ingesting or even touching some of these flowers, leaves, or thorns can leave you dizzy, flushed, touch-starved, and with an extreme desire to confess a secret — or else you’ll overheat and lose consciousness. What happens in the hot house stays in the hot house.
If you’re looking for a more refined and less bloody experience, visit the tea room for a crimson cup and a plate of sugar-dusted ladyfingers. As you settle into your chair, steel touches your ankles and wrists as manacles slither over you and clamp shut, trapping you to your seat and sapping you of your strength, your eyelids drooping. When you look up again, you recognize the person sitting right across from you, trapped in the same position — a friend, a lover, an enemy, or anything in between. Two staff members dressed as clowns stand beside you, teacups in hand, ready to serve you your sips since you’re presently rendered immobile. You want to leave? You are the room’s entertainment, and the scene you set will be judged in terms of performance value. Air some dirty laundry, have that argument you’ve been meaning to bring up, confront your killer or the person you love with the truth of how you feel — just make sure it’s honest and juicy.
The haunted house, thankfully, doesn’t seem to extend to the garden, where you can make an escape for popcorn, gummy worms, and your choice of fresh cranberry-apple punch with rum or straight blood orange whiskey. Grab a blanket and stretch out on the lawn with a cuddle buddy or three for an evening of scary movies projected onto a giant inflatable screen, or take a nighttime stroll through the maze, which, oddly enough, is growing corn now. For those of you who really don’t know how to sit still, you can go bobbing for apples, explore the art station for face or body painting (does it tingle a little?), or carve a pumpkin to display along the garden’s edge. Portia will not entertain any protests that it’s “too soon” for pumpkins — it’s tradition, after all. If you're in the mood for a cozier kind of quiet, hay rides loop along the grounds from sunset to moonlit midnights, each wagon lined with a soft quilt for couples to huddle under. The driver promises absolute discretion for mouths that steal kisses and hands that wander beneath blankets, riding slowly along the lantern-lit paths to give you all the alone time you need with your sweetheart.
Sparkling with fairy lights and decorated with lace is the extremely popular pumpkin spice latte booth, where you can order something ready-made or take a stool to concoct your own personalized latte. Behind the booth, there’s a more illicit version of bobbing for apples going on, where some of the drunker guests are bobbing for the shiny fruit squeezed between a pair of breasts. Feeling a little more rambunctious as the night carries on? Some guests have gotten ahold of cartons of eggs and have decided to pelt the southernmost wall of the manor, well out of Portia’s eyesight in a form of protest. That, or just to honor the trick part in Trick-or-Treat.
SHE THINKS SHE'S MADE OF CANDY
CONTENT WARNINGS: nsfw prompts (including lactation & a/b/o themes).
No season is complete without a grand finale, this time in the form of a rave as the Otherworld welcomes you home. You’ve had a difficult time of it lately, and after all that suffering the heedless debauchery of the Otherworld feels like a welcome reprieve even for the most anal of guests. The theme? A MOONLIT GRAVEYARD. The expanse of the ceiling glitters with stars, the tables switched out for coffins, tombstones for chairs, the bar a slab fit for a body awaiting its time at the morgue. You have death trauma, you say? There’s no better way to get over that than to push yourself right into it, falling into the indulgences that the Otherworld has to offer. The dress code? Dead sexy. As soon as you come in, you’re greeted with crystal bowls of bright candy, a holiday indulgence that feels irresistible, even to those lacking a sweet tooth. Pick your poison (or three)!
Whether you’ve stuck to your favorite or doubled or tripled up, you’ll feel the effects of these special treats within minutes, all of them with the bonus impact of lowering inhibitions. Not a dancer? You’re suddenly feeling a lot more compelled to grind it up on the dance floor with anyone who asks, or even with those who don’t. The starry rave lights reveal an increasingly more colorful room as the night goes on — mouths smeared with glitter, clothes wet with glowing stains (very difficult to remove). It’s time to let go. To release — literally. It’s called catharsis, and you can thank the Otherworld later. To assist with your sudden load problem, you’ll find a bucket full of vibrators labeled ONE PER PERSON, PLEASE, and another stuffed to the brim with condoms — specifically, candy corn flavored. Please use responsibly. A person can only be filled so many times, you see.
In addition to the unholy amount of bodily fluids on the dance floor, you’ll notice several doors available to you, very much likened to the doors of a mausoleum. It’s anything but dead behind them though — they each lead to a themed playroom for you to roleplay your fantasies. Enter a doctor’s office staffed with scantily clad nurses for a thorough examination, become one of Dracula’s many panting brides in the highest tower of his castle, or stroll through a pet adoption agency where you’re the one collared and leashed in a cage, eager to perform so that someone might see your value and take you back to theirs tonight. Join the roundtable of horny wizards as they cast sexy spells to get you off, or take the stage in a see-through leotard as you perform a solo show for the audience. One room to the side bursts with racks and racks of costumes and floor to ceiling tri-fold mirrors for you to don any identity you please. There are rooms to tickle every part of the imagination, if you’re brave enough to enter.
If there's one thing Saltburnt is good at, it's throwing a party you'll never forget, and taking good, good care of you afterwards. When you're exhausted and coated in bodily fluids, disinterested or incapable of moving back to your room, take advantage of the temporary TROLLEY SYSTEM of Otherworld — that is, cheesily decorated golf carts with cobwebs and streamers, designed to drive you to and from your room. For a limited time only, so take advantage while you can!
No season is complete without a grand finale, this time in the form of a rave as the Otherworld welcomes you home. You’ve had a difficult time of it lately, and after all that suffering the heedless debauchery of the Otherworld feels like a welcome reprieve even for the most anal of guests. The theme? A MOONLIT GRAVEYARD. The expanse of the ceiling glitters with stars, the tables switched out for coffins, tombstones for chairs, the bar a slab fit for a body awaiting its time at the morgue. You have death trauma, you say? There’s no better way to get over that than to push yourself right into it, falling into the indulgences that the Otherworld has to offer. The dress code? Dead sexy. As soon as you come in, you’re greeted with crystal bowls of bright candy, a holiday indulgence that feels irresistible, even to those lacking a sweet tooth. Pick your poison (or three)!
CANDIES OF THE MONTH
For an interactive game, feel free to click on whichever of the below candies appeals to your character, and reveal a (horny) side effect. Alternatively, click them all and find whichever side effect most appeals to you! Be warned — you are never going to get these stains out.
Whether you’ve stuck to your favorite or doubled or tripled up, you’ll feel the effects of these special treats within minutes, all of them with the bonus impact of lowering inhibitions. Not a dancer? You’re suddenly feeling a lot more compelled to grind it up on the dance floor with anyone who asks, or even with those who don’t. The starry rave lights reveal an increasingly more colorful room as the night goes on — mouths smeared with glitter, clothes wet with glowing stains (very difficult to remove). It’s time to let go. To release — literally. It’s called catharsis, and you can thank the Otherworld later. To assist with your sudden load problem, you’ll find a bucket full of vibrators labeled ONE PER PERSON, PLEASE, and another stuffed to the brim with condoms — specifically, candy corn flavored. Please use responsibly. A person can only be filled so many times, you see.
In addition to the unholy amount of bodily fluids on the dance floor, you’ll notice several doors available to you, very much likened to the doors of a mausoleum. It’s anything but dead behind them though — they each lead to a themed playroom for you to roleplay your fantasies. Enter a doctor’s office staffed with scantily clad nurses for a thorough examination, become one of Dracula’s many panting brides in the highest tower of his castle, or stroll through a pet adoption agency where you’re the one collared and leashed in a cage, eager to perform so that someone might see your value and take you back to theirs tonight. Join the roundtable of horny wizards as they cast sexy spells to get you off, or take the stage in a see-through leotard as you perform a solo show for the audience. One room to the side bursts with racks and racks of costumes and floor to ceiling tri-fold mirrors for you to don any identity you please. There are rooms to tickle every part of the imagination, if you’re brave enough to enter.
If there's one thing Saltburnt is good at, it's throwing a party you'll never forget, and taking good, good care of you afterwards. When you're exhausted and coated in bodily fluids, disinterested or incapable of moving back to your room, take advantage of the temporary TROLLEY SYSTEM of Otherworld — that is, cheesily decorated golf carts with cobwebs and streamers, designed to drive you to and from your room. For a limited time only, so take advantage while you can!
DIRECTORY
isolde laurence — lyonesse trilogy, new character
candy options: acid drops, lollipops, refreshers, jelly babies
treat yourself.
her body doesn't feel like her own. it hasn't felt like her own since she woke up a day ago in her suite. it won't feel like her own for a while, skin too tight over the bones, ill-fitting facade of personhood as she moves through the days.
so she's sitting in quiet stillness, and then there is a shadow, a voice, and she jumps slightly, wide-eyed stare turning quick to meet Isolde's own. she holds it, one, two, three, then, blinks, breaks the spell. ] Sorry. What?
no subject
( lacking a perfect explanation, isolde takes a graceful seat beside her, tucking her skirt under her thighs as she does, before holding a hand out to wait for kate's. once she gets it, she fetches a small bottle of hand lotion from her skirt — saffron and ginger scented — squeezing a bit into her palm. it's very luxurious, very indulgent to take her time with it, kate's arm extended almost straight out, hand near enough to isolde's shoulder that she might bow in her cheek to nuzzle her fingers. she doesn't — just rubs at the taunt skin of her hands, easing in the lotion.
isolde's own fingers are riddled with a surprising number of silvery scars — short nicks here or there, from a lifetime spent practicing. she offers kate a small smile. )
Hand massage. That's it.
no subject
[ - not in years. Her eyes dart down, quickly, to Isolde's own hands, the silvery skin catching in the light. She feels herself soften, just a little. ] Sorry, my heads not usually this up in the clouds.
treat yourself;
When her designated massage therapist enters, Greer's already lying facedown on the table, bare save for the sheet covering her from the shoulders down. There's little to declare that new presence — except for quiet footsteps and the subtlest scent of honeysuckle that follows in their wake.
Perhaps there doesn't need to be words between them, not once the massage begins — and Greer knows her muscles are riddled with tension, but there's something about feeling small, strong fingers deftly working into those knots, warming oil rubbed over her skin, that makes it difficult for her to stay completely silent. When one knot proves particularly tricky, the pain makes her groan, low in her throat, but she instinctively arches into the sensation at the same time, seeking out more of it — needing the release of it from her body, in all the places where it's still desperately clinging on. ]
no subject
she's still betrothed to the man who took her virginity and left her. unlikely anything will ever change on that front, given his bodyguard sent to deliver her. still. maybe it hasn't been long, but it feels like it, digging her fingers into the soft skin of a woman, thumbs soothing out her knots. when she gasps, isolde recognizes the sound like looking into a mirror — she likes the small bite of pain, the way it makes her feel. isolde knelt on cold ground for hours the second she arrived just to have the clarity to think — she gets the feeling.
the sheet is gathered up around her hips, now. isolde shifts her attention, lifting the sheet enough to dig into the meat of her ass, a little unsurprised to see healing bruises there. isolde presses into them — not meanly, but with a kind of solemn reverence — they haven't spoken a word, but she knows she wants to elongate the suffering, have the marks last longer than their lifespan. )
Hm. ( a returning sound. isolde hesitates a second before bending, kissing the top of one shoulder blade. just to see if she can get away with it. ) Feels good?
no subject
There’s a different kind of heat between her legs, but it’s not distracting yet — mostly just there, a soft pulsing, a reminder that she’s alive to feel it, despite previous efforts to the contrary. This is what she needs, little twinges and aches, pain that accentuates the sweetness of living, that keeps her tethered to her body rather than letting her thoughts run wild. It’s the same way submission grounds her — and all too late, she remembers the bruises, greenish adornment, as soon as fingers find them with a gentle pressure. ]
Yeah. [ A sigh — and that kiss, brushed against her shoulder like a butterfly’s wing, so soft Greer isn’t even certain of what she’s felt. But she chuckles, too, a little embarrassed by her own neediness, before responding with more certainty. ] Yes… thank you.
[ It’s permission, to continue; she hasn’t shied away from any touch so far, even the ones that flirted with agony. ]
no subject
( there's a smile in her voice, the idea that she's being thanked a little funny given the circumstances — isolde is the one who feels grateful, as touch starved and lonely as she is. how nice it is, to have a responsive blonde eager and willing in front of her, happy enough to say thank you that isolde prodded a little at her smarting spank bruises.
it's undeniably languorous — maybe the whole concept of a massage, but certainly how isolde indulges in it, less like it's for greer and more like it's for her, taking her time skirting over her curves and up again, digging her thumbs into greer's shoulders, her biceps. eventually, she has one of her arms stretched out straight, thumbs rolling around the delicate bones of her hand. a wedding ring. interesting. )
You have a very nice body. ( isolde leaves this unprofessional comment casually at her doorstop — she can pick it up or leave it there, unnoticed. the next is a little probing, ) I'm sure your sir is very pleased.
no subject
She has the memories of wearing this ring, of Ash sliding it onto her finger on their wedding day, but here, it's a new weight, a new subtle indentation left behind, and she's found herself reluctant to slip it off in any capacity. The masseuse could simply be admiring it, Greer thinks, but in the same breath, realizes it paints a very different picture of her marriage when paired with the stark evidence of fading handprints on her ass.
The compliment about her figure isn't even what momentarily steals her breath — it's the sir, so confident in its assessment that Greer's mind is sent racing. Surely the other woman can feel how hard her pulse thumps, at that calculation, especially since she's holding Greer's wrist while thumbing the lifelines of her palm. ]
My husband. [ They're one and the same — even if there are those moments when one or both of them needs Ash to be sir, he still holds her in his arms after, kisses the tears from her lashes, calls her his pretty wife, and she in turn, snuggles into her husband's chest until his heartbeat lulls her to sleep. Somehow, Greer thinks this woman, this stranger, will understand. ]
He wanted me to come here. To treat myself, by letting others... [ It's then that she trails off, however, cheeks heating with the realization that Ash may have very well wanted her to surrender to another's touch, with his permission. ]
no subject
( isolde finishes for her, bowing her head in to kiss the ring — more homage to ash than to her, as if subliminally offering that she has no real desire to be a thorn in a marriage. she already has a rather large one in her own named tristan thomas, and she isn't even married yet. there's just no denying that regardless of any jewelry on her own finger, when tristan steps into a room its lights out for her — how is that supposed to change just because she marries a man who once fucked and left her?
it's a delicate maneuver, to take the hand she's holding and bend it, pining greer's wrist to the small of her back. familiar submissive motions. honestly — honestly, isolde has no real idea of what she's doing. all her experiences with sex, even the performative rituals or the practicing, the playing a part and pretending not to fall into it instinctively, through it all she's always been submissive. but this — it toes a line, to be sure. greer is absolutely the pampered party, but it's only furthering because isolde is pushing it, so they're sort of sharing both mantles. a spoiled princess and an eager housemaid, an innocent customer and a naughty masseuse. isolde glides her fingertips down greer's spine, now far less intentional, and decidedly ore intimate. )
Would he like it if I touched you? ( she tries to remember those early on lessons with mark — how he guided her through this. how to do it right. ) I've never touched a woman outside of my imagination, so I can't make promises. But you can tell me no. You can always do that.
no subject
And she's relaxed enough by now, limbs loosened, that it takes no effort at all for her arm to be bent, wrist pressed into the curve of her lower back as if waiting for its twin to cross over, and Greer doesn't instinctively struggle because it's not a pose she affiliates with the need to. ]
... he'd like it if you pleased me. [ She feels confident enough to speak for Ash's wants in her regard — if all of this was his idea, possibly, right down to the masseuse chosen. No doubt it's better this way, with another woman, unless he'd considered offering her up to another man, and the notion of further cuckolding is what makes her reflexively scrape teeth over her lower lip.
But there's no need for the other arm to be moved, not when Greer is already rolling her shoulder to slide the fingers of that hand under the opposite wrist, willingly putting herself in a restrained position without any physical bindings. They'll do a version of this sometimes, when there's no tie or stockings or belt to improvise with. Honor system, and she'll be ordered to keep a grip on her wrist until she couldn't anymore, until her knuckles white and her damp fingertips slip — and then punishment is delivered swiftly.
Here, though, she's clear-headed, emboldened, by the permission to decline — and the truth is, she wants this. Wants another woman's hands on her, touching her the way only another woman can. ]
pet adoption
okay, so it’s the second thing he notices. the first is the slickness trailing between her thighs, shivers holding her hostage with agonized pleasure. it’s hard not to notice the steep arch of her spine, slim fingers reaching through the cage as her pretty pink mouth shapes a sublime plea. embry’s feet carry him to the cage before he can think twice about it, his pocket full of crumpled refreshers wrappers, his jaw flexing around the gum in his mouth. ]
Hi, kitten. [ he kneels, lifting her hand through the bars as he leans in, a half-smile on his face. god, fuck the commune. this is exactly what the doctor ordered, the tried and true remedy to all stress and heartache. a gorgeous wet cunt. ] What’s your name?
[ up and up her fingers go, until he moves them to his mouth, sucking the first two in to the knuckle, his tongue moving smoothly between them. ]
no subject
Mr. President.
( she's heard that voice, on international tv and during presidential addresses — once, she heard it within the intimate walls of lyonesse, ash colchester side by side with mark before he was kissed by a mouth-biting embry. new years, of the year she lost her virginity. it's not surprising he wouldn't remember — she'd been on the floor at the time, on her knees, unobservable. certainly not when ash, the man he would later claim to have loved and lost, was sitting right there.
her fingers twitch in his mouth, eyes drooping to his pink lips. no one has ever seen or met embry moore and not acknowledged that he was carved from marble, that he's beautiful the way paintings are beautiful, hung up in museums. except she's touching him, pressing her fingertip against his tongue, and he's very real to her, not just a piece of art on a wall in some distant country, not a man in her tv wearing a pressed suit and an american flag pin, not a lover in the dark clutching a man he wasn't allowed to have. isolde moans outwardly, pressing her lips together. )
I'm, I'm — ( she keeps moaning, pressing her thighs together, eyes blinking shut. a softer, easier orgasm. she her cheek against the bars. ) I'm — Isolde. Isolde Laurence. We met — just once. Kind of.
no subject
he extracts her fingers, his spit cooling on her skin. ]
Call me Embry.
[ mr. president in theory could be just as hot as sir, but as it stands, it feels wrong somehow. wrong to have gotten the thing he spent two years selfishly gunning for. his mouth goes dry when she comes right then and there, her moans practically caressing his dick. he reaches for her without thought, his fingers grasping her jaw where she sags against the cage. ]
Do you want to be let out, Isolde? [ laurence rings a low bell, but it’s hard to concentrate on anything besides the quivering body before him. he traces the seam of her plush lips with his thumb before slowly pushing inside, adding more fingers for her to suck. ] I can open the door. Or I can touch you. You can’t have both.
[ he slides out of her mouth, his wet fingers traveling down her throat to draw her in by the collar, pulling until her lithe body slinks closer to the bars. his hand slides down the front of her vinyl bodysuit, inside the neckline to squeeze her breasts — then inhales sharply at the leaking wetness he feels. he draws back and puts his fingers in his mouth, lapping up the milky drops. ]
I want to suck them. [ a demand voiced of pure desire. he almost regrets his ultimatum. almost, but not quite — not when he imagines isolde pressed against the bars for any kind of touch. ] Let me see you.
cw: lactation
still. it's not breaking any rules, technically. she hasn't promised him fidelity until the wedding. (not that that would've stopped her, here.) shifting, isolde stretches her bent knees to either side of her cage, lifting and sinking like she's riding something — like she's selling her best assets for adoption, why he should pick her, why he should take her home. jerkily, she pulls the vinyl off one of her shoulders and then the other, rolling it down her body until it's pinching at her waist — the suffocating bite of pain is good though, it makes her feel better, even as she embarrassingly grabs one of her breasts spurting milk on her fingers. )
I — I want you to touch me. Embry. ( sir she almost says, but she rarely calls mark by that, and isn't sure how to offer it to someone else. someone she doesn't know, who she doesn't trust — ignoring the fist of arousal that tightens in her gut at the thought. isolde shifts forward on her knees, almost shy about it, pressing her pale, swollen tits against the bars, slotting flesh through the gaps, the cold metal making her gasp. the cage is big enough that she can keep her torso straight, as long as she settles her cunt flush to the ground, even if it's impossible to sit totally still. ) Please, please suck them. It — hurts, a lot. I'm not — ( pregnant? it feels too weird to even say, and humiliating besides, shaking her flushed face needily. ) I just, I don't know why it's happening.
no subject
isolde sits half naked in the cage now, embry’s eyes drawn to her tender breasts, nipples pulled tight as he presses herself against the bars, painting a lewd picture of herself. he comes forward as if magnetized, his mouth closing immediately to suckle one hardened bud, pulling it in sharply, warm liquid flooding his tongue. he exhales on a moan, warm breath breezing over her skin, taking his time with teasing her with his mouth. ]
Fuck, Isolde. [ ash would fucking love this — but he’s not here, and she’s not his. she’s embry’s, at least in this moment in time, stealing heat and skin through steel bars. while he laps at her, he pinches hard at her other bud, eyes fluttering open to watch it redden, milk dripping down his hand. ] You would look so good as someone’s wife.
[ not… his, per se. half the attraction, aside from how fucking gorgeous she is, is how filthy and illicit this feels, nothing but pure, urgent need threaded between them. he licks the flat of his tongue across her swollen nipple and reaches low, her glistening cunt close enough for him to cruelly flick with one finger, watching as her entire body reverberates in an abrupt orgasm. his erection strains against his trousers, begging silently to be touched. ]
That’s a good kitten. [ he unfastens the lock and swings the door open. ] But I didn’t say you could come out.
[ he reaches for her small, slender body, his hands bracing around her waist as he drags her into his lap, sitting at the mouth of the cage. his knuckles skim along the damp lines of her body, stroking her like he would a pet. without warning, he slides two fingers into her wet, pulsing cunt, his other hand closing around a handful of her hair to keep her steady. ]
Your mouth. [ his voice a low, needy rumble as his lips graze her jaw, tongue flicking out to lick the salt from her skin. ] I need it.
no subject
( engaged, and it's not like that, but it kind of has to be, because i love him even if he has no real interest in me, and also i don't think i'll ever get pregnant, i don't think i'll ever have this, so we should make the most of it while it's here and i'm willing and you're hungry and we're — doing this, even though i just said i'm engaged. in spite of it. maybe a little because of it, because
it is ilicit. so depraved it might only be possible to share between two strangers who don't really care what the other thinks about them. she doesn't mind moaning when his hands are a little rough, not that whatever's effecting her gives her any choice in the matter. embry is the president, yes, but she doesn't really know him, not as anything but figure, or a man with his fingers gripping tight in the prior president's suit jacket. of course, there's only ever been mark and tristan for her — so it comes out a little awkwardly, sure. she still saw embry in the club, so he probably knows what's what when it comes to kink. some vital information, )
I like — pain.
( or, you don't have to treat me too kindly, mr. president.
isolde does as she's told though, cumming cunt clenching on his fingers, her forehead against his hip, hands palming open his slacks and sliding out his erection, fisted meanly in her grip. it's really not graceful — not from a saint of the church, not from a behaviorally trained whore for lyonesse. isolde is uniquely measured in that way — not broken in, not perfect. rather than teasing, she swallows his cock down to the root with an eager, sloppy mouth, nose pressed against his stomach, forcing herself into a painful gag. her eyes water up immediately, throat purring around him. she's not pulling off unless he makes her. )
no subject
he almost shoves her back into the cage. wants to lock her back up and walk away like he never put his hands on her. it’s not his finest moment. but if she belongs to mark fucking trevena —
his cock swells, a stuttered breath rushing out of him at the thought of swiping one of mark’s toys out from right beneath his nose. not his finest moment at all. ]
We met at Lyonesse, didn’t we? [ he gathers her bone-white hair in one hand, reluctantly pulling her off him so just his weeping crown balances on the edge of her perfect bottom lip. he looks down at her with bright eyes, face flushed. most of his time at mark’s club is so singularly focused on ash that he hardly has eyes for anyone else. ] You’re naughty, kitten. But it would be my pleasure to put your husband in the cuck chair.
[ he pushes her down again, keeping his grip on her hair so he can guide her in a way where she won’t burn herself out immediately, fast and then slow, holding her choking body still when she takes him deep, feeling the shudders of orgasm wrack her. he wants to hold out, but he’s already straining, her obscene mouth and wet nipples and pulsing cunt too much. breathing hard, he reaches down and brushes her cheek, brushing tears from her skin. ]
Fuck. [ his voice a strained tremble, awestruck. ] Holy fuck, Isolde —
[ a grunt as he comes down her throat, heat flooding his cock as he fills her mouth, and god her fucking mouth, because he comes harder than he thinks is even possible, his hips rocking into her as an unholy amount of sticky, sticky semen dribbles past her lips. hauling her up, he crushes his mouth to hers in a ravishing kiss, scarcely giving her a chance to breathe as he tongues himself out of her mouth. ]
I like it, too. Pain. [ he eases her down, hands braced at her back when he sets her half in the cage, pushing her thighs apart and lifting her hips to him. her cunt is pink and swollen, quivering on the edge of another impossible orgasm. he leans down, breathing in deep as he tongues at her, feeling her clench up immediately. ] I like this, too.
[ he presses his mouth to her, shameless in how he eats her out, devouring her like a forbidden secret. ]
🍬
He's not content just to watch, but he does. It feeds his envy and he takes pride in taming it. The anger of his lust is cool, coiled. Hap wanders the displays that people make of themselves, dressed as a Wall Street devil in black suit, red silk shirt, and a pair of horns sat atop his head. His gaze sweeps bodies, records faces. Nobody he knows, yet; nobody who merits an opinion. Elegance or obscenity, nothing in particular catches his eye until it snags on another watcher: Alone, a little lost, yearning.
Hap crunches the rock candy he's been sucking on between his teeth. Like the crack rang in her ears, she notices him. She composes herself, an effort that casts into relief how genuinely she presented herself a moment ago. Sugar melts on his tongue.
Colored lights shatter over her as he approaches. He affects a small smile, warming the intent in his eyes. ] Can I get you a drink?
no subject
she offers a polite smile to him, small and not particularly genuine, the kind you'd expect from british royalty or their surrounding socialites. isolde gives him a quick once over — tall, masculine, handsome, mysterious. possibly kind. she offers up a little shrug. )
I've only had the wine at Mass.
( which is not a no but rather an i don't know. let him lead it — she'll figure out more about him that way. )
Do you have a recommendation for a lightweight?
no subject
Well, that depends. [ Slipping a hand behind her back, he ushers her through the gallery of lovers. A stroll down a sinful garden path in the bloom of indecency. Hap minds her in his periphery, interested to see what act, if any, turns her head. ] What do you prefer: sweet or sour?
no subject
all of it catches in her throat, like a gasp or a moan waiting to break out — which isolde doesn't allow, of course, resettling her gaze at first in front of her and then to hap. almost playful, she bumps into his side, like it's a secret. )
Sour.
no subject
Hap runs his tongue along the back of his teeth, searching for a memory of wine. His hand slides lower on her spine when she drifts impishly into him. ]
Full of surprises. [ Approaching the counter, Hap waves the bartender over while keeping his companion close. A pretty young thing like her inspires quick service. ] Greyhound, [ he casts a deliberate glance at her before continuing, ] and an Old Fashioned. [ Hers and his. ]
no subject
Greyhound like the dog, or greyhound like the bus?
( it's one of those questions that feels strangely laden with kink, despite being innocent on the label. if asked in any other venue than a kink club full of depraved, public sex, maybe it would go by without a question. alternatively, isolde's brain is just broken in a uniquely horny way — an equally likely point, despite her several years of pre-nunnery abstinence. she made up for it in leagues. (kind of.)
in any case, she closes one eye while observing hap, as if the focus helps her bare more of him at a time. an act half charmed for the point of intelligence, and half genuine curiosity at being the one he picked. there's certainly no shortage of willing bodies for him to choose from. )
I think my father orders old fashioneds. ( once their bartender returns with their drinks, isolde cups her cocktail with one hand, eyeing hap's glass instead. ) Can I try yours?
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[ Sleek, slim hunting hounds. Sinking their teeth in on command, laying their kill at their master's feet. Starving themselves out of loyalty.
The intimation lingers between them as Hap turns towards her. Her eyes and mind are welcome to wander, and half of the bar is robbed of their view of her. He acknowledges the bartender with a nod, wrapping a hand around his glass. Another comparison brings even less subtle innuendo, mustering a soft, amused huff from him. Maybe if there were plenty of women his own age here, he'd feel a twinge of shame. Maybe.
He slides his drink towards her without relinquishing it. ]
Never broke into your parents' liquor cabinet, I take it.
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