u/beenheredoneit

One sign of a good drop party: there is at least one last minute step-up to the rail. At The Empress? There's usually several.

A stately, art deco highrise with high windows and cascading roof line. A legendary roof top bar. U shaped, dark mahogany, a few hard points. A dancefloor, a bandstand, a grand piano. Lots of cozy booths, a separée for playing more intently. The bartenders wear a gold trimmed white waistcoat, no shirt. Black slacks or skirts by choice. For special occasions the bar stocks a few high end snuff slaves.

The party starts at six. And I do mean starts at. There is always a crowd in the lobby, cueing up behind the velvet rope waiting to be let in to the express elevator. By the time midnight rolls around folks have been celebrating, drinking, teasing, and all our fucking each other for hours.

The five old fashioned, counterweighted drop chairs always fill up quick, once the party fully moves outside. Put your chosen dance partner at the rail, wrists on the shackles, rotate the seat around and over top on them, and let them lie down. Hands immobilized. Spring loaded. Legs in the stir-ups, or not. You fuck. You gasp. You time it right. And on the button, you let them fly. A good drop only feels high and sky, as the saying goes.

The chairs fill up quick. But there is more rail to do it the old old fashioned way. Standing up. Ass against the rail, or on it. Hands on the neck. A kiss. A push.

"Ten minutes." It's gonna be a good year. All chairs are full, a few more couples at the rail. Still, more space to fill.

"Seven."

I drop my champagne flute and grab your arm. Pull you forward. A wild glitter in my eye. "Come on!"

I pull my little black dress up. Over my head. And drop it over the rail. Cheers. Turn around and press my ass against the cold steel. Naked. Save for the heels and the marks this night left on me. I grip the handrail with both hands. Lock eyes with you. Close.

"Let's fucking do this."

...

New Year's. People drop slaves. After fucking their lights out. As the rockets fly. It's a beloved tradition. Encouraged and enforced by capitalism.

We have celebrated. Danced. Drunk. Played. Maybe we have toyed with the idea. Maybe a couple of times. Maybe I was hesitant. Maybe you were. Either way, it's happening. And it's happening NOW. Who are we? Lovers? Spouses? Owner and slave? Friends? A date on short notice? Maybe even a chance encounter? We can play that out in flashbacks. Or not. Just one more dance.

Kinks: rough, desperate, animalistic sex with asphyxiation and snuff on a climax, followed by a drop from a high place. That's the deal. Take it or leave it. Also good dialogue, slavery, Dom/sub, unabashed queerness in the face of a more callous, heavy sexual use in all holes, misogynist world, heavy sexual use in all holes, light and heavy pain, corporal punishment, hands, switches, paddles, whips, restraints intricate and improvised, irons, rope, leather, silks, toys, outfit control, tease and denial, groups, good drink and food.

Maybes: body mods, watersports, humiliation, name calling, character development in flashbacks, gender fuckery.

Limits: blood, poop, gore, knives, needles, underage, incest, trying to negotiate other snuff methods.

One sign of a good drop party: there is at least one last minute step-up to the rail. At The Empress? There's usually several.

A stately, art deco highrise with high windows and cascading roof line. A legendary roof top bar. U shaped, dark mahogany, a few hard points. A dancefloor, a bandstand, a grand piano. Lots of cozy booths, a separée for playing more intently. The bartenders wear a gold trimmed white waistcoat, no shirt. Black slacks or skirts by choice. For special occasions the bar stocks a few high end snuff slaves.

The party starts at six. And I do mean starts at. There is always a crowd in the lobby, cueing up behind the velvet rope waiting to be let in to the express elevator. By the time midnight rolls around folks have been celebrating, drinking, teasing, and all our fucking each other for hours.

The five old fashioned, counterweighted drop chairs always fill up quick, once the party fully moves outside. Put your chosen dance partner at the rail, wrists on the shackles, rotate the seat around and over top on them, and let them lie down. Hands immobilized. Spring loaded. Legs in the stir-ups, or not. You fuck. You gasp. You time it right. And on the button, you let them fly. A good drop only feels high and sky, as the saying goes.

The chairs fill up quick. But there is more rail to do it the old old fashioned way. Standing up. Ass against the rail, or on it. Hands on the neck. A kiss. A push.

"Ten minutes." It's gonna be a good year. All chairs are full, a few more couples at the rail. Still, more space to fill.

"Seven."

I drop my champagne flute and grab your arm. Pull you forward. A wild glitter in my eye. "Come on!"

I pull my little black dress up. Over my head. And drop it over the rail. Cheers. Turn around and press my ass against the cold steel. Naked. Save for the heels and the marks this night left on me. I grip the handrail with both hands. Lock eyes with you. Close.

"Let's fucking do this."

...

New Year's. People drop slaves. After fucking their lights out. As the rockets fly. It's a beloved tradition. Encouraged and enforced by capitalism.

We have celebrated. Danced. Drunk. Played. Maybe we have toyed with the idea. Maybe a couple of times. Maybe I was hesitant. Maybe you were. Either way, it's happening. And it's happening NOW. Who are we? Lovers? Spouses? Owner and slave? Friends? A date on short notice? Maybe even a chance encounter? We can play that out in flashbacks. Or not. Just one more dance.

Kinks: rough, desperate, animalistic sex with asphyxiation and snuff on a climax, followed by a drop from a high place. That's the deal. Take it or leave it. Also good dialogue, slavery, Dom/sub, unabashed queerness in the face of a more callous, heavy sexual use in all holes, misogynist world, heavy sexual use in all holes, light and heavy pain, corporal punishment, hands, switches, paddles, whips, restraints intricate and improvised, irons, rope, leather, silks, toys, outfit control, tease and denial, groups, good drink and food.

Maybes: body mods, watersports, humiliation, name calling, character development in flashbacks, gender fuckery.

Limits: blood, poop, gore, knives, needles, underage, incest, trying to negotiate other snuff methods.

I take my time getting ready. No tears. Not today. I've already said goodbye. This has been a long time coming. Shower. Wash my hair. Conditioner. I briefly contemplated an undercut. But I stayed with my usual: a short, messy bob. Died an inky black. Suits my round face, button nose and green eyes. I shave. Smooth as baby. Legs. Pits. My cute, subtly sculpted innie pussy. The feeling always makes me horny. I masturbate with the showerhead. The orgasm is good.

​

Slightly weak in the knees, I squeegee the glass of the shower. Dry myself off. As I primp and fix my face I discard every product in turn. The closet is already empty. The last piece of clothing left in the house that's mine is the red dress. I regard myself in the mirror one last time, ignoring all the imperceptible signs of age that I know so well. Three and fifty years, four pregnancies and three children. A good life, but even a kind husband, excellent genetics, and the very best slave reconstructive surgery money can buy only stretch so far before things become obvious. And I never wanted that. We. Never wanted that.

​

Still. I turn, left right. Run through the basic seven poses. Cock my hips, smack my butt. Jiggle my tits. I shoot a finger pistol at my mirror image. Click my tongue. "Still got it." Going out on top, tits pointing at the sky. Like we promised each other.

​

The red dress. I work my way inside. Still fits perfectly, like it was poured on me. Halter top that clings to my steel ring collar. Hugging my fake, but very natural looking tits. Long, permanently hard eraser nipples. I chose the silver barbells for tonight.

​

No ring. Not anymore. We broke the collar back in September, after Cindy's final paperwork went through. I've been a free woman since then. Much to my chagrin. The market has no use for me. I pause after pulling the first lid line. And sigh. Cindy.

​

I can't help but smile. Cindy is perfect. How could she not, I picked her myself. Everything I was back when Jason picked me, straight after Cotillion. Young, fit, tight, vibrant, impeccably trained. Kind. Best cocksucker in her year. She is everything I was, but better. Gifted with the perfect pair of slightly saggy retrousse tits that Jason fell in love with so deeply, he had them bolted on to my delicate frame. The only thing I ever resented him for. Privately. I loved my itty bitties. Cindy has the back for them. I do not. Two inches taller. One less deep. So he bottoms out easily, with length to spare should he want to hurt.

​

Funnier. More spontaneous. She'll have an easy time of it. A soft downhill glide all the way to retirement. I know Jason, he is a good man. He'll treat her like she deserves. But a man needs to keep up appearances, he is a C-suite executive now, god-damnit.

​

The dress is floor length. Brightly, violently red. Cut deep in the back, down to my dimples of Venus. A hobble skirt, flaring out below the shins, with an extravagant trail and just enough rise to highlight the shoes that go with it: cream white pumps with a three inch heel, a closed toe, and ankle straps, recalling my beloved set of cuffs. They're the exact same shade. Tall enough to make my tits and ass pop, slim enough to be elegant, but with enough support to wear the whole night. Until midnight. I nod at myself, resolutely. Yes. Midnight. And not a second longer.

​

I push up from the chair and walk out of the dressing room. Out of the house. Pull the door closed behind me. And breathe a sigh of relief. No way back now. "Let's go, Carol! Onwards and upwards." I chuckle at myself. Pun not intended.

​

I circle the drive on the pavers, hands full with the trail, my purse, the heels, and a velvet toy bag. These are all my worldly possessions. Everything I own, grudgingly. The dress. The shoes. The jewelery. The collar and barbells I already wear, a dildo for the road, a stainless steel butt plug for the party. My small white clasp only holds the essentials: Lube, eyeliner, Peruvian marching powder, and a tab of acid. No condoms. No keys. No phone. What for?

​

Jason and Cindy took the Jag out to the Hamptons the day before yesterday. The viper or the cobra? Both are fueled with keys in the ignition. The viper matches my shoes, but black goes with everything. It's an easy choice. Sorry not sorry, Chrysler.

​

There is time. And lots of it. I drive the long way round. Stop at the old make-out spot. Get out, get on my knees, and throat fuck myself with my favorite twelve incher. I struggle to get it down. But I do it. Then I bend myself over the hood of my beloved baby, shove the plug in dry, and fuck myself to a screaming orgasm. I suck the dildo clean. Wipe it dry with its bag. Bonk it on to the fender, snort the first line of the night off of it, and then hurl it off the cliff.

​

"Good bye, Boss. See you in hell!" I yell after it. Buzzing. I could watch the sunset over the bay. But I want to get to the party. That ticket cost an arm and a leg, and I want to get my money's worth.

​

I drive fast. Well above the speed limit, but not recklessly. I know what I'm doing. Whooping and cheering. Park it with a tire screeching handbrake turn. Ticking and plinking. I strap on my heels. Hand the keys to the valet, who still has his jaw firmly on the floor, and walk away without looking back. "Bye girl." I cry a single tear. Can't bring myself to drop the ticket.

​

I stride into the lobby of the Empress a mere fifteen minutes after the bar opens. Straight past the elevators into the powder room to fix my face card. It is empty as a tomb.

​

The bellhop tears my ticket, opens the velvet rope and motions me through to the express elevator. A show for an audience of one. I press the button and step back to wait. I'm alone.

​

Until I'm not.

​

The door opens. I bow my head and let you take precedence. I will never acknowledge not being a slave anymore. If it kills me. Heh. The door closes. The acceleration is smooth. This *is* the express elevator, it only stops at the penthouse suites and the rooftop bar. But the Empress is an old ship, just like me. There is time, but not much. Time to...

​

I glance at you out of the corner of my eye. I like what I see. A lot. Something tells me this is it. I take a quick breath and let it out. Now? Now! Before the lift stops. Before the door opens.

​

I turn to you and bow my head. "Please excuse me."

​

"This is a bit forward, but I am on my own tonight, So I am in the unfortunate position of having to find my own way down."

​

I shrug a small shrug, disturbing my broken collar, and smile.

​

"Would you be so kind and help me out?"

​

...

​

Hello, fellow deviants. Yes. Carol is the rare thing, a dyed in the wool submissive. And she *will* not be a free woman. No! She is riding the elevator up, but she is determined to take the fast way down. Will you be a dear and drop her? Oh, and fuck, slap, spank, and choke her silly before that? Lavish her with food and drink. Maybe a dance. Wow her. Use her. Use her up. And then, let her fly.

​

Kinks: snuff, via asphyxiation, in conjunction a free fall of a tall building. Obviously. No, I won't switch it to a long drip. A noose just doesn't go with this outfit! Shoo!

​

Where were we? Oh ja: kinks. Choking, and coming, while dancing on cock, preferably. Permanently attached or strapped on, I don't care. Good manners, and when to disregard them. Also luxury, banter, slavery, unabashed queerness, groups, public play, public display, name calling, good dirty talk, CxNF, outfit control, tease and denial, corporal punishment, especially over the knee spanking but I'll take whatever I can get. Toys, multiple orgasms, heavy sexual use in all holes, anal, painal, sensual slow fucking, rough and desperate fucking, guided masturbation, mutual masturbation, fingering, fingerbanging, squirting, scissoring, blowjob, handjob, deep throat, throat fucking, creampies, cum play, cum walks, bondage, rope, iron, stainless steel, leather, one bar prisons.

​

​

ask first: spitting, punching, knife play, kicking, punching, watersports, filth, beastiality, misogyny, race play, orientation play, fisting, whipping bloody.

​

Limits: ddlg, mommy dommes, blood, needles, gore, vore, dismemberment, snapping necks, underage.

​

I play in first person present tense, and if you want to be first in line please describe your character in character as they are getting ready, and meet me at the elevator. With kinks and limits. Doesn't have to be half this long. Shouldn't.

I take my time getting ready. No tears. Not today. I've already said goodbye. This has been a long time coming. Shower. Wash my hair. Conditioner. I briefly contemplated an undercut. But I stayed with my usual: a short, messy bob. Died an inky black. Suits my round face, button nose and green eyes. I shave. Smooth as baby. Legs. Pits. My cute, subtly sculpted innie pussy. The feeling always makes me horny. I masturbate with the showerhead. The orgasm is good.

​

Slightly weak in the knees, I squeegee the glass of the shower. Dry myself off. As I primp and fix my face I discard every product in turn. The closet is already empty. The last piece of clothing left in the house that's mine is the red dress. I regard myself in the mirror one last time, ignoring all the imperceptible signs of age that I know so well. Three and fifty years, four pregnancies and three children. A good life, but even a kind husband, excellent genetics, and the very best slave reconstructive surgery money can buy only stretch so far before things become obvious. And I never wanted that. We. Never wanted that.

​

Still. I turn, left right. Run through the basic seven poses. Cock my hips, smack my butt. Jiggle my tits. I shoot a finger pistol at my mirror image. Click my tongue. "Still got it." Going out on top, tits pointing at the sky. Like we promised each other.

​

The red dress. I work my way inside. Still fits perfectly, like it was poured on me. Halter top that clings to my steel ring collar. Hugging my fake, but very natural looking tits. Long, permanently hard eraser nipples. I chose the silver barbells for tonight.

​

No ring. Not anymore. We broke the collar back in September, after Cindy's final paperwork went through. I've been a free woman since then. Much to my chagrin. The market has no use for me. I pause after pulling the first lid line. And sigh. Cindy.

​

I can't help but smile. Cindy is perfect. How could she not, I picked her myself. Everything I was back when Jason picked me, straight after Cotillion. Young, fit, tight, vibrant, impeccably trained. Kind. Best cocksucker in her year. She is everything I was, but better. Gifted with the perfect pair of slightly saggy retrousse tits that Jason fell in love with so deeply, he had them bolted on to my delicate frame. The only thing I ever resented him for. Privately. I loved my itty bitties. Cindy has the back for them. I do not. Two inches taller. One less deep. So he bottoms out easily, with length to spare should he want to hurt.

​

Funnier. More spontaneous. She'll have an easy time of it. A soft downhill glide all the way to retirement. I know Jason, he is a good man. He'll treat her like she deserves. But a man needs to keep up appearances, he is a C-suite executive now, god-damnit.

​

The dress is floor length. Brightly, violently red. Cut deep in the back, down to my dimples of Venus. A hobble skirt, flaring out below the shins, with an extravagant trail and just enough rise to highlight the shoes that go with it: cream white pumps with a three inch heel, a closed toe, and ankle straps, recalling my beloved set of cuffs. They're the exact same shade. Tall enough to make my tits and ass pop, slim enough to be elegant, but with enough support to wear the whole night. Until midnight. I nod at myself, resolutely. Yes. Midnight. And not a second longer.

​

I push up from the chair and walk out of the dressing room. Out of the house. Pull the door closed behind me. And breathe a sigh of relief. No way back now. "Let's go, Carol! Onwards and upwards." I chuckle at myself. Pun not intended.

​

I circle the drive on the pavers, hands full with the trail, my purse, the heels, and a velvet toy bag. These are all my worldly possessions. Everything I own, grudgingly. The dress. The shoes. The jewelery. The collar and barbells I already wear, a dildo for the road, a stainless steel butt plug for the party. My small white clasp only holds the essentials: Lube, eyeliner, Peruvian marching powder, and a tab of acid. No condoms. No keys. No phone. What for?

​

Jason and Cindy took the Jag out to the Hamptons the day before yesterday. The viper or the cobra? Both are fueled with keys in the ignition. The viper matches my shoes, but black goes with everything. It's an easy choice. Sorry not sorry, Chrysler.

​

There is time. And lots of it. I drive the long way round. Stop at the old make-out spot. Get out, get on my knees, and throat fuck myself with my favorite twelve incher. I struggle to get it down. But I do it. Then I bend myself over the hood of my beloved baby, shove the plug in dry, and fuck myself to a screaming orgasm. I suck the dildo clean. Wipe it dry with its bag. Bonk it on to the fender, snort the first line of the night off of it, and then hurl it off the cliff.

​

"Good bye, Boss. See you in hell!" I yell after it. Buzzing. I could watch the sunset over the bay. But I want to get to the party. That ticket cost an arm and a leg, and I want to get my money's worth.

​

I drive fast. Well above the speed limit, but not recklessly. I know what I'm doing. Whooping and cheering. Park it with a tire screeching handbrake turn. Ticking and plinking. I strap on my heels. Hand the keys to the valet, who still has his jaw firmly on the floor, and walk away without looking back. "Bye girl." I cry a single tear. Can't bring myself to drop the ticket.

​

I stride into the lobby of the Empress a mere fifteen minutes after the bar opens. Straight past the elevators into the powder room to fix my face card. It is empty as a tomb.

​

The bellhop tears my ticket, opens the velvet rope and motions me through to the express elevator. A show for an audience of one. I press the button and step back to wait. I'm alone.

​

Until I'm not.

​

The door opens. I bow my head and let you take precedence. I will never acknowledge not being a slave anymore. If it kills me. Heh. The door closes. The acceleration is smooth. This *is* the express elevator, it only stops at the penthouse suites and the rooftop bar. But the Empress is an old ship, just like me. There is time, but not much. Time to...

​

I glance at you out of the corner of my eye. I like what I see. A lot. Something tells me this is it. I take a quick breath and let it out. Now? Now! Before the lift stops. Before the door opens.

​

I turn to you and bow my head. "Please excuse me."

​

"This is a bit forward, but I am on my own tonight, So I am in the unfortunate position of having to find my own way down."

​

I shrug a small shrug, disturbing my broken collar, and smile.

​

"Would you be so kind and help me out?"

​

...

​

Hello, fellow deviants. Yes. Carol is the rare thing, a dyed in the wool submissive. And she *will* not be a free woman. No! She is riding the elevator up, but she is determined to take the fast way down. Will you be a dear and drop her? Oh, and fuck, slap, spank, and choke her silly before that? Lavish her with food and drink. Maybe a dance. Wow her. Use her. Use her up. And then, let her fly.

​

Kinks: snuff, via asphyxiation, in conjunction a free fall of a tall building. Obviously. No, I won't switch it to a long drip. A noose just doesn't go with this outfit! Shoo!

​

Where were we? Oh ja: kinks. Choking, and coming, while dancing on cock, preferably. Permanently attached or strapped on, I don't care. Good manners, and when to disregard them. Also luxury, banter, slavery, unabashed queerness, groups, public play, public display, name calling, good dirty talk, CxNF, outfit control, tease and denial, corporal punishment, especially over the knee spanking but I'll take whatever I can get. Toys, multiple orgasms, heavy sexual use in all holes, anal, painal, sensual slow fucking, rough and desperate fucking, guided masturbation, mutual masturbation, fingering, fingerbanging, squirting, scissoring, blowjob, handjob, deep throat, throat fucking, creampies, cum play, cum walks, bondage, rope, iron, stainless steel, leather, one bar prisons.

​

​

ask first: spitting, punching, knife play, kicking, punching, watersports, filth, beastiality, misogyny, race play, orientation play, fisting, whipping bloody.

​

Limits: ddlg, mommy dommes, blood, needles, gore, vore, dismemberment, snapping necks, underage.

​

I play in first person present tense, and if you want to be first in line please describe your character in character as they are getting ready, and meet me at the elevator. With kinks and limits. Doesn't have to be half this long. Shouldn't.

The band is good. Not Austin or Nashville good, but more than hot enough to pack the roadhouse to the rafters with a crowd of anything from aggy college girls and boys, cougars, accountants, and lawyers from downtown, riggers, tradesmen, truckers, railroaders, and ranch hands from the plains. They're pretty easy to distinguish by how crisp their wranglers are, and how scuffed their boots, but nobody cares that much on a Friday night.

I'm in the front row, too drunk and amped up for square dancing, whooping and cheering along to the fourth Skynyrd cover. High heeled white Lariats, frayed daisy dukes that are fighting the honest fight against my thicc thighs and dump truck ass, and a red cotton shirt with upturned sleeves and tied across my big, bouncy tits. Long, curly blonde hair up in a messy bun, button nose and a round face flushed deep red. Out on the perimeter someone bumps someone else carrying too many beers, and at the end of that chain reactions I end up with an elbow in the back mid bounce. I careen into your side, knocking your bottle out of your hand mid sip."

"F..fuck! S.ssorry Dude!"

I steady myself, holding on hard to your shirt and arm.

"Damn, almost spilled ma tiddies."

I mutter to myself as I tuck the girls back in and straighten up. And smile.

"Buy you a new one?"

***

Hey cowboy! Or girl. Or boi. Are you up for a tumble with a thick one. As the title implies, and my post history betrays, I have a latent need to be put in the barn and used and abused as a piece of fuck meat. But I'll settle for a pounding over the tailgate if you're in a hurry.

Kinks: dubcon, size difference, rough sex, blowjob, deep throat, face fucking, cum play, anal, slapping, whacking, over the knee spanking, rope, chain, sleeping in the barn, humiliation, good food and lots of beers, loud music, toys, corporal punishment, leather

Maybes: cheating and homewrecking, sleeping in the barn, being kept in the barn, on a chain or tied up, free use, being shared, whipping, branding, slavery, being presented, being shared, gangbang, public humiliation, beastiality.

Limits: poop, gore, blood, knives, needles, underage

One sign of a good drop party: there is at least one last minute step-up to the rail. At The Empress? There's usually several.

A stately, art deco highrise with high windows and cascading roof line. A legendary roof top bar. U shaped, dark mahogany, a few hard points. A dancefloor, a bandstand, a grand piano. Lots of cozy booths, a separée for playing more intently. The bartenders wear a gold trimmed white waistcoat, no shirt. Black slacks or skirts by choice. For special occasions the bar stocks a few high end snuff slaves.

The party starts at six. And I do mean starts at. There is always a crowd in the lobby, cueing up behind the velvet rope waiting to be let in to the express elevator. By the time midnight rolls around folks have been celebrating, drinking, teasing, and all our fucking each other for hours.

The five old fashioned, counterweighted drop chairs always fill up quick, once the party fully moves outside. Put your chosen dance partner at the rail, wrists on the shackles, rotate the seat around and over top on them, and let them lie down. Hands immobilized. Spring loaded. Legs in the stir-ups, or not. You fuck. You gasp. You time it right. And on the button, you let them fly. A good drop only feels high and sky, as the saying goes.

The chairs fill up quick. But there is more rail to do it the old old fashioned way. Standing up. Ass against the rail, or on it. Hands on the neck. A kiss. A push.

"Ten minutes." It's gonna be a good year. All chairs are full, a few more couples at the rail. Still, more space to fill.

"Seven."

I drop my champagne flute and grab your arm. Pull you forward. A wild glitter in my eye. "Come on!"

I pull my little black dress up. Over my head. And drop it over the rail. Cheers. Turn around and press my ass against the cold steel. Naked. Save for the heels and the marks this night left on me. I grip the handrail with both hands. Lock eyes with you. Close.

"Let's fucking do this."

...

New Year's. People drop slaves. After fucking their lights out. As the rockets fly. It's a beloved tradition. Encouraged and enforced by capitalism.

We have celebrated. Danced. Drunk. Played. Maybe we have toyed with the idea. Maybe a couple of times. Maybe I was hesitant. Maybe you were. Either way, it's happening. And it's happening NOW. Who are we? Lovers? Spouses? Owner and slave? Friends? A date on short notice? Maybe even a chance encounter? We can play that out in flashbacks. Or not. Just one more dance.

Kinks: rough, desperate, animalistic sex with asphyxiation and snuff on a climax, followed by a drop from a high place. That's the deal. Take it or leave it. Also good dialogue, slavery, Dom/sub, unabashed queerness in the face of a more callous, heavy sexual use in all holes, misogynist world, heavy sexual use in all holes, light and heavy pain, corporal punishment, hands, switches, paddles, whips, restraints intricate and improvised, irons, rope, leather, silks, toys, outfit control, tease and denial, groups, good drink and food.

Maybes: body mods, watersports, humiliation, name calling, character development in flashbacks, gender fuckery.

Limits: blood, poop, gore, knives, needles, underage, incest, trying to negotiate other snuff methods.