Putting a toy in when you're about to go out in public but its entirely because pussy portals dont exist yet, so you're chasing that unknowable yet absolutely needy feeling of getting used when you're least expecting it.
Of talking to someone and having to bite your tongue as some stretches you obscenely with not a single person noticing.
Of having to grip the wall or handrail nearby because when you walk with them thrusting like this you feel like you'll fall over.
Of swallowing moans as they hit that perfect spot while attempting to have a conversation with someone.
synopsis: finding a cute thing to play with at a party.
word count: 1k
cw: porn with no plot, GN reader, dom! reader, sub! male char, making out, intoxication, public sex
note: instead of working on reqs, i wrote this. mb 😔
you’re not sure whose house this is, only that the air thrums with bass-heavy music and the room glows under shifting colored lights. shadows flicker across the walls, blurring the distinction between strangers and acquaintances: just enough familiarity to feel safe, just enough anonymity to be thrilling.
you swirl your drink, sloshing some over the rim, condensation dripping down your hand. the beer tastes sour and flat, but you drink it anyway, letting it numb your tongue. your friends have all gone off somewhere, leaving you to yourself, adrift in the sea of music and bodies.
eventually, after a couple more cups of liquid courage, your attention snags on the guy slouched by himself on a sagging couch in the corner, sprawled out, legs splayed wide, clothes rumpled. he’s curled around a half-empty cup, eyes glassy and unfocused, looking even more lost amid the chaos. these scenes aren’t for everyone, and there’s something a little sad about the way he clings to his drink, shoulders hunched as if trying to disappear. his hair is a wild, tangled mess, sticking up at odd angles, and his grin is crooked and uncertain, flickering and fading with every second. it’s the raw vulnerability that pulls you in—he looks like he’s just waiting for someone to notice him, and tonight, you’re more than happy to oblige.
after a beat, you decide to stumble over, dodging bodies, and flop down next to him on the battered couch. up close, he looks even more like a lost puppy: he glances up with a hopeful, uncertain smile, then drops his gaze to his lap, cheeks flushed, and lips parted. it tugs at your heartstrings.
you nudge his arm—harder than you mean to, your elbow bumping against the bare skin just above his wrist, sending a little jolt through both of you. the plastic cup wobbles in his grip, sloshing a few drops of beer onto the threadbare couch. you ask what he’s drinking, your voice thick and sticky, words tumbling out loud enough to catch the attention of someone across the room. under the colored lights his face looks flushed, eyes swimming as he mumbles something that you barely catch—a brand of beer, maybe, or just a sigh. not like it matters much. you laugh, not because it’s funny but because you need to fill the silence, need to keep the night from swallowing you whole. you tip your cup toward him, foam sloshing over your fingers, and offer to top him off. he gulps it down so fast you wonder if he even tasted it, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, a stray drop running down his chin. you both crack up, laughter bubbling up and out, the kind that shakes your shoulders and leaves your eyes burning—a sound that’s more about not falling apart than any real joke.
the sharp tang of cheap beer clings to him, barely covering the sweet-sour smell of sweat and his cologne. when he finally asks your name, it’s barely audible, a mumble against the thrum of the music, like he’s surprised you’re actually staying. it’s cute. and you answer only because it’s not like he’ll remember it by tomorrow.
it doesn’t take long to get him to loosen up; alcohol does that. minutes slip past in a blur of messy laughter, half-finished jokes, and clumsy touches—your knees knocking against each other, your hand brushing his thigh, the feverish heat of his skin scorching your palm. the conversation is a jumble, words slurring together, both of you giggling as you lean in, knees knocking. he keeps sneaking glances at your mouth, breath hitching every time your hand brushes his thigh. his eyes wander, just as your hands start to, his gaze dropping intermittently to your mouth, staring openly, lips wet and bitten.
it only takes a few more touches—your knuckles brushing up the inside of his thigh, his fingers digging into your hip, the way his breath comes faster every time you lean in, and by the time you let your hand linger, you can feel everything in him straining toward you, so wound up he looks ready to beg. the alcohol has set your blood ablaze. you can’t help but smirk, leaning in close. you want him trembling, want him desperate, want to see how far you can push him before he falls apart.
he looks desperate for it—mouth open, eyes glazed, tongue darting out to wet his lips—but he can’t quite bring himself to close the distance. so you do it for him, mouth pressing to his, kiss messy, wet, and a little uncoordinated, all teeth and tongue and hunger.
when his lips finally crash into yours, it’s a collision—sloppy and hungry, your mouths sliding together in a mess of spit and heat. he moans into your mouth, needy and eager, tongue clumsy as it licks desperately at you, as if he’s trying to devour every bit of attention you’ll give him. you can taste the salt of sweat, the tang of cheap beer, the faint bitter edge of his breath—he’s so far gone, it’s almost pathetic, the way he chases your tongue, whining when he can’t keep up. his teeth knock against yours, and you feel the scrape, a sharp electric jolt that makes you shudder, breath mingling in the thick air between you. he melts beneath you, body going soft and heavy, but his hips keep grinding up, rolling in frantic little circles against your hand palming him through his jeans, desperate for friction, for anything you’ll give him. his hands fist in your shirt, knuckles white, trembling so hard you almost feel sorry for him—almost. every time you pull back for breath, he tries to chase your mouth, lips parted and spit-slick, eyes glazed with want while you coo at him in mock-sympathy between breaths.
his whine is muffled, pitched high with need, vibrating against your mouth and chest, so close you can feel it in your bones. his thighs fall open wider the more you touch him, as if he’s begging you to ruin him right there in front of everyone, his whole body arching up, hips stuttering and shaking. you press him down into the sagging couch, palm spread flat over his chest, feeling his heart pounding, hammering against you. he obeys instantly, yielding without shame, so pliant and desperate it’s almost obscene. it makes your pulse thunder in your ears—a dizzy, filthy rush that leaves you both gasping and clinging to each other, lost in the wet, pathetic, aching heat of it all.
around you, the party keeps spinning, lights flickering over blurred faces, but in your little bubble of heat and want, it’s only the two of you—lost, breathless, and feverish in the dark. you’ll probably regret it in the morning, but you’re not worried about that right now.
There's something extra hot about a sub who doesn't know how to get themself off. They've tried for hours and hours. They've tried every combination of toys, porn, imagination, various kinks, everything. They just need someone else.
I'm sure there are a billion very good ways to take advantage of this, but here's a few:
So much potential for endless teasing, edging and denial. Get them close—so goddamn close—to cumming, then stop and watch them as they helplessly, desperately touch themselves in vain, trying to get even a fraction as close as you did. Let them try and fail for minutes on end, before you reach out and send them skyrocketing back to the edge with a single brush of your finger on their crotch. Repeat every few minutes until either they cum from that single stroke, or until you get bored and tell them "better luck next week"
Simply incredible material for humiliation/teasing/bullying.
You're such a little slut that you can't cum when you're by yourself? Fucking pathetic. Someone like that doesn't even deserve to cum in the first place.
You've been touching for hours because you thought you could do it this time? Well that was stupid of you, of course you weren't able to. Look, I'll do it for you, but you're gonna have to beg for it. A lot.
Abandonment/neglect. I'm going on a trip for the next two weeks, ok? Spend at least two hours every day trying your absolute hardest to cum. I'm not going to have any cell service, so you're on your own.
Definitely add to this list if you have ideas, I'm very interested to see what other people can come up with 👀
All I want in life is the freedom for a little fantasy. To explore my desires with consensual partners, to LIVE a little in the limited time I have here on Earth. For a long time Tumblr was a great place for that. That started to change once they censored porn, and it's only gotten worse now that there are ACTUAL misogynistic pricks crawling all over the site like a termite infestation.
God damn it, do I have to say it again? WOMEN ARE NOT ACTUALLY INFERIOR. Jesus. Like, have some of you ever SPOKE to a real woman? They are fucking PEOPLE, stop othering them in your minds you weird, backwards people.
Some people just like having an escape. Fuck, the world is a mess so we ALL need our own escapes. Sometimes women like being fetishized because it feels GOOD when people are attracted to you in an obsessive way. Who DOESN'T want to be attractive? I work out 5 days a week to try and shape my body into something random people on the street will turn their heads at.
The point is, kink should be fantasy. It should be an escape. When these actual misogynistic pricks come into this space it makes it unhealthy and dangerous. It harms trust, which is the core of safe kink. We all just want to share our dirty thoughts with each other without it being taken the wrong way by creeps. That's it. If you haven't learned how to separate fantasy from reality you need to go touch grass right now.
thinking about tying a pup’s wrists to the headboard, having him sit on my face. sucking his tdick and each hole i can reach; languid and indulgent. eventually he’d reach the point that his arms are tired, whether it be from being aloft for so long or being tugged at. his thighs aching, if he was trying to hold himself up rather than putting his full weight down on me.
aw, you’re sensitive now? that’s too bad. i told you to sit down, didn’t i? not to give yourself work. you’ll have to relax if you don’t want it to hurt, let yourself down and press your tdick all the way into my mouth. no, no. no squirming away now, dear. i’m not done yet.
all overstimulated and shaking, i’d keep going until i was content with him. until his slick had run down my chin into the hollow of my throat, down my chest between my collarbones.
when puppy is finally untied, he has to clean up every drop with his tongue. i made you feel good, didn’t i? don’t leave me a mess.
ur top shoving their fingers down ur throat and asking you questions u can’t answer & cooing — “aww what is it? you can’t answer me? cus your mouth is too full?”
gummygunk
tangentwithtanner
turnnoffyourmind
gracieabrams
2087
izzy806
areudirty
