The Holodeck - Step into a world of your own creation.

Current Threads

The Inheritance ~ with ScuttleButtin'

Uncle leaves his nephew his entire estate in his will, despite the fact they were never close. Turns out he has some rather unique merchandise in the basement, which will corrupt his nephew as he gets to live out all his depraved fantasies.

Forgotten ~ with StephenJames

A guy regains consciousness to find out that he has amnesia and that a gang of highly trained men are determined to kill him. He abducts a bystander and makes her shelter him while he figures out who he is... and what the hell he's done.

Current Cravings and Thread Ideas

Demobbed

A returning war veteran, maybe a young married couple where the guy comes home from fighting in a war zone and is a completely changed man. Maybe he's done more than just his duty out there, maybe he's crossed the line and raped women or joined in a gang rape. He finds it hard to adjust to civilian life and starts lashing out at his wife. This escalates into violent rape and tyrannical control. Once he starts abusing her he worries that she'll report him to the police so his new mission in life becomes to make his authority over her absolute and to systematically destroy her self-esteem until she believes she deserves no better treatment.

Lisbeth Salander

Lisbeth ~ Blomkvist OR new social worker OR new boy/girlfriend OR her father OR her brother OR got a better idea?

Hmmm... really want to write her character or similarly troubled non-canon. Brain hamsters are working on a plausible concept, since she's anything but submissive and I really don't want her to become dutiful or obedient. Watch this space. I welcome your own ideas.

The Firm

This idea revolves around some half siblings. The significantly older half-brother has followed in his father's footsteps and is part of an organised crime gang or mafia. The father died some years ago however, leaving your character to finish raising mine, the daughter of your dad's much younger second wife, a woman you always fantasised about. Unlike your own mother, my character's mum was subjected to systematic psychological, physical and sexual abuse... perhaps you even heard some of it through your bedroom wall as a horny teen. When my character's mother vanished off the face of the Earth you weren't even shocked. My character is now a rebellious teenager and she's about to provoke you into crossing the line between discipline and abuse.

SRP Profile

Gender: I'm female and only play female characters.

Age: 18-35 or so. I won't be anybody's mommy or milf.

Orientation: I can play any, but I lean toward cisgendered heterosexual.

Power Exchange: I'm submissive and masochistic. It will take a epic plot idea from a fabulous writer to persuade me to play a vanilla girl. I do not switch or dominate.

Race: I'm white. I haven't attempted to play a different race but I wouldn't rule it out.

Bodytype: Short, skinny and very young looking. I confess I'm less interested in playing tall busty girls but again I wouldn't rule it out.

Alternate species/fantasy races/furries/mutations: Hmm... I could see maybe a vampire, witch or Cylon but nothing too removed from humankind. I won't play 'furry' characters or anything similar.

Settings: My favourite would probably be contemporary but I also like the idea of historical/fantasy settings and future-with-a-twist settings. I don't know about writing fanfiction but I could be persuaded to give it a whirl.

Likes/kinks and Hard limits: Rabbit Hole ~ if you're curious about something that's not on the list, just ask.

Availability: Mostly evenings and weekends. At the moment I am between addresses and just have a mobile broadband dongle, which can be temperamental. Hopefully by next month I'll be moved into my new place with home broadband.

Jotterpad/Random Musings

... and this one.

thinks she imagined a childish giggle until her eyes snap open. she scans her surroundings, immediately spotting the anomaly. stepping from her alcove, she opens the bright silver paper and unrolls the enclosure. she does not chuckle... but allows herself a brief, wry smile.

Superfluous.

and she can guess the source of this... frippery.

decorating the holodeck is as pointless as wallpapering the inside of one's own skull but she acknowledges the warm sentiment denoted by the - somewhat derogatory - deck-warming gift.

although she's unable to countenance sticking the poster to her alcove, visitors to the Holodeck might well find it amusing. she adheres it to the sliding door between her alcove and the Holodeck

Fun.

she phrases the word contemplatively as though it's a great philosophical debate, rolling it around her mouth and still finding it mildly distasteful. The Holodeck was not designed for 'fun' but that has nevertheless become its primary function.

she walks into the Holodeck and surveys the empty space

Computer.

a muted beep answers her

Load Nightclub Programme.


A sumptuous and low-lit club lounge appears, furnished with low slung couches and dotted with curtained booths. An intimate dancefloor pulses with sensual music

with the efficiency that characterises her movements, she replicates party food - canapes, blinis and other amuse-bouches - which are then circulated by stunning holographic waiting staff. she replicates a few bottles of champagne, along with some cocktails for those who don't like bubbles.

she surveys her lavish party venue dispassionately, sniffing at some caviar suspiciously before thinking better of it. she sips from a champagne flute, the bubbles going up her nose and causing her to cough, her eyes watering.

takes another sip, determined to persevere. this time the bubbles merely sparkle pleasantly on her tongue.

Interesting.

'Computer' I say, doubting it can be so exact as to follow my request as I enter 'Load story 'forgotten...' with an additional, exceptionally long post that is highly flawed, needs much future editing, and is well over 1000 words long for seven_of_nine to read as she enjoys her champagne."

To my great astonishment, it complies easily with no need for furthur instructions and soon a post is ready, sitting neatly on a nearby table.

smiles in greeting to Stephen while her cybernetic implants and borg conditioning silently scream 'intruder.'

The new documentation is beguiling, as he knew it would be. It's an obscenely short time before she's sat across from him, flipping through his work. The champagne is beginning to compromise optimum function but somehow she's in no mood to care.

... curious.

Catches his eye and boldly holds his gaze.

It seems the computer is inspired.

although her tone is dry, there's a hint of an unexpressed smile at her mouthcorners. she's greatly flattered that he would bother to seek her here.

of course he has more important things to do... well to prepare for anyway. she is careful to ensure that her nod of polite understanding does not betray her disappointment. to reinforce the lie she smiles reassuringly, a brief gesture that momentarily transforms her usually dour face.

I too must... recharge my batteries.

she lifts the sheaf of papers, tapping them lightly on the tabletop to restore order. people seem to have such a fascination with and fondness for this primitive medium. of course it does not bear his penmanship... that would have been interesting

she's apparently reading the printout once more as he walks away but her peripheral vision takes him in as he crosses the room.

Sleep well Mr James.

she lifts her glass in a toast to him as he looks back. once he has gone she summons a waitress bearing champagne flutes and requisitions a couple. the replicator provides her with paper and a pen. after correcting and editing his 'work' for her own amusement, she sets about drafting a reply.

there she sits, in the midst of a party - having conjured some holographic guests in order to give her holographic staff something to do - utterly engrossed in her work

slowly she begins to discover how the words flow better when she's writing physically instead of typing. her imagination is also liberally lubricated by the champagne and by the time she hits the bottom of her third glass, she believes that she might have something worth posting

Computer.

her tongue feels thick and her limbs have a strange lassitude. while the mild loss of control is disturbing, she concludes that these are not wholly unpleasant sensations. she lifts the papers holding her own work aloft

Input this data as a new post in Thread 851521. Title 'Forgotten.' Identify Poster 1476424 Username 'seven underscore of underscore nine.'

the computer beeps its compliance. she rises and on discovering that her balance is somewhat less than optimal, decides it's time to sample some of the food

I enter the holodeck, suprised to find it empty, and inactive.

"Computer" I say, deciding to have a brief moment of fun while I'm here. "Load 'Three Valleys' program"

A ski slope in the French alps back on earth materializes before me. Obviously I cannot ski here, the computer cannot do everything, but the scenery is magnificent. The peace and tranquility mesmerizing as I gaze across an endless expanse of white topped mountains and cold untouched snow. Taking out a pen, I sit down outside the wood built chalet in the program and begin to write...

walks in slowly, taking in the mountain range and the man-made ski resort clinging to it. Thanks to the combined wonder of my regeneration alcove and the nanoprobes surfing in my bloodstream, I have no trace of a hangover. I walk around the chalet, taking in its primitive structure.

I find Mr James sat outside scribbling

An odd choice of venue. I did not know that hypothermia constituted 'fun' on Earth.

"Ah seven," I reply with a smile, "fun is whatever you make of it. There is no human ideal of fun. Some people find a book fun, others a ball game if some sort. My self, I fund most fun that which let's me feel most alive!"

I motion to seven to sit if she likes... "We can change it if you like. Tell me what do you think is your ideal of 'fun?'"

I sit beside him, contemplating his words

That which makes me feel most alive goes beyond the concept of 'fun.' It's terrifying, painful and humiliating. A more logical question would be to ask, 'why does this constitute fun for me?' 'Why does it make me feel so alive?' It's simplistic to blame the Borg. They are what they are and their society - though morally deficient in its assimilation of others - is actually a very successful one.

I turn towards him, intensely curious

So Mr James. Why do you believe you enjoy dominating and hurting women? Where do you think these fantasies of yours stem from?

Oh and I saw 'Troubled Ties. Looks like a lot of 'fun.' I'll have to read along.

How direct, I think suddenly very attentive to the conversation with this brash ex Borg before me.

"It's funny you ask actually..." I reply, highly amused by the coincidence."The um *cough* 'computer' has recently come up with....

'Please clarify command!' A slightly feminine voice says from no particular source.

Frowning, I continue, upset by the limitations of technology, "IT has recently come up with a curious piece that will be displayed within an hour which, interestingly enough, addresses that very point. You might find it an interesting read..."

http://forum.literotica.com/showthread.php?p=43422311#post43422311

"Maybe this will enlighten you to the reasons why I like to dominate. Only in fantasy of course! But we are all more extreme in our minds than we would readily admit to the world" I add hurriedly, suddenly worrying it may have gone too far this time as I hand a new sheaf of papers to seven.

"What I don't understand though is why do you seem suprisingly willing to submit to such depravity? Why do you claim to enjoy or 'crave' as you put it, the complete other half of this theory. You say you like experiencing the very thing that makes this sort of collaboration possible. Why?

reads through the post and then sets it aside, pensive

The new thread is eloquent. I shall enjoy reading it.

I sit silently for a long moment, preparing myself, then rise without warning, suddenly decisive

Computer. Run Borg Cube programme.

Instantly the crisp snow vanishes and we are standing within a Borg cube, surrounded by regeneration chambers and hundreds of drones working

Borg are raised from birth within the collective. They form a part of the hive mind long before they ever develop language. I simply 'was' Borg. I had no notion that my body was human or that this was not the natural home of my race.

steps over to the nearest drone, a young man bristling with borg implants and working with tireless efficiency

I do not believe that there is anything quite like the subjugation of being a Borg drone. You own nothing. You are nothing. You slave for the collective and are rewarded only with regeneration and yet more work. You are expendable. You are not even alone within your own skull.

gestures towards an alcove

The regeneration alcove is where the Borg Queen sends out her message. Your every thought and action is assimilated and scanned for anomalies. You are constantly observed and like all long term prisoners, you reach out to the only contact available to you... to her. She becomes your confessor. She convinces you of her love, for her concern for your wellbeing. But she will sacrifice you without hesitation.

Borg drones have no personal lives. No personal time. No relationships of any description. The hive mind is portrayed as the ultimate unity but all it does is serve to render the individuals who comprise it irrelevant.

returns to where Mr James is taking in the atmosphere

After I escaped from the collective, it was difficult for me to function as an individual. I was institutionalised. Long after I lost faith in the Borg Queen, I could not shake the belief that she was constantly looking over my shoulder... judging me for my human weakness. My view of the universe at large was highly skewed and it took a great deal of study before I attained accurate knowledge and perspective.

And my social skills well, they took a great deal of honing. I'm still a quiet person, introverted and lacking in the innate confidence that humans reared in love possess in abundance.

moves a little closer to him, looking up into his eyes

So I am no longer a drone but submission is natural to me... it has been hardwired in me. In a similar way, I can handle physical suffering in a way that most humans can't and during sex... well it makes me feel alive like nothing else. Above all that I crave verbal humiliation but that I believe stems from being convinced of my individual worthlessness almost from birth. I am accustomed to the Borg Queen's utter caprice and it's something I need very much from a partner.

Logically I am a damaged nutcase inviting abuse but that abuse feels so right to me that I just don't care. For a long time I fought my urges and told myself that the last thing I ever wanted was to be made to feel like that again but it's simply not true.

The truth is that I cannot function or thrive in a standard, egalitarian relationship. It is a concept too alien to me, for I have been Borg for too long. Perversely, I do not feel that my life is lacking because I cannot conform to this acceptable social 'norm' because the dynamic I crave gives me a total sense of fulfilment that my human acquaintances in equal relationships seem to lack.

I'm as close to him as I can be now without touching him, my lips somewhere near his ear

So I am not Borg but I was Borg and a part of me will remain Borg forever. I have gone too far down that road to claw my way much further back.

meets his gaze again, challenging him now

So I'm a bona fide fuck up and not doubt to be pitied. What's your excuse?

I find myself astounded at the incredible clarity of the Borg womans introspective analysis of her own subconscious. Of course she would be though. To a Borg, logical thought is literally hardwired into them, and Seven would have had more reason than most to study herself.

Gazing around the room, I think on Seven in what she considers her natural habitat. Contemplate her life before individuality claimed her. She is standing remarkable close to me, gazing into my eyes with a look so unlike the mindless drone she suggests she was, and though she claims otherwise, I do not see the resemblence between her and the automatons working around us. Oh, on the surface she still is Borg. The ways she acts and speaks so akin to her old kind, but there is now greater depths to her since she rediscovered her humanity. She has grown. The fact that she even considers sex and analyzes herself based on her own wants and needs, not others, is proof in itself of that. She smells more human than Borg now also. There is no evidence of the metallic, unwashed odour of the surroundings as her scent wafts towards me, standing as close as she is. Her breath on my ear that sends a pleasing shock down my spine is the warm heavy breathing of a person, not a mindless machine.

"You say that as though it is a bad thing to enjoy the pains of sex . If it satisfies, if it can send you into spasms of ecstasy, if it can illicit such joy as to make you forget everything, who you are, what you are, stop caring about more than the moment and experience the pains and joys and turbulence of life in all their splendors and pitfalls compressed into a single moment in time that overpowers you, if it makes you feel alive," I say to her, lifting my hand to gently touch her cheek and staring deep into her eyes, "then some people might call that the true essence of being human. Who says it is fucked up to simply experience what nature gives us, our natural selves, without seeking to attain worth from it."

Sighing, I turn away slightly and let my hand fall. "As for my... Excuse." I stay silent for a moment, deep in thought before resuming my gaze with a fresh smile, "well, we are all fucked up to some extent. That's also just another part of being human.."

I regard him, knowing that I've only divulged a part of the truth. To compare myself to a former Borg drone allows me to distance myself from my real-life childhood experiences. To satirise my experiences is to control of how I feel about them and to prevent the very real scars there from marring my determination to integrate into the secular world.

Besides... there are some things that shouldn't even be spoken about on an anonymous smut forum. We are here for idle folly, my real-life has no place here but even so, putting myself behind seven's cortical node and examining her backstory has has given me further insight into my own patched together psyche. There is a catharsis in it... just as there is a catharsis in occasionally relinquishing the total control that I have over my life now.

I let him lift my chin, enjoying the height difference between us... the latent strength in his tall, masculine frame. I find myself staring at his mouth as he speaks to me, inhaling the masculine tang of him rising from his clothes.

Computer. I say this so quietly that I'm surprised when the Holodeck responds Load Three Valleys Programme, at dusk... and place us in a bar or bistro.

Again the French Alps rear up around us and it soothes me to see all the stark Borg technology being washed away by pristine white snow. This time we are not exposed to the elements however but in a bar at sunset, a log fire roaring nearby. I order some schnapps and hand one to him, then lift my glass.

To fuck ups.

I turn to admire the scenery, hoping he'll take the hint and close the distance between us once more.

Taking the schapps from Sevens hand, our fingers touch and I let the moment stretch on, enjoying the feel of her skin for far longer than normally comfortable, before widely and suddenly smiling. As if to wash away the seriousness of before. I ignore the fact that I'm not a big lover of schapps. No need to spoil the moment.

"I agree" I say to her. "Enough talk of lives and problems and other unpleasant things. Let us enjoy each others company now without delving into the troubling realms of our lives"

Wether I enjoy it or not, schapps is alcoholic, and nothing releases inhabitions quite like being slightly drunk. With no furthur ado I clink my glass against hers in the classic ceremonial fashion and simply add:

"To being fucked up."

inhales sharply as the sliding doors swish open to reveal the 'nightclub' rather than the empty deck I was expecting to encounter.

... speaking of encounters...

I remain in the doorway and scan the room but register no surprise when my eyes fall on the cause of this disturbance. One eyebrow lifts in wry acknowledgement.

I approach the bar without glancing at him again. He's doing the running here so let him run.

Spiced rum and diet Pepsi.

I see no reason to extend politeness to a holographic barmaid... especially one as impossibly hot as this barmaid is. I wonder idly if he's been tweaking the code. I remind myself that she's nothing more than a cipher with a few convincing sub-routines. The drink warms my throat pleasantly, the mere act of swallowing a beverage somehow sexualized while in his proximity. I crunch an ice-cube between my teeth by way of punctuating the moment.

Still he has not spoken. Cocky bastard.

I see you have momentarily escaped your collective. Evidently this constitutes cause for celebration.