Let The Kinkiness Begin!
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give_satisfactionAnd we're off! Don't hold back! It's anonymous so let your freak flag fly! Not confident about your creative skills? Practice here! The fills can be anything you want. Fics, videos, artwork and anything else that strikes your fancy. Prompts do not have to be Bertie and Jeeves only! All of the other characters are fair game (Honoria and Madeline tentacle sex, anybody?). As are characters from other books and stories. This meme might be slow to start, so please spread the word!
And remember:
Complete rules for posting are on the group's profile. To protect members' privacy, entry posting is by members only. However, prompts and fills are made anonymously, which means non-members can respond!
Rules
1. No underage characters
2. No RPF/RPS
3. No bashing other people's kinks.
4. Please use content warnings. Put them at the start of your prompt. I.e. Prompt (Content Warning: Attempted Suicide)
Please warn for:
Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Major Character Death
Rape/Non-Con
Suicide
Attempted Suicide
Incest
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HOW IT WORKS: All posts are comments. To make your request, reply directly to this post. To fill someone's request, reply to their comment.
TIP FOR FINDING FILLS: On the left side of each page is a list of posts. In this case, the fill titles appear so that you can find and click on them without scrolling through an increasingly long thread! You can also find Part Two of fills on the list. Another way is to check "Top Level Comments Only". Only the prompts will show. You can judge from the number of responses whether or not the prompt was answered.
ETA: If you have comments about a fill, there is absolutely no time limit on comments. Writers love praise!
ETA ETA: A post from May 21 says that members would prefer fills to fic recs. For more, click on the link.
ETA ETA ETA: Please do not delete your prompts once they are posted. Members might have been writing a fill, or simply enjoy reading them and imagining the scenarios.
And remember:
Complete rules for posting are on the group's profile. To protect members' privacy, entry posting is by members only. However, prompts and fills are made anonymously, which means non-members can respond!
Rules
1. No underage characters
2. No RPF/RPS
3. No bashing other people's kinks.
4. Please use content warnings. Put them at the start of your prompt. I.e. Prompt (Content Warning: Attempted Suicide)
Please warn for:
Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Major Character Death
Rape/Non-Con
Suicide
Attempted Suicide
Incest
NOTE: IP logging is off.
Comment screening is off.
The subscriber and posting access lists are hidden.
HOW IT WORKS: All posts are comments. To make your request, reply directly to this post. To fill someone's request, reply to their comment.
TIP FOR FINDING FILLS: On the left side of each page is a list of posts. In this case, the fill titles appear so that you can find and click on them without scrolling through an increasingly long thread! You can also find Part Two of fills on the list. Another way is to check "Top Level Comments Only". Only the prompts will show. You can judge from the number of responses whether or not the prompt was answered.
ETA: If you have comments about a fill, there is absolutely no time limit on comments. Writers love praise!
ETA ETA: A post from May 21 says that members would prefer fills to fic recs. For more, click on the link.
ETA ETA ETA: Please do not delete your prompts once they are posted. Members might have been writing a fill, or simply enjoy reading them and imagining the scenarios.
no subject
Date: 2019-06-24 03:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-24 09:24 pm (UTC)Fill: What Would You Do?
Date: 2019-06-25 07:55 am (UTC)Oh, you disagree? Tell me, then—what would you do if you were me? What would you do if, despite years and years of trying to change something that’s as fundamental to who you are as your height or your eye color, you still couldn’t go a single day without an illicit thought crossing your mind? What if you were told that your urges, which never hurt anyone, which only brought pleasure to yourself and a few others on occasion, were immoral and sinful? What if you were exactly who you already are, but also an invert in an age where that sort of conduct is strictly prohibited by law?
I think I know. I think you would find yourself returning to St. James’s Park. To Lincoln’s Inn. To Smithfield. You’d find yourself strolling along Hampstead Heath, chatting with the strangers there. You’d find yourself in your usual spot on Clapham Common, introducing yourself with your usual fake name.
You’d find yourself with a towel wrapped tightly around your waist, too petrified to even glance at the fellow on the far end of the bench; instead you’d lock eyes with his reflection in the pool, barely visible through the shimmering steam that pervades the bathhouse and constitutes its hazy atmosphere.
You’d find yourself pausing as you reach the end of the long bookshelf filled with unspeakable titles, looking over your shoulder to see if anyone is watching you, and pushing aside the dingy curtain to enter the small unmarked booth.
Inside the booth, you’d find a partition, flimsily-built but over six feet tall, with crude graffiti drawn and carved into it, a few faded photos of naked men and women tacked onto it. Your stomach would lurch as you noticed the circular holes cut at about hip height. You would feel at once repulsed and, despite your better judgment and taste, enticed. You’d feel suffused with fear and you’d wonder whether it’s the kind of fear you’d be smart to heed, the kind you’d be foolish to ignore, or the kind you’d be brave to overcome.
You’d see a few dark figures lurking among the shadows. You’d hear soft sounds emanating from the other side of the partition: shifting, shuffling, whispers, moans, lapping, slurping. Tentatively, you’d approach, keeping your gaze downcast, tilting the brim of your hat to hide your eyes.
You’d risk a sideways glance at the figures next to you, standing oddly close to the wall, eyes trained downward at the spot where their bodies touch the partition. Closer than touch it—disappear inside it. Gulping down your apprehension, you’d undo your trouser fastenings with trembling hands. You’d feel disconnected from reality, like you’re in a surreal dream, as you begin coaxing your already nascent arousal to a serviceable state.
Soon, you’d pause, uncertain, staring at the hole and feeling the abyss gaze back into you. “Er…hallo?” you’d murmur. A quiet chuckle from the shadowy figure standing a few feet to your left. You’d flush with embarrassment, doused suddenly in shame, and decide to scrap this whole ridiculous scheme, to button up and turn and run out of here as fast as—
“Hi.” A low voice rumbling out of the hole, so quiet you’re not sure you didn’t hallucinate it.
You’d let out a shaky breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Would you…do you want…?”
“Yes.”
A voice so faint that barely any qualities are discernible, but against all reason, something about it would make you trust the speaker nonetheless. Probably just self-delusion, but you’d take whatever encouragement you can get.
“Are you ready?”
“Yes,” it would mutter again.
You’d say a quick prayer to a deity you don’t believe in and wouldn’t expect sympathy from even if you did, and ease your way into the hole.
Disorienting. Bizarre. Your rigid length, all by itself, alone on the other side of the wall, would feel detached from your body, and at the same time, also like the most keenly sensate part of your body. Like it had disappeared and yet like it had never been more present.
The disembodied voice would soon materialize a hand, then eventually, a mouth. The hesitant touch would make you suspect this might be the rumbling voice’s first time trying this, too. Well, not all of this—just the anonymity part. The gripping, stroking, kissing, licking, sucking part, that wouldn’t feel like the experimental fumblings of a first-timer. In fact, you would wonder if this was indeed the most skillful treatment of this sort that you’d ever experienced, or if it only felt that way because the pleasure was artificially heightened by the unusual circumstances.
Whatever the reason, you’d be panting before long, choking back groans and growls, as the blissful sensation steeped through your skin and into your blood, your very bones. Your eyes would squeeze shut, blocking out the uninspiring sight of the wall two inches in front of you. The unseen tongue would lave you with enthusiastic ardor, up and down, drawing you in and out, until you could feel the excess wetness dripping off you, down to the floor. If your hips snapped involuntarily, you’d feel the scrape of teeth; if you slowed and controlled your thrusts, you’d feel only the taut lips, the slick tongue, and the soft palate. Ecstasy would fill you as you filled the throat, which would constrict you tighter and allow you in deeper, further and further down as you proved your trustworthiness.
All the while, you’d wonder about whose trust you’re earning. His name, his age, his appearance, what his personality was like, what kind of life he led. You’d know what you hoped those answers were, but what were the odds he was anything close? The fact that you didn’t even know, that you’d never know, was simultaneously horrifying and hugely relieving. You were dehumanizing this man, treating him like an inanimate object for your own use; but then again, how could you be doing that when he was doing the very same to you? Somehow it would seem to make sense that if the objectification was mutual, then it couldn’t be happening at all. It would seem more like mutual respect.
You would sense your peak coming in the near distance and feel satisfied in your utter faith that the source of your pleasure wouldn’t let you down, wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t even slow. You’d pass the point of no return and give a wordless cry of warning just before the first surge of elation rocked you. Hoping to memorize the moment, you’d note every detail of your body tensing, your muscles contracting almost painfully, pumping down into that tight, wet, anonymous void. For a flash, you’d wish you had a name to call or hair to tangle your fingers in, or the assurance that you could feel this, exactly this, again someday. Then you’d remember the reasoning behind the contract you had implicitly signed and instead thrust impassioned, bitter fists against the wall.
That hot, sweet suction would vanish every last trace of the evidence; you’d pull back out of the mouth, out of the hole, and find not a drop to speak to what had occurred. With a shudder-sigh, you’d lean your forehead against the partition, never minding who else had done the same before, maybe even earlier that same night. You’d open your eyes for the first time in quite a while and tuck away your spent member. You’d hear a soft grunt as the man on the other side of the wall rose from down on his knees up to his feet.
The voice would float over the barrier, coming from about the same height as yours. “Call me Stephen.”
You’d take a mental inventory of all the Stephens you know, analyzing the few details you have of this one, but coming up with no matches. “Hugh,” you’d lie with practiced ease, just like you say every time on Clapham.
“Pleased to meet you, Hugh,” he’d say, and you would laugh as his hand would extend through the hole and wait there politely, expectantly.
You’d take it and shake it. “The pleasure’s all mine.”
The hand would withdraw and just like that, he’d be gone. You’d take a quick peek behind the partition, but a man with a voice completely unlike Stephen’s would curse at you until you left, tossing a hasty apology over your shoulder as you retreated. Dazed, you’d wander out into the cool night and meander your way home, deep in thought.
So, that’s it. That’s what you’d do if you were me in this situation. But you’re not, so don’t try to judge me. Don’t think you’d do it differently. Don’t think you understand. And when I tell you that I arrived home and requested a restorative drink from my valet, and when he delivered it to me, my eyes alighted upon his hand, suddenly identifying its unique familiarity, suddenly seeing it and him in an entirely new, unbelievable light…don’t try to tell me you’d cry out in recognition, admit the truth, and confront him straight away. You don’t know how impossible it is for me to bring myself to do so, as much as I deeply desire it!
Re: Fill: What Would You Do?
Date: 2019-06-25 08:39 am (UTC)Re: Fill: What Would You Do?
Date: 2019-06-25 04:48 pm (UTC)Re: Fill: What Would You Do?
Date: 2019-06-25 02:17 pm (UTC)Re: Fill: What Would You Do?
Date: 2019-06-25 04:51 pm (UTC)Re: Fill: What Would You Do?
Date: 2019-06-26 10:29 pm (UTC)And I WAS SO HAPPY YOU USED THE NAMES PROMPT OHMYGOSH WHAT A CLEVER WAY TO INCLUDE THAT
Re: Fill: What Would You Do?
Date: 2019-06-27 12:24 am (UTC)Re: Fill: What Would You Do?
Date: 2019-06-27 08:55 am (UTC)Re: Fill: What Would You Do?
Date: 2019-06-30 05:34 pm (UTC)Re: Fill: What Would You Do?
Date: 2019-07-01 02:31 pm (UTC)Re: Fill: What Would You Do?
Date: 2019-08-14 09:37 am (UTC)Fill #2 Glory Hole
Date: 2019-10-08 07:34 pm (UTC)By chance, Jeeves had seen the show on the previous Thursday, his day off, and we chatted about it when I returned to the old homestead. I mentioned the gag at the end of Act Two, and he, perhaps sensing the question behind the question, asked,
“Have you ever had occasion to visit to the St. Damien Bath, sir?”
“I’ve heard of it. A bit out of town, isn’t it? I usually go the one on Northumberland Avenue.”
“Yes, sir, but I understand that on the subterranean floor, near the coldest of the bathing pools, a gentleman may, should he wish, put his finger in the dike, as it were.”
This was news to me. “Really, Jeeves?”
“So I’m told, sir.”
“Well, whatever plugs your dam, I suppose.”
“A noble attitude, sir.”
---
Of course, the next day, it happened to be a Thursday, curiosity murdered the feline, and I took a hired chariot out to the hinterland, and sure enough, as I was stretched out on a lounge chair, doing my best impersonation of a sleeping man by what they called the ‘Arctic Pond,’ I overheard a conversation.
CHAPPIE 1: Oh, here comes Rogers now! What ho, Rogers! How’s the linen closet? Filthy as usual?
RODGERS: What ho. Sadly no. Clean as a whistle. No takers.
CHAPPIE 2: Too bad.
RODGERS: Yeah, now I know how the little Dutch boy felt in a drought.
CHAPPIE 1: Cheer up, old thing. Let’s go have a smoke in the drying room.
I waited a goodish amount of time after they’d oiled off and then headed in the direction from which Rodgers had come. Or not, as it were.
There was a curtain with a sign on the wall beside it labelled ‘Linen.’ I pulled back the drape and took a tentative peek inside.
It was a short, narrow corridor with a stone wall on one side and no exit. The ‘Linen’ sign had not been false advertising as at the far end there were shelves stacked with folded towels.
It was empty so I entered, and halfway to the towels, I saw it: a hole in the stone wall right at the level of plugging.
Well, well, well, I thought.
Now you might suppose that just because some people often wonder if I ought to be in some kind of home, that I’m the kind of idiot who sticks his finger in any old dike without thinking.
In this case, you’d be figuratively, if that’s the word I want, wrong, but, literally, quite correct.
No sooner had a stuck my pointer in the hole than it was enveloped in a wet heat. I wiggled it. There were teeth and a tongue on the other side.
Promising.
The lips, tongue, and teeth worked up and down from knuckle to nail, long enough for Bertram’s Bertram to imagine the possibilities and want a turn.
And that’s when I stuck my finger, and now I mean my prick, in the dike.
A slicked hand with a nice, firm grip caught hold of me at once and without so much as a howdy-do began to stroke. And there I was, cheek to stone, pressed flatter than a crepe suzette, getting my plate of frigs with bells on through a hole in a wall.
And it was glorious.
When I’d spent, I stepped back, chest heaving, until I was slumped against the opposite wall.
Then I leaned forward again and put my finger back through the hole, crooking it in a beckoning motion.
The cock that appeared through the hole was so big, so thick and beefy pink with a nice vein down the side, it made my mouth water, and that was a good thing, because I hadn’t thought to pack any slick.
I spat like an ornery camel on my palm and then gave it to ‘im like a policeman on boat race night. When he tipped his helmet, so to speak, he sent four long stripes ‘cross my furry robe, and the sight of it made me want to go again.
Not certain of the etiquette, I bent very low and gave his prickhead a quick peck, sort of like a curtsey, then I made my way back to the Arctic pond to douse the flaming loins in an ice bath.
The next Thursday, I was back, naturally, at the same hour, and this time, I got a mouth. Oh, my sainted aunts, it was a mouth that made me think of those Egyptian mummifiers who drove a stick up the dead pharaoh’s nose to scramble his brain before they yanked it out. My brain was poached, but my body was on fire, and my cock was as hard as the stone that separated me from that blessed orifice.
As soon as I’d released the pride of the Wooster, I fell to my knees and got my Christmas wish because it was the cock from the previous Thursday.
I don’t think it’s come up in any of my earlier chronicles, so readers may not be aware that your author is without a gag reflex. So I took every inch of that mammoth when it shot through the whole and swallowed him down like a Jonah-gobbling whale.
It didn’t take long.
I gave the head another kiss and crumpled to the floor as it retreated.
The next Thursday, I took the bull by the horns and did the ‘come hither’ motion when I put my finger through the hole.
As soon as that Greek god of cock was through the hole, I spun ‘round, dropped my robe, pulled out the plug and let him gore me.
And, oh, God, I’ve never felt more like a luckless matador. He pissed stream after stream inside me and clenched ‘round, not wanting to let him or it go.
I kissed his prickhead, suckling it a bit as it drew back.
And once again, the stranger read my desires, for when it was my turn, he gave me his mouth again.
‘The Soul’s Awakening’ doesn’t cover it. Not by half.
It was bliss. Utter bliss.
But when it was over, and when I was alone again, I felt a fog of despair creep in. Rather than lounge about the pool for hours as I had on previous occasions, I stumbled back upstairs, cleaned myself, and headed home.
The fog hadn’t lifted when Jeeves brought the breakfast tray in the next morning.
“Sir, is something wrong?”
“No, Jeeves, rashers crisp as usual.” Then I remember my manners. “Did you have a good day off?”
“Yes, sir. I visited St. Cosmos’.”
“A church, Jeeves?”
“A bath, sir, adjacent to St. Damien’s. St. Cosmos is for the man on a stricter budget than yourself.”
I blinked.
“The two establishments do, however, share a wall, is on the subterranean level,” he continued. “Yesterday was my third visit. I found it exceedingly pleasurable.”
I stared.
“Jeeves!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jeeves?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Jeeves?!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, Jeeves!”
“Yes, indeed, sir.”
“What say we, uh, save Holland from the comfort of our own home.”
“An admirable suggestion, sir. One I wholeheartedly support.”
“Bring your whole heart and the rest of you here!”
“Yes, sir!”
Re: Fill #2 Glory Hole
Date: 2019-10-09 08:16 am (UTC)Re: Fill #2 Glory Hole
Date: 2019-10-09 12:24 pm (UTC)Re: Fill #2 Glory Hole
Date: 2019-10-09 10:59 am (UTC)Re: Fill #2 Glory Hole
Date: 2019-10-09 12:25 pm (UTC)Re: Fill #2 Glory Hole
Date: 2019-10-10 09:19 pm (UTC)Re: Fill #2 Glory Hole
Date: 2019-10-19 07:59 pm (UTC)Re: Fill #2 Glory Hole
Date: 2020-09-05 08:43 pm (UTC)