Jump to content

Ranpalan

⭐ Contributor
  • Content Count

    1,134
  • Joined

  • Last visited

  • Days Won

    9

Ranpalan last won the day on January 5 2017

Ranpalan had the most liked content!

Community Reputation

404 All-star

About Ranpalan

  • Rank
    Crazy Asshole

Recent Profile Visitors

The recent visitors block is disabled and is not being shown to other users.

  1. Sorry, that was meant a generic "you". I think it's cool that you're exploring it. Also, really cool with the object erasure, didn't know that was possible.
  2. Interesting, though I'm not sure what kind of results you can expect even perfect AI to come up with if it doesn't actually have access to the video. I wonder if taking random screenshots of the video, getting labels for what's on them, and then feeding that into a model that strings them into some kind of text would work better.
  3. Nice! Thanks for promising warnings on the poop sections, much appreciated.
  4. Have you tried telling a bunch of friends? When you know the people you spend time around don't think this makes you weird, you kind of worry less.
  5. Nice work I wish you'd waited longer with revealing to let us puzzle about it for a bit, though.
  6. That actually sounds like a really good idea. I mean, I'm not into it at all, but it's just such a nice reversal. Would it be weird if I made all the characters male, though? Anyway, I'll think about it. Thank you for the idea, love it.
  7. I live alone. I don't indulge much. It's a lot more fun when you're living with someone to indulge with.
  8. I've got a story stuck in my head. It's not really a sequel to this one, but it's got some ideas in common. Content warning: masturbation. *** She was holding herself now. Shifting her bum there and back, knees moving in slight exaggeration, but the message communicated was all too clear: "I have to pee!" Naturally, being on stage, she didn't have very much opportunity to. All she could do was keep dancing, try to fit the movements of desperation in with the movements of the dance, use the fact that the only viewer—me—didn't at all mind when her hand went to her crotch and gave it a squeeze. Would she make it? Would she wet herself hurrying off-stage, or would it be part of the dance itself, or would she even squat down and pull up her skirt (getting her panties out of the way isn't an easy task), right there on stage? I, for my part, was sitting on a leather chair across from the stage, wearing nothing but a bathrobe and a set of binoculars. At three metres distance, the binoculars were more to please my vanity than for any practical purpose, but I've found myself unable to come without the feeling of them around my neck lately. Habits die hard. Speaking of which, allured by her movements, I was beginning to reach a climax. She lost a spurt, then another—and at moments like that, a bit of magnification does help!—and then I felt the joy of an orgasm overwhelm me. I'll spare you the details. She kept squirming and dancing around like nothing had happened, of course. I flipped a switch and her limbs relaxed, her body lifted by strings into the ceiling. I'd have to pull her back down and take her panties off for drying—I've not automated that bit yet—but that could wait until I cleaned up the floor and maybe took a bath. I wasn't in any hurry. No, I'm not a monster—she's a doll. Very well choreographed, fitted with a bladder that can be slowly filled, dressed exactly as I want her to be. What else is there to want? It all started when my last girlfriend left me. I won't tire you with the details: it was good for a while, and then it was okay for a few years, and then the feelings exploded and I was left with a two-bedroom flat. I was 31, had a steady job, had... everything I could want, really. I missed her, sure. But to go out and date again? I could, but... why bother? The only thing I really missed was seeing a girl have to pee. I've never been much into sex, nor into talking. That was another reason dating didn't seem wise: I could imagine the faces when I admitted to people what I was really looking for. No thanks. I just wanted to watch, and... if that's all I wanted, I didn't need a real girl, did I? I bought a life-size doll, strung it up by five strings, set up a camera, and had a neural network jerk at the strings and try to imitate a video of desperation. I'd downloaded more than enough of those in the intervening days, there was plenty of training material to set up a simple adversarial system. One machine trying to fake desperation, the other trying to distinguish it from the real thing. It took two months of strange noises and grotesque scenes from my spare bedroom, but hell, why not? It's not like I had a better use for it. I knew it had succeeded when I started stopping to watch. It wasn't good enough, five ropes just didn't give it the freedom and I soon added more, but that moment when I stopped and felt myself growing hard at the sight of what it was trying—that was the jackpot. Ever since then, I've been stopping by to watch every evening I could spare. Slowly, I built the chair into a control hub. Slowly, I added more functionality, added leaking, wetting, even a bit of stripping. Let me give you a taste of what it was like. The curtains would open and there would be a girl, standing by a bar counter, sipping a drink. The glass was empty back then, but the imagery was more than clear. Sip, sip, a change of position, a casual stretch. I've found that getting acquainted with her natural body language before seeing the desperation made me appreciate the latter more. Another sip, the starting of a beat, the girl tapping her foot in sync, bobbing her head. She'd usually go to the dance floor at this point, sometimes with her drink in hand, sometimes setting it down. That's what I really loved about the systems: they'd surprise me. Even just a few parameters, chosen at random, gave a huge number of possibilities—I think I haven't seen a scene repeated even once. Back to the girl, though. If I wanted to cheat, I could see how full the algorithms thought her bladder was, but I did my best to guess on my own. Some would start showing signs sooner, some would hide it until the last moment, but there'd always be this subtle little jiggling... I'd say a tension in the muscles, but they had no muscles, of course. A longing glance to the bathrooms, a hand reaching down to her crotch... The crotch-grabbing was a marvel, by the way! I'm sorry, I can't help but explain, at least briefly. The ropes, it's hard to make them pull anywhere but up: I've got a few set up to pull downwards, but crotch-grabbing seemed to lead to tangling more than anything else. I'd almost despaired when I realised that I could use magnets! Get her hand fairly low and then turn on an electromagnet in her abdomen, and her fingers would fly to grab hold of it. It put some restrictions on the materials I could use, but the effect of seeing her hand dart between her legs was more than worth it. Back again to the girl I was telling about, though... Let's call her Amy. I've got a few now with different names and personalities. Amy, shy college girl who goes wild once she's had a few, Beth, an older woman who I mostly use in office scenarios, Clara, who's kind of anything I want her to be... I've had fourteen of them in total, though three broke and another two just aren't all that interesting any more. Dancer, name says it all. Ellie, another shy one, but this one without the party side... Sorry, I said I'd tell you about Amy. Amy was the first who could hold herself, and she got the most support for it, too. She can't leak, but her hands can be independently pulled to any part of her body, which turns out to give some very interesting dancing moves, too. She spent a lot of time on the dance floor, showing off her curves, but I could always see the desperation as it took hold of her. Legs not spread quite so wide, hands not raised too far from her crotch, and finally she'd start bending over somewhat, or crossing her legs. Since she couldn't leak, I had to get her to make it to the bathroom. There was always a line, of course: all my girls, standing together in the background and squirming, while whoever was the star of the day stood in the foreground and waited for them all to go, one by one, getting more and more desperate. The algorithms learned that that was what I liked—I'd added more training signals in the meantime—and I think they were right. Clara was the first one who could leak and wet successfully. I'd tried to get it to work in Fiona, but I miscalculated the pressures, and one day the tank just burst inside her. Thinking back on it, I was lucky that nothing caught fire and I wasn't hurt by shrapnel or anything, but at the time I just couldn't stop laughing. My poor Fiona, torn in two by desperation, and the algorithms still trying to get her to move, jiggling her detached legs... Heh. Heh... You don't understand... I guess you had to be there. Anyway, I redid the calculations and got Clara fitted with a bladder. I immediately wished I'd gotten around to it earlier: the possibility for her to truly lose control, to not just squirm around but to know that once she's gotten desperate enough, she could truly wet herself... I don't know, the desperation has always been the main thing for me, but somehow this knowledge made it a hundred times better. I could have scenes now when Clara and Amy would be at the bar together, both dancing (I had made sure I could have two of them starring at once), competing with each other who could drink more and getting more and more desperate. See Amy holding herself, Clara crossing her legs, and then—that moment when on Clara's light jeans you'd suddenly see a wet spot appear, and Amy's hands would dart to her mouth in a silent giggle, and then back down to her crotch as the laughter made it worse. I don't know how I managed to teach my algorithms such understanding of human nature that they could come up with these scenes. Maybe they were taken from videos I downloaded, or maybe I've just got a superintelligence in my apartment and I'm using it for... this. Either way, I'm not complaining. Okay, I sometimes am. I've still not solved the sound issue. I can get footsteps, I can put on some music and ambient crowd noises, but I've not managed to make Clara gasp with desperation when she leaks, or Amy moan with pleasure when she play with herself. I've tried having the algorithms generate the sounds and the less said about that, the better. Sometimes, I forget that my girls have different bodies than real humans, and that can be startling. I think it's why even though Clara has been around for so long, I never quite grew attached to her: sometimes, I'd be staring at her hips for a while, mesmerised, and then I'd look up to see the desperation in her eyes and remember with a start that I'd never gotten around to giving her a face. Usually, that's fine, but when you're expecting one... It's also why I like Ellie so much, she has such big, expressive eyes—she's based on an anime character, though I changed her name and made her look older. This is the first time I'm telling anyone about this, so please be kind. I've been thinking of letting people pay to come watch, but I'm not sure there'll be much of an audience, and I'm honestly not so eager to have to clean up after that. Besides, well... they're my girls. I've seen them go through so much, seen them grow as people. Their story isn't real, but if people can get attached to a character in a series, why shouldn't I get attached to someone living in my house? Just to end on a positive note, two things I'm working on implementing. First of all, I'd really like more physical interaction between characters. Amy and Ellie being sad and just cuddling on a couch together... and getting desperate and not wanting to admit it because they're both shy, before they get to the point where only one can make it to the toilet in time. Amy, pressed up to the bar counter by Clara, pulling the other girl close and kissing her. In general, I just feel like they all need a hug. I mean, I hug them, of course, but I can only do that while they're switched off... Anyway, other thing, and then I'm done: I want them to be softer, and I want them to have breasts. Not breasts. Boobs. They've got the right shape right now, but there's no physics to them at all. No bounciness, no tenderness to the touch. And the rest of them, too. I've got a new model planned, Ophelia, who should be soft all over and just generally more human-like. If she works out, maybe I can even do something with motors instead of strings! The algorithms have had some ideas... *** Oops, the format of the story kind of changed in the middle. That wasn't intentional, but eh.
  9. Let me be front about this: this story is not meant to turn you on. There are characters who are desperate to pee. There might be some sexual stuff; I've not decided yet. There are some dragons, but only one of them is real. I want to say there is nothing truly scary, but that's not something you should put on a mirror, so I won't. If you want something hot, skip the story and make yourself a cup of coffee. Actually, make yourself a cup of coffee anyway. You'll need it. This is the story of five blobs. I don't mind if you give them shapes, but they're not actually shaped like anything. Their names are A, B, C, D, and E. They are white, red, green, blue, and black, respectively. They are, emphatically, not power rangers, though I don't mind you imagining them as power rangers if that helps you. I understand that five blobs moving through a shapeless void is somewhat abstract, and that five power rangers moving through a shapeless void is... Well, admittedly, it isn't that much better. Luckily, I'm not setting this story in a shapeless void. I'm setting this story in Skyrim, and just to be up front about it, my knowledge of Skyrim is limited to two songs: a shouty one and a melancholic one. And I have no idea why there would be blobs in Skyrim. I do know what they'd be doing, though, because everyone in Skyrim only ever does two things: shout and slay dragons. I just want to write a story about adventurous blobs in Skyrim. I'm not the right person to write this story, am I? Fine. I won't write it, then. You will. You're sitting in a coffee shop in downtown New York, pencil in hand, a notebook on your lap and a big cup of coffee on the table beside you. Don't drink it yet! Like I said, you'll need it. At the realisation that it'll be you, not me, writing the story, you drop the pencil, try to pick it up, drop the notebook in the process. It's very awkward, and you get thrown more than a few glances, but you do manage to catch one of them. Cute girl, sitting a few tables over, doodling something in a notebook. When you catch her gaze she immediately averts it, looks down at her notebook, flips a few pages, makes a point of looking at the girl at the counter and starts sketching her. If you'd kept looking at her you'd see that she looks back at you not a minute later, and flips back in her notebook to where she was before. You don't keep looking at her. You're listening to me. You're trying to wrap your mind around the blob thing. "Does it have to be blobs?" you ask, "Sentient blobs that... wait, do they? You know?" The girl is still looking at you, though her face has taken a step away from shy admiration and towards concern. It's strange how even so long after wireless headsets have been invented, they're not the first thing we think about when we hear someone talk to themselves in public. It's very unfortunate. To answer your question: yes, it has to be blobs. Five sentient blobs, called A, B, C, D, E. Shouting and slaying dragons. We've all got our dragons, and someone has got to slay them. To answer your other question: also yes, they do indeed have to pee. They've got a desperation-based magic system that ensures that the only way for them to slay a dragon is to reach a state in which they definitely won't get to a bathroom afterwards. "Nobody will read this!" you object, but you know that's not true. I'll read it. More importantly, you'll write it. I know, you came here to read a story, not to write one, and so it makes sense that you're focused on the reading bit. I came here for the writing bit, though, and the advantage of that is I get to choose what we do. Omorashi is a fetish that encourages us to think of the consequences of our actions: we drink, so that we may need to pee; we pee, so that we won't have to later. This is a good aspect of omorashi. Sometimes, though, you need to live in the moment. To give an example: if I shut up for a minute and let your thoughts run wild, what will those thoughts be? "Oh man, that girl is cute... And the way she's sipping from her coffee, damn. I can just see her filling up slowly, but she's so absorbed in her drawing, what if she doesn't notice that her bladder is filling up? There's too much furniture here for me to see her legs, but she's not sitting completely still—maybe down there she's squirming around, trying to hold it until she's done with her sketch, putting it off again and again as she notices something she could improve. She needs her hands to hold her notebook and her pen, but I think if it gets any worse, she might put her notebook down on the table just to be able to give her legs a squeeze. "What if I come up to her and start a conversation? She's looking my way once in a while, I don't think she'd mind. She's sitting there, doing the final touches, thinking about how in a minute she can finally go, and then I start talking to her and she's too shy to get up and go. If she so much as mentioned she wanted to go I'd tell her she definitely should, that I'd wait for her, but she looks so cute and shy, maybe she wouldn't think to. Especially not if I asked if I could sit next to her and she stuttered some form of agreement and then when I sat down she realised she'd have to ask me to get up to go..." Okay, okay, enough of that. It's not that your fantasy is inaccurate: you could catch her at a bad moment and get a nice little treat watching her squirm around. She'd be mortified and shy and probably come up with a reason to leave, though, so let's not do that. Besides, cute girl or not, you have a story to write. Come on, at least a paragraph! "A was in trouble. It was always the one that felt that it had to set an example, to drink the extra pint and to take the extra risk. They weren't even close to the dragon's layer yet, and if they didn't get there soon, A wouldn't be making it. At that point, it didn't matter if it peed its armour or in the nearest bushes. Letting loose meant the magic was gone. (Incidentally, this was a joke it liked to make when having sex on a full bladder.)" That's not bad at all! That was something you wrote down, by the way, not something you said out loud. Just clarifying in case you weren't sure. You know, the hardest part is to get started. Once you've written a paragraph, the second one comes easily. "B could tell their leader didn't have it easy. B was... special. It was the amount of pee in your bladder, not how much you felt it, that mattered for how powerful you were. B had a bladder that was one and a half times bigger than everyone else's. When the rest were approaching their limits, it still held on easily—though growing more powerful quickly as its kidneys went into overdrive and its bladder filled. For it, the danger was the opposite: fill too much, unleash too much power, and wipe out all of Skyrim with a careless spell. That was why despite being potentially the best holder, B was the one to most often wet itself during the battle itself. Not that it was counting or anything." "C was, though. C felt bad about being part of all this. It had grown up in a repressive home, never allowed to admit its urges, and it developed unusual ways to cope. Fetishes. It didn't feel good about it, but every time they went to fight a dragon and the others wet themselves... C always pretended to its partner, D, that it had been the adrenaline that got it so riled up, but it was mostly the way D behaved when it had to pee." See? You're getting into it, though I can feel your frustration. They're just blobs, you want to say, and it's only the girl who you're paying more and more attention to that keeps you from talking to me directly. I'm sure it's this, and not that coffee you had, that brings you to the bathroom. I'm sure you don't even really have to pee all that bad, it won't be a torrent or anyth— "Shut up," you say, "I can't go with you here. But, seriously. Does it have to be blobs? I'm getting the hang of it, I can make them interesting and hot and people will actually want to read this!" You're still focused on readers. I guess that's better than being focused on me being with you in there, since you were starting to squirm around a bit, unable to let go but also definitely in some trouble with the holding. That's quite the waterfall you've got going there, I have to say. "Shut up," you say again. So, I shut up. I don't tell you about how the girl got up and walked towards the bathroom as well, or about how she stopped and peeked at what you'd written. Nor do I describe in detail that would keep you in the bathroom for a few minutes longer her reaction: a blush, a few steps towards the loos, and then... a thoughtful glance back. She was standing right next to the door to the toilet, she couldn't be going anywhere else, and she was tapping her foot, biting her lip. And then she went back, looked at what you read again, and she went and ordered herself a big glass of ice tea. Of course, since I'm not saying anything you don't know any of this. You notice the ice tea when you get back, but you don't notice that her ears are still a bright red. You don't notice that she's got her legs crossed under the table. You don't notice the way she's looking at you. And all that is because you're distracted by me! After all, I do still need to answer your question. And the answer is... yes. No. Look, I told you, in the very beginning. You can give them shapes if you want to. All of your readers will give them different shapes. They're not people. They're not real. I'm not real. You've been sitting in a cafe all evening, drinking coffee—who even drinks so much coffee past sunset?—and listening to me, and I'm just a voice in your head. Not your thoughts, you heard those earlier. Not your conscience, either, I'm too cruel to you to be that. I'm a story you tried to read and found yourself writing. And that's fine. We all have voices in our heads, and they all say different things. "I get that, but, so... They can have, like... bodies?" you ask, "Like human bodies?" If you're wondering why the girl is still paying you so much attention—and to be clear, you're not, because you've not picked up she's into you—it's because you're intriguing her. She wants to know who you're talking to and why you wrote what you wrote, and she can't tell if you're into people having to pee or if you're working on some weird commission. It's both, by the way, but you know that. She wants to know it very badly, because if you're not into girls who are having trouble keeping their composure because they've just finished their tea and that was a mistake, she would really, really like to go now. If you are into that... she's got thoughts swirling around of you taking her into the men's bathroom and screwing her in a stall. She's more than a little ashamed of those thoughts, but she's got them anyway. Coming back to your point, though: yes, they can have human bodies. Give them names, for all you want. As soon as I say that, you start writing furiously. "Eve was the last in the procession. Her ornate dress would be impractical and cold under these circumstances, but Eve had a sphincter of steel, and that made all the difference. Not literally, of course, but while the others quickly filled and just as quickly emptied, she kept herself on edge for hours on end, making full use of the magic she could do in the meantime. She was floating in a thin ball of flame now, pleasantly warm while the others trudged through the snow on foot. If not for the countless times she'd saved the day, the rest would hate her: of all of them, she could hold it the longest after any fight, and sometimes she even made it to a proper outhouse. Considering her usefulness... No, they didn't hate her. But they'd all at least once fantasised about tying her up and making her wet herself. C—Clare fantasised about it every time she saw her." "Derrick was the first to lose it. It was always like that with him. He and Clare would drink together beforehand, and he'd try to match her pace, and it never went well. He just didn't have quite her bladder, and he was too proud to admit it was too late. One moment he'd be holding it—in both senses of the word, his hand in his underwear the last thing between him and an accident—and the next he'd be pissing his britches. A—Aslan? Allie? Archer! Archer would scold him, but somehow, it seemed to only happen more recently. Derrick would never admit it, but it was because he suspected Clare might like it." That's enough. No, you've not done anything wrong. On the contrary. I'm sure you can write a bunch more about the blobs fighting the dragon and how they all wet themselves and how Clare jumps Derrick and Eve jumps Archer (yes, they're dating), and how Bob is happy to just have saved the day yet again. You can probably even go back and notice that what you've written doesn't quite add up, that you need to edit it into something coherent. You can do that tomorrow. The girl is getting impatient, and I'm afraid that if I keep you any longer you'll miss out on her. Yes, her. Yes, I know you were just fantasising about her being desperate and you didn't mean it. I know you're not actually going to keep her from going to the bathroom! I know, I know, I know! I don't like the fantasy you had either, because you're now thinking of her as some treat providence sent you. Providence has nothing to do with it. She's been sketching you for the last three hours, and there's hearts next to half of those sketches. "Uhm, hi," you say. Yeah, I agree, it's awkward. There was absolutely no good reason for you to get up at exactly this moment and ask her. "Hi!" she responds, quickly closing her notebook and pressing it down into her lap. She'd been thinking about whether she wanted to sketch the bathroom scene she had in mind and she is now very happy she decided against it. She's less happy she ran with the crazy idea of holding it just because of some notes she saw on your page. "Hi, I'm..." you mumble your name, "I'm sorry, I just noticed..." Your fantasies about her bursting to pee have come true, but they're not going the way you pictured them. They're not going the way she pictured them, either. That's okay, though. You shouldn't feel bad that you don't know what to say, because the important part is that you do both want to talk. "I'm sorry!" she answers, standing up suddenly, "I'm really super sorry but let me just quickly... Sorry! Be right back!" You're left standing there, the mental image of her hand darting and giving her crotch a quick squeeze in your mind. She only takes two steps before she turns around, though. "Sorry, please don't go, I really do want to talk," she says. The hand between her legs is a permanent feature now. She can't stand still. You nod dumbly. What else can you do? It is the right thing to do, don't worry. Sometime tomorrow, or maybe even later tonight, she'll ask you whether you're into that kind of thing. You should get to know her first, and I'm honestly happy to see that when she gets back, you do. I'm not going to hang around to the end. Honestly, I should go back and think about how this evening became what it became—I'd had some very different things in mind for you today. Like I said, I don't want to turn you on. She does, though, and now that she's got all your attention I think I should be rounding this off. Before I go, though: she's a blob, too. Yes, she's a human girl, but that's all I ever said about her, and human girls come in many shapes and sizes. All the shape she has, she got from you. But like all blobs, she's a person, too. Please think of her as one.
  10. I'm pretty sure anything up from $50k would be worth it, and with only random onlookers, maybe even as low as $5k. There's a lot of videos of people wetting themselves out there. Being in one of them does not significantly hurt you. Heck, "yes, I'm in that video but I got paid damn well for it" can be spun in your favour. (The longer I revise this, the lower the numbers get...)
  11. Hire personal assistant, pay them a year in advance, have them do all your dealings for you.
  12. Hey folks, just wanted to quickly write something more conventional, to remind people I can in fact also write hot girls bursting to pee. Enter Emma. Emma and I were friends in college. The kind of friend you go out and grab a drink with and spend the whole night wanting to fuck. Oops, did I say that out loud? Yeah, I had a thing for her. She had a bit of a hippy bend to her—walked around barefoot, talked about peace and happiness, occasionally went to weird all-weekend retreats and came back talking about transcendent love and everlasting joy and what have you. She told me I had a pretty aura. She'd go without a bra half the time, and never seemed to mind that people stared. I'm not sure she cared that people stared, honestly. We were friends, so I at least pretended not to stare. I wasn't good at it, and she didn't exactly make it easy. Let me paint you a picture. Brown hair, usually long enough to cover her nipples, always either loose or in a braid. She didn't like ponytails, she thought they damaged your hair... I don't know, she believed a lot of stuff like that. She wore linen shirts, 100% organic and natural and biological, and somehow they never made her itch. Is that a weird thing to think about? Maybe, but it's not that much of a stretch when you imagine what it must be like wearing something like that without a bra, with the fabric essentially rubbing you... Yeah, I've got a dirty mind, guilty as charged. And I have no clue if things work that way, maybe she actually never noticed it. If you're reading this and tried, don't hesitate to let me know what it feels like. Back to Emma, though. I've gotten down as far as her navel, and now I've got to tell you this: Emma hated jeans. I'm not sure why, she'd have looked fabulous in them, but she only ever wore skirts. Short skirts, long skirts, all kinds of skirts, but always skirts. It made the sight of her ass when we went swimming all the more a treat, but honestly, the amount of leg I got to see more than made up for it. And speaking of legs... Emma had feet. Yeah, I know, duh. But—okay, I might have a thing for feet—Emma's feet were fucking gorgeous. Cute, tiny toes, round heels, a little birthmark on her right ankle... I know, I know, you probably don't care quite as much as I do, but given I spent about as much time staring at her feet as at her boobs... Hey, I'm sure some of you will understand. Best of all, she never wore anything but sandals. In the summer, she'd go completely barefoot more often than not, and in the winter she'd wear the most revealing sandals you could imagine. You could start at her toes and work your gaze upwards, over her calves and then thighs, having to skip a very interesting bit by her waist, catch a glimpse of her stomach, and maybe a bit of cleavage if her shirt collar was particularly wide. Did I mention I had a thing for her? I totally had a thing for her, and I hope you understand why. But you didn't come here just to hear about some girl I was crushing on, did you? No, I'm bringing her up because there was a particular time I think you might want to hear about. Three words. Boat. Beer. Bla... Actually, I don't want to spoil it. Two words for now. It was a warm evening in June. We'd just had dinner at her parents' place; her dad was a fisherman on the lake, and her mum had baked his catch in the oven, served with potatoes and a side of radish salad... The taste—well, I'm sure you can imagine, and if I describe any more of it, I'll get too hungry to write the rest of this. The dinner was a blast, I ate to the point of barely being able to get up, and her mum was plying us both with wine. A rather sour draught from France; I prefer sweet stuff myself, but it wasn't at all bad. We must have had half a bottle each by the end of dinner, and usually that would be that and I'd go home, but her mum was clearly trying to get us together. "Why don't you kids take the boat?" she asked in an emphatically innocent tone. And, really, why not? Her husband tried to say something, but I think having the kids out of the house was just as much an incentive for him, too, and before long we were sitting in the boat, me at the oars, Emma across from me. No bra, no shoes, just a skirt and a shirt even looser than what she usually wore. She sat at the back of the boat, facing me, her feet lifted up to rest by my side. The diva. I'd have given her a pat on the ankle, at the very least, but my hands were busy on the oars. Later, I told myself. Later we'd stop somewhere and I could offer her a massage... Relevant for you, by the way: her mum had slipped us yet another bottle of wine, and Emma was sipping from it as I rowed us away. That night was the one and only time I thought we'd really end up having sex: Emma was playing with the bottle opening with her tongue, eyeing me mischievously, and I for my part was more than ready. I think she could tell, because she moved her feet to my lap, just a little too far down my thighs for it to be improper. She was nervous, I think, because she was definitely going at that wine. It took half an hour for us to get around a bend in the shore, out of sight of her parents. The bottle of wine was practically empty now. She let me play with her toes and start on a massage. For all of five minutes, life was bliss. "Lan?" she asked me, a note of concern in her voice, "Lan, could we go back to my house please?" There was something about her request that I didn't get. If I'd been as smart as I am now, I'd have said yes and we'd have gone back and had sex in her bedroom and life would have been bliss for a few hours longer. If I'd been just a little smarter, I'd at least have gotten us to shore—though her dad had told us we weren't allowed to do that. I wasn't smarter. I tried to get her to stay out with me for a while longer. Argh, sorry to cut this out just as the fun part is starting, but I've got to go for now. ^^; But I hope I've got people interested in seeing part two.
  13. Regardless of whether it is incorporated or not, I would consider being open with your partner a good thing. But what do I know.
  14. Sorry, I got that, I guess I meant "dump earlier". That last bit is what I meant with the common pleasure thing, although I find it hard to distinguish common pleasure from individual pleasure felt at the same time... Though in the case when the partners are actively enjoying the fact the other finds it pleasurable seems like a reasonable bar, actually.
  15. The "doing something for each others' enjoyment" thing is a really interesting point... and I'm having trouble accepting it as good enough. Is a good-neutral situation enough, like when you're wanking to an experience an unknown someone posted somewhere random? I've long been trying to figure out why that might not be okay, and I think this suggests the reason. There's a definitely "we're doing this for a common pleasure" thing that is okay, otherwise sex would generally be very questionable. But... I think even then, it shouldn't be a matter of reducing them to a means. In fact, the common pleasure kind of has to unify you? Sorry, I'm rambling. Thank you for your answer, it's interesting to see different perspectives here. Out of curiosity, did you experience the whole thing as negative in hindsight? Should you have dumped that partner? I'm not sure this principle is one of morality, it may partly actually give "good results" just at a different timescale. (Though given that accepting it is part of a reduction in my utilitarianism, that's actually not a reason for... well, anything.)
×
×
  • Create New...