Talking to kids about depression, anxiety, or other mental health issues can be tough. These movies feature characters living (and often struggling) with mental illness and can help kids understand more about this often sensitive subject. Learning more about these conditions can help kids develop empathy and open the doors for honest discussions. Mental illness manifests in a variety of ways, and Hollywood has been known to either downplay symptoms entirely or exaggerate them wildly for the sake of a movie's plot, both of which afford dangerously inaccurate perceptions to the public. F or years, mental illness has been the scape-goat of the Horror genre. Films like Shutter Island, Psycho, and Split are popular examples of mental illness being used as a surprise twist or explanation for why a character is violent: they’re just ‘crazy’. This narrative is not only overused, but highly damaging. Split, whilst critically acclaimed, acts to sensationalise and misrepresent ... Horror: Horror movies set in asylums/ mental hospitals ... If you think i've ommited to include specific movies, just drop a comment in the facebook comment section. Also if you feel like encouraging me, you can donate any amount to my paypal! paypal.me/LongplaysLand If you let me know your email in the donation message, i will send you a ... The protagonist of a horror movie seems to experience several of the same issues that face a person with a mental illness. 1. The symptoms of mental illness can sneak up on you . That depictions of ‘madness’ have been dominated by horror films is revealing of the film industry’s historic insensitivity about mental health, writes Arwa Haider. [TOMT] horror movie with the name of a mental illness i think Solved It's about this guy who got back from a mental institution and goes to live at his dad's mansion who had killed himself a couple of days prior, once in the house all alone he starts to have hallucinations. How 7 Popular Horror Movies Portray Mental Health. Rodney Goodie, MBA News/Blog 10/23/2017. Every Halloween season, people peek through their fingers to watch the most frightening horror flicks. Many of these movies center on the freakishly paranormal, the stuff too spooky to think about during everyday life. But when the main villain is human ... 30 Great Movies About Mental Illness. Menu. ... There are hundreds of extremely worthy films that have been made over the years that deal with the issue of mental illness, but these ones are fantastic and (in most cases) very educational. ... Horror (2) Fantasy (1) Music (1) Sci-Fi (1) War (1) Feature Film (30) 10 Real Mental Disorders That Are Scarier Than Any Horror Movie. By Lorenzo Jensen ... A very specific type of crazy where you think your body is sprouting random, colorful fibers, and you’re completely incapable of going, ‘Oh, I sure am scratching a lot, and fibers from my clothes are sticking to my open sores. ... Syndrome Anasognosia ...
2020.07.24 13:10 bobilhor [TOMT] horror movie with the name of a mental illness i think
It's about this guy who got back from a mental institution and goes to live at his dad's mansion who had killed himself a couple of days prior, once in the house all alone he starts to have hallucinations. At a certain point his brother, who supposedly should have died in a prison fire shows up and sorta keeps the guy and a girl who works at a grocery store hostages and kills the guy's parole officer hostage. Later near the end of the movie, they find a secret chamber under the pool because the father had some sort of crazy voyeur fetish and had kept the brother's mother there captive for years (they thought she ran away when they were kids).
Also, the guy's brother had like killed a couple of girls while they were teens and that's why the guy went to a mental institution and his brother to jail.
submitted by bobilhor to tipofmytongue [link] [comments]
2020.07.03 15:10 KieselguhrKid13 Gravity's Rainbow Group Read | Sections 13-16 | Week 5
Well folks, this was a doozy of a week, wasn’t it? Some of these sections are quite challenging, for a variety of reasons. But we also see some pretty critical plot developments, and some genuine hilarity at poor Slothrop’s expense, too. Gotta love that cubeb.
This is also where the book really takes off in terms of it’s story arc (especially Slothrop’s origin story), as well as its embrace of sexual deviancy in all its forms, so I’m very curious to see the reactions from the first-timers. It’s a lot to take in.
Anyhoo, I’ll start this with a broader summary of themes, then break the summary and analysis down by section, and include some discussion prompts at the end. There’s a lot to work with this week - this section was twice as long as previous weeks. This analysis is going to be lengthy, but I’ll try to keep as focused as I can.
Several broad themes start to crystallize by this point in the narrative, especially opposition, which takes a multitude of forms: 1-0, white-black, death-life, social control-anarchy, Capitalism-black market, division-unification, colonizer-colonized, domination-submission, Elect-Preterite.
My ordering of items in those pairings is intentional. This book (and Pynchon) sees white, Euro-American colonial culture as intimately tied to a need for control, domination, and a belief in salvation (everyone likes to think they’re part of the Elect, nicht wahr?), which results in a culture of death and division. The War is the embodiment of this. Pynchon repeatedly takes the side of the Preterite - the anarchist, the minority, the colonized. Pigs, which Pynch clearly loves, seem to be emblematic of this noble-yet-humble Preterite.
Related to that is the idea of resisting baser desires and human nature vs accepting them vs sublimating them into full-blown pathologies (e.g. colonialism, Crutchfield the Westwardman). Many of the worst symptoms of society stem from our artificial divisions and denial of the natural order.
So, if we have deadly, pervasive, controlling systems, what are us poor folks stuck inside them to do? How do we free ourselves from the System? From Them?
Pynchon brings up at least three options in this week’s reading:
1.Escape (Katje leaving, vs Gottfried’s passive waiting for salvation) 2.Enjoy the good and ignore the negative (Jessica trying to live in her bubble with Roger, vs. Roger’s unhappy focus on the negatives without being able to change them) 3.Blow it all up (Katje’s option for Schußstelle 3, which she decides against, vs what? Death, perhaps?)
Finally, I’d like to discuss an underlying theme based on a separate work that has strongly influenced Pynchon, and Gravity’s Rainbow: T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land. I never realized this before, but I’ve read the poem probably 75 times since I last read GR, so I’m pretty familiar with it by this point.
I highly recommend reading it, but it’s primarily about the decline of Europe after WWI into a wasteland and the death-and-rebirth cycle. A central theme relates to the ancient belief that the harvest god (or later, the king, such as in Arthurian legend) was fundamentally tied to the land. If the king was young and vibrant, the land would be fertile. As the king became old or fell ill, the land would become barren. Thus the king (or harvest god - see the Hanged Man of the tarot) would be sacrificed, either literally or symbolically, so he could be reborn and the land could be restored. “Death is a debt to nature due…” as ol’ Constant Slothrop’s epitaph read. We see this concept explicitly addressed in section 16 (p. 131):
If he’s not in fact the War then he’s its child-surrogate, living high for a certain term but come the ceremonial day, look out. The true king only dies a mock death. Remember. Any number of young men may be selected to die in his place while the real king, foxy old bastard, goes on.The king is dead. Long live the king.
Odd, odd, odd - think of the word: such white finality in its closing clap of the tongue. It implies moving past the tongue-stop - beyond the zero - and into the other realm. Of course, you don’t move past. But you do realize, intellectually, that’s how you ought to be moving.The play on “ought” as the extension of “odd” beyond the zero is delightful. Here we also see “white” (remember our many examples of opposition?) being tied to finality. No death-rebirth cycle here.
All this was a long time ago, I remember, / And I would do it again, but set down / This set down / This: were we led all that way for / Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly / We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death, / But had thought they were different; this Birth was / Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.We get glimpses into how the War has worn down the population, drained them, recycled even the most mundane objects (e.g. toothpaste tubes) into material for the war. But we also see a reversal of this, with Spam tins recycled into toys for children. An echo of the death/rebirth cycle we previously saw with the king and the land, and in the poem above. A glimmer of hope?
2020.04.30 09:04 Max-Voynich Voyeur mansion
That’s what it says: FUCK ME.
Black serifed font, embossed on a thick cream card. Premium stock.
No name, no address, no watermark. It lies on our carpet, uninvited, suggestive, like skin exposed as a dress slips off the shoulder.
Posted through our door at some point in the night, and left for us in the morning.
It makes no sense. It’s obscene.
“Are you having an affair?” my wife asks.
“No, are you?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t think the card’s meant for me, honey.”
“Well it’s not meant for me.”
She pauses. I make a good point.
“I’ll throw it in the bin” I say, making my way to the kitchen.
I don't, of course. Slip it in my wallet instead, just in case.
In case of what? I’m not sure. In case, I guess, I need it.
I’m driving to work the next morning and there it is. Proud, exposed above the freeway. Hundreds, thousands of cars driving right under it. A billboard, entirely white, except for two words.
Black, serifed font.
I tell my wife I saw it above the freeway, that it must be a joke, that whoever did it to us probably did it to everyone else in the neighborhood and then some, that they’ve hired a whole billboard, would you believe it, a whole billboard.
She doesn’t believe it. Says it sounds stupid, that she’s bored of the game now.
“There’s no game” I reply. “There’s no game, or, if there is - we’re not the only players.”
“We’re not players at all, honey.”
“Right, but if there was a game, we would be.”
“Sure. I guess”
I’m watching TV. Can’t sleep, half-finished beer by my feet. The programs all become the same, all blurred into one, flicking through the channels, catching five minutes at a time.
Too tired to change it now, resigned to watching the ads.
A handsome man appears on screen, muscular, tanned, his white T-shirt is pulled tight and hugs him when he moves.
He leans forward, his teeth a picture-perfect whiter-than-white toothpaste smile and he says, into the camera:
“SMILERITE is my favourite toothpaste. Always has been, always will be.”
He licks his teeth, looks around as if checking if people can hear, and then turns back, looks me dead in the eye, and speaks again, slower:
The teller looks around: no one else in the queue. Leans forward. A tattoo begins just on the exposed skin by her collar: ink-black, white froth of waves, the implication of a boat.
“And, Sir, after you’ve deposited the agreed upon amount, would you be so kind as to fuck me?”
“Sorry, Sir. I should have been much clearer: FUCK ME. I was wondering if you would like to fuck me.”
My throat grows tight, I stammer out a no, loosen my tie. Tell her I don’t know what she means, why she’s saying this, and as I do so her jaw shakes, she wipes her mouth, the back of her hand is red with blood.
Can someone just say that?
She’s bleeding from her mouth, I think. Standing there, perfect customer-service smile, but there’s blood leaking from between her teeth and pooling under her lip. Some of it dribbles onto the desk, and I think it sounds like a broken gutter.
Can someone just say something like that in everyday life and people just do nothing?
FOOTAGE FROM A MURDER:
A VHS comes through the door, titled FUCK ME.
I want to throw it away immediately but something takes over. I haven’t seen a VHS in years, and I can’t help but want to know more. I set it up in the attic, plug our VHS machine into a small television set, sit and watch the video whilst holding my breath.
It opens with both a man and a woman dressed in these strange clothes, black cloth sacks over their heads. The woman’s like a cheap parody of a princess, the fake material has a plastic sheen, the pink reminds me of old toys; little cars discarded on the side of the road.
The man’s wearing a striped shirt with a little anchor on it. Some sort of sailor.
The bags are pulled off their heads. They are young, attractive. The woman's forehead is dewed with sweat, and she glows. The man has a strong jaw, stubble, darts his tongue out to wet his lips. I guess mid-twenties, maybe a little older.
A figure in a mask walks in, corrects their posture, then, slowly, kisses each of them on the forehead.
They smile: cherubic, blissed out.
“Any last words?”
His voice is run through some sort of machine, some sort of distortion applied and it sounds deep, makes me think of old internet videos, of people who want to stay hidden.
They both say it, in unison, smiling perfect smiles, teeth white and straight, pretty squares set in pink gums.
Two short noises, and the acoustics of the small room muffle them.
They both jerk backwards.
Two small red holes in their foreheads. Blood splatters the wall behind. They collapse. Dead.
The figure comes back into frame, strange mask, stoop, and pulls the bodies out of shot. He takes a small bow, and, from somewhere in the background, there is a round of applause.
A new song comes on the radio. FUCK ME, is the chorus, those two words over tight cymbals, distorted bass. It doesn’t play often, but gets people talking.
We host a dinner party with old friends: wine, our best cutlery, steamed vegetables and rare meat. I bring up the song, ask if they’ve heard it. They nod.
“It’s about me.”
“Right, sure. It’s about you. It’s trying to be edgy, that’s all. They’re seeing what they can get away with.”
My wife speaks up:
“I don’t like it. It’s too obvious - it beats you over the head. Like, we get it? I don’t know, maybe I’m getting old. There’s no subtlety-”
“It’s not edgy, it’s about me. The song is about me. They want me to fuck them, I don’t know, to kill them, to buy whatever they’re selling and then kill them-”
They shake their heads.
In unison: “right.”
I watch the music video in bed, the singers: a young woman, dressed like a princess, a young man, dressed like a sailor. The costumes are purposely tacky, ill-fitting. I guess they’re mid-twenties. They have this glazed look in their eye, like they’ve just seen a car crash or an act of violence and it won’t stop playing on the walls of their skulls.
I’m watching the video on repeat now, when it clicks. My stomach turns, contracts into itself, the space between my tongue and my gums dries.
I try to rewatch the VHS, having to rewire the whole thing again, sitting in my boxers, belly hanging over the waistband.
I click play.
The video’s gone.
And in its place, occasionally rippling with the streaks of static present on old videos, two words:
Sometimes I think I can hear noises outside our house. Like people are walking in our garden, running their hands along our walls. I find it hard to sleep, imagining these people, whoever they are, touching my house, their fingers on the woodgrain of our shed, feet dirty with our mud.
I think I can see them. When I look from my bedroom window, or the kitchen window at night, I can see them. Standing naked. Wearing masks, bodies exposed. Exposed in that way that’s so earnest it verges on scientific, just limbs and throats and stomachs, sagging or uneven or pulled tight over bones.
I think they are looking for me.
I don’t tell my wife. I don’t think she’d believe me.
Some have tattoos: a snake, a tiger, an ocean.
As I watch them watch me one of them bends over, heaves, vomits something black and viscous onto the street outside. Wipes their mouth with the back of their hand.
Mouths the words with their lips stained black: FUCK ME.
The liquid’s gone by morning.
I drive to the ocean, to take a break, tell work I’m sick.
Take a long walk along the coast, breathing in the seaspray, the salt that hangs in the air. I can taste it on my skin, like I’m being lightly seasoned.
I see a boat, moored to the pier I’m walking down, drifting, tugging the rope that keeps it there, with the windows smashed. The other boats are still, empty. I decide to investigate, drawing a little closer, trying to see what’s going on. A figure, slouched in the front seat, the floor slick with blood.
I shout to ask if they’re okay.
“What happened here? Should I call for help?”
The boat bobs aimlessly, as if lost for words.
I step on board.
My heart’s beating faster now. I don’t know what I’m getting myself into, who they are, whether they’re hurt or even, god forbid, dead, or-
Flecks of blood on the windscreen.
Face caved in, swollen, broken in places I didn’t know it could break: all red and purple and blue. One eye puffed out, one eye forced closed. Dentures sitting in clear water in a glass on the dashboard.
They’re trying to say something. I lean in, putting a hand on their shoulder, trying to reassure them, saying that I’ll call the police as soon as I can, that I’ll get an ambulance - shit - two ambulances if they need it, and then I see what their mouth is trying to do.
Lips straining inward.
The flaccid sound of an f.
I know what comes next.
“Don’t say it.”
They keep going, the sound of air escaping making blood bubble from between their lips.
My voice is growing louder. I notice the ballpoint hammer on the floor by their feet, I imagine taking it to them. I don’t want to hear those two words.
They keep going, the blood getting thicker, bubbles bigger, colour changing. Black liquid now running down their chin, and they’re still trying to say it.
Let them say it, who cares. I think about calling the police, calling an ambulance. Decide against it.
I’m still on the boat when I see it. The other boat moored to the pier, populated by a dozen or so naked people, all wearing the same masks, watching in impassive silence. Like a painting, I think, the way their skin stands out against the sea. I want to shout at them but it catches in my throat.
The tallest one raises a glass to me, and nods, like he’s recognised an old friend.
I vomit into the froth, the sea moves quickly, and I don’t stop to see what colour it is.
The drive back takes longer than expected: someone has hung themselves from the bridge across the motorway, naked, put a bag over their head. Graffiti’d by the rope: FUCK ME.
I don’t see this, I hear it, on the radio. They dance around what it actually says for a while, trying to avoid using those words, imply them, don’t say them.
An ad for SMILERITE plays, tells me that I should smile right whatever the occasion, that I never know who might see it. I think of the face under the hood; swollen, tongue hanging out, a perfect smile hidden.
A call wakes me up in the middle of the night. The voice is modulated, deep. Gives me an address. Tells me to bring my card.
“Who is this?”
They hang up.
I’m left in cold sweats. I don’t sleep any more that night, stay staring at the ceiling until the sun rises and casts limp shadows across our room.
I try and distract myself during the day. I try to watch TV, but the ads leer at me, I consider taking a drive but I can’t stop thinking about the boat, about the body and about the way it made me retch. I have no choice.
Night falls. The moon hangs pink in the sky, like some cosmic peep show. I think about what’s changing on the other side, what wants us to only see flashes of itself.
I try to find my wife to tell her where I’m going but she’s nowhere to be found. I drive to the address. It’s an old, gothic mansion: so huge I can’t see the back of it, as if it continues on forever into the dark. I stay in my car, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel.
I can’t wait any longer. I have to go in. I have to see for myself.
The walk takes a minute or two, and the thin path is lit on both sides by tall wooden torches, open flames. They spit slightly, little embers floating skywards. I brace myself.
The woman at the door is naked, save for a black cloth sack over her head, with a small hole cut for her mouth. She smiles as I approach. I can see the sweat on her chest glisten, the white of her teeth as she smiles. She makes a gesture like unbuttoning a shirt, and I understand.
I strip naked, taking a moment to look at my body before entering. I step up, ask if I need a sack. She shakes her head.
The hall smells of bodies, of sweat, of incense and wine and smoke, of fruit and hay and coal. I make my way through. The whole hall is packed with people wearing the same mask, completely naked. They nod as I walk past, momentarily distracted from their conversations. They’re drinking wine, white teeth stained red.
Every single person wears the same thing, like some perverse uniform: exposed body, black cloth sack.
Everyone but me.
I keep walking down the vast hallway, under chandeliers, past body after body, all shapes and sizes, I am aroused and sickened and curious and I have to keep going.
Doorways are open either side of me, allowing me to see in, making me a voyeur, a witness to these small madnesses: a old-fashioned cinema, filled entirely with naked bodies with sack-cloth heads, watching TV static being projected onto a wall; a room full of people sat cross-legged around a cow holding hands and singing; a room that’s only filled with a giant and dead tree and in its branches are dozens of people crouched like strange birds, eating these red red apples; a room where they seem to be sitting an exam, rows after rows of tables, but the floor is covered in a sea of rats; hand-woven slipknots; men and women singing and fucking and fighting and swearing and weeping-
I come to the end of the hallway.
The next room, the room ahead of me, the room that has two gilded doors that creak open as I push them, is the biggest yet.
It is vast, tables upon tables filled with people, these naked bodies, these strange black sacks. There are rows of seats behind, several levels - thousands upon thousands of people who stay still as I enter. I think of a colosseum, of men and women condemned to die on the sand, of the vast and sweeping rows of seats.
I can feel the impulse work its way up my spine.
I make my way to the stage.
I know what I’m going to do, what I have to do.
I think, for a moment, I recognise a body, the curve of my wife’s hips, the small of her back.
Too late now.
As I arrive on stage there is a brief, polite round of applause.
I stand, naked, before them all. The only face visible in the whole room. I feel as if I am at sea, as if the earth beneath me is rocking from side to side.
I step forward: tap the microphone.
The noise echoes around the room, a muted boom.
Clear my throat.
Take a breath.
Two words, loud and clear.
submitted by Max-Voynich to nosleep [link] [comments]
2020.02.12 19:16 MagicPuffIsCool A small list of fetishes
## Fetishes are endless
Anthology | Bestiality | Dandere | Deredere | Deviant | Fully Colored | Furry | Futanari | Gender Bender | Guro | Harem | Incest | Kuudere | Lolicon | Long Story | Netorare | Non-con | Partly Colored | Reverse Harem | Ryona | Short Story | Shotacon | Transgender | Tsundere | Uncensored | Vanilla | Yandere | Yaoi | Yuri | Amusement Park | Attic | Automobile | Balcony | Basement | Bath | Beach | Bedroom | Cabin | Castle | Cave | Church | Classroom | Deck | Dining Room | Doctors | Dojo | Doorway | Dream | Dressing Room | Dungeon | Elevator | Festival | Gym | Haunted Building | Hospital | Hotel | Hot Springs | Kitchen | Laboratory | Library | Living Room | Locker Room | Mansion | Office | Other | Outdoor | Outer Space | Park | Pool | Prison | Public | Restaurant | Restroom | Roof | Sauna | School | School Nurses Office | Shower | Shrine | Storage Room | Store | Street | Teachers Lounge | Theater | Tight Space | Toilet | Train | Transit | Virtual Reality | Warehouse | Wilderness | Androphobia | Apron | Assertive Girl | Bikini | Bloomers | Breast Expansion | Business Suit | Chastity Device | Chinese Dress | Christmas | Collar | Corset | Cosplay ( Female ) | Cosplay ( Male ) | Crossdressing ( Female ) | Crossdressing ( Male ) | Eye Patch | Food | Giantess | Glasses | Gothic Lolita | Gyaru | Gynophobia | High Heels | Hot Pants | Impregnation | Kemonomimi | Kimono | Knee High Socks | Lab Coat | Latex | Leotard | Lingerie | Maid Outfit | Mother And Daughter | None | Nonhuman Girl | Olfactophilia | Pregnant | Rich Girl | School Swimsuit | Shy Girl | Sisters | Sleeping Girl | Sporty | Stockings | Strapon | Student Uniform | Swimsuit | Tanned | Tattoo | Time Stop | Twins ( Coed ) | Twins ( Female ) | Twins ( Male ) | Uniform | Wedding Dress | Alien | Android | Angel | Athlete | Bride | Bunnygirl | Cheerleader | Delinquent | Demon | Doctor | Dominatrix | Escort | Foreigner | Ghost | Housewife | Idol | Magical Girl | Maid | Mamono | Massagist | Miko | Mythical Being | Neet | Nekomimi | Newlywed | Ninja | Normal | Nun | Nurse | Office Lady | Other | Police | Priest | Princess | Queen | School Nurse | Scientist | Sorcerer | Student | Succubus | Teacher | Tomboy | Tutor | Waitress | Warrior | Witch | Acquaintance | Anothers Daughter | Anothers Girlfriend | Anothers Mother | Anothers Sister | Anothers Wife | Aunt | Babysitter | Childhood Friend | Classmate | Cousin | Customer | Daughter | Daughter-in-law | Employee | Employer | Enemy | Fiance | Friend | Friends Daughter | Friends Girlfriend | Friends Mother | Friends Sister | Friends Wife | Girlfriend | Landlord | Manager | Master | Mother | Mother-in-law | Neighbor | Niece | None | Older Sister | Patient | Pet | Physician | Relative | Relatives Friend | Relatives Girlfriend | Relatives Wife | Servant | Server | Sister-in-law | Slave | Stepdaughter | Stepmother | Stepsister | Stranger | Student | Teacher | Tutee | Tutor | Twin | Underclassman | Upperclassman | Wife | Workmate | Younger Sister | Adult | Animal | Animal Ears | Bald | Beard | Dark Skin | Elderly | Exaggerated Penis | Fat | Furry | Goatee | Hairy | Half Animal | Horns | Large Penis | Long Hair | Middle Age | Monster | Muscular | Mustache | None | Short | Short Hair | Skinny | Small Penis | Tail | Tall | Tanned | Tan Line | Teenager | Wings | Young | Adult | Animal Ears | Bald | Big Butt | Chubby | Dark Skin | Elderly | Elf Ears | Exaggerated Breasts | Fat | Furry | Hairy | Hair Bun | Half Animal | Halo | Hime Cut | Horns | Large Breasts | Long Hair | Middle Age | Monster Girl | Muscular | None | Pigtails | Ponytail | Short | Short Hair | Skinny | Small Breasts | Tail | Tall | Tanned | Tan Line | Teenager | Twintails | Wings | Young | Foursome ( 1 Female ) | Foursome ( 1 Male ) | Foursome ( Mixed ) | Foursome ( Only Female ) | Foursome ( Only Male ) | One On One | One On One ( 2 Females ) | One On One ( 2 Males ) | Orgy ( 1 Female ) | Orgy ( 1 Male ) | Orgy ( Mainly Female ) | Orgy ( Mainly Male ) | Orgy ( Mixed ) | Orgy ( Only Female ) | Orgy ( Only Male ) | Solo ( Female ) | Solo ( Male ) | Threesome ( 1 Female ) | Threesome ( 1 Male ) | Threesome ( Only Female ) | Threesome ( Only Male ) | Adultery | Ahegao | Anal ( Female ) | Anal ( Male ) | Aphrodisiac | Armpit Sex | Asphyxiation | Blackmail | Blowjob | Bondage | Breast Feeding | Breast Sucking | Bukkake | Cheating ( Female ) | Cheating ( Male ) | Chikan | Clothed Sex | Consensual | Cunnilingus | Defloration | Discipline | Dominance | Double Penetration | Drunk | Enema | Exhibitionism | Facesitting | Fingering ( Female ) | Fingering ( Male ) | Fisting | Footjob | Grinding | Groping | Handjob | Humiliation | Hypnosis | Intercrural | Interracial Sex | Interspecies Sex | Lactation | Lotion | Masochism | Masturbation | Mind Break | Nonhuman | Orgy | Paizuri | Phone Sex | Props | Rape | Reverse Rape | Rimjob | Sadism | Scat | Sex Toys | Spanking | Squirt | Submission | Sumata | Swingers | Tentacles | Voyeurism | Watersports | X-ray Blowjob | X-ray Sex | 69 | Acrobat | Arch | Bodyguard | Butterfly | Cowgirl | Dancer | Deck Chair | Deep Stick | Doggy | Drill | Ex Sex | Jockey | Lap Dance | Leg Glider | Lotus | Mastery | Missionary | None | Other | Pile Driver | Prison Guard | Reverse Piggyback | Rodeo | Spoons | Standing | Teaspoons | Unusual | Victory
submitted by MagicPuffIsCool to copypasta [link] [comments]
2019.09.17 06:35 Legataux Voyeur mansion
I have two sims that are competing for Simworld domination. They've created clubs where only the most influential, powerful, and wealthiest sims are invited to join. These sims are masters of their occult state, live in the grandest mansions, or work at the top of their professions. One sim, Tina Peeping, is so attractive that leaders of both organizations want her as part of their super secret club.
Which lifestate do you guys think Tina would choose? Vampires have the forever welcome ability to barge into a house uninvited, a skill that I think both Tom and Tina would love. They can also force sims to fall asleep with their mental powers for easier voyeur action. Spell casters can brew potions that can erase the needs bar indefinitely. This gives them a peeping session lasting 24 hour plus. Spell casters can also force sims to do the dirty with their spells, obviously to the delight of a sim like Tina. They also get wands that can be used to cast magic and for other things.
submitted by Legataux to Sims4 [link] [comments]
2019.07.14 22:24 odo1987 Mansion voyeur
Even as I wheeze in the acrid air and scratch at the weeping sores on my skin, I can't help but smile at the irony of my situation.
For centuries, people have been wondering what it would be like to experience the fate I find myself facing. Being the final survivor on a dead world, wandering through the ruins of the apocalypse.
I've had plenty of time to look through the digital records, countless hours spent poring over e-books, printed novels, short stories in decomposing magazines. So far, I've not found any that got it quite right.
Many of the authors did a fine job capturing the despair and the loneliness. A few even spared a few thoughts for the abject boredom that sets in when you've exhausted all the diversions that an empty world can afford.
But none seem to have considered the helpless frustration. The feeling of taking one step closer to oblivion every time I toss away another empty can of food or bottle of water into the trash heap behind the burned-out, ruined mansion that serves as my transient home.
I’ve abandoned my hopes of ever laying eyes on another living soul. Everywhere I’ve travelled, I’ve found nothing but devastation. When the bombs fell and ravaged the Earth, it seems that I was the only survivor.
My post was an isolated listening station in a remote corner of Scandinavia – an underfunded and undermanned military relic that had somehow been overlooked for decommissioning. Three more staff had been scheduled to arrive a week after the war began. A few days difference, and I wouldn’t be alone.
At first, I saw myself as blessed by fate. As the flames and the radiation engulfed the Earth, I sealed myself in and waited it out. A dozen meters of steel, concrete and earth protected me from the titanic blasts, and my isolated location meant that the facility was spared the worst of the devastation.
It was months before the Geiger counters on the surface showed that the radiation had faded sufficiently for me to venture outside.
I emerged into a scarred world. Those trees which hadn’t been ripped apart by the explosions were scorched bare. The air was choked with thick, oily smoke, and the stench of burning plastic assaulted my senses.
I didn’t spend long outside those first few months.
Instead, I searched feverishly for a signal from another survivor. Some of the communication equipment within the facility still worked, and I would sit for hours with my eyes glued to the monitors, hunting for a sign of someone reaching out. I set up an SOS signal myself, detailing my location and status.
After a week of silence, I braved the outside world again to check the external transmitter.
It was crippled beyond any hope of repair, ripped apart by the initial blasts. My pleas for help had gone nowhere – I had been crying out for salvation, and the only ears to hear it had been my own.
A month later I was forced to abandon the facility when the supplies ran out.
That was six years ago.
I’ve wandered through countless ruined towns and cities since then, scavenging food and supplies, never laying eyes on another survivor. Every time I have found a facility that might once have enabled me to get a signal out, the power is dead, the equipment too heavily damaged to be salvageable.
Every satellite link is gone, the e-beacons are destroyed. Even the antiquated radio towers, preserved for posterity, are melted to useless slag.
I've tried lighting signal fires, infernos that reach across what used to be bustling metropolises, but how would anyone pick them out of the smouldering ruins?
All I can do is look up at the stars and marvel at their majesty.
I like to watch the ships too, passing by high overhead. The trade routes between the Martian colonies and the orbital stations on Venus are still as busy as ever.
Through a telescope I found, I think I even picked out a cruise liner trawling towards Europa. I thought about the people on board, wondered whether they still talked about the Earth's destruction after all this time.
We guessed for centuries, quite rightly, that the end of the world would come at our own hands. That someone would finally push the button, drop the bomb, say the deplorable word.
I don’t doubt that they looked for survivors. Ships in orbit scanning the surface, maybe even a few brave souls landing and sending out search parties. But without any means to send a signal, and hidden beneath the surface in my bunker, there was no chance of them finding one man with a whole planet to be lost on.
I should have had the good sense to leave years ago as tensions mounted between the factions, when more sober voices were drowned out by the bloodthirsty.
But even as my food begins to run out and my water supplies run dry, it still brings me some comfort to know that the stars aren't empty.
I’ll have to move on tomorrow. I have nothing left to live for, and I'm sure that the radiation is slowly killing me, but the will to defy death is hardwired into us. As long as I have the strength to keep moving, I will continue to wander through the ruins, eking out another day from what’s left among the ashes. It's worth carrying on for one more night gazing up at the stars.
The corroded steel door hangs off its hinges revealing a dark shaft leading down.
Before the war it would have been almost undetectable, concealed within a thick, all but impenetrable pine forest. But the fires have left the trees as nothing more than a few blackened stumps and the blanket of ash that must have fallen has long since been whipped away by the relentless howling winds.
I'm sure that this is a Western Alliance facility, the same side I had been on in a war that neither side survived, let alone won. The proud lion’s head emblem is stencilled onto the inner side of the door, but only a faint imprint remains after years of exposure to the elements.
I've come across dozens of military installations over the years, all abandoned or home to no one but the dead – soldiers who stayed at their posts even as their bodies were ravaged by radiation. One was still clutching a rifle, collapsed behind a pile of sandbags just inside the entrance.
The darkness within is forbidding, but I remind myself that if there is anyone, or anything in there, they can’t be any more dangerous than lingering outside. Besides, military outposts have proven to be one of my best sources of supplies. These installations were designed to keep the soldiers inside alive to continue launching doomsday weapons across the planet for weeks, while countless billions on the surface were annihilated.
As it turns out, we underestimated our own capacity for destruction. Mine is the only bunker I’ve found so far that wasn’t breached – either ripped open by the blasts or tainted with radiation that killed those within.
As I descend the metal staircase, I see a glow of light ahead. The bulbs directly above me have been shattered, but as I reach the bottom, the corridor ahead is bathed in a sickly, flickering light.
A few intact fluorescent tubes illuminate the bare concrete walls. This facility must run off a renewable power supply. Not nuclear – a fission reactor, even an automated one, would have shut down by now. Maybe geothermal? I seem to remember that this region of Italy used to be known for thermal springs.
In any case, there might be an opportunity to reliably recharge some of my gear. I’ve been able to scavenge a few portable solar panels, but those don’t work too well on a planet in the grip of a nuclear winter.
I begin to explore, uncovering the familiar detritus that's left behind when people are preparing for war. An infirmary full of expired medication and trauma kits; a half dozen empty bunks in a barracks area.
I snort in derision when I find the armoury. The soldiers who manned this facility took their rifles with them when they left, presumably hoping to find another shelter that hadn’t been breached.
By the time they would have been forced to do that, there was no one left alive on the surface, much less anyone who would be interested in continuing the idiotic, futile conflict that led to the cataclysm.
The mess area yields just a few cans of food and a tank of stagnant, but hopefully still drinkable, water. Enough for a few days at most. Still, better than nothing.
The basic layout is one I’m familiar with - the Western Alliance liked uniformity in their facilities, as well as their soldiers - but this one is bigger than I expected. Another long corridor, featureless aside from a red line traced on the floor, ends in heavy blast door. Once, it would have been magnetically sealed, but that system, along with several others in the facility, is no longer working.
I manage to drive a screwdriver into the gap and lever it open a crack, enough to brace my shoulder against the door, forcing it open over the grind and screech of metal. Inch by inch, it moves.
Panting with exertion, I wipe the sweat from my eyes and look through the doorway.
A monument to destruction stands in front of me. A missile, 80 feet high, still secured in its silo. I’m no expert, but even I recognise this as a high yield warhead – Ares Class, I think – capable of levelling a metropolis and creating a radius of destruction hundreds of miles wide.
Red and green LEDs blink on its surface. The gentle, soothing hum of electronics fills the air.
It’s still active. And it's armed.
I move to leap back and slam the blast doors shut before I catch myself, realising what a pointless move that would be. The bomb in front of me could flatten a mountain – a few inches of steel are hardly likely to do me much good. Besides, if it hasn’t gone off in six years, it probably isn’t going to now.
All the same, I’m shaking when I enter the control room, and it takes me five minutes to work up the courage to activate the computers.
I half expect to find someone inside. A dead soldier, executed for refusing to follow orders and launch the missile, murdered by a superior officer for the crime of retaining a shred of sanity.
But the room is as empty as the rest of the facility, and in much better shape. Clearly whoever designed the base was more concerned with making sure that this weapon stayed functional than they were with keeping its caretakers alive.
My own military experience never included a posting to a launch facility, but I’m familiar enough with the systems to find my way around the computer.
I was right, the missile is armed, and the order to fire has been given. The computer reports that the warhead is working perfectly – something else has stalled its launch. After a few more minutes of searching, I find the issue.
The silo doors have jammed. The huge metal iris that would have given the missile a clear path up into the stratosphere has failed to open, and the weapon won’t fire until it does.
I take a look through the glass window in the control room at the slumbering warhead. It’s an astonishing work of engineering, unthinkable power. It’s probably the most sophisticated piece of functioning technology left on the planet. And all it can do now is blast another crater, scatter the ashes of our world a little bit wider.
I can’t disarm it. Once the fire command is received, there’s no going back.
I gather my things and leave.
There’s the ruins of a village a few miles hike from the silo. Civilian structures seldom have anything left worth scavenging, but there’s always the chance that a basement has survived intact with a few useful items.
I find a half-collapsed farmhouse in what looks like it might have been an olive grove, the dead trees set out in long, orderly lines.
Inside, there’s the usual wreckage, but a door in the kitchen leads down to a cellar. It’s been barricaded, but not very well. Nevertheless, it takes me a few minutes to force it open.
I can feel that I’m getting weaker. Whether it’s radiation sickness or starvation I can’t be sure, but I know that the day is coming when I’ll lie down to sleep and I won’t be able to pick myself up again, whether it’s in a few months or mere weeks. I force the thought out of my head and descend the stairs.
The beam from my flashlight cuts through the darkness, revealing one more story with a tragic ending. A pair of desiccated bodies lie on a camping bed, a man and a woman from what I can see. It looks like they died in each other’s arms. I feel like a voyeur staring at them, but I’m not being macabre; I’m thinking about the last time I touched another human being, felt the warmth of their skin against mine.
When I die, I will be alone. Of all the ways to leave this world, these two didn’t do too badly. At least they were together at the end.
I pull the blanket up to cover them. I don’t have the strength to dig graves, and this house, where they lived and died together, seems like a better resting place than a hole in the scorched earth outside. This cellar seems to have been a workshop for the couple – there’s a pair of easy chairs, a neatly organised workbench, an easel beneath the window, paintings on the walls – it was somewhere that meant something to them.
I still need to explore the room though. There’s no obvious food or water, but the shelves are lines with boxes. You’d be surprised how many people have a hoarding streak that manifests as a basement full of canned ravioli and instant ramen.
I don’t have any luck finding food, but one box catches my attention. One of the former inhabitants of this house seems to have been a keen amateur astronomer. I find star charts, surface maps of the planets with the cities and colonies picked out, lunar calendars, spotting scopes.
In the corner of the room, a sheet covers a bulky object. I pull it aside, throwing up a cloud of dust. As the air clears, I point my torch at the item.
It’s an orrery – a mechanical model that tracks the movements of the planets. And it’s a work of art, rendered in brass and dark, aged wood. The planets are picked out in polished glass; a blue-green marble for Earth, Venus a golden yellow, Mars a deep, rich red. A handle in the base operates the gears, that will set the planets spinning, tracing arcs around the Sun.
I’m transfixed as I look at it. It’s a work fuelled by passion and curiosity, built by someone who was awed by the universe.
The orrery includes a mechanical calendar, a needle tracking the days, months and years as the planets move through their orbits. It looks like the owner kept the model up to date – the needle it set to the day before the bombs fell.
I turn the handle, moving the planets through time and space, dragging them into the present. Years pass in minutes as the gears turn, Earth, Mars and Venus growing ever closer until they are aligned, Earth sitting directly between the other two worlds.
I look down at the date on the calendar – five weeks ago.
I keep moving the handle and the planets drift away from each other until the needle settles on today’s date.
The planets are no longer perfectly aligned, the distance between them has grown. But Earth is still between the two. The journey from Mars to Venus will take longer, but Earth will still be a landmark in the distance along the way.
A few weeks ago I was closer to other people that I had been in over half a decade, and I didn’t even realise. The tens of millions of miles between me and anyone else had shrunk to single figures, but still just as impassable. Without communication equipment the ships that pass by remain unreachable. Even if I carved out an SOS across a continent, it could never be seen across such a distance.
The last thing observers might have seen coming from Earth would have been the war itself. The apocalyptic explosions that destroyed our world would have been visible to the naked eye from a vessel even out past high orbit.
And there’s one missile left.
I can feel my heartbeat quickening, my mind exploding with possibilities. I must manage my hopes, control my optimism. I don’t even know if my plan is possible, much less whether it will work even if I can put it into effect.
But I can’t help it. Before I can stop myself I’m laughing and sobbing in same breath. I stagger back up the stairs, out into the harsh air. The best I can manage is a shambling run as I head back down the hill, towards the silo.
I can’t change the missile’s target.
I’ve consulted every manual, explored every system, but just as the missile can’t be disabled, I can’t change its course. It’s set to launch itself out of the Earth’s atmosphere and crash back down on a tiny island in the Yellow Sea. God knows why – maybe the generals in charge knew there was something strategically significant there. Maybe that spot was chosen at random, an excuse to justify the billions the missile must have cost, another senseless decision in a long line of them that led to global catastrophe.
But whatever the reason, that’s where it’s set to fall. The target can’t be changed. At least, not from here.
Once the missile launches, its manoeuvring thrusters will come online, moving it into orbit, before it descends back to Earth. If it strikes the surface, unless someone is watching the planet at that precise moment, the chance of it being seen is vanishingly small.
I need it to fly as far from the Earth as possible before it detonates – a blinding flash of light and heat and energy in the cold void of space.
Tampering with the warhead is the most nerve-wracking experience of my life. I feel a terror that isn’t even matched by the days I spent in the facility where I was originally stationed, as the bombs fell outside. At least then my survival was in the hands of fate.
Now, my life is in my own hands. As I remove the outer casing panel and sever the thrusters from their control systems, I hold my breath every time I squeeze the wire clippers.
If I have succeeded in disabling the thrusters, the warhead should remain on its trajectory upwards and away from the world, detonating when its countdown expires.
Finally, with my work complete, I replace the outer panel, easing it back into place with sweat soaked hands.
The irony that my best hope of survival rests on the same thing that could destroy me in an instant doesn’t escape me.
It takes me two days to clear the launch hatch. In my weakened state, I struggle to drag aside the fallen trees and rubble that have blocked the iris, prying away the debris that has clogged the mechanism. I’m coughing more and more now, struggling to breathe, and the meagre supply of food has run out. If my plan fails, I know I won’t have the strength to make it to wherever I can find more supplies, assuming there is even any such place left.
On trembling legs, I stumble back down into the silo and make my way to the control room.
I’ve isolated the control for the doors. When they open, the missile should launch.
My finger lingers over the keyboard. When I press this button, any number of possibilities could occur – the doors could open but the missile might remain inert. The doors could remain closed but the warhead could fire all the same. The missile could fire and detonate, but be seen by no one.
But the only real difference either way is whether I die here, alone in this place, or not.
And if my life is about to end, I don’t want those to be my final thoughts. Instead, I think about the couple in the house where I found the orrery. I think about two people who knew the end was coming and chose to face it together, in a place surrounded by beautiful things they had made.
I press the button.
For a moment, there is only the hum of the computer, and then the facility roars into life. A klaxon sounds and the room is plunged into red light. Over the din, I hear the silo doors grinding open. Lights flash on the console in front of me and a blast shield slams down, cutting off my view of the missile.
I am in no doubt that it is launching though. The whole structure is shaking and I can feel heat coming through the steel barrier in front of me. I clasp my hands over my ears as the sound reaches a deafening crescendo, then slowly fades.
Disoriented and shaken, I stumble out of the control room, back through the facility, clanging up the stairs towards the exit.
I look up – the flaming tail of the missile is still clear, a bright orange streak across the sky. Even at this distance, it is impossible to miss. I watch it grow smaller, checking my watch as the trail begins to fade.
5 seconds to go.
I scan the sky for the tiny, moving stars that are all I can see of the ships from here.
I can’t pick any out, but they aren’t always easy to spot with the naked eye.
What if the ships are automated? Will their sensors report the blip of an explosion? And if they do, will that report ever find its way in front a human who could understand its significance?
I see a star that seems to move.
I don’t want to die.
The sky turns blinding white, brighter than a midday sun at the equator. Even when I screw my eyes shut I can still see the glare.
I force my eyes open again, spots swimming in front of my vision. I can see the tail end of the explosion, an orange halo that expands, growing fainter and fainter, and then finally disappears leaving nothing but darkness.
It’s quiet, the only sound is the relentless wind.
I stare up at the sky, my vision still blurry. I can’t find the moving star I spotted before – I lost my bearings when I shut my eyes.
Then I see it again, slowly and silently tracing a path across the blackness. It’s moving at the same, sedate pace as before.
But it’s heading back the way it came.
Then there’s another, a second speck of light forging a path towards the site of the explosion.
Then I see a third, and a fourth, and then the sky is alive with a dozen tiny moving lights, all heading to the same place, all chasing the blinding flash that has come from a lifeless planet.
As the adrenaline fades my legs buckle and I slump to the ground.
I lie there, a smile forming across my cracked lips, my back to a dead world, looking up into a sky filling with tiny wandering stars.
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2019.06.23 10:03 naimatabassum1 Voyeur mansion
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2019.06.19 08:21 naimatabassum1 Voyeur mansion
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2019.06.18 08:08 naimatabassum1 Voyeur mansion
RasputinOnline is a premium live broadcast Entertainment hub giving viewers from across the globe the medium to connect with our in-house models on different levels. their fresh concept in entertainment for adults is centred around our custom-built broadcast studio which is set out as a party house, in this party house will live 60 models all coming from different parts of the world.
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2019.06.16 14:35 naimatabassum1 Voyeur mansion
The ROC2 token sale will be held for 9 months, the planning and construction of the Phase2 building will begin 1 to 2 months after the start of the ICO (subject to successful token sales) and construction will be broadcast live through their ICO site while the ICO continues. The launch of Phase2 of the Rasputin Party Mansion is slated for 4 weeks after the close of a successful ICO
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submitted by naimatabassum1 to Crypto_ICO_Investing [link] [comments]
2019.06.10 03:52 naimatabassum1 Voyeur mansion
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