Gina, 32, she/her, extremely crazily insanely multifandom blog who falls in love with pretty faces far too easily, stays up way past when she should, loves cute things, cats, video games, and other nerdy things.
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Being parted from your husband is never easy, for you or for him. You always crave to keep a piece of him with you, and he craves a piece of you. It’s only fitting you send him off with a gift. (1k+ words)
Ormund Hightower x wife!reader
Content: MDI, 18+, pantie sniffing, male masturbation. Aka Ormund jerking off to his wife sending him used unwashed underwear. Smut. Scent kink. This is pure filth. Brief mentions of pregnancy. Ormund is his own warning. I am gross and perverted. Don’t know what came over me but this idea has been in my head since the second he sniffed that vile and somehow pantie sniffing has now turned me into a rapid animal. Not proofread.
“I miss the sweet taste of your nectar. I miss the smell off your cunt after you peak. The smell of your sweet cunt in the morning when I wake you with my tongue. The taste of you after a day in the hot sun of the reach where I have forbidden you to wash and the musk of your cunt overwhelms my senses. The taste and scent of you when I drop to my knees and bury myself between the soft plush of your thighs. I miss you my sweet wife, I miss your face, your voice and most of all your sweet scent.”
Ormund was never a sentimental man, never did he care for the idea of carrying objects meant to symbolise meaning or memory of a loved one. That was until he took you to wife, and suddenly the idea of keeping something to remind him of you filled him with complete and utter lust. And he supposed love but the mere thought of you made his blood pump and his cock grow hard.
You rarely parted from one another but when you did Ormund made sure to leave a part of him with you, whether a babe in your belly or some extravagant gift that had the envy of all the ladies of your court. And you always made sure to give your husband ample gifts in return. Weather a miniature of your naked form. Letters full of each and every thing you desired to do to him and he to you upon his return in excruciating detail. And he loved each gift you gave him, but his favourite kind was when you gifted him your small clothes.
The first time he had asked you had been hesitant. Not over the action of sending your small clothes, no Ormund often stole yours, whenever he would drop to his knees and burying himself under your skirts to lap at your cunt, your panties always ended up in the pockets of his doublet, where he would reach for them as the day went on sniffing them when the stresses of the day got to him.
But the idea of sending them, of them being intercepted or the men of the camp seeing your panties in your husbands hand as he sniffed them? That had made you hesitant. But ormund already kept a vile of your perfume to sniff when he felt like it, panties where not much different. At least that’s what he reassured.
So you had sent them, and he had sent them back you ruined and covered in his cum. The fabric torn from the endless rutting of his cock against the delicate fabric.
He had done that after three days apart. And now with this godsforksane war he had been parted from you for three moons. Three moons of lust filled letters, three moons of you depicting the most sinful of words on paper that would no doubt get your both exiled from old town and excommunicated from worshiping of the seven. Three moons before Ormund snapped and his requests grew into pure filith.
Panties where before you would wear them for perhaps an hour before rolling them in your letter to him and sending it away. Now ormund grew depraved in his requests.
Asking you not to bath for days, wearing the same pair of underwear each day before sending it to him. Begging you to touch yourself and coat your panties in your silk before gifting them to him. And you complied, even when your maids whispered about your lack of hygiene and the growing amount of underwear missing in your draws.
You cared not, not when your husband would detail exactly what your underwear was used for.
My dear wife,
I must thank you for the small clothes you gift me, for the it has allowed me to dream once more of you and to know what the musk of your cunt smells like.
The sweet aroma of your cunt fills me with undying lust my sweet wife. Dreams of you riding my face fill my slumber, as I lick and feast upon the delicious aroma of your small clothes. My hand fisting my cock as I imagine you riding my face with recklass abandon, my tounge fucking your cunt with a passion no man has ever known. I cum each night with your panties wrapped around my cock, wishing it was your cunt, wishing I was fucking into you and not the mattress if my tent. Each night when I sniff your panties, the husk of your cunt lingering even days after their arrival, each night I feast upon them with more hunger than a starved man.
I crave you and your cunt, I crave to sleep by your side, where my cock can rest and soften within your warmth. To fill you with my cock every moment of every day. I wish for you to ride my cock as I work through the endless paperwork that no doubt awaits me upon my return. I wish to stuff your mouth with my cock and fuck your full of my cum. I wish for you to ride my cock with your small clothes stuffed into my mouth, were all I can feel and taste is you.
I need you my sweet wife, I crave the very air your breath. I crave your cunt, your taste I crave you. Fucking my fist each night hardly compares to the warmth of your cunt. To the feel of your lips in my mouth, and your small clothes hardly replace the want that pumps from my heart down to my cock.
I write this with love and leave you the knowledge that I fuck my fist with your newest panties wrapped around my cock as I write this, staining them with my cum.
Though my love, my sweet wife, this shall be the last pair of panties you should need to send to me, the last time I wait days to smell the aroma of your cunt, to know that you wear the very panties I will demand to smell and taste upon my arrival.
my friend competed in a Survivor knock-off reality tv contest on a tropical island, and he did exactly this. While everyone was scheming and forming cliques and voting strategically to get rid of the others, he just floated in the sea for weeks.
Weeks into the show they had to like, reintroduce him in the editing because he had just been absent from the show till then; "remember this guy? he's also still here". They started with 60 people or something, and he made it to the final 6, where he lost a balancing game.
It was very funny to watch the crappy show just to see my friend, because most episodes he just didnt feature at all. He didn't stress about winning the big prize or anything, he just treated it as a vacation where he got to chill out for two months and get paid for it. A real icon.
Some people are complaining that it doesn't make sense that Ormund Hightower doesn't have chest hair, but we're talking about a man who likes cleanliness. If he found a way to dye a kid's hair Targaryen platinum blonde, he was going to find a way to fully wax himself.
I know Ormund would be running a beauty salon like it's the Navy
