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#in the secular night
autumnhobbit · 2 months
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continually weirded out hearing normies talk about/acknowledge lent
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secular-jew · 4 months
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This is 8 years old, but rings especially true today. This was a time when Saturday Night Live (SNL) was still comedic and relevant.
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redshift-13 · 8 months
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back to see dad
chalky blue sky dimming stereo crickets clothes dryer smell in street hide and seek moon no fireflies at that micro marsh (and a small horror that no one else might have noticed)
The town used to have lower light pollution and as a result the night sky still had a plentiful scattering of needle tip lights.  Satellites were easy to spot.  Binoculars could open up deeper vistas.
But the more real estate development, the more the sky washes out like a movie screen with the house lights on.  Upward facing architectural lights are a main culprit.  “Look at my tiny little castle!” they seem to say.  Meanwhile, utterly ignored, is perhaps nature’s greatest profundity above, free for the looking most nights.
The closer to black is the infinite vault, the more it invites primordial human imagination and fervent pleas to the beyond.  Even though I reject god belief, I can appreciate how this ultimate source of light and dark, its anthropic boundlessness, its unimaginable greater than, provokes the hunch that behind it all lies an organizing intelligence.  (But one that created childhood cancer.  God is on the grassy knoll taking shots at us.)
But here down below there’s another form of intelligence that only organizes for its immediate self-interest.
Below is a glimpse of the newish subdivision.  It replaces a dormant farmer’s field that was there, I assume, for decades.  And before that it was field, native plants and trees and the territory of native Americans.
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I used to do photography semi-professionally but hell knows I can’t get a good nighttime shot with the iPhone.  Nevertheless, I love this impressionistic shot with its soft boundaries, horizon glow and color gradient.  The homes here are abstracted into unreality, but this just pulls it into a relief that’s closer to the truth.
What I don’t love is the external manifestation, the built environment, that’s reflective of the real estate developer’s inner mental poverty - tidy, in thrall to the aesthetic and functional sameness of commercial imperatives, almost every decision instrumental to profit, the mentality another life muffled under the white noise din of money, little imagination of who we are or might be, how the world could be different, or what we’re doing to the earth.
There’s a forest trail one block from my dad’s house but I rarely see anyone else on it.
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Don’t step on the daddy long legs.  They’re all over the trails.
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Sweat covered, I can see for miles and miles.
Off to find some lunch.
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A man of voluptuary appetites, I like ginger.
My dad recently dug up homestead deeds to property that had been in the family for generations.  One was dated 1843, the other 1845(?), and both were signed by then president John Tyler.  
Even though it’s a simple truism that many of us are descendants of European colonizers, it had never felt as personal to me to know that as when my dad discovered those documents - proof of familial settler history.  No other records survive of what these distant relatives might have done to secure “their” land.
Deceased relatives on both sides of my family were heavily involved with politics.  I have yet to research details of this, but my dad informs me that one such relative was selected to run for governor in Wisconsin the latter half of the 1800s.  He reportedly died of a heart attack before the campaign.
An after dinner walk inevitably places you in the glare of these church signs.  Church may be out, but the churched insist on advertising with the brightest source of light pollution in the surrounding neighborhoods.
Philosophically I only recognize the cathedrals of the night sky and the forest, and these signs obstruct my appreciation and contemplation.
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Statements like this strike me as cultish and have a whiff of fanaticism. There’s no good scientific reason to think that we survive death somehow.  And I don’t think we’re approaching scientism to say so.  While consciousness might still be a black box, depending on one’s theoretical orientation, there’s still the stubborn connection between mind and brain structure and function.  If you drink a bottle of wine, how is it that it can have a profound effect on your subjective awareness?  Why do the brain plaques of Alzheimer’s cause you to lose memory if it’s the case that consciousness is not dependent on the brain?
Still, if we’re intellectually humble we should at least keep the door open to the possibility that we personally survive death.  I just wish that a bit more humility obtained among the faithful relative to this and other basic questions.
After years of what I thought was a permanent disappearance, frogs have returned to the small pool next to the culvert in front of my dad’s house.  I got too close to it once and heard a plop as a frog jumped for safety into the water.
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goldkirk · 1 year
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sourkitsch · 11 months
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I was gonna have my thesis be about kitsch vs. yiddishkeit and the lack of Jews in the Grand European Painting Tradition (lots of laws about it very interesting very sad it’s like Isidor Kauffman and that’s it. Also there’s only been one book published about Kauffman’s work EVER and it’s in German so I cannot read it) which is the specific type of painting I’m trying to pursue & it was gonna be a series of still lives in the vanitas tradition so it’s all stuff I’ve been thinking about for years honestly but im SO afraid that im like. Not Jewish Enough to take on the project :(
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jewishquarians · 1 year
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It's not my first Xmas season knowing that I want to convert, but it is my first as an out and proud conversion student and I anticipate it being... interesting
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tinyshe · 2 years
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Started reading ‘Saint Padre Pio, Man of Hope’ by Renzo Allegri.[updated & expanded version]
It arrived just in time to start on St Pio’s  birthday (May 25)
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altaruwusmolboiz · 3 months
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Happy holidays from the Altar Boyz!
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lovinglyeternal · 5 months
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Loathe love Glen he’s great but I am only aesthetically attracted to him but hey he’s hot I can tell he is hot
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incognitopolls · 3 months
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We ask your questions so you don’t have to! Submit your questions to have them posted anonymously as polls.
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a-very-tired-jew · 30 days
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Sad Realization and Confirmation - we're in hiding
I was coming home from work last night and had the realization that I had not seen any of the Chabad students walking across campus as I normally do until that moment. The student was not even dressed in the regular attire of a Chabad member, but in "normal" clothing. Their yamulke had been replaced by a baseball hat and they were wearing a Hawaiian shirt and jeans. Gone was the white button down and black slacks, let alone the tallit being worn underneath. It then hit me that I hadn't seen any of them since about late October / early November and that they likely had all switched to wearing less obviously Jew identifying clothing. I am a secular Jew that grew up in the Reconstructionist movement. While I don't wear anything that makes me stand out as a Jew, nor do I have much of my identity wrapped around clothing associated with my ethnicity, I do get recognized as one for my phenotypic expression. For the Chabad students the clothing is part of who they are. They are hiding it now because it's simply not safe. The fact that this echoes what I have seen across the internet about Jews hiding to be safe hit me like a ton of bricks. This isn't something we should have to do in 2024, but here we are. I went to the FB page of our local group as well and noticed that the attire had even changed in the safety of their own facility. So yeah...that's what we've come to. Jewish students who can't be outwardly Jewish because anti-Zionism is just a dogwhistle to go after us. It does not matter if you are not going after Jews, there is such a significant amount of threatening rhetoric that we as a people are going back to our old survival methods.
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wontontrap · 3 months
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✿ 18+
✿ part I of Eddie with religious virgin!reader
✿ part II will be based on this post
✿ cannon Eddie speak in this, he's very sassy
✿ reader is innocent but not naive
✿ summary: reader looks to Eddie's inventory to help her pass exams and a seemingly innocuous action by Eddie drives her into his arms
✿ content warnings: fem reader, drug use, swearing, fingering, oral (f receiving), handjob, sheltered religious!reader, virgin!reader, experienced Eddie, slightly mean!Eddie in the beginning, poking fun at reader
✿ dividers by the 🐐 @firefly-graphics
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You pace the woods nervously. He had replied "3:30" to the note you passed him in study hall. Each passing minute made you more nervous and all you needed was the help of a tiny white pill to pass your exams. You'd taken it before as a child. Your father always said you were "rambunctious and unlearned" the first years of your life, but he made you stop taking it when you hit puberty. "Drugs like that make people your age want to sin with the opposite sex," he had told you.
You never needed medication as a child, you were just too much for your mother. She hated the way you used to ruin your white dresses with mud. You hated dolls. You hated ballet. She let the doctors drug you saying, "She just won't behave!" But, now you did need the meds. You were teetering on the edge of passing chemistry, and you refused to repeat another grade. Suddenly, you heard a rustle in the bushes.
Eddie walked through the brush, swatting at something in the air near his head, metal lunch pail rattling in his hand.
"Hey," he said.
"Hi," you squeaked.
He sat down at the old picnic table in the clearing and popped open the box. You lingered nearby, standing stick straight and holding a heavy textbook close your chest.
"You sure you want the uppers?" he asked, squinting at a handful of orange pill containers with badly handwritten labels.
"Yes," you said. "I need to pass exams."
"Yeah," he says, looking up at you now. "I thought I was a loser, but a 19 year old junior? That's some feat of failure."
"My father doesn't believe in secular education," you blurt out, and he looks at you confused. "He says our true education comes from God, but the truant officers disagree."
"That's stupid," he blatantly says. "Why didn't they just make you do school at home like a Mormon or something?"
You can't help but giggle and you see a smirk threaten to appear on Eddie's face. "Every night I have Bible study with my parents until it's time to go to bed," you divulge. "I've never even opened this, so I have a lot of catching up to do."
"You're planning on reading a 2,000 page textbook in the three hours before 4th period chemistry?"
"Only the important parts," you say, hugging the book close to your chest. You smile at him so the corners of your eyes crease a bit.
He smiles back at you. "You're cute," he says. He tosses the bottle of pills at you and you fumble the heavy textbook while trying to catch it. It thuds to the ground as you scramble for the pill bottle. He's staring at you intently, the threat of the smirk finally carried out on his face. You recover from your cartoonish antics and notice him looking at you.
"What?" you ask, patting yourself down. "Is there something on me?"
You wore a peasant dress and heavy cardigan, sleeves well past your small hands. Your white sneakers were scuffed and the scalloped lace of your old socks was torn.
"It's nothing," he says, afterwards clearing his throat. "That'll be $40."
"$40?" you ask, bewildered. "I only brought $25, everyone I asked said it'd be $25!"
"That's for weed, honey, these are real prescription pills. Worth more because they're harder to acquire. I can't grow Ritalin in my tool shed, now can I?" he explains.
"I'd have to go home and get more," you say, scratching the back of your head.
"You've been quite the character, to say the least, but I don't have that kinda time." He starts to get up from the table and you rush over to stop him with hands on his chest.
"Can I pay you in the morning? Please? I'm only taking just the one and I'll pay you $40 at first bell. I promise!" you plead. The bottle of pills sits on the table where you'd just set it, mocking you.
He looks down at your hands splayed across his chest and then back to you. You remove them, backing away from his personal space with flushed cheeks. You're standing there in your oversized sweater, your long sleeves almost kissing the ground at your sides, pouting like a petulant child. He steps slowly over the picnic bench and takes three large strides towards you. He reaches for your chest and your breath hitches as he delicately picks up your small golden cross necklace. The action puts him only inches from your face as he inspects it. It fell just at your cleavage and you caught him looking at you in that way. You felt warm behind your ears and may have made a run for it had he not spoken.
"Is this real?" he asks.
"I-I think so," you stammer.
"You can have your pills, and I'll take $40 first thing tomorrow morning," he agrees. Not long after he finished speaking did he yank the golden cross from around your neck. You jumped slightly, feeling excitement. He held it up to your face, his own still inches from yours, "But, I'm taking this as collateral."
"W-what's that?" you asked.
"Collateral? It means you give me something valuable to hold onto until I get paid. Something you want back so I know you'll bring my money," he explains.
"Okay," you say, touching the spot where it once laid on your chest as you watched him pack up. As he walked by, he slipped the pill bottle into the pocket of your sweater.
"You have nice tits, by the way." he says.
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You walk through your front door, the bottle now safely squirreled away inside your school bag. You kick off your shoes onto the designated rug and quietly walk upstairs to your room. You set your bag in your closet before pulling out an old shoe box from the top shelf. Inside you find about $30, a tube of "Ravishing Red" lipstick stolen from the drugstore down the street, and tampons. You take the money and place it inside your bag, wrapping it around the pill bottle. Just as you're closing the closet doors, you hear your bedroom door creak open.
"Sweetheart?" you hear your father's voice. "Are you decent?"
"Yes, daddy!" you say.
He opens the door with a smile. "Your mother has dinner ready and we're expecting you for your studies afterwards."
"Of course, daddy." you say, wringing your hands under your sleeves.
"Babydoll, what happened to your necklace?" he asks.
"What?" you feign surprise, touching that spot once again. "No! It must've fallen off at school!"
"That's okay, honey. Wherever it winds up is where it's supposed to be. God works in mysterious ways," he says. "Someone must've needed it more than you."
You tuck yourself into bed that night replaying in your mind the moment he'd ripped your necklace from you. It had made you feel primal, the only word that came to mind when you searched for ways to describe the feeling. Eddie was handsome and charming. You heard the way some of the other girls talked about him, the things he'd done to them. You wondered what it would feel like if it were you instead of them, a certain feeling spreading inside you. You'd felt this feeling once before. You'd awoken from an unseen face doing obscene things to you in a dream. The only way to alleviate the feeling was to touch yourself. You'd rubbed yourself raw, fervently trying to soothe the ache in you. You'd touched a part of you that night you hadn't known existed, and every time you grazed it, it sent a shiver through you. You reached for yourself again tonight, thinking of Eddie Munson and all the sins you would allow him to commit upon you. Through your ministrations, you fell asleep with your hand between your legs, never reaching true release.
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The entire morning was a blur. Eddie was right to have made fun of you. You only read about 200 pages, a slim number of which were actually on the test. You felt you did well but you'd been in such a hurry to accomplish your task that you'd forgotten to meet Eddie in the parking lot when you'd first gotten to school. He passed you in the hall around 6th period, a stern look on his face. "Four o'clock," he'd muttered.
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You lie on the picnic table, legs dangling off either side as you stared at the grey and cloudy sky. Your hands were clasped at your chest, feeling your heart still somewhat fluttering like a humming bird. You heard the leaves rustle and you sat up, smoothing your dress. Today you wore a knee length, sleeveless chiffon with ruffles and the same sweater as always. Slouched socks and dirty white high tops. Your hair fell in messy waves, unkempt. Usually your hair would be up in a tight bun, but today it only gave you a headache. He emerged from the brush and looked at you, almost stunned.
"I'm sorry," you meekly say.
"Was it worth it?" he asks, still staring.
"200," you say, "I only made it to 200, but I think I passed."
He chuckles, reaching under his collar to reveal he'd been wearing your small cross necklace. He started to unclasp it as you stayed sat on the table, legs crossed. He held it up to you and it glinted despite the clouds.
"I fixed it," he said, "I, uh, kinda broke it when I took it from you yesterday."
"I had this weird feeling when you did that," you boldly confess.
"And what was that?" he questions. He's behind you now, ready to return your necklace to its original place.
"I don't know," you answer. "It was like warm excitement."
He clasps the necklace then, dragging the cross along the chain so it laid perfectly between your breasts. As he pulls his hands away, one brushes your shoulder.
"Like that," you say. "It happened again."
"It's probably the drugs," he says, almost shyly. "Sometimes those things can give you hot flashes and shit."
"It's not the drugs," you confidently tell him. "I wasn't on anything yesterday. And I'm not hot on the outside. It's like I'm hot on the inside, you know?"
"Oh," he says, hungrily looking at your open pout, "I know."
"Well," you say, reaching into your bra for the money you brought him, "Here's the rest of it." He takes it, giggling like a child.
"What?" you ask him, laughing now yourself.
"That was pretty wild," he answers.
"What do you mean?" you question.
"A good little Christian girl reaches into the best rack I've ever seen and comes back up with drug money for me?" he says. "That's what's pretty wild."
"I'm wild? You're wild, Eddie Munson!" you tell him, playfully hitting him in the chest. He laughs, grabbing both your wrists as you continue to hit him in jest.
"I am a good girl," you tell him. He pauses for a moment, staring at your eyes, then lips.
"Then why do you look at me like that?" he asks.
"Like what?" you question.
"God," he's says. "The viridity. Such effortless innocence. Your yearning is contagious."
His mouth is inches away from yours. He smells faintly of cigarettes, a smell you never enjoyed until this very moment. Your lip trembles as you're in his tight grasp. That warm excitement fills you again as your heart threatens to escape your chest as you think of last night.
"I don't know what any of those words meant, but I think I want to kiss you." you confess.
"Fuck," he whispers against your open mouth. Dropping your hands, he cradles your cheek in his palm. His other arm is wrapped around your waist as you sit on the edge of the picnic table, your chest heaving with shaky breath. Instinctively, you wrap your legs around him, pulling yourself closer to him.
"Can I actually kiss you?" he asks.
"Would you, please?" you beg.
He leans into you slowly and his lips meld with yours in your first kiss; soft and warm. You're surprised when his tongue slips into your mouth but your body takes over for you again and soon you're exploring his mouth in the same way he did yours. He was gentle with you, rubbing your cheek with his thumb and tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His hand eventually creeped up your waist to your chest and he gently squeezed your breast between a large hand, a ringed finger caressing your peaked nipple. Soon, you began to feel a sticky wetness forming between your legs.
"Eddie," you whimpered. "I'm- I'm wet."
He pulled away from you, lips pink and puffy with pupils blown. "Shit, sweetheart." he whispered. "We should stop."
"No, Eddie." you whine. "Please," you beg. "Please, touch me." You grab his hand, moving it between your legs. "It aches."
Eddie stilled his hand under your dress, grabbing your thigh. "I don't think this is a good idea. I think you still have the jitters."
"Please," you whispered, as you let your sweater fall from your shoulders. You brought your hands up to the straps of your dress, pulling them aside with those of your thin cotton bra, and yanking the bodice down to reveal your bare chest to him.
"I'm fine," you reassure him, taking his free hand and bringing it up to grasp your exposed breast.
"Oh my fucking god," he says, allowing his other hand to slowly trail along your soft thigh and to your soaked center.
"When you swear, it makes me throb inside." you confess.
"Does it?" he asks, finally touching you through the wet fabric of your panties. Your hips lift of their own accord. You start shivering, huffing breaths as he gently touches you. "Virgins always get so fucking soaked. Am I the only man who's ever touched this sweet pussy?" He dips his hand under the fabric of your panties, running his fingers over your wet slit. You would have fallen over had he not let go of your breast to catch you by the waist. He bowed his head, covering your nipple with his hot mouth.
"Oh my god," you said. A silent scream escaping you as you fisted his curls. Your legs spread themselves further, heels on the edge of the picnic table, as he continued to play with your most private parts. He swirled his tongue around your nipple and you felt a dizzying feeling come on. While he had you distracted he slowly inserted a ringed finger into you, the cool metal stopping to rest on that one sensitive nerve. You gasped abruptly, letting out a whine that bled into a deep moan as he moved his finger slowly in and out of you. He released your nipple and made eye contact with you. His dark eyes were endearing, and he looked at you with unabashed hunger.
"Such a sweet girl with an even sweeter pussy," he whispered.
You moaned again at his words. He felt free to say any of the filthy praises that came to his mind, and you enjoyed it. When he added a second finger to you, you spread your legs as far as you could manage, your dress bunching at your waist. You finally saw him plunged inside of you, wetness coating your thighs and his hand. He began to move his fingers in and out of you faster and with his second hand began playing with the small nub of a nerve. Your face began to get hot and your ears rang as you screwed your eyes shut. You felt a strange sensation and reached for his hand.
"Eddie, stop!" you say, and he does.
"What's wrong?" he asks. "Did I hurt you?"
"No, but I think I have to pee." you say, shamefully. Your cheeks would flush if they weren't already.
Eddie laughs. "Sweetheart, you were about to cum."
"What?" you ask, still embarrassed
"You were probably about to have an orgasm. Some girls say it makes them feel like they have to take a piss," he explains.
"Oh," you say, hiding your face behind your hands.
"Hey, hey, hey," he coos. "Look at me," he says. You remove your hands and look at him, his gentle dominance overtaking any embarrassment you still had. "I know a gentler way to make you cum," he says. "I need to make you cum."
"Lie back," he told you, as he pressed you down on the table with a flat palm to your chest. Your necklace fell to the side, draping itself over your shoulder as you lie there still exposed to him.
He hooked his thumb into your panties, dragging them to the side between his hand and your thigh before clasping his other hand in yours and resting it firmly on your hips. You wondered why he would put you in this position, and your silent question was answered when he dragged his hot tongue along your slit. You tried to lift your hips but couldn't, your free hand reaching down to tangle into his thick hair again. He circled your weeping hole, darting his tongue in and out as it tried to close around it. He drank your nectar, feasting on you like some beast. His soft lips kissed your sensitive nerve, wrapping around it to suck and swirl his tongue. Your breathing changed in that way again and you felt that peculiar feeling.
"Let it happen," he said, hot breath fanning over you.
Relaxing fully for only an instant, something inside you burst and you felt a warmth spread inside you. You felt a small gush of more wetness as your legs began to tingle. You saw spots in your vision as you rolled your hips against Eddie's open mouth. He drank his fill of you, until your breathing slowed and you properly came down from your first orgasm. His hand was moving below his waist, and he stood up revealing his hard cock in his hand. You gasped softly, eyeing it and him.
"It's so big," you innocently say.
"I'd like to think so," he jokes.
"Can I touch it?" you ask.
"You don't have to," he says. "You can just watch me if you want."
"Let me touch you," you say. "I want to."
He inches towards you, guiding your hand to him. You wrap your fingers around him in the way his own were, and he sighs.
"Move your hand up and down," he instructs you. "You can squeeze just a little. Twist your wrist sometimes and focus on the tip."
You do as he tells you, listening to the pornographic sounds he makes. Deep moans and animalistic growls each time you reach the tip of him. He unzips his jeans further, taking out his heavy sack and letting it hang free. "Faster," he says, and you pick up your pace.
"Fuck!" he exclaims. "Keep going, sweetheart. Such a good girl. Gonna make me cum for you."
"Please cum," you say. "I want you to feel good like I did. Should I put it in my mouth?" you ask.
"No time for that today, angel. Pull your panties to the side," he orders, and you pull the damp fabric away from your still sensitive sex.
With both hands around your waist he pulls you across the table towards him, rutting his sack and the base of him against your puffy lips.
"Spread yourself open," he says. You spread your lower lips apart, trying hard not to change the pace of your other hand on his cock. He nestles himself against your hole. Still sensitive, you whimper, and you feel his cock twitch in your grasp.
"Faster," he says. "Harder."
You squeeze him harder, jerking your small hand along his hard shaft as fast as you can. He keeps a tight grip on the plush of your hips, staring at your bare chest.
"Oh, fuck!" he cries out, cumming on your chest. Warm, white ropes cover your breasts. He stands before you convulsing as you continue to pump him in your hand.
"Don't stop" he whispers through breathy moans. You continue palming him until he backs away from you. You reach down, gathering his release with a finger and bringing it to your mouth. You let it linger on your tongue, bland but salty, like sweat.
"What are you doing?" he asks, tucking himself back into his jeans.
"I wanted to know what you taste like," you admitted. "What did I taste like?" you ask.
He charges at you, capturing your mouth in a deep and wandering kiss. Your own musk overtakes him in your mouth as he pulls away.
"Fix yourself," he says. "Unless you want more."
"What if I do?" you ask as you begin to cover up. "Want more."
He looks at you with a gentle lust in his eyes, running a calloused thumb across your lips. "I would love to give you more," he says.
"More is all I have to give," you reply.
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spacelazarwolf · 8 months
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Here's a fun random question: Is there such a thing as a secular Jew?
Like, we have secular Christians who do the bare minimum to call themselves a Christian and participate in Christian holidays. Are there Jews that do that? Like maybe they were born into the faith and participate in the culture but they aren't like. Super religious about it all and if they miss something, it's not a big deal for them?
oh absolutely. there are some jews who will eat a bacon cheeseburger then fast all day with their family on yom kippur then not speak another word of hebrew till passover. but i think for jews it’s less abt doing the bare minimum to still be considered a jew bc judaism is a tribe, and more abt spending important days with their family or connecting with their culture.
and like obligatory 2 jews 3000 opinions and i’m not the Ultimate Authority on judaism, but the thing that’s different imo abt judaism vs christianity (at least western christianity) is that christianity is a faith-based religion. generally, if you don’t align with christian theology, or at least say “yeah ok jesus sure”, you are by definition not a christian. for jews, there’s multiple different axes on which jews can interact with judaism, but the two that are probably the most helpful to gentiles in understanding the jewish people’s complex and varied relationships to judaism: religiosity and observance.
religiosity is about what you believe. do you think god exists? what is god? what are your beliefs about creation? how do you interact with jewish spirituality? and honestly, you could probably even break religiosity and spirituality into two different categories.
observance is about what you do. do you abstain from eating pork and shellfish? do you light candles every friday night? do you attend synagogue regularly? do you just go on yom kippur? do you wear a kippah or tichel?
to a lot of people who aren’t jewish or aren’t familiar with judaism, they might think that if someone is religious then they’re obviously observant, and if they aren’t religious then obviously they aren’t observant. but you will meet jews who keep fully kosher, light candles every single friday, observe even the most minor fasts, celebrate all the holidays, and think the notion of god is bullshit and saying the shema is just a way they connect with their ancestors. you’ll also meet jews who haven’t lit candles since they moved out of their parents’ house, eat bacon for breakfast, only go to synagogue on yom kippur, and believe that god created the universe and calls the jewish people to heal the world through good deeds and charity. you’ll meet jews who are deeply spiritual but don’t believe in god. you’ll meet jews who go to synagogue every saturday morning but don’t know a lick of hebrew. and that’s the coolest thing about judaism for me is that there are a shit ton of rules that you can study for years and years and you still don’t have to follow a single one to be jewish if you’re already part of the tribe.
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fariesoiree · 3 months
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ever since you’ve became friends with hobie, he makes your insides feel all weird. he’s got to know what this feeling is. he can probably help you with it, right?
caution! mdni 6k wrdz, mentions of religion, reader is super sheltered, set in a college setting, black fem reader, fingering reader receiving, oral reader receiving, corruption kink mayb just barely, hobie is real gentle, everything happens on a desk, blushing is described but can’t be physically seen, unrealistic description of coochie juice we all know it doesn’t actually taste like that hobie is just obsessed, the smut section is a littleeee bit short but i def think i could expand on this in the future
hobie has been a good friend of yours for a few month now. it all really started at a party at the college you attend. with it being your first year, every experience is a new one. your sheltered childhood only further added to it.
it was easy, hobie always claims, to tell you didn’t belong when you stood in the room, eyes wide and frantic. not to mention, you were fully dressed in jeans and a sweater. he didn’t understand how you hadn’t passed out, yet.
he walks up to you that very same night. your panic only became more evident when he’s introducing himself. “you alright, love?” and he’s truthfully concerned. you’re nearly shaking, hands clasped together.
you explain to him what happened. that the group of girls you came with disappeared, that you don’t know anyone here, that you’re extremely overwhelmed.
it’s hobie who leaves the party early, despite enjoying himself. he escorts you back to your room and stands outside your door until it’s clicked shut and locked. he also leaves his number in your phone that night with the innocent promise to help you with whatever you need.
the reaction from your parents is expected when you tell them what happened. you receive a scolding for going to the party and indulging in secular music and sin, as well as trusting a man and allowing him access to your room. you can argue that you didn’t invite him in but your parents won’t and don’t listen.
you’re used to it, used to their lectures that you actually heed their warnings. all your life you’ve been living by their rules. no boys and no parties. church every sunday, home at nine. you’ve even accepted the routine phone checks every night with no back-talk. this has been your way of living since forever.
so of course the big, gentle, temptation himself intrigues you to no end when you’re presented with such an open gateway. you’re sure if your god-fearing parents saw him, they’d have a heart attack right on the spot.
six five and exactly what your parents warned you against. piercings galore, stick and poke tattoos decorating his skin. his hair is assorted into wicks, which you don’t mind but your relatives would have called him sloppy. not to mention the clothes he wears, decorated in spikes and chains. sometimes the gems in his belt catches the sun in just the right way and he glows like an angel.
hobie gives you butterflies and not just in your stomach but in other places as well.
you don’t know what to do about the fluttering in your pussy when hobie’s had grazes your thigh when he bends to pick something up. even the word pussy has your face warming up.
at first, you thought it would be a one time, unrelated thing. the wet mess in your panties shocked you after spending your evening with hobie. you made a mental note to stop by the doctors in case it was something serious and went about your night.
and then it happened again and every night since. coincidentally, you’re with hobie every night, only to return to the safety of your dorm and deal with the same heated feeling.
that’s exactly how you find yourself in this dilemma tonight. you’re as quiet as a mouse, strewn across his bed. the strip led lights cast a blue shadow on the room. hobie is across from you at his desk, clicking around in some music making site you wouldn’t even try to comprehend.
his headphones are over his head, stretched to the biggest setting to accommodate his hair and his fingers, nails painted black, tap against the wooden desk. hobie can’t hear you with the noise filling his ears. he hums softly to the beat.
you’ve been staring at him for a while, now. originally, you were working on some homework due that night but your gaze found him and his sharp jawline that’s just barely visible from the diagonal angle he’s sitting.
before you know it, your eyes have wandered downwards until you’re looking at his legs, wide and manspreeding. your downstairs area does that weird pulsating thing.
you lips form into a pout and you shift to remove the discomfort. you never actually made it to the doctor, having realized this is only something you experience around hobie. despite this unusual situation find yourself in, distancing yourself from him wasn’t an option. oddly enough, he’s one of the few people that didn’t make you feel other.
“come listen to this.” hobie swivels in her chair to face you. he pops the headphones off his head and waves you over. “was thinkin’ about submittin’ it as my project.”
you sheepishly shake your head. your cheeks burn at the possibility of him catching you. “oh, i don’t think you want me to.” it makes you nervous to partake in the creation of something so vividly can nonreligious. you're already laying in his bed, unsupervised and alone with him. all your teachings let you know it could lead to other things.
he tilts his head, dangling the headphones off his fingertips. you can hear the punk rock melody blaring from where you’re stationed. “you never wanna listen to my music. scared or somethin’?” he doesn’t wait for a response, already slapping the bluetooth headphones back over his ears and turning back.
hobie already knows the answer but he’s uncaring, regardless. he’s become accustomed to your thinking and even though he feels it’s distorted with reality, he doesn’t judge you for it. nor does he blame you.
you’re back to staring at him and the way his hands dance across the keys. his hands are so big, you think. each finger is slender and long and could probably swallow you whole.
you take your lips in between your teeth with a disgruntled sigh. all these impure thoughts are driving you up the wall. you can’t even blame him because he’s doing nothing to provoke it. you, apparently, just can’t control yourself.
with hobie’s back to you, you’re able to silently pack your stuff up. your laptop is tucked away into your bag and you grab your spiral notebook. he doesn’t notice you’re preparing to leave until you softly slide off his platformed bed and shove your feet into the soles of your matte mary janes.
“where are you going, duck?” he pushes the left side back until it’s no longer covering his ear, rapidly glancing at you.
“my room.” you grab your hello kitty lanyard off his desk. “i’m going to do my work in there. can’t do it here. i’m too distracted.” you sling your bag over your shoulder.
“shit, is it me? hobie pauses his track. he’s rapidly hanging his headphones on the stand and jumping to his feet. “at least let me walk you back.”
hobie stuffs his feet in his traditional black boots. he doesn’t care enough to tie the blue, ladder laced laces. he’s already grabbing that loud, extravagantly pinned vest before you have a chance to blink.
“no, you don’t have to do that.” you nervously fiddle with the blue ribbon tied at the base of your braid. “i don’t want to inconvenience you and it’s not the far from your room.”
he merely tsked and rests his hand atop your head, right in between the pigtails. “darlin’ there’s no chance i’m lettin’ you walk your little self back alone. you of all people? fuck no.”
“hobie!” you chastise, hands flying up to cover your ears. the keys dangle and bump again your cheek. your mom always told you that anyone who says adverse words is going straight to hellfire. you didn’t want to be apart of that.
he opens the door and motions you through, a hand on the small of your back. “you’d follow a man to his truck just ‘cause he said please.”
the warmth from his fingertips spread throughout the nerves on your spine and you feel like you’re on fire. you pout and it can easily be mistaken for your opposing opinions on your naivety.
“sorry but it’s true.” the door clicks shut when both of you have stepped outside it. hobie shoves his keys inside his pocket and begins down the hallway to the elevator. he hasn’t noticed you trailing behind him, teeming with explanations as to why your core throbs at the sight of him.
you do this all the way until you’re out the door of the men’s dormitory. you haven’t uttered a word, thumb rubbing against the warming metal of the cross dangling around your neck.
it’s not like you’ve ever felt this feeling before. not even around the other boys you’ve been around. granted, your hangouts were never like this. it was always under adult supervision, even in your older years, and you mostly saw each other during youth groups and summer camps. this, what you’re feeling now, is an entirely new and uncharted territory.
“hobie,” you start. the warm summer breeze ripples across your skin and leaves behind a chill of the promised winter to follow.
hobie lifts his head. the rock he kicked scattered off the sidewalk and into the grass. he hasn’t spoken to you. either. that’s the best thing about him. he doesn’t ask questions, letting you process things your own way. hobie is all too aware of your differences and has no problem letting you take your time.
“i have a question. it’s kind of personal, i think.” you take a brief pause before each word, meticulously picking them to match your uncertainty.
hobie is still silent. at some point, you would have begin to question if he’s even listening to you if it weren’t for the way he lazily shifted his gaze over to you.
“are you . . . have you ever gotten this feeling in your stomach? like a hot one.” you wet your lips. your heart is about ready to stop beating. how do you explain this to him? are you just supposed to tell him he makes your no-no square all fired up? do people say that?
“what are you goin’ on about, lovely? has my stomach ever burned? yeah, if i eat enough dairy.” he chuckles with a small shake of his head. unbeknownst to him, that is not at all what you’re referring to and you are too ashamed to ask him again.
“never mind,” you say with your head hung low.
it’s your parents fault and the way they neglected to teach you about your body. it’s not like you’re a complete idiot and you know sex can lead to children. however, you were taught that sex is bad and children are blessings so it’s fair to say you’re a bit clueless on the contrasting beliefs. not to mention this weird feeling a boy invokes. the boy that might as well be the son of satan himself.
you sigh, heavy and drawn, pulling your keycard out your lanyard. it scans and the lock beeps, allowing you both entrance into the girls dormitory.
hobie lifts an arm and holds the door open over your head. he’s confused. it’s obvious you’re mulling over something, putting so much energy into it that you don’t notice the weight of his eyes boring into the back of your head.
it isn’t until you’re standing in front of your door does he speak his mind. “what’s keepin’ your head so busy?”
your hand is steady on the handle but you have yet to turn it. you can feel the heat from his body standing so close to yours and just once you wish for him to reach forward and put his hand — oh no.
“m – maybe you should just come inside.” you yank your door open and pull him behind you. it’s a drastic decision on your part. never have you ever invited any man in your room, not even hobie. at best, he got glimpses of the shared living space but never of your room down the hall. he’s always walked you back, stood at your door until you were safe inside, and made his exit. always.
even when he’s come to walk you to class, your roommates would open the door and invite him in but he’d stay planted right at your welcome mat. hobie knows you, knows what silly boundaries you have but he follows them strictly because as long as you’re comfortable, he’s comfortable.
“hold on, look at me.” hobie finds himself abruptly stopping in your living room. he yanks his arm until you’ve spun back around and settles his hands atop your shoulders. his eyes fall on your lips, caught between you teeth and nearly knawed raw. he doesn’t miss your hands clenched into tiny fists by your side. “are you okay? this isn’t like you to act so . . . erratic.”
he has to stop his curiosity from getting the best of him and drink in the interior decorations you’ve done. out the corner of his eyes, he can tell just what you contributed, different nooks and crannies filled with pink trinkets and round eyed figurines. you’re the sweetest thing all worked up and making rash decisions. he doesn’t like where this is leading.
you give him a small nod of your head, eyes downcast and on the tops of his worn boots. the grime is welcoming. better than looking in his eye and having him see how unnerved you are.
as if you aren’t shaking under his grasp.
“dove, don’t lie to me. if there is somethin’ wrong, you need to let me know and i need to hear you say it.” his hands drop to your elbows, fingertips just barely touching your skin. hobie knows you’re avoiding him, avoiding addressing something big but welcoming him in your personal space. the contrast is enormous and it’s especially a big deal for you.
“i’m f – fine. i just . . .” you timidly shift your feet, sweatered arms going to wrap around yourself. you’re clutching your cross again, attention boring into the floor. “. . . can we please talk about it in my room. it’s not something i want to say here.”
he’s hesitant to let you go, drawing in a breath. you’re going to be the death of him, he decides, with the way you concern him but he’ll take your word for it. maybe, maybe just maybe you know exactly what you want.
he allows you to take him back to your room, pushing the door open. immediately, he gets a good whiff of the clean linen wax you have burning in your wax warmer.
your space is tidy, but not necessarily clean. you’re a bit of a maximalist, soft blankets and frills draped around your room. you have posters and paper hearts hanging on your wall, a my melody rug laying in the floor beneath your chair.
there’s a couple flower cushions strewn about and plenty of stuffed animals to go around. you have fairy lights across the wood of bed, casting the room in soft yellow lighting. there’s a rack in the corner full of lacey clothes that he assumes you’re planning on wearing soon.
you look so comfortable, fitting right in. of course you do, considering you decorated it yourself. hobie lingers at the edge of the room while you go through your routine of taking off your shoes and putting your bag by your desk. you’re putting your earrings in the strawberry shaped jewlery holder when you finally address him.
“you don’t have to stand there like that. you can take your shoes off and stuff,” you speak with your back turned to him. you know it’s weird, having him in here. it’s weirder when hobie acts as if his presence in your room will turn it into an active landmine.
hobie licks his lips, hands deep inside his pockets. he doesn’t even want to let his eyes linger too long on anything in fear he’s taint your purity, full of innocence and hope. “what am i here for?”
you rest your hand against the cool, light colored wood of your desk. you feel feverish, the topic making your palm sticky with sweat. the room suddenly gets hot and you’re clearing your throat while motioning for hobie to close the door. “um, well . . .” you trail off, tapping your manicured fingers loud enough to fill the silence with quiet clicks and clacks. “i have something to ask you.”
“ ‘nd you needed to bring me here to ask me?” his head tilts in deep skepticism. hobie leans against the white wall next to your door. he doesn’t want to go any further. he doesn’t belong here.
you’re irked, hands flying to wrap around yourself. the ruffles at the bottom of your dress rub against each other like flower petals in a spring breeze. “just listen! i have something serious to ask you and you’re being awkward. it’s making me awkward.”
hobie lifts and drops his shoulders. he’s tense when he crosses the threshold of your room and takes an uncomfortable seat at your desk chair. “sorry doll but we both know i’m not supposed to be in here. what do you want to talk about? make it quick so i can go.” he leans back as far as the chair will allow, eyes up and on you.
his question demands a straight forward response, one that you cannot provide. you don’t know what is happening, yourself. you’re back to your silence, grasping for words to form an explanation. “remember when i asked you if your stomach ever burned before?”
“not this again. i thought we already talked about –”
“no! listen.” you’re shouting at him again, lips pressed into a pout. you’re just barely working up the courage and you need to get it out before it goes away. “lately, i’ve been feeling like that but not in my stomach.”
you’re speaking so fast, hobie can barely understand you. he just catches your words, suddenly sitting up with his brows knitted together. “are you okay? sick?” he presses his hands flesh against your cheeks and forehead but your skin isn’t warm to the touch.
“n – no. not that i know of.” you nearly whine when his fingertips brush along your waist as they’re lowered back to his side. “it’s a little uncomfortable.” you rub your knees together in an attempt to satiate the ache between your thighs.
hobie has enough experience to recognize the little shuffle you do, accompanied by the needy glint in your eye. it startles him. not you. anyone but you, miss purity herself. he’s seeing things. “then what?”
he’s terrified of the way you look at him, eyes glossed over. the cherry colored blush dusted across your cheeks appeals to your cherubic state. this is his worst nightmare and best dream, that you would entice him like this.
it isn’t easy to ignore the chub of your ass that you’re unaware you carry and the softness of your breasts when you grab his arm and press your body against his. it especially isn’t easy to ignore the sweetness in your voice when you plead and chastise him for his vulgar words and behavior. oh how badly does he want to twist your brain but he won’t. he can’t allow himself to. you’re too good for that and that’s the problem.
“i feel weird inside around you, hobie. only you and . . . i don’t know.” you’re meek and quiet, face advert and back in the ruffled hem of your white socks. you cross and uncross your ankles to satisfy your need to stir and wriggle. “i wasn’t going to say anything but i don’t know how to make it stop and sometimes it hurts.”
you look so pitiful and pretty like this, almost begging for his help. it doesn’t take a genius to understand what you mean but hobie can’t bring himself to act on it. it feels so wrong on so many levels. he can’t take advantage of your unawareness like this.
“aw baby,” he has to curl his fingers into his palm to prevent himself from reaching out and grabbing you. that’s why you were so insistent on coming to your room. “you don’t want my help with that.” he keeps telling himself he has to be the bigger person, the one who thinks clearly.
“i do,” you insist, daring to take a bold step closer until you’re slotted between his knees. it’s a lot for you, coiling in on yourself to find comfort despite acting out your comfort zone. “i can’t take it anymore. you don’t understand.”
his hand comes up to rest against your cheek, following an empathetic shake of his head. “no, you don’t understand. you don’t even know what you’re talking about. what am i supposed to do if you can’t even tell me what you’re talking about?”
hobie stands, presumably to take his leave. he pushes you away from him by your waist. he’s stopped when you wrap your hand around his slender wrist, staring up at him with big, entreating eyes.
“please? anything? please, hobie. i’ll take anything just help me do something. tell me what to do, i don’t care. it’s terrible and uncomfortable and i can’t bear it anymore.”
he takes one look at you and is met with your waterline, gathering in tears of desperation. all his resolve slowly breaks until he’s cupping your cheeks with a soft sigh. “you’re gonna be the death of me, you know that? babblin’ about shit you don’t even understand.” he’s gentle, backing you up until your knees are knocking against your desk. he sits you up there, hands resting on either side of you.
“hobie,” you reprimand him again for his words out of habit, hands going to cover your ears again.
he stops them, much larger ones enscasing yours with a tut of his tongue. “don’t even. you don’t get to complain about me sayin’ shit and fuck and whatever else. not right now.” he presses your palm against his lips, piercings warm against your skin.
your mouth falls open, only to wordlessly shut. you don’t know what to say, what to do. all you know is you’re slightly overwhelmed with the future possibilities. what’s about to happen? what is he going to do?
“i don’t even know what to do with you. you sure this is what you want?” hobie doesn’t feel he needs to ask with the way you were begging him but he can’t help it. you’re such a sweet thing, asking him to do something about your aching cunt. you don’t even know what you’re asking him.
you nod, eyes widening when his hand falls over your knee. it’s a respectful distance but you’re anxious, already wiggling under his gaze. “you keep asking me.”
“i know darlin’ but can you blame me? just gotta make sure.” hobie ever-so-swiftly slides his hand up your thigh until his thumb is brushing against the front of your panties. he isn’t interested in beating around the bush and quite frankly, it would be so much better to just get the first touch done for. break the ice just enough.
your body immediately reacts, legs pressing closed as far as you can get them. your eyebrows knit together as your nerves crackle and pop with a sudden desire you haven’t felt before. “i’m s – sure.”
“never had this pretty pussy played with before have you? ‘course not. you’re a good girl.”
you hate the way he’s talking to you. it’s not quite derogatory but it makes you feel otherworldly in a negative way. as if you have no clue what he’s talking about. you don’t. and his words are so unclean.
“not gonna fuck you tonight. you’re not ready for that, yet.” he aids your legs back open with a firm grip, holding them in place. “you know what that means, yeah?” hobie doesn’t mean it as an insult, circling his thumb around your already puffy clit.
“mhm,” you’re wiggling again, lip caught between your teeth. you’ve heard the phrase in passing, understanding the word and its context. never have you used it, yourself. you’re clueless, not dumb.
hobie bunches your white dress up by your hips. he’s greeted with a view of your black panties, dark enough to conceal the dampening spot but he can still feel it beneath the pad of his thumb.
your glittery lip gloss has begun to spill over your plump lip and dribble down your chin with how much you quiver. he swipes the excess off, lightly chuckles at the way you fawn and fall over.
just over the clothes touching has you like this, mewling and hiccuping and doing your best to conceal it. it’s endearing, the way you try to maintain his level of composure.
he continues toying with you, a bit hesitant. it’s not like him but hobie knows he has to take his time with you. he can’t rush. he has to prep you thoroughly, get you used to his touches. this is what you want.
“and you’re not gonna act all shy when i take these off, are you?” his finger hooks through the leg hole, snapping the fabric back until it pops against you when it’s released. “or are you still trying to be a little angel?”
the thought of hobie pulling your underwear down and seeing what no one, let alone a man, has seen. your private jewels that you’re sure are soaping wet the way they are every other night. your cheeks heat up and you squeeze your eyes shut, knees trying to do the same. “no, i’m not.” you’re trying to be so brave, it’s cute.
“don’t worry, dolly. not yet. just gonna rub your cunt, just like this.” he pushes and pulls on your clit, hot underneath the pressure of his thumb. it has your hips shuffling in an attempt to rut against him. he doesn’t know if you’re aware, the way you stare at him like he hung the moon himself. “could make you cum like this, i bet. you ever done that before?”
a particular jerk of his finger has you gasping and grabbing whatever part of him you can get to first, his forearm and his shoulder. “i never –,” your chest heaves with a broken moan, partially restrained, “n – no. i don’t.”
as far as you know, premature sex and masturbation is a sin. you have never been tempted before even meeting hobie. not only would he be the first to touch you but he’d be the first to make you cum.
his boxers get increasingly more tight at the thought. you’re so pure and he’s so lucky, being the first, even before you, to dip his fingers between your folds. he can barely restrain himself.
hobie plants himself in your hair, his gruff groan vibrating your scalp. he can’t help the way his thumb jostles your clit. it’s nearly primal, how badly he wants to draw an orgasm out of you and he knows you’ll do it so easy with how pent up and inexperienced you are.
“you don’t gotta hide it, baby. let me hear you, dove. tell me what you like so i can make you feel good.” your hair smells of vanilla and shea butter. it makes hobie want to devour every part of you, his long cock leaking with precum but he has to remember to take his time. he has to.
“hobie . .” your weak whine fills the hazy spot in his brain that’s indulged so deeply in every part of you. you don’t have to tell him for him to know, it’s obvious in how you’re unable to be still, nails stabbing into his skin. “i f – feel weird.” you’re so wound up.
hobie pulls his head back. he feels heavy with need as he tilts your chin towards his face. he just wants to see you, that’s all. he just needs to see the expression you make the first time you cum. “don’t fight it, sweet girl. just let it happen. it’ll feel real good.” his thumb strokes your jawline, coaxing you to give in to the growing lust filled pit in your stomach.
hobie knows you cum simply because he can feel it. your pussy spams so hard, he swears he can hear it. he doesn’t even have to put a finger up to your entrance to feel the pulsating. it’s almost as if your hole is searching for something to suck in.
your mouth has fallen open in a tiny o, working your body into hobie’s through your experience. he was right. it felt so good, satiating the need and burn of your body. it’s almost addicting, the way your body reacts to his touch. your brain is becoming mush with each throb. “oh my goodness.” you speak in between breaths, finally releasing hobie and drawing back your nails.
he only chuckles, rubbing at your thighs. “that was good, wasn’t it? did it help your little problem?” he plays with the bottom of your dress, conflicted between pulling it down to set you free and suggesting another round. you offered a starved man a seat at the table.
you smile shyly at him. you don’t know what to say now, what to do. your friend just made you cum after you begged him to. how do people do this casually? “yes, thank you. i’m deeply sorry for being so forceful.”
at this, hobie laughs out loud. it’s genuine and booming against the walls. it seems he has yet to break you in but he supposed he was too hopeful. of course he couldn’t turn you into something like him just from rubbing on you a little bit.
“you’re all good, duck. you weren’t being forceful, at all.” he pulls out the desk chair and takes a seat, getting comfortable in the flower shaped cushion. his limber fingers are back to picking at the side of your panties. he’s a bit hungry, he thinks.
his eyes, dark and narrowed, do something to you. you don’t understand. you can still feel the sticky mess in your underwear but something is stirring inside you, again.
you both stare at each other in a heated silence, thinking the same thing but waiting for the other to say it first.
“you want me to eat you out?” hobie is the first to speak with his head tilted. he’s far more impatient and bold to play around. when he wants something, he’ll take it.
at first, you believe you heard him incorrectly. “do i want you to what?” you feel stupid having to ask but you’re truly at a loss. “i’m sorry. hobie, i don’t know what that is.”
hobie is the luckiest man in the world. if he could whip his cock out and slide it inside you, he would but having you on his tongue would be the next best thing, especially when you’re asking him what that is. “you’re about to find out.” he murmurs, pulling you to the edge of the desk.
you’re surprised when hobie yanks your underwear down, lifting up a hip at a time to get it down your legs and tossed across the room. both the cool air and his dark gaze has you snapping your legs shut. there’s too many things to hide from and you’re unprepared.
“no, no. don’t shut me out like that.” he has his hands hooked under your knees and props them on your shoulders. his excuse is that it would be better for you to manage but truthfully, he does it to get an eye to cunt view. he pulls you even closer until your lower body is dipping into his lap and you’re relying on him to hold you up. “you’re gonna like it, i promise.”
“oh, i don’t know about this.” you grip the edge of the desk, still sitting up and getting a perfect view of the carnal look in hobie’s eye. he actually licks his lips, flicking his attention up to you for only a second.
“just once. just try it once and if you don’t like it, we can stop. you have my word.”
you don’t know how much you can trust him like this but his warm breathe is just tickling you in all the best ways. it’s hypnotizing enough to have you nodding in agreement before you know it. “o – okay.”
hobie has enough sense, what little he has left, to put a hand in your tummy and pushing you down until your back is against the cool wood. he doesn’t have to tell you to stay there. he just knows you will, especially when you’re gasping at the feeling of his hot tongue on your cunt.
your sap is sweet and unbelievably so. like cherries and strawberries and mangos on a warm summer day. he’s delusional, drunk already and nose deep in your cunt.
his tongue finds your entrance as the source of the sweetness all to easy. he’s addicted to it, each suckle and slurp persuading more of your cream to pour out your hole.
it doesn’t take you long to start writhing, hand all in his hair, tugging in every direction. each swipe of his tongue and bump of his nose in your clit has your back arching. it’s better than you could have ever imagined. you can’t believe you were about to turn this down, or the fact that you didn’t allow yourself to experience such pleasure simply because of your parents fears.
you cry and sob, legs shaking on his shoulders. you can’t decide whether or not you want to tighten your legs around his head or open them wider to accept more of him. “hobie, p – please!”
hobie almost doesn’t hear you. almost.
your words just barely float around his brain but your pleas stick just enough for him to push your legs up by the bottom of your thighs. he keeps you hooked there so strongly, he’s able to grasp your hand and maintain his hold.
it sounds so wet that it’s humiliating. you can’t believe these sounds are coming from you, that hobie’s tongue is deep in you, that he has you folded like this. you didn’t know this was possible.
your body is all warm all over again. you’re fortunate there’s no excess clutter on your desk with the way hobie has you. your hands fly to the metal structure holding your bed together, mouth drying from how long you’ve held it open.
you swear it comes faster than it did before. it occurs to you that you’re a ticking time bomb. the previous orgasm has your clit feeling like each touch is a hot stone.
it’s as if hobie steals your breath with your growing cries at your approaching release. you don’t know what to do with yourself, where to put your hands. it’s overwhelming, your second orgasm and the first time anyone has ever “eaten you out”.
“feel weird again!” you say through broken sobs. you’re met with hobie’s acknowledging hands massaging into your skin. he’s coaxing, encouraging you without having to remove himself from his new favorite spot in the world, right between your thighs.
it gives you whiplash with how quickly your orgasm comes, pushing out of you as if the first one never happened. it’s just as strong, if not stronger. your body trembles with your spurts of cream. it’s weeks worth of sexual frustration to know end and a confusing search of a solution, all washed off you in one night.
you’re so sensitive, you have to push him off with your feet at his chest and chest heaving for air. “fuck, that was good.”
“did you just say fuck?” hobie leans over you, bringing the bottom of his shirt up to wipe your sheen off his face. he’s well amused, almost snorting at your response. that had to be his influence.
“did i?” you cover your mouth with quick regret. you didn’t realize it rolled off your tongue so easy.
hobie grins, pulling you to seating and then to your feet. he tries not to ogle at you too much. it’s difficult when your lower half is completely exposed and he’s still so desperately horny but he puts your needs first, closing his eyes and clearing his throat. “you got somethin’ to clean you up with? wipes or somethin’ until you shower?”
you open your desk drawer and pull out a pack of baby wipes. you present the package to hobie, who pops it open and takes one out.
he doesn’t ask you to move, merely just lowers himself to the ground and with gentle hands, wipe up the mixed mess of saliva and your juices.
you whine, presumably from the unavoidable ache that accompanies your sensitivity.
“i’m sorry, lovely. have to,” hobie tries to be as quick and harmless as possible, soothing you with kisses to your inner thigh. they’re well mannered and innocent, until you’re clean enough and he’s throwing the baby wipe away. “are you okay, though? you don’t regret it, do you?”
you watch hobie straighten out your dress again. his gaze is as polite as it can get, avoiding any look at your pussy, although its right in front of him. instead, he meets your eyes until he rises to his feet. “um, no.” you’re back to being quiet, hands clasped and fumbling with each other.
you’re suddenly aware of how close he’s standing but it’s short lived when hobie is making his way back to the door to put his shoes on.
“i’m gonna go because i’m sure you want to process that and get your space and whatever else, yeah? but don’t worry, i’ll answer your texts and your calls.” he does feel bad, as if he’s fuck-and-dashing you but in reality, if he doesn’t get out of here, he’ll be too tempted to try and actually fuck you. “i’ll be back tomorrow to walk you to class, doll.”
you’re speechless as you watch him gather himself to leave, grateful for the space because you could probably explode right now. you also miss your panties just barely peeking out of his pocket.
“and feel free me to ask me again if you ever need my help.” and with that, he’s gone with a soft click of your door.
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stealth-liberal · 1 month
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Whew, I have a lot to say, and I know for a FACT that not a single non Jewish person on here will give a shit... but I have to vent.
Antisemitism in America is so bad that I honestly don't know if it's safe to send my daughter off to college in 2 years. She doesn't know either. Both of us have discussed her staying home and doing as much of her university education online, so as to keep her safe. She has sensory issues and an anxiety disorder... and already she has been rejected all over the place in her high school campus since 10/7.
The Women's Empowerment Club? The club leader has made it so that no female Jewish student feels safe there, and all of them quit. The little leftist neo nazi in charge of it probably cheered as they left and patted herself on the back for her "praxis". Maybe she can start goose stepping and yelling "Heil Hitler!" while she's at it. But she's not unique. Feminist organizations the world over deny mass rape of Jewish women. Why? Because it's Me Too Unless You're a Jew. They want us all raped and in the grave. Period.
The Pride Club? Forget it. All queer Jewish kids are persona non grata there. Apparently it's cool if Jewish queers are the subject of violence... and I can't say more or I'll start wanting to kill people. I am bisexual, my husband is bisexual, our daughter is lesbian. I have been part of this community since I was 12 as an ally and since I was 15 as a bisexual (took me some time to figure out what I was). My daughter came out in 4th grade for G-d's sake. We've been there, fighting the fight and now... queer organizations all over the world are abandoning us. They honestly hope we will all die, the more violently the better.
I was a proud intersectional feminist and a proud queer woman my whole life. Or at least ever since I could make decisions about that sort of stuff and what I believed. And I have been abandoned, my daughter has been abandoned, for blood sport. Her friends are pulling away from her and we all know why... because she committed the unpardonable sin of being Jewish.
Funny part? The Muslim Student Union has done nothing to her or the other Jewish kids on campus. Ponder that thought leftists if you will.
My son is in 8th grade and for the entirety of his 6th and 7th school years he was relentlessly bullied for being Jewish. We live in a red town and it was right wing antisemitism. It was so bad that I had to remove him for his safety from the school for a while. Now? It's left wing as well, he's catching it from both sides and I don't know how to protect him.
No one cares. Frankly, if my 13 year old son committed suicide to get away from it all... they would throw a party. Another dirty Jew/Zionist down... am I right? None of you give a fuck.
I marched, I protested, I voted, I phone banked. I lived my beliefs in action, and the left betrayed me. They fantasize about me and my children being raped and murdered. The more graphically it could happen, the better for them. Frankly, I think they get off to the videos Hamas released in the privacy of their rooms at night.
There's nowhere to run. Israel isn't an option. I know everyone thinks Jews are dripping in wealth... but I frankly do not have enough money to move my family to the other side of the planet. My husband is in IATSE, the stage hand local. There are no jobs waiting for him there. There are no jobs waiting for me there. I have no family there. Neither does he.
Actually, my husband isn't Jewish. I am, our children are, but he is not. He supports us in our Jewishness 100%, but he is not a Jew and he never wanted to convert. Which is fine with me... but how the hell does that work in a country where there is no civil marriage?
I'm not Orthodox, I don't want to be Orthodox. I want full egalitarianism, so I go to Reform, Renewal, or Conservative synagogues, depending on what is closer to wherever I live. Israel is a VERY Orthodox country, and the options are Orthodox or completely secular. This is a criticism I've been laying at Israel's feet for DECADES.
And Jew Haters better not use this as a way to say how awful Israel is. Not when the countries surrounding Israel are either dictatorships or absolute power, divine right monarchies who kill dissenters constantly.
So... there's really nowhere for my family to go. So I guess I'll stay where I am being a liberal Jew and waiting for the sick marriage of MAGA and Leftists to come to my door and kill me and my family.
None of you care. All of you would cheer. I'll never trust any of you again for the rest of my life. Till the day I die... I'll never trust any of you in any part of my life (online or offline) again.
1 in 5 members of Gen Z think the Holocaust didn't happen. 2/3rds of Gen Z think stories of the Holocaust are exaggerated and that Jews were somewhat complicit in what happened to us. Blame the victim...amirite? The rates amongst Millennials are not as horrific... but they're still bad. You all are going to commit a 2nd Holocaust and pat yourself on the backs. And when history remembers you all as the Nazis part 2... you will babble in your nursing homes that you were "Just trying to save the world from the Zionist/Jewish scourge."
When that happens, I hope you die in a puddle of your own shit.
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unbidden-yidden · 11 months
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Someday everything that made you you will be gone. Your people, your tribe, your family - they will all have chosen to go gently into that good night and your genetic descendents will no longer look or act or think like you. You will have no spiritual descendents. Every feature that made your people distinct will have softened into the general pool of humankind, and evened out to become exactly like everyone else. They will have shed the ritual items that made up your daily life and eschewed the traditional words that connected them to thousands of years of wisdom. The tapestry of your religious and cultural life will have been completely unwound into string and repurposed or disposed of to make a new fabric in the image of the masses. Your people will look and sound and act and speak and think like the homogeneous mass of humanity. No longer will your people's language be heard, for there is no need now that we can all communicate freely. The prayers that connected one generation to the next will be discarded in the garbage heap with all the other pesky superstitions. No more will the rituals that sustained generations in exile and preserved at risk of life and limb be a source of comfort and pride. The beauty of the High Holy Days, the music of the psalms, the flavors of foods designed around kashrut, the scent of b'samim after the sacred rest of Shabbat will reside in the genizah alongside every sefer Torah and siddur and set of tefillin.
None of this will be carved out of you. This is not a threat. This is inevitable, because no enlightened person could possibly choose to live like you. Already an anachronism today, your lifestyle will be unthinkable tomorrow. The names and covenant of commandedness will be willingly forgotten, as your descendents bow to the one Truth of the universe, as defined by the secular society of the day. That I imagine this secular wisdom as matching my culture and defining truth as being singular in the same way that I do is totally coincidental and not at all hegemonic. In this future, there will be no need for your silly superstitions and obviously meaningless rituals and quaint efforts to make the world a better place, because it already will be. Your people will no longer identifiably exist, and that will be right and good and the best possible outcome for everyone. Again, this is definitely not a threat. Your descendents will finally see the light of Logic and Reason and willingly become one with the world. They will have saved themselves from the barbaric practices of a Bronze Age religion and have no need for any such relics. They will shake off the yoke of Torah like raindrops and emerge into the glorious future indistinguishable from the nations. And in so doing, will have accomplished what 2500 years of war and bloodshed and imperialism and exile and pogroms and genocide have not yet achieved: the Jews will willingly surrender their Jewishness, quietly and unceremoniously, as they become enlightened. Remember, this is not a threat. This is simply progress. And inevitable.
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