u/TinyMissIvyLeague

You never bought into therapy. What good was talking? But after a personal train wreck and the insistence of everyone around you, you finally gave in.

Looking back, you can't pinpoint when the line blurred. Was it the first session, when her hand "accidentally" brushed your knee, fingers pressing in with a possessive heat that branded you? Or the second, when she sat next to you on the leather couch and guided your hand up the silk of her thigh to the soaking heat between them, holding your gaze the entire time?

You remember exactly when it snapped, though. You were sputtering weak excuses while she climbed on top, unbuttoning her skirt. She sank down onto your cock, that wet, silken cunt swallowing you whole, milking you until your resistance melted away. She ground her hips down, riding you through the overstimulation, forcing you to pump her full of cum once, twice, three times in an hour, whispering soft encouragement into your ear as she did. She only let you crawl out the door once she was satiated, leaving you to pay the receptionist with the scent of her sex still lingering on your skin.

You know it's wrong. Maybe you have a partner. Maybe she's young enough to be your daughter. It doesn't matter. You keep showing up. You invent crises just to get back in that room. You are ready to ruin yourself for her approval, desperate to be used by the one person who claims she wants to heal you. The only one who can make the noises in your head go silent and melt your body into a puddle of pleasure.

Turns out, you love therapy.

The evening had been perfect—good wine, better conversation, and the lingering heat of three bodies pressed together in the booth. Now, back in the dim light of their living room, that simmering tension finally found the space to breathe. Lilly was no longer just a guest in their home, but their dessert. She lay bent over the leather cushions, her dress a ruined tangle around her waist, caught between their relentless rhythm as they took her from both ends. One gripping her hips with bruising force, driving into her from behind with guttural groans, while the other stood before her, fingers fisted in her hair as he buried himself deep down her throat. The room filled with the wet, sinful melody of skin against skin and her muffled whimpers, a visceral testament to the hunger they both felt for her.

This was the law of their domain: their rightful free use of their shared plaything and her absolute devotion. Once both had been satiated, the intensity would simmer into a lazy, possessive hum. Each of their bodies slick with sweat, while Lilly dutifully continued to fill her role. Gently nursing their half flaccid cocks back to full mast, her tireless tongue and lips begging for another drop of seed, while they lazily scrolled through channels on the TV. Even in their lulls, their lust was remained palpable. Both of them unable to remain seated for long. The ache to oblige her unending needs overcoming their own fatigue.

Wondering if this time they would finally be able to quench her lechery.

---

Lilly is the focus of both of their attentions. The center of their universe. They have no interest for each other, only her. A dynamic where she's both a blessing and a curse, unending indulgence and never-ending toil. Looking for either two partners or one to play both men. Come say hi! <3

You couldn't stay away for long. No matter how hard you try to bury yourself in the cold, blue light of endless spreadsheets, the looming deadlines, or the crushing gray fog of your daily life, your mind always drifts back to the heat between her legs. You try to resist, staring at your phone with your thumb hovering over the delete button, telling yourself that you need sleep, that she is too young, too dangerous. That you need a healthier outlet than this addiction.

But the pull is magnetic—a hot, twisting knot in your gut that you can’t unravel without her. You fight the urge for exactly thirty seconds before grabbing your keys, knowing full well that you are powerless against the slick, velvet vice of her comfort.

Could you blame yourself? She is a force of nature—young, insatiable, and starving for your tension. The moment you step through her threshold, the sharp edges of the world outside cease to exist. Every hesitation evaporates the moment you sink into the pillows, clothes discarded. As you try to articulate the frustrations of your day—the boss who wouldn't listen, the ideas that fell flat—she silences you not with words, but with wet, consuming worship.

You couldn't stop from coming over, and now you can’t stop the ragged groan tearing from your throat as she envelops you in the searing heat of her mouth. She listens to everything. Every worry, every concern, every half-formed thought is poured into the humid air while she works. She loves the heavy weight of you on her tongue, the salt of your skin. She takes her time, cleaning you with a devotion that borders on the religious, her lips gliding tight and her cheeks hollowing as she ensures not a single inch is missed. It is a carnal ritual she conducts on your body, a slow, rhythmic absolution that leaves you trembling.

But her hunger never ends there. She shifts lower, her breath a ghost of fire against your thighs. You can feel the moisture of her anticipation before she even touches you, eager to spread you open and rim you until your vision blurs white and every ounce of stress liquefies and runs out of you. Until she has milked you dry, your body a hollowed-out vessel in her hands. Until you can barely stand, stumbling out her front door into the cool night air, making empty vows to yourself that this was the last time. Until the next time.

——

Taking a break from homework as I'm feeling extra horny with burning oral fixation tonight. Both doms and subs looking for some gentle domming are welcome. But act quick as I'm looking to love bomb just one lucky guy or gal tonight. Come say hi!

You couldn't stay away for long. No matter how hard you try to bury yourself in the cold, blue light of endless spreadsheets, the looming deadlines, or the crushing gray fog of your daily life, your mind always drifts back to the heat between her legs. You try to resist, staring at your phone with your thumb hovering over the delete button, telling yourself that you need sleep, that she is too young, too dangerous. That you need a healthier outlet than this addiction.

But the pull is magnetic—a hot, twisting knot in your gut that you can’t unravel without her. You fight the urge for exactly thirty seconds before grabbing your keys, knowing full well that you are powerless against the slick, velvet vice of her comfort.

Could you blame yourself? She is a force of nature—young, insatiable, and starving for your tension. The moment you step through her threshold, the sharp edges of the world outside cease to exist. Every hesitation evaporates the moment you sink into the pillows, clothes discarded. As you try to articulate the frustrations of your day—the boss who wouldn't listen, the ideas that fell flat—she silences you not with words, but with wet, consuming worship.

You couldn't stop from coming over, and now you can’t stop the ragged groan tearing from your throat as she envelops you in the searing heat of her mouth. She listens to everything. Every worry, every concern, every half-formed thought is poured into the humid air while she works. She loves the heavy weight of you on her tongue, the salt of your skin. She takes her time, cleaning you with a devotion that borders on the religious, her lips gliding tight and her cheeks hollowing as she ensures not a single inch is missed. It is a carnal ritual she conducts on your body, a slow, rhythmic absolution that leaves you trembling.

But her hunger never ends there. She shifts lower, her breath a ghost of fire against your thighs. You can feel the moisture of her anticipation before she even touches you, eager to spread you open and rim you until your vision blurs white and every ounce of stress liquefies and runs out of you. Until she has milked you dry, your body a hollowed-out vessel in her hands. Until you can barely stand, stumbling out her front door into the cool night air, making empty vows to yourself that this was the last time. Until the next time.

——

Taking a break from homework as I'm feeling extra horny with burning oral fixation tonight. Both doms and subs looking for some gentle domming are welcome. But act quick as I'm looking to love bomb just one lucky guy or gal tonight. Come say hi!

Colonialism. We all know it was awful. Slavery. Subjugation. Suppression. The whole nine yards of the worst humanity could inflict upon one another carried out with brutal efficiency and terrifying creativity. Yet, there's something so tantalizing about it, isn't there?

The clash of civilizations, of beliefs, and of people. The oppression of the subject by the victor. Domination across every dimension, economic and political. The violation of entire nations and populations on a global scale. And in those periods of time, turmoil for the subjugated and triumph for the subjugator, there were the individuals. Human beings whose relationships were defined by the relationship of their respective nations.

It's those very human relationships, the microcosms of colonialism and statecraft, that I'd like to explore. The British academic on his first trip to Hong Kong and the Chinese courtesan he haphazardly falls for. The Cherokee maiden taken from home to be re-educated as a good Christian woman and the French missionary who oversees her. The Dutch explorer in the depths of the Congo and the Baka guide hired to navigate his expedition through the green hell.

Of course, the reversal of power structures in a colonial setting are also incredibly delectable. The colonizer becoming, in a dash of delightful irony, the colonized. Or, better yet, a setting outside the era of European colonization. The Mongol officer at the gates of another city in his path and the Slavic farm girl offered up as tribute. The British magistrate's daughter kept safe from the local riffraff on her father's estate and the Nigerian tutor by her side for nearly every waking hour. The French poet seeking inspiration in Saint-Domingue only to be caught unaware by the Haitian slave revolt.

I'd like to explore these kinds of relationships. These kinds of characters, plots, and settings. Colonialism as an environment with the themes of contrasts coloring our story. The contrast in skin tones, cultures, and power. Size gaps, age gaps, and so much more. Relationships defined by exploitation, manipulation, and domination. Or even passion and romance in the face of such overwhelming odds. But this is, after all, a theme. If anything mentioned above caught your interest, I'd love for you to come say hello. We can brainstorm specifics, iron out kinks, or just chat about the post itself.

A position so primal it bypasses thought entirely. The instinct to mount. To grip. To bury yourself balls-deep and lose yourself in the heat.

But the sensation is exquisite, isn't it? What is it about taking me from behind that makes your cock throb like nothing else?

Is it the view? The way my spine arches into a deep, desperate curve, presenting my dripping wet cunt to you like an offering? The sight of my tight little asshole winking in anticipation as you spread my cheeks open? When you grab a fistful of my hair and pull, forcing my head back so you can hear every ragged moan, every filthy plea falling from my lips while you piston in and out of me?

Is it the crushing weight of pronebone? Pinning me face-down into the mattress, your chest heavy against my back, trapping me completely. Feeling my walls flutter and clench around your thickness as you grind into me, the friction so intense it borders on pain. You’re in so deep, hitting that spot that makes my eyes roll back, my juices soaking the sheets beneath us as I struggle to take every inch.

Or better yet, is it the sheer debauchery of using me like a fleshlight? Reducing me to nothing but a warm, slick hole to milk your cock. You don't need to make love to me; you just need to fuck me. Use me. The rough slap of your hips against my ass filling the room, the wet, sloppy sounds of my pussy being stretched to its limit. I don't need to touch myself to cum; I just need to feel you rutting into me, using my body for your own selfish pleasure, until I’m screaming and trembling, cumming all over your shaft just from the privilege of being your personal cumdump.

Whatever it might be, I want you to tell me exactly what you’re thinking about right now. I want to know if you’re hard. I want to know which position makes you want to ruin me. Don't leave me aching and waiting—come say hi.