Brit's Book of Ideas
- Thread starter Britwitch
- Start date
Scuttle Buttin'
Demons at bay
- Joined
- Apr 27, 2003
- Posts
- 15,882
That is an amazing picture!
Britwitch
Classically curvy
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- Posts
- 23,086
IvoryTigress
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Jan 14, 2013
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- 3,396
I must say, I'm a wee bit jealous of your collection...thanks for storing them some place everyone can see 
Britwitch
Classically curvy
- Joined
- Apr 23, 2004
- Posts
- 23,086
I must say, I'm a wee bit jealous of your collection...thanks for storing them some place everyone can see
Awww, thanks lovely!
hugs a pretty lady while she's around
I never really think that people might peek in here but I do love that you've liked what I've found.
IvoryTigress
Literotica Guru
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- Jan 14, 2013
- Posts
- 3,396
Returns the hug and smiles sheepishly.
You're talented and super sweet. People see, pretty Witch.
Britwitch
Classically curvy
- Joined
- Apr 23, 2004
- Posts
- 23,086
just sits and beams
Britwitch
Classically curvy
- Joined
- Apr 23, 2004
- Posts
- 23,086
Serena the Siren - Aquatic Performer
Graceful and lithe with a voice sweet enough to lure men to the rocks without doubt, Serena charms the outside world from within her little glass tank.
Her mother had called her a water baby, the man she married had called her a freak. Either way, it made no difference, there was no where Serena was happier than in the water. A childhood of Esther Williams movies as her escape, watched curled up contentedly with her father, probably didn't help.
When he died, a part of her went with him. She loved her mother, she did, but the one who she had always felt closer to was him. They understood each other, had their private jokes, their secret glances. When her mother remarried, it stung, not least of all because the man she brought into their home was less than a fraction of the man her father had been.
Determined not to let her father down, she tried her best at everything. She always did alright in school, despite her best efforts she was never destined to be a scholar, and it was in the pool where she won her recognition. For a while, everything seemed to be falling back into place.
Champion for several states in every direction for the last few years in school, a boyfriend who was the captain of the diving team, she had plans for college and then marriage and then...there was the night it all changed in every possible way.
And then she had to leave. Get out. And a tearful walk through the neighbourhood that fateful night took her past a poster for a travelling show, it would only be in town for the next few days before moving on.
Perhaps she could move on with it.
The rest, as they say, is history.
Last edited:
prettyserpentine
...his future wife...
- Joined
- Apr 24, 2013
- Posts
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Britwitch
Classically curvy
- Joined
- Apr 23, 2004
- Posts
- 23,086
Hunted
In the shadows she waits.
Her beauty belies her purpose.
The red of her cloak draws the eye, distracts from her blade.
She might look like the bait...but she's anything but prey.
The last wisps of smoke from the fire floated up into the early morning air before her booted foot ensured the embers wouldn’t catch alight again. Small clouds of ash rising as she did so. Keen eyes swept the small clearing making sure no trace of her time there was left. Covering the blackened circle on the ground that had kept her warm during the darkness and cooked her food was the last thing to do before she moved on. Carefully laying foliage over the top so to the untrained eye there wouldn’t be a trace of her stay, even to one who knew what they were looking for, the signs would be difficult to spot.
With barely a sound she slipped into the trees and continued onward, always onward. It wasn’t wise to linger long here. All manner of things lurked in the shadows, eyes watching hungrily. Hunters prowled these woodlands. Rosalind should know.
She was one of them.
Her eyes were sharp, scanning the trails for the marks her quarry left without realising. Branches snapped by their passage between bushes, marks in the mud, the scent of distant smoke in the air. Picking her way carefully so she didn’t leave a trail herself, she followed him. She’d tracked him through the woods for the last few days and going by the last fire she’d found, he wasn’t far in front of her. Maybe today, definitely by tomorrow, this hunt would be over and then she could…stop.
She’d been hunting for the last five years and she was tired. Ever so tired.
It wasn’t meant to be like this.
Rosalind’s childhood had been a happy one, almost blissfully so. Her family were farmers, going back as far as anyone could remember. The stead handed down from father to son, mother to daughter, whichever back was the strongest and head was the clearest would inherit. Given her brother’s love of girls and her attentive ear, she was certain the farm would be hers when the time came. Theirs was an arable holding, with crops going to market to feed those who never prepared the food they ate. Lords and the nobility buying most of what they grew. They weren’t rich but there was always food on the table and clothes for all to wear. The family kept a few cows for milk, some chickens for eggs along with a horse to draw their plough and cart. They were self sufficient.
And that was the problem.
Eyes of those less fortunate and less inclined to hard work saw what they had and wanted it for themselves. One night, when she was just twenty-two, a band from a neighbouring village broke into the farm. To this day she’ll never understand what they thought they’d find but, in the panic and chaos as her father and brother had charged into the barn, her father fell. An over zealous swing of a mace meant he fell into a sleep from which there would be no waking. Running to their father’s aid, her brother had fallen foul of a dagger and by the time she and her mother found them it was too late.
Always a placid and easy going child, Rosalind had found herself filled with pain as she tried to comfort her mother, pain that rapidly morphed into something she barely recognised, darker and far harder to ignore. Anger, hatred and the desire for revenge, all began to flow through her veins. She tried to fight it, pretend it was just a natural reaction to the deaths of those she loved. It was grief. It was just her mind trying to cope with the devastation they’d been left with.
Weeks went by and despite a hefty reward being in place for the capture of those responsible nothing had been done. So Rosalind decided to avenge her relatives herself. Taking her father’s sword, the one he’d received for serving in the last Great War, she dressed in her best dress and rode to the village she was sure was hiding the culprits. She knew she’d attract attention, not least for being an unfamiliar face. To make sure though, her dress was modest in cut but not in colour. Deep red and with just enough of a dip around her neck to show a little of what she had been blessed with. Smiling coyly, she headed into the tavern and asked for water.
She’d been there a little less than an hour and with the right questions attached to the right smiles, she’d figured out who the ring leader was. A young man, barely five years older than her, bragging about how he’d put the wind up some stuck up farmers. A little over an hour later she had him at the tip of her father’s sword, having lured him outside with a wink and a smile, and was marching him towards the house of the local sheriff. The temptation to run him through had been great but she’d resisted. She was better than him. She had to be. She got the names of his friends and by the end of the following week she had single handedly rounded them all up.
She was efficient and unexpected. Her father and brother had taught her well enough how to track and you didn’t grow up in the country and not know how to defend yourself. Rosalind became an unofficial deputy for the sheriff. Helping him to find those that ran out on debts, petty thieves and so on. Then she was called upon by a neighbouring Lord. Someone was stealing livestock from the farms on his land and could she help. All too soon she was known as a hunter, but not of game. She found those who were running and returned them for the bounty they had on their heads.
The majority of the money went to her mother, to help pay for managers and hands to help run the stead, to allow her to buy a little more livestock and more land, improve the yield and take a little of the pressure off. The money also made sure that the connection between her and her family farm was kept hidden. She was simply known as ‘The Rose’, for her name and the red cloak she wore. The hood covered her flowing blonde hair, the curls that helped trap many a man far quicker and more effectively than any weapon could. As yet she’d only killed two men and both were in self-defence. The pair were wanted for helping themselves to the profits of their master, a tailor in one of the larger towns. She thought her reputation would keep them in hand. She’d been wrong. A mistake she didn’t plan to repeat.
This hunt though, she hoped, would be her last. Her mother’s health had been fading over the last two years. No doubt the loss of her husband, and son, had weighed heavily upon her. Rosalind’s departure not long after couldn’t have helped. She wanted to go home, to rest. To sleep in her own bed and not have to worry about keeping a dagger beneath her pillow.
Keeping a hand on the handle of the sword at her waist, hidden within the folds of her cloak, and shouldering her small bag Rosalind trekked deeper among the trees. The man she was seeking could well be dangerous, he’d supposedly killed a man. She needed to keep her wits about her and her blade close. After all, complacency could get you killed.
In the shadows she waits.
Her beauty belies her purpose.
The red of her cloak draws the eye, distracts from her blade.
She might look like the bait...but she's anything but prey.
The last wisps of smoke from the fire floated up into the early morning air before her booted foot ensured the embers wouldn’t catch alight again. Small clouds of ash rising as she did so. Keen eyes swept the small clearing making sure no trace of her time there was left. Covering the blackened circle on the ground that had kept her warm during the darkness and cooked her food was the last thing to do before she moved on. Carefully laying foliage over the top so to the untrained eye there wouldn’t be a trace of her stay, even to one who knew what they were looking for, the signs would be difficult to spot.
With barely a sound she slipped into the trees and continued onward, always onward. It wasn’t wise to linger long here. All manner of things lurked in the shadows, eyes watching hungrily. Hunters prowled these woodlands. Rosalind should know.
She was one of them.
Her eyes were sharp, scanning the trails for the marks her quarry left without realising. Branches snapped by their passage between bushes, marks in the mud, the scent of distant smoke in the air. Picking her way carefully so she didn’t leave a trail herself, she followed him. She’d tracked him through the woods for the last few days and going by the last fire she’d found, he wasn’t far in front of her. Maybe today, definitely by tomorrow, this hunt would be over and then she could…stop.
She’d been hunting for the last five years and she was tired. Ever so tired.
It wasn’t meant to be like this.
Rosalind’s childhood had been a happy one, almost blissfully so. Her family were farmers, going back as far as anyone could remember. The stead handed down from father to son, mother to daughter, whichever back was the strongest and head was the clearest would inherit. Given her brother’s love of girls and her attentive ear, she was certain the farm would be hers when the time came. Theirs was an arable holding, with crops going to market to feed those who never prepared the food they ate. Lords and the nobility buying most of what they grew. They weren’t rich but there was always food on the table and clothes for all to wear. The family kept a few cows for milk, some chickens for eggs along with a horse to draw their plough and cart. They were self sufficient.
And that was the problem.
Eyes of those less fortunate and less inclined to hard work saw what they had and wanted it for themselves. One night, when she was just twenty-two, a band from a neighbouring village broke into the farm. To this day she’ll never understand what they thought they’d find but, in the panic and chaos as her father and brother had charged into the barn, her father fell. An over zealous swing of a mace meant he fell into a sleep from which there would be no waking. Running to their father’s aid, her brother had fallen foul of a dagger and by the time she and her mother found them it was too late.
Always a placid and easy going child, Rosalind had found herself filled with pain as she tried to comfort her mother, pain that rapidly morphed into something she barely recognised, darker and far harder to ignore. Anger, hatred and the desire for revenge, all began to flow through her veins. She tried to fight it, pretend it was just a natural reaction to the deaths of those she loved. It was grief. It was just her mind trying to cope with the devastation they’d been left with.
Weeks went by and despite a hefty reward being in place for the capture of those responsible nothing had been done. So Rosalind decided to avenge her relatives herself. Taking her father’s sword, the one he’d received for serving in the last Great War, she dressed in her best dress and rode to the village she was sure was hiding the culprits. She knew she’d attract attention, not least for being an unfamiliar face. To make sure though, her dress was modest in cut but not in colour. Deep red and with just enough of a dip around her neck to show a little of what she had been blessed with. Smiling coyly, she headed into the tavern and asked for water.
She’d been there a little less than an hour and with the right questions attached to the right smiles, she’d figured out who the ring leader was. A young man, barely five years older than her, bragging about how he’d put the wind up some stuck up farmers. A little over an hour later she had him at the tip of her father’s sword, having lured him outside with a wink and a smile, and was marching him towards the house of the local sheriff. The temptation to run him through had been great but she’d resisted. She was better than him. She had to be. She got the names of his friends and by the end of the following week she had single handedly rounded them all up.
She was efficient and unexpected. Her father and brother had taught her well enough how to track and you didn’t grow up in the country and not know how to defend yourself. Rosalind became an unofficial deputy for the sheriff. Helping him to find those that ran out on debts, petty thieves and so on. Then she was called upon by a neighbouring Lord. Someone was stealing livestock from the farms on his land and could she help. All too soon she was known as a hunter, but not of game. She found those who were running and returned them for the bounty they had on their heads.
The majority of the money went to her mother, to help pay for managers and hands to help run the stead, to allow her to buy a little more livestock and more land, improve the yield and take a little of the pressure off. The money also made sure that the connection between her and her family farm was kept hidden. She was simply known as ‘The Rose’, for her name and the red cloak she wore. The hood covered her flowing blonde hair, the curls that helped trap many a man far quicker and more effectively than any weapon could. As yet she’d only killed two men and both were in self-defence. The pair were wanted for helping themselves to the profits of their master, a tailor in one of the larger towns. She thought her reputation would keep them in hand. She’d been wrong. A mistake she didn’t plan to repeat.
This hunt though, she hoped, would be her last. Her mother’s health had been fading over the last two years. No doubt the loss of her husband, and son, had weighed heavily upon her. Rosalind’s departure not long after couldn’t have helped. She wanted to go home, to rest. To sleep in her own bed and not have to worry about keeping a dagger beneath her pillow.
Keeping a hand on the handle of the sword at her waist, hidden within the folds of her cloak, and shouldering her small bag Rosalind trekked deeper among the trees. The man she was seeking could well be dangerous, he’d supposedly killed a man. She needed to keep her wits about her and her blade close. After all, complacency could get you killed.
