Waking Dreams

March 30, 2010

It was a slow night in the park, but to be honest, she didn’t mind. With Daddy being held for questioning by the Feds, she felt vulnerable and exposed on her perch atop the walkway railing. It had been hard enough to get dolled up and ready to work; she wanted to curl up somewhere safe, wrapped in flannel and sipping hot chocolate, not putting herself out on the street.

The warm night air was as familiar to her as her own face in the mirror – She fancied she could smell the distant Atlantic Ocean. Nearby, a couple was curled up in the overgrowth by the park’s edge. Their murmurs and endearments made her own heart warm; love, in itself, by itself, was a thing of beauty that gladdened her heart.

Her chosen spot wasn’t perhaps the wisest; the broad cone of light cast by the street light overhead was a trade off. It displayed her ample curves to good advantage but played merry hell with her night vision. Figures beyond its bright circle were indistinct, shadowy. She shivered on her cement perch, masking the movement by smoothing her blouse and skirt. Focusing on the whispering lovers gave her a bit of calm. Over by the bridge, she could barely make out the hulking form of JeJe, a homeless Jamaican she had recently befriended. He was swaying like a metronome atop a piano, well into the second half of a bottle of rum. She smiled at his turned back; he was a good man fallen on hard times – she knew what that felt like. Her musings on what had brought him to this current situation were interrupted by the scuff of leather on stone. Glancing down the stairs to where the pathway dipped under JeJe’s bridge, a figure was coming into the view. By the walk, they were male, so she put a smile on her lips and arched her back slightly, putting her body on better display to a potential customer.

As they ascended the stairs and into the light, the man’s wiry frame, the angular line to his eyes, the purely Japanese cast to his features was illuminated. His pace was an arrogant saunter, and leather gloves covered his hands. Her mind recoiled in terror; Yakuza. Memories flooded her like a tsunami, washing away any reason and leaving only panic in their wake. She scrambled backwards, falling off her perch and landing hard on the cobblestones three feet below. Heels scraping and finding no purchase, her retreat was almost comedic in its ineffectiveness. The park disappeared from view – her vision narrowing to just his face, a cruel smile curving thin lips, his brows arched in insolent amusement, the expression so horribly familiar. Her gut wrenched and she sobbed, almost crab-walking backwards in her haste to create distance. The open door of the park halted her progress, her head meeting its wide surface with a loud crack that left her seeing stars.

He stopped walking towards her, dropping into a graceful, predatory crouch, a frown appearing on those thin lips. With one gloved hand, he reached out, grasping at her. His touch was all it took for her tenuous grasp on reason to snap. A shrill, wailing scream of despair and denial echoed through the park as she gave voice to her fear and horror. His spoken words to her of suspicious curiosity were not what her mind heard. Instead, it was yet another taunt, more scorn piled upon a useless gaijin covered in inked graffiti and insults, a bathhouse slave. She struggled to her feet using the door as support, hobbling as one high heel of her expensive leather boots snapped from the abuse. Staggering, she shoved past a trust-fund baby and accompanying boy-toy who had paused, drawn by the commotion, and bolted into the street. Cars honked and tires screeched as she ran blindly through traffic, an accident left unnoticed in her wake.

A long block away, she ducked into the alleyway, ricocheting off the trash cans and garbage that the shadows hid from view. Crashing to her hands and knees more than once, she finally followed gravity’s imperative and crawled behind a dumpster. There, she hid, drawing her knees up to her chest, rocking back and forth like a child faced with the terrible reality that the boogey monster wasn’t simply a story. The world around her did not exist; only an internal landscape of memory-fed horror.

It was her soft keening, much like a wounded animal that drew the attention of the detective hours later. He was the sort to bring the battleground to the enemy; in the south side, that meant walking the turf that belonged to the gangs, the dealers, the whores. Recognizing the girl, he keyed his mic, calling for medical attention. Almost immediately another call came out over the radio; a hostage situation. He groaned softly, wanting to help, but torn by his duty. He called out her name, inquiring what was wrong – but as with the man in the park, simple words could not break through the barrier of her trauma. Attempting to fend him off, she shoved outward with both arms, her mangled boots failing to gain purchase in the slimy muck pooled around the base of the dumpster. Reverting to his training, he tried a subdual hold; the disciplined grasp made her panic more, flailing and shrieking her refusal. The call came over his radio again; all available units needed. Lunging forward with a muttered curse, he pinned her arms to her side, wrapping her in a bear hug and pulling her against his chest. Nose buried in the skin-warmed fabric, she breathed in the distinct scent of his aftershave, mixed with the smells of the city itself. The blended whole was entirely un-Japanese. Yakuza did not hug. These two facts combined with his entirely New England accented cussing broke through her panic. Anguished cries turned into sobs, and tears spilled down her cheeks to drip heavily on his shirt. His name was a hesitant question; his affirmation was comfort in and of itself. The terror-sparked hallucinations faded, leaving her wrung out and exhausted, shivering in his arms. One hand lightly stroked her hair as the other keyed his mic again, acknowledging the call for all officers.

Footsteps in the alleyway heralded the arrival of the medic and he slowly pulled away, leaving her to the trained compassion of the redheaded woman in scrubs. The nurse’s questions sparked cautions quickly learned in the five years since her escape from that nightmare. A struggle for composure, hurriedly spoken – if easily seen through – lies … she used them all to wrap herself in shreds of safety. Staying out of the system was paramount. No names. No finger prints. To be in the system was to be separated from the one who had been her savior in those dark days. Forcing herself upright, she made the appropriate refusals, trying to patch together appearances and be convincing enough.

At last she was alone in the alley. Sliding back down the brick wall, adding further scrapes to those on her hands, knees and thighs, she wept more softly this time. This city was hard; more so in some ways than Los Angeles had been. She had never been strong, never been the Alpha leader that others turned to. Instead, she had survived through compliance, through surrender, by bending and not breaking. Here, as in LA, safety went by the name Abe Shackleton. He was far away, enduring question after question from a Federal racketeering task force, lawyers taking the place of the guns he usually used to defend himself with. Her hand slipped to her lower spine, caressing the one piece of indelible artwork on her body that had been of her own choice – his name, his affirmation that she belonged to him. As always, it was her anchor, her comfort. Closing her eyes, she traced its raised contour on her flesh, imagining it was his possessive touch. Comforted, she clambered back to her feet, kicking off the ruin of her boots. Scooping them up in one hand, she picked her way through the trash and obstacles that was a perfect metaphor for the city, and disappeared into the welcoming shadows of Perdition.


Chapter 25: Reasonable Expectations

March 9, 2010

I’ve talked about reasonable expectations before. You show up for sex, folks should have the expectation you’re going to have genitals – c’mon, it’s a given. Well, here’s a new one: If you’re in a kidnapping and crime role-play sim, you should have the expectation that ‘bad things’ are going to happen to people… especially if you’re one of the predators in the area! Don’t jump into someone’s IM asking if they’re being abused in RL, based on what’s happening to their avatar.

Abe and I have been spending lots of time in Dead End City, having a blast. It’s a kidnap / forced sex / RP sim with a wide array of ‘regulars’… which we would like to become as well. Interactions in such an environment are oftentimes ‘non consensual’ – insomuch as anything RP’d by a cartoon ever is. Someone who witnessed Sabella getting the shit slapped out of her recently made two different comments in my IM about it:

[2010/03/07 20:00] ****** interesting relationship you have with abe
[2010/03/07 20:01] Sabella Fallen: I’d be glad to talk about that in local chat, as I keep IMs OOC…

She didn’t answer, but shortly thereafter, she “came to my rescue” and treated the bloody eye that was a result of the slap, and commented further via IM:

[2010/03/07 20:26] ****** : ((winces at the bruses but this is rp after all))
[2010/03/07 20:28] Sabella Fallen: (( yep, just RP. 🙂 ))

That should have closed the matter. Sadly, it didn’t. She immediately followed it with:

[2010/03/07 20:28] ****** : (9 i do hpe so))

I have to assume that they hadn’t bothered to read any of my profile – either 2nd life or first life, or the extensive Bio on my picks tab, linked to even more back story on this blog, or they would have realized just how ridiculous and offensive that statement would be. I quickly responded:

[2010/03/07 20:28] Sabella Fallen: (Oh, heavens yes. Abe and I are RL partners. This is purely RP.)

The mere fact that I had to defend my real life relationship from thoughts that my loving and committed partner was secretly a wife-beater, and I was some abused mouse, absolutely ruined both our evenings. I made Abe aware of the conversation, and he had a pointed but polite conversation with the person, making it clear that such leading statements were inappropriate.

Sabella’s Rule for Roleplay #1: Read the Fucking Profile! It’s there for a reason. It’s going to teach you a lot. You can read a lot into what they say, what they don’t say, and how they choose to represent themselves. Look at their groups – are you in similar ones? If they state limits, respect them. If she says she needs XYZ, and you’re JKL, walk on. There’s a hell of a lot of folks here – someone’s going to fit your needs, if this one doesn’t.

While I’m not going to mute this person, I am going to avoid all but the most casual contact with them. I don’t need that kind of drama in either life. I’m here for the party, for the fun, for the pixel sex, for the rush and the adventure…You wanna come play? Look me up, but bring a dick and some common sense..


Dead End City Bio: Sabella Fallen

March 6, 2010

The daughter of a widowed career military man, Sabella spent most of her life moving from one place to another, including such diverse locations as Okinowa and Manilla. As a result, she can speak or at least understand very basic pidgin phrases in several languages and has experience with a variety of cultures. The only constant in her life has been her deep faith in the Catholic Church – she is never seen without the rosary that belonged to her mother.

When she was fourteen, her father remarried and it seemed like things were finally going to normalize and settle down; when he died under questionable circumstances less than a year later, it was the beginning of a slow, downhill slide. Within a few months of his death, her step-mother had a new partner – a fellow female soldier. Sometimes the stereotypes about women in the military are true; Maureen and Brenda were closet dykes. The marriage to Daniel Fallen had simply been as a means of more convenient access to his very innocent, innately submissive daughter. It was easy for them to convince the military that as an orphan, Sabella needed to stay with them at their off-post quarters in Vicenza, Italy instead of being entered into the foster care system and sent back to the States.

Sabella became their slave, in all senses of the word – rarely permitted to leave the house during the day, oftentimes shackled by one wrist to their heavy oak bed at night, working from first light until midnight, cooking, cleaning, and her in-house job – washing and ironing laundry that Maureen took in for other soldiers. The pair were sexually and physically domineering of the girl, turning her out to their friends and forcing her to participate in the seedy, hidden underworld of the lesbian/femdom culture in Europe. (As a result, Sabella has a very non-American viewpoint on sex and a high tolerance for pain, though she takes no pleasure from it.)

This abuse continued for two years and was ignored by all those she tried to go to for help. Over that span of time, Sabella scrimped, saved, and stole enough from her stepmother (praying for the forgiveness of the Virgin each time) to enable her to escape. She made a break for it one rainy night in late spring, trying to hide herself in the bustle of nearby Trento. Like many runaways, she fell into one disastrous situation after another. Not surprisingly, many of these involved pimps trying to bring her onto their strings through seduction or guile, attempting to play upon her vulnerability. Time after time, she would flee like a terrified rabbit, starting over somewhere new – a few miles or a few cities away. She tried to make ends meet through a variety of honest jobs – waitressing, bicycle courier, dancer – but meals were few and shelter was always in question. This pattern continued for several years, and eventually her repeated escapes brought her to Grafenwöhr, Germany, with only her passport and a small backpack of belongings including her journal and a few worn photos of her family.

There, she managed to convince a fellow Catholic soldier to show her mercy and let her sneak on board an aircraft headed for the US. The trip was dangerous and long, hidden amidst the pallets of a C-130 load heading back to Ft. Benning. He helped her get off base without official detection, and left her at a bus stop in Christopher, Georgia.

At the age of twenty-three, she found herself in the United States for the first time since her birth, with a passport, a rosary, and little else. Two years of hitchhiking, waitressing, and running from pimps, con men and the occasional crooked cop brought her to the outskirts of Dead End City. There, she was quickly observed by a local drug dealer and procurer named Abe Shackleton. Unbeknownst to her, he shadowed her for several days, watching and waiting. He silently observed the places she tried to find work, her cautious explorations of the city, and the squatter’s spots she slept in. Her journal was pilfered from her backpack one night, returned before she woke, and from it, he learned of every hope, fear, and horror of her short life – and what a valuable commodity she could be for him.

Unlike the others who attempted to pull her deeper into a criminal lifestyle using guile or flattery, Abe used the direct and effective brute force that had made his reputation in the city’s underworld. On her fifth morning in the city, she woke cuffed to a post, her head swimming with the sedative he had injected her with as she slept. His explanation was simple; she was his property now, to use as he liked. If she fought, if she tried to escape, he would find her, punish her severely, and sell her back into the slavery she had escaped from in Europe. One demonstration of his sexual sadism was all it took for his ‘rabbitty’ girl to realize this was one fox she could not escape… and that things truly could get worse if he chose to make them.

She has been owned by him for six months, now. While her Catholic faith was all that kept her from suicide in those first, dark weeks, she has become more resigned to her fate. By day, she works at The Dirty Laundry, using the skills she learned under Maureen’s tutelage back in Italy. Through her obedience, she has earned a few small freedoms; a second part time job dancing and bartending at Lulu’s, the luxury of a new dress, a visit to the library, her own Bible. One of her most treasured privileges is the fifteen minutes per day he gives her to feed the stray cats at the docks of the City, and an hour to attend Mass each Sunday.

Each has been granted with a reminder that it could all be taken away. He is the devil she knows; other paths are no longer an option. Her faith gets her through the times he turns her out in dark alleyways to cruel men wanting to sate themselves on the helpless. [And, as he has told her, ‘Doin’ what I tell you to do, doesn’t make you bad. It makes you a good girl.”] Her core, submissive nature is channeled in the acts of kindness and service she can provide to others – and in the small voluntary sacrifices and offerings of her pain she makes to Abe to please him.

Recently, though, his dominance over her has taken another turn – the introduction of some of the drugs he sells. It varies: ecstasy, speed, narcotics… sometimes as she sleeps, other times, he tells her to look away… She doesn’t entirely understand the addiction that is taking hold, only that her body has cravings she cannot define or explain, an itch she cannot scratch, and somehow, he is the one makes it better. . .


Snippet: Goings on in the Heights

March 6, 2010

The Heights has seen waning activity in recent weeks, although the pool party we held on Saturday, the 27th, was a rousing success. There was dancing and nakedness and flirtations for a solid three hours, and DJ Mack had fun behind the turn table. It felt really good to have so many friends come by; thank you all!

Development in many areas has been paused during this activity slump, but there has been work done here and there – additional security mechanisms are in place, which did cause a bump or two in smooth operations. Daddy was able to resolve those issues quickly, so all our members should once again be able to access the Heights. The Interlude (aka ‘The Farm’ has seen a few minor additions and work in the last few weeks), and the beds in the motel have all been installed. (No cuddles, no romance; just yummy, rough, demanding sex)

As a result of the quiet, Daddy and I have been wandering around various urban sims, missing that particular flavor of interaction. We’ve been spending a lot of time in Dead End City, and have specific RP character bios for that environment…


Chapter 24: The Latest and Greatest

January 13, 2010

SOOOOO much going on these days! Seems like there isn’t much time to stop and breathe, much less blog. 🙂 But .. here goes.

As you know, Daddy got me the other half of the sim for Christmas; we then got the fun of having the whole place renamed to Carbondale Heights and make the group publicly listed. Since then, we have been working hard, every single day, to create a fun place to hang out, to dance, to rp, or enjoy a little adult activity. Over on the Westside of the Heights, Daddy has been building up a storm… New facilities include a police station with vehicle impound yard (original build), a stunningly gorgeous club – The Landing Strip -(heavily modified and fully retextured prefab), a public restroom (original build), the EZ-Lay Motel (original build) and an aircraft hangar (original build). There’s also a small residential area, with one of the two cabins now occupied by our friend Breeze Charisma. Daddy has plans for one or two more buildings: a doctor’s office and a business office. While he’s done all the building, I’ve helped contribute through unique, custom made textures.

Lest you think that life has been all work and all play, I have had some lovely naughty fun with Stormy right in the middle of the street, a deliciously crude scene with Mique in a cramped bathroom stall and half a dozen with Daddy scattered throughout the place as we explore the many possibilities the Westside has to offer. There’s also been time for a gorgeous fireworks display, two fashion shows, some interior decorating, lots of dancing, and a couple of photo shoots, as well as some fun spur-of-the-moment shots. Oh, and shopping – let’s not forget the shopping! (Zaara, Armidi, Nyte-n-Day, Insolence, Fishy Strawberry, Apocalips Japan (twice) and more)

As the group continues to grow (49!), the quality of members has me absolutely grinning. These are all folks I or a Friend of Carbondale has had a chance to sit down and interview, give a tour to, get to know… And I really enjoy their company! It’s been great to get to know so many fun, creative, intelligent folks.

We’ve had a person or four come through, who get the impression that Carbondale Heights is a commercial venture. To make it clear: No, it’s not. We pay the tier out of our ‘fun money’ budget. We don’t ask for donations, nor is there a fee to join the group. This is our relaxation and enjoyment; people can ‘pay’ their way simply by coming by and enjoying the place to the fullest. 🙂


Chapter 23: A New Year in Carbondale

January 1, 2010

Rambling thoughts….

The biggest news to share is that for my Christmas present, Daddy rented the other half of the Homestead. We now have the whole thing – Yay! He also got me a wonderful Risque bed for the dungeon. (hubba hubba) There’s even more to do, now; there was almost a sense of, ‘Yes! We are finally done!’ with the decorating on the resort side… now there’s a whole other half to build and decorate and arrange and prim-manage. Wheeee!!! and.. Yikes!!! 🙂

Daddy has been learning building, and is really doing an amazing job. He’s built two full structures – a police station and a bar – the “Landing Strip.” Both are coming along very nicely, with bits of decor being added as we go along. Eku and Yure stopped by and made some great suggestions for animations that they’ll be helping us with – they really are a pair of gifted geniuses.

Today is the first day of the New Year, and I’m really looking forward to all of the possibilities it brings. We’ve listed the Carbondale Heights group publicly, although membership is, and will continue to be, by individual request only. We were at 40 members yesterday; I culled that down a bit, removing folks who hadn’t come back for a second visit, or who hadn’t gone on a tour, or who just ‘didn’t get it.’

Mique, Disaster, and a friend of his, Stormy, helped us ring in the new year. I danced at the Landing Strip for about three hours, and for two of them, did a ‘fashion show’ of sorts for Stormy, running through all my lingerie folders and identifying the designer and the piece for her, with commentary on colors available, prim fit, etc. They were incredibly generous, tipping me extremely well for the show. 🙂 [Of course, it’s all going right back into the sim!]

We’ve had a couple of unpleasant moments the last few days, with a crazy stalker coming back out of the woodwork, and someone being pushily aggressive with some misconceptions about what we’re doing and how we’re representing ourselves as we do it — but as Daddy says, ‘Mute. Ban. Move On. Don’t waste no time on that shit.’ He’s wise, and thankfully unaffected by the drama-llamas.


Snippets: Ghosts of the Past

December 30, 2009

Cunting psycho stalker bitches.
That is all.