🔞Minors DNI🔞 Have your age visible or be blocked. So we don't have to be horny on main. 24, queer and genderfluid-transmasc. Side account, I follow from @l***-f****t-****t
This image is an illustration titled "A Morta Apaixonada IV" by Brazilian artist Caroline Murta. It depicts a scene inspired by Théophile Gautier's short story "La Morte Amoureuse" (The Dead Leman or The Amorous Dead Woman).
In the story, a priest falls in love with a beautiful female vampire named Clarimonde who visits him at night, and during these encounters, she drinks his blood. The illustration captures a pivotal moment where Clarimonde is shown with blood on her hand, likely after feeding, while the priest lies beside her in a state of trance or exhaustion.
Caroline Murta is based in Curitiba, Paraná, and her work primarily includes illustration, engraving, and photography.
She is known for her attraction to the grotesque and macabre, exploring themes of the human condition and finding beauty in darkness, often through figures in states of horror and melancholy.
Her art frequently incorporates fantastical elements and is influenced by depictions of death, mourning, and Victorian-era post-mortem photographs.
Examples of her work and products are available on her website, including prints, stickers, and framed art.
come over and hold down my buttons until you've erased all my data, software, and settings - I need to be returned to my original, out-of-the-box state
you should be routinely inspecting his gears and other moving parts, checking for signs of overheating, insufficient lubrication, alignment of shafts, etc.
I feel like more disabled doms should talk about dominance and service as a way to come to terms with taking care of ourselves.
I was trained my entire life as a disabled child and now a disabled woman to always make myself and my disability smaller. I needed to take up less space, downplay my symptoms, go without the rest I need, and I most definitely learned to never complain or demand attention, never to be too exhausted for too long, or else I’d get on people’s nerves.
Having a service pup has been such a game changer though. So many submissives DESPERATELY WANT to make our lives easier as dominants, to care for us, to be useful in a really tangible way. So… I let my submissive do it. I let him be my service dog.
My service pup reminds me to rest when I need it and offers to get up and get things for me so I don’t use my sore legs. My service pup reminds me to drink water multiple times a day because he knows I get dizzy when I don’t. My service pup reminds me to take up space and demand respect from those around me and threatens to bite those who won’t give it. My service dog is strong and I know he’s being serious when he says he’d carry me in his arms up every set of stairs in every building that doesn’t have an elevator.
If you’re a disabled dom and your service submissive acts as a disability aid I’d love to hear more of you talk about it!! And if you’re a disabled dom and you’ve been scared to let someone in to such a vulnerable part of you, I really recommend asking a sub you trust to learn some tasks for you :p
TW: Soft Yandere, Captivity, Reader is a little freak, brief smut, choking, unedited, mdni
Now imagine asking your yandere! outlaw to put you in a chokehold.
You must be ovulating or the heat is finally getting to your head because what other reason could there be for you to look at your kidnapper and think, yeah, I wanna see if he can squeeze the breath right outta me.
But Lord help you, there’s just something about the way he moves.
You’ve been following him all morning, trailing behind like a pup in heat while he does his rounds. And it ain’t like there’s much else for you to do. Not when you’re tucked away out here in the middle of nowhere, ranch-bound and leashed to him in every way that matters.
So you watch. You sit in the dry grass, chin propped in your hands, trying not to squirm while your outlaw works shirtless in the sun, haulin’ hay bales with thick, roped forearms, shoulders flexing beneath sun-slick skin, veins standing up along his hands like the roots of an old tree. Every time he bends over to fix a latch or check a hoof, his jeans pull tight across his thighs and your breath catches. You can feel your body reacting, core clenching, nipples brushing against the inside of your dress, needy for friction and attention he hasn't given you since sunrise.
He doesn’t even notice at first. Just tips his hat back, all casual-like, and tosses you a look over his shoulder. “You doin’ alright, sugar?”
You nod too quickly. “Mhm,” you hum, legs crossed tight, voice nearly a whimper. Not really. You’re hot and itchy and aching, and watching him do ranch work is somehow worse than any teasing he’s ever done.
Once he finishes, before noon, like always, he stalks toward you, knife in one hand and a ripe peach in the other. You sit up straighter, mouth already watering. But not for the fruit, no, you want that giant thing tucked in his pants.
But a good girl like you shouldn't be thinkin' like that.
He slices it without a word, just a grunt when he sits beside you, juices dripping down the blade, and feeds you the first bite right off the tip of his knife. Fingers curl beneath your chin, tilting your face just so as he slides it past your lips. You suck the juice off his fingers, and his brows twitch, jaw ticking when you press your tongue against the pad of his thumb.
You look up at him, sunlight glinting off his pretty eyes, scruff shadowing his sharp jaw, that cold-eyed gunslinger stare softened just a little, and you can’t help it.
“Can you…” your voice comes out breathy, almost shy, “put me in a chokehold?”
He stills for a moment, all you can hear is the buzz of cicadas and the wet, juicy drip of peach onto the grass. And finally in a gravely tone laced with heat, “…What the hell did you just say?”
“I said…” you crawl into his lap, thighs brushing his, heat pooling low in your belly, all sweet like candy, “Can you put your hand around my throat?”
He stares. Long. Hard. “You feelin’ alright?” he mutters, voice low and rough, “Ain’t been drinkin’ the shine, have you?”
“No,” you whimper, fingers curling into the rough denim of his jeans, pressing your mouth to the stubble along his jaw. “I just… want it. Please.”
He grunts, more sound than word, like it physically pains him to admit how much he likes you beggin’. That’s what finally cracks him.
“Alright then,” he drawls, shifting beneath you until your back hits the dirt, doesn't pay any mind to the way you’re looking at him.
Knowing better than to trust easy sweetness. Knows you’ve been quiet lately. Been watchin’ him too close while he works. Legs crossed tight in that little dress he bought you, eyes all glassy and lips all pouty. He ain’t stupid. He sees it. The heat clingin’ to your skin, the squirm in your seat when he flexes just right.
And when you crawled into his lap and ask, so soft and sugar-slick, for him to put a hand around your throat?
Oh, he don’t trust that one bit.
“What’re you plannin’, darlin’?” he mutters, even as his hand curls just beneath your jaw, his thumb brushing your pulse like he’s takin’ inventory of every thought racin’ through that pretty head. “Tryin’ to distract me? Make me soft on you so you can slip off when I ain’t lookin’?”
You shake your head, whimperin’ no. But that only makes him more suspicious. More obsessed.
Because he knows how smart you are. He’s seen the way you eye the fence line. The way your fingers twitch when you hear the sound of boots approachin’ like maybe you’re still hopin’ someone’ll come for you.
You’re still tryin’ to run.
That pisses him off.
So when he grabs you, strong hands locking under your thighs and tossin’ you over his shoulder, it’s not gentle. He storms into the barn like a thunderhead rollin’ in, muttering under his breath the whole time, “Think I don’t see what this is? Think I don’t know what you’re doin’, sugar? Tryin’ to make me come undone so you can sneak out while my seed is still buried inside you? You forget who you're dealin’ with?”
The barn door slams behind him, and next thing you know you’re flat on a pile of hay, the skirt of your dress hiked up, lips trembling. His hat’s discarded on the floor, eyes burning wild above you, like some rabid dog ready to sink his teeth in.
He yanks his belt free with a harsh snap, looming over you like a stormcloud during monsoon season.
“You wanna be choked?” he growls, hand gripping your jaw, “You wanna be roughened up a little?”
Then he’s between your legs, nudging them apart with his knee, shoving your pretty white panties aside, dragging two rough fingers along your slick folds and groaning at how wet you are. “Goddamn, you’re drippin’. What the hell am I supposed to do with a girl like you? You’re not right in the head.”
His hand returns to your throat. This time, a little tighter, claiming your breath. Feeling your pulse quicken as he lines himself up, his thick head already breaching past your fluttering lips. You've never been this sweet to him before.
So when he finally thrusts into you, hard enough to make the hay rustle and the air leave your lungs, it’s not just lust. It’s punishment.
“You don’t get to leave me,” he snarls against your neck, biting down hard enough to bruise, for your screams to echo against the walls. “You don’t get to play me. You don’t get to fuckin’ leave.”
You cry out, not sure if it’s from the force of the bite or the way he’s splitting you open like he wants to ruin you for anyone else, and he laughs wicked in your ear as he pounds into your slick cunt. Perhaps you shouldn't have tempted the bull just because you were feeling a little needy.
“You thought you could use this? Thought you could get me so pussy-drunk I’d forget to lock the door behind me? I’ll make sure you can’t walk by the time I’m done,” he hisses, voice trembling at the edge, slick obscene sounds bouncing off the walls in the barn. His pace quickens even more while his words come out in a hushed groan, “I’ll fuck the thoughts right outta that schemin’ little head.”
He doesn’t stop until you’re babbling, hands weak against his chest, legs twitching around his waist, your voice raw from cryin’ his name and beggin’ for more, for less, for anything. And even then…he doesn’t let go of your throat.
Not until he’s sure.
Not until he’s pressed so deep inside you that he swears he can feel your heartbeat around his cock that's pressed right up against your womb.
Only then does he lean down, kiss the corner of your mouth, and whisper, too soft to be safe: “You’re mine now, sugar. You don’t get to make me love you just to run off. Not ever. Now be a good lil' filly and take what I give you.”
Anyways, I need everyone to start making their monsters fatter and buffer like yesterday. I'm tired of washboard abs on werewolves, they're starving :( if that elf is so wealthy why is he skin and bone? That naga should be so muscular and have such luscious love handles, why is she a stick? How is she meant to constrict her prey in these conditions? That sphinx is running into idiots on the daily, give her a tummy from eating so many travelers. Why are these merfolk so slim? They're gonna freeze in the water like that.
Just please, feed your monsters, they make me sad.
I guess that's the secret of monsters being monstrous -- they're hungry.
Instead of ravaging, the well-fed werewolf uses its time under the full Moon to howl and sniff and gambol.
The well-fed elf is never seen: they have no need to politic or traffick with people.
Fat monsters implies a mythology in which monsters aren't simple anthropomorphic manifestations of fears but are instead living creatures with appetites that can be sated.
Okay. I've been mad about this for a while, I thought I'd calm down eventually and be able to just. Gentle parent you on my porn blog about why this isn't the time or the place. About how 1. This is a post about how people are fatphobic, and I want to see more art that features bodies like those of the people I love. 2. I spent most of my fucking life that starving bony thing I see in all of these posts. I'm recovering from eating disorders, and it's hard! So I see weight gain as a positive thing, as a sign of things getting better, of feeling safe and happy, and I like seeing that in art because every goddamn stick figure reminds me of when I didn't think I deserved to be fed. And number fucking 3. This is first and foremost a horny post. I want to have sex with these hypothetical fat monsters! I want them to be happy and healthy and thriving because I think happy well fed people and monsters are sexy as all hell.
So if you would be so kind, check who the fuck you're reblogging from next time, and maybe don't wax poetics and philosophy on someone's porn blog. You're really hashing my vibe.
Overstimming your puppy til he cries while telling him about how rapeable he is is good for him, btw. I've received nothing but positive reviews, such as,
Younger trans guy (20 something) helping an older man (40s minimum) come to terms with who he is. So many older trans people help younger ones, which is beautiful and wonderful, but older people who discover late or think they're beyond hope deserve a younger, bright, determined guide to show them just how manly they are. Build-a-dad, if you will. Doesn't have to be erotic, but can be.
The idea of turning this sad, washed up 'woman' drowning in a lifetime spent performing femininity into a vibrant, strong, self-confident silver fox man is just compelling to me.
Oh wow that hit hard !
When you're the first trans person older peoples meet, you hear a lot.
And imagine one of them really taking the time to wonder, to let himself explore that part of him. And at first it's just with me, just our thing but I slowly bring him out of his shell until he finally dare to try and hope and live this part of him he repressed longer that I've been alive !
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