She’s not completely sure why he makes her so bashful, but she kind of likes that.
january 2011 – me
©2011 adam moon
lips
Dear Followers,
I seem to have picked up quite a few of you lately. Welcome aboard. I haven’t gotten around to saying hello to all of you because I’m still working abroad, but this lack of communication could be broken.
I’m currently lounging around, waiting for the call to go get drinks with my coworkers. I’d like to get to know you in the meantime. Drop me an ask and say hi. Tell me something about yourself. Tell me something about your day. Tell me something.
So, followers old and new, keep me amused. (No, it doesn’t need to be under the sex or violence category. The whatever works well enough for me). Don’t be shy.
<3, Ivy
Pictures like this make me hate myself for disliking honey. Seriously.
How sexy is this? A ton. And how much can I do in this situation? Not much. I’d try to lean in and lick it off and I’d probably just wind up making a face and doing that little clicky-tongue thing people do when they can’t handle how sweet something is.
But, ugh, those breasts, those lips, the imagery of the honey all over her like that. It’s almost too much to handle.
We’ll just pretend it’s maple syrup. On vanilla skin.
This tends to be how I remember my more drawn-out forays into really intense sessions. Everything comes in flashes. Moving snapshots. Fade in. Fade out. Fade in. Fade out. Often it’s out of order. Often it’s incoherent. When I try to go over it and move things around, I can’t always quite pinpoint the order.
But what remains is the effect. And while the memory comes fractured, the feelings are fluid. And that’s really all that counts, isn’t it?
I think I would get this way, too, if I were in the position of having to dominate someone. The role would feel so foreign to me that I might overdo it to the point of being theatrical.
Confession: I sent a certain tumblr girlfriend of mine a photograph of myself of a certain variety. And I’m still kind of giggly over it. This may be the start of some sort of exhibitionism kick. Maybe.
How you can expect me to dress when I come to work for you, Dacry darling.
I want you to take me right after I’ve gotten out of the shower. I want you to tear the towel from my body, grab a fistful of my wet hair, and throw me onto the bed.
I’ll put up a fight. I’ll pout. I’ll try to explain that I just got clean. Yet I’ll just watch the puddles soak into the sheets from my dripping hair. I’ll moan and bite my lip as my protests become stifled by my growing desire. I’ll squirm and whimper and give myself over to it.
Of course, that doesn’t mean I won’t get just as pouty when you tell me to clean myself back up afterwards.
Dear Dacry,
When you play these games with me, you remind me why I tumblr-love you.
<3, Ivy
PS: I clicked the tag with my name and had a giggle.
PPS: Regarding this brat, I would never wear black lipstick. Hmph.
Hold very still. Don’t let the knife drop. If that knife moves even an inch… Well, I think I’ll just cut an inch for every inch the knife falls. How does that sound?