NSFW Alphabet Headcanon- Uzair Baloch
Trigger Warning: This content contains explicit sexual material including consensual BDSM practices (breath play, knife/gun play, bondage, impact play, orgasm control/denial), power exchange dynamics, dacryphilia (tears as arousal), and elements of danger/violence within sexual contexts. Includes themes of jealousy, possession, and psychological domination. Reader discretion advised.
A — Anal training. Not for degradation — for patience. He likes the months-long process of preparing you, the daily plugs, the gradual stretching, the trust required. It's methodical. He schedules it.
B — Breath play with timing. He doesn't choke randomly; he counts. Knows exactly how many seconds until your vision tunnels, releases you at the precise moment before panic, then enters you while you're still high on oxygen deprivation. It's calculated. Safe. Which makes it more dangerous.
C — Cock warming. He'll stay inside you for hours while he works — laptop on the bed, phone calls, you full and stretched and forbidden to move. You're furniture. A sheath. He'll pet your hair absently while typing one-handed, occasionally rock his hips just to remind you he's there.
D — Dacryphilia — tears as arousal. Not from pain. From frustration. From being edged for three hours until you're sobbing with need, and that's when he finally lets you come, drinking your tears like they're part of the orgasm.
E — Edging with spreadsheets. Literal tracking — how long he can keep you there, your highest record, the exact pressure and rhythm that maintains the plateau. He reviews the data like quarterly earnings, adjusts technique accordingly.
F — Face-fucking with his watch still on. The visual of him fully dressed — cufflinks, belt, the shine of his shoes — while you're naked and gagging. The power differential is the kink. He'll come on his own shirt just to make you clean it with your mouth.
G — Gun barrel temperature play. Cold metal tracing your spine while he's inside you, the safety on, his finger never on the trigger but the threat implicit. He watches you clench around him when the steel hits your entrance.
H — Hair cutting as intimacy. He trims your pubic hair himself, with a straight razor he sharpens beforehand. The vulnerability of a blade there, his concentration, the nick that earns him punishing you for moving.
I — Impact play with precision. He knows exactly how many strikes, where, to leave bruises that bloom like flowers. He maps your body for pain tolerance like he's scouting territory. Each slap is placed with intention.
J — Jealousy extraction. He makes you describe past lovers while inside you, not to humiliate you — to claim the memories. Replaces them stroke by stroke until you can't remember anyone's face but his, anyone's voice, anyone's cock.
K — Knife play at the throat. Not cutting — the flat of the blade, pressure, watching your pulse jump against the steel. He times his thrusts to your heartbeat, accelerating as you panic, slowing as you calm, controlling your biology.
L — Language domination. Switching to Urdu when he's close — guttural, ancient words you don't understand but feel in your cunt. He knows the power of incomprehension, of being reduced to pure sensation without narrative.
M — Marking with semen. Not coming inside when you want it — pulling out to paint you, claim your skin, your face, your breasts. Rubbing it in like lotion, making you wear it under clothes, his scent leaking through fabric all day.
N — Nipple torture with clips and weights. He times the removal — the rush of blood back — with your climax, so pain and pleasure become neurologically indistinguishable. You learn to crave the ache.
O — Orgasm denial as lifestyle. Weeks. He'll fuck you daily, make you serve him, but you don't come. Your pleasure becomes his alone. When he finally permits it — with conditions, with begging, with promises — the release is religious.
P — Praise kink directed at himself. He wants to hear how big he is, how good, how no one else compares. The ego stroke is foreplay. You learn to narrate his body like poetry, and he rewards your worship with deeper thrusts.
Q — Quiet sex as discipline. You're gagged, he's silent, the only sounds are the wet slap of bodies and your muffled whimpers. He maintains eye contact the entire time, watching you lose your mind in the silence.
R — Restraint with his clothes. Silk ties, leather belts, the fabric of his own shirt twisted around your wrists. Using his garments to bind you means he's partially naked too — vulnerability he only shows in this context.
S — Size kink — his hands around your throat, your wrists, your waist. Demonstrating how easily he could break you, choosing not to, the restraint itself becoming the arousal. He measures you against him constantly.
T — Temperature play with tea. Hot liquid sipped, held in his mouth, transferred to yours during kisses. Ice cubes in places that make you shiver, then his tongue warming you. The contrast makes nerves scream.
U — Under his clothes. The kink of concealment — you beneath his kurta, your mouth on him while he stands at the window taking a business call, your body wedged between him and the wall while his cousin discusses logistics in the next room. He doesn't flinch, doesn't break cadence, even as you choke, even as he grows harder against your tongue. The danger of discovery, the mundanity of his tone contrasted with what you're doing — he gets off on the split-screen, the secret, the way he can command armies and your throat simultaneously without anyone knowing.
V — Voyeurism of your own reactions. Mirrors positioned so you watch yourself being taken, your face contorted, your body penetrated. He makes you keep your eyes open, witness your own undoing, learn what you look like in extremis.
W — Whipping with his belt. The one he wore to meetings, to killings. The leather knows his body, now knows yours. He doesn't strike hard enough to scar — hard enough to remember, to feel when you sit, to associate pain with arousal forever.
X — X-frame spread. Wrists up, ankles wide, stretched open while he circles fully dressed. He inspects like you're merchandise, comments on your wetness clinically, makes you beg to be touched before he even unzips.
Y — Yielding control — but only for exactly five minutes. Timed. He submits, lets you ride him, use him, and the moment the time is up, he flips you, punishes you for every second of his vulnerability, fucks you like he's erasing the memory.
Z — Zenith denial — keeping you at 90% of orgasm indefinitely. He knows your body better than you do, can read the muscle tension, the breath rate, the clitoral pulse. He stops exactly before the point of no return, leaves you hovering, desperate, for hours. Your begging becomes his favorite music.
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