Sometimes i just wish to suddenly wake up on an alien ship, oh to be a sex slave to be sold on the market getting pounded by different cocks everyday, just panting out of breath as i get stretched out to fit each of their dicks...
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shapeshifter after a date: just let me change into something more comfortable 😏 *transforms into the softest creature they can for you to cuddle up to*
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the monster under the bed is scary to YOU. i’m having sex with it though.
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I wanna suck off a vampire while he's stuck on a werewolf's knot
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A powerful vampire at a ball feeding off you on the balcony while their cold fingers caress the skin underneath your clothes
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If you wanna fuck me just tell me outright please Im autistic and subtext goes over my head, i need to know if i can put my mouth on your junk
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couldn't figure out the troll's riddle to cross the bridge, so now he's got his fat, mushroom-tipped cock pounding into your cervix as payment to move on.
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If you keep crying no over and over again, why does your pretty little cunt keep getting wetter when I ignore you and bruise your cervix anyway?
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need her to cockwarm me with her mouth as i play my game, and slap her face everytime she moves her tongue
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make me drink too much and take advantage of my limp body when i’m so drunk i can’t function
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trans guy sub who has to keep his cunt plugged as a rule so it gapes how i want it to. if he's not horny and wet, he just lubes it up and stretches his hole for me. i'm not even going to fuck it, i just want it loose and sloppy, a cute decoration to go with his neglected cock while i fuck his ass open wide
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Thinking about attending a church where you indicate your need for confession by lowering yourself to one of the half-dozen kneeling benches at the back instead of sitting in a pew. Thinking about attending a church where if your sins are only minor you may simply kneel in shame for the duration of the service, but if not you are expected to bare your flesh for mortification; dress gathered up around your waist or pants down around your knees, waiting to see how many times you will be struck with either the cane or strap hanging neatly on hooks at the side of each bench. Thinking about attending a church where any of the congregation may participate in your penance should they feel a call to, up to three strokes each before they go to their own seat.
Lustful thoughts are not minor sins. I kneel with my dress hitched up and my head bowed forward and take each hit as quietly as I can, out of respect for this hallowed space. I am quietly touched and grateful that so many I know walk past with only a sympathetic glance. I stay in place, exposed and humiliated, for the length of the service and even after - I do not move until a touch at the back of my neck tells me the priest is ready for my confession.
In the confessional booth the dividing screen is pulled back and I make my confession bent over the priest's knee, their fingers tracing my thighs and upwards to inspect the marks and welts there as they decide whether it is sufficient or if my words demand more penance. I feel their fingers press inside me as well, testing the limits of my vice, and my voice breaks with utter shame as they wipe the slick off their hand on the back of my dress with a disappointed huff.
When I have finished confessing I wait for judgement. I can feel the priest's hand gently stroking my hair, so kind even to such a wretched creature. Truly a chosen mouthpiece of God. Strictly speaking, they say, it should be twenty more strokes with the cane and an act of abasement concerning my appearance, renouncing any vanity or temptation arising from my well-made form by shaving my hair or marking my face. But they are willing to give me a choice. As an alternative, they could in private here enact the very sinful thoughts I had upon me until I understand how wrong it is to want such things. It would be unpleasant for them to do, but worthwhile, should the lesson stick.
I nearly weep at their generosity and choose the latter; I am pretty enough to have hopes of a good match, everyone says so, but I have little else to offer. Within moments I am pressed up against the confessional wall and they are buried inside me with one hand tight around my throat, choking me to a hazy and pliable stillness as they thrust into my cunt, using me even rougher than I spoke haltingly of just minutes ago. You see how this hurts? You feel how you are dirtied, defiled? Afraid? This is what it is really like. You must not think of such things ever again. And if you do, little one, you must come straight to me. I will always be here to help you atone.
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“dating” app for werewolves in rut called KnotPockets™️ so that growly butches on the full moon can easily find doe-eyed, needy things to breed the brains out of
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