A self-insert RP side blog that's purely for filthy NSFW purposes. 18+ only. Mune: 32, Bi domme that's sometimes a switch for the right kink~ side blog (follows back from Raiomnibus).
Yes, I'm a nympho, and yes, I enjoy writing smut and reading it. Yes, I enjoy rping. No, I won't be your fantasy and will block you if you cannot respect the word "NO." If you try to call my husband a cuck or insinuate it, youâll get your feelings hurt. play with something safe darlinâ.
I don't tolerate trolling and my bark is just as dangerous as my bite, so please for your sake not mine let's be respectful unless you're into being degraded.
Green-light:
- Pegging/femmcock
- Cock warming
- Overstimulating
- Bondage (giving, unless we are close and you're given permission)
- Degradation (giving, unless we are close and youâre given permission)
- Praise
- Somno
- Cnc
- Body worshipping
- Asphyxiation/choking
- Slapping/smacking
- Corruption
- Holy worship
- Poly/orgies
- Bimbo/mindblank
- Furry/monster fucking/knotting
- Incext
- Teachers/student
Red-light:
-Scat (I can write piss play not my thing but eh if wanted but that's it.)
- Race play
- no romantic interactions unless youâre ludmith! Which means do not try to kiss my character. Sheâll curse you out or laugh at you.
Tags:
NSFW Rp= tags anyone can rp respond to. Unless stated otherwise.
Nsfw writing= my smut writing to either prompts, asks, or just because I'm in a mood.
Rai nsfw= pictutes, videos, writing, prompts, and rp ideas I jot down just because.
Audio erotica= all the noises everyone becomes curious if I make~
This is purely for entertainment purposes. This means whatever doesn't bring me either joy or an orgasm will be removed without care.
Example of what not to be like if you donât want to be blocked.
no, i'm not "reducing" you to a fucktoy. wording it like that implies you were ever anything other than a set of warm holes for your betters to use. you can't "reduce" a slut to what they always were âĄ
Be the object of beauty that he puts on display for the world. Be a reflection of his magnificence. Be the trophy that stands as testament to his victory. Be the prize that he has won and claimed. And above all, be HIS
Be the object of beauty that he puts on display for the world. Be a reflection of his magnificence. Be the trophy that stands as testament to his victory. Be the prize that he has won and claimed. And above all, be HIS
Here! A Small Magical plug that continuously grows your bust the longer its in! Of course, it ALSO grows just a bit more. The magic makes you perfectly stretchy, the MOST you get is mild inconvenience at weird angles.
But it all goes away when you take it out. And it's a LOT to put in, cause it's size never changes. You grow to a 6 inch toy and Z cups? Well. You'll get the Z cups back as soon as you put the plug back in!
Comes in a Dildo and Butt-Plug variant!
I slid the (now over-sized) butt plug back in, as my original 'Barely There' B-cup breasts surge forward and fill with excess silicone once more.
I'd worn it for almost three hours yesterday when it arrived, leaving it to swell to more than double its original size inside of me, "I still don't know how this thing even fit inside me the first time... or how I managed to get it back in again!" but (after it pumped my formerly petite chest with enough silicone to make dozens of data center chips) I was able to remove it, and cause my newly acquired L-cup(?) breasts to deflate back down...
But I couldn't stop thinking about them...
How big they looked in everything I owned...
How heavy they were, filled with obscene levels of silicone...
How smooth and almost doll-like they made my skin and body look...
"Another hour or two couldn't hurt... I'll j-just, pull it out again before it gets too much. I can totally control my own urges!"
When you made the well-intentioned and earnest wish of "I wish I had the ideal body for my girlfriend," you couldnât have know that you'd end up quite like this.
You knew your girlfriend had something of an 'appreciation' for women with larger busts â her IG feed was constantly filled with a cornucopia of 'breast foot forward' content creators â and assumed that youâd get some DDD-cups... maybe E-cups... maybe some smoother skin... presumably gain an inch or two in height... and that'd be that!
Not this...
"Oh no, sweetie! You look so flushed and so focused... are your milkers getting too full again?"
Instead, you have this...
A pair of breasts that store more milk than a cow's udders, and so over-sized and full that they make any shirt become all-but transparent as they stretch it out...
But more over, you have a fearsome level of milk production... and now... if you find yourself going more than twelve hours without at least some form of relief, or even a 'quick pump', the pressure inside them grows to painful degrees... and you watch them visibly swell, and stretch more and more until you're properly 'serviced'.
"Sorry guys, Tits over here needs some love. Give me a mo'?"
Nina's happy now, though...
She gets to have her 6' 6" tall R-cup ladened milky hucow toy... and she keeps talking about 'business opportunities' for her milk now, so at least you both don't have to worry about money any more.
Brain Stuff. Youâre hunched over your desk, the glow of your laptop screen casting shadows across your cluttered apartment. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, ready to type the next paragraph of your dissertation â something about neural plasticity in machine learning models. Itâs brilliant stuff, the kind of work thatâs gotten you whispers of âgeniusâ from your PhD advisors. Youâre in the zone, your brain firing on all cylinders, when the front door clicks open.
âHey, babe,â comes his voice, low and casual, like he doesnât know what it does to you. Your boyfriend steps inside, shedding his jacket. Heâs got that easy grin, the one that makes your stomach tighten. You glance up, meaning to say something sharp and witty, but heâs already peeling off his shirt, revealing the lean muscle underneath. Your mouth goes dry. The words you were about to type â something about synaptic pruning â slip away like sand through your fingers.
âMissed you today,â he says, crossing the room. Heâs close now, close enough that you can smell the faint spice of his cologne. Your pulse kicks up, and you try to focus on the screen. Youâre a goddamn scholar, you can handle this. But then he leans over your shoulder, his breath brushing your ear, and says, âWhatâs my smart girl working on?â
Your brain stutters. âUh⊠itâs, umâŠâ You squint at the screen, but the words lose their meaning. Neural what? Plasticity? Fuck, you know this. You wrote fifteen pages on it yesterday. His hand slides onto your shoulder, thumb brushing your neck, and your IQ takes a nosedive. âItâs⊠brain stuff,â you manage, voice small. You hate how stupid you sound, how you can feel your own brilliance leaking out of you as he closes the distance.
He chuckles, soft and loving, and that sound alone makes your thighs clench. âBrain stuff, huh? Tell me more.â His fingers dip lower, tracing the edge of your tank top, and you try â God, you try â to string a sentence together. âItâs about⊠how brains⊠change?â Your voice lilts up like a question, and you want to scream. Youâre not some ditzy undergrad; youâre a fucking PhD candidate. But his hands are on your chest now, cupping you through your shirt, and your thoughts scatter like dropped marbles.
âCâmon, babe,â he teases, turning your chair to face him. âYouâre usually so quick.â Heâs smirking, and you hate how much you love it. You open your mouth to snap back, to prove youâve still got it, but then heâs kissing you â hard, messy, all tongue and heat â and your mind goes blank. Not fuzzy, not slow, just empty. You kiss him back, hands fumbling to his waist, and all you can think is cock. One word, looping like a broken record.
He pulls you up, backing you toward the couch, and you trip over your own feet. Normally youâd curse yourself for being clumsy, but right now you just giggle â high pitched, brainless. âYouâre so hot,â you blurt, and itâs the most coherent thing youâve said in minutes. He grins, shoving his jeans down, and when you see himâ hard, thick, right there â your knees buckle. You drop to the cushions, staring up at him, mouth slack. You should be analyzing data right now, not drooling like some horny idiot.
âFuck, look at you,â he mutters, climbing over you. His hands yank your shorts off. Youâre already so wet. You try to focus, one last chance to claw back a shred of intellect. âWait, I â I need to finishââ you start, but then heâs pushing inside you, slow and deliberate, and the rest of the sentence evaporates. Your head lolls back, a moan spilling out instead. You feel him stretch you, fill you, and your brain shuts down completely. âOh⊠oh God,â you whimper, legs wrapping around him on instinct.
He starts moving, thrusting deep, and youâre gone. No more dissertation, no more research â just his cock, slamming into you, turning you into a panting, writhing mess. âTell me something smart,â he pants against your neck, mocking you now, and you want to, you need to, to prove youâre not this dumb slut heâs turning you into. âTh-the brain⊠it⊠f-fuck, it dââ You canât finish. Every thrust scrambles your thoughts more, until youâre babbling nonsense, hips bucking to meet him.
Youâre frustrated, somewhere deep down, because you know this isnât you. Youâve presented at conferences, dismantled arguments from tenured professors, but right now you canât even remember your own name. âPlease,â you gasp, not sure what youâre begging for â him to stop, or keep going, or something else entirely. He grabs your hips, angles himself deeper, and you stop caring. âSho⊠haaardâŠâ you slur, drooling over the syllables, âsho⊠deeeepâŠâ
He laughs, a low rumble. âThatâs my girl. Just let go.â And you do, you canât hold on anymore. He fucks you harder, faster, and youâre nothing but heat and need, whimpering every time he bottoms out. Your nails dig into his back, and youâre close â so close â then he groans, loud and guttural, and you feel his hot cum pour into every crevice. You climax alongside each other.
Itâs instant. The second his cum hits you, itâs like a switch flips. Your vision clears, your breathing steadies, and your brain kicks back into gear. Synaptic pruning. Neural plasticity. Machine learning models. You blink up at him, still slick with sweat, and push him off with a shaky hand. âRude,â you say, voice sharp again. He flops beside you, grinning, while you stagger to your desk, naked, his cum dripping down your thigh. You sit down, pull up your dissertation, and start typing like nothing happened â sentences crisp, ideas flowing.
âWelcome back, genius,â he calls, still sprawled on the couch, annoyingly smug. You donât even look at him, but your lips twitch. Just ignore him, youâre back, and youâve got work to finish. At least until he gets hard again.
