Might restart my blog so I can finally be as obsessive w my tagging and archiving as I want to be fyi š
wallacepolsom

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cherry valley forever
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
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Claire Keane

@theartofmadeline
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
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@jaslq
Might restart my blog so I can finally be as obsessive w my tagging and archiving as I want to be fyi š
I need to get smacked around so fucking bad. Like one solid open hand across my face that makes my vision blur would really just get me fucking rock hard.
Sex in general is great but have you ever given a blowjob to someone whoās so gone for you looking at you doe eyed mouth agape ready to cum from the slightest touch fat tears just begging to fall whoās so gone for the little kiss behind his ear head thrown back moans shamelessly escaping his lips because why would he keep it in, arms blindly grasping to pull you closer, continuously mumbling praises and pleads you can barely hear
Broadly, among the various "hypnotized to act like X" roles that I see (that focus on things rather than archetypes. archetypes are beyond the scope of this post.), I think 'plushie' is probably my favorite. 'Doll' can be fun, especially in a dress up context. Various animals (chicken, cow, cat, dog) are fun but unfortunately frequently ping my "they would NOT be that docile and well behaved" instinct. I think 'pillow' is decent, but lacks the vague cuteness and loses all dress up potential. Plushie also had added agere adjacent flavor that gives it a nice seasoning of "loss of autonomy as embarrassing" and "you can't help yourself from being seen as lesser", which of course most such roles have but having more to pull from is always good. Though, 'robot' is also very good, even as it's even more totally abstracted from context. Mostly because I think programming-esque language and flavor can be really cute.
neeeeed someoneās chain dangling down in my face while theyāre on top of me thrusting
You're just a slut
I'm a morally pure being so anything that gets my dick hard is morally correct to do
I understand why you expected the brainwashing to work that way. I get it, the feeling of empty minded bliss can be very erotic and forcefully imposing it on you is hot. You thought giving in would mean finally getting a break from everything. I sympathize, I really do. But, I've been on an "embarrassed expression" kick lately. So, yeah, you're gonna be fully conscious the whole time. Your former party members will see you cleaning my furniture in an uncharacteristically cute maid outfit and my hidden cameras will record all the expressions you make in extremely high quality. Even when you're just sitting there acting as a piece of my furniture. Especially for that, actually.
they don't tell you this but human bodies make really, really good fidget toys. especially someone else's body, where you'll find it makes really nice noises if you poke and prod it right.
also i have shit to do so i won't expound on it but "we have to get back normal porn" & the implication that any nonstandard expression of eroticism is a dishonest attempt to sneak around TOS plays into this weird sentiment that subordinates all other sexual expression to Normal Sex, which, let's be real, is generally taken to mean hetero- & cisnormative penetrative sex. kink is not a lesser form of sexuality taken only as a necessary alternative to & downgrade from marital missionary, some of us just earnestly like armpits
on the one tentacle, as a clothing fetishist id really rather you left all of it on. on the second tentacle, as a skin fetishist I would really like to touch you down there so maybe you can leave it on but I'll grope you beneath it. on the third tentacle, as a dress up fetishist I'm actually okay with you taking the clothes off as long as you're then putting things on that I tell you to put on. on the fourth tentacle, as an embarrassment fetishist I'm really just inclined towards whatever makes you most uncomfortable which does give some value to the naked body. and the rest of my tentacles are just gonna stick to touching you unless I think of more things to consider.
Control brings with it a supreme kind of calm.
It sits in your lap. Through the front of your shirt you can feel its naked back. Your own back resting against a pillow, though you can feel the wooden headboard through it. Beneath the entangled two of you lay a mess of blankets. Ten minutes ago they were neatly tucked in, but your toy's been a bit too excited. In your right hand, your fingers gently hold its leash, with much of its length wrapped up further. Your left hand runs free along its body.
Control. To order, limit, or rule something, or someone's actions or behavior. For you, control is the essence of power. Control is with one hand limiting and restricting the motion of your toy's body to the point where it can't even escape your lap. Control is the way it shivers at your touch and the way it speaks at your whim. Control is found in the marks of ownership you've left on its mind and body for all who behold it to see and know you by.
Your fingers idly twist and pull around its leash. The back of your thumb clicks along the grooves in the nylon webbing. You never fully erase the slack, but you've kept the length shifting. Partially it's just stimming. Enjoying the feel of the smooth polymer cord against the calluses of your hand. But even more it's to keep an awareness of the leash in your toy's mind. You can see how the leash affects its movement. Even when it's shuddering in pain or pleasure at your touch, it never strays too far, never fights it, never tries to escape.
At this high point of control, you feel relaxed. Every inch of your toy's body belongs to you. Not in a loose sense of possession, but in a real sense of knowledge. You know how it will respond to your fingers wherever they may land, and you adjust your touch accordingly. That epistemic claim is held in the forefront of your brain, and fits like a gemstone set in a crown. Each moment further polishing your claim through observation, and verifying it through action.
The fingers of your left hand dance across the dimples, grooves, and bends of its body. Where your toy expects you to touch it, it writhes. Shifting away or toward your left hand as its body demands more pleasure or less pain. Your hand approaches the right place and it shies away. Red and purple marks out spots you've already gone to work enough to cause a flinch. But, it shifts back as well, knowing what you expect and knowing that the choice to continue is yours, not its. On occasion it moans, when the lightest touch is still enough.
Today's exercise of control has been one of marking. Further trial and error with your toy's body, exploring the kinds of marks that may be left and how to best leave them. It's a slow and methodical process, and your toy sometimes grows bored of such exercises, so between targets you take the time to keep your toy's mind engaged. Pressing down on bruises, groping sensitive spaces, biting when it doesn't expect you to, or simply whispering the right words at the right time.
The moment shifts and a decision is made. Left hand snakes up back of neck while right hand pulls it back from fighting. Flat hand reaches into hair before making a fist. A squeal of shock with a hint of moaning underneath. Twist to the side, revealing the neck, and bite down. Enjoy the moan. Listen to its volume and depth, keep it from getting too loud and press harder when it gets too steady.
This goal lies in keeping your toy's mind from ever moving too far from shivering in pain or pleasure, from panicked anticipation of your next action, from desperation and expression of desire. On some level, this is your primary task and your primary skill. Everything else supports it, from the trappings and the signifiers to the expressions and the substance.
It writhes and shakes against you. Hips press up and down and bone hits bone but clothing dampens it. The pain makes you giggle. Its naked flesh lightly bounces in front of you. The rhythm of the writhing enough to cause such motions. The pain reaches another high point and it starts breathing out swears before you pinch it through its hair and the sounds become apologies.
You'll keep this going for another minute or two, until the pleasure dies out and it just becomes pain, then a few seconds to rest before moving on to another body part. Keep it from ever fully relaxing, so it can never quite collect itself. It's truly so lovely to be the one in control.
thereās something about a sub who gets more turned on every time theyāre humiliated. who goes red and gets wetter simultaneously. who doesnāt know what to do with themselves when both things are happening at once. who tries to hide their face because of how shy they are. the ones who get embarrassed at how i notice and need me to say it out loud anyway. who would never ask for it directly. would probably deny wanting it if i asked. but whose body gives them away every single time without fail. without exception. every single time i say something that makes them want to hide, they get wetter. every time. and they know that i know that. and that makes it worse. and that makes it better. i love that. i love being the person who sees exactly what they need before they can admit it to themselves. who says it out loud anyway. ālook at you. getting so turned on from that.ā watching them go redder. feeling them get wetter. āyou love this donāt you.ā watching them shake their head. feeling their body say yes.
if you wake up to me grinding against your thigh and sucking on your fingers to muffle my moans, itās not my fault! you made me so desperate! itās your fault i need you so fucking bad all the time! >ā©<
On some level, I really want to write about why desperation is hot from the perspective of the desperate. Is it the catharsis to be allowed to show it, the love of being accepted anyway, the fun of drowning in it? But, honestly, desperation is one of those things that it's hard for me to separate my enjoyment of it from any discussion of it.
At the end of the day, for me, it's just about the way your movements shift, the way you stutter and struggle to get the words out, the way your muscles ache in twist. In particular I love the way your eyes flutter across my body trying to figure out what I'm going to do next, trying to anticipate what you need to do for me. It's the sadism of it, really, that blinds my eyes to your enjoyment of it. 'Cause at the end of the day it's really just a feast for me.
I fucking love submissives who get extra confused and stupid and hazy when they're being slapped around and used. They're so easy to control. I need to get you so fucking dumb and empty headed and pliant that I don't even need to force you into submission. So feeble minded. So obedient. So unbelievably easy to manipulate that you do each and every fucked up thing I tell you with a stupid happy grin on your face.
it hurts? ask me to stop, then. say please. god, yeah, just like that. fuck, you're so cute. keep going, i'm close. i know it's too much, baby. you can kick and scream. do you need help screaming? you're pretty when you're scared. oh, are you crying? you're so good to me.