Hey babes, it’s Jules (she/they/slut) – back and thirstier than ever. My last blog got yeeted into the void, so here I am, rebuilding one horny reblog at a time.
This space is for the filth, the fun, the kinks, the chaos, and a little bit of me.
Expect:
💦 NSFW
🖤 Kink-friendly, body-positive content
🔞 18+ only – no minors, no exceptions
😈 A sprinkle of unhinged thirst
💌 DMs are CLOSED 🙅🏻
🧷 Check the tags, stay hydrated, and sin responsibly.
Let’s get slutty, shall we?
#NSFW #18+ #smut blog #kink friendly #porn vlog #new blog who dis #lgbtqia+
Sorting through my gallery today I came across the pictures I took when experimenting with wax and it brought up a thought.
Do I want to be the canvas? Or the Artist?
Do I want to be the one held totally still so that the artist has a perfect canvas? My body exposed for them so that every inch of the parchment is visible, each blank space available so that they can paint me how they want.
My eyes blindfolded because a canvas doesn't need to see what will be done to it.
My mouth gagged because a good canvas shouldn't make any noise that would distract the Artist.
My body restrained because a good canvas doesn't so anything that would disrupt the Artists work.
Fighting every human urge inside of me that screams out in reaction to the heat of the wax, the heat of the paint that the Artist decided to use leaving not only a physical but also a mental impression on me. Each drop of it reminding me of my purpose, reminding me of my role as a canvas for someone greater than me, reminding me how little choice I have to do anything else but be a good canvas.
The pain giving me purpose and meaning, the arousal that comes with it my reward as I'm just a canvas and a canvas shouldn't want for anything but to be used by it's Artist.
Or do I want to be the Artist?
Would I rather leave my canvas held infront of me, exposed for however long I wish while I inspect it. My hands tracing over their skin, understanding every curve, dip, rise and fall of their body so that I may know how I want to paint them. Feeling the canvas tremble in anticipation for what's to come, gently holding their hips still. The kindest reminder I could give them for this first mistake and the final one.
A good canvas should be still for the Artist or else it could ruin the picture and the paint my just reach some more....sensetive...areas.
Then comes picking out the paints. Choosing what best to create a work of art over the canvas.
Hearing it fight back the whimpers as my paint leaves it impression on its body.
One hand holding the candle while the other grips its hips, a good artist respects it's tools and reminds them of their place.
Would I be jealous of the shaking? Of your quivering as I continued to paint on you? Would the heat rising up in me ruin the picture I have planned for you and cause me to loose myself in a carnal desire to see how far you could take the heat? To see how good of a canvas you can be when the artist is mad with emotion and lost in the process of using you as their canvas just because they can?
i don't want someone scantily wrapped in ribbons under a christmas tree. no, that's such an overdone gift. i'd much rather handpick someone and bring them into my home to use as an offering for the winter solstice, undressing them in front of the hearth. telling them that if they're a good offering, i'll keep them and light a candle to drip on their shivering chest and thighs once a day for 12 days. assuring them they'll stay warm and safe if they keep my house and my cock even warmer. and all the while i'll adorn their skin with pretty white lace and hungry red bites...
