So, I saw the preview for this porn the other day. James Deen carrying out a really cute girl’s (his girlfriend in the video) fantasy to be abducted and tortured. It’s a fantasy I have, enacted by a man I adore.
Me gusta.
fantasy
Did I ever mention to you all that I’m really into fire swallowers? In a damn that’s amazing and a panties-soaking kind of way.
Well, I mentioned it now.
Would someone just…please?
Sometimes, I just want a girlpet all to myself to care for and play around with and be sweet to. And to be a little mean to sometimes, too.
I have this teensy tiny streak of dominant energy. I’m nowhere near considering myself a switch, but sometimes I just want to grab a fistful of some sweet pretty girl’s hair and have some fun for a little bit.
I think I’m entitled.
I own panties that look just like these.
Same color, same style, same scalloping.
Now, whenever I wear them, I’m going to be thinking of the content of this picture. Especially that hand and the intention behind it.
Oh, tumblr, you just ruin everything.
I’m almost ashamed to admit that I have a “taken advantage of by hicks” fantasy. Almost.
This. And every time I talk about sex with women/think about having sex with women/think about women, I feel like I am a thirteen-year-old boy. I like boobies way too much.
Every time I describe my sexual encounter with a girl, I feel like I am describing a thirteen-year-old boy’s porno fantasy.
It’s awkward.
Oh, Dacry, I need to stop telling you things when you have tumblr open. So, hush, or I’m not coming to your playdate. And you’ll be sad.
My girl Ivy tells me she wants a glass of wine and someone eating her out.
I’m willing to volunteer, on the condition that she goes to the liquor store and asks them what wine goes well with pussy.
She assures me this will make her wonderfully blushy. I’m all for it.
I want you to eat me like this. Clothes still on, middle of the day, long and slow. I don’t want to be crying out this time. Or bucking. Or cursing. I don’t want to be grabbing your hair and pulling you closer. I don’t want to make my need as obvious as I usually do.
I just want this. Slow. Gentle. Soft moaning. Hips lightly shaking. Eyes open. Lips parted.
For all the words I call myself, for all the wild fantasies I have, for all the times I grit my teeth and grind against you, sometimes I just need this. Sometimes this is all it takes.
(via sailingonthesea)
Some days, he hangs her up that way. Arms pulled taut, feet arched practically vertically, toes just grazing the cold floor. He’ll check the tightness of the ropes, pull out any give, tug the knots away from her prying fingers, and just go about his business on the other side of the room.
Perhaps he’ll appreciate her for a moment if he passes by, but he doesn’t touch her. He’ll chuckle to himself as she strains to lower the balls of her feet. He’ll smile at her moans, her grunts, her muffled pleas for attention. And when the room takes on the faint smell of her neediness, he’ll try his hardest not to add to her mortification by uttering a teasing comment or two in passing. He’ll try, but more than a few will slip out, raising the blush in her cheeks.
And, finally, when he has found the time to attend to her, he’ll pull her to him and take what’s his.