mmmm someone holding a bottle of something strong to my lips forcing me to drink until they're satisfied, telling me to be good and let them fuck me up when i really shouldn't be getting fucked up
i kinda like the idea of meeting someone to make sure they're trustworthy and immediately realising why i shouldn't do that. some guy from another city who keeps dming me finally comes to my area and i meet him to see if we wanna hook up after sexting so much. he'd been a bit weird and obsessive over messaging me every day, even calling me addictive and possibly the hottest person he knew, flattering me the whole lot. and i meet him at the park or something by myself, and he brings me a coffee to drink, but his flattering little obsession turns sour when i suddenly find myself in his car on the way to his city, too weak and confused and sleepy to even mutter a complaint
we all know the 62 million men thing was blown vastly out of proportion. there was actually only 1000 men who joined that forum. it's disgusting behaviour, truly.
...but i won't say that it didn't turn me on a little...
we all know the 62 million men thing was blown vastly out of proportion. there was actually only 1000 men who joined that forum. it's disgusting behaviour, truly.
...but i won't say that it didn't turn me on a little...
There should be an option for the PC to present as androgynous, rather than strictly masculine or feminine. It should be difficult, unlikely to achieve by accident, and would probably confuse the shit out of everyone you meet.
Perhaps it'd be a different story for NPCs (named or otherwise) who know what your genitals look like, though I can imagine some of them asking for your pronouns anyway in likely-not-very-woke ways.
Sleep tight. Itâs that wet dream again, the one that hits you like a freight train when the sleeping pills dissolve under your tongue. Plop, plop, plop they fizz out, bitter and chalky, and youâre already sinking into the mattress, limbs heavy, head buzzing. The bottle warned you about those side effects, but the fine print never mentioned thisâŚ
That hazy line where reality frays and the dream stitches itself together. The feeling of his hands on you. Your half conscious brain sloshing like a spilled drink, trying to piece it together. Wait, am I awake? Is this happening? His fingers are hooking into your waistband, tugging your shorts down with that impatient pull heâs got down to an art. The airâs cool against your thighs, but his palms are hot, rough, spreading your legs like heâs cracking a book open to his favorite page.
"Fuck, youâre so out of it," he mutters, voice gravelly, but youâre too dazed to answer. You catch the glint of his teeth in the dark, a smirk youâd slap off of him if your arms werenât lead pipes pinned to the sheets. He knows the pills knock you into this twilight zone, knows youâre a ragdoll for him to play with, and he loves it.
Heâs not gentle tonight. No warm up, no teasing, he shoves into you with a grunt, and the stretch burns sharp and sudden, jolting you out of the fog for half a second. Your eyes flutter open, catching a blurry snapshot of him. Heâs shirtless, sweat beading on his chest, hair sticking to his forehead like heâs been at this for hours. Maybe he has. Timeâs a soup in this dream, all thick and runny, and you canât tell if heâs been fucking you for minutes or days. Your cunt clenches around him, wet and sloppy, and he laughs. Itâs a dark, jagged sound that makes your toes curl.
"Still with me, huh?" he says, thrusting harder, the bed creaking like itâs about to snap. You try to mumble something â yes, no, fuck you â but it comes out as a groan, your tongue too thick in your mouth. He leans down, close enough to smell his breath, a faint hint of whisky, âYouâre so fucking wet. Your bodyâs begging for it.â
The pills keep you tethered, but you still feel it all, the drag of him inside you, the way your thighs quake, the sticky heat pooling under your ass. But not enough to fight back. Or maybe you donât want to. Maybe thatâs the dirty little secret here, you like being his toy when the lights go out and the world turns syrupy. Your fingers twitch, clawing weakly at the sheets, and he grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand. The other slides down, thumb finding your clit. It feels more like a collision than a caress.
Your head lolls to the side, vision swimming. Thereâs a mirror across the room, and you catch a glimpse of yourself: legs splayed, hair a mess, his shadow rocking into you like some feral thing. The scene sends a spike of heat straight through you, sharp enough to make you gasp. He notices, of course he does, and his thumb presses harder, relentless, until youâre bucking against him, a broken little sound spilling out of your throat.
"Thought so," he growls, hips snapping faster now, chasing his own edge. Youâre just along for the ride, body jolting with every thrust, mind a kaleidoscope of static and sparks. The room smells like sex and sweat, and itâs all too much, too good, too wrong. Youâre splintering apart, orgasm creeping up like a thief, stealing the last shred of coherence youâve got left. When it hits, itâs not fireworks or poetry, itâs a gut punch, raw and messy, leaving you trembling under him as he fucks you through it, chasing his own release.
He finishes with a long moan, cumming inside you, hot and sticky, and youâre too far gone to care. He collapses next to you, one hand still draped across your stomach like heâs claiming you even now. The dream starts to unravel then, edges blurring, but you feel him kiss your temple, soft, almost tender, a fucked up contrast to the rest of it. "Sleep tight," he whispers, and youâre out before you can decide if you hate him or love him for it.
Recently your underwear had been disappearing from your dresser. Not so many that you had to buy more but like one or two each month. Youâve assumed that they were just disappearing in the laundry. Some of them popped up later on as well so nothing seemed that out of the ordinary.
Unbeknownst to you however, your dear childhood best friend, Oliver would take one of your panties if he was at your apartment. At night heâd pump his fist gently up and down his length. In his head itâs your hands. Touching him with such reverie and warmth that you normally would.
Your underwear pressed against his nose as heâd inhale deeply through his nose taking in your scent.
Heâd left microphones in your room to listen to you sleep. What he hadnât anticipated was listening to you fuck yourself silly with your hands and toys. Oh how he wished that itâd be him that makes you make those little noises. He wished that you were moaning out his name as you writhed in pleasure beneath him. He could get by just with your scent and sounds. But the thought of seeing you in such a state is irresistible. He canât deny how badly he needs you. But he can wait. Heâs been waiting for his entire life for you.
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